London Large: Blood on the Streets

by Robson, Roy

  Fucking coward. Snivelling little fucking piece of shit.

  H smashed at his face twice more with the butt and then pointed the business end of the rifle at his head.

  ‘Harry, no, not in cold blood,’ shouted Graham. H gave him the look, but Graham swallowed hard and stood his ground. The Little Manbot had come of age.

  Fuck me, he really has grown a pair.

  ‘Look H, I know you have a strange code that I don’t purport to understand, but gunning a man down in cold blood, is that really part of it?’

  H ignored him. He lifted his rifle and took aim.

  ‘No’ shouted Amisha.

  But this was not another plea for clemency. ‘Let me do it,’ she said.

  H and Ronnie looked at each other. They were both in a state of mind in which the old rules no longer applied. H pulled the revolver out of his belt and gave it to her.

  ‘Only one bullet left Ames. An eye for an eye or the justice of the courts. Bear in mind it was Skyhill who put you here. It’s down to you.’

  H, Ronnie and Graham stood frozen to the spot. Amisha released the safety catch and pointed the gun at her defiler’s head.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Malcolm’ said the snivelling sadist, shaking with fear and curling up into a ball. Blood oozed out of the wounds in his shattered, gurning face.

  ‘Mercy, please, mercy,’ he whimpered.

  Mercy. Amisha was no longer sure she knew what that meant. What mercy had he shown her? He had tortured her to within an inch of her life. Raped her. Defiled her.

  Yet she was an officer of the Metropolitan Police Force. The first of its kind in the modern world. She had sworn to uphold the law and to protect the people of this great city. She had taken the oath seriously; it meant something, something deep and necessary. She had sworn to help keep the law of the jungle at bay.

  For a full 45 seconds she pointed the gun at her defiler’s skull, trying to resolve the moral conflict raging inside her. She had always believed revenge should play no part in justice. But then she had never been raped or tortured.

  She turned her gaze to H, looking for some kind of inspiration, some direction on which path to take, and realised the choice was hers.

  ‘Down to you,’ he’d said.

  She returned her gaze to the grovelling lump on the ground before her.

  He had no doubt what he would do, in the same situation, and his life flashed before his eyes; the prelude to his final moment on earth. But Amisha had already made a different call. She reset the safety catch and passed the pistol back to H without taking her eyes from ‘Malcolm.’

  ‘You’re pathetic,’ she said, ‘fucking pathetic.’

  She sat down. ‘Malcolm’ whimpered. Graham gave a sigh of relief. H stood brooding.

  Ronnie was agitated. ‘Still one more bit of business to conclude tonight H,’ he said.

  ‘Yep’ said the big man, holding his leg.

  ‘We have to sort this out’, Ronnie continued, ‘before Skyhill hears about Old Shitbreath and Blunt and surrounds himself with what’s left of his little army.’

  H wanted to stay with Amisha, to take her home to Olivia. To care for her.

  ‘Listen,’ he said as he gave her another hug, ‘things are going to be tough, really tough. I know that much. But you’ll get through it. We’ll get through it.’

  Sirens wailed in the distance. H turned to Graham,

  ‘Graham, will you look after Amisha, and clear this fucking mess up?’

  ‘How am I going to explain all this away?’

  ‘You’ll think of something. You’re a clever boy... a good man. Thanks.’

  And with H and Ronnie turned, quickly, and disappeared into the night.

  92

  The reception began at eight o’clock sharp. One of the sexy, super-high, glittering skyscrapers dotted across London’s new skyline. A star-studded charity event; penguin suits and evening dresses, big-name after dinner speakers.

  The great and the good in attendance, among them Lord Timothy Skyhill; showered, shaved, suited and booted, fresh from the airport. It was business as usual for Lord T: the cover up was in motion, and it was now time to hide in plain sight, in the most public way possible. This was going to be a big night. A very big night.

  The bullshit train began to roll: five lavish courses, and the world’s best wines; the purring, preening hubbub of the global city’s social and political elite; the self-congratulatory speeches, the competitive charity-donation pantomime; the climactic highlight of the great peer of the realm’s speech.

  His stomach full, Skyhill leaned back into his chair and scanned the room, nodding at familiar faces, searching for others. No Basil. No Peregrine. But other friends, new and old, were in attendance - from people he had known at school, and through every stage of his glittering career and public life, to the nouveau riche types from all over the world who had cultivated him more recently: his friends from the East, the Gulf; the bankers, the property developers, the oligarchs, the princelings, the money getters and launderers of the new global economy.

  His sense of control, of achievement, of wellbeing, was complete. He was the daddy here - the sparkling room, filled with movers and shakers, waited expectantly for his after dinner turn. His routine was one of the most popular on the circuit. No one could touch him.

  H and Ronnie pulled up and parked in a side turning off Borough High Street just before nine thirty. Ronnie checked the boot and readied the gear; he reloaded for both of them and got their bits and pieces together. He looked back inside the car. H was breathing hard and looking woozy. Ronnie tightened the tourniquet around the big man’s leg and said: ‘All set then H?’

  ‘All set, son, all set. Don’t you worry about that.’

  Ronnie handed him a baseball cap and a pair of sunglasses: ‘Alright…put these on now, we’ll get balaclava’d up when we get a bit closer.’ They both knew the score: London, CCTV surveillance capital of the world. And then some.

  H was feeling terrific, the best he’d felt in years. The adrenalin from the battle in the warehouse, plus whatever body chemicals were dealing with the pain in his leg, were fizzing. More than that, Amisha was safe, Olivia was safe and, though Little Ronnie was in the shovel, bang in trouble, he’d deal with that later. The main thing, though, was that he and Ronnie had done the business; they had stood up, as proud, dignified warriors, and done what had needed to be done when nobody else would.

  It was time now to finish the job.

  Ronnie pulled his cap on, buttoned up his coat, helped H out of the car and said ‘Right, let’s go and deal with this bastard.’

  93

  They entered the building via the back way and set their plan in motion. Their luck was in; the porter on duty was an old-school looking local. H played him like a violin. At the sight of the two tooled up men in balaclavas bursting into the building the porter had instinctively reached for a button. But H got to him before he hit it.

  ‘Stop! Slow down old son. We’re SAS’, said H, flashing a shield, ‘don’t do anything. Get this door behind us locked - no one in or out. Stay calm. Stay away from all your buttons till I’ve put you in the picture.’

  The porter did as he was told, and sat back in his chair.

  ‘What’s your name then captain?’, asked H.

  ‘Bill. I…’

  ‘Shh, just listen. Did you serve Bill?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who with?’

  ‘I was in the Navy, I…’

  ‘OK, good’, said H, ‘So we all know where we stand. You’re going to have to work with us on this, Bill. There’s a terrorist incident shaping up on the 40th floor. They’ve got hostages and they’re threatening to blow the place to bits. We haven’t got long. Our main blokes are going in the front way in five minutes. We’re scouting ahead. I want you to knock out all the lifts except the one we go up in. Keep all the doors down here locked. Under no circumstances press any buttons or communicate with anyb
ody until we get back down. There’s a total communications lockdown in effect. And keep yourself out of sight. Any questions, old son?’

  ‘No, I…’

  ‘No time now mate. I’ll buy you a pint later, after we’ve dealt with these bastards. Sound like a plan Bill?’

  Bill nodded, and slid down behind his counter.

  The lift began to swish them up to 40th floor; they looked one another in the eye, shook hands, hugged. No words. They came to a halt. ‘Hard and fast mate, hard and fast!’ roared Ronnie, as they burst into the corridor and ran to the Diamond Room.

  They crashed in together, side by side. H administered a light slap to the security guard and lobbed a stun grenade into an empty corner. That did the trick, no need for shouted threats. Everyone went down immediately, and jostled for space under the tables. Ronnie had already scanned the room for Skyhill. ‘Got him. Top table. The fat bastard’s under the top table.’

  A moment of eerie calm fell over the room, as the initial shock subsided.

  ‘No one gets hurt except Skyhill Ron, not a scratch on anyone else’, H had said in the car.

  ‘ ‘course’, Ron had replied.

  But his blood was up now, and his hatred for Skyhill was in danger of running away with him. H hunkered down close to him and whispered ‘Stick to the plan Ron, stick to the plan. I’ll take care of the room - you grab the target.’

  Ronnie was haring across the room before H finished speaking, locked onto his prey. H laid down three smoke bombs and chucked in another stunner for good measure. The sprinkler system kicked in and the alarm sounded. The room was a maelstrom of smoke, wailing, moaning, coughing and crying. H positioned himself at the lift and waited.

  He didn’t have to wait long. Ronnie reared up out of the chaos, hauling, pushing and kicking a panting, dishevelled, crawling Skyhill by his trouser belt.

  ‘Going up?’, said H.

  ‘Yep’, said Ronnie. ‘Observation platform. I think His Lordship here wants to take in the view.’

  94

  Far, far below they could make out a crowd forming, and cars and vans arriving, sirens wailing. It wouldn’t be long before the chopper arrived. No time to lose.

  The day’s efforts were catching up with H. But his friend was still on fire, all business. H bent over and caught his breath as Ronnie, saying nothing, pushed and kicked Skyhill towards the window. Ronnie had never been a man for speeches; and this was not a movie. Skyhill had killed Tara, and spent decades ruining the lives of innocent children. For these crimes he was now going to pay, before his protectors could save him and make it all go away.

  Not this time, fat bollocks. This time justice will be done.

  ‘He’s going over, H’ said Ronnie, coming to a halt. ‘I’m launching this sack of shit over the edge. His Lordship is going to fly. He’ll have plenty of time on the way down to say his prayers.’

  For H, the room was starting to spin; he was weakening, and the enormity of what they’d done, and were about to do, blew through him like a gale: ‘Ron, are you…?’

  ‘No H. No need for any of that. No words. He’s going over. End of. Get yourself into the corridor. These windows are shatterproof, they reckon. Things are going to get a bit lively in here.’

  Ronnie pulled a limpet mine out of his trenchcoat and attached it to the glass. H hadn’t seen a limpet mine in years; he sure as hell hadn’t seen this one.

  Where the fuck did John get hold of that?

  Skyhill was on his knees, blubbering quietly to himself, otherwise silent. Where were his speeches, his know-it-all pronouncements, his-larger-than-life imperiousness now? Ronnie dragged him into the corridor and motioned for H to follow him. Ronnie seemed to have swelled up to twice his usual size. He was now larger than life, glowing, exultant.

  ‘Remember how it goes H’, he said, ‘head down, ears covered. Stay down till everything settles. Move a bit further along the corridor mate - better safe than sorry.’ He went back into the observation area, attached the mine and returned to the almost unconscious H, now losing blood again out of his leg, and the whimpering Skyhill. Heads down. BOOM!

  Ronnie dragged Skyhill back to the window, and with an almighty, vein-popping effort summoned all his strength and heaved him up, up, up and through the hole in the glass. ‘Thank you and goodnight, you horrible, no good cunt’, he said, as Skyhill began, slowly at first it seemed, to cascade down the irregular side of the building, wailing and slobbering as he went. His Lordship had been a lump in life, and now he was a lump in death, hugging the building on his way down and bouncing off it three times as he hurtled towards the ground. God alone knew what kind of mess he was going to make down there.

  The crowd gasped; the sirens wailed; the searchlights continued to sweep the night sky; the chopper arrived.

  Ronnie was breathing hard - it had taken an enormous physical effort to send Skyhill to meet his maker - and now he sank to his knees, closed his eyes and said a silent prayer for his lost, beautiful wife.

  95

  H was feeling weak now. He crawled, through howling wind and roving searchlights, over to the shattered window. And he saw through narrowed, weary eyes the lights of London, stretching out in all directions as far as the eye could see. Huge, ancient, unknowable London, the city he loved and had hardly been out of in thirty years. He thought of its people, swarming and heaving night and day, of their troubles, their joys. The multitudes of poor and rich, low and high - it seemed like all the world was living here now, struggling to gain a foothold and get a living, to survive or flourish, to love and be loved; here, at the centre of things. The greatest city in the world.

  He had done everything he could to protect the safety and dignity of its people, and to avenge the wrongdoings of evil men. But he was tired now and close to sleep, and only dimly aware of what was happening when Ronnie, strong and reliable as an ox, lifted him high onto his shoulder and said ‘Right H, let’s get the fuck out of here’.

  Epilogue

  Little Ronnie Hawkins was forced from the safety and security of his dreams by the clanging of the lock on the door of his cell. Dragusha was already awake, going through his usual morning press-ups and sit-ups.

  ‘Take out slops. Make tea,’ he ordered.

  Ronnie had quickly learned that there were advantages in accepting Dragusha’s protection. Firstly, he was still alive. Secondly he hadn’t had the fuck kicked out of him for over a month, and thirdly Dragusha could ensure they had a few luxuries like tea, chocolates and, most importantly, synthetic weed. The Black Mamba was not doing him a massive amount of good, but it got him off his head. And that was where he needed to be.

  As Ronnie carried out his master’s bidding he felt the eyes of hatred penetrate him. Despite this being an everyday occurrence he still couldn’t get used to it. He found it difficult to understand the true hierarchy in the prison, given so few people spoke to him.

  One of the few people willing to speak to him, Peter O’Reilly, was an aging Irishmen his father had put away many years ago. He didn’t have the anger or the lust for vengeance many of the others had, and he didn’t seem to be scared of anybody.

  ‘Listen son,’ he said in the exercise yard one wet Saturday afternoon, ‘…I hear it was your old man that put Dragusha away. So why this fucker is protecting you I have no idea. Be careful son, be very careful. You’re just a pawn in his game.’

  But with half the inmates baying for his blood there was nothing Ronnie could really do, except what Dragusha told him to. They didn’t speak much, except when Dragusha gave him orders; he was never allowed to sit with or talk to his protector’s inner circle. He sat alone at breakfast, walked alone at exercise time and did whatever little jobs he was given: slopping out, making the tea, delivering Black Mamba and whatever else to Dragusha’s customers.

  So Ronnie knew he was a mere pawn in Dragusha’s game. But every night, as he lay down and pulled the covers over his head, he remembered the advice his dad had given him many years ago, when he
was teaching him how to play chess:

  ‘Don’t waste your pawns, son; they might seem powerless but at the end of the game the outcome often depends on them.’

  Contents

  Prologue

  Part 1

  Part 2

  Part 3

  Part 4

  Epilogue