by Mark Timlin
'The pros from Dover,' said Tubbs. Taking in his mystified expression, he added: 'Beretta.'
'That was fast,' said Mark.
'Tell me about it. It was six this morning.'
'Don't he ever sleep?' asked Eddie.
'With all the charlie he's got, I doubt he does,' said Tubbs. 'Probably sits up all night in that flat with his bird sucking him off and wondering what next for world domination.'
'What's he want?' asked Mark.
'See if I wanted more.'
'What'd you say?'
'That I was working on it.'
'Good,' said Mark. 'That means the ball's in our court. We name the time and place, then we take them down.'
'In the flat?' said Tubbs.
'No. Too confined. Too many places they can lie low. Remember what Uncle John told us about that geezer Sharman.'
'Who?' asked Eddie.
Mark summarised Jenner's tale of the previous night. 'We take them outside, clean.'
'What about the cops?' asked Eddie.
'Cops,' said Mark. 'Fuck 'em. What do they know? These days they're only interested in catching speeders and making money. We'll be gone before they know what's happening.'
'But what about the dope?' said Tubbs. 'And their dough? It'll be up in the flat.'
'So we do them in the street, then go get what we need.'
'We don't know where they keep it.'
'It's a small council flat. Where are they going to put it? How long did it take - Karl, was it? - to fetch it?'
'A minute.'
'There you go. It was probably on the kitchen table in clear sight.
These fuckers think they're fireproof.'
'You make it sound so simple.'
'It is.'
'And then we split the profits.'
'That's the game,' said Mark. 'And then Eddie can ask that barmaid out on a date.'
'Fuck off,' said Eddie. 'If I'm rich I want to go out with someone with class as well as arse.'
'There's no answer to that,' said Tubbs. 'So when do we do it, Mark?'
'Soon as. Give them a day to think you've been working hard at shifting that gear, then we go.'
'Sounds like a plan,' said Tubbs.
And it was. A simple plan. But even the simplest plans have a habit of going awry.
Though not at first.
As Mark had instructed, Tubbs held fire for twenty-four hours. He'd received a few calls from Beretta, checking on how things were going, but he just played it cool, telling him things were progressing nicely and that the product was going well, that everyone involved was happy with the quality. More than happy, in fact.
Then, early on the following morning, the three met at John Jenner's house and put the second part of the plan into operation.
Tubbs called Beretta on his mobile. 'Hey man,' he said. 'It's me, Mr Tubbs. Things are going better than expected and I'm almost dry. What's the chance of a meet?' He nodded. 'That's good. I'm holding large.' He nodded again at what was being said on the other end of the connection. 'Twenty-five. Yeah. You can do that today? Fine. No more on the phone. How about a drink in that boozer where we first met, later? Yeah. Last orders? That'll be fine. Around eleven then. See you there. And maybe we can go on and celebrate. That'll be dandy. Later then.' And he pressed the kill button. 'You heard,' he said to Mark and Eddie. 'We're on.'
'Perfect,' said Mark.
When eleven pm rolled around, Tubbs parked his BMW behind
Beretta's silver Lexus outside the pub. Inside, things were winding down after a quiet weeknight session. Tubbs pushed open the door and saw Beretta, Karl, Moses, and a woman he hadn't seen before but who was cut from the same cloth as Lulu, sitting at a corner table that was covered in dirty glasses and overflowing ashtrays. The £25,000 that Mark had given him from the fast depleting stash in John Jenner's safe was in a shoulder bag, the Browning down the back of his pants, and his mobile phone, charged up, live and connected to Mark's in the top pocket of his jacket. From where Mark and Eddie were sitting, up on the estate, in an anonymous and untraceable Ford Escort - courtesy of Dev - they could hear everything that was said. Both were dressed in black, gloved up, with balaclava helmets rolled up over their heads, like watch caps.
'Mr Tubbs, my man,' said Beretta as Tubbs approached the table. 'Good to see you again. Did I not say that you'd be back soon?'
'You did, and you were right,' Tubbs agreed.
'You know everyone except for Comfort. She's my number two woman.'
Comfort looked to be so out of it, she didn't care what number she was. Or maybe she just knew better than to argue. She just looked up at Tubbs with unfocused eyes, then buried her face in her drink.
'A line, my man?' asked Beretta, but Tubbs shook his head.
'Later,' he said. 'Let's get down to business.'
'Not before you've had a drink. Hey Shorty, another round here and…?' he made a quizzical face at Tubbs.
'Lager,' said Tubbs.
'A lager for my friend.'
The same little barman put down the cloth he'd been using to dry a row of glasses, and busied himself with the order.
'Sit down,' said Beretta. Tubbs complied and Shorty rushed over with a tray of full glasses which he distributed around the table before starting to clear away the empties. 'Leave them,' said Beretta, and he did.
Tubbs placed the bag of cash between his feet and lifted his glass, toasted the quartet and drank.
'So business is good,' said Beretta.
Tubbs nodded.
'Like I said it would. And you have money?'
Another nod from Tubbs.
'Fine. We'll finish this and go back to mine. Lulu's sleeping one off, but I'm sure we can scare her out of bed, and then we party.'
'Sounds good,' said Tubbs.
Inside the Escort, Mark gave Eddie the thumbs up and pressed the mute button on his phone. 'They'll be coming soon,' he said. 'Get ready.'
Eddie reached round for the sawn-off shotgun he'd owned since the 80s, broke it open and inserted two twelve-gauge shells into the breach. Then he snapped it shut and pulled back the hammers.
For the first time, Mark recognised the boy who'd run wild on the streets of south London all those years ago, and he knew that everything was going to be fine. He himself was carrying one of the guns that he'd kept hidden in a secret compartment built into the Range Rover he'd driven back from the Continent - a twenty-shot, fully automatic, drumloaded shotgun, known as a 'street sweeper'. He'd alternated buckshot and solid shells when loading it and Eddie's eyes had almost popped out of their sockets when he'd shown it to him. 'You hardly need us,' he'd said, and Mark had just grinned and winked at him. It felt good to hold the heavy weapon in his hands and smell the old gunpowder that never went away, despite almost constant cleaning.
Mark dropped the gun on to the back seat, started the car and drove closer to Beretta's block. He killed the engine and clicked off the mute button on his mobile. 'Let's get this show on the road,' he heard Beretta say, and gave Eddie the thumbs up again.
Back at the pub, the five at the table were the last customers in, the jukebox was turned off and the lights dimmed. Behind the bar, Shorty stood hesitantly, wondering if Beretta's crew were looking for a lock in, or whether for once he might get to see his bed before dawn.
Bed it was. As the four men rose, Beretta pulled Comfort to her feet and they left without saying thanks. Shorty shook his head and went to the door and locked it.
Outside, the five of them split up to their separate cars and set off towards the estate.
'We're on our way,' was all Tubbs said before surreptitiously switching off his phone.
'They're coming,' said Mark to Eddie, and did the same.
The silver grey Lexus slid like a big fish through the streets of Brixton, its headlights casting long shadows into the night, closely followed by Tubbs's BMW. Inside the lead car the three black men and their woman sat back, secure in their own invincibility, as the CD player pumped
out loud garage music.
The BMW drew up outside the block of flats where Beretta kept his safe house. The engine died and the music and lights were extinguished. The Beemer pulled in two car lengths behind it.
Opposite, in the Ford, Mark said: 'They're here.'
He and Eddie looked at each other, pulled the balaclavas down over their faces, pushed opened their doors and stepped out. 'Oi, junkie!' Mark shouted over the top of the car. 'Hold on a minute.'
All four turned as one. Moses and Karl one side of the car, Beretta and the woman the other. The woman hadn't been in the equation originally, but it was too late to worry about her now. Just another innocent victim. Collateral damage. Tubbs's driver's door opened too and he emerged, the Browning in his right hand.
'Just stand still,' said Mark and his words rang out clearly into the night air, but Beretta and his men paid no attention. 'Go Dizzy,' yelled Mark as he pulled the trigger on the streetsweeper and Eddie fired too, the double blast from the two shots that sounded as one echoing around the flats.
The twin blasts cut Moses and Karl down, one load of buckshot hitting Moses in the chest and the other smashing into Karl's side. They fell against the body of the Lexus in tandem and bounced back on to the road, their bodies ripped and torn by the lead, both of the car's side windows imploded into crystal dust.
Tubbs aimed at Beretta, pulled the trigger, but nothing happened and he cursed and slapped at the safety catch on his pistol as Beretta ducked behind the car reaching into his coat for the gun hidden there. The woman just stood, her hand going to her mouth to cut off the scream that was growing in her throat.
Mark fired again and almost blew her head from her shoulders. The hand covering her face was severed from its wrist and flew across the pavement, landing on the scruffy grass verge in front of the block.
Beretta, meanwhile, crabbed himself away from the car, attempting to take shelter behind the low wall that separated the estate from the public road. He produced a handgun as he went. In fact, he would've been better employed staying where he was and engaging the gunmen, but the sight and sound of the attack had momentarily panicked him and he'd lost his usual cool as the woman's blood had splashed over his clothes.
Lights were coming on all over the blocks, and a young white couple heading out to buy a late fish supper at the chip shop round the corner were suddenly illuminated as they crossed the grass, and Eddie turned and aimed his shooter in their direction.
'Leave 'em,' yelled Mark, high on adrenalin, and Eddie put up his gun.
That was his mistake. Although dying, Karl had managed to haul the Glock he carried in a holster underneath one arm and fire it once before slumping back on the bloody road. More by luck than judgment, the bullet hit Eddie in the forehead and he was dead before he hit the ground.
'Shit,' screamed Mark, firing at Karl; his body jumped and was still, his gun sliding across the street into the gutter.
Tubbs was firing at Beretta, who was sheltered by the wall. Beretta returned fire and knocked Tubbs to the ground. It was all going wrong. Mark kept pumping slugs and shot towards Beretta, sending lumps of brick off the wall, but otherwise producing no effect. Then Tubbs climbed to his feet, blood pumping from his wound and he ran towards Beretta, crossing between Mark and his target and forcing him to hold fire.
'Get down, Tubbs!' Mark shouted, but it was too late. At point blank range Beretta fired at Tubbs and he crashed to the ground, blood pooling black under his body. Beretta snaked along the ground to the front door of the flats. As he entered, Mark fired once more and saw a hit, but Beretta double tapped a response and forced him to duck down behind the Ford.
Mark peered over the bonnet, but all he could see was the door swinging shut behind Beretta. Things had gone from bad to worse. A cursory glance at the bodies of his friends confirmed their demise, and he considered getting into the Ford and leaving but he wouldn't give Beretta the satisfaction. Instead he ran across the street and into the front of the block.
As Mark hit the cracked and filthy frosted glass doors with his shoulder, ready to take his revenge on Beretta in a blast of fire, he saw the lift doors closing.
Shit, he thought. Just my bad luck: this would be the night the sodding lift works. Ten fucking floors. And the only way is shanks' s pony. He carefully opened the door to the stairs, just in case Beretta had tried to fool him and was waiting, but the well was empty. Empty, dark and smelly, it echoed with every step and he climbed up.
Wet with sweat, his legs shaking at the unaccustomed exercise, Mark listened out in case Beretta was lying in wait at the top stairwell, but it was deserted. Must get a bike, he thought. Or, if I get out of this alive, maybe I'll join a gym, thinking of what Eddie had said in the pub the last time they'd met. No exercise for him now, or romantic nights in the arms of an Irish barmaid. Mark paused for a moment before entering the tenth floor corridor, his ears waiting for the sound of sirens which must eventually come. Surely someone had called three nines after the fire-fight in the very public street outside? But all was quiet.
Gently once again, Mark pushed open the door at the end of the short landing and he peered down the tunnel. All was still and quiet: the lift doors were open and the car was empty.
Mark walked down the corridor on tiptoe until he came to flat number 80. The door was locked and he didn't have a key.
'Knock, knock,' he said, then stood at an angle to the door, raised his weapon and fired at the lock. The sound of the explosions was deafening in the confined space and sparks and smoke filled the hallway. But after the fourth round the reinforced door sagged and he booted it open with his Doc Marten shod foot. 'Beretta,' he yelled, although he could hardly hear his own voice after the concussion from the powerful shotgun. 'Give it up, you bastard. I'm coming in.'
There was no reply that he could hear, so he flattened himself against the wall and peered through the doorway. The flat's small hallway was empty and the centre light was out, making it dark and shadowy. A thin glow shone under the bottom of the door at the end. He tried to remember how Tubbs had described the interior of the apartment. Must be the living room, he thought. But where was Beretta? And how badly was he hit?
Still there was no sound of the cops. But by now, Mark was so deafened by the gunshots and concentrating so deeply on every sound and movement inside the flat that, for all he knew, there could be armed response coppers on the stairs right now toting HKs.
Fuck 'em, he thought, as he fully reloaded the streetsweeper, dropping empty, smoking cartridge cases into his pocket. Leave nothing except the dead had always been his motto. He padded across the carpet, bent almost double and leaning to one side to leave as small a target as possible. There were closed doors on both sides of the hall but he ignored them. Go to the light, was all he could think. Go to the light and kill the bastard who had killed his friends.
And then he was there.
At the closed door, behind which, God only knew…
He raised the gun to the door and pulled the trigger. The wood bowed immediately and a huge opening appeared in the centre. Mark dodged back into the closest doorway as more holes were punched into the cheap wood - this time from inside and from a handgun.
Yes, my man, thought Mark. You're there, and I'm going to huff and puff and blow your house down. Once again his finger found the trigger of the shotgun and he pumped half a dozen rounds at the door, which literally blew off its hinges. He ran to the doorway and tumbled inside, hiding behind a chair. After a few seconds he took a look. The place was a mess, smoke wreathing around a single lamp burning in the corner.
On the coffee table bags of cocaine and stacks of cash were piled high and on the sofa beyond, half sitting, half lying was Beretta, his face grey and old-looking, one hand covering the bloody wound in his side, blood soaking through his white shirt. In his other hand, he held his gun, the weapon almost slipping from his gore-covered fingers.
'Gotcha,' said Mark standing, and Beretta looked up through hooded eyes and ra
ised the pistol as if it weighed a ton. 'Too late,' said Mark. 'This is for Tubbs and Eddie,' and he fired once again over the table at Beretta's chest, the spread of the buckshot blowing the drugs and money into the air in a cloud of powder and torn paper before ripping another hole in the black man's torso.
Mark stood in the smoke and dust, licking at the coke that settled on his top lip and laughed out loud. All for what? he thought. All for fuck all. And, just as he was about to turn and leave, he felt a terrible blow to his back. He turned and saw a young black woman standing behind him, a long kitchen knife in her hand streaked with blood, about to stab him again. Lulu he thought. The beautiful Lulu. Bloody hell, I forgot all about her, and there she was hiding, all the time waiting to stab me in the back. How typical of a woman. He pushed the barrel of the streetsweeper deep into her skinny stomach and fired, almost cutting her completely in half and sending long trails of hot blood up the wall behind her. She doubled up, dropped the knife and fell on to the carpet hard, twitched twice and was still.
'Stupid bitch,' Mark said aloud to her bloody corpse, as the pain from the stab wound wracked his body and he knew he was in trouble. He looked at the wreck of the room, the cocaine settling on every surface like snow, making Beretta's face as white as a circus clown's and contrasting surreally with a thin dribble of blood that trickled from the side of his mouth. Mark knew he had to get out of there, quick. And empty handed, at that.
He went back down the hall into the corridor. A couple of the front doors were cracked open slightly as the inhabitants checked out the results of the short battle that had intruded on their late night telly viewing, but when he raised his gun they slammed shut in his face, one by one.
And then, through his battered eardrums he finally did hear the sound of sirens getting closer, and knew that his troubles might only just have begun.
He ran to the still open lift and pressed the button for the first floor. Slowly the doors closed and it descended, and he could hear nothing but the creaking of its old machinery. Finally, after what seemed like forever, the doors opened to the sound of sirens right outside and he knew he'd have to abandon the bodies of his friends, as well as the Ford and the BMW, to the forces of law and order, and all that that entailed.
