by Mark Timlin
‘In my car, just down the road.’
‘Take it with you. It might be your only way in. But give it to Marcus to mind.’
‘OK,’ I said. ‘And thanks again.’
Marcus came back five minutes later wearing a long coat and carrying a sawn-off, semi-automatic Winchester shotgun. ‘Majesty up,’ he said. ‘But he not happy.’
‘Then make him happy, Marcus,’ said Mr B. ‘Give him a line. And Mr Sharman here is going to give you the drugs to look after. Don’t lose them.’
‘Sure,’ said Marcus. Then to me. ‘Come,’ and we left Mr B to his darkness and his fish and went back to the front of the house where Majesty was still rubbing the sleep from his eyes and Goldie, wearing a natty red duffle coat, was pushing shells into the breech of another Winchester, the twin of the one in Marcus’s mitten.
‘What you got?’ Goldie said to me.
‘I’ve got some handguns in the car,’ I replied.
‘Want something ’eavy?’
‘What you got?’
‘Have this,’ he said, and tossed me the loaded shotgun. ‘Me got somethin’ special.’ And he pulled back the skirt of his coat to let me see an Uzi carbine in a holster on a leather belt buckled round his waist.
‘Get the car, Majesty,’ said Marcus. ‘Don’t keep us mens waitin’.’
‘Gimme a livener,’ said Majesty, ‘me tired.’ And Marcus took out a wrap of coke and passed it over. Majesty hoovered up a noseful and passed it to me. I took a hit and gave it to Goldie, who seemed to be the only one of us in a good mood, and he did the same then returned it to Marcus. Marcus ran the paper under his nose, screwed it up and dropped it into his pocket.
‘Where’s the stuff?’ Marcus said to me.
‘I’ll get it. Wait here.’
I handed Goldie the shotgun, left them in the hall and went back to the Merc. I stashed the four guns I’d collected about my person and took the bag back to the house, where I gave it to Marcus. ‘Let’s fuckin’ go,’ he said. ‘It’s gettin’ late.’
We went out into the night which seemed to be getting colder, but at least the snow had stopped. Majesty led us to another Beemer which was parked in front of the next house, activated the central locking and we got in. Me in the back with Goldie, Majesty behind the wheel and Marcus riding shotgun. Literally.
Majesty hit the ignition, switched on the lights and headed for Loughborough Junction.
The streets were empty and he drove like a maniac, chucking the car round corners and jumping red lights like they didn’t exist. I don’t know if it was the coke, or being dragged out of bed, or the excitement at what was happening, or just that he was a fucking flake, but about a quarter of a mile from Loughborough Junction station, he underestimated the sharpness of a bend or maybe hit a sheet of black ice just as he went into it. Whatever. It doesn’t matter now. All I know was that the BMW spun out, Majesty hit the brakes too hard, the motor’s wheels clipped the kerb and suddenly we were rolling down the middle of the road, the engine still roaring, and sparks flying from the bodywork each time the car turned turtle. The door next to me flew open, snapped off its hinges and I was thrown across the pavement on my back, still clutching the Winchester, as the car skidded along on its roof and hit a lamp-post with a crash. I lay on the ground and saw petrol ignite before the car went up with a whoosh, and the last thing I saw was Marcus hanging down by his seat belt, his hands flailing at the catch, before he was consumed by flames. And the last thing I heard was the screams of the occupants of the BMW as they burnt to death, a sound I don’t think I’ll ever forget as long as I live.
82
Then the ammunition that was in the guns and on their persons began to go off like a firework display, and I knew it was time to split. Shit, I thought, as I limped away from the blazing motor, and realized that the bag of dope was still inside and had gone up with the car and its occupants. That’s put a spanner in the works.
I headed through the back streets towards the Loughborough Estate and Tootsie’s place, as lights came on in windows at the racket, and I knew the coppers wouldn’t be long arriving. Well, at least they had something to keep them busy and out of my hair.
Once I was away from all the commotion, I stopped, leaned against a wall, lit a cigarette with trembling fingers and assessed the damage to my person. I was getting too old for this lark.
My jeans were ripped at the knee and I could feel blood trickling down one leg; my leather jacket was torn at the shoulder, the lining exposed, and my back was burning like hell. I tried to lift my left arm but couldn’t get it above shoulder level without excruciating pain. It felt like my collarbone was broken.
A fine state in which to go into battle, and single-handed.
What the hell, I thought. Here goes nothing. I flipped the cigarette away and got going, wishing I had something to drink or another line of coke.
I cut across the estate to the old shop that Tootsie and his crew had squatted and got there at four-forty a.m. by my Rolex that seemed to have survived the crash much better than I had. I was glad I hadn’t let those geezers in Vauxhall rip it off.
The shop was in darkness, as was the whole parade. Obviously Tootsie and his mob had been target-practising on the street lights again.
Good boys, I thought, as I slid like a wraith through the shadowy walkways towards my objective.
The graffiti-covered shutters were down at the front so I went round to the alley at the back, just as it started to snow again.
The service doors were blocked by an overflowing skip. Shit, I thought, and looked up. The windows above were filthy, but they looked like they were free of security measures, and beyond one I could just see a dim light. That looked like a decent mode of entry, so I pumped a shell into the breech of the Winchester and went a-hunting.
I walked back along the alley to a wooden door at the end. It was warped and stained with smoke and gave slightly when I pushed it, although it nearly killed my sore back to exert much pressure.
I leaned all my weight against it and felt it give again, then give more, and with a screech it opened a foot or so.
I froze, waiting for a reaction to the sound, but none came and I slid through the gap.
Inside was a foul-smelling, pitch-black hole that I illuminated briefly with my lighter, and saw a stairway leading upwards.
Moving by touch, I took the stairs which dog-legged after eight steps and after another eight ended at a landing. I lit the Zippo again and saw a black-painted window to my left. It was the direction I wanted. I tried it but it was stuck fast.
I lifted up the Winchester and hit the glass with the butt, once gently, the second time harder, and the third time hard enough to break the pane.
The sound of the glass falling on to the balcony outside, that reached the length of the rear of the parade, sounded as loud as an explosion in the still night air, and I reversed the gun and stuck the barrel through the hole.
But still there was no reaction from inside Tootsie’s hideout. Either there was no one home, they were all deaf, or they’d been celebrating their victory over Darkman by smoking so much weed and drinking so much booze they were all dead to the world.
I hoped it was the latter.
83
I cleared the frame of glass and pulled myself through, then crept along the balcony, which was inches-deep in filthy water and lichen and all sorts of other shit, and stank like a midden when I disturbed the crust of ice that covered it.
When I got to the window that was lit, I peered through, taking care not to silhouette my head against the outside. The interior light came from an open doorway, but as far as I could see, the room inside was empty. I tried the window but it wouldn’t budge. It was either locked or stuck with old paint. I had two choices, either smash it, which would alert anyone inside, no matter how fast asleep they were, or try the stealthy approach.
<
br /> I decided on stealth.
Stiffly I lay down in the icy water outside the window and, with the barrel of the pump, I tapped on the glass above me.
Nothing.
Fuck, but it was cold, as I lay shivering in the muck and the freezing water permeated my clothing.
A harder tap.
Still nothing, and I’d half decided to smash the window anyway when I saw the light brighten suddenly, then decrease again as someone approached the dirty glass, throwing a slight shadow over me. I snuggled – if that’s the word – against the brickwork as the window opened with a squeal and a black head stuck itself through. It was Clarence. I put the muzzle of the gun under his chin and said. ‘Season’s greetings, Clarence.’
‘Wha’?’ he stuttered.
‘Is my daughter there?’
The bastard was quick, I’ll give him that. He withdrew his head and the window went down with a slam.
I’ll take that as a yes, I thought, pulled myself upright and fired through the glass. The window disintegrated and Clarence took the blast full in his back and somersaulted against the wall.
So much for the stealthy approach.
84
I pumped another shell into the breech, then cleared the shards of glass away with the barrel of the gun and climbed into the room. Clarence’s body was still, and so was the rest of the building. I stopped at the door and listened. Not a sound.
Now that was weird. The commotion I’d made should’ve brought the boys running, semi-automatic weapons cocked and unlocked.
I stood in the doorway for a moment more, every sense primed for trouble, but the whole place stayed perversely silent. I moved slowly into the dimly lit corridor that was strewn with litter and, with my gun pointed in front of me, started to search. I didn’t have far to look. The third door I tried revealed a hot, sparsely lit room that stank of dope, sweat and sex, with a mattress on the floor covered in a grubby duvet next to one of those big Calor-gas heaters. Under the duvet was a young black woman of heroic proportions. ‘Where is everybody?’ I said, by way of starting a conversation.
‘What’s happening?’ she replied. ‘Where’s Clarence?’
‘Your boyfriend?’ I asked back.
‘No. Just a guy I met.’
‘Just as well. He’s dead. Where’s Tootsie and the rest?’
‘Who?’
‘Tootsie. Big fat geezer. Clarence’s boss man.’
‘Don’t know. There’s nobody here but us chickens.’ And she giggled a stoned giggle.
‘So where are they?’
‘Find out.’
I knelt on the edge of the mattress right up close until I almost gagged at her body odour. If that bitch had washed her cunt in the last week I’d’ve been amazed. I changed the shotgun over to my left hand and stuck the muzzle up into the folds of her triple chins and said, ‘I will. Don’t worry about that. Was there a young white girl here?’
She sniggered, so I hit her so hard with my right fist that her head bounced on the wall and blood dribbled from the side of her mouth. ‘Don’t fuck with me, darling,’ I said. ‘I’m not in the mood. Believe me, I’m not. You said it yourself: there’s no one here but us chickens, and I can blow your head to shit with just one touch of my finger. I killed the other geezer in there and it won’t worry me to make it a brace of schwartzers tonight.’
‘She was here,’ she said, wiping her blood away with the back of her hand and allowing the duvet to drop, showing me her massive breasts.
‘Where is she now?’
‘Tootsie took her.’
‘Where?’
‘His place in Kennington.’
Shit, I thought, and I’ve got no motor again.
‘Alone?’ I asked.
‘With Ramon.’
‘Have they hurt her?’
‘Not yet.’
I felt a cold hand clutch at my heart again. If anyone touched Judith they were dead meat. But that could never replace what they’d taken from her.
‘Did Clarence have a car?’ I asked.
‘Yeah. A Shogun.’
‘Where?’
‘Parked down the road by the telephone box.’
‘Keys?’
She pointed her hand at a jacket that was draped over a wooden chair in the corner of the room. Clarence’s, I imagined, and I picked it up and patted the pockets until I found a set of ignition keys on a Playboy keyring. ‘Good,’ I said. ‘Now what do I do with you?’
‘I won’t do anything.’
‘Is that right?’
She nodded. ‘And you can have me if you want.’
‘No thanks,’ I said, looking at her obese body which she was doing nothing to hide. ‘I’ve given up pork.’
‘Bastard.’
‘That’s more like it. Seems to me I can trust you, tie you, or kill you.’
Her face took on a greyish hue and she pulled the duvet over her body again.
‘I don’t want to kill you,’ I said. ‘But you’ve seen me now, and I killed your boyfriend.’
‘I told you, he’s not my boyfriend, just a john. A trick.’
‘OK,’ I said. ‘But I’ll have to tie you up.’
She seemed a bit more cheerful then. ‘Is that how you get your kicks?’ she asked, with what I imagined she thought was a coquettish smile.
‘No,’ I said. ‘But I don’t want you warning Tootsie I’m about.’
‘I wouldn’t.’
‘Even so,’ and I looked around for something with which to truss her up tight. As my eyes left her, she came off the bed with a cut-throat razor in her hand and slashed at me. The blade went through my leather and dug into my chest, and I felt as if I’d been punched hard. I pulled the trigger on the pump and blew her belly clear through her spinal cord.
She crashed back against the wall and rolled on to her side as I looked at the blood bubbling through the slice in my jacket.
Fuck it, I thought. I should’ve just killed her anyway.
85
By then I was hurting all over and felt like warmed-up shit. I looked round the room and saw the girl’s clothes. On top was a black satin slip that smelled of cheap perfume and sweat. But, nevertheless, I folded it up and stuffed it down the front of my shirt to try and stop some of the bleeding. This was going to be a great Christmas. It was the casualty ward at King’s or the undertaker’s for me, for sure, by Boxing Day.
Then I picked up the car keys and split.
The 4 x 4 was parked just where she’d said it’d be, and I worked the gizmo on the keyring that switched off the alarm and unlocked the doors and climbed in. Thank God it was automatic, because I wasn’t up to shifting gears manually. I plugged in the key and fired it up. Someone had fitted a straight-through exhaust, and the sound boomed off the buildings around as I stuck it into ‘DRIVE’ and took off with a squeal from the motor’s oversized tyres.
Even though I took it fairly easy, what with my shoulder and back hurting like fuck, and Christ knows how much blood I was losing from the razor cut, I was in Kennington within ten minutes and parked the motor up about three minutes’ walk from Tootsie’s gaff there.
I shut down the motor, switched off the lights, lit a last cigarette, picked up the shotgun and went looking for my daughter and the people who’d kidnapped her for what I prayed was the last time.
The house was lit when I got there and a metal cover was on the front door. Christ, I thought, these motherfucking Yardies are keeping the south London welding companies in business. I went round the back and checked the door there. No cover, stupid arseholes. I blew the locks off with one shot, kicked it open and went inside. Ramon was standing in the kitchen in a vest and trousers holding a can of Stripe, and I blew the fucker away and pumped the last shell into the breech of the Winchester.
‘Come on out, Tootsi
e, you motherfucker!’ I screamed. ‘Come on out and see what I brought you for Christmas!’ But answer came there none.
I walked further into the building, kicking open the doors to the living room as I went, before I got to the stairs at the front and climbed them slowly.
At the top I stopped. There was only one light on. A dim, shadeless bulb in a ceiling fixture. I padded across the carpet and pushed open a door that led into the bathroom. It was empty.
I began to turn round and sensed a movement behind me and tried to bring up the gun, but suddenly the dim bulb became as bright as the sun, then as dark as the night, and I fell into a black, warm sea of unconsciousness.
86
I came to lying on a hard floor. My hands were tied behind my back, and if I thought I was hurting before, now I was certain. Every sodding bone and tissue in my body was telegraphing pain to my brain. And on top of that, I felt as if someone had taken a can-opener to my skull.
I groaned aloud and opened my eyes. I was in a small bedroom. It was furnished with a single divan, a wardrobe, a dressing table and the walls were covered with posters of Bob Marley, Snoop Doggy Dog and Ice T. Judith was kneeling over me and Tootsie was standing in the doorway, a Hi-Power in his fist, and my Detonics tucked into the waistband of his trousers. The other three of my guns were littered on the top of the dressing table, well out of my reach.
‘Are you all right, Dad?’ Judith sounded worried. ‘I thought you were never going to wake up.’
‘As well as can be expected. What’s more important, how are you? Have they hurt you?’
‘The other one kept touching me.’
‘Don’t worry about him,’ I said. ‘I’ve sorted him. Did he…?’
‘Shut up,’ interrupted Tootsie, his massive jowls wobbling.
‘No,’ said Judith. ‘I bit him.’
‘Good for you,’ I said. ‘But you might have poisoned yourself.’
‘I said shut up both of you,’ ordered Tootsie, his voice climbing an octave. ‘And you, bitch, get away from him, back on the bed.’
