Guns of Brixton (2010)

by Timlin, Mark

  Bob’s voice said: ‘Go, go, go!’

  The heist was on.

  The two vehicles moved off together, gathering speed, and Mark turned and grinned at Jimmy, though through his mask, the smile was invisible. ‘This is it, then,’ he shouted, and Jimmy racked a shell into the breech of his shotgun. Mark could hear the bolts of automatic weapons being set to fire from the others in the back seats.

  As the vehicles left the main road and turned on to the industrial estate, all seemed quite and empty. Mark wondered where the cops were hiding.

  The Volvo hit its stride as it approached the front gates of the depository, Tony Green accelerating smoothly through the gears, and Mark saw the uniformed guard at the gate peering through the glass front and reaching for his phone. ‘Fuck it,’ he shouted. ‘He’s sussed us.’ The Volvo smashed into the gate, which stretched like elastic, then tore free from its hinges and flew up over the top of the truck and hit the road, narrowly missing the bonnet of the Chevy. The guard was desperately pressing buttons on his phone when Green swung his wheel hard and dropped down a gear, the back of the truck swinging round, its tyres screaming and leaving black tracks across the concrete and smashing the gatehouse clean off its foundations, sending it and the guard tumbling across the ground in a shower of broken glass. ‘Fantastic,’ yelled Mark as he skidded the Chevy to a halt and Jimmy leapt from his seat and fired three rounds into the wreckage.

  Jimmy ran back and leapt through the open passenger door, reloading on the hoof, and Mark sped away.

  The Volvo hit the main doors of the depository and Mark saw them burst open and the truck vanish inside. He followed, broadsiding the Chevrolet to a halt, and Jimmy dived out, with the others following quickly behind.

  Inside the depository was chaos. Workers sat at benches covered with black velvet upon which sat a fortune in precious stones, glittering under the fluorescent lights. The Volvo flew across the concrete floor sending men leaping out of the way. One moved too slowly and was crushed under its giant tyres, his body bursting like a blood blister.

  Two armed guards were stationed on a mezzanine floor and Mark saw their amazed looks as they fumbled with the safeties of their Heckler & Koch submachine guns, as the Volvo skidded to a halt half in and half out of the open vault door. One man, not in uniform, made for the switch to shut it but was cut down by a hail of fire from Bob’s H&K, which he fired from inside his cab. The gang was inside but not yet in control. Ronnie, Les and Paul began to fire upwards at the guards and both were cut down before they had a chance to return fire.

  And then, over the tops of the warehouses from the direction of the river, came the roar of a helicopter engine, and a police chopper rose up. Mark realised that his plan was coming good and that the most tricky part of the day was yet to come.

  Armed police appeared as if by magic from every direction, dressed in dark blue boiler suits, padded with body armour, their heads encased in tight helmets, their eyes hidden by tinted goggles and gas masks covering the bottom of their faces. They lobbed tear gas grenades and the building filled with acrid smoke. The cops were screaming and shouting for everyone to drop their weapons and get down on the ground, robbers and guards both. But no one paid any heed. Jimmy calmly raised the shotgun and fired, and a copper went down, blood spurting from his legs. Jimmy knew better than to aim for the body, and Mark couldn’t help but grin.

  His nervousness gone, Mark pulled the Glock from under his jacket and started firing. He was as calm as if he were on a shooting range as he picked his targets. He stayed close to Jimmy and yelled above the noise of the chopper, the motors and the sound of gunfire and men screaming: ‘Jesus Christ man, we’ve been screwed.’

  Everyone was shooting by then, coppers at robbers, guards at robbers, and the robbers at anything that moved in uniform. The muzzle sounds magnified inside the confines of the building, the bullets fizzing through the air and ricocheting off the walls. But Mark somehow knew that it wasn’t his time. Not yet. It might be his day to die, but his work wasn’t over yet. Mark kept shooting until the Glock’s mechanism blew back empty. Next to him, Les took a round in the chest and fell on his back, the AK-47 he was carrying hitting the deck. Mark didn’t have time to reload the Glock so he stuck the gun back in its holster and picked up Les’s weapon. It was set for full auto and Mark fired off a burst, not caring who or what he hit.

  Behind the building, away from the action, Sean stood by his car and watched the whole thing go off from a distance. He was dressed in old jeans and a leather jacket. In the boot of his car was a Kevlar flak jacket. The vest was hot and uncomfortable, especially on a day like this, and he always felt like a fool wearing one. But rules were rules and Sean believed in keeping them, so he reluctantly he took off his leather, put on the vest and pulled his jacket back over it. He watched the Volvo truck blowing the gates, the guard hut and the main door to hell and gone, the helicopter arriving and armed police entering the warehouse. Then the shooting had started and he knew this was going to be a big one. His informant had been right, and now he wanted his reward, and it irked Sean to be the one to give it to him. But these were the breaks, so he just stood, watched, and waited for Steve Sawyer to make it over to him.

  Inside, as the firefight grew hotter and the gas more dense, Mark knelt beside the Chevrolet and fired at the doorway and saw a cop hit the ground. He grabbed Jimmy. ‘This is fucked,’ he said. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  Jimmy nodded, and they left the shield of the vehicle and legged it across the floor towards the offices at the back of the building. There were bodies everywhere: robbers, guards and coppers too. Mark and Jimmy raced through the open-plan offices, jumping over desks and dividers, heading for the rear. ‘What about the others?’ gasped Jimmy as they dropped behind a filing cabinet for a breather.

  ‘Fuck ’em. Let them take care of themselves,’ said Mark.

  ‘How the fuck did the filth know?’ said Jimmy.

  ‘It’s fucking obvious. Someone grassed.’

  ‘I’d like to know who.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Mark. ‘But there’s no time for that now. Are you coming?’

  ‘Just show me the way.’

  That’s exactly what I wanted you to say, thought Mark and he shoved Jimmy down a corridor, yelling that there should be a back door close by, and there it was, just like Sean had told him, like he’d seen on the building plans he’d so carefully studied at Butler’s briefing. A metal-covered door right at the back of the building. Sean had said it would be open, but Mark didn’t want Jimmy to know that, so he emptied the Kalashnikov into it before pulling it open. He dropped the empty gun and shouted at Jimmy, ‘Come on, man, let’s get gone.’

  Jimmy took one last, longing look back in the direction of the precious stones, then shrugged and followed Mark.

  There was no one outside in the parking area, and they dashed through the rows of vehicles towards the gate. This was where Sean said he would be waiting.

  Mark spotted it. He hit it with his shoulder and it flew open. ‘How… ?’ said Jimmy.

  ‘Just lucky.’

  The pair of them dived through the door to where Sean was waiting next to his unmarked Mondeo, Mark’s getaway car. He was holding a pistol in his right hand and his police radio in his left. Jimmy skidded to a halt and raised his shotgun.

  Sean looked shocked at the sight of two masked men instead of the one he expected. He brought up his gun, too. ‘What’s going on?’ he shouted.

  ‘Surprise,’ said Mark. ‘It’s OK, it’s me, Steve.’

  ‘Who’s this, then?’ said Sean, his gun on Jimmy.

  ‘Don’t you recognise him?’ said Mark. ‘No, of course you don’t. Jimmy, take that stupid mask off and meet your son.’

  ‘Jimmy?’ said Sean.’ Not Jimmy…’

  ‘Hunter,’ said Mark. ‘The one and only.’

  Jimmy ripped off the balaclava and looked back at Mark. ‘What the fuck’s going on? Who’s this? What about my son?’

&nbs
p; ‘Don’t you recognise him? Christ, are you thick or what? He looks just like you, Jimmy. It’s your son, Sean.’

  Jimmy peered at Sean as the sound of gunfire continued on the other side of the high wall.

  ‘Sean?’ he said.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Mark. ‘Your son. Who’s also Old Bill. It’s a reunion, Jimmy. Aren’t you going to say hello?’

  Jimmy stood mystified, his shotgun hanging from one hand. ‘But what’s he doing here?’

  ‘I told him we’d be here.’

  ‘You did…?’

  ‘That’s right, Jimmy. I grassed us up.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I wanted you to meet your son. And because you killed my father,’ said Mark, and he took off his glasses and balaclava and showed Jimmy his stubbled face and his blue eyes. The exact same colour blue eyes that had looked at Jimmy from Billy Farrow’s face seconds before Jimmy had killed him. ‘Do you know me now, Jimmy?’ said Mark. ‘Don’t you know who I am, either?’

  ‘Farrow?’ said Jimmy, his face full of confusion. ‘Billy? It can’t be you’

  ‘No, it ain’t. I’m Mark,’ said Mark. ‘My dad was Billy. I’m Mark. You killed Billy Farrow and left me and my mum to live alone.’

  ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘Then you’re more stupid than you look, Jimmy.’

  ‘But the job…’

  ‘Fuck the job. I only took the job to get next to you. I fixed your mate Toby Lee so they’d hire me.’

  ‘And you did all this to get me?’

  ‘That’s right. And Butler, too. He was the architect on that bank job when you killed my dad. I owed you both.’

  ‘But how did you find me?’

  ‘It wasn’t hard. I’ve got good at it over the years.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I found Sean, didn’t I? And Linda, too.’

  ‘What are you on about?’

  ‘Your daughter. Linda. Remember her? I know you do, because I saw you once outside her house. Yeah. I didn’t know who you were then. Christ but I wish I had. I’d’ve run you down like a dog.’

  ‘Have you hurt her? Linda?’

  ‘Yeah. But not how you mean. We fell in love and I dumped her.’

  Jimmy couldn’t believe his ears. ‘You did what?’

  ‘I fell for her. We were going to be married, but something happened.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘My mum killed herself. After you killed Billy she took to the booze and got mixed up with a right bastard. He fucked her up good and proper and one night she slashed her wrists and I found her lying in a bath full of blood. Then I killed the fucker who was responsible. At least one of them. You’re the other. I’ve been waiting for you to get out ever since. You brought out the killer in me, Jimmy. You and him. And that’s what I’ve been doing ever since. Killing people. And now it’s your turn.’ And he reached inside his boot for the .38 concealed there and raised it and aimed it at Jimmy Hunter’s heart.

  ‘No,’ said Sean, pointing his pistol at Mark. ‘No. I’m arresting you both.’

  ‘We had a deal,’ said Mark.

  ‘I had a deal with Steve. You’re not him. So I’m arresting the two of you for armed robbery. Other charges may follow.’ He began to read them their rights.

  ‘You’ve got some balls, I’ll give you that,’ said Mark.

  ‘No,’ said Jimmy, pointing his shotgun in Sean’s direction. ‘I’m not going back inside. Not for you or anyone else. Son or no son.’

  So there they stood, as the gunfight diminished inside the building behind them. Mark pointing his gun at Jimmy, Jimmy pointing his gun at Mark, and Sean moving the barrel of his gun between them both, not sure who was the most dangerous. ‘Put your guns down, both of you,’ he said.

  ‘Fuck off,’ said Mark. ‘Take your best shot, Sean.’

  But the tableau was disturbed as two armed coppers ran through the door behind them. ‘Armed police,’ they shouted in unison. ‘Put down your weapons.’

  ‘I’m job,’ shouted Sean, ‘Don’t shoot.’

  ‘Put down your weapons,’ screamed one of the men his arm bleeding from a bullet. ‘Now.’

  Jimmy fired once at the cops who returned fire, their bullets thudding into his chest and knocking him off his feet. ‘That’s my father,’ screamed Sean, and without thinking fired too, his bullet going through the right-hand lens of the wounded marksman’s goggles and blowing the back of his skull into his helmet. As he fell, dead before he hit the ground, the second copper fired at Sean, blowing holes in his leather. The bullets meant for his chest were absorbed by the flak jacket and he was knocked back against the body of the Mondeo, sending his radio flying from his hand and out of sight.

  Mark pulled the trigger of his revolver, aiming at the legs of the second copper. The bullets blew meat from his thighs and he folded up like a concertina. As he fell his finger pulled the trigger one last time and the bullet his Sean in the groin beneath the Kevlar protection and he screamed in pain. Mark turned and looked at Sean, as he leant against the boot of the car, blood pulsing from his wounds and darkening the denim of his jeans. Calmly he walked over to Jimmy Hunter, prone on the ground, his eyes staring at the sky. Mark felt for a pulse but found none. ‘Dead,’ he said without emotion. ‘Good bloody riddance. I’m just sorry it wasn’t me who did it,’ and he leant over Jimmy’s body and closed his eyes with the palms of his hands.

  ‘Ambulance,’ wheezed Sean. ‘I need an ambulance.’

  ‘I’ll take you,’ said Mark, and pushed him into the back of his car. But before he could get behind the wheel, the copper he’d shot in the legs came back into the game, pulled his semi-automatic pistol from its holster and fired. The bullet hit Mark low in the back and he cried out, ‘Bastard!’ as he fell into the driver’s seat.

  The keys were in the ignition and he switched on the engine, chucked the car into gear and took off in a cloud of dirt, dust and stones as the policeman fired again and the side window of the Mondeo imploded, the bullet ending up somewhere in the roof lining. Mark slammed his foot on to the accelerator and the car went temporarily out of control, fishtailed and almost spun until he dragged it back on to the straight. He bounced it across the wasteland and on to the main road, wrenched it hard around, geared up, put his foot down and headed in the direction of the City Airport. Sean was moaning behind him, and suddenly a police car appeared in his rear view mirror, lights flashing and two-tone siren screaming. ‘Shit,’ said Mark, and accelerated harder, only for another to come from the opposite direction and turn to block the road ahead. Mark twitched the wheel and the Mondeo mounted the pavement, demolished a road sign and scraped along a brick wall in a cloud of sparks.

  ‘You’ll never get away,’ said Sean through gritted teeth from the back.

  ‘Don’t you fucking believe it,’ said Mark, and the Mondeo clipped the bumper of the approaching police car and it tipped over on to its side and smacked into the one behind. ‘It’s just like snooker,’ he said. ‘You’ve got to get your angles right.’

  ‘You’re hit,’ said Sean.

  ‘Too fucking right. There goes my plans for tonight.’

  ‘Which were?’

  ‘Running off with your sister and her kids. Going to find somewhere warm and live there, happily ever after.’

  ‘You were what?’

  ‘Save your breath, Sean. It’s fucked now. Me and Linda were always fucked up.’

  ‘Are you going to the hospital?’ wheezed Sean.

  ‘No,’ said Mark. ‘I reckon you and me should have a talk.’

  ‘Bollocks to talking, I need help,’ said Sean, taking out his mobile. His hands were sticky with blood and felt weak and clumsy, and the phone slipped from him grasp. Mark slowed the car, picked it up from the floor and tossed it out of the window on his side, under the path of a white van.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Battery’s flat.’

  At the airport roundabout, Mark headed away from London towards Beckton and the Nort
h Circular until he saw a piece of derelict land next to a small park. He skidded across two lanes of traffic, bounced hard over the kerb and swung through a gap in the fence that fronted the site. The car sped across the ground, leaving a trail of dust until it slewed to a halt in the shadow of an electricity pylon whose wires hissed in the heat of the early afternoon. The dust slowly settled on the car’s paintwork like a dry drizzle as Mark switched off the motor.

  As the engine noise died, Sean poked his pistol through the gap between the two front seats towards Mark. His body was a mass of pain below his waist and, although he know his wounds were possibly fatal, his mind was still clear. He’d shot another police officer, found and lost his father, been shot, and had been played by the man who betrayed his sister, all in a few minutes. And now this.

  ‘We need to get to a hospital,’ he said, through lips white with strain.

  Mark knew they were both in deep trouble. The blood from the bullet wound in his back had pooled on the driver’s seat and the scent of it was sharp in his nostrils. ‘No hospital for us, mate,’ he said. ‘No point. I don’t think that either of us is going to get out of this alive.’

  ‘Take us,’ said Sean, cocking his pistol, ‘now.’

  Mark laughed out loud but the sound was too much like a death rattle for him to really appreciate the joke. ‘What you going to do, mate?’ he asked. ‘Shoot me, then drag yourself round and drive? Look at the state of you, you can’t even move.’ He looked into the rear of the car at Sean’s blood-soaked clothes. Using the back of his seat as a rest, he pointed his gun at him, grimacing with pain at the effort of the movement.

  Sean said nothing.

  ‘Can you?’ pressed Mark. ‘You’re buggered, mate, and so am I. But that’s nothing new is it, for either of us?’