by Conrad Jones
They had stuck to their racist values all through their adult lives. The National Front dwindled into obscurity during the nineties, and was replaced by more acceptable mainstream political parties like the British National Party, who had a number of elected representatives at Westminster. The extreme members of the rightwing took umbrage with the new politically correct BNP, and joined associations like the 18th Brigade. Eighteen signifies the first and the eighth letters of the alphabet, A and H, representing the initials of Adolph Hitler. The Brigade had no practical use for the two aging drunks in their day to day business, but they used them to organise members` administrative duties and complete paperwork. Terry Nick had a soft spot for them, and they were generally highly thought of by the younger members. They were both quick witted in their rare sober moments and even funnier after six pints.
Most of their days were spent propping up the bar of the Turf, and today was just like any other. They left the pub before last orders and wobbled down the path, which led to the housing estate where they lived. The path meandered through the estate, and shoulder high hedges ran down both sides of it. Every hundred yards or so, the path branched off, allowing access to the houses on either side.
“We didn’t say goodnight to Terry,” Norman said, as he staggered to the left and crashed into the bushes. He screwed his face up tightly at the last minute to stop the branches poking him in the eyes.
“We didn’t did we, because you`re pissed, that`s why,” Dave answered, pulling his wobbly friend out of the bushes, and directing him back down the path.
“I`m not pissed, and if I am, then you`re arseholed, because I can drink you under the table,” Norman said offended. He stopped for a second to look sternly at his drinking partner, and then he lost his balance and toppled into the bushes again.
“Of course you can, that`s why you`re on your arse in the bushes, and I`m picking you up off the floor,” Dave grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and pulled him back to his feet. His knees buckled slightly and then he seemed to regain his balance again. They set off down the dimly lit pathway, holding each other upright.
“We didn’t say goodbye to Terry did we?” Norman repeated himself.
“Shut up you pisshead, here have a cigarette,” David took two Lamberts from his packet, lit one and gave it to his unstable friend. Norman took a deep drag on it and then watched the swirls of smoke leaving his mouth as he exhaled. The streetlight ahead was out, and the path became almost pitch black. The burning end of their cigarettes glowed deep red in the dark.
“What do you think of that little Mandy bird behind the bar?” Norman wobbled as he tried to make conversation. The dark scared him slightly and talking helped.
“She`s alright, all the curves are in the right places, not that you`ve got any hopes of finding out anyway you dirty old man,” Dave teased, laughing and spluttering on his cigarette smoke at the same time. He coughed up phlegm and spat it into the bushes.
“I hope you choke to death, you cheeky bastard,” Norman countered, and slapped his friend hard between the shoulder blades.
“Well, who are you kidding? She`s half our age, and I think Terry has a bit of a crush on her anyway, better steer clear or he`ll break your legs,” Dave said, he coughed again and his chest rattled. Thick green phlegm came up from his lungs, sounding like it was choking him. He cleared his throat of the thick mucus and spat again.
“I`m not scared of him, anyway he`d have to catch me first,” Norman chuckled and then staggered right. He hit the bushes and then fell backward onto the tarmac. His arms and legs stuck up in the air, like a giant infant on a changing mat.
“You really are a fucking nuisance,” Dave said bending down to pick his friend up off the floor. He could barely see him in the gloom.
“I haven’t had anything to eat today, that`s why I`m a bit more pissed than you,” Norman moaned on the floor and then he grunted as he was pulled up to his feet again.
Norman tried to dust himself down a little, and he started to whistle tunelessly. Dave had a grip of his arm and his grip tightened suddenly. Norman looked at Dave, but Dave was looking down the path toward the next streetlight. There were three figures standing across the path, each one was hooded, and their faces were hidden. Norman looked behind them and there were four more figures approaching from the rear. Three of them were hooded and hidden, but the front man wasn’t. He was tall, over six feet, and he was black. He was broad and athletic, and he was moving with a purpose toward them. His hands were gloved, with leather sparring mittens, and in his right hand was a wicked looking blade. It was the type of knife sold in fantasy weapons magazines, gilt edged curved steel blade attached to a handle, which was spiked to act as a cruel knuckle duster.
“What the fuck is going on?” Norman shouted, trying to sound intimidating, but the men advanced from both directions. He stared at the blade with wide eyes, and his jaw hung open in fear.
“Have you got any idea who we are?” Dithering Dave growled as the black men drew nearer.
“We knows exactly who you is man,” said the man at the front of the group. He smiled, exposing stained misshapen teeth, but there was no humour in his smile, only venom. The glint off one gold capped tooth at the front seemed out of place surrounded by decay. The wicked curved blade flashed as it reflected the yellow light from the streetlights, and the slashing noises carried on long after the screaming had stopped.
Chapter six
Warrington/ Vigilante
The bus terminus was nearly new, and was built as a statement of intent by the borough council, to demonstrate that they were dragging Warrington kicking and screaming into the twenty first century. A plate glass facade thirty feet high curved in an s shape, forming the front of the building. Inside was a brightly lit space, high ceilings and white marble tiled floors. As far as bus stations go, this was first class. The tramp left his shopping trolley at the door, and it swished open as he approached. He held the stuffed rabbit under his arm for effect. There were only a handful of people waiting for their last bus home, some too drunk to notice, and some too tired to be bothered about the scruffy vagrant as he headed for the toilets.
He entered the gents` lavatories, more reminiscent of a five star hotel than a bus terminus. White polished tiles and stainless steel fittings, and the heavy pungent odour of strong disinfectants, had replaced urine stinking, graffiti covered cubicles. The cubicle furthest from the entrance was empty, and he crossed the white tiled floor, being careful not to slip, and pushed open the door. Once inside he pulled off the mask and floppy trilby in one swift movement. He slipped off his jacket, and retrieved a plastic shopping bag from the pocket. The jacket, the mask and hat, all fitted inside the bag with ease. He left the tattered rabbit on the toilet pan, looking forlorn, and then headed back into the deserted terminus, looking like a normal bus passenger.
Blue flashing lights flashed, and the sound of police sirens blared as the emergency service raced to the scene of the burning Volkswagen. He froze and watched them speeding past. The headlights of an empty bus approached the bay that he was walking to, and he jogged awkwardly toward the exit door so that he could board it. He reached the door and lost his balance again. There was a metal bar fixed to the wall to aid the disabled passengers, and he shot out a strong arm and grabbed it, stopping himself from toppling over. He regained his balance and stepped forward. Just as he stepped outside there was an enormous whoosh sound, followed by a loud explosion, as the gas bottles in the bank`s foyer ignited. It had taken longer than he`d anticipated for the gas to reach the candle, and he made a mental note to adjust his calculations next time.
Chapter Seven
The Turf and Feather
In the not so distant past, 18th Brigade men sensing imminent danger would have rushed to an arsenal of hidden firearms, in order to defend themselves. However in recent years the Brigade had been infiltrated numerous times by Britain`s security services, leading to the arrest and incarceration of many of its senior membe
rs. They were constantly under police observation, and Terry Nick knew that the Turf and Feather had been rigged with spy cameras eighteen months ago, so they used it as a base, and nothing more. That was another reason why he spent most of his time outside in the beer garden smoking, where he could conduct his business away from the prying eyes of the law. Their weapons were well hidden, and well dispersed, but were too far away from the Turf to be of any use now. He wouldn’t make the mistake of putting all their eggs in one basket, or give the authorities a reason to arrest them for possession. There were no weapons of any description allowed to be carried in the Turf, and if Terry Nick discovered otherwise then the offenders were in deep trouble. The soldiers that he deployed in Iraq and Afghanistan were supplied with weapons upon arrival in the country they were employed in.
There was a squealing of tyres on the main road, as the two hatchbacks turned into the pub car park. Their headlights illuminated the entire area, and the air was filled with the throaty exhausts and the boom base of their stereos. They skidded to a halt side by side fifty yards in front of the four huge Brigade men. Terry Nick was blinded looking into the headlights, and he couldn’t make out who was in the vehicles. The music stopped. Terry looked across at his men, and made a quick mental assessment of the situation. Two hatchbacks fully loaded equalled a maximum of ten men, but more likely eight, four in each. His three lieutenants weighed in at nearly twenty stones each, and they were battle hardened fighters. Even unarmed they were an awesome group of men. Terry smiled his best smile, and stepped toward the vehicles, making a display of not being afraid of anyone. Automatically his lieutenants stepped forward with him, all about ten feet apart, as they advanced in a line, silent and menacing.
The doors of the two cars opened and shadowy figures emerged from the vehicles. Two men exited from the first car; then there were three, then six and finally seven in total. They walked slowly to the front of the cars, silhouetted by the headlights. They were all tall, over six foot, but very slim. They reminded him of stickmen, long gangly limbs and narrow shoulders. There was silence as the two groups faced off.
“I`ve come to tell you that your interests in Manchester have been placed under new management, init, your services are no longer required init,” one of the silhouettes spoke in a very distinctive accent.
There was a combination of Jamaican yardy, and Salford Manchester, twenty first century gangsta language that was spreading across the country like a plague. All of a sudden the teenagers and criminal elements of Britain were talking like black hip-hop artists. The problem was that even the would-be white gangsters and drug dealers were using the same accent, so without seeing the colour of their skin, Terry couldn’t distinguish who they were. Their physique was very distinctive though, and it reminded him of the trip to Kenya he had once made. The Kenyan men are all short, but their Somali neighbours were all built like beanpoles. The taller men from Somali were preferred as security guards and policemen.
“Well, that`s very kind of you to come all this way to tell us, however I`m afraid we require a period of notice before we terminate a contract, and it`s usually about fifty years,” Terry walked slowly to the left hand side, trying to peer through the dazzling lights. The huge skinheads started laughing at their leader`s sarcastic humour.
“That`s very funny, init, but there`s nothing funny about it. I`m giving you an opportunity to keep your interest on this side of the county, but your Manchester business is now in our hands,” the same voice replied.
Terry Nick caught a glimpse of the man doing the talking. He was tall and black skinned, wearing a tight skullcap that became a veil at the back of his head, some kind of Muslim thing that Terry had seen on American gang films. His features were sharp, high cheekbones and an angular jaw, long thin nose bone. He was convinced they were Somali.
“I don’t think you heard what I said. I don’t think you understood what I said because you can`t speak English properly, init! What the fuck does `init` mean lads?” Terry spoke slowly and carried on moving slowly forward, and to his left. His lieutenants were moving to the right hand side in a line, trying to get beyond the glare of the headlights. The skinheads chuckled again at their boss`s cutting remarks.
“I think it`s a black thing Terry, init,” the skinhead furthest to the right said, joining in the charade. His boots kicked a discarded pint pot, and it clattered across the tarmac. He reached down and picked up the glass, and then he hurled it toward the glaring headlights. The shadowy figures stepped aside and the glass shattered on the bonnet of the car behind them.
“I weren`t sure if you would be cordial about it or not, init, so I took the liberty of offering you an incentive to walk away peacefully,” the voice became more Jamaican as if he were emphasising the accent on purpose for effect. He moved quickly, and tossed something toward Terry; it dropped onto the tarmac with a wet thud. Terry leaned over and inspected it. His face turned a deep purple colour, as his blood pressure went through the roof. Anger was rising from the pit of his stomach, threatening to consume him. He knew that he had to keep control of himself, as the stakes had just been raised. He stared at the severed hand; it was small and male, and there was a Liverpool Football Club ring on the middle finger, just like the one Headbutt Norman always wore. Terry Nick stood up and stared at the silhouette, his face was like stone, and the veins in his neck were pulsing.
“You have no idea what you`ve just started, I`m very pissed off now, but I guess that was always your objective,” Terry nodded his head slowly, wishing he could get his huge hands around the man`s throat.
“I hope you have got the message, we don’t want a war, init, and we know that this isn’t personal, it`s business, init,” the black man waved and the men started to get back into the cars.
“I`ll look forward to discussing `business` with you under different circumstances next time,” Terry Nick growled, trying to maintain his composure. One of his Brigade men walked over and picked up the severed hand. He recognised the ring and then tossed the appendage to the next man in the line. It dawned on them one by one what had happened to Headbutt Norman.
“You`re as good as dead you black cunt,” the Brigade man next to Terry Nick shouted. He spat toward the headlights.
The black man who had been doing all the talking stopped in his tracks. He stepped to the side of the vehicle beyond the lights, where he could be seen properly. Terry knew he was definitely Somali now that he could see him. The Somali smiled an evil smile. Rotten teeth, gold caps, and distinctive green eyes, Terry would have no problem tracking this bastard down. The Somali stopped smiling, and reached inside his leather jacket. He pulled out a Mac 10 machine pistol, and clicked off the safety. The sound of the metal breech engaging carried across the car park, signalling that it was ready to dispense death at the rate of nine hundred bullets a minute. He pulled the trigger and sprayed the front of the pub with high velocity bullets. Glass shattered and sparks flew as the nine millimetre rounds blasted into the pub Terry Nick and his men dived spread-eagled on the tarmac, and covered their heads with their hands, as if they could stop a bullet.
Terry looked up and his heart stopped a beat. He sucked his breath in sharply and a low moan came from his throat. He watched what was happening instinctively, even though all he wanted to do was close his eyes, and make it go away. Mandy, his favourite little barmaid was watching them through the pub window, but the light inside was reflecting off the glass, making it difficult for her to see anything. She was screwing her eyes, and pressing her forehead against the window to get a better view when the machinegun opened fire. The back of her head exploded as two fat nine millimetre bullets ripped through her skull, liquidizing her brains, and spraying the pub dart board with grey matter. She didn’t even have time to scream.
The gunfire stopped, and then the car doors slammed closed. Terry stood up as the two hatchbacks sped off the car park, tyres squealing and spraying grit behind them. One of the hatchbacks screeched to halt as it reached the main r
oad, and a lone man climbed out of the passenger door. He ran to the back of the car and opened the boot, reached inside and dragged a bloodied body out. The he repeated the process and dumped a second battered corpse on the road, before jumping back into the car. Terry Nick heard laughter and then the deep booming noise of a bass line as the cars sped off into the night.
Fearing the worst Terry walked over to the bodies. It was a shocking sight. He could barely recognise his two colleagues, because their injuries were so bad; their faces slashed open across the mouths, from ear to ear. Their noses had been cut in half vertically, deep to the bone. The only way he could tell who was who, was because Headbutt Norman`s hand had been cut off. He stared at them in disbelief, and anger twisted his stomach in a knot. Then he noticed bubbles in the thick congealing blood around Norman`s mouth, miraculously he was still breathing.
“Has anyone phoned an ambulance?” Terry growled and took off his belt. He wrapped it tightly around the top of Norman`s injured arm, trying to stem the flow of blood from the wrist.
“They`re already on the way Terry,” one of his men answered as he knelt down and felt for a pulse in Dithering Dave`s neck. He took off his jacket and placed it over his bleeding friend to keep him warm; his pulse was very weak. The sound of a siren wailed in the distance, and they prayed that it was heading their way.