The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 9

by Maxim Jakubowski

  If so, job done.

  He pulled the black VW Golf GTI into a side street, checked his mirrors and got out. As he descended the steps of the dim, dank subway, what others would construe as fear intensified. Unlike many, he knew fear was his friend and it was just adrenalin heightening his senses, preparing him for battle. He rolled down his hat, which doubled as a balaclava.

  On his approach he could hear their voices growing louder. There was laughter, too, but not for long. He saw the first one, then the second, and soon clocked that there were six in total.

  Careful.

  They were listening intently to a big lad in the middle who was gesticulating as he described beating his latest victim. The words “Rah, rah” and “innit” were prevalent. His instant recognition of the big lad known as “Big-un” gave him a surge of excitement. The others were dressed in usual dark sports gear with their hoods predictably up. He stopped at the subway’s entrance, straining to identify his prey from twenty metres away. He withdrew a small pair of binoculars and soon sussed the one he had no interest in had a white stripe across his hood.

  He saw that two were going through the pockets of a young curly-haired lad who was clearly shitting himself; probably a student.

  Right.

  “Oy, dickheads!”

  They pivoted in unison, looking surprised.

  “Want some?”

  “You fucking with us, man?” shouted Big-un.

  “What do you think, you bunch of low-lives?”

  The student was discarded like a rag doll. They all surged forward as one, a mass of arms, legs and aggression, their profanities resounding off the subway’s walls.

  He turned and ran, like a fox being hounded. He took the steps three at a time and soon passed a cul-de-sac on the right … one … then ignored the second right turn … two … he could hear them closing … three … he turned into the third cul-de-sac, stopping at the end before turning. Breathlessly, he withdrew a baton from his left sleeve, his preferred weapon due to its silence and his dexterity with it.

  And he waited …

  The noisy throng emerged at the top of the dark street.

  “There he is … the cheeky fucker!” Toward him they ran, their footsteps resounding.

  He stood his ground, baton at the ready. They slowed up, still cursing, a wariness creeping into their psyches, perhaps. Big-un drew a blade, glistening under a streetlamp. “You’re fucked now, gobshite!”

  He backed off from the gang, slowly edging round them, baton outstretched, cutting the night air with threatening swings. Eyeballing Big-un, he subtly manoeuvred them into the opening of an adjacent alleyway just a few metres to his right. They edged forward, cursing, spitting their venom, spreading across the alley’s entrance. One tried to sneak behind him, but the baton cut noisily through the air.

  “Wanker! Am gonna shank you,” said Levi, clicking a flick-knife open.

  He knew all his targets’ names, and more, much more.

  He jockeyed them back a few paces with a few sharp forward steps and vicious swings of the baton, further into the alley, capitalizing on their hesitancy.

  He spotted a third knife appear and took a step back.

  “He’s bottling it now. Ha! His arse has fell out. Fuckin slice him, bro.”

  Two metres away, if that, their anxious faces just visible in the darkness.

  Big-un lunged forward, the others followed, yelling. He sidestepped Big-un, grabbed his arm and jerked it behind his back, before wrenching it up to his neck until it cracked. He threw in a kidney punch for good measure.

  “Aaargh!” Big-un’s blade clanged on the floor and he dropped like a bag of shit, clutching his broken arm. One at the back shaped to throw something and he ducked as a bottle smashed beside him on a wall. They surged forward and a 360 turn impacted the baton on to a couple of stray skulls. Spotting Big-un trying to get up, he stamped on the broken arm, producing a girlie squeal.

  But the throng were getting too close.

  Plan B.

  He expertly swung his baton and connected on the nearest cheekbone with a thud. The youth yelped like a puppy and the others hesitated again, giving him a second to remove a brick in the wall.

  “That won’t fuckin stop us, you muppet.”

  Behind the brick was his trusty Glock 17. “This fuckin will though!” He retracted his baton in a blink and slipped it up his left sleeve. Gripping the handgun in both hands, he took aim. All swagger now gone, their fear-etched faces froze. Levi turned to run.

  “It’s a dead end, boys … just like your lives!”

  Three shots blasted out, one for each forehead. They dropped like dominoes.

  Big-un tried to clamber up the wall, but fell to his knees and glanced up.

  He heard someone sobbing and looked up at the last lad standing. The one with the white stripe on his hood, his face pallid and still as the moon.

  “Go, now. Speak to no one, or you won’t be so lucky next time. Go sort your life out.” The lad left like shit off the proverbial shovel.

  He spun, pointing the Glock at Big-un.

  “Pleeeease … you’re Him, aren’t you … The Hoodie Hunter?”

  He scanned up the street and saw that a few lights had come on. Time to get things moving. “Yes … I’m Him.”

  “Aw nooo … can I go … pleeease?” asked Big-un, pathetically.

  “What do you think?”

  Big-un began whimpering, ironically akin to many of his own victims.

  * * *

  “Sorry, Boss, nothing,” said the dogman with the powerful dragon lamp, his German shepherd, Reece, straining at the leash.

  “Fuck!” Striker kicked a discarded beercan, knowing he’d been suckered. He scanned the vast park to see numerous dipped flashlights dotted about, all heading his way.

  Bardsley and Collinge returned with torches from a sweep of the children’s play area. “All clear.”

  “Never mind, Boss. It’s just a hoax call. At least no one’s dead.”

  Striker bit his lip, hard. The last person he wanted to snap at was Lauren Collinge.

  “Give us a fag, Eric.”

  “Thought you’d stopped?”

  “Just give me one.”

  Bardsley did as he was told and Striker took an exaggerated drag, instantly feeling dizzy, albeit briefly.

  As they were joined by uniform, Bardsley looked at Collinge and whispered, “Lauren, it could still be a decoy. We’re all here now, aren’t we?”

  Collinge nodded and looked a little embarrassed.

  “Right. No one goes off duty tonight. He’s up to something.” Striker’s voice notched up a decibel. “I want house to house done around that phone box, the CCTV tapes from the garage on the corner … and those bloody 999 tapes … now!”

  * * *

  Castro’s mobile finally rang and he looked at Big-un’s name on the screen.

  “About fuckin time, man. Thought you’d got nicked or summat. Where’ve you been?”

  “Hi, Castro,” said the deep voice.

  “Who the fuck is this? Where’s Big-un?”

  “You’ll know me soon enough. As for Big-un … for a big-un, he’s a right cry-baby, isn’t he?”

  “Yo, dickhead! If you touch him you’re dead meat. Do you know who you’re fuckin with, man?”

  “It’s too late for Big-un. And, yes I do know you … man. That’s why I’m coming up, right now.”

  The phone went dead. Castro was confused and felt a surge of panic. Who the fuck would have the balls to take out his number two and diss him like that?

  He took out his Browning and paced the flat. A quick glance out of the window revealed nothing. Shit … who was this muv …?

  Then it struck him like a Tyson punch. It’s that Hoodie Hunter guy!

  A fear he’d never known engulfed his soul, but he fought it. “OK, Mr Hoodeee-fuckin-Hunter … let’s see who the man is. I’m not just some punk-arsed-muvver you can trample all over … I’m the man.”

>   Even as he spoke, he could see for himself the pistol shaking in his grip.

  There was a bang on the door. Castro’s heart flipped. He wished he’d gone easier on the weed today. He pointed the Browning and edged closer.

  Another bang.

  He moved to the wall away from any line of fire. He needed to check the spy-hole. He took a sharp intake and moved swiftly to take a quick look. What he saw made him jump to the wall beside the door. He registered a snapshot of a man in a balaclava, holding a handgun.

  He weighed up his options. He’d have to get the boys to clear the flat of money and merchandise pronto, before Five-0 got here, but this was self-defence, right? Bizarrely, he pictured Laticia’s Babylons.

  Fuck it!

  Castro cracked out six shots, splintering the door, each bullet piercing through. Cordite filled the air. Adrenalin pumped. He felt sickly. He heard nothing, except his own heartbeat. Cautiously, still pointing the pistol, he peeped, but saw nothing. He slowly unlocked the latch and jolted the door open.

  Relief.

  “Woo-yeah, man!” Castro eyed the body. No movement. Definitely smoked. Black trench coat with blood seeping out. He jumped on to the body and began to dance. “Who’s the man now, Mr Hoodeee Hunter?”

  As he danced, he noticed the floor was wet and got a whiff of something. He crouched and touched the carpet, then smelled his finger. He laughed maniacally, his gold incisor glowing, and resumed his celebrations.

  “I was right about you, man … the Hoodeee Hunter’s only gone and pissed himself … what a fuckin pussy!”

  He watched the fuckwit dancing over the corpse and rolled down the dual-hat balaclava, then readied the Glock 17. He stepped out from the doorway into the corridor.

  “You’re all the same,” he hissed in disgust, causing Castro to pivot like an owl on speed. He cracked a slug into the fucker’s gun hand and the Browning bounced a few feet away.

  Castro shrieked and clutched his hand. His eyes wide with shock.

  A woman’s petrified face appeared in a doorway down the hall.

  “Get back in and you’ll be safe!” he said and her door slammed.

  A man’s muffled voice now: “It’s OK, Beryl, I’ve called the cops.”

  He refocused on Castro. “Pull back the balaclava,” he said, gesturing with the Glock’s barrel.

  Shaking, Castro slowly peeled the facemask back and it revealed a duck-taped mouth. He peeled it further and Big-un’s vacant eyes looked up at him.

  “Now pass me my other Glock.”

  Castro had tears in his eyes. “Look … fuck you man! Who the fuck do you …?”

  “OK, I’ll get it myself.” He blasted Castro in the chest “… That’s from arkid …”

  Castro buckled and gasped for air, his expression a grimace with a dash of disbelief. He leaned against the corridor wall.

  “… And this one’s from me.” The second shot hit the top of Castro’s brow and he collapsed in slow motion.

  He stepped over the bodies, resisting the strong urge to spit on them, and retrieved the empty Glock. Still no DNA for Jack Striker. As he heard the sirens, he glanced down the corridor at the wall.

  It’s always surprising how far brain and skull fragments fly from the back of your head when shot at close range. An odd mix akin to cheap ketchup and mushy peas splattering a whitewashed wall is never a pretty sight, but it can be perversely satisfying to see in this relentless process of mopping up.

  * * *

  Later that night, he opened the bottle of triple-distilled Jameson Irish Whisky he’d been saving and he toasted the photo of his brother on the mantelpiece. After taking a mouthful, he started working on a new list …

  AUL YELLAH BELLY

  Gerard Brennan

  * * *

  “BELFAST CITY COUNCIL has announced its first amnesty to hand over pit bull-type dogs. Owners of pit bull terriers and other illegal breeds can hand them in without fear of prosecution. Confirmed illegal breeds will be humanely …”

  Niall O’Hagan thumbed the standby button on the remote control. Newsline’s Donna Traynor disappeared to the pop and fizz of screen static.

  “Lewis has to go.”

  Ach, shit, Niall thought. Too late.

  Niall turned to his ma. She stood in the living-room doorway and sucked a lungful from her Mayfair Menthol. The barcode of wrinkles on her upper lip flexed.

  “We agreed,” she said. “Remember?”

  Niall nodded. He didn’t know what to say.

  “I know he’s your pet, love, but if he gets reported to the USPCA it’ll mean a bigger fine for your da. Maybe worse. You don’t want that, do you?”

  Niall shook his head.

  “Good. At least you’ve a few weeks left with him, eh? You can take him for loads of walks around the forest and spoil him a bit before he goes.” Niall’s ma shoved a hand into the hip pocket of her Levis. “Here, love. Go to the butchers and get him a couple of steaks. You’ll have enough change to get yourself a wee chocolate bar and some sweets. Maybe even a squeaky toy for Lewis from the pound shop.”

  Niall heaved himself out of the sofa and took the tenner off his ma. He mumbled a thank you and she laid her hand on his shoulder.

  “Dinner’ll be ready soon. I’ve got your favourite in the oven. Crispy Pancakes and Potato Waffles. The proper ones. I know you don’t like the store brands.”

  “OK, Ma. Be there in a minute.”

  “Call me Mummy, love. You know I hate it when you call me Ma.”

  “Sorry, Mummy.”

  She stepped out of the doorway to let Niall past. As he trudged up the stairs he ran his fingers along the diagonal dado rail that separated the paint and the wallpaper. The machine-cut grooves in the wood had almost disappeared under years of glossing.

  Niall rested his belly on the rim of the bathroom sink, and studied his upper lip in the mirror. He had the ghost of a moustache. He rubbed his chubby cheeks. Red as ever, but not as round. Maybe his puppy fat had finally gone into remission. He might even be good-looking underneath.

  He dropped his Adidas bottoms before he noticed the toilet roll situation. Down to the last two sheets. He cursed and whipped them back up. No point shouting to his ma for the kitchen roll. She’d never hear him over the sound of the knackered oven fan. He pulled open the bathroom door and walked into his da.

  “Fuck’s sake, Niall. Watch where you’re going.”

  “Sorry, Da.”

  His da looked at him and tilted his head. “Your ma told me about the dog. Aul Yellah Belly’s days are numbered.”

  Niall shrugged. He hated his da’s nickname for Lewis but had given up protesting.

  “Look, son. I’ll get you a wee Staffy for your birthday. They’re almost as good as a pit bull anyway.”

  Niall shrugged again. His da tutted. “Come with me. I’ve something for you.”

  He led him to the computer room. They called it the computer room, but really it had a bit of everything in it. Weights, stereo speakers, old books about the Troubles, rolled-up carpet remnants, the shitty pictures his da had painted in prison and, of course, the PC on its desk.

  Niall watched the aul fellah pull the bottom desk drawer out. He reached in and took out a wee black tube.

  “Don’t tell your ma about this.”

  He pushed a little silver button on the side of the tube. It bucked in his hand and a thin blade flipped out. Niall blinked and took a step back.

  “Son, they call this an Italian stiletto. I call it a flick-knife.”

  He folded the blade back into its handle and passed it to Niall. Niall held it at arm’s length, half expecting it to snap open and take off his fingers.

  “Your uncle brought me that home from Thailand. I want it back when you’re done with it, so don’t lose it. And for God’s sake, don’t show it off to your mates. I don’t want you getting scooped for acting the big lad.”

  “When I’m done with it?” Niall felt like he’d missed something important.
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br />   “Yeah, when you’ve taken care of Aul Yellah Belly.”

  “What? Why do I need this? They have injections for that.”

  Niall’s da shook his head and rubbed the SNIPER AT WORK tattoo on his forearm. “I don’t care what big Gerry says. No O’Hagan is ever going to cooperate with the peelers. You’ll take care of your own dog yourself.” He drew his index finger across his stubble-dashed throat to illustrate.

  Niall clenched his arse. He wished his da had broken this to him after he’d been to the toilet.

  “You want me to use this on Lewis?” Niall tried to sound casual. He squeaked his dog’s name and spoiled the act.

  “Grow some balls, son. You’re near sixteen.”

  * * *

  The trees of Colin Glen Forest whispered secrets as the wind coaxed branches together and riffled through the fresh leaves. The river shushed the gossiping oak and ash on its way to the Lagan. Hyper sparrowhawks flitted between the trees, sticking their beaks where they weren’t wanted and mixing it up. The midges kept out of it. They were more interested in Niall’s damp suede-head. He waved them away with his baseball cap.

  Lewis snarled and shook the rubber bone from side to side. His lips curled back to reveal the strong teeth gripping the squeaky toy. The thick muscles in his neck and shoulders bunched. Niall barked at his dog, the sound echoing in the clearing. The powerful black pit bull dropped the toy and backed away from his master.

  “Grow some balls, Lewis. You’re near dead.”

  The dog responded to his master’s gentler tone and shuffled forward, hunched but hopeful. Niall knelt and patted his flat head. The dog’s cropped ears flopped forward. His tongue lolled and he panted enthusiastically. Niall scratched the soft patch under Lewis’s jaw.

  “You big wimp.”

  Lewis licked Niall’s wrist.

  “This isn’t fair, Lewis. I shouldn’t have to do this. But I can’t let you fend for yourself. You’ll just follow me home, and Da’ll knock me out. Can’t pass you on to one of my mates either. They’re fucking useless. Wee John’s been through about ten goldfish this year.”