Melchiot is lying in the hallway; blood bubbling from a hole in his throat. The chrome 9mm lies near his hand. I step over him and pick up his gun. He looks up at me and spits. A gob of blood lands on the cuff of my jeans. He knows what’s coming next and I see nothing but contempt in his eyes. I use his pistol and shoot him twice more in the chest. The fire outside is still smoking. I step over it and look down at Keisha, Melchiot’s girlfriend, lying dead on the floor with two of my bullets in her. People are peeping out from behind their doors now so I head for the stairs dripping blood as I go.
I can hear the sirens as I make it to the car. I toss both guns onto the passenger seat and start the car. Blood is soaking through into my jacket, there isn’t much time left. One more stop and it’s done.
The Turks’ll be coming soon and I put my foot down. Lights race by outside the cars windows as I turn through the side streets heading for Deptford. I pull up before the cul-de-sac and leave the car. I won’t be needing it again and from here on it will be easier on foot. They’re in a black Porsche SUV, three of them – Turks; the leather jackets, cropped black hair and five O’clock shadows give them away. I cut around the back of the houses and move through the gardens. Every fence I hop, every step I take, pulls at the wound in my chest. I stumble on finally coming to rest at the back door of a house. Last stop.
Before I enter I pull out my mobile phone and make the call.
“Osman?”
“Yeah, who’s this?”
“Paul Carney.”
A laugh.
“And what?”
“Most of your gear is in the boot of a Ford Focus parked up on Plough Way. The men who took it are all dead.”
“All dead?”
“One left but he’ll be gone before dawn.”
“And what do you want?”
“That this is the end. No comebacks.”
“Sounds fair. Just make sure the last man goes down.”
Osman terminates the call. I take out the 9mm and check the back door. It’s unlocked, as I knew it would be. I move through the house like a wraith checking each room and find no one. Sitting on the seat of the toilet I sigh. I stand up and look into the eyes of the last man, my eyes. How was I to know it was Osman’s heroin when we jacked the couriers? It still might have been alright if Murph, Trevor and Melchiot hadn’t started spending. I fucking told them to sit on the money we made off the first package. Just wait - that was all they had to do. But no they couldn’t even manage that. I pull the slide back on Melchiot’s pistol and place it against my head. At least this way Gemma and the kids will be safe. It’s time to go. I’ve been moving on borrowed time all night and now it’s time to pay the piper.
Bang.
With a Smile
Frank pumped the slide on the cut-down shotgun and risked a quick glance out of the shattered pub window; the cops were in cover and Stee’s boiler-suited body lay in the middle of the road. The dull pain returned in Frank’s stomach and he grimaced. The shotgun boomed and the pellets tattooed the side of a car parked opposite the pub. Connor coughed and Frank looked over to his son-in-law who sat against the wall.
“Give us a smoke, Frank.”
Frank fumbled in the pocket of his boiler suit and found a crumpled pack of Mayfair. He tossed it across to Connor who caught it in his left hand; his right arm hung useless, a chunk of flesh gone from his shoulder where a police bullet had clipped him. Connor managed to get the cigarette lit and blew smoke up at the ceiling before another bout of coughing wracked his body.
“Think I’d better give myself up. Can’t use my arm and I swear I feel like I’m drowning.”
Ducking from the window Frank made his way across a carpet of broken glass to where the younger man sat. He undid the front of Connor’s boiler suit. A bullet had gone in high above the Kevlar and punched down into Connor’s chest.
“Shit, son. Don’t think these cunts are gonna let us walk out of here.”
Connor pressed his head back against the wall.
“Would’ve been a big score eh, Frank?”
“The biggest, kid.”
“They catch Stee?”
Frank looked back at the window.
“No.”
“Pat?”
Across the pub Pat lay on the floor just inside the door, the back of his balaclava torn and soaked in blood where a sniper’s shot had taken him.
“No, they didn’t catch him either. How many bullets you got left?”
Connor held up his revolver.
“Not sure.”
Frank broke the pistol open – empty.
“Plenty,” muttered Frank and he thought back over the path that had led them to a shot to shit pub in the West End.
***
No one robbed banks anymore, too risky, and likewise with security vans. When Frank had first started going over the pavement it was all about the security vans. Frank remembered standing in his kitchen a letter held crumpled in his hand, thinking back on the jobs he had done, the scores he had taken down – and on the eight years he had spent inside. One last time, he needed the old reflexes just once more. He put the letter down and made the calls.
When Frank walked into The Gregorian in Bermondsey it felt like old times; Pat sat with a pint of Guiness, Stee a lager and Connor was throwing nuggets into the fruity. Frank nodded to his son-in-law and Connor collected his winnings and took his seat at the corner table. Frank ordered a pint, treating himself, and then grabbed up a stool.
“What’s it all about then, Frankie?” asked Stee.
“Old times, mate.”
The trio threw looks at each other.
“What, a job?”
Frank nodded at Connor.
“You sure you’re up to it?” said Pat.
“Fuck off, Pat. I’m fine, in remission now. Need the money though.”
“Same here,” muttered Stee “bloody ex is bleeding me dry.”
Pat was nodding and Connor’s eyes glowed. Connor sold a bit of coke but he knew he wasn’t in the same league as his wife’s father.
“The wife gonna be alright with you doing this again?” threw in Stee.
“Karen ain’t gonna know about it.”
“What is it then?” Asked Pat.
“Jewellers courier. Silly cunts use a normal car, three blokes. Reckon it’s less obvious. Three blokes and a suitcase – two million in uncut diamonds.”
“Fuck!” Stee threw the last of his pint down his neck.
“This is it, boys - the big one. Last job and then I’m done with. Get myself off to the Costa before I’m too old to enjoy it. Are you lot in or out?”
They had nodded and Connor was sent to get another round of drinks. They began to plan.
***
Frank moved back to check the window. He felt the impact of the bullet before he heard the crack of the rifle shot. He was flung across the pub and slammed down into the wood floor.
“Frank!” screamed Connor and then set to coughing up more blood.
The shot had winded him and he struggled for breath. Gasping for air, Frank rolled to his knees and grabbed his shotgun. He fired once towards the window, hoping to keep the police away and then crawled over to Pat’s body. Frank rolled the body away and found Pat’s shooter – a black 9mm pistol. The clip was still half full and Frank tucked it into his pocket. He chambered another shell in his shotgun and moved to the other side of the pub. A quick glance out of the window showed blue clad SO19 officers carrying Heckler & Koch sub machine guns moving up.
“Fuckers!”
Frank triggered a shot at the approaching cops, worked the pump and fired again before he ducked back. A volley of shots were returned and spent themselves against the wall of the room. Frank sucked in deep breaths and stared at Pat’s body.
“You shouldn’t have done it, Patty boy. You never talk to the coppers, never. You ain’t got much in life except your mates and you never give them up.”
The shotgun was empty so Frank laid it acros
s a table and drew the 9mm. When he spoke again his voice was louder.
“Connor, it won’t be long now. Bastards are gonna come through the windows and door. I ain’t going back inside.”
Connor remained silent, his head hanging down so that his chin rested against his blood smeared chest. Frank retrieved his cigarettes and sparked himself one. The pain in his stomach increased until it felt like a dozen needles trying to stab out through his flesh.
A bull horn sounded outside but Frank barely heard the words. He looked once more at Pat’s body.
“What did you mean about talking to the coppers?”
Frank turned and saw Connor looking at him.
“Ever wondered how I was the only one who went down on the Fulham job?”
“I weren’t around then.”
“Course you weren’t. I forget. Well it was a two man job and it seemed like the coppers just got lucky picking me up. So I kept schtum, and when I got out Pat had my half of the take waiting. Turns out he got nicked for handling stolen goods, tellies or something, and he gave me up on the Fulham job.”
“How did you find out?”
“Funny story that. I was up the hospital a lot with the cancer. Ended up being kept in for a week once – guess who was in the bed next to me?”
Connor shook his head.
“One of the fucking coppers who’d nicked me. He was on his way out cancer’d got in his bones. So he told me, smiling the whole time. Thought it was funny that I put so much store in friends and loyalty. Got me thinking that did.”
Frank stood and fired twice out the window forcing the police, who were beginning to move up again, to duck back.
“And then there was Stee.”
“What about him?”
“When the cancer got bad it looked like I was on the way out and then Karen told me.”
“Told you what?”
“It went on for a year while I was doing my stretch. She reckoned she was lonely, needed someone to cling to and there was good old Stee. My best fucking mate, known him since primary school, done jobs together and then he did that to me.”
Connor coughed again, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth.
“What did you do, Frank?”
Frank laughed.
“Do you think I don’t know about you as well?”
“What about me?”
“How my daughter broke her fucking arm?”
Connor looked away and then replied in a small voice.
“That was an accident.”
“You pushed her down the stairs by accident did you, you little prick? And what about that bar maid from over in Wapping? I know a lot of things.”
“What did you do?”
“I made a call this morning, straight to the flying squad, told ‘em bout us. How we were tooled up, serious men.”
Frank smiled and Connor raised his revolver. The hammer clicked onto an empty chamber once, twice, three times before Connor let his arm fall back.
“You killed us.”
“I’m dead already. Cancer came back, eating up my insides again. That was what decided it for me. If I have to go then you lot were coming with me.”
“Why?”
“I already told you. No honour, none of you - scum, fucking dregs. If you haven’t got your family and your mates then what’s the point?”
Frank brought up his pistol and shot Connor once in the head. He looked over at the door and decided it was time. He moved the furniture they had piled against the door and then readied his pistol – there was only one way this was going to go but Frank moved out of the door with a smile.
Dirty Pictures
I read somewhere once that when foreign girls get trafficked into the skin trade they change the place they’re really from to make themselves more appealing to the punters. A century ago and half the girls working Soho were calling themselves French so it’s nothing new. Except now you have Bulgarians calling themselves Italians, Estonians turn into Swedes and Romanians become Spanish. False advertising if you ask me but I guess some guys are just buying into a fantasy, that’s the point of the sex trade isn’t it? Still, if I’m body checking some chick who says she was born within the sound of the bells of St. Peter’s basilica then I want to hear some mi amore shit getting talked in my ear.
Anyway, the guy that I’m watching is busy buying into the whole fantasy vibe. Left the office and spent some time walking the back streets around Green Park before he grabbed a wedge of notes from a cash point and headed to a walk-up in Shepherd’s Market. I’ve got pictures of him taking the money out, looking around furtively before heading up the stairs and finally a picture of the fluorescent green star blu-tacked to the wall at the bottom of the stairs – “Swedish Model, 2nd Floor”. All taken on the sly with my i-Phone. Nice bit of kit really, you look like you’re checking your texts or searching for directions on multimap when really you’re snapping away with the camera – just make sure the sound’s off, so the target doesn’t hear that tell-tale click-click when you’re happy-snapping.
I check the time. Shit, late now. The wanker spent so long psyching himself up I’ve lost track of time. I’m meant to be at a gallery showing in Old Street by eight and it’s already past seven and I’m all the way over town in the arse end of Mayfair following a husband for an interested wife – interested ever since hubby started coming home smelling of burnt rubber and fruity lube.
I message the pictures to my partner Mazza back in the office and then look for a cab. No time to change so the arty crowd will have to take me as I am in the hooded leather bomber, jeans and Timberland chukkas.
The cab drops me near the Old Street roundabout and I head over to a Turkish off-license I know; grab myself a bottle of Corona and a pair of miniature Captain Morgan’s - toss one of the little bottles down my neck while I’m waiting for my change. Get the guy behind the counter to crack the Corona for me and chase the rum with a mouthful of lager. I can feel my workaday tiredness start to drop off and by the time the second rum has vanished I’m starting to feel level. Down the last of the donkey-piss as I get near the pop up gallery and leave the bottle on top of a post box. Spark myself a Benson silver and smoke it down quickly as I head for the door.
The place is filled with the kind of people I thought it would be; trendies who are pushing studio rents up in every shit tip around London and St Martin’s art students who aren’t much better. All trying so hard to look different it’s like they’re in uniform; New Era caps, worn ironically of course, keffiyehs, jeans so tight legs look shrink wrapped in denim or else ankle swinging cords. You can see the real money in little knots; dark, well cut, suits and white open neck shirts for the men and knee length, well cut, dresses, in muted tones, for the women.
I grab a glass of red wine from a passing waiter and try to mingle without actually talking to anyone. The show is being put on by a pair of up-and-comers – a series of cubist nudes. Not my thing, but hey, I’m hoping the people running the pop-up gallery will feature a few of my works in their next show so I’m willing to take a look at any old shit. Andrea, from the Union Street gallery, looks over and I nod back at her. Take a look at a couple of pictures and realise my glass is empty. I always find it hard to turn down free booze, so I help myself to another glass of red.
Find myself on my own in front of one of the pictures. Take a sip of my wine and turn my eye over the painting. I guess I’m a traditionalist but, for me, rectangles and triangles aren’t going to take the place of long legs and that spot between that men spend so much of their time trying to climb into. Now don’t get me wrong, I love Alfred Reth’s work, but what I’m looking at is fucking abstract in the extreme – I can’t even make out the female form in a pile of blue rectangles overlaid with a red triangle entitled ‘Mother’. Then she steps in alongside me.
“What d’you think of it?”
Her accent is pure west London, Ladbroke Grove somewhere over them sides.
“Hmmmm”
I ta
ke a mouthful of wine rather than answer.
“It doesn’t sound impressive when someone makes noises about art rather than speaking about it,”
Shit, this bitch cuts like a cheap razor on a cold morning.
I throw a look at her; head shorter than me, dark thick hair and darker eyes that are asking me to look into them. I thumb the three inch scar that runs across the palm of my left hand and remind myself why I’m staying away from women at the moment.
“I’m making noises ‘cos I don’t want to say what I really think.”
She laughs.
“No one ever wants to say what they really think. They always overthink it and end up saying what they think people want to hear.”
That clinches it for me, she’s actually alright.
“It’s shit.”
Again that laugh.
“What do you think of it?” I ask.
“It is what it is.”
“And what’s that?”
“Shit.”
We both laugh at that.
“You smoke?”
“Yeah.” I reply.
“Not one of those bullshit electric things?”
I show her the packet of Benson Silvers.
“Wanna go outside?”
“Yeah.”
We grab another glass of wine each and then head outside to smoke.
“I’m Charlie.”
“Nathalie,” she replies, pronouncing the ‘h’.
“You paint don’t you?” she asks.
I light her cigarette and nod.
“Yeah, how do you know that?”
“I know Andrea. Cubist stuff like that?”
“Fuck no.”
She laughs again and her hair falls over her face, she pushes it back and looks up, into my eyes.
“I’m done with this.”
“So where you going instead?”
“Home. Want to walk me?”
I finish my wine and toss the plastic cup into the gutter.
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