by Jules Grant
Lise shakes her head at me, pleading, and I haven’t the heart. Chances are none of us will get out of this in one piece so we might as well stick together. At least then she won’t die alone in some scabby old field.
I give her hand a quick squeeze and let go. OK, I says. But you stay at the back.
Upside the cottage, Mel hangs back as lookout the way we planned it. Two whistles, you do the tyres, I remind her.
I crouch by the front step, peep round.
There’s enough light so I can see right in down the tiny hallway, see the door at the end half-open, hear the voices rise and fall.
I’m going for the stairs, I says. Wait for the signal.
My heart’s hammering but I make it down the hallway, treading the boards at the side, hoping to fuck they won’t squeak.
At the bottom of the stairs I look back, give Mel the thumbs-up. Her face disappears.
Halfway up the stairs and one of them creaks, sounds loud as a gunshot to me. I hold my breath, flatten myself down against the stairs, out of sight.
The voices have stopped.
I hear the sound of a door opening wide into the hall. The click of a safety being released. Then there’s only the sound of the sheep, coming from the open front door, and the rush of the blood in my ears.
There’s sweat running down my spine now and I push my face down against the stairs, pull my right elbow back slowly until the gun’s right by my head, ready to blow some bastard’s face off if they look over the rail.
Footsteps fall heavy and dull on the floorboards.
Then I hear the front door jerked open wide, hear Danny’s voice, No one here.
I hear the front door close, the slide of a bolt. His footsteps back through and into the living room.
After a minute I peer up across the banister, see the living room door into the hall’s been left half-open. Fuck. I’ve got to get across to the front door, take the bolt off. Otherwise I’m in here on my own.
OK Carla, I whisper, let’s see what your goddess can do.
I can hear voices rising now in the living room, make my way past and back to the front door. The bolt slides easy and silent.
After that I make it up the stairs and into what must be a back bedroom.
Just like Sonn said, there’s nothing here except an old chair. The boards are bare and loose and the voices beneath me rise and fall. I lie full length, put my ear to the floor.
When I look back now it feels like everything happened so quick, but back then, nose pressed to the floor, every minute felt like a year. I can still hear the rise and fall of the voices, then the moment everything turns.
Where the fuck are they then? They should be here by now, says Daz.
Tony’s voice is calm, dangerous. Why? Who are you expecting?
In the silence I can feel Daz’s mind ticking over, whirling with the possibilities. None of them good. Up to now he’s probably been relaxed, downed a beer or two, waiting patiently for the hardware that’s gonna make him and Tony a fortune.
The fucking hardware, bro, says Daz. Stop messing about… His voice tails off, unsure.
I hear the click of a safety catch, hear Tony’s voice. Who’s messing about?
Daz is panicking now and I can’t blame him. What? C’mon mate.
I imagine him looking from Danny to Tony and back again. Things taking shape in his mind. Unimaginable things.
Fatboy’s pleading. You’ve got it wrong, Tony. Then a shot makes us all jump.
Sonn pokes me in the back. Don’t you just love it when a plan comes together?
He’s a hard fucker, Mad Daz. They kept at him for two hours, him denying everything, still tied to that chair. In the end he was begging them to finish it. I’m not going to bore you with the ins and outs. Let’s just say it wasn’t pleasant, even for me, and I hate the sorry fucker.
By this time Lise is lying beside me, Sonn by the bedroom window on lookout. No need to keep quiet any more. What with Daz screaming and Tony shouting, Danny putting his two pennyworth in the mix, they wouldn’t have heard a grenade go off unless you shoved it up their arse.
We’re all lying on the floor now, all except Mel.
Sonn takes out a penknife. Don’t worry, they’ll never look up, she says, prising up the floorboard.
I look down, see the top of Danny’s head, half of Tony, then someone’s feet and legs stretched out on the floor, must be Fats. Either he’s taking a nap or someone’s wasted him and my money’s on a bullet. There is a God.
Now Daz is talking as if he has a mouthful of something and he can hardly get the words out.
Shantelle, he says.
Tony laughing. Don’t you worry about Shantelle, he goes. At least she won’t have to pay the rent when you’re gone.
Daz moans. Danny says nothing.
I see Tony look at his watch. The lads will be there about now I reckon, they’re just torching your house.
Daz is making sounds like a dog being kicked, a kind of howl.
Tony laughs. No don’t thank me mate, no charge.
Shantelle’s in there with the kid, moans Daz. Oh God babe, I’m sorry.
There’s a silence. What kid? says Tony.
I hear Daz spit, see the blood hit the floor. Looks like teeth too.
Carla’s kid, he says.
My guts turn over, feels like someone’s sitting on my chest.
Daz is still talking. I try to focus.
Didn’t take her to Preston. Kept her at mines, just in case, with Shantelle. Locked them both in there this morning. Then he makes a hollow sort of noise which ends in a sob. A woman and a kid, Tony, he sneers. You sick murdering bastard. You’ll do thirty years for that.
I’m on my feet and down the stairs three at a time.
On the way down I hear Danny shout out and there’s a scuffle and scrape, followed by the thud of something heavy hitting the ground. A gun goes off. And then another.
I kick the door open and it crashes back against the wall.
Tony’s sitting on the sofa against the far wall, pale, nursing a bullet wound in his side by the look of it, still staring at Danny in disbelief.
I don’t even think about it, I walk over to him, take his own gun, shoot him once, through the forehead, watch the splatter, thick grey and blood red on the wall behind. There’s a smell like raw pork and the warm metal smell of blood and my guts want to heave.
I look round the room.
Danny hasn’t moved but that’s no surprise, on account of the Skorpion Mel got trained on him from the door. He’s on his feet, stock-still, hand with the Smith and Wesson hanging down by his side. I reach out to take it off him and he just gives it up.
I put it up near my face. The barrel’s still hot.
I nod towards Tony, can’t help but smile. Fuck me Danny-boy, I says, did you shoot him? Danny nods.
I walk over to where Fats is lying, turn him over with my foot. He looks dead but you can never be sure. I point Danny’s gun down at his head. This one’s for Kim, I say. And I pull the trigger.
Daz is in the middle of the room strapped to the chair, blood and skin and vomit everywhere but still breathing. Looks almost glad to see me, poor bastard. I put Danny’s gun to Daz’s ear.
That true? You took Ror?
He nods once, like he knows what’s coming but doesn’t care any more. I pull the trigger gently, send him to hell on a nine millimetre.
Sonn walks up to Danny, puts the Black & Decker to his head. You piece of shit.
Leave it, I say. He’s mine.
I reach into Danny’s pocket, find the keys, throw them to her. You and Mel. Take his car and the van, I say, torch them.
Sonn looks at Danny, disappointed. Nods.
Come to think of it, do it in Salford, I say. That should keep them all busy for a while.
I reach down beside Tony, take the holdall of money, hand it over to Lise.
You know what to do, I say, and she nods.
She motions to Danny. What
about him?
I tell Danny to stand against the wall, pat him down, pull out his mobile. Hand it to Sonn with his gun.
Wrap these and put them somewhere safe, I says to her, and fuck’s sake keep your gloves on till it’s done. Go with her Mel. I’ll finish this.
When they’ve gone and it’s just me and Danny I tell him to stand against the wall.
He looks me straight in the eyes and I can see him straighten up, get ready.
I nod over towards Tony’s body, Tell me why.
Didn’t know about Ror, he says. I don’t do kids, he shrugs, everyone’s got their limits. Then he takes a deep breath. Just get on with it, he says.
I empty his clip, tuck his gun in my belt. Not going to kill you, Danny-boy. I look round the room. Going to need someone still standing, take the rap for all this. I tap my belt and grin. Got enough ballistico here to send you down for the rest of your natural, you decide to get chatty.
I head for the door. Could do worse than have Danny heading up the Darts, now I’ve got him by the balls. The devil you know and all that.
And I’d take my time leaving if I were you, I tell him. I don’t need to kill you but I can’t speak for my back-up. Got some out-of-control sisters freezing their tits off out there on that hillside, spent all night stamping their feet to keep warm. That kind of thing can make a girl mean.
32
I get one-twenty out of her on the M57 and if the traffic’s OK on the bypass I’ll do it in seven minutes.
I’m riding on autopilot, can’t think straight but I tell myself I’ve got to. Thinking about Ror, how that bastard must’ve took her, how scared she must have been. Wondering how I’m going to get into the estate and the house without a Cheetah escort, how I’ll get her out, how we’ll both get away. Then I’ll drop her off with Lise and be away before dawn.
I’ve not gone three miles when there’s this sick feeling crawling in my stomach and I’m seeing Tony’s face half-gone, blood and brains on the wall. I pull over. In my mind I see Carla’s face, her lying on the dance-floor, the smell of burnt flesh and metal, blood warm, turning thick on my hands. And then Ror, face pure white, looking up at me from inside the toilet in the backyard at Carla’s, holding on to Rio like he’s the only thing she’ll ever have. Then I’m retching my guts out, sweat cold on my face.
When there’s nothing left to come up the strength drains out of me and I lean on a wall so I don’t fall. No one knows but I never shot anyone before, never had to.
They’re for mugs they are, shooters, Dad always said. You need a gun love, it means you’ve lost someone’s respect, no way back from it.
I wipe my mouth on my sleeve. Well it’s different times now Dad, twenty years on. No respect left on the street any which way you look at it. If there ever really was any. Just little boys with their games, making up the rules as they go along. Trying to pretend it’s not chaos. You’d think they’d have learned. Trouble is people round our way only ever look back through the bottom of a pint pot, and that’s you included. And one of these days, someone’s got to call time.
So I make up my mind there and then, me and Ror gonna go clear.
I know Tony was bullshitting about the fire, but I keep her full throttle anyway, take a corner so fast I lose the denim and the skin on one knee. It’s only when I round the last corner that I see the fire engines, police cars and the yellow tape through the smoke. A cold hand squeezes my heart until I can’t breathe.
I spin to a stop against the crowd, nearly take some old dear’s legs off, fight my way to the front. I see people clock me, most of them Cheetah. I feel the heat of the flames and the smoke thick and black, choking, no air.
I push through the tape with my chest.
Someone puts a hand on my shoulder and I shake it off. In front of me a man in a yellow jacket has his back to me, holding the line. I grab on to his arm as he turns, yell, There’s a kid in there, for fuck’s sake!
Then everything slows. Past his shoulder I see the patrol car, three uniforms, looking right in my direction and one points towards me. A sea of blue and yellow moves towards me and I hear a shout go up. If I don’t ride away now, I might never get the chance.
I swing round, see a way through the crowd to my bike against the wall, maybe ten yards, feel the blood flood through my calves for the sprint. Then I hear the crackle of the fire behind me, see Carla’s face against the white of the hospital pillow, blood in her hair and her lips are just moving. Aurora, she says.
I let go the arm, duck underneath it, make the sprint for the house. From the corner of my eye I see three uniforms running in from the left, then they’re on me. I dodge between two of them, and under and out, could have left Jason Robinson standing. The third catches me by the arm, spins me round, off balance and a voice comes from somewhere, Hey, you can’t go in there love, it’s too late.
I twist away, get my free hand to my back, pull the Glock from my waistband, point it straight at his face. Get the fuck back.
The minute they see the shooter the three of them step back, then I’m walking backwards, never taking my eyes off them, weighing up how many seconds it can be to the house, how long it will take the firearms unit to arrive.
I can get to her, I know I can.
I feel the heat on my back, the roar of the flames in my ears. Spin round, start to run for the house.
I don’t even see him come in from the side until the pavement comes up somehow, smacks me full in the face. Then they’re all on my back.
A boot steps on my wrist, kicks the Glock away. I watch it skid across the tarmac out of reach. I try to lift my head but there’s a knee on my neck and one between my shoulderblades, and all I can see is bastard concrete and a trillion zillion stars.
33
How they got me in the van I’ll never know. I was kicking and screaming like ten-men, calling them all the murderers and cunts under the sun, proper lost it.
At the station they take everything off me, throw me in an interview room, no brief, no nothing. I go no comment. Obviously. I know they’ll get me for pulling the Glock and resisting arrest, fair do’s, but I don’t know what else they know. Everyone knows the fastest way to get stitched up is to start talking, before you know what-all they got on you. Most of the time they’re just fishing around, got a cell door with your name on it, just have to make it fit.
They drag me into the custody suite by my feet, charge me with threats to kill and some bollocks with a deadly weapon. I reckon that’s just for starters, but it lets me know they haven’t got anything else, not yet.
Then they throw me into a cell.
Then I’m thinking about Ror, punching at the wall till my hands bleed, trying not to see her face in the fire.
It’s a couple of hours later when the catch on the cell door rattles and the flap slides back, lets in the light from the corridor. The door opens and a female plain-clothes copper walks in, butch as you like. I’ve been expecting this so I’m up at the back of the bunk in a jiff, ready for anything.
I know what I’m in for, though, pretty much, me pulling a gun on her mates like I did. Wouldn’t expect any less, I’m just surprised she’s on her own. She shuts the door behind her, sound echoing down the corridor.
You don’t know me, she says, her back to the door.
I size her up. She’s taller than me, a bit older but solid, blonde streaks pulled back in a tail. Smart black diving watch. I watch the muscles of her arm tense under her shirt. Still, I reckon I can handle it. I watch her eyes, wait for her move.
She looks back to the door for a second, then sits down.
She smiles. Chill out sweet-cheeks, I’ve got a message. You’re going to like it, she says.
She tells me Ror turned up at the pig-pen on Hyde Road before the fire even got started, so she’s safe. They don’t know how she got there or anything, because Ror’s gone no comment too, little fucking star.
She won’t tell me who sent the message or how she got it, not that it ma
tters, and if I ever get out of here I’ll find her on Canal Street and there’s half a kilo with her name on it. Ask anyone, I always pay my debts.
34
It’s the smell of the place that hits you first: stale piss, sweat and cabbage, the sharp smell of fear. You notice it the minute they shove you through the first door. HMP Styal, a real home from home. If you’re a sewer rat.
We go through the metal detector, three female screws, one of them straight, two of them not, both watching my every move like they’re starving and I’m breakfast. There’s something strange about a woman who works in a prison, dyke or no dyke, attracts the wrong sort from the start.
Someone did an experiment once, Lise says. Put random students in a big basement, locked half up in the cells, put the others in charge with a big bunch of keys. Had to call it off after a week, before somebody died. Lise says it was because the guard ones just got to love it whoever they were before; thought up more and more punishments, beating up on the prisoners for no reason, starving them until they did stuff no one should make anyone do. The pretend prisoners came out of it alright in the head though – mainly because they stuck together I guess, looked out for each other – but you couldn’t do anything with the guards after that, they were cannon-fodder. And that was after a week. Some of these fuckers have been here twenty years.
So now’s the time to draw the line in the sand.
The one with the beer belly walks towards me, grips my arm, marches me into the back for the strip-search, kicks me hard on the ankle as we go through the door. Then tells me to take all my clothes off. See, that’s what I’m talking about. What kind of woman wears chrome studs on a watchstrap anyway?
I strip off double quick, just to deny her the pleasure of saying, yeah, and those. I stand in front of her and her eyes are all over me, turns my stomach. Take a good look love, I says, it’s the best you’ll ever see without paying for it.