Civvies

by Lynda La Plante

  'Pull over… Pull over!'

  Harry eased down on the brake slightly, as if to show willing. The removals van did likewise, keeping dead level.

  'Hang on, Cliff,' Harry muttered, and side-rammed the removals van with the wagon's armour plating. The van rocked but kept with them. Harry rammed it again, harder, and had the satisfaction of seeing the van sway alarmingly, lose speed and drop behind.

  Cliff was bashing the horn, urging the lorry in front to get a move on. He might have been pissing into the wind for all the difference it made. He grabbed Harry's arm, as a warning, but Harry had already seen it. The tailgate of the lorry, attached by a rope to the cab, was suddenly released, the logs slithering out and tumbling into the road. Harry wrestled with the wheel as the wagon bounced like a bucking bronco. A log jammed under the front bumper, the wagon slewing left and right as Harry fought to keep on the road.

  The removals van came up behind, gave them a terrific shunt up the backside. It came again, the wagon shuddering under the impact, its rear doors buckling. The log had worked itself up into the wheel housing, and there was a horrible grinding, splintering noise as the front wheels locked solid, bringing the wagon to a jolting halt.

  Two men leapt from the back of the van and raced forward to the buckled rear doors, one of them lugging a holdall. The raider with the sub-machine-gun jumped down and ran up to Harry's window. 'Hands on your heads!'

  Harry shoved Cliff back as the lad leaned across, all fired up, ready to have a go. 'Don't be a hero, they're armed.'

  A mite impatient, the raider smashed the gun's metal butt against the mesh-reinforced window.

  'Hands on your fucking heads!'

  The wagon shuddered and rocked – the dull boom of an explosion, a gush of white smoke as the rear doors were blown off. In the wing-mirror Harry could see the sacks being tossed from hand to hand. It was done a damn sight quicker than it had taken him and Cliff to load them. The man at the window never budged his eyes once, the large bore business end of the weapon pressed against the glass. Harry heard the distinctive thwack-thwack-thwack of a silenced automatic as the men pumped bullets into the tyres. The security wagon sank slowly onto its rims.

  The raider in the ski mask jerked his head at his companions. 'Go – go – go! All clear!' They dived into the back of the van and pulled the big doors shut behind them.

  Covering Harry and Cliff, the raider backed away a step. He glanced behind, judging the right moment to turn and jump aboard. The van came up alongside. The raider half-turned, getting ready. Harry threw the dead-lock bolt. He kicked the door open, catching the end of the submachine-gun, and leapt out. The raider staggered but kept on his feet. He turned and started to run for the van. Harry lunged, got a hand on his shoulder. The raider took a swipe with the weapon, missed, and Harry grabbed it off him. Still holding onto the raider's jacket shoulder, Harry tossed the gun to Cliff. The raider was half-in, half-out of the van door, Harry hanging on like grim death, both of them being dragged along as the van picked up speed. Cliff brought the gun up, sighted, but the two men were too close together to risk a shot. He saw Harry clawing at the raider's head, ripping the mask up so that Cliff snatched a glimpse of the man's left profile. Frantic now, the raider back-heeled, and lucky for him, unlucky for Harry, found a soft target in Harry's balls. Harry let go, dropped, rolled, curled over, hugging himself. Cliff let one off, aiming for the tyres. He missed with the first, bagged a rear tyre with the second. The van veered left, then right, straightened up and was off.

  Harry was on the ground, bent over, clutching his property.

  'You okay… Harry?'

  Harry pulled his helmet off. His face was green. His lips were tight against his gritted teeth. 'Me voice sound higher? Ohhh… Kerrrist!' He started to heave, then held his breath to stop himself vomiting.

  From the back of the wagon, Cliff yelled to him, 'they cleaned us out, Harry. Harry…?'

  Harry was on his knees on the grass verge, bringing up last night's Murphy's stout and vindaloo. He wiped his mouth and gingerly climbed to his feet, walking back towards Cliff doing an impersonation of John Wayne riding an invisible horse.

  He gestured for Cliff to hand the gun over and checked it out. He thought it looked familiar. It was an L2A3 Sterling 9mm sub-machine-gun, a standard British Army weapon issued to tank crewmen and artillery support services. Harry tucked the triangular metal frame butt against his shoulder and blew out the wagon's windscreen. He fired again and shattered the driver's window. While Cliff stood gaping at him as if he'd lost his marbles, Harry walked up to the wagon and head-butted the armour-plated side panel. He staggered drunkenly backwards, a gash pouring blood.

  'Go get the cops,' he told Cliff, sinking to the ground. 'Mess yourself up a bit!'

  'For the law…?'

  Harry was in agony, clutching his head. 'No, you prat! The bloody laundry wages have gone! We got to look like we almost got ourselves killed for it!'

  'What you mean, almost?' said Cliff indignantly.

  'They were bloody pros, I tell you that much. Knew what they were doin', an' they could handle themselves.'

  The same notion had occurred to Cliff. 'One of 'em,' frowning and shaking his head, 'I'm sure I've seen him before…'

  Dillon picked up the Sterling from the desk and glanced at Harry, sitting looking sorry for himself with an ice-pack on his head.

  'Cops knows about this?'

  'Na, I stashed it under a hedge.'

  'What about the laundry company, they know?'

  Harry snorted. 'Guv'nor was grovellin' his thanks to us in front of the cops – you know, how we risked our lives, what's money!'

  Cliff was drying his neck and hands on a towel. 'He's insured, won't hurt him.'

  'Screw him!' Harry said. 'Our wagon's a write-off, Frank. They were good, an' you know somethin' – I think they were Army trained.' He indicated the gun. 'That's Army, similar to the one we used.'

  Dillon said angrily, 'You should've handed it over!'

  'We're insured, aren't we?' Cliff said with a shrug.

  'Yeah, we're insured,' said Dillon grimly. 'Third party, fire and theft!'"

  'Thank Christ for that.'

  Dillon rolled his eyes to the ceiling. 'Theft of the vehicle, you prat! Oh Jesus, this is all we need…' He put the gun down and stared dismally at the dismal view of the basement steps. 'I don't believe it. Why is it every time we make two steps forward we take ten back? Why?'

  'You think we'll lose the account?'

  'We got no wagon, Cliff.'

  'We got the Mercedes – an' I tell you,' Harry stabbed a finger, 'if we'd had that they'd never have got us trapped. I mean, our top speed in that bus was eight…' The phone rang and Dillon answered. 'An' then it shuddered, we were easy pickings.'

  'Stag Security… hang on.' Dillon thrust the phone at Cliff. 'Shirley!'

  Dillon paced up and down, rubbing his forehead. He said to Harry, 'This is a real downer, you an' me'll have to see if we can get another wagon.' He tapped the Sterling on the desk. 'Bloody get this out of the way an' all.'

  Cliff was holding the phone away from his ear. Finally he managed to get a word in. 'Don't scream at me like it was our fault, I'm still shakin'. We were held up, yeah!'

  Dillon gave Harry a look and walked out.

  'I'll tell you everythin' when I see you…'

  Harry tossed a bunch of keys onto the desk. 'Tell her now. You man the office, me and Frank'll see if we can sort a replacement wagon.' He lumbered to the door.

  'Hey, Harry!' Cliff covered the receiver. 'What about tonight's job?'

  'I'll be back. Get hold of Wally and Taylor, we need four blokes.'

  Cliff gave the thumbs-up and went back to telling his fiancee about the morning's raid.

  Shirley stared at herself in the full-length mirror, biting her lip. She smoothed her hands over the waist of the brocade and lace wedding gown and felt her stomach. Couldn't have grown that much in twenty-four hours, could it? What did s
he have in there, the next heavyweight boxing champion of the world?

  'You'll have to let it out another inch, Norma,' she told her friend, kneeling at her feet with a mouthful of pins. Norma glared up at her, and Shirley spread her arms helplessly.

  'Shirley!' Cliff pounded up the stairs. 'It's me!' Shirley let out a small scream and dashed to the door. As it opened she slammed it shut, nearly flattening Cliff's nose.

  'Go away! You can't come in, I'm having a fitting!'

  'I'm workin' tonight…' Cliff banged on the door. 'Shirley? Did you hear me?'

  'Yes, I heard you,' Shirley snapped bad-temperedly. 'Go away!' She looked round. Norma was crouched double, clutching her throat, coughing, or trying to. 'Oh my God… are you all right? You haven't swallowed a pin, have you?'

  'Don't bother to ask if I'm okay!' said Cliff furiously, thumping the door. 'Shot at! Held up in an armed bleedin' robbery! But don't bother -'

  Shirley threw open the door. Cliff's furious expression sagged. He stood there with his mouth hanging open, and then he gave as low smile of rapturous wonder.

  'Oh man… that's beautiful.'

  CHAPTER 37

  Harry thought, Typical bloody cock-up. Down here in docklands somewhere, hired as bouncers for an acid house party gig, and they couldn't even find the place! Cliff was driving the Granada, he was supposed to know but of course he didn't have a clue. Berk!

  They drove round the badly-lit, deserted streets, Wally and Taylor in the back, looking for signs of life. Trouble was, there wasn't a soul to ask – high gaunt buildings, not a chink of light to be seen, some of them derelict, boarded-up, everything sealed up tight. Not even a stray cat on the prowl. At last Harry spotted a phone booth and told Cliff to pull over. He was glad to get out of the car for five minutes, a brief respite from Cliff's latest wedding bleeding saga.

  'Poor cow's clutchin' her throat, swallowed two pins, she was doin' the hem, so we had to get her rushed to the infirmary… can be dangerous, you knows, pins!'

  Wally got out to stretch his legs. 'We all invited to this do, then?' he asked Cliff through the window. 'Who's your best man – Frank? Is he the best man?'

  Taylor laid spindly arms along the back of the passenger seat. He was a thin, wiry bloke with close-set eyes and a pock-marked face, a compulsive nail-biter. Not a ladies' man. 'I wouldn't get married mate,' he said gloomily. 'Two mates just lost their houses, these mortgage rates.' He sniffed up a dewdrop. 'We gettin' cash tonight, Cliff? These acid house parties can get heavy, y'know…'

  Harry came out of the phone booth and walked back to the car, his broad frame silhouetted in the lights of a vehicle coming down the road towards them. He leaned in. 'We're close, said it's a warehouse over by the docks, they're expectin' about two hundred kids. It's off an alley – give us the A to Z, Cliff.'

  Wally strolled round the car and started a quiet natter with Harry, who banged on the roof of the Granada. 'Cliff, you deaf? Look up Gables Yard.'

  Cliff pinched his nose between finger and thumb, goggling as the vehicle rumbled past. It was a large removals van. The radiator grille was damaged, as if it had been bashed in. Or had maybe done the bashing. And the geezer he thought he'd recognised was behind the wheel. Cliff shot out of the driving seat for another butchers.

  'Harry!… Hey, Harry! Get in! Get in the car!'

  'WHAT?' Harry turned back to Wally, finger on his chest. He had wanted a private confab since they'd arrived at the office, but there had been no opportunity. He knew he had to warn Wally, just in case anyone should get wind that they had been given a tip-off about the safe house.

  Wally looked Harry directly in the face. 'I dunno what you're talkin' about sunshine, I've not been up the base for months.'

  Harry winked. 'Good, just remember that, you never told me nothin'.'

  Cliff was hysterical as he yelled, 'Harry get in the friggin' car.'

  Harry still took his time, easing his bulk into the passenger seat. 'What you gettin' your knickers in a twist about, we'll be on time.'

  'Behind you, didn't you fuckin' see it?' Cliff jerked his thumb over his shoulder. 'It's that van from this morning… let's move.'

  'What the bloody hell you doin'!' Halfway in the rear door, Wally hopped on one foot as Cliff did a tight U-turn, and scrambled in as the Granada screeched off down the road.

  'It's Cliff! Yeah! Is Frank there?'

  One ear covered by his hand, the other ear glued to the portable phone, Cliff did his best to make himself heard above The Happy Mondays. He was a big Diana Ross fan, and this lot sounded to him to be in the throes of terminal agony. Cliff shut his eyes to cut out the flashing strobe lights, face screwed up in a painful grimace. The narrow passage was only feet away from a vast, heaving, sweating mob of youth, the noise and heat wafting over him in waves.

  'No, no, he's not with me, you know where he is? I've tried him on the portable an' I'm gettin' no answer. Listen, if he comes in, love, will you tell him it's urgent, I'll wait for him at the office… yeah! Yeah, I know what time it is. Okay, tell him it's urgent, an' I'm with Harry…'

  'Come on, come on,' the young guy who was promoting the gig bellowed, beckoning to him. 'There's kids trying to get in by the back door.'

  Cliff finished the call and scurried off.

  'Oi! Me phone.'

  Cliff handed it back. 'Thanks, mate.'

  Dillon was doing his flunkey act, holding open the rear door of the Merc. He'd already taken the entire staff of the Chinese restaurant home, nine waiters and waitresses, dropping them off at their respective addresses, and now it was the turn of the manager and his wife. They settled themselves inside, and Dillon opened the front passenger door to get at the bleeping portable on the dashboard.

  'Dillon… eh, can't hear, just take your time.' He glanced at his watch. 'I'll be back at base in about an hour… Okay, hang on.'

  He leaned in and spoke to the Chinese man and his wife, reclining in luxury. 'You'll have to call another cab.' They both blinked up at him, totally bewildered. 'Out. Go on – out!'

  Dillon slammed the door after them and said into the phone, 'Gimme ten minutes.' He climbed in and zoomed off, leaving the manager and his wife on the pavement staring at him, not quite inscrutably.

  This had better be worth it. Three-thirty in the morning and they want a pow-wow. Plus losing the chink custom. And he needed his sleep, badly. If this was all over nothing…

  Cliff opened the basement door and launched right in, gabbling ten to the dozen and waving his arms around. He followed Dillon into the office, where Harry was sitting with his feet on the desk, a mug of coffee in his fist.

  '… so we're lost, right, Harry's tryin' to find the address, he's in a call box, over by Tower Bridge, the wharf, when I see the truck -'

  'What truck?'

  'The one from this morning' – the bleedin' furniture van, went straight past me.'

  'What you do? Call the cops?'

  'I called you! Where the hell you been?'

  'With the bloody Chinese…'

  'We tried to follow but we lost it, then we had to get to this gig!'

  'Probably be stripped an' dumped by now,' Harry reckoned. 'There's a couple of crusher yards around that area, an' it -'

  'Well, let the cops sort that out – it's nothin' to do with us.' Dillon rubbed his eyes. 'I better get home.'

  Harry banged his mug down on the desk, slopping coffee.

  'Tell him!'

  Cliff jerked his head rapidly. 'Frank – the driver. I knew I'd seen him before. It was that Barry Newman's heavy…'

  'Colin,' Harry said. 'One that picked your kids up,' he added softly, looking straight at Dillon with his shrewd baby-blues.

  Cliff was nodding, more arm-waving. 'An' if you put two an' two together, I mean, he knows what business we're in – he even owns this place, right, he could have… he could…' He puffed out his cheeks. A thousand possibilities. Take your pick.

  Dillon's head was down, staring at the floor. 'Here we go again
.' He swiped the air viciously. 'Why is it, every time I get a goddamned leg-up, something – somebody drags me down?' He stared at the desk for a second, nostrils flaring, breathing audible. He stared for a second more, then jerked his thumb at Cliff. 'Go out back, get some ropes an' that gear Jimmy left.' Dillon's eyes were suddenly hard, like shiny black pebbles. 'I'm gonna sort this bastard out once and for all.'

  It was well after four, and Newman's warehouse was in darkness. Dillon and Harry got out of the Granada, looking up and down the dark empty street. Harry collected the gear from the boot and carefully pressed it shut. Dillon leaned down to Cliff in the driver's seat. 'We'll have a shufty around. Park it a good distance.'

  The whites of Cliff's eyes gleamed. 'You mean walk back here?'

  'Anythin' happens, our logo's on the side of the car, you pillock!'

  Harry tapped on the roof, advising Cliff he'd got the rope and other stuff, and Cliff drove off. They approached the high gates, chain-link reinforced with iron bars, fringed along the top with razor wire. There was a snarling alsatian in a triangular metal sign with GUARD above and DOG beneath.

  'Dog!'

  'I can read, Harry! But I didn't see one when I was here, did you?' Harry shook his head. 'Just a front, cheap bastard,' Dillon said.

  They moved further along, past the gates to a wall topped with broken bottle glass set in cement. 'Okay, my old son, how we gonna work it,' Harry said, unslinging the coil of rope from his shoulder. 'This wall's a piece of cake, an' I got a crowbar…'

  'Let's just check out for alarms, no ruddy heroics. We've had enough for one day. We just sort the place out.'

  Dillon's fear of alarms was unfounded, at least as far as the external windows were concerned. Harry jemmied the catch and the three of them slipped inside. They moved on rubber soles along the aisles, hands cupped around the torch glass so the light was focused into tight beams. The shelves were chock-a-block with Newman's Third World trade. One rack was completely filled with elephants, some without their decorative head-dresses, some in the process of being replaced with beads and coloured glass. At the far end they came to Newman's office, a partitioned structure of wooden panels up to waist height and panes of frosted glass right up to the ceiling.