Experiment With Destiny

by Carr, Stephen

  His daydreams were of Tufty, and of tomorrow night’s game at Worcester. It was more important than ever that the Martyrs won it. It could provide their salvation. The beautiful game, Tufty’s beautiful breasts and pert leather-clad buttocks; what a combination.

  It was raining hard when Ivan reached the bus station and made his way to the bay for the Cardiff bus. Scabies and Foggy were smoking beneath the arched transparent plastic shelter, their day probably spent as any other, playing cards, smoking and watching TV. Blackbeard arrived ten minutes later, the neons highlighting his balding scalp, which ran with water. Blackbeard worked as an IT manager at a local printing firm and earned more than any of them, even Simon, but he was the meanest bastard Ivan knew.

  As it neared six, Ivan realised he was running low on cigarettes, thanks partly to Scabies, and Blackbeard was in no mood to crash his. Ivan decided he still had time to make the dash across to the other side of the bus station and buy some more. There was a moment of panic as he made his way back and saw the bus waiting. The queue had only just started moving. At the end of it he saw Scabies, Foggy and Blackbeard, and three other figures.

  The first he recognised instantly as Pigpen, his unmistakable frame towering over everyone. He had a backpack over his shoulder. Ivan wondered what it might contain. The other two, he realised excitedly, were girls. One was Tufty, her blonde hair pulled back into a long ponytail. She was wearing a pair of tight fitting faded blue jeans, a black sweatshirt that clung to her breasts and a leather biker’s jacket. The other girl he didn’t recognise.

  “Ivan!” barked Pigpen. “Get your fucking arse over here! The bus is going!” Ivan cursed beneath his breath as he picked up pace in his heavy boots and caught them up. Minutes later they were entrenched on the back seat, having forced other passengers to vacate it, and the bus was pulling out of the station.

  “What brings you out tonight?” Ivan asked Tufty eventually. “And who’s your mate?”

  “This is Kirsty. She’s a member of the Abercynon branch and she’s helping us out tonight.” Tufty smiled. “As for me, I thought I’d come along for the ride. It’s about time I got a bit more involved. I get bored sitting around at home while you boys have all the fun.” She winked. Ivan felt a strange sensation in his stomach.

  “I’m all for equality,” he lied, thinking how there was no way Christine should ever be allowed to get involved. This was men’s work. “The more, the merrier.”

  “Too right.” Tufty and Kirsty exchanged glances.

  “So what is this mission?” Scabies asked Pigpen with impressive directness. The brute grinned, revealing the gaps between his teeth and the accentuating the scars on his lips.

  “Guns,” he said in a low voice. “We’re going to get us some guns.”

  Ivan felt a chill sweep over him.

  *

  IX

  THEY spent the rest of their 50-minute journey in stunned silence. Only Kirsty and Tufty, who probably thought this was what being one of the boys was all about, chatted excitedly. Pigpen, who was a man of few words, stared silently through the window.

  Ivan was troubled. Fists, boots, chains, bricks, lumps of wood and even knives were the weapons of the streetfighter and, generally speaking, the police turned a blind eye to the wounds inflicted during battles with rival fans and local gangs. Even club stewards were fair game, it seemed. But guns…guns were in a different league. Guns and the outlawed Union Jack would be a lethal cocktail to bring the full weight of the law crashing down on them. He remembered his visitation by the police. Perhaps Christine was right. The fun had gone. Things were starting to get heavy.

  Their journey ended at Cardiff bus station. As he stepped off into the rain, Ivan sensed that life spinning past him in a quicker tempo than he was used to. His trips to the capital were infrequent and, in the light of Pigpen’s shocking revelation, he now felt ill at ease in the metropolis. They walked quickly past the queues of waiting commuters, drawn and weary faces that stared back blankly. Kirsty led the way across town toward St David’s Shopping Centre.

  Most of the shops were closed, or closing. An endless stream of homeward bound shop workers moved around them, every race and colour. It occurred to Ivan that it was already too late for the British Nationalist Party to turn the tide, to filter out the non whites from the whites and restore this island nation. It seemed there were too many of them, too many different shades and shapes to the faces that past him by.

  When they reached The Hayes, Pigpen called them to a halt. They gathered around him, tension mounting as they expected him to reveal the next stage of the plan. Instead he opened out his shovel-sized hand.

  “A present from Simon,” he said, revealing a cluster of tiny red capsules.

  “Fuck! Red Devils!” enthused Scabies as he snatched two.

  “Shout a bit louder why don’t you!” hissed Foggy, taking his. Ivan was last to claim his share but he swallowed them gratefully. He would need the extra help to get him through this night. Each capsule contained a blend of mild hallucinogen and a savage dose of amphetamine. The speed would take around ten minutes to kick in, with the hallucinogen not far behind it. Ivan knew he would start to feel better by then. He gazed around. Cardiff was alive with lights…lights of every size, colour and shape. Some flashed, some twinkled, others were static. Some spun or twisted around, others chased and zig-zagged to create words and images across the skyscape. Interwoven with the displays were the giant neon hoardings that transmitted their monstrous video images to the night sky, complete with a booming sales pitch soundtrack repeated in English, French, Spanish, German and Italian. The effect was intense and intrusive, but the equally garish population of this city of lights seemed oblivious.

  Ivan wondered how they lived in this mayhem without going insane. Perhaps most of them already were. Milling around them like disembodied spirits were hordes of young, bored people; punks, space rangers, trendies, Goths, headbangers, ragheads, geeks, nerds and even a handful of skinheads. Every creed, every colour mixed together like hues of a graffiti wall. Ivan realised Simon’s cause was an impossible one. Nobody would ever be able to disentangle this mess of humanity.

  They walked along Hill’s Street and past St David’s Cathedral. As they neared St John’s, Kirsty turned into an alcove at the rear of the shopping centre. Ivan’s heart was pounding fiercely as he followed them into the shadows, unsure if it was fear or the amphetamines starting to take a hold. They huddled close together. He found himself standing next to Tufty and felt her pressing against him. He wondered if it was deliberate. He felt no fear now, or the cold of the drizzle, just a warm glow inside. Was that Tufty’s closeness or the first rushes of infused adrenalin? Kirsty was speaking in hushed tones.

  “Our target is a new gunsmiths shop that’s just opened up inside the centre. In about another five minutes or so the place will be clear of staff. There should just be a handful of security guards. They’ve got to patrol both St David’s and Queen’s Arcade so we should get lucky. Either way, we go in cautiously and quietly.” Ivan felt excited. His reservations about tonight’s mission were melting away and he was starting to enjoy the sense of adventure. “Around the corner is a service lane which leads straight through M&S and Debenhams. Our target is exactly opposite the Debenhams entrance. There’s two cameras, I’ll take care of them, and an alarm, which Pigpen will disable once we’ve got the doors open. We’ve got about 20 minutes to half an hour before they put the shutters down on that access so we’re going to have to move quickly once we’re inside. No fucking around.” Someone giggled. They all felt good about tonight. “I mean it! No fucking around.” In the shadows, Ivan found Tufty’s cold, wet hand and squeezed. He hadn’t considered the consequences, he’d just acted on impulse. He might have been thanked with a slap on the face but Tufty gripped his hand and held on. His stomach somersaulted and his loins tingled. Pigpen was speaking now.

  “We’ve got keys to get into this shop. Once you’re in, grab whatever you can. St
ick to pistols, handguns and shorter stuff, no rifles. Bundle them into these.” He opened his backpack and produced half a dozen canvas bags.

  “I thought it was illegal to sell handguns,” piped up Foggy. “Thought you could only buy rifles and shotguns.” Scabies shrugged.

  “That was old British law, you prat!” spat Blackbeard. “Eurostate law says you can sell whatever the fuck kinda guns you like. Long as you gotta licence, you can buy ‘em and all.”

  “We aren’t buying. We’re just taking,” said Scabies. “No licence required.”

  “Don’t forget to cover your face before you go in,” continued Pigpen. “You all remembered to bring your masks and gloves?” They nodded. Ivan re-checked his coat pocket for the pack of tights he had snatched from the hosiery section at Supersaver. “Time to go.”

  Tufty released his hand with a smile. He gazed into her eyes. They seemed deeper and more lovely in the haze of the night. Her soft skin glowed and her teeth gleamed like a crescent moon. If only she wasn’t Simon’s. They left the alcove and rounded the corner. There was an air of excitement as they approached the service lane, nobody really knowing what to expect.

  Pigpen held up his hand and they stopped suddenly. Kirsty went on ahead and vanished down the service lane. They pulled on their masks and gloves and waited timelessly, listening to the muffled night as it sighed with distant music, far away voices, the hum or traffic. At last she reappeared, panting breathlessly. Pigpen motioned them on. Ivan felt cocooned as they approached the entrance. He heard the door rattling but he could see nothing except the silhouettes of the others against the light from within the shopping centre.

  Suddenly he was inside and wondering how he had come to be there. It all seemed so easy, just to be carried along with the flow. There was nobody else in sight. He followed the others, their footsteps echoing in the vast empty hall. He heard more noises, the shutters activating and rolling up, another door opened. The shadows in the centre seemed accentuated through the criss-crossed pattern of the tights around his face. He breathed hard, his heart pounding, his fingers tingling. A light came on, he looked round to see the others clambering in through the door. He followed. Only Tufty stayed outside to act as watch.

  The light was bright. The walls of the shop were lined with glass-fronted cabinets, regimented with guns of all shapes and sizes. There were posters of outdoor scenes, deer, pheasant, foxes; racks of wax jackets, boots and outdoor clothing; shelves of accessories, targets, holsters, gun belts. They scaled the broad wooden counter to get to the guns. Ivan went to the cabinet nearest him. He heard the sound of smashing glass. His heart leapt. Pigpen had battered open one of the cabinets and was filling his backpack with weapons. Ivan watched them at work, Scabies chuckling, Foggy humming, Blackbeard coughing nervously. Kirsty was fishing around beneath the counter. He wasn’t sure but he thought he saw her pulling out boxes of ammunition and loading them into her canvas bag. Ivan punched the glass of his own cabinet, feeling nothing. He was vaguely aware of the weight of the guns as he dropped them into his bag. Everything was a blur.

  “Someone’s coming! I can hear footsteps,” hissed Tufty. Pigpen spun around.

  “Get in here!” Kirsty gestured. “Everyone get ready to run back the way we came when I say.” Panic clutched Ivan’s lungs and chest. Everything seemed confused. He felt as if he hadn’t been paying attention and was lost in his own thoughts. What happens next? The shop was full of the sound of heavy breathing, the occasional trickle of falling glass shards, the thumping of his heart. He was hot and sweating inside the tights. There were voices outside. He heard the footsteps too, they were running. He looked at Tufty as she crouched inside the doorway. At first he thought her face was taut with terror, then he realised it was excitement. Two grey-blue uniforms flashed past the shopfront and burst through the door.

  “What the fuck…”

  Ivan heard a click behind him and spun around. Pigpen’s thunderous features grinned grotesquely beneath his nylon mask. His burly arms were outstretched, pointing toward the first guard. Ivan thought he saw a glimpse of metal. There was a flash and a deafening roar. Ivan instinctively ducked. When he looked round he saw the first guard slump to the floor beside Tufty, his face fragmented and spilling with blood, ripped flesh and bone. Crimson splashed the gleaming white tiled floor and trailed toward them. The second guard, framed by the door, was backing away. He was reaching for something by his belt.

  “Run!” screamed Kirsty. He barely heard her through the ringing in his ears.

  They snatched their bags and vaulted over the counter. Ivan couldn’t move. He stood, frozen, staring at the blood on the floor, on the walls and the shopfront window. There was blood on Tufty’s face. There was a second blast. The shopfront shattered into a million diamond clear shards that chimed against the floor. Blood sprayed the air, Ivan couldn’t tell where it had come from. Pigpen fired again. The shot exploded in the second guard’s throat, ripping open the sinews of his neck and splattering the wall behind him in crimson. In slow motion clarity, perhaps the drugs, Ivan saw his head wobble unnaturally, then he toppled backward against the shuttered doors of Debenhams.

  Ivan felt strange. It was as though he was no longer joined to his body. He had seen violence. He had seen death. He had never seen anything like this. The warmth of the drug seemed a distant memory, Tufty’s touch and smile equally so. Ivan was cold with dread. Something was horribly wrong.

  “Run! Run, you little shit!” Pigpen bellowed at him from the other side of the counter. Ivan snapped out of his trance and lifted the heavy canvas bag onto the counter before vaulting over. It was only when he landed, awkwardly, that he saw Scabies. His friend was slumped against the counter, clutching his chest. Ivan realised the second shot must have come from the guard, shattering the glass shopfront and punching Scabies through the ribcage in mid jump over the counter. Ivan walked over to him.

  Scabies looked up. His face was white, his eyes wide and dark as his pupils sucked in the draining light. There was a distorted gargle from his throat as he opened his mouth to say something to Ivan. Blood and vomit oozed down his bristled chin. He raised a hand. Ivan stared down at the fist-sized hole in Scabies’ puny chest and watched the life ebbing away, trickling to the floor as his dying heart pumped furiously.

  “Leave him!” barked Pigpen from the doorway. The others were already gone. “Just get the fuck away from here!” Ivan glanced back at his friend once more. Scabies’ legs twitched as though he was being electrocuted. His arm dropped lifelessly by his side. He was gone. Ivan turned and stepped over the body of the first guard then followed Pigpen through the door. “Run like fuck. If we get separated, meet back at the den,” bellowed Pigpen as he pushed him toward the exit. “Don’t forget to take your mask off.”

  Ivan obeyed, stuffing the bloodied pair of tights into his coat pocket. Then he ran. His trembling legs carried him along the service lane and back out toward Hill’s Street. He was oblivious to the faces of passers by, the distain wail of sirens. He was thinking of Scabies, dead on the cold hard floor of the gun shop. Why Scabies? Why not Pigpen? Even Blackbeard or Foggy? Why Scabies?

  He reached the Hayes and eased his pace. There was no sign of the others. His lungs were raw and his legs ached. Ivan realised he was far enough away from the scene of the crime to stop running. If anything it would only attract attention. Instead he walked briskly, the heavy canvas bag at his side. The rain cooled his face as he laboured for breath. Was there blood on his face? Scabies’ blood? He pulled the tights back out of his pocket and wiped his face, hoping nobody was watching him too closely. Looking down at the soaking nylon it was impossible to tell what colour they were, how much was rain or sweat and how much was blood. Lights were flashing and flickering all around him, giant Santas, reindeer and sleighs, shimmering stars and Christmas trees. He tossed the tights into the nearest bin and tried searching the crowd for faces he recognised. They were distorting and shifting in the lurid neon. It was impossible to f
ocus. Voices echoed through his head. Voices and sirens.

  Meet back at the den, he thought. The bus station. Must get back to the bus station. Which direction? Everywhere looked the same, a constellation of multi-coloured lights, a sea of strange faces twisting and spinning around him. The drug pumping through him, stronger than he remembered. Too strong…

  Suddenly there was a body in his path. Ivan stumbled and fell. Foul breath, stench of body odour, piss and alcohol. He was face to face with a haggard tramp. Yellow teeth, yellow hair, layers of clothing coated in grime. Ivan pushed himself upright, feeling dizzy. The tramp grinned. What was a non citizen doing here in the city centre?

  “Here!” shouted the old man, glazed red eyes staring up at him. “Look at this!” Ivan saw the old man reach down to his trousers and pull them open. “Fancy a drink?” He started to laugh as his shrivelled penis poked out and began spraying piss all over himself. “Pure alcohol!”

  Ivan staggered away, feeling nauseous. There was laughter behind him, rasping, mocking laughter. The lights began to spin.

  “Fuck, I’m losing it,” he said aloud, trying to find something to lean against. “Freefall situation. Control it!” He stumbled again and found a wall to slump against. “Get a fucking’ grip,” he told himself.

  “Ivan?” It was a woman’s voice. “Ivan, are you okay? You look like shit.” Using the wall for support, he turned himself around. One of the faces drifted toward him, a half moon smile of white teeth. “Ivan, it’s me.” Suddenly the dizziness and nausea passed and the hallucination rippled away. He was back in The Hayes. Tufty was beside him.

  “This is fucking heavy shit!” he said. “I nearly lost it then.” Tufty put an arm around his neck and pressed her lips against his wet cheek. He felt her closeness, the rain, the night. He gulped in the cold air. Everything was fine. Everything was fine. “Where’s the others?”