Serious People

by Shea, James A.

  Mickey started to look around the table, bending down to eye level, reviewing all the possible shots available. Mainly though he was playing for as much time as he could get; trying to see how the conversation, which was now waiting to ignite around him, would end.

  “I mean honestly,” Robert continued. “On that last raid, I ask you? There was a bloody one-way system to drive through, on the getaway route? And there was the safe—I mean a time delayed safe? You could have the most terrifying rep in the world and there ain’t anything that could speed that fucking thing up.”

  Charlie looked up from his paper. “There were a couple of flaws on the last job. I'll give you.”

  “Charlie, a couple of flaws? We could have all been banged up on any of the last couple of jobs, just down to that prick wanting to take more risks. Why do you think he insists on always being the driver? It's so he’s got an excuse to drive like a fucking manic!”

  Charlie put the newspaper down on the bar calmly and looked across at Robert. “I trust Leroy completely. I’d back him no matter what, just like I would with you, Robert. So please don’t talk like that about him.”

  Robert didn’t bother arguing further; he knew when the law had been laid down. Charlie rarely lost his temper. Instead he used an icy cold calm voice, when he needed to make a point, and this carried just as clear a message as any pyrotechnics.

  The reinforcing of Leroy’s status within the gang, moreover, had led to them taking on their highest risk job yet. It was one that Mickey was convinced Robert would never have agreed to, had it not been for the conversation which took place over the snooker table that night, and the apparent hopeless prospect of any disagreement with one of Leroy’s ever more dangerous schemes.

  From the time the gang started their bank jobs right to the finish, there was an ever growing list of financial institutions who all gave similar statements to the press. Most included a line that resembled: “As a way of protecting our customers, if one of our branches are targeted, we will ensure money is handed over as quickly as possible. Our customers’ safety is our number one priority.”

  There was, however, one bank who took a different approach—The Northern Alliance Bank. Their chairman gave quite the opposite statement, just as his competitors were bowing down to the robbers.

  “We must not try and appease these criminals by making bank raids easy, by suggesting that money will be handed over quickly,” the chairman had said at a press conference. “All you will achieve by this, is to nurture a culture of violence. Our competitors are indirectly making a statement to all the would-be bank robbers out there that all you need to do, in order to be successful, is to attack members of the public. This is surely the most irresponsible of lines any bank can take?”

  The chairman was as strong as his word. Instead of briefing his staff to deal with the robbers quickly, he invested in state of the art time locks on his bank’s safes, further supplemented them with back-office doors that were also equipped with similar mechanisms. His banks also installed an advanced CCTV system, which sent a direct feed to local police station control rooms, and finally there were emergency shutters that dropped down over cashier desks at the press of a panic button.

  Then, as the final act of supremacy over any robbers, he took a selection of tabloid journalists on a tour of some of the branches. This led to the headlines like “Northern Fort Knox,” and “The bank that won’t be busted!”

  To the man’s credit, his approach had worked; the gang went nowhere near any of the Northern Alliance branches. And by the early of the nineties, his example was beginning to encourage other banks to change their security strategies.

  “Blood, we gotta put this bank on its knees, or we all done!” Leroy preached to Charlie, Robert and Mickey one night. “If we don’t put these bitches down, we’re through.”

  Before Mickey knew it, Leroy’s few words led them to plan for the impossible task of taking down a Northern Alliance bank.

  Despite the planning, the job was a horrendous disaster. Not only had they ended up choosing the branch with the most state of the art lines of defence, but they had gone in at the quietest time of day. The bank was empty, not even one customer.

  The cashiers had put down their protective shutters the moment they had entered. And as there were no customers in the queuing area, the gang were devoid of any opportunity to force the cashiers to let them in. They then seemed to take what seemed like hours to look for different options to get to the cash but all were usless.

  “Out, out, out!” Charlie had shouted.

  And with that Mickey had led the crew back out of the doors; and he was the first to see that Leroy and the car were nowhere. Across the last few jobs, the gang had averaged a two-minute window between entering the bank and making their getaway, or at the very most four minutes, if something didn’t go to plan. They had never taken anything close to the time they took that day. So Leroy had bottled it. Mickey knew it instantly.

  “Where’s the car? Where’s the fucking car?” Robert shouted, his voice barely audible over the incoming police sirens.

  Then Mickey said something that even to this day he would struggle to explain. The only thing he could put his words down to was his experience from the night Charlie had given Leroy his unwavering backing. “Leroy’s tried to draw a cop car away from us,” Mickey heard himself say. “I saw it when I came out—a copper just sped around the corner. Leroy clocked him, saw us coming out, and must have tried to make the bill think we were all already in the car!”

  Mickey saw in the corner of his eye the harsh look that Robert gave him at the time. He knew it was a lie and, although in the many years that followed Robert never challenged Mickey on this moment, he must have known that Mickey the Bag’s story was untrue; there was no question of that.

  The moments that followed were just a blur. Charlie broke into a car that was parked nearby and the rest of the gang all dived in after him, making a somewhat unlikely escape.

  The gang met up with Leroy, at the agreed meeting point later that night, by which time Leroy must have heard the story Mickey had created for him. When he saw Mickey he said, “See blood that’s another one you fucking owe me.”

  It was too late now for Mickey to change his story so he just nodded and shook the man’s hand. But things were never quite the same after that job. There were just a couple more successful raids that followed the Northern Alliance job before the gang decided to retire with their riches. As for Leroy, he had already started to drift away from the rest of the group.

  “So, are we going in then Mick?” Seamus asked.

  Mickey looked across at the battered front of the Blake’s Bar. I hope this is worth it, he thought, as he nodded and walked towards the bar.

  The place was pitch black as he and Seamus opened the doors and strode into the building; on another day Mickey might have clocked this as strange. But his experience of Elkins reminded him of his love for the melodramatic. They both had made their way to the middle of the room by the time Mickey realised that the door was being bolted behind them.

  A moment later Mickey started to make out a variety of different shaped silhouettes in the dark, scattered all around them. His eyes strained to make out the detail.

  “Oh shit,” Seamus gasped.

  It was not until the lights were turned on, a moment later, that the situation became clear. The two men were surrounded by guys, all armed with a range of different types of bats and knives.

  Mickey dropped his bag to the floor, as he took in the situation around him. “Stay by my side Seamus,” he hissed. “By my side!”

  It was the lack of an instant reply which made him turn to look towards Seamus. The giant ex-boxer already had his hands to his throat; he was covered in blood. Only his experience of many other murderous situations stopped Mickey instantly losing his head.

  Seamus looked desperately towards Mickey, his eyes screaming at his colleague to save him. Mickey was not moved; he recognised a dying m
an when he saw one. Within a second the giant was on his knees, and a moment later he was face down in a growing puddle of blood.

  Mickey’s mind was remorseless; he had no time for sentiment if he was to stay alive. And as he was trying to work out what kind of trap he had walked into, he noticed Leroy’s familiar face, appearing behind the bodies of the other armed men. As his vision became more used to the dark he could see Leroy clearly, he was standing on top of the pub’s bar, with about ten or so heavy set men in front of him.

  “Hey Mick,” Leroy shouted. A sly grin was on his lips.

  “What the fuck is this?” Mickey asked.

  “Dis tis a change of the guard Mick,” Leroy said, still grinning widely. “There’s a new crew running things now, believe blood. We’re fucking seriously backed. The world’s turned son.”

  “What are you talking about?” Mickey replied.

  “This is the ting Mick, by the end of this day, Charlie will be dead. And I’m fraid, blood, you too be dead long before that too.”

  “Motherfucker,” Mickey shook his head.

  “Yeah, fraid; we locked all the doors and windows down hard, so you better believe there’s no use in trying to run. Just take it like a proper bwoy, Mick,” Leroy shouted.

  Mickey looked grimly down at his bag.

  “He’s gonna pull out a weapon!” a voice shouted, coming from the crowd of men in front of Mickey.

  “Hush, hush, don’t be a bumbaclat!” Leroy snapped firmly, his grin gone from his lips. “This here tis Mickey the Bag, one of the hardest motherfuckers in London. If he want to go down, with one of those hammers or spades from his tool bag, then the least we can fucking do is oblige.”

  The crowd didn’t look so sure about Leroy’s instruction—these fellas were obviously all familiar with the legendary bag’s status. The majority of them took an unconscious step back.

  “See I going to let you go down fighting, as a mark of respect to ya Mick,” Leroy grinned.

  Mickey was now ignoring the Jamaican and the group of men in front of him. Within a single motion, he crouched down and was opening his bag. After watching Seamus die he knew he had one hope. Leroy, as a result of his arrogance, might just give him some kind of chance. This allowed him to make one move; and he knew this might be it.

  It had been a long time since he’d opened his bag when he wasn’t just on his own. He knew what Leroy expected to come out of it; he was well aware of the urban legends his bag had created, all of which were wrong. If today was his day to die, then he would take some pleasure from the horrified look about to appear on Leroy’s face.

  Mickey put his hands through his hair, to adjust his quiff. If he was to get out of this situation, he’d need a big slice of luck. He then thrust both hands into his bag, hoping, when he pulled his weapon of choice, it wouldn’t get caught on the strap on its way out. He needed it to be ready to be used in a split second.

  The men in front of him were now standing in something like a ring around Mickey; and were the first to acknowledge the AK-47 assault rifle in his hands. He’d got lucky. Within seconds his hands had taken the weapon out of his bag, flipped the catch onto automatic, and started firing.

  All the time he’d spent, with pain staking effort, stripping and cleaning the weapon, the hours he’d spent in desolate places practicing firing, had all been for this day. Ever since the Peszkis, he’d never made use of the bag against anyone. His rep had been sufficient—he’d never needed to use the bag—until today.

  Almost instantly, carnage ensued. The nearest men to Mickey tried hopelessly to turn and flee, but they only tumbled into the rest of Leroy’s crew. Their desperate faces quickly dissolved into a blur of blood.

  Mickey unleashed bullets into the crowd of would-be attackers for what seemed like more than ten minutes but was probably no more than a couple. Leroy’s gang had quickly split into two sets of people: those who forgot they were locked in and tried in vain to run; and the more courageous ones who threw themselves toward their intended victim with their knives and bats. Mickey suffered bruises and gashes as each of these attackers lashed towards him, but none of them survived to make more than one thrust.

  Then, after his rifle had finally clicked empty, there was only silence; the only sound left was the ringing reverberating in Mickey’s ears, left by the ferocious sound of the AK-47. Mickey was surrounded by dead or dying bodies. Blood was everywhere—but he was alive.

  It wouldn’t be long before he would hear the sound of sirens, Mickey thought, as he gave a quick glance to his watch. He strode through the bodies towards the one he was looking for—Leroy. As he got closer to the bar he could see the familiar form of the Jamaican, slumped against one side of the counter, covered in blood. Mickey couldn’t see any obvious wound, but the amount of blood told its own story. He allowed himself a smile.

  Leroy looked up at Mickey as he approached. “You… You…” Leroy stopped to cough as blood streamed down his chin. “You… bwoy, had a fucking gun!”

  “Shut the fuck up!” Mickey said, raising the rifle above his head and then thrusting it down on top of Leroy’s skull.

  Leroy was dead. Mickey had no time to enjoy this moment; he had to get out of there before the bill arrived—he had to get Charlie. Whatever was going on, or whoever was behind this, they must be heading for Charlie?

  He turned towards the door and saw Seamus’ mammoth body lying in front of the door—shit. He couldn’t just leave his apprentice’s body here with all this scum. He should at least move it, or do something.

  What was he thinking! That was stupid; what the fuck could he do with a body? Take it to a funeral parlour? The only thing he could do with Seamus now was get himself caught and banged up!

  Mickey tried to clear his mind; he had to get to Charlie and quick. He went to run towards the bar door, when a sudden pain in his right side stopped him dead. He reached towards the centre of the pain, like a reflex, and looked down at his right hand, it was covered in blood. One of his near dead victims must have shanked him.

  He didn’t have time for this shit; he had to get to Charlie. He tried to move again in the direction of the door, but his legs suddenly felt too heavy to budge. An awful cold started to spread over his body. His legs gave way.

  All of sudden he could hear Elvis’ Suspicious Minds—where the hell was that music coming from? Maybe one his shots had dislodged something in the Blake’s jukebox?

  “Here we go again, asking where I’ve been,” Mickey started to sing. “You can’t see these tears are real I’m crying.”

  This was his favourite song; what was the bloody chance?

  His eyes wanted to shut; he needed to rest. It was time to get some sleep.

  “We’re caught in a trap, I can’t walk out.” Even though he felt so tired, his singing voice seemed to be getting stronger. “Because I love you too much baby!”

  “This one’s for you Dawn!”

  His body was now so cold that he could barely feel his limbs; but in his mind he was on stage, singing to Dawn. He was damn fucking good too, he sounded like the King himself, he even looked a bit like him.

  “”We’re caught in a trap, I can’t walk out! Because I love you too much baby!...”

  Chapter Fifty Four - John Blake

  John felt like he had been in a daze for the last twelve hours. All he cared about now was getting out of this mess; any love for his brothers had gone. The only reason he was still with them was that he knew that, if he tried to leave, Billy would kill him. He could see it in his eyes.

  Billy had killed a policewoman. John was numb with the consequences of his brother’s action; but Billy himself appeared entirely emotionless. He didn’t seem at all moved by what he had done, which was crazy. The police never let one of their own go down without finding the people responsible and banging them up. Also, she was a woman—she was someone’s little girl—she was someone’s baby.

  It hadn’t been like when they killed Payne; he was a gangster. John knew th
at every gangster has it coming, eventually. Only the most lucky survive. But killing a police officer—a young woman—that was different.

  He’d tried to get Billy to understand.

  “Billy, what the fuck have you done? How could you do that!”

  “Brother, I fucking own the police now. How’d you fucking think I knew she was coming? I’m fucking properly connected now!” Billy snapped, his eyes dark with rage.

  John had no time to understand what Billy was saying. His words sounded like the ramblings of a mad man, and that’s what his brothers were, mad men. John had spent all his life trying to make sense and excuses for what they did, but reality was that they were scum. They were probably always going to be scum, regardless of what they had witnessed when their Ma was murdered.

  And John could not get the look of the police officer out of his mind—of her face, as she saw Billy point the gun towards her head. She had the look of a child who was hoping her father would appear from nowhere and save her from these nasty men. She looked so harmless, so helpless. How could Billy have taken her life away from her? All the things she could have done—all the things she was meant to do?

  John didn’t know if his feelings were down to hearing the news that Emma was pregnant. Perhaps that had changed him. In any case, he couldn’t get the woman’s face out of his mind.

  “Billy, I might go home, you don’t need me here. I’ll just get in the way,” John had tried to say, as they stood there in the cellar, with the dead woman lying on the floor between them.

  “John, I need you now. You fucking hear me. If you try and leave, I’ll fucking kill ya. You’re either with me or against me. Simple as,” Billy had replied.

  John could see Billy meant it. He had to get the hell away from him at the first opportunity, but in the last few hours, there’d been none. He thought they had done a bad job of hiding the young woman’s body in the river; but the truth was that he wanted the officer to be found. He needed her parents to know what had happened to her. It was the least he could do.