Find My Way Home

by Mark Timlin

  Tough shit, Nance, I thought. But the wages of sin are death, as I might very soon be finding out.

  ‘Sharman!’ I heard a voice shout from my right in a lull in the firing. ‘Sharman. Over here.’ It was Jackson. ‘Give me my sodding gun,’ he said.

  ‘So’s you can shoot me?’

  ‘So’s I can shoot some of those bastards. Not you. Jesus, where’s the law?’

  ‘You’re here,’ I said dryly.

  ‘Not me. The locals. For Christ’s sake, we’ve been making enough fucking commotion over the last ten minutes.’

  ‘It’s quiet round here,’ I replied. ‘No fucker lives here any more. It’s all supermarkets and computer warehouses.’

  ‘There’s someone in the pub over the way.’

  ‘Probably pissed,’ I said, and I reached up grabbed the other Webley and tossed it to him, and more bullets slammed into the case which I was hiding behind. Fuck it, if he was going to shoot me he was going to shoot me, but one extra gun could make all the difference. ‘And you’re going to have a hell of a lot of explaining to do when the Old Bill do get here . . . if we’re still alive to see them,’ I added.

  ‘We could cook up a story, you and me,’ he hissed as he fired from his cover, and thank God not in my direction. ‘There’s still a big reward being offered by 4F. We could split it.’

  ‘Like you were going to give me and Nancy a share of the money?’

  ‘We were.’

  ‘Bollocks.’

  ‘All right, we weren’t. But this time I’m being straight with you.’

  ‘And I just take your word?’

  ‘I’m finished without it. This all looks very bad, Sharman.’

  ‘Very bad,’ I agreed with him. ‘In fact I’d say we were totally fucked.’

  ‘I’m getting out of here,’ he said suddenly. ‘Fuck this for a game of soldiers.’

  ‘No. You’ll never make it.’

  ‘Give me cover,’ he yelled, bounced up and started to zigzag towards the door to the offices.

  It was only a matter of yards, but he was cut down by half a dozen bullets and shotgun loads before he’d a quarter made it.

  Me, I dived in the opposite direction and rolled under the low-loader attached to the back of the big tractor truck.

  So now it was just me.

  Just me, and my Browning which had five rounds left, and Bell’s Webley fully loaded with six bullets.

  Just me against at least a dozen men, probably more, presumably with plenty of spare ammunition, but not a lot of time. Surely to God someone had called the police by now. Then I thought of my portable phone, pulled it out of my jacket and dialled three nines. ‘Emergency, which service do you require?’ said a voice

  ‘Police, quick,’ and I gave the address, then cut off the operator before she could start asking questions.

  I looked up through the thick girders that made up the floor of the low-loader to where the container was swinging gently above it as the guy in the control booth tried to drop it neatly into place.

  Somehow I had to get out of there, but right in front of me was just a stack of more containers and a bare wall. But if the money container was loaded and the truck drove off then I’d be left in the middle of the concrete like a cockroach on a clean hanky. And about as easy to swat, so I had to make a move.

  I rolled forward and popped my head out from under the trailer and tried to get the bottle together to make a run for it, when Lambretta appeared behind me, gun in hand, and climbed on to the low-loader. ‘Stop right there,’ he ordered.

  Shit, I thought. This is it.

  Then everything happened at once. Two of the bikers appeared around the front of the truck. One fired at Lambretta and one fired at me, both missing by a mile. Tommy, Lambretta’s man who’d climbed up into the control room with the geezer in the blue shirt, swung out of the doorway up there and fired at the bikers, knocking one off his feet. The other fired up at him just as Lambretta put a bullet in his back so that the shot starred the control room window and the geezer in the blue shirt ducked down. The container that was still swinging maybe five feet above the low-loader dropped like a brick, and Lambretta made one desperate cry before he was squashed flat as a bug by the weight, and I saw blood begin to drip down from where he’d been kneeling and pool on the concrete floor.

  I felt like throwing up, but then Tommy started shooting in my direction so I dived back around the corner of the container, which was when Crazy Larry spotted me.

  Terrific.

  ‘You!’ he screamed.

  ‘Hi, Larry,’ I shouted back. ‘Need a hand?’

  He fired off two shots at me and I ducked back again and fired at Tommy who threw himself into the control room as Larry revved up his bike and with a scream of tyres skidded round so as to get a clear shot at me.

  Fuck. Would this never end?

  Crazy Larry skidded his bike to a halt in front of me. There was a red glint in his eye that perfectly matched the cellulose that coated his petrol tank. He revved up the bike with his good hand and with the metal claw worked the clutch, and the front wheel of the bike lifted as he did a wheelie straight at me, the single eye of his headlight transfixing me in its beam.

  I bent my legs into a crouch, brought up the Browning in my right hand and fired straight at the centre of the light. The glass exploded and the bullet smashed through to the petrol tank, igniting it in an explosion of metal and red hot fuel, and Larry was blown upwards into the roof of the warehouse where the metal claw of his left hand caught in one of the pulleys of the lift mechanism and he swung there burning brightly like a steak on a barbecue as his bike veered off past me and hit the articulated tractor amidships just by the fuel tank. Immediately the sprinkler system in the ceiling came on, dousing everyone in water. But it was too late for the truck. The remaining petrol from Larry’s bike flared across the bodywork and ignited the diesel in its tank and with a huge explosion the truck blew, throwing me face forward across the concrete floor.

  I ended up in a tangle of arms and legs and hot air that stank of burning diesel, and the water that cascaded down from the ceiling next to the injured body of John Duncan, who was still clutching the two canvas bags he’d rescued from the money container. Pain seemed to encompass my whole being. Far away in the distance I finally heard the scream of sirens.

  I dragged myself to my feet and looked down at Duncan as he looked back up at me. ‘It’s all over, John,’ I said. ‘The chicken’s come home to roost. Harry can rest easy now.’

  I didn’t feel anything for Duncan then, or any of the others. Nothing. Not hate or love or disgust or pity. Not a sodding thing.

  But he wouldn’t leave it alone. He had to keep on, and from somewhere he produced a gun and tried to point it at me but his hand was wobbling so much that I just laughed and kicked it out of his grip.

  ‘You just don’t know when to quit, do you?’ I said.

  But then nor did I.

  And I was damned if I was going to stick around for the post mortem.

  He stared at me as I grabbed the sacks, zipped up my leather jacket and stuck them down the front, then looked round at the carnage that was all that was left of the warehouse, wiped the wet hair off my forehead and headed for the door to the offices.

  It was the only way out that I could see, as the truck was burning fiercely and blocking my way to the front of the building.

  I hit the door hard, spun left through the other entrance into the darkened reception and shot shit out of the glass door out into the parking lot with the last bullets from the Browning. It was strengthened glass and only webbed, so I had to kick the stuff out of the frame before I could escape. Outside, the sound of sirens was louder and I felt that I’d just about had it, when from around the corner came the growl of a big bike engine and seconds later I saw one of Larry’s cohorts come slowly round with his lights off as if looking for a place to hide.

  A bike. A sodding bike. Just what I needed, because the keys to Nancy
’s car were back inside, hidden in her bag which was God alone knew where. Maybe burnt to a frazzle in the fire, maybe just lying somewhere out of sight. And that left me without transport, and the sound of the sirens was getting louder by the second.

  I pulled the Webley from my pocket and as the bike got closer I stood away from the wall and said, ‘Gimme the bike or I’ll shoot your fuckin’ head off.’

  I saw the guy clearly in the splash of light from the front of the building. I saw him think about revving up and going for it, and I said, ‘Not in your dreams, pal, I’ll knock you straight off the sodding thing and take it anyway.’

  ‘Listen, man . . .’

  ‘Gimme the bike,’ I repeated, and with a look of disgust he dismounted. ‘You armed?’ I asked. ‘Come on, gimme.’

  He pulled some huge automatic out of his pocket and I took it and slid it into mine. ‘Now fuck off,’ I said. And he did.

  I jumped on the bike and tried to remember how to ride it. Christ, it had been years since I’d ridden one, and that was nothing like as powerful as this one, a big trial bike. A Kawasaki KLX with a six-fifty cubic capacity lump.

  Still, here goes, I thought, and I put in the clutch, revved up hard, toed the gear lever into first, dropped the clutch in and took off. I drove round the corner and saw why the biker hadn’t made good his escape. There were a bunch of police vehicles drawn up in front of the warehouse, and at the end of the service road, effectively blocking the exit, was a Rover 600 police car. The building to my left was burning fiercely and I could hear more sirens in the distance. Probably the fire service, I thought, but I couldn’t wait for the coppers to move. I had to get out, and get out now. To the left of the car was the empty gatehouse, then the fence topped with lethal razor wire, and to the right just more fencing. There was only one way out. A suicide rap, but I had no choice.

  I idled the engine for a second, then went back into first and powered the bike across the tarmac, changing up to second, then third and bringing the bike’s speed up to about fifty. I could see the the faces of the coppers behind the windscreen of the Rover as the bike’s speed increased and I leant forward over the wide handlebars of the Kwacker and twisted the throttle to give myself even more revs.

  I took one split second to slap on the headlight to full beam before leaning even further forward as I yanked the front wheel up with all my strength and did a wheelie for the last few yards before the front wheel of the bike hit the car’s bumper, then its bonnet, then its windscreen and I thanked God for the teardrop design of modern cars, before the bike lifted clear and I was heading straight upwards towards the night sky. I saw the gatehouse below me and a strand of razor wire tore at my jeans, then I was above the fence, standing high on the Kawasaki’s pegs, and I gave a shout of pure exultation at being there so close to the stars, before the bike started to slip away and I fought it straight, throttled back, and the rear wheel hit the pavement with a bang so loud I thought I’d burst the tyre or wrecked the mono shock, and the seat came up and almost turned my bollocks to mush, and I threw my weight backwards. The front wheel went down hard and the bike wobbled along the pavement and over the kerb and I changed up to fourth and sped along the Purley Way in the direction of central London humming the theme from The Great Escape as I went.

  Steve McQueen, eat your heart out.

  Jack Robber didn’t have to see what happened on TV. Not that night at least, although the big fire at the security firm was reported extensively the next day and the following few. Firmin’s customers freaked in front of the gutted building in technicolour. I know because I watched. God alone knows what some of them had hidden away there. Serves them right, the crooked bastards.

  No. I told him myself. And I didn’t disappear like he’d feared. Not for good, to be found in black plastic sacks at some later date. Although I did disappear for a bit until things cooled down. But at least he knew I was doing OK, and holding folding.

  I rode to Dalston on the bike I’d stolen, the two bags of cash keeping me warm under my jacket, and the slipstream from the ride dried me, although I knew I looked like a scarecrow.

  I stopped on the way at the twenty-four-hour coffee stall beside Waterloo Station where they’ll serve anyone, no matter what they looked like, and I gobbled down a sausage sandwich and a plastic cup of tea, and they both tasted delicious. While I was there I keyed Diane’s phone number into my portable. She took a long time to answer. ‘Hello,’ she said eventually.

  ‘Hi. It’s me.’

  ‘Nick. Are you all right? I was worried.’

  ‘Worry not,’ I replied. ‘Everything’s worked out.’

  ‘You’ve finished the job.’

  ‘More or less. But whether it’s more of a mess now than when I started is debatable.’

  ‘And you’re out of trouble.’

  ‘I will be. Listen, Diane. I’ve got some money. How much I’m not sure. But I think it’s a fair amount. Enough to get us away and keep us away for a bit.’

  ‘Away where?’

  ‘Wherever you want. I’ve got my passport. We could be in the Bahamas in a day or so. The States. Europe. Africa. Asia. Anywhere.’

  ‘I don’t think so, Nick.’

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. ‘What do you mean?’ I said.

  ‘I’ve been thinking. It’s been fun, it really has. But I don’t know if I want to live like you.’

  ‘What’s wrong with the way I live?’ Christ, by the state of me, that should’ve been obvious. It was to anyone but a fool, but I’ve never claimed to be that bright.

  ‘Have you got a couple of hours?’ she asked.

  ‘I see,’ I said. Although I really didn’t, and later I decided that was more my problem than hers. ‘So you don’t want to come?’

  ‘I do and I don’t. But on consideration I think I’m more cut out for the quiet life.’

  I sighed. Shit happens. But why does it always have to happen to me?

  ‘I could come round. We could talk,’ I said.

  ‘I don’t think so, Nick. You take the money and run. That’s your style. But I don’t want to be on the run with you.’

  ‘I have to go away, Diane. You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘I know. And I know I’m going to regret not going with you.’

  I made one last appeal. ‘Think of all that photocopying you’ll avoid at the office.’

  ‘I think about it all the time. But on consideration . . .’ She didn’t finish the sentence.

  ‘Diane,’ I said. ‘I understand. At least I think I do. You’ve been great . . .’

  ‘Don’t, Nick. You’ll make me cry.’ But I think she already was, and I know I was damn close myself.

  ‘OK, honey,’ I said. But by then she’d hung up, and I didn’t call back. What would’ve been the point?

  When I arrived at the hospital I was dirty and smoke-stained and covered in blood from my wound. The perfect disguise.

  I dumped the bike out front, took the moneybags and climbed the stairs to the third floor where the red-headed sister was on duty. ‘Is Jack Robber awake?’ I asked.

  ‘What have you been doing to yourself?’ she asked back.

  ‘Police business,’ I said.

  ‘You’re not police.’

  ‘Aren’t I?’

  ‘No. And the photograph on that warrant card looked nothing like you.’

  ‘But you let me in.’

  ‘I talk to your friend a lot. He told me to expect you the first day he was down here. He said you’d get in somehow.’

  I shook my head. Life was full of surprises.

  ‘You are Nick, aren’t you?’ she said.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Nice to meet you again,’ she said. ‘My name’s Rosemary, by the way.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Rosemary,’ I said.

  ‘He’s awake,’ she said. ‘Go on in. He’s watching television for some reason.’

  And he was.

  ‘It all worked out, Jack,�
�� I said, throwing the bags on to his bed.

  ‘Christ,’ he said. ‘You look a state.’

  ‘I’ll survive. Open the bags. If they’re stuffed with newspaper, we’re fucked.’

  But they weren’t. One of them contained thirty-two bundles of tattered notes in paper wraps marked ‘50×£20”. The other, thirty-two bundles of the same. Sixty-two thousand quid. Not as much as we’d hoped, but not bad. ‘Split it in half,’ I said.

  ‘I can’t take it. I did nothing.’

  ‘You did a lot. And we had a deal. I stick by my word.’

  He looked at me and shrugged. ‘If you insist,’ he said, and put thirty-one bundles of cash back in each bag, and put one of them in the drawer of his locker. ‘Are you OK?’ he asked when he’d finished.

  ‘Just about.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Take it on my toes. Get lost for a bit.’ I held up the other bag. ‘This should keep me going for a bit.’

  ‘Look me up when you get back. If you come back.’

  ‘I will,’ I said.

  ‘And maybe we can get into some life-threatening situations again.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to it.’

  ‘Good luck, Nick.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, shook his hand and left.

  On the way out the sister was going off duty. ‘Looks like you could do with a visit to casualty,’ she said.

  ‘No casualty,’ I said.

  ‘Then maybe you’d better come home with me and let me look after you.’

  ‘Maybe I’d better, Rosemary,’ I replied.

  And I did.

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