by Rob Aspinall
"It wasn't personal, Chris. I stuck my nose in and got what was coming. I shouldn't have opened that trailer."
"I did try and warn you."
"Yeah, but you know what I'm like. Just make sure you come alone."
"I haven't agreed yet."
"Good lad," I say. "I'll text you the time and place."
I hang up on the bastard. Some of these gangs have tracing technology. You can't be too careful. Now all I need to do is find somewhere to meet.
35
Derelict tower blocks rose high with hollow windows. According to a sign on the fence surrounding the complex, scheduled for demolition.
Junkies and the homeless loitered in open doorways. There were four towers in total, forming an armed guard against the wind; a square courtyard in the middle.
The exodus of residents had worked in one respect. Even the gangs weren't interested in owning an unprofitable piece of turf.
Waverley Towers was that kind of place. Or at least, Chris Randall thought so. He lit his third cigarette and leaned back against his dark-blue Land Rover. He sniffed the air. Other than burning tobacco, it smelled of something dead and infected.
He couldn't wait to get out of there. Something about the towers—they gave him the creeps.
To make matters worse, Breaker was late. Very late. Chris might have suspected something was off, except he knew the guy wasn't that smart.
If he was, he wouldn't have raided the Matheson operation. Wouldn't have come back at all. On past jobs, he'd caught Breaker talking to thin air on more than one occasion. The guy was clearly nuts.
Chris breathed a heavy, nicotine sigh. How the hell was Breaker even alive? In front of the boss, he'd blamed the two imbeciles he'd left to finish the job. Privately, he blamed himself. He should have felt for a pulse. Checked for a breath. Put a bullet in the man's brain.
Made sure.
Chris shook his head and kicked his heel against a fat Land Rover tyre.
"What's up?" the gruff voice of Jimmy asked in his ear.
"Nothing," Chris said, taking another drag.
"Where is this dickhead?" Jimmy asked.
"Be patient," Chris said. "Stick to your post."
"I think this is bullshit," said Bogdan.
"I don't pay you to think," Chris said.
"You don't pay us at all," Marlon said.
"No, but I do decide who gets what," Chris said. "So shut the fuck up."
Marlon, Jimmy and Bogdan were temps drafted in by his client, at his own recommendation. You didn't always know what you were getting with temporary muscle. But the rotation of staff kept the police from building up a clear who's who. And if a temp got dragged in by the Old Bill, they were even more in the dark than the detectives working the case.
The strategy had paid dividends so far, but jobbing muscle came at a price. They moaned and groaned all day long. If not about their payment terms, then about the job itself. The hours, the plan, the cold, the boredom, the hunger—they griped about everything.
Chris smoked a fourth and a fifth cigarette. The longer he waited, the more edgy he became. He checked his watch. Called Breaker's number. Straight to voicemail.
"I'm here," Chris said. "Alone like you asked . . . Show up soon or you're fucking dead . . . Again."
"He's not coming," Jimmy said. "Told you he's not coming. Let's go the pub."
"We're not going anywhere," Chris said.
"Hang on a second," Marlon said. "Got a guy on a mountain bike. He's riding past me, heading your way."
"Is it him?" Chris asked.
"Don't know what he looks like, do I?" Marlon said.
"He's a big fucker," Chris said. "Face beaten to shit. You can't miss him."
"Too far away," Marlon said. "Black hoodie and a scarf over his face."
"I see him," said Bogdan. "Rucksack on his back. Could be him. Looks pretty big."
"Okay, get ready," Chris said. "I'll take delivery of the package. Wait for my signal."
Chris turned to see a figure in a black hoodie approaching. Scarf worn like a mask over his face. Gloves on his hands. Black combats and boots completing the look. It was understandable that Breaker would cover his face. He was a wanted man. Though his choice of wheels, he couldn't explain.
As Breaker cut a direct path towards him, Chris ran through the plan in his own mind one more time. Reclaim the merchandise. Pay the money. Let Breaker leave.
Marlon, Bogdan and Jimmy were hiding in the ground floor entrances of the first three buildings. They'd surround him at the right time and gun him down. Chris himself would bring up the rear with his own weapon. Breaker wouldn't stand a chance. And this time he'd put a bullet in the man's skull, personally.
The fact that the guy wanted to meet at all meant he was either desperate or stupid. Whichever it was, he was approaching fast.
Chris tossed the butt of his cigarette and picked up the black rucksack Breaker had requested. He stepped into view, away from the Land Rover and held out a hand. The rider came to a sudden stop, brakes whining. He stared at Chris. Chris stared back. He looked the rider up and down. It wasn't Breaker. The eyes were different. The skin tone darker. And the guy's build nowhere near as broad.
"Who the fuck are you?" Chris asked.
"Got your stuff," the rider said in a young, East End voice.
"Take it slow," Chris said. "You try anything, you're fucking dead."
The rider slipped the rucksack off his back. He held it out for Chris to take. Chris stepped forward. He took the rucksack off the rider. He set his own bag down at his feet and unzipped the other. He looked inside, half expecting a paint bomb to blow up in his face. But the product was there, safe and sound.
Relieved, Chris zipped up the rucksack and set it down at his feet.
"Now the money," the rider said.
Chris picked up the bag with the cash. He held it out for the rider to take.
"Show it me," the rider said.
Chris opened the bag, ignoring the chattering voices in his ear. They wanted to know who it was and when it was time to come out shooting. Chris showed the rider the inside of the bag. He tossed him a stack of notes.
"Sweet," the rider said.
Chris handed the rider the rest of the money. The rider returned the stack of notes to the bag and zipped it closed. He slipped it over both shoulders and swung his bike around. He stood on the pedals and tore away at speed.
"The rider's a kid," Chris said. "Jump him when he gets close."
"What do you want us to do with him?" Jimmy asked.
"We'll find out what he knows," Chris said. "Then we'll get rid of him."
As the rider made his way towards the entrance of the deserted estate, Jimmy ran out and blocked his path. He held a handgun on him while Marlon and Bogdan flanked him from either side.
Chris climbed behind the wheel of his Land Rover. He drove the short distance across the courtyard and came to a stop behind the rider. He got out, weapon drawn by his side. "Hand back the money," he said.
The rider sat with a foot on the ground, gloved knuckles twitching on the handle bars.
Chris raised his gun to the rider's head. "Don't make me ask twice."
Suddenly, Chris heard a clicking of weapons. He looked around the courtyard. Hooded figures appeared in empty window frames. Scarves and bandanas over faces. Guns in hands. From all directions, across several floors, they aimed their weapons square at him and his men. They may have been kids, but there were too many to count in one turn of the head. They had the numbers and the higher ground.
"Better step off me bruv," the rider said.
Chris and his men looked around them one more time. Chris nodded at Jimmy, Marlon and Bogdan. They lowered their weapons as one. Jimmy stepped aside.
The rider pedalled away with an insult under his breath.
Chris looked up and around. The tower block windows empty. The hooded figures gone.
Marlon, a tall Jamaican man with a dress sense from the 70s, fl
apped his arms. "What do we do now?"
"We've still got the stuff," Chris said. "The boss'll have to do without his money."
"You wanna drive around? Look for this Cobb fella?" Jimmy asked. "He can't be far off."
"Nah," Chris said. "Knowing him, he'll be on his way out of town already." Chris took a last look around the abandoned towers and waved the men into the Land Rover. "Smart, Charlie. Smart."
36
I watch Randall smoke another cigarette. He talks to thin air. A sure sign he's brought help.
I decide it's time. I take out my mobile and text Aziz, the tall kid closest to my size.
From the eighth floor of the southern tower block, I've got the perfect view. I zoom in with the long lens camera bought with the proceeds of the Matheson raid. The southern tower stands at the far end of the estate, facing the entrance. I see Aziz appear on his bike. Hood pulled up and scarf over his face like I told him.
I lean with my elbows on a dusty kitchen worktop, camera lined up through a jagged hole in a broken glass window. It smells like a dead rat in here, but better than the lower floors. The squatters and junkies don't tend to make it this high.
I see Randall pick up the rucksack I told him to bring the cash in. Aziz makes a beeline for his Land Rover. Randall steps out and Aziz skids to a stop.
I zoom in closer and adjust the focus. There's a brief standoff. Aziz takes the rucksack I gave him off his shoulders. He hands it over. Randall opens it slow, like it's a bomb set to go off. He checks out the contents: the kilo packs of cocaine I stole.
Randall takes one out and weighs it in his hand. He seems satisfied. He opens his own bag and tosses Aziz a stack of notes. Shows him the rest of the money. Zips it up and hands it over.
Aziz straps on the bag and pedals out of there. Randall's lips move. I take my head away from the camera to see the bigger picture. I see three tiny figures appear from the ground floor level of the other buildings. I get back behind the camera and zoom in and out, trying to focus.
I get a good look at all three guys. A real mixed bag of nuts. There's a black guy in flares, mint turtle neck and a long brown leather jacket. A bloke with a bald patch on top in a blue tracksuit. Another with a modern side-parted haircut that's too young for him. He wears a black bomber jacket like mine.
They stop Aziz on the way out. Randall, the lazy shit, gets in his Land Rover and drives the short distance across the courtyard. He climbs out with a weapon of his own.
I'm already on my phone. "Now," I tell Mabs, the gang leader.
To his credit, Aziz doesn't panic. I told him this'd happen and he plays his part to a tee.
As Randall puts his gun to Aziz's head, the empty windows of the towers flood with kids from the block where I’ve been living. Randall and his goons take a look around. They think better of it.
After a long, tense pause, they lower their weapons. The one with the flash haircut steps aside. Aziz rides out of there with the money. Randall and the goons look around again. The kids are already gone from the windows, happy with their haul of cash.
I take a few rapid-fire photos of Randall and his helpers. I take a snap of the Land Rover plate, too.
I pull away from the window and detach the zoom lens from the camera. I pack it away fast in the small black case it came in and make my way out. There's a rear entrance out of the tower where the fence has been torn out of the ground. It leads across a bump of grass onto a side street where I left the Volvo. I climb in and start the engine.
I spot the Land Rover swing by on the main road, stopping at a set of lights. I pull away from the kerb and drive fast to the end of the street. I turn right, a couple of cars between me and the Land Rover.
The lights change and we move.
It's a busy two-lane road, ideal for tailing. I get to within a car of Randall's Land Rover and sit there. I follow them to a row of shops. I park a few bays down. The hired help get out of the Land Rover with the rucksack. They head into a laundrette. Unless they all wash their underpants together, I'd bet any money it's a mafia front.
But it'll have to wait. Randall pulls out into the road again and continues on his way.
I leave it a few seconds before I ease into traffic behind him. We come to a large, four-way junction. It's a long wait as each filter lane takes its turn.
Our light is still on red when the Land Rover sets off. It cuts across the junction in a pause between cars.
Meantime, I'm stuck behind a red Astra hatchback. The bastard's getting away. I'm gonna lose him.
Come on you piece of shit, turn green.
37
Finally, the light turns. The two cars in front take an age to move, but all I need is a few inches. I pull out and around, wishing I'd gone for the Impreza.
I rag the Volvo up to its limit in each gear, fast-changing to gain some ground. Randall is off and flying along an empty stretch of dual carriageway road. But I make up some of the distance thanks to the turbo engine of the car.
The bastard must have caught on when he dropped off his goons. He pulls a sharp right into a residential neighbourhood. I slam on late and screech into the same road.
Randall's Land Rover is a hundred metres ahead. I'm gaining on every straight, so it's no surprise he takes a sharp left, trying to lose me.
Neither car is built for cornering. The Volvo feels like a boat as I nurse it into a tight avenue lined by small brown council houses and messy lawns.
We turn again, into a longer, wider street. I wind down the window and lean out. Wheel in my left hand. Gun in my right.
I aim for the tyres, but the streets around here are uneven and full of holes. The Volvo bounces and rattles. I only succeed in ruining the Land Rover’s paintwork.
But this might be my lucky day.
The road leads into a close. A dead end. Randall brakes and swings the Land Rover round in a big circle. I emergency stop and find reverse.
Randall comes the other way to my right. I step on the accelerator and back it up alongside him.
We ram into each other, taking turns, trying to run each other off the road.
The Land Rover eases past, into the lead. I spin the wheel all the way to the right. The Volvo flips around and I fast-change into third. I give it beans and chase Randall all the way back where we came from.
As we fly towards the T-junction at the end of the road, a large white bin truck pops out of a side street. Randall can't brake fast enough. The nose of the 4x4 slams into the side of the truck. It's a heavy hit. Randall's front end all shot to shit.
I slow and mount the kerb to the left of the road.
As Randall spills out of the driver's seat, he lets off a round. A wild shot that misses completely.
Randall flies past me into a narrow side alley. I'm out of the Volvo, giving chase on foot.
I've got the longer stride. Randall is the lighter and nimbler.
Neither of us are Usain Bolt, but we run full blast along the alley, out across another street.
A young mum pushes a pram across our path. Randall barges her to the ground. I hurdle over the pram and stay on his tail. I tuck my gun away inside my jacket.
I want him alive.
He spots a chance to lose me. A hard right through a gap in a wooden fence. I follow him into a back garden. He tumbles over a hedge. I jump and tumble after him, into another back lawn littered with kids' toys.
I step on a squeaky rubber dog as I run. Randall tips over a green plastic slide. I trip over the damn thing and lose time. As I get up, I see Randall's feet scrambling over a high fence.
Now, if I was him, I'd use the time wisely. I'd crouch down on the other side, ready with my gun.
So, rather than climb over the fence, I run straight at it. I smash through the damn thing and sure enough, he's waiting for me on the other side.
He hesitates in surprise. I snatch his gun with one hand and deliver a knock-out punch with the other. He lies prone on the grass. I put his weapon on safety and zip it up in a si
de pocket on my bomber jacket.
"Oi, what the fuck are you playing at?" A hairy gorilla in a stained white vest comes out of a back door to the house. "What've you done to my fence?" I try to ignore the guy. He puts a hand on my shoulder. "Oi, dickhead, I'm talking to you."
I put a hand on his throat and squeeze. "Sorry mate, you were saying?"
His head turns purple. His eyes bulge out like soft-boiled eggs.
I let him go. He's got the point. I take a few twenties from my wallet and throw 'em at him. "For the fence," I say.
He splutters and staggers back into the house with his money.
Randall lies sprawled on the patchy green lawn, covered in splintered wooden panels. He sports a nasty bruise around his eye, out for the count and going nowhere in a hurry.
And thank Christ, too. I'm bloody knackered.
38
I sit on an upturned blue beer crate, wearing a pair of white latex gloves. I doodle in black pen on a small notepad: a giant rabbit fighting a horse.
Randall murmurs. Starts to come around. The black eye I gave him swallowing an entire socket.
I had to give the guy a few sedatives. Forced 'em down him the first time he woke up.
Lucky for me, he had a bunch of them in his bottom kitchen drawer. One of those designer kitchens with the big fancy mixer taps and black marble tops. A nice place he's got. But we're here in the garage. Me on the crate. Him strung up by the neck by a length of yellow electrical wire.
I tied the wire to one of three steel beams that run sideways under the ceiling. Each beam has a line of holes drilled in for hanging hooks and whatever else. Very handy for suspending a man from the ceiling.
Randall picks his head up. The wire in a noose around his neck. Wrists taped around his back. Feet arranged on a side table I found in his hallway. I've also fixed a broom between his arse and the floor to keep him upright.
He starts awake and struggles for balance. The broom falls to the floor. I react, thinking he's gonna slip off the table, but he rights himself. Finds his feet. I return to the crate. Keep doodling while he gets his bearings.