Cracking Up

by Harry Crooks

  12.

  Dog Sick was in top spirits about the way things were developing. I followed him outside to the car park. He stopped dead besides a brand spanking new, gleaming black beamer, a fine specimen of wheels. He was only about twenty two at the time, decked out in top quality designer gear and driving a swanky motor that most lads that age usually only get to wank about in their wet dreams. Flash bastard! “Top motor, man.”

  “730, Ow-wee. It’s a workhorse. Got it off someone that owed me dough.”

  We got in and screeched off out of the car park, tunes blaring, Wiley’s Can You Hear Me?, on a mission to find a toilet discreet enough to excrete the contraband out of my bloated bowel. Dog Sick began explaining how he was entering into a joint venture with Rez in Spain. They were going to well and truly smash it, off-loading huge amounts of devil dust on the market. They had managed to make contacts and secure a plentiful supply of chisel from a bulk shifter in the Paella place. There were massive returns to be made in this game and they intended to take the corner of this market by storm. We were going to have to fight out possession of the markets with the other local drug crews but, at the end of the day, we would all be delivered from poverty and deprivation.

  Sounded sweet and because he had taken me into his confidence, for a milli-second, I felt pathetically privileged to be part of this glittering, bright future that would provide us all with mega riches. Could it happen the way he said it would? After the buttering-up, I seriously fucking doubted it. It sounded too good to be true, the phoney sweet talk of an investments salesman. Maybe it was my suspicious nature that made me wonder if Dog Sick would be the only real winner out of this deal and the Ju$tu$ Crew would end up as casualties of this money-spinning set up.

  The shit hit the fan, or bucket to be precise. Anal cavity emptied, I slipped on a pair of surgical gloves and rummaged through the bucket, retrieving the smuggled booty. Pretty fucking crap behaviour, disgusting, but a necessary course of action. I went over to the sink, held the pellets under the hot tap and the shit ran off them like water off a duck’s back. I looked in the mirror above the sink, sickened; I’d sank to an all-time low. I had hit rock bottom with this crappy little stunt.

  Fully purged, I asked for a lift to my mam’s house and Dog Sick obligingly dropped me off. I wasn’t looking forward to the reunion, I must admit. I was anticipating a massive fall-out with her, but I was shocked by what I found; all her stuff had been cleared out already in the space of a week. She had even taken the front room carpet. I collected my entire belongings from my bedroom; it didn’t take long to pack two holdalls.

  I was on my way out when I noticed an envelope sat by the front door. My name was scribbled on the front of it and it was from my mother. She’d done one, a moonlight flit, and left a note saying something along the lines of I’d managed to upset her to the point where she couldn’t cope with having me around her any longer.

  The final straw was when she had arrived home from work one evening to find the bizzies had been round the house, searching for me in regards to an attempted murder inquiry. The first chance she’d got she was down the council offices to sort out a house transfer; that kind of trouble she didn’t need. She’d had her name on the waiting list for a good ten years by her reckoning and demanded to be offered a place in a nicer neighbourhood. She was gone, no looking back. Well, that’s that then, I thought. Me mam’s written me off as a wrong un and I’m out on the streets.

  The offie was the next port of call to pick up the standard four-pack, then I went round to my mate’s house. I rang the doorbell again and again, getting no answer. Eventually I heard the thump of my mate’s footsteps charging down the stairs and a barrage of abuse spewing out of his foul-mouthed gob. He was in the habit of rising early afternoon and I had rudely interrupted his beauty sleep, forcing him out of his pit. The door swung open and there stood the familiar sight of Caspar, shaven headed and bare chested, exposing the handle of a Glock tattooed on his belly, the barrel hidden in his kecks, pointing to his groin as if tucked into an imaginary waistband. There was a warm exchange of greetings before we made a bee-line for the front room to have a good morning draw and chew the fat. I was curious to catch up on all that had happened since I’d been away.

  We sat down, cracked open a can of Stella each and spliffed up to celebrate my homecoming. He listened to the news of my homeless situation and when I asked after a bed, he agreed instantly to my request for a place to kip, even though he had to okay it first with his sister, Giselle, whose name was on the rent-book. Nice one, Caspar. We were in deep conversation discussing various events; the week I was away, the estate had been targeted by the coppers. The bizzies were being pro-active, swarming. In the early morning hours, riot vans screeched to a halt outside front doors, followed by paramilitary processions beating a two-step up garden paths. There were knocks on front doors and shouts of POLICE! POLICE! POLICE! OPEN UP! Before any residents had time to even extract themselves from their beds, get dressed, run down stairs and answer the door, the heavy mob would batter the door down with an enforcer.

  Pumped up bizzies were bursting through hallways, running upstairs and dragging lads out of bed. Cuffing and marching them to waiting meat wagons in their undies, despite their mother’s protestations. They would be trawled down to the cop shop to be given blankets, interviewed and officially charged for random crimes by the filth.

  Caspar put the call out and the hassled, harassed troops on the estate mustered and instigated a riot. Enough was enough and they were going to show the bizzies they weren’t no walkovers. Retaliation came after dark as gangs of youths assembled and stock-piled firebombs and broken bricks. Then the boys set the classic trap: Torching a few cars and setting fire to local shops on the parade. The police took the bait like rapists in a nudist camp. Squad cars came flying down the road, plod jumped out and looked around for charge sheet material. Petrol bombs were flung from hideouts and bottles smashed, exploding and sending flames flaring upwards. A cop car went up like an IUD and the bizzies shifted their arses, running for cover from the bricks showering down on them. A code zero later when the fire engines and van-loads of back up bizzies arrived, the bomb squad slung more molotov cocktails and missiles from their camouflaged positions.

  A whole fucking army of kids had taken to the streets that night and, the next day, the reaction of the Chief Bummer was to let his police state troops steam in paramilitary-style, invading the estate in a show of force and strength. The display of might was impressive, convoys of police cars, vans and a helicopter overhead circled the estate like a hungry vulture, restoring their version of law and order. The police assumed they would meet resistance and were eager for a bit of payback action, but they were gutted at being mistaken. The lads were employing guerrilla tactics and laying low, keeping their heads down because they had vented their anger at being fucked over, persecuted. They backed off for now, content to trade war stories amongst themselves behind closed doors and curse the law for being top pricks. The riot had terrified the law abiding residents of the community, but it felt fucking GREAT for the boys. They were bubbling because they had served up a reminder to the bizzies that, even though they were a bunch of CRASBO low-life scum of the earth, they could rise up and make the babylon shit in their kecks if for one night only. Fuck, it had been a good buzz - oh yeh! It was bad enough having to live in this run-down, cesspool estate without the plod mafiosi putting their boots on the back of our necks and shouting the odds at us. Fucking control freaks or what? FUCK THEM AND FUCK THEIR LAWS!

  The front doorbell rang; in marched Melt, Trim and Dome, clutching a bag of beers harvested from the local offie, crackling out a succession of questions as a form of high-spirited greeting: “Where they fucking hell have you been, lad?”

  “Yeh, we’ve missed you, man. We was getting worried about you?”

  “Where did you get that tan from, you flash cunt?”

  “Fucking good to see you back, son.”

  I was m
ade up that they’d come round to see me and we sank a few tinnies, engaged in the spliff-building ceremony as a bonding exercise. We chatted, talking over each other in our excitement and collective eagerness to impress each other with bullshit nonsense stories, recalling recent violent encounters from which we’d emerged victorious, of course.

  General football chat about how bad Liverpool were doing in the Premiership and, perhaps, it would do the club no harm after all if we kidnapped a famous international player and held him for a royal ransom.

  Then there was the usual bird talk.

  “Big tits on her”, “Well fit body,” “Lovely fucking arse”, “Shagged her”, “Tight fanny”, “She told us she weren’t going to suck me cock coz it fucking stunk. Course it stinks, I told her - I’ve just taken it out your fucking arsehole”. Such flattering remarks, such a bunch of gents.

  There was a top feeling of togetherness and strength among the gathered clan: A bunch of scary, villanous fuck-ups from the snide side coming together to take the piss, smash it together and make real dough with it. On our own, we were nothing, but united, we were a force to be reckoned with. Nobody was going to fuck with us, not without there being comebacks anyway.

  After a short while things settled down and the lads huddled together deep in discussions, mulling over ideas for coming up with a fast buck. As a result of all the unwanted attention from the bizzies and the subsequent crackdown on the marketplace, Caspar and the crew were on the bones of their arses. They were fucking skint and had been busy devising a way for getting the readies in. They were going to pull off a stunt and, while I’d been away, they’d done all the forward planning for a robbery.

  The target was a travel agents the other side of town in which, it was rumoured, was a large wad of cash, just waiting for the likes of us to go and collect it. The blag had been planned, the motors had been nicked, weapons acquired and they were going to do the caper the next day. It was shit or bust and they had decided that the time was ripe to go for it, shake it boss. “Tomorrow, six a clock closing. Errmmm, do you fancy coming along like?” Caspar said, adding cockily. “It should be a piece of piss.”

  “Oh yeh?” I sucked on the spliff and blew the smoke in his face.

  “Yeh!” He seemed to have sold himself on a cracking idea.

  “Fucking right, I do!”

  Next day we were skulking about outside the office in question, weighing up the job and getting psyched for THE POUNCE. There was a ball-aching moment of adrenalin and fear because we were in a public place and anticipating trouble. A passing black taxi clocked our strange behaviour and I got a gut feeling that the two Judy community coppers down the end of the high street were screwing us out. Paranoia was beginning to set in big-style. I admit I felt like backing out, but it was just too easy to get caught up in the buzz of it all. That big, fuck-off rush of adrenalin that is as powerful and addictive as any crack cocaine. Also, the old bank balance was pitiful and it was a good chance to line my pockets.

  We’d done enough surveying, pulled down our ski masks and steamed into the office. There were three of us, me and Caspar went in first followed by Trim, who was guarding the door with a carving knife. Caspar bumped into a customer and shoved her to the floor, before opening a laptop bag and whipping out a Mac-10. He pointed it at the three shocked employees sat at their desks front of house. He bellowed instructions at them. “Everybody put their fucking hands up in the air! Let me see them! Don’t touch the fucking panic button, or I’ll blow your fucking heads off! Everybody down on the floor! NOW!”

  Everybody hit the deck and munched carpet tiles. They reminded me of turtles, diving into their shells for cover. I rapidly went around the staff and customers, pulling their wrists round their backs and cuffing them with plastic cable ties. Anyone resisted was roughed up and pistol whipped. Then, out of nowhere, the manager came out of the back office, disturbed by all the commotion. Caspar had a dangerous glint in his eye and was pumped up, ready for action. I heard the Mac-10 go off. Caspar had aimed the gun and, with a single squeeze of the trigger, sprayed six bullets, in the blink of an eye, in the direction of the boss man. BBRRRR! Bullets ripped into the wall next to where the manager was stood and the fusillade only stopped because the big burner jammed. The people on the floor screamed, called out OMG and started crying like babies as a potent mixture of hopeless fear and bowel-loosening anxiety gripped them.

  The manager had saved himself by dropping like a lead weight and flattening himself on the floor. He was crawling crab-like for his office, as I rushed him before he could get to the silent panic button. I pushed the barrel of the nine-milli against the back of his head. “Not another fucking move, cuntie!” I yelled at him.

  I tied him up and booted him in the ribs for good measure. I turned the place over and stuffed all the cash in a plackie bag. On the way out, Caspar shouted out. “No one fucking move! Or we’ll come back and do the fucking lot you!”

  Racing out the door we bumped into the pair of nosey community officers blocking our exit. I hit mine with a sweet right hander on the run and her head hit the floor before her arse did, the back of her skull making a sickening cracking noise as it smacked against the kerb and causing a concussion. Caspar punched the other one flush in the face and knocked her down and out. She fell face forward into the dogshit and chewing gum stuck to the pavement, smashing her boat race against the concrete and splintering teeth. Why? Well, these hobby-bobbie jokers were trying to be heroes and like we always said: Don’t cause no trouble coz it won’t be no trouble.

  We jumped into the two-litre Ford Fiesta parked outside and could hear the sound of the police sirens getting nearer. Some cunt must have pressed the panic button after all. In the wing mirror Melt spotted a police interceptor coming fast up the high street heading in our direction. He floored the juice pedal and got out of there like Jensen Button. He was driving like a fucking maniac, slithering and swerving from side to side, zipping in and out of oncoming traffic until, finally, we shook the bizzies off in the hectic chase, before we switched motors in a quiet back street and drove on again rapido-like, back to the homestead.

  We were buzzing our tits off, whooping, hollering and exchanging boastful banter in the car. We’d managed to pull it off by the skin of our teeth having been chased nearly all the way back to our patch. But we were too fast, too furious. We’d lost the police chaser in our slipstream. We sped off to the safe house where we stashed our weapons in the loft and divided the loot. We were fucking gutted. After all that, there was only five grand plus in the take. That was about a lousy grand each for all the risk and drama. What a bunch of dickheads we were!

  13.

  Later that night, we had decided to stay in and give it a rest. We’d gathered some beers from the offie and scored for a Chinese takeaway. We were sat in the front room with our feet up, puffing on draw and watching some crap fillum on the box: One of Steven Seagal’s lousy low budget Eastern European action efforts.

  Around one in the morning, the doorbell rang. I got up and opened the door to find Bangerz in a proper state in the doorway, eyes wild and red-rimmed like the colour of Mars. He’d found out that while him and the missus were on a break, she’d been shagging some other feller and had actually moved in with this other wanker since they’d split. He was devastated, they’d been together for a year by this time and he’d been expecting some sort of romantic reunion. To add insult to injury, he knew the other geezer really well and considered him a prize prick. It was the bloke he owed drug money to; a muppet from the Mug Fam. He was furious on top of being deeply wounded; she’d humiliated him and it had driven him insane with anger and jealousy. Wanked up on smack, crack and white cider, he’d completely smashed the flat where they lived together. In a blind rage he’d slashed his hands and arms badly and was bleeding all over the place. He had massive bumps on his head where he’d been butting everything in sight too. He stood there dripping with blood, hurt and anguish twisting his face, asking for his burner b
ack.

  I brought him into the hallway and tried to reason with him. “Bangerz, you’re making a big mistake. Don’t be going mental over some bird doing the dirty on you? She’s done you a fucking favour, mate, she’s not worth the aggro. There’s plenty of other fanny out there, lad. You’ll cop for a better class of bird, you’ll see. There’s always something better round the corner.”

  “I want me baby!” he bawled. For a split second I thought the soppy bastard was talking about his ex-girl, then realized he meant his baby Glock. “I’m going to shoot the bastard!”

  I bitch-slapped him hard on the cheek to bring him back to his senses. “Well, you ain’t getting it! Take this instead,” I said, and pulled a bag of nasty out me pocket. “Go home, do this and sleep it off. I’ll come and see you tomorrow, see how you’re getting on. Come on, lad! You’re better than this!”

  I was, of course, talking bollocks. But he was filled up to his eyeballs with a cocktail of booze and drugs, mad with jealousy and in no fit state to do battle. I was sure if he went home and slept it off I could make him see sense the next day. It wasn’t worth the aggro, going to war over a dirty little gash.

  I pulled him into the kitchen, cleaned and bandaged his cuts up as best I could. He seemed absent, smack skinny now and had blurred, dim glazed over eyes like a kind of narcotic sleepwalker. I sent him on his way, stumbling homeward bound, off his fucking face and disappearing into the forlorn night. I felt a bit sorry for him. “Maybe I should’ve walked him back,” I said to Caspar. “Watch his back like. He’s fucking wankered, man!”