by Iain Parke
There were lessons to be learnt there. But they were all old ones that I had read so many times before from The P and knew off by heart. If you are going to hurt someone, you should crush them so thoroughly that there is no chance of them ever recovering sufficiently to be able to rise up and take revenge. And if you are not going to hurt someone, just leave them in peace and security so long as they know it is you they have to thank for this as their protector.
So I could try playing the old club card if I wanted to, I could raise the watchword of liberty to obtain support I would need within the old Legion club to take him.
But that was just the old Legion guys, what about the others, how would I deal with them?
As I thought it through I decided that in contrast with Dazza’s problems in taking over and holding The Legion, taking and holding Dazza’s charter was going to be easy precisely because he had run it like a dictatorship.
It was a much simpler question of decapitation. If I could take out Dazza and his top guys then the others would follow a new leader easily enough. So it had to be a coup d’état, done hard and fast, and executed so ruthlessly, completely destroying anyone who was to be harmed, so that as the memory of it faded, the rest of the guys would carry on in peace.
The priest was winding down the service now. I caught the ashes to ashes, dust to dust bit which seemed a bit ironic given the circumstances but no one else seemed to be giving the words a second thought.
This was going to be high stakes stuff.
I knew the theory of what I was going to need to do. I had worked out a plan as to how I was going to do it. Now what I needed were the tools with which to put it into action. And that was one of the reasons I was here today.
I raised my head and stared across the grave; past the mourners clustered around, yet stepped back from the gaping wound in the earth; over the green tarpaulin covering the mound of dirt waiting for the mini digger to be trundled out from the shed at the back of the field once everyone had gone, to shovel it back into the hole; to where a large figure dressed in dark clothing was standing watching the ceremony from a distance.
Our eyes met, our faces were blank. Slowly and deliberately I nodded to him and after what seemed like an age of his eyes boring into mine, Gut did the same.
The priest was done and the people by the graveside broke up into ones and twos, turning to go and walking or stumbling away from the graveside, onto the gravelled path and crunching their way in slow quiet knots to the cars waiting at the entrance.
Gut and I were still standing where we had each been during the service and it was only as the last of the mourners reached the gate that we advanced to meet each other on the path.
I took out a packet of fags and offered him one. He took it and I flicked my Zippo for us both to light up.
‘So what’s happening now?’ Gut asked by way of making conversation as he exhaled a cloud of smoke.
‘They’re all going back to Billy’s folks place. His mum’s laid on some food and stuff.’
‘You going?’
I wasn’t sure how I felt about it. I shook my head. ‘Don’t think so.’
‘Why not?’
‘Don’t think it would help. I guess they still blame me for getting him mixed up in all this stuff in the first place.’
He nodded.
‘So what’s this about then?’
‘What?’
‘All this,’ he said gesturing to the empty graveyard. ‘I mean where’s yer fucking Brethren brothers now, Damage? Billy gets blown up by The Rebels and none of the wankers turn up for his funeral. I mean what’s that all about then?’
‘I’m here aren’t I?’
‘Yeah but you and whose army eh? You’re not here officially are you? Skulking at the back, no club wreath or nothing. You’d have thought if The Rebels snuffed him then all the more reason for the club to step up for the funeral in a big way. I mean it ought to mean war right? You don’t just do that to someone in a club, any club, never mind The Brethren and the reputation that they have to protect and expect nowt to happen. I mean they’ll have to be gearing up to do something won’t they?’
I dropped my fag and ground it out with the toe of my boot, before staring back into his face.
‘Yeah, strange isn’t it?’
‘Is it war?’
‘No, it isn’t.’
‘Well why the fuck not?’
‘Now that,’ I said smiling at him, ‘is a fucking good question that far too few people are thinking to ask.’
‘Well I’m asking it now.’
‘Yes you are, and I think I want to tell you why.’
‘Well, what’s stopping you?’
‘Don’t want to be repeating myself that’s all.’
He raised his eyebrows quizzically.
‘See Popeye much these days?’ I asked casually.
That immediately put him on the defensive I noticed. ‘No, you know we don’t, not since you bastards disbanded us. That was part of the price of calling the dogs off. You know that.’
‘Still, I bet you’re still in touch. Would make sense wouldn’t it?’
‘Are you trying to trap me or something Damage? Stir up shit between us and The Brethren? Get the truce called off? What are you up to here? What do you want?’
I just smiled at him. ‘Me? Nah mate I’m not up to anything like that. Like I said, I’m here aren’t I? When as you so accurately observe, the rest of The Brethren aren’t. Now don’t you find that just a little bit peculiar? And I’m telling you that I’m thinking about filling you in on some club business. And don’t you find that a bit odd as well? So what do I want? Well I might as well hang for a sheep as a lamb. I want to meet with you and Popeye.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, really. Somewhere safe, somewhere private.’ I could see he was hesitant.
‘Look I know what you’re thinking, but this isn’t a trap. You choose the time and the place to suit you. Pick me up and take me there if you like so I can’t set you up. It’s up to you. I just want you to hear what I’ve got to say.’
He looked at me appraisingly.
‘I’ll think about it.’
‘You do that. But Gut, don’t think about it too long.’
‘I’ve heard that before. And I didn’t much like it then either.’
‘Yeah, I know. And I’m sorry about that. But for what I think is going down, we need to talk in the next few days or it’ll be too late.’
‘Will it now?’ He finished his cig and dropping it on the grass took a moment to grind it into the dirt with the toe of his boot before looking back up at me.
‘OK,’ he said at last, ‘I’ll see what I can do. I can’t promise anything about Popeye though.’
‘Yeah, bollocks. Call him. I’ll wait.’
*
I caught Dazza at the bar of the clubhouse before Prayers on Monday night.
‘How’d it go?’
‘Oh, it was OK I suppose. For that sort of thing.’
‘Many there?’
‘Nah, just family and a few local friends really, although there was one interesting face.’
‘So who’s that then?’
‘Gut showed up.’
‘Did he now?’
‘Yeah. He and Billy were always friendly, so he was just showing his respects.’
‘How d’you know that?’
‘I spoke to him.’
Dazza laughed. ‘Really? So how’d that go then?’
‘It was fine.’
‘Considering the last time you met, he had you jumped, stomped and put in hospital?’
‘Yeah well. That was just business wasn’t it? It was nothing personal. And now since they disbanded we’ve got the truce so I didn’t see there was any issue from my side.’
‘Guess not then. How about from his?’
‘He seems OK. We’re still not top of his list of favourites but then you wouldn’t expect that, but so long as he’s left in peace I don’t see
we’ll have any trouble out of him.’
‘I hope not.’
‘Well they’ve not patched up again have they? Or thrown their lot in with The Hangmen or anybody else? So if they’re not getting reorganised like that then there’s nothing to worry about.’
‘Guess not. So what did you two find to talk about then?’
‘Oh not a lot. Billy mainly, what some of the other guys are up to these days, just chewed a bit of fat really.’
‘Nothing else?’
‘Nah. Just thought it was worthwhile making contact again since he was there. You know despite everything that happened, he’s good people and was always useful. If we ever got him back onside he would be an asset.’
‘Yeah,’ Dazza said reflectively, ‘I always rated him and I was sorry he ended up on the other side. But they way things panned out I think it’d be tricky looking to bring him in now, even if he wanted it. But never say never like. Oh well, I was wondering what you two had had to chat about over a smoke.’
Of course that was why I had told him. I had assumed that he would have been having the ceremony watched to see what went on, so I had got in with my story first. No use giving any grounds for suspicion.
*
The pickup happened the following day.
A battered white Transit van pulled up parallel to where I’d just parked my motor down the road a bit from my house where I’d found a space and a voice yelled ‘Oi’ from the open passenger window and a jerked thumb indicated the side door of the van. ‘Get in,’ said the voice. I didn’t recognise either of the guys in the front. Without thinking about it I walked round the parked car, pulled on the handle and stepped up into the back of the van.
This was it.
I don’t know where we went. They put a bag over my head and I sat on the floor of the van, my back against the wheel arch as we rocked and bumped our way along for what seemed like an age but in reality was probably no more than an hour or so until with a final sharp swerve as I guessed we turned into a driveway and rattled down a rutted farm track to a yard where with a slight skid on some loose gravel, we drew to a halt. There was a banging of doors and the sound of shouting voices.
‘You followed?’ was one I recognised.
‘Nah, don’t think so.’
‘OK then, get him out and inside.’
And then there were hands, pulling me to my feet and shoving me out of the van and stumbling through a doorway and into what I saw when the bag was whipped off my head was an old farmhouse kitchen.
Facing me was Gut, and next to him was Popeye, as pissed off as ever it seemed about what had happened.
‘You’ve got a fucking nerve Damage, wanting to meet up with us like this. You really have after all that’s happened.’
I shrugged. ‘Maybe.’
‘Maybe? Maybe? What’s to stop us just fucking doing you right now, right here?’
‘Not a lot I guess, other than wanting to know what I’ve got to say.’
‘Why would we want to know anything that you’ve got to say?’
‘Because why would I have come here like this if I didn’t think it was worth you hearing?’
‘How d’you know what’s worth hearing to us?’
‘I don’t, but that’s just the risk I have to take isn’t it?’
‘Well now you’ve taken it,’ broke in Gut, ‘So I for one am interested in hearing what he’s got to say.’
‘So?’ I asked Popeye, who fumed at me for a moment.
‘OK,’ he said finally, ‘Go on then, say your piece. I’m listening, but it had better be good.’
‘Well, the first thing is, you guys were right.’
‘We were?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well that’s just great but now what do you want to do about it?’
‘I want to go back to being us.’
‘But that’s impossible,’ protested Gut, ‘You know that.’
‘Is it?’ I asked, already knowing all the things they were thinking, ‘Why?’
‘Because we can’t go back you tosser. None of us can, even if we wanted to. You know that and I never thought I’d hear you come whining to say something like that.’
‘Yeah well, I don’t mean going back. I just mean going back to being us.’
Gut was puzzled about where I was going with this, ‘Well you’re a minx12 and we’re either disbanded or in bad standing so just how do you think that’s going to work, even if we wanted to?’
‘This is all bullshit,’ jumped in Popeye, ‘what the fuck are we standing here listening to this drivel for?’
‘No it’s not,’ I said calmly in the face of his outburst, ‘I’m here aren’t I? You know me and what I’m like. Why else would I be here?’
‘God knows, perhaps you’re just trying to set us up, give Dazza the excuse he needs for war,’ he said.
‘Dazza doesn’t need an excuse for war. He can bring it on anytime he wants, you know that. You turned down The Brethren, that’s reason enough in his book.’
‘Yeah, but how do we know we can trust you and anything you say?’ Popeye continued. ‘No, if we’re gonna trust you you’re gonna have to do something to show us that you’re really on the level, something to prove that you’re not doing this for that fucker Dazza.’
I’d half expected this of course. Putting myself in their shoes, of course they would be bitter, angry and suspicious. I was here wearing a Brethren patch after all, a patch they had fought against when I had taken the other side in what was a war as bitter as only a civil war can be. They were always going to take a hell of a lot of convincing that I was on the level.
‘OK,’ I shrugged.
‘OK? What d’you mean, OK?’
‘I mean, yeah, OK, I’ll show you.’
‘How?’ Popeye demanded
‘You got any strikers at the moment?’
‘Might have,’ he said cagily.
‘Are those the guys that picked me up? They new?’
‘Yeah, we’re recruiting, figure we need some numbers.’
‘Would anyone else in the club recognise ’em?’
‘No chance.’
‘Good. I’ll need ’em in town on Wednesday. And I’ll need a bike, not one that anyone will know.’
‘I can organise that,’ said Gut.
Of course I knew he could.
‘Anything else?’
‘Possibly somewhere to lie low for a while for the rest of this week. I need Dazza to think Shaz and I have gone away.’
‘We can arrange that as well,’ said Popeye.
‘Right then, we’re on.’
*
Sprog, Bagpuss and Wibble were Dazza’s regular couriers, picking up the gear from him or wherever he told them to get it from, and taking it to be posted. With Sprog and Bagpuss out of action that just left Wibble, or me as a stand in since Dazza was obviously careful about who he was using for this. And from what Dazza had said it looked as though come Wednesday Wibble ought to be carrying.
At about two in the afternoon, the strikers let us know that Wibble was on the move. They followed him discretely as he visited a house in the east end of town, emerging with a heavy looking bag that he chucked in the back of his car, before heading out into the countryside. Out of town, as I had suspected, he turned north, heading up into the borders country where for much of the trip, the roads north would funnel him onto the main A road.
I fired up the kwacker that Gut had supplied and set off to intercept him. I had on a borrowed lid and jacket so that Wibble wouldn’t be able to recognise me from my gear or tell who it was behind the scarf, but I had on my colours so that he would see the patch when I overtook him.
I caught him as the road rose up and down in roman straightness over a series of ridges, zooming up from behind to take up station out in the road beside the driver’s side of the car. I looked in to check it was him at the same time that I could see he had clocked the patch and gave me a grin although I could see he was a bit puzzled t
hat he didn’t recognise the bike. I indicated that he was to follow me and he nodded in acknowledgement, so I accelerated from beside him to swing in front of him. Then for a few more miles I led him further out, further north along the main road he had been taking anyway. Further away from the daytime town and suburban traffic and into the quieter countryside. About twenty miles out we were taking another series of sudden crests when I indicated left and jabbed my arm at the upcoming turn just to make sure he understood. This was the moment, this was where the plan either worked, with Wibble deciding to follow my instructions, assuming that Dazza had sent me, or ignored me, carrying on to where he was planning to go anyway.
I slowed for the corner and gently dropped the bike through it, holding the speed just sufficiently to ensure it stayed upright and then coasting slowly, bike barely rolling, my eyes fixed on my inside mirrors until with satisfaction I saw his flashing indicators and the nose of his car turn the corner to follow me.
He was trusting me and following. That was good since it was going to make things a whole lot easier. If he hadn’t then we would still have done it, but it would have required a whole lot more force and violence.
It was about five minutes later and a few miles off the main road that we took him. He was still behind me as I cruised along, leading him into the spot we had picked and he still followed when I indicated to pull into a lay-by that ran off the road behind a screen of trees, one of those old meanders of country road, cut off by more modern straightening and gradually forgotten except as a place to park and piss.
It was only when you got into it that you could see that the exit was blocked by the white Transit van which already had Popeye and some of his crew piling out of it.
It was an ambush. Wibble didn’t stand a chance.
With a sudden roar two bikes came screaming down the road behind us, appearing out of nowhere.
Wibble seeing what was happening desperately slammed the car into reverse and looked back over his shoulder as wheels spinning on the gravel he tried to get away from the helmeted hoard rushing towards him from the van. But just then, the bikes roared up beside him and I saw the passenger on the back of the first bike rise up in his seat and bring an axe swinging down from on high at the car, smashing into the windscreen in a huge starring crash, while with a darker, deeper roar, the front of a lorry in dirty fluorescent colours swung into the lay-by, closing the gap behind Wibble and cutting off his escape route out onto the main road. The car swerved in its crazy career backwards, half turning as though he was planning to try facing back out, before jolting as the back wheels hit and went up and over the kerb before tipping back as the whole car slid down off the road into the drainage ditch six feet below the side, and the van and lorry closed in around it.