The alleyway was narrow and dotted with black rubbish sacks, several of which had been split open to reveal decaying household detritus. Graffiti – gang signs, teenage boasts – took up most of the space on the whitewashed walls on either side, and there was a smell of animal fat in the air. I picked my way through the mess until I came to a heavy wooden firedoor that had been painted sky blue about a hundred years ago. The smell of fat was stronger here, and a pile of black bin bags had been fashioned into an unwieldy pyramid balanced against the wall opposite.
I took a deep breath and knocked hard on the door.
There was a long pause – twenty, maybe thirty seconds – and I was just about to try again when it was opened a few inches on a thick chain and a pair of cartoon-wide bloodshot eyes stared out at me from the gloom.
‘I’m here to see Mitchell. I’m expected. My name’s Sean.’
The eyes stared at me for a couple of seconds longer, then the chain was released and the door opened.
A tall, slim black man of about forty stood appraising me with a slow, disjointed gaze, and a contented smile that was vaguely disconcerting. He was wearing jeans and a loose-fitting red singlet with the name of the takeaway emblazoned across it. Behind him thin wisps of dope smoke floated out the door. ‘Who sent you, mon?’ he asked in a soft Jamaican accent.
‘Tyrone Wolfe,’ I answered firmly. ‘Are you Mitchell?’ I knew he was, of course. He might have been stoned, but he had an air of seniority about him which I’ve learned to spot a mile off.
‘That’s me,’ he said languidly. ‘You’d better come in, mon.’
As I stepped inside, he let go of the door and it shut automatically with a series of loud clicks, locking me away from the outside world.
He led me through a narrow corridor and into a cavernous kitchen, with high ceilings and no windows, that smelled of meat and dope, and walked over to a table and chairs in the middle of the room. He picked up a half-finished joint from the ashtray and took a big hit.
‘So, Sean, you got my money?’
If I said yes straight away, he might decide to rip me off rather than go through with the deal. Criminals can be very short-term like that, even supposedly reliable ones. On the other hand, if I said no, he might just tell me to get lost. In my experience, these kinds of negotiations rarely took a simple and direct route. In the end, I compromised. ‘Sure,’ I answered casually, much as I might have done if the guy had asked if I liked the colour of the paint on the walls. ‘Have you got what I came for?’
‘How come Wolfe and Haddock don’t come round here no more? They getting too high and mighty to deal with a bwoy like me?’
‘They’re busy today,’ I answered, hearing a movement behind me. I turned and saw a black guy of about twenty leaning against the kitchen door and blocking my exit. He was dressed in a gaudy tracksuit and New York Yankees baseball cap, and wore Raybans even though the room was dark. He also had his right hand behind his back, which was never a good sign. Trying to remain as unfazed as possible, I turned back to Mitchell. ‘I’m in a bit of a hurry, so if you can get the stuff I’d appreciate it.’
Mitchell nodded slowly, never taking his big bloodshot eyes off me, then shouted something over his shoulder in a rapid Jamaican patois that I didn’t quite catch. ‘How long you worked for Wolfe, mon?’
‘I don’t work for anyone. I work with people.’
‘Yeah, well, how long you worked with him, then?’
I shrugged. ‘A few months maybe. What does it matter?’
‘I like to know who I’m dealing with, that’s all.’
‘Someone who wants to buy some guns, then get the hell out of here.’
We stood glaring at each other for a few moments, the atmosphere souring fast. I could hear my heart pounding, and the guy behind me shuffling from foot to foot as he stood guard with his hand behind his back – a hand that was almost certainly holding a gun. A bead of sweat ran down my forehead and I was suddenly conscious of how hot it was in here, and how vulnerable I was.
A door at the other end of the kitchen opened and a big guy in a dirty apron and chef’s overalls came in with a huge leg of lamb over one shoulder and an Adidas holdall in his free hand. He dropped the holdall on the table between Mitchell and me, then threw the lamb down on one of the work surfaces, took a wicked-looking cleaver from the knife rack, and began systematically chopping it up.
‘There are the guns, mon. All there for you.’
I opened the holdall and looked down at the weaponry inside: two compact semi-automatic Remington shotguns and a black Sig P226 pistol. I rummaged around inside, quickly locating a box of shotgun shells and another of 9mm ammunition, both of which were still in their wrapping and, like the guns, looked brand spanking new. The UK has some of the strictest gun laws in the world, and we’ve had some major successes breaking up arms importation networks, so this was an unusually high-quality haul.
I took out one of the Remingtons, admiring its finish. It was a black Model 870, a lightweight weapon with a short eighteen-inch barrel, often favoured by American law enforcement officers and criminals because it was compact, easy to use, and deadly. I knew the 870 well enough from my police firearms training, and I flicked on the safety, then pumped the handgrip to check that it was unloaded.
‘All dese guns are completely clean, mon,’ said Mitchell. ‘Never been fired. Never been hired. Fresh to your crew. Now, you got me da money?’
I pulled the envelope from my jeans and handed it to him. ‘Five grand. It’s all there.’
He opened it up, pulled out the wad of cash and started counting.
Which was the moment when the far door opened again, and every undercover cop’s worst nightmare walked in.
Seven
Weyman Grimes was wearing ill-fitting chef’s overalls and carrying a sack of onions as he loped over to one of the worktops, his long, horse-like face wearing its familiar dour expression.
Five years ago he was a mid-range coke dealer working an estate in Dalston when I’d turned up posing as a customer with lots of money to spend and, along with a dozen colleagues, busted him for possession of fifty wraps of ultra low-grade gear cut with worming powder. But it was my face he’d remember because it was me who’d stood in front of him discussing prices and haggling for a bulk buy deal; me who’d told him he was under arrest; me who’d grabbed him as he tried to make a bolt for it and slammed him face first into the stairwell wall where we’d been doing our deal; me who’d been the subject of his (unsuccessful) claim of police brutality; and, finally, me who’d stood in the courtroom smiling at him as he was led away to begin a four-year sentence for intent to supply.
A wave of cold fear, the type that makes your heart lurch, hit me head-on. But I’m a quick thinker by nature and I took a pack of cigarettes from my shirt pocket and pulled out a smoke, deciding to break my after-meal-only rule on the basis that it might well save my life. I kept my head down, pretending I couldn’t light it, fighting the urge to turn and run for it.
Mitchell was taking his time counting, going through the notes one by one, and I was conscious that I couldn’t keep standing like this without looking conspicuous, so I lit the tip and took a long drag, turning my head as casually as possible in the direction of the far wall so Grimes couldn’t see my face. Willing Mitchell just to hurry up so I could get the hell out of this airless place.
Finally, he stopped counting and grinned. ‘All there, mon. Good doing business with you.’
I nodded curtly, not wanting to speak in case my voice was recognized. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Grimes turning round and looking at me. Beginning to stare. I couldn’t see whether or not there was recognition in his gaze, but I wasn’t going to wait to find out, so I picked up the holdall and turned for the door, still keeping my face away from him.
Five more seconds and I’d be back on the street and out of danger. But I’d barely taken a step when the words I’d been dreading broke the silence, delivered in Grim
es’s peculiarly whiney tones that I suddenly remembered all too well.
‘Hey, I know you. Mitch, man, I know this fucker. He’s a cop.’
Immediately, the young guy standing at the door, the one with the cap and the hand behind his back, tensed.
I hesitated, unsure whether just to keep going or turn and front this out.
The decision was made for me when Mitch barked an order and the guy on the door brought the hand round to reveal a pistol that looked too big for his grip, which he pointed directly at my head, coming forward, so the end of the barrel was only a couple of feet away.
At the same time, the big guy in the apron stopped chopping the lamb and slowly turned round, the bloodstained cleaver still in his hand.
I turned on Grimes. ‘What are you talking about? I’ve never seen you before in my life. Get back to cutting your vegetables, and don’t poke your nose into shit that doesn’t concern you.’ My voice resonated with confidence and anger, just like it had to if I was going to get out of here in one piece, and for a tantalizing half- second Weyman Grimes wavered, taken in by the act. I’m a pretty ordinary guy – medium height, medium build, no stand-out features – and I looked a lot different than I had when I’d nicked Grimes all those years back.
But then his features hardened. ‘No way, man, you’re a fucking cop. You put me away years ago!’ He turned to his boss. ‘He’s undercover, Mitch. He was the one who nicked me for that old coke deal back in Dalston. I never forget a face.’
‘Don’t insult me, you piece of shit, or I’ll take you apart. Understand?’ I took a step forward and he backed away instinctively, looking pleasingly nervous.
Mitchell looked confused, but the problem was that Grimes wasn’t letting it go. ‘He’s a fucking copper, Mitch, I tell you. I swear it. Seriously, I wouldn’t bullshit you about something like this. We should do the bastard.’
I took another step forward, which was when the big chef raised his cleaver to let me know it wouldn’t be a good idea to go for Grimes.
‘Fuck you,’ I said, waving a hand dismissively and turning away. ‘I’m out of here. You’ve got your money.’
‘You ain’t going nowhere, blood,’ whispered Mitch, pulling a flick knife from his jeans and clicking open the blade, the fifth time now one had been pulled on me. ‘Not ’til we find out exactly who you are.’
‘He’s a pig,’ crowed Grimes, a smile on his face now as he saw an opportunity for revenge. ‘Let’s gut him.’ He grabbed a large chopping knife from the worktop and held it up.
I was surrounded. Standing alone in a stinking room with four violent thugs. Three of them with knives. The fourth holding a gun only three feet from my head. The sweat poured down into my eyes, making me blink, and the adrenalin pumped through me as I hunted for a way out, telling myself that there had to be some way of extricating myself from this situation.
‘J-Boy, bring him over here,’ barked Mitchell, and the gunman grabbed me by the arm, pushing the barrel of the gun into my face.
‘Drop the bag, pussy,’ he hissed, showing teeth, a sadistic glint in his eyes, revelling in his moment of power.
I did as I was told, thinking that this guy had seen too many films because he’d made a huge mistake by standing so close to me with the gun against my face. I’d been told once by an ex-SAS guy that all you have to do when a gun’s pointed to your head is knock the arm holding it out of the way, and by the time the gunman’s pulled the trigger it’ll be pointed elsewhere. Then all you had to do was deliver a gut punch, twist his wrist round until he let go of the weapon, and bang, you were sorted.
It had sounded easy when he said it over a few beers one night. A lot less so when you can feel the cool, bare metal of the barrel against your skin.
But I didn’t have much choice, because these guys weren’t going to let me go – not until they’d torn me into way too many pieces. So, as he gave me a shove, I made my move, knocking his elbow with my forearm and punching him in the gut at the same time.
Just as my SAS man had predicted, I caught him completely by surprise. The gun went off with a tremendous bang in the confines of the room, deafening us all as the bullet ricocheted off the ceiling and the floor. The gunman grunted in pain and the other three instinctively hit the floor, buying me a couple of seconds. I grabbed his gun hand at the wrist, keeping the barrel pointed away, then butted him in the face, two, maybe three times, twisting his wrist at the same time. But this guy wasn’t going to give up easily and his grip on the gun remained strong as the two of us struggled around the floor together in a tight, awkward waltz, with him trying to bring the gun round so he could take me out with a shot, and me trying desperately to keep it pointed just about any place else.
The others were getting to their feet now, and the one with the cleaver came striding forward with it raised high above his head, his mouth opened in a roar I couldn’t hear, and an expression of pure murder on his face. Behind him, Weyman Grimes followed, knife outstretched, while Mitchell jumped up like a jack in the box from behind the table, a weird grin on his face, his bloodshot eyes bugging out like they were on stalks.
The gun went off a second time, almost taking off the top of Mitchell’s head before hitting the far wall. Mitchell went down fast, disappearing beneath the table like he’d been grabbed from underneath. Cleaver Man and Grimes froze like kids in a game of statues as they recovered from the blast.
That was when I used the palm of my hand to smack the gunman on the underside of his nose in a classic martial arts move, and as he stumbled backwards I kneed the bastard hard in the balls.
Finally, he let go of the gun and fell to his knees, but Cleaver Man had recovered and was now almost on me, and I had to dive backwards to get out of his way, landing hard on my shoulder blades. But I had the gun and, turning it round in my hands, I pointed it up at him, holding it two-handed, my finger tensed on the trigger.
He kept coming, raising the cleaver, moving almost in slow motion.
My reaction was a reflex. I didn’t make a conscious decision to pull the trigger. I just did it. Three times in rapid succession, the retorts muffled by the intense buzzing in my ears.
One round struck him in the thigh, taking out a chunk of flesh as it exited and spinning him round wildly so that the next round struck him in the arse. I didn’t see where the third went, but I thought I saw Grimes go down in a heap, just before Cleaver Man dropped his cleaver, which landed blade-first in the filthy linoleum flooring. He then grabbed at his wounded leg with two huge hands and let out an animal howl so loud that it roared through my deafness. He stumbled forward, towards me, and I fired again, a last shot that took him just above the knee in the other leg, and this time he fell hard to the floor.
‘No one move!’ I shouted, swinging the gun from left to right.
Grimes was down and clutching his belly, so I guessed he’d taken a hit there; Cleaver Man was pawing at his legs; and the young guy in the cap, who’d now lost his cap, had one hand on his balls, the other stretched out in front of him in a gesture of surrender, his face crumpled in pain.
I turned the gun on Mitchell, who’d once again reappeared, but this time with his hands in the air, a very sober expression on his face, and his knife nowhere to be seen. ‘OK, mon, OK. Take it easy now.’
Still panting, I stood up, moving the gun round so that it kept everyone covered, my heart hammering in my chest as I began to come to terms with what I’d just done. I’d never fired a gun in anger in my life, but now I’d crossed a line, and there was no going back.
‘I’m not a copper, all right?’ I told Mitchell. ‘I’m not a fucking copper. Do you understand?’
‘Sure, mon. OK. No problem.’
I picked up the holdall. ‘I’m going to walk out of here, and I want that to be the end of it. You’ve got your money, and I’ve got my guns, so we’re both happy. OK?’
‘Sure, mon, sure.’
‘He’s a cop,’ hissed Grimes through gritted teeth, the agony on his
long face almost making me feel sorry for him.
‘Shut the fuck up, arsehole!’ yelled Mitchell, who’d clearly had enough of this particular strand of conversation.
Still keeping the gun trained on all of them, I backed out of the room, then as soon as I was out of sight I stuffed the gun in my jeans and ran for it, unlocking the door and feeling a desperate relief as I got back out on the street.
I sprinted all the way back to the car, checking my watch as I did so. Eight minutes. That was how long the whole thing had taken, and now my life had changed dramatically and irreversibly.
‘What’s happened?’ demanded Tommy as I jumped in the passenger side and threw the holdall in the back, narrowly missing Tommy Junior.
‘Just drive. Now.’
The engine was already running and he pulled away in a screech of tyres. ‘Talk to me, Sean,’ he said as we turned on to the Barking Road, heading back into town. ‘What happened in there?’
‘We had a disagreement,’ I said at last, the adrenalin still pumping through me. ‘I got the guns but one of them accused me of being an undercover copper, things got a bit heated, so I shot him. And one of his mates.’ As I spoke the words, the whole thing seemed utterly surreal. I still couldn’t believe I’d done it.
Tommy’s eyes widened. ‘Not Mitchell. Tell me you didn’t shoot that loon Mitchell.’
‘No, he’s still standing. Don’t worry.’
‘And the blokes you shot. Are they dead?’
I shook my head. ‘They’ll need patching up, though.’
For a couple of seconds Tommy didn’t say anything, and I wondered if I’d blown it. But then he hit the steering wheel and burst into a fit of loud, throaty laughter. ‘Christ, Sean, you’re like some sort of ice man! I can’t believe you popped two of Mitchell’s people. Wolfe’ll be tearing his hair out!’
The Last 10 Seconds: A Novel Page 5