After climbing into our motor Danny turns to me and says, straight-faced, ‘Told you not to eat that fucking chicken, didn’t I?’ After which we speed off, leaving Rickets busted up and writhing in agony on the pavement, his creeping days well over.
But the night ain’t finished for us yet because we’ve decided to kill two birds with one stone, as it were. Another slag needs livening up, only this one’s white and called Gabby Buxted. Buxted’s a very tough cunt. He once went a full six rounds in the ring bare-knuckle with Lennie McClean before getting knocked out, and even then it was a close call. Another time he got shot three times in a local boozer, chased the shooter two miles into Canning Town and then beat his brains out with a scaffold pole. So, not a man to be taken lightly. But aside from the fact he’s a hard bastard, we’re talking premium grade trailer trash here, and he’s blotted his copy book with us on two points. First up, we’ve got a little Shetland pony that we keep on some waste ground behind one of our boozers. The local kids come down and feed it, and the proper little nippers sometimes sit on its back for a ride. Placid as anything it is. Tiny dear little brown and white animal, and not much bigger than a large dog. Thinking it would be a hoot, Buxted, after drinking with a few of his pals in the boozer next to where we keep the pony, lured it over to him with some carrots. After which, he then hollowed out one of the carrots with a Bowie knife he always carries, and then put a banger inside the carrot, lit the blue touchpaper and gave it to the pony. The banger exploded in its mouth, scaring the shit out of it. We called in a vet and were happy to find that there was no permanent physical damage done, but since the attack the poor little sod’s been shaking like a leaf and had to be put on tranquillisers.
But here’s the rub, Danny’s banging on about what a liberty it is being cruel to animals, and yet this is the same man that kicked his kids’ dog half to death in front of them, then slit its throat at a local cruising ground, as well as nutting some of his birds in front of his son. Selective memory being one of the luxuries of a psychopath, I suppose. The second stinking liberty that has us riled is something we’ve heard through the criminal grapevine, although ain’t substantiated ourselves. But knowing Buxted and the piece of excrement he is, we believe it to be true, so we’ve decided to add another bullet on for it anyway. Word’s been flying round Canning Town that the ten-year-old son of a bird who Buxted’s shacking up with has been recently been taken to hospital after being anally raped by him. And that when the doctor examined the kid’s sphincter, apart from the fact that it had been poggered mercilessly and contained a quantity of human semen, they also found residue of dog shit, which means that whoever did fuck the kid, had been fucking a dog beforehand. Apparently Buxted’s been pulled by in the filth, but they’ve let him back out on bail while forensics are being conducted, and talk of the town is of him getting ready to do a runner, which smacks of his guilt. Not only do nights like tonight make me wanna holler and scream out to the heavens of my despair for the human race, but it’s got to be a terrible indictment on our society, that’s it left down to the likes of me and Danny to sweep the streets clean of human sewage.
After peeking through the windows and doors of about ten boozers, we finally cop for Buxted just as he’s coming out of the Peacock, half-cut and head down against the chill night air. And just as I’m about to pull out my yogger and plug him, for some reason Danny steps forward and hits him flush on his Desperate Dan chin with a tremendous straight right, that would cave a normal human being’s face in. But Buxted ain’t a normal human being, and after soaking up the punch like a sponge, he side-steps two or three feet on wobbly legs, shakes off its effect and then turns and puts his dukes up ready for a straightener. And I’m thinking, fuck me, Danny, what are you playing at? You’re putting us bang in trouble here. I mean I ain’t no slouch on the cobbles myself, but no fucking way do I fancy a fist fight with a simian that’s got a head like a fucking breadbasket. He’ll have my guts for garters. So while Danny calls Buxted all the dog-cunts under the sun and by return Buxted threatens to tear Danny’s head off and spit in the hole, I resolve to put a quick end to this nonsense of fisticuffs by whipping out my gun and letting off a single shot. But what with the dark, and Danny and Buxted fandagoing round in circles like a couple of Spanish faggots, I fuck up big time, only managing to wing him in his left shoulder. Now Buxted may be stupid but he ain’t no cunt, and he knows my next aim will be true, so he drops his guard, turns, has it on his toes and runs straight out into the main road, only to find himself almost ploughed down by an oncoming car, which has to swerve to avoid knocking ten bells of shit out of him. More cars appear and slow down to rubberneck the action, forcing me and Danny to do the wise thing and take off in the opposite direction back to our motor, while both resolving to do Buxted properly the next time he crosses our paths.
IF THERE’S ONE thing Danny loves fucking more than criminals, it’s fucking their wives, especially when their old men are behind the wall. We’re on the way to see one such bird now after she put the word out she needs to see Danny urgently. Her old man is Carter Woods, an absolute fucking nutcase, known locally as Woodsy, and who’s near to finishing a ten stretch for armed robbery. Danny poled his missus, Jennifer, not long after Woodsy got weighed off. She now runs a cafe over at Beckton. It’s a reasonably nice gaff and a bit more upmarket than your average greasy spoon. As well as being very clean, the food’s well-cooked and fresh, and the cutlery’s always spotless, which is always a bonus. Ain’t nothing worse than picking up a fork in some poxy, smoke-filled working man’s cafe and finding the prongs sprouting plaque. After sitting down at a quiet table away from the cafe’s other punters, me and Danny both order full English breakfasts with the obligatory fried slices and a couple of giant mugs of tea. After bringing our breakfast over Jennifer sits herself down at our table, lights up a cigarette, takes a series of nervous glances around the cafe to make sure no one’s earwigging, then gets straight to the point.
‘Woodsy knows about me and you, Danny,’ she says, in a pained croak and almost missing her mouth with her cigarette because her hands are shaking so violently. And as I dip a fried slice into the soft yellow of one of my eggs, I’m also taking a good look at the bird sitting in front of me, and trying for the life of me to fathom out what on earth compels Danny to keep on slipping goldfish to these gangsters molls. Because for a man of Danny’s stature and local legend there’s plenty of fish in the sea round here, even if the water is a bit polluted. I reckon it’s got to be a power thing. Like, I’m a bigger gangster than your old man, that’s why I’m banging you while the mug’s banged up. But that don’t explain why when Stevie was away he was banging his bird as well. That seems to be taking brotherly love a little too far.
‘How’d he find out?’ says Danny, pushing his breakfast to one side.
‘His fucking grass of a brother told him. And when I went up to see him, he put it right on me on the visit. You know what he’s like, Danny. He frightened the fucking life out of me. Honest to God, I had to admit it. Then when I did he went berserk and starting laying into me. It took five screws to drag him off. And he’s out soon on home leave, I don’t know what to do. He’s been making all kinds of threats.’
‘What’s he said?’ says Danny.
‘Bad stuff. Real bad stuff.’
‘Like what?’
‘I can’t say, Danny. It’s too horrible.’
‘Fuck me, Jennifer, you gotta tell me, girl, word for word, so that I know exactly what the score is.’
Jennifer takes a deep breath and wrinkles up her face, exacerbating the criss-cross lines of her newly acquired crow’s feet, that make her appear donkey’s older than her thirty years. As she then stubs her cigarette out into an ashtray, I look down and notice that the paint on her nails is chipped and some are bitten down to the cuticles.
‘He said that when he comes out he’s going to show you up. Well, his exact words were, “I’m gonna show that skinny cunt Danny Longshanks up for the
fraud he is. Then once I’ve disposed of him, I’m gonna break into his house and rape his kids in front of his wife. Then I’m gonna rape his wife in front of his kids. And then after that I’m gonna cut her cunt out and turn it into a fucking purse. That slag wants to fuck with people’s wives, I’ll fucking ruin him.”‘ As Jennifer recounts the story, I watch uneasily as Danny turns white and the blood drains from him like a turkey that’s just had its throat slit and been hung upside down to die. Seeing him react like this causes me to take stock, because this is the first time I’ve ever seen a real chink in his armour. And to be truthful I find it very unsettling, scary almost. Because no matter what I think of Danny most of the time, all of our firm looks to him for strength. But although I dare not say it I have to make Woodsy right. Nah, not about the raping his wife and kids and stuff, but about banging married birds, especially those that are married to bread and butters that won’t stand for it. And no disrespect to this bird, but she ain’t even that good a sort. Not good enough to have your wife and kids split wide open and tortured, that’s for sure. And you best believe that Woodsy is more than capable of doing what he says.
With Danny seeming to have lost his appetite I help myself to his two fried slices. Well, I ain’t the one been fucking the wives of nutty gangsters and bragging that no one on the plot’s got the arsehole to top me. An awkward silence ensues as Danny stares away into the distance, until Jennifer pulls out a piece of paper from her pinafore and slides it over to him. On it is written the day of Woodsy’s home leave and his mum’s address, which is the address where he’ll be living on his release.
‘I’m scared of what he will do to me, Danny,’ she says, adding, ‘I don’t want him back and he knows that. That’s why he’s going to live with his mum. But he’s told people I’m dead meat anyway for fucking about while he was banged-up. And it’s not like I can just up and leave. And if I go to the Old Bill I’ll have to live the rest of my life as a grass. I can’t do that Danny, especially not round here.’
What a clever girl! She’s just served up the whole dog’s breakfast and dumped it right on Danny’s plate. No wonder he don’t feel hungry no more. And by leaving it to the last moment to let us know that Woodsy’s got the raving hump with Danny, there’s no time for him to muddy the waters, by slipping someone into him in the nick. And Danny knows for sure that when Woodsy comes out Jennifer will be able to lay the blame right at his feet. Danny also knows that Woodsy don’t give a flying fuck about going back behind the wall for the rest of his natural. He’s got nothing on the out. No dough and no missus now that Danny’s soiled his relationship. And imagine all those lonely nights Woodsy’s been laying in his peter, staring up at the ceiling and trying to block out the thought of Danny, plunged bollock-deep right up inside his old woman. I don’t care how tough you are, that kind of treachery will snap you like a twig.
MORE HEADACHES AND heartaches are looming on the horizon, which is why we’re on our way to see a pal of ours, Maddy, who lives in Barking, and also happens to be barking mad. Not only has he just done the whole of a sixteen stretch for manslaughter, but he’s a very strange kettle of fish. For some unfathomable reason he’s never updated his wardrobe to move with the times, which leaves him still knocking about in the same old clobber he had on before he got weighed off. So, not only is he strolling round the Essex borders looking like a seventies drugstore cowboy, but he’s spent nearly all of his bird laying on his prison bunk chasing the dragon and reading Nietzsche, whom he quotes, sometimes verbatim. I’ll be truthful, he scares the living fucking daylights out of me, what with his shaved head and bifocal bins so thick that his mince pies look like a couple of currants. And this is a man who, during his bird, trimmed his ears down with a pair of nail clippers because he thought they looked too big. Only thing being that because he’s as blind as bat, he fucked the job right up and now looks like a Vulcan.
Anyway, what’s happened is that we called the IRA puff deal on and pugged up the goods in a slaughter just along by the Essex Road ready to be moved up north. Meanwhile, Denny Dalston’s got himself lelled for putting the heavy on a local minicab firm. Seems he was drawing a monkey a week out of the gaff, but weren’t satisfied with that and so upped it to a gorilla. Of course, the guv’nor of the minicab firm wouldn’t suffer it and went straight to Old Bill, who wired his cab office up. Dalston strolled in to collect his bit of potch but then got a knock-back. Instead of slipping out to weigh the situation up, he started to shout his mouth off and make all kinds of threats. Nicked, bang to rights there and then. After a two week lay-down he managed to get himself a bit of bail, only now he’s back to not having a pot to piss in again. And to cap that he’s been going down to Stevie and Frankie’s car front and driving them garrity for dough upfront from the IRA deal. He’s also been trying to blag them for ten kilo of gear here, ten kilo there, which is total bollocks because he’s already been told we’re moving it wholesale. And once you start breaking down loads you don’t know where you are. Not only that, but with small loads you’re going to be dealing with all manner of lowlifes and putting yourself right on offer. Which is why we’ve already said to him, ‘No fucking way, Barry! We only move gear in big parcels, pull in the readies then move on.’
But still he kept on the earhole, so me and Danny flopped on him to lay down the law for the last time. But when we strolled into the boozer where he was drinking to have a little chat, we found him pissed as a fucking fart and up on top of a table with his trousers round his ankles singing, ‘I’m in the money.’ It don’t take too much working out to know it’s this sort of behaviour that’s going to get us all nicked. We walked straight back out and left him to it, after which we belled our IRA pal Nesner Hayes up in Belfast straight away, just to let him know the SP.
‘Fucking waste him, the maggot,’ said Nesner. ‘He’s had more than enough fucking chances.’ And fair play to Nesner, because he also said he’ll send someone over to do the job. But Danny wants to bring in Maddy. And as I’ve said earlier, it’s handy to have at least one lunatic on the firm who ain’t connected to us, and who ain’t too clever.
Since Maddy’s been home from his last stretch he spends all day, every day, pumping iron down at his local gym. He reckons it’s the only place where he feels truly comfortable because it reminds him of the happy years he spent as gym orderly while banged-up in Wandsworth. And that the hustle and bustle of civvy street just makes him feel he wants to pick up a semi-automatic rifle and go out on a killing spree, just so as he can get back to laying on a bunk reading his books, three square meals a day and not have to worry about bills, about buying food, or even talking to Joe Public, who he despises. In Maddy’s eyes, if you ain’t killed no one, then you ain’t no one. It’s a twisted logic but the man’s institutionalised from spending so much time behind the wall. Same as you can’t teach an old dog new tricks, you can’t teach an institutionalised con to go straight. Having his own set of keys and being able to open and shut his own doors terrifies the life out of Maddy, and those like him. Too much time in the boob being told what to do causes a man to lose his instinct to think for himself, and Maddy’s now no more than an automaton that needs to take orders, which makes him easy meat for our mincer. After pulling up outside the gym where he trains, we park up and stroll in to find an almost empty workout area, where we spot Maddy, bench pressing five hundred pounds like it was half the weight.
‘Hello, boys,’ he says, standing up and puffing out his chest as we approach, whilst at the same time lifting up his arms wide apart, as though holding a thick roll of carpet under each one. ‘Fucking lovely to see you.’
With tears welling in his eyes he then steps forward to embrace us in turn, and that’s one of the problems with Maddy. He gets very sentimental whenever we put in an appearance because we looked after him and his old woman for the last few years of his bird. Not out of the milk of human kindness, you know that. But because we knew he’d come in handy one day. But being a simpleton his brain don’
t work like that. This moist-eyed doughnut genuinely believes we give a fuck about him, when in fact he ain’t no more to us than a dispensable bog roll that we need to wipe up some shit with. After telling Maddy we need to speak to him outside, Danny gets straight down to business.
‘We may have a bit of a problem with Denny Dalston, Maddy,’ says Danny, adding, ‘You two still pals?’
‘All depends what it’s about, Danny. I mean if he’s upset any of you two, there’ll be a fucking funeral.’
‘I’ll be truthful, Mad,’ says Danny. ‘He’s become a total fucking liability with a Paddy firm we’re doing business with. We were gonna take him out of the game ourselves but we got a lot of good shit happening at the moment and don’t wanna fuck it up. He’s on his whack for this little coup, but if you wanna solve the problem we got with him you can have his share. But I know you’re settled now, Mad, what with your new baby and that, so feel free to turn it down and we’ll shake hands and nothing more will be said.’
‘Under peaceful conditions, Danny, a warlike man sets upon himself,’ says Maddy, peering at him from the depth of his bifocals.
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