‘Whatever you say,’ replies Danny. ‘‘Cos truthfully, it ain’t no problem for me and Billy.’
‘Best not battle with monsters, Danny, lest you become one. What do you reckon, Billy?’
‘Don’t wanna put any unwarranted grief on your plate, Mad.’
‘What don’t kill me, just makes me stronger, Billy. Say no more boys, he’s fucking toast.’ Of course, we say no more, and after shaking hands and telling Maddy we’ll be in touch, me and Danny turn on our heels and stroll back to our motor.
‘Did you have a clue what he’s fucking talking about?’ says Danny.
‘Nope,’ I say. ‘And I don’t wanna fucking know.’
‘Make you right, the cunt’s completely off his fucking rocker.’ And it’s as simple as that. We call it using a div to top a div. And not only ain’t it cost us a shilling, but once he’s killed for us we own a piece of him.
WITH THE IRA puff deal all but done and dusted now we’ve brought Maddy on board to take Denny Dalston out of the game, and a few days’ space for us to sort out the transport to move the gear, me and Danny are now driving straight over to the safe house to hook up with Stevie and Frankie, to chew over the remaining fat of the Spud Murphy coup. Having just pulled off of the M11, we’re now approaching a crossroads that filters traffic off to East Ham on the right and Beckton to the left. Just as we near the traffic lights they switch to red ordering us to stop.
‘Don’t look now,’ says Danny, glancing up at his rear-view mirror, ‘but Spud Murphy’s right up our bottle.’ And sure enough, speak of the devil. Spud pulls his black Roller right alongside us on Danny’s side. Sitting on the back seat are his two boys and sole heirs, Big Spud and Little Spud. Big Spud’s about twenty-two and Little Spud about sixteen. Both are absolute humdingers of the old man. Chips carved out of the same block.
‘Fucking sweet!’ says Danny to me out of the left side of his mouth. ‘Spud’s giving his chavvies a bollocking for gawping at us.’
‘They look like a firm of fucking undertakers the way they’re all got up,’ I say, adding, ‘Suppose it’s fair enough though. I mean Spud’s laid a few to rest over the years. How do you rate his two boys?’
‘Mugs!’ snaps back Danny without any hesitation. ‘Born with silver spoons up their arses. First generation’s always the best generation.’
‘To be truthful,’ I tell him, ‘I’ve heard that Big Spud’s pretty heavy.’
‘The only time that cunt’s ever gonna be heavy, is after he’s eaten Christmas fucking dinner.’
Danny has an arguable point, but there’s no doubting that Spud Murphy himself is still a very dangerous man, and what’s more he’s a strange, turkey-necked old buzzard. For example, he knows who we are but won’t show out to us because he’s jealous as fuck of young bloods. Don’t know why because the old cunt’s holding more dough than the Mint, and we all have to grow old sooner or later. Saggy skin and stretch marks wait for no man. I don’t even know what he’s still doing on the plot, but then that’s the always been the trouble with old-school gangsters. They just don’t know when to turn the game in. Terrified of missing out on a few quid, even when they already got a few quid. No outlook you see. Born ignorant and they stay ignorant. I remember Spud’s older brother Jumbo. He had a fortune, but never ever set foot outside the country in his life until eventually his missus twisted his arm for a trip to New York. On the first night they got there, Jumbo looked the wrong way crossing the road and got splattered by a taxi. After they scraped what was left of him off of the road, they brought him back to Blighty and sent him off like a Pharaoh. Which the family reckoned squared everything. But it ain’t just Jumbo. Take any of them off the manor and they stick out like uncut coreys at a kosher wedding. No way am I going to grow old on the plot and lapse into parody, just to have flash Young Turks like us taking the piss out of me. But I don’t suppose that Spud knows any different, what with him being born into it. His old girl was a two-bit shitter who sold her pussy for peanuts, and his old man was her ponce. But then again I bet Spud don’t even know if he was the product of his old man’s hateful thrusts, or a fiver fuck by a punter against the back door of a boozer.
One thing’s for sure, he got his first readies back in the day carrying out illegal backstreet abortions. Mostly punters from the old country. In fact any Colleen that got knocked up over in the Free State would be given Spud’s address in London. Over they’d come, green as grass and clutching their crucifixes round their necks for protection, only to end up hysterical and haemorrhaging on a wonky-legged kitchen table in a south London pox-hole, courtesy of a knitting needle stuck up their Jack and Dannys. Good old Spud, saved their reputations by killing their kids, and netted himself a small fortune in the process. From there he moved into drugs and property development, and now he owns half of Deptford, and more. Even that piece of land there at the start of Beckton over to my left, including the dry ski slope. And that alone must bring him in a small fortune.
With the traffic lights seeming to take forever to run through to green, it’s my guess it must be killing Spud to be stuck here with us, and with him not even having the social skills to be able to manage a nod. Just then out of the corner of my eye, I happen to spot a couple of little herberts with rags and buckets, who, after turning their attention from the other side of the road, make a hopeful dash for Spud’s Roller to give it a screen wash.
‘Touch this motor and I’ll have your fucking eyes!’ Spud screams at them out of his open side window as they draw near, causing them to stop, shocked and bewildered, in their tracks.
‘What a fucking liberty,’ I say to Danny. ‘They’re only chavvies trying to wangle a shilling. Ain’t doing no harm.’ After which, Danny opens his side window, whistles out loud and motions with his hand for them to come over to our motor, which they do post-haste.
‘Why ain’t you at school, you little fuckers?’ says Danny.
‘‘Cos, school’s for mugs, mister,’ says the bravest of the two.
‘Course it fucking is,’ says Danny, smiling and pulling out a wedge of dough that he then waves in front of the kids’ noses. ‘When was the last time you saw one of your teachers driving a brand new fucking Mercedes. Here, put this in your skyrocket,’ he then says, slipping the mouthy kid a crisp note.
‘Fucking hell, mister!’ the kid shouts out. ‘That’s fifty quid, and we ain’t even done nothing.’
‘Pretend it’s Christmas,’ says Danny, puffing out his chest. ‘And anyway, I want you to do me a favour.’
‘Course, mister. Anything,’ says the kid holding the note.
‘When you walk back past that Roller, flash that fifty spot at the old cunt who’s driving it.’
Well, not only does the kid flash the fifty spot at Spud, but both of them give him the wanker sign as well, before tearing back across the road and having it on their toes. And all Spud can do is sit there stewing like a prune and with his face cherrying red-hot, while me and Danny collapse into hysterics. The lights then turn green and Spud chucks an angry right, leaving Danny to kick down the accelerator on our motor and for us to swish gracefully on, straight ahead.
‘And that’s the difference between that old cunt and us,’ says Danny. ‘Class.’
‘And bundles of it,’ I say. And the pair of us can’t help but laugh to think that not only have we just mugged one of London’s premier gangsters off in front of his boys. But this coming weekend we’ll be bending him over and smacking his arse so hard he won’t be able to sit down for at least six moon.
‘SO YOU SEE, Billy, there is no missing link,’ says Fat Ray to me from the driving seat of a ringed Transit van we’re in, parked on top of a hill overlooking an industrial estate near Dartford, Kent, that’s been locked up for the weekend. Behind a worn flowery curtain at the rear of us, my firm is seated in the back on the floor playing cards. And all of us are simply biding time and waiting for the lorry carrying Spud Murphy’s puff to arrive. So far it’s an hour overdue.
<
br /> ‘No missing link, Ray?’ I reply abstractedly, winding my window half-down to expel the fustiness and stink emanating from Fat Ray’s arsehole and stale clobber.
‘Nah, there was a quirk in the evolutionary scale and some of our ancestors ended up living by the sea, and in consequence started eating loads of fish, which made their brains grow really big. And that’s how we got to be so intelligent. Take dolphins for instance, they’re much cleverer than chimpanzees. They used to use them in the Second World War to lay mines on enemy ships.’
‘But dolphins are mammals, Ray.’
‘Yeah, but they eat lots of fish.’
‘Mmmmm.’
‘And fish are a lot cleverer than you think. I was over at Mick the Malt’s flat a couple of weeks ago, and he’d got hold of this octopus from Billingsgate market. Fair size it was, and still alive. So, we’re sitting in his kitchen, and he puts it in a saucepan of water on top of the oven, and then turned it on to cook it. And fuck me if the thing didn’t reach out with one of its tentacles and turn the gas off.’
‘Bollocks!’ I say, turning to stare Fat Ray full in the eye.
‘It’s the truth, Billy. I saw it with me own eyes.’
But there’s no time to ascertain whether Fat Ray’s story is fact or fable, because just as I’m about to pursue a further line of inquiry on the cranial capabilities of octopuses, the lorry carrying Spud Murphy’s drugs chugs into view at the bottom of the hill.
‘Bingo!’ I whisper, whilst nodding into the distance. ‘There’s our baby.’ Pulling aside the curtain behind me I let my firm know we’re ready to rock and roll. And no sooner do the words leave my mouth, than playing cards are thrown into an untidy heap on the van’s floor, balaclavas are pulled on, and guns speedily checked and stashed into shoulder holsters. With the tension mounting I watch intently as the lorry pulls up then stops in front of a padlocked gate, where the driver toots his horn once. In a minute or so a man appears out of the front unit, walks towards the metal gate and undoes the heavy-duty lock before releasing the chain holding the gates together, allowing the lorry to crawl in and park up.
A loud hiss of air brakes punctures the quiet, letting all of us in the van know the lorry’s journey is now complete and our coup is full on. As the driver disembarks his cohort re-chains and padlocks the gate, after which they both disappear into the unit.
‘All right, son,’ I say to Fat Ray. ‘Let’s go.’ And then we’re away, trundling steadily down the small shady lane that leads to the entrance of the industrial estate. About two hundred yards from the gates I tell Fat Ray to cut the engine, and we coast the final stretch in silence.
After slowing to a halt outside the gates, Fat Ray clambers from the Transit clutching an oversized pair of bolt croppers, before waddling as fast as his fat will allow him to the gate, where he expertly crops the padlock chain with a swift and silent chomp of the cutters, during which time I pull down my own balaclava, pull out my gun and join my firm by the side of the van. After quick nods all round through masked faces we take up positions with guns drawn, outside the unit’s door. Danny then kicks it open and piles inside with us hot on his heels.
‘POLIIICE!’ we all scream at the top of our voices and pointing guns at what turn out to be four startled members of Spud Murphy’s gang, seated round an upturned oil drum and drinking tea from grease-encrusted mugs. ‘GET DOWN ON THE FUCKING FLOOR, OR WE’LL BLOW YOUR FUCKING HEADS OFF!’ we scream once more, pumped high on adrenaline and with our blood pressure pushing our aortas to breaking point, as once more we sate that craving that no criminal can do without, the need to keep on pushing our luck to the limit. It ain’t just about dough, it’s about being alive, being in control and instilling fear. And as we bear down on the firm, who are now sitting slack-jawed and still as statues, I soak up the look on their stunned faces with a self-satisfied grin, as they all then drop like well-struck ninepins to the floor, and all the while pleading for us not to shoot because they ain’t tooled up.
Each of our firm then takes a man apiece, stands over him and places the sharp, cold steel barrel of his gun to the back of his sweating captive’s neck. A muffled bang echoes around the steel structure, and the man beneath Danny lets out a low moan, causing me to look up.
‘Fuck!’ I say quietly to myself, with the realisation that Danny’s just shot his man in the back of the leg, just for the hell of it. A jolt of anger surges through me, ‘cos I promised Delroy that no one would get hurt on this bit of graft. Besides, there was just no need for it. These pricks we’ve just laid down are already shitting Stillsons, so why the fucking violence?
‘Keys to the lorry!’ shouts out Danny, and after a few seconds of silence, the man laying flat under Frankie reefs around in his trouser pockets, before holding up a quivering hand containing the set of keys we’ve come for. Frankie snatches them off the owner and walks outside to hand them over to Fat Ray.
‘Mobile phones!’ shouts out Stevie, as me and him then go round relieving the four men of their mobiles, before smashing them underfoot.
After pulling out the only phone in the wall and trashing it, Frankie commandeers the keys to the unit. I then open up a CS gas canister, which I throw smoking into the middle of the four men, as the three of us quickly vamoose, while the gas fumes spread and the room reverberates with the sound of choking and vomiting. After locking the door up from the outside, Frankie then lobs the keys into a nearby hedge. With Fat Ray now in control behind the wheel of the lorry, he pulls off with us following at a safe distance in the Transit. Job done, piece of piss. An hour or so later and me and my firm, minus Fat Ray, are standing grouped together in a small semicircle inside our Mile End slaughter, with the lorry parked up and all of us feeling pretty pleased with ourselves. For those of you not involved in the criminal game, you just can’t imagine the feeling that sweet bits of graft like this bring. Imagine it, down to a little bit of inside information, a large bit of bottle, and admittedly no shortage of Lady Luck, you waltz into a gaff and lay down a few mugs with some ironware, before waltzing back out with a lorry load of drugs wrapped around your bollocks, and with no one any the wiser. And of course when you rob from other criminals they can’t run screaming to Old Bill.
‘Sweet bit of graft,’ says Stevie, rubbing his hands together and smiling with undisguised glee.
‘Fair day’s work for a fair day’s pay,’ says Danny, allowing himself a rare smile.
‘Spud’ll be blowing smoke rings out of his arse when he finds out,’ I say.
‘Fuck that potato-headed cunt,’ says Danny.
‘I heard he was gonna spend the dough from this deal on a new ski lift for his gaff at Beckton,’ says Stevie.
‘Fucking gargoyle,’ sneers Frankie. ‘He’d have been better off spending it on a fucking face lift.’ At which we all have a little laugh, solely at Spud Murphy’s expense, of course. And this is my coup really, which means I’m well over the moon. And so, with a smile on my mooey and a swagger in my stroll, I make my way over to the back of the lorry, put my foot on the tailgate, grip the door handle, pull, and start to ease the back door open. And as the first gasp of air rushes out from the container I swear I can already smell the sweet freedom that this one last bit of graft is going to help buy. Putting one foot on the tow bar I tense my body and pull myself up onto the back of the lorry.
‘Fucking hell!’ I shout out, quickly jumping back out and slamming the door shut, whilst simultaneously pulling out my gun and pointing it at the tailgate. Without any hesitation my firm comes running over, also pulling out tools, to join me in covering the rear of the lorry.
‘What the fuck’s going on?’ they’re all shouting at me, and looking for answers. ‘Looks like you seen a fucking ghost!’
‘It’s worse than a fucking ghost,’ I tell them. ‘It’s Delroy’s little cousin, Shakesy. He’s standing in the back there holding a twelve-bore fucking shotgun.’
‘What the fuck’s that lowlife nigger chavvie doing in the back of th
e lorry?’ says Frankie.
‘You said this was gonna be fucking sweet,’ says Danny.
‘It is,’ I tell him. But really I’m thinking, oh shit, while standing here not quite believing what I’ve just seen.
After taking a few much-needed seconds to gather my senses, I move forward and put my face to the back of the lorry.
‘Can you fucking hear me?’ I shout at the top my voice.
‘Yeah!’ comes back Shakesy’s barely audible and quivering reply.
‘Now I need to know,’ I shout to him again. ‘Do you know who you’re grafting for?’
‘Spud Murphy,’ comes back the answer.
‘How the fuck did you get to be grafting for that slag?’
‘Me and my gang burgled a slaughter of his a couple of months ago and he caught us. He was gonna break our legs but said we could fight our way out, if any of us had the bollocks. So I had a straighter with young Spud. You and Delroy taught me how to box, didn’t ya, so I knew I could do the business. Beat ten bells of shit out of him. Then Spud Murphy said if I ever needed any graft…’
‘Enough, I’ve heard enough,’ I scream back at him angrily, adding, ‘And do you know what you’re minding?’
‘The other gear.’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ I say, dropping my head forward and shaking it sadly.
‘You ain’t gonna tell me mum, are you, Billy?’
‘Listen you silly little cunt, I’m the one asking the questions.’
‘OK.’
‘No, I ain’t gonna tell your mum, but what I am gonna do is have a word with some of my pals, then I’m gonna come back to you and we’re gonna sort this out.’
‘OK!’ Shakesy shouts back, his voice now sounding a little stronger, before then adding, ‘Is Danny Longshanks mad at me?’
Jesus wept, he surely fucking did, I mutter under my breath, and wishing that the kid hadn’t mentioned Danny’s name, because Danny’s clocked it, and the kid already knows way too much, which means I’m bang up against it now. And what should have been taking a beautiful piece of candy from a plug-ugly baby, is now unfurling into some demented Trojan Horse tragedy.
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