‘So the white man’s superior is he?’ I say.
‘Course we are,’ says Danny. ‘And the Nazis were the elite of the elite.’
‘Oh yeah, sure, right proper fucking mob they were,’ I say. ‘Hitler was a social cripple with rotten railings who couldn’t get a hard-on. Hess was as mad as a box of frogs. Himmler was a failed chicken farmer. Goering was a smack-head transvestite who wore powder-paint make up, Goebbels was a midget with a club foot, and Ernst Rohm was a turd burglar. Fine examples of the fucking master race that little firm.’
And then I sit back pleased as punch because I can see that Danny’s stumped for words, history not being one of his strong points. After giving out couple of disgruntled grunts, he angrily turns down the music in the car leaving the three of us to sit in stony uncomfortable silence. And I’m now sitting here half expecting them both to turn on me. But if they do they’ll come unstuck ‘cos I’m tooled up and they ain’t. But that’s beside the point because if I was any kind of man and not the snivelling wretch I am at this point in time, I would pull out my gun regardless and blow a hole right through Danny’s black fucking heart for killing two pals of mine. It’d be so easy. Slip out my tool, put it up against the back of his chair then squeeze, that’s all it would take. But he’s got me beaten psychologically. So many times he’s banged on about being invincible, that I actually believe my bullets would bounce of him. Fucking crazy I know, but that’s how I feel. Don’t get me wrong, if they did both turn on me now, I’d have no other choice but to shoot my way out, and I would do so without a moment’s hesitation. But still it don’t make me feel any less hate towards myself for being terrified of this man.
In the meantime what none of us knows, is that while we’re sitting here plotted up like Curly, Larry and Moe, Woodsy has other plans and ain’t going to be showing. Seems that while he was doing this last bit of bird, he palled up with an armed robber called Ronnie Cook, also off of this plot, and due to be getting out round about the same time as him. Cook introduced Woodsy to his missus on a visit, and told him that if at any time he needed a visit off her he was more than welcome. He also let him know that she was as good as gold and would smuggle in puff for him in her Alan Whickers, so Woodsy called it on. Out of the blue Ronnie Cook got ghosted to another nick, and so Woodsy, in yet another stunning example of a gangster that don’t practice what he preaches, began to embark on an unconsummated love affair with Ronnie Cook’s missus, who by now was indulging Woodsy in weekly puff runs. A practice which not only gave him a much needed regular fumble in the jungle, but also allowed him to get monged out in his cell every night, therefore easing the pain and desolation of his bang-up.
All seemed to be going swimmingly, until one day on a visit she broke down and told him she was in a terrible fix because her old man was soon to be released and would find out she’s caned half of the two hundred grand he’d left her to look after, for them to start a new life with. After successfully managing to suck Woodsy in with her sob story, she then planted the idea in his head that they should top her old man and run off with the rest of the dough. So there was Woodsy, a not very bright jailbird being baited with the prospect of eloping with a game as a bagel second-hand Rose, who also happened to be endowed with a reasonably sized nest egg. He jumped in with both feet. And so, instead of coming out on his home leave and going round his old girl’s as he’s supposed to, Woodsy has slipped round to Ronnie Cook’s house and is at this very moment waiting in the kitchen with a gun in his hand as Cook, on home leave himself, comes strolling in expecting a bunch of flowers and some good, good loving after fifteen years behind the wall.
What he gets instead is a bullet right through his chest. Only it don’t kill him. So there he is, laying on the floor with his blood pumping all over the kitchen tiles and staring bewilderedly up at his prison pal Woodsy, pleading for his life. But for some reason, Woodsy can’t find it in himself to finish the job properly. So Cook’s missus, who’s been hiding upstairs and can hear her husband’s heart-wrenching cries, comes running into the kitchen, grabs the gun off Woodsy and finishes the job off herself, by putting a single bullet through her cuckolded old man’s canister. And there you have it. A match made in heaven destined straight for hell.
I HATE MAGISTRATES’ courts. To be honest I hate any kind of courts. But magistrates’ courts take the biscuit because they’re always chocca full of lowlife scum. The only time us proper people pass through these shitpits is when we’re being processed to be sent up the road to sit in front a jury of underachievers masquerading as our peers, before getting weighed off with proper bowlfuls of lumpy porridge. Granted, when I was a kid I made a few appearances in them for burgling slaughters or smashing the occasional mug to bits, but now the thought of being here amongst all these weekly lottery losers, waiting to go up in front of the beak for pissant crimes, makes my flesh crawl. If ever you needed confirmation that some of the lower classes shouldn’t be allowed to breed, bring along a flask of tea and some Marmite sandwiches and spend a day in a magistrates’ court, where you’ll see an endless procession of human garbage, shuffling up in front of the bench, their greasy heads hung low and their sorry arses hanging out of their smeggy jeans, as they shift uneasily from one cheesy-stinking trainer to another, waiting to get carted off to the can, leaving their wives and six kids to struggle on the social.
As soon I enter the building I’m pleased to find it ain’t too busy, although it still stinks like a Wetherspoon’s boozer on dole day. After passing a smattering of clueless plod on the ground floor, conspiring and concocting up bullshit witness statements with their scruff-bag duty briefs, I come to the bottom of a large spiral staircase that disappears in a swirl up to the first floor. But just the thought of climbing them brings me out in a sweat, so I slip into the corridor and catch the lift reserved for wheelchair-bound raspberries. The snub-nosed revolver I’ve still got stashed down my jockstrap from yesterday’s farcical stakeout of Woodsy is now starting to make my bollocks itch. So, after pulling it out and wiping off the excess sweat from the handle on the outside of my trousers, I stash it in the inside pocket of my jacket instead. As the lift door slowly opens I catch sight of Andrea, Delroy’s sister, straight away. She’s standing between a couple of guilty-as-sin, skanky-looking teenage reprobates, while diligently jotting down their ludicrous porkies on a sheet of foolscap paper.
After stepping out of the lift and walking towards her I begin motioning with my hands and head trying to catch her attention. One of her punters sees me and gives her the nod. On catching my eye she excuses herself and starts to make her way over to me, although by the countenance of her demeanour she’s suffering from a severe case of PMT, either that or she’s got the raving fucking zig with me.
‘All right?’ Is the only thing I can think of saying to her as she steps into my space.
‘What are you doing here, Billy?’ seems to be the only thing she can think of saying by return.
‘Came to see how you were,’ I say, lowering my voice, and with my eyes skirting the marbled floor.
‘Well, seeing as I haven’t seen hide nor hair of you since we had lunch together in the park, I’m fine.’
‘I’ve been busy,’ I say, struggling even to make tentative eye contact.
‘You and me both, Billy. Anyway I can’t talk now.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m with clients.’
‘Clients!’ I say, spitting out the word like it’s a gobstopper stuffed with shit. ‘Them two-bob dirtbags? Have your eyes out your head for a bag of fucking skag.’
‘Looks who’s talking,’ she says, staring right through me as if I’m not here.
‘Don’t you fucking lump me in with them,’ I growl. ‘I only came here to make sure you were OK, ‘cos Delroy told me about what happened. You getting punched up the ribs and that. So are you OK?’
‘I’m fine, just a little bit sore. And what’s going on with Delroy and Shakesy? Why are people looking for them? What a
re they mixed up in, Billy?’
‘I’ve got no idea.’
‘Have you seen anything of Shakesy?’
‘Nah, nothing. And why should I?’
‘Because he’s gone missing, and you’re normally in the thick of any trouble that’s going down around my brother. Look, I must really must go.’
‘Don’t walk away from me,’ I say. ‘I’m fucking talking to you. What d’you mean, I’m normally in the thick of trouble round your silly fucking brother?’
‘Do you have to swear every other fucking word?’ she says, stopping dead in her tracks and turning back to face me.
‘Nah, I just love revelling in my own fucking ignorance,’ I reply, making a grab for her as she then starts to move away once more.
‘Let go of my arm, Billy,’ she says, in an attempt to pull away from me. ‘Jesus, you stink of booze. And your eyes!’
‘Piss-holes in the snow, eh? So what d’you mean about me and your brother.’
‘You’re hurting me. Let go, this is my career, Billy. I’m not going to let you ruin it.’
‘Career, what fucking career? Mopping up after fucking maggots? You just don’t get it, do you? You’re nothing but the token fucking nigger in the woodpile. The people you graft for fucking hate you. Just filling up quotas, that’s all they’re doing. They’ll give you fuck all. Just the drippings off their public school noses while they’re looking down them at you.’
‘And what are you going to give me, Billy?’
With my gangster senses now firing on all cylinders I become aware of a presence approaching from me behind, and so, instantly spin round to come face to face with a middle-aged clerk of the court bearing down on me. You’ve seen ‘em. Patrolling their little patches outside the courtrooms in their over-polished shoes while waving their clipboards in the air and ordering people about. Pointless pricks employed in a pointless occupation. Sell their own mothers down the river for a steady job with a two-bit pension at the end of it.
‘Excuse me, miss, are you OK?’ he says, coming to halt between the pair of us.
‘Fuck off, lickspittle!’ I tell him, getting right in his face.
‘I’ll call the police,’ he replies, backing off a little bit and raising his clipboard in front of his chest for protection.
‘Call the police,’ I spit back at him. ‘Call a fucking ambulance, you mug cunt.’ And with that I whip out my pistol and bring down the butt hard into his forehead, smashing his glasses into his eyes and watching with satisfaction as he crumbles floorward, his head striking the marble with a sickening crack, as it opens his stupid skull up like Humpty fucking Dumpty.
‘Police, help!’ screams Andrea, turning and waving her arms in the air. ‘Somebody help, please!’
‘You fucking grass cunt!’ I scream at her, as all around us hell breaks loose with people starting to run about, yelling and shouting for assistance in all directions. A siren begins to wail and the footsteps and shouts of pigs begins to echo round the building, letting me know I’ve got to have it on my toes, sharpish. And so, using the ensuing chaos for cover, I stash my tool and slip quickly down the stairs and on through the Women’s Institute cafe, making my way past a pair doddery old biddies behind the jump, who are seemingly oblivious to the mayhem mounting in their midst. After clanking open a fire door I stumble onto the main street leading to Tower Bridge, where I hail a passing taxi and slump down in the rear seat as it disappears eastbound over the Thames, well pleased with the fact I’ve been able to vent my frustrations by smashing the skull of a lackey of the Crown to bits with the butt of my gun, and also by the trail of chaos I’ve left in my wake.
IT’S THREE THE next morning by the time I eventually slink into Club Foot, absolutely mangled and looking like something the cat dragged in, after having been caning it full on in a shebeen on top of a minicab office at the St Martin’s Lane end of Old Compton Street, Soho, where I had to put a gun to the head of a muggy doorman who had the fucking temerity to try and charge me a fiver just to get wasted in an illegal piss-hole. And still I don’t know when to turn the game in. So, after ordering up my usual double shot of Gentleman Jack on the rocks from Silly Ken, the Club Foot bartender, I grab my drink and slip into a darkened alcove so as to drown some more sorrow.
From deep within its anonymous sanctuary I start to sip steadily while carefully surveying the interior of the club, only to find myself disappointed by the distinct lack of action, until my eyes fix on a familiar figure sitting around a table in the far corner. Leaning slightly forward over my table I do a double take, and my heart pounds slightly when I recognise the owner of the mooey. It’s Big Spud, looking like he’s struck gold. Well, gold plate at least, in the form of a pair of sore-looking council house racklers obviously AWOL from their old men and kids. And what a painful sight it is watching a couple of thirty-plus-year-old housewives dolled up to the nines like pubescent teenagers, and with their bubble cuts giving them the appearance of a pair of rats with perms. And what’s more revolting is that they’re prostituting themselves over a clueless slag like Big Spud for nothing more than few poxy bottles of house bubbly, when by rights they should be indoors and tucked up in bed with their husbands.
I watch with further distaste as Big Spud treats himself to an occasional grope around the sweaty gussets of his poundshop shitters. Not only does it instigate a sickening churn deep in the pit of my stomach to watch the two racklers’ undercarriages wobble in a mass of mottled and jellied flesh between their crop tops and micro skirts, the result of dropping too many kids and a dole-queue diet, but it sets me to thinking I’ve got to do something to the slag for putting the heavy on my bird, and then punching her up the ribs. It’s simply a question of degrees. What does a punch up the ribs from a south London mick cunt daddy’s boy warrant? I mean I could just go over and smash the prick to bits and shame him in front of the club and the two slags he’s got wrapped round him. Or maybe I should just stroll over to him and tell him straight, ‘Walk away from this, or I’ll make sure you never fucking walk again.’ Nah, bad move. That would signal me and my firm’s involvement in the nicking of his old man’s drug load. After running through a few more scenarios, some implausible and some not, I decide to top the slag as soon as he leaves the club. That way it’s on neutral ground and I can make an easy getaway. It goes without saying that it’s really Danny that I want to do. But seeing as I ain’t got the arsehole, then maybe giving it to this piece of excrement will go some way to redeeming my wretchedness.
With my mind made up, I slip discreetly into the nearby gents’ toilets to sniff up a couple of big fat hairy lines of Colombian courage, and also to do a double-check on my revolver. Unfortunately whilst doing so, I inadvertently catch sight of myself in the mirror and am gutted to see a totally fucked human being staring back at me. And by my reckoning one of the reasons I look this way is all this shit with Spud Murphy and Shakesy. Let’s face it, if that slaggy, potato-headed dog-cunt hadn’t pulled the kid in on the bit of graft, he’d still be alive today and things would be hunky-dory. It’s an out-and-out liberty sticking a shooter in a kid’s hands and then sticking him in the back of a lorry load of puff. Yeah, fuck the Murphys. Big Spud’s toast. Having wiped my nose clean of powder residue and primed my revolver, I stash it into my right-side jacket pocket then, keeping my head down, make my way back to the alcove to wait and watch and carry on drinking. Just after four, Big Spud, with his gruesome twosome in tow, starts to get ready to leave, and in a drunken fumble of burps and horrible slobbering kisses, they make their way wonkily up the stairs towards the exit, at which point I finish off the remnants of my Gentleman Jack, wipe the glass clean, and prepare to make my move. After allowing Big Spud and the two racklers a minute or so to get on their way, I creep from the alcove and start after them up the stairs. And all the while I’m thinking, well, you know what I’m thinking. Big Spud, you’ve got about as much fucking future as a fairground goldfish.
As I pull the exit door of the club q
uietly open and step onto the pavement outside, it pleases me to see it’s still dark and that half the street lights are on the blink. A quick gander up and down also lets me know that the four of us are very much alone. Turning to my right I pull up the hood on my jacket and begin to make my way behind Big Spud, who has an arm flung around the each of the racklers’ necks and is using them for support, as the three of them stagger drunkenly towards his Mercedes, parked some hundred yards up ahead.
Gaining on them steadily from the rear sees me wrapping my right hand tightly round my tool ready for action, when suddenly I have to pull up short as Big Spud stops and lets the racklers go, before staggering alone to a nearby wall where, after steadying himself up against it with his left hand, he yanks down his flies with his right, pulls out his prick and starts to piss clumsily onto a blocked drain. The sight and sound of the piss splashing back against his shoes and trousers distracts me momentarily, but after shaking my head clear I bear swiftly down on him. And he don’t even have time to shake his knob dry, when in one movement I pull my revolver out of my pocket and let off a single shot into the back of his head. By the time the bang fills the early morning air, the .22 bullet’s already driven deep into the base of his skull and lodged itself in his brain, killing him instantly and without any mess, save for a tiny tomato ketchup-like spurt pumping from a neat round hole in the back of his head. In the following split second he lurches forward headbutting the wall, and a quiet crack is all that can be heard as his forehead strikes the brickwork. After which he drops down to his knees, where he stays for an instant, as if in silent prayer, before rolling over onto his back and giving out a small last gasp of air. And then he just lays there gawping blindly up at the stars and with his right hand still wrapped tightly around his booze-shrivelled prick. Ain’t no dignity whatsoever in ending your days clutching your corey in a puddle of piss next to a blocked drain, and with your nut coming to its final rest on top of a half-eaten doner kebab.
JUDAS PIG Page 30