A Fistful of Knuckles
Page 24
‘He’s gonna splat more civvies than me!’ Gene spat, thrusting the gun at him. ‘Take the Magnum and shoot him, Tyler!’
The Cortina’s engine howled as Gene floored the gas. Gertude roared right across in front of them. Gene flung the wheel as they mounted the pavement, missed a phone box by a gnat’s gonad, then roared back onto the road.
‘I said shoot him, Tyler!’
‘Shut it! I can’t hear the radio.’
‘This is no time for Diddy David Hamilton!’
‘The police radio, you cretin!’ Sam leant closer to the crackling speaker. ‘Sounds like somebody’s got a plan.’
‘Plan? What sort of plan?’
‘I’m trying to hear!’
Between Gene’s shouting and the screaming of tyres on tarmac, Sam could just make out one of the patrol cars announcing that it had cut down a back street to head-off the truck. Sam glanced up and saw the little Austin pulling up bravely on the road ahead, blocking the way. The two coppers jumped out and indicated firmly for Gertrude to stop – stop – STOP!
But Gertrude didn’t. The two coppers flung themselves clear as the thundering lorry ploughed straight into their titchy patrol car and just kept going. The Austin shattered. Its body crumpled beneath the mighty truck. A single wheel rolled sadly away from the mangled remains, slowed, and fell over.
‘That was the plan?’ muttered Gene, stamping on the gas and swerving around the wreckage of the Austin. He powered the Cortina alongside the truck. ‘It’s time for a Genie plan.’
‘Not so close!’ Sam yelled. ‘He’ll veer across and roll right over us!’
‘Roll over the Cortina?! He wouldn’t ruddy dare!’
‘Pull back, Gene!’
This time, Sam grabbed the wheel.
‘OFF the motor!’ bellowed Gene, shoving him roughly away.
‘You’ve lost it, Gene!’ Sam shouted back. ‘You’re acting like a lunatic! People are going to get killed! We are going to get killed!’
‘Stop being such a pissy-pants.’
The Cortina drew right up to Gertrude, almost nudging her filthy rear bumper with its radiator grill.
‘You’re bleedin’ Tonto, Guv,’ Sam said, shaking his head. ‘You are medically a mentalist.’
‘Nah, I’ve just got balls.’
‘Look out!’
The monstrous truck cut directly in front of the Cortina, its brake lights blazing and its juddering exhaust pipe farting a great blast of filthy black fumes across the windscreen. Gene threw the wheel and the Cortina ducked away as Gertrude cut across a corner, burst through a line of parked cars and then flattened a street lamp.
‘He must really want them fridges,’ said Gene. ‘Keep your shell-likes stuck to them police reports, Tyler. I want to know exactly where that truck’s headed.’
Gene floored the pedal and jerked the wheel wildly to the left. The Cortina zoomed down one narrow street after another.
‘What are you going, Guv?’ asked Sam, bracing himself in his seat. ‘Overtaking it so you can face it head on? That’s insane! You saw what it did to that Austin!’
‘This ain’t a chuffin’ Austin, you tart, now keep listening!’
Sam strained to hear the radio: ‘Lansdowne Road … Ellsmore Road … now he’s cutting across that bit of grass outside the Fox & Hounds … wrong way up Farley Street… . Left into Rokeby Crescent …’
‘Has he reached the top of Keyes Street yet?’
‘Nearly.’
Without warning, Gene slammed on the brakes, throwing Sam hard against the dashboard.
‘You could’ve warned me you were gonna do that, Guv!’
‘Why didn’t you clunk-click like Jimmy tells you? Folks die.’
Gene threw open the door and swept out into the street. He strode, straight-backed and narrow-eyed, to the middle of the road, and there he made his stand, his off-white leather loafers planted squarely on the oil-stained tarmac. The smooth barrel of the Magnum glittered dully in the golden-red rays of the setting sun.
Sam stumbled from the car, watching Gene feed fresh rounds into the gun to make up a full barrel.
‘Guv? What are you doing?’
Gene gave the Magnum a flick of the wrist. Ka-chunk! The barrel snapped back into the housing. Ready for action.
From the twilight shadows at the far end of the road there came a clamour and a roar, as if a rampaging, diesel-powered dragon were approaching.
Gene rested his finger on the trigger of the Magnum. He stilled his breath. He focused. He flexed and limbered his shooting arm; tilted his head; made the vertebrae in his neck go crack.
And then Gertrude appeared, rattling out of the shadows at speed, making straight down the road directly for Hunt. Its bank of headlights flared, turning Gene into a motionless silhouette.
‘Guv … that thing’s going to slam straight into you and just keep on rolling …’
‘It will not pass,’ Gene murmured, almost to himself.
‘It’s going to flatten you, Guv, and the Cortina!’
‘It – will not – pass!’
Gene raised the Magnum.
The truck blasted its horn, sending a ragged spear of steam stabbing up into the darkening sky. Gene replied with the Magnum. Fire spat from the muzzle. Gertrude’s windscreen exploded. A second shot cracked the radiator grill and thudded into the engine block. A third, fourth, and then a fifth ripped one after the other through the front axle.
But it was the sixth that delivered the sucker punch. It smacked through the bonnet and struck something – something vulnerable, something vital – deep inside Gertrude’s rusty bodywork. The truck screamed like a transfixed vampire. The cabin lurched forward as the axle beneath it gave way and flew apart, busting the chassis and driving the front bumper into the tarmac like a plough. Sheer weight and momentum carried the broken-backed monster forward a dozen or more yards, gouging a furrow in the road and throwing up showers of stones and debris, until, with a shuddering crack, the truck jolted to a stop. The man in the mask came catapulting through the jagged remains of the windscreen and fetched up in a ruinous heap at Gene Hunt’s feet. The cargo of old fridges and metal piping crashed and smashed like a steel wave that broke over the cab and cascaded deafeningly all over the road. Gertrude’s mortally wounded engine spewed a noisy jet of steam and then died. The headlights went dark. The scattered metallic debris came to rest. A last shard of glass fell from the windscreen and tinkled onto the road. Silence settled over the twilit street.
Gene glanced about at his handiwork, nodded to himself, and blew the smoke from the muzzle of the Magnum. Another job well done.
‘You are mad,’ said Sam, shaking his head slowly as he looked from the gun to the shattered remains of the lorry, from the blood-stained man crumpled at the guv’nor’s feet to the guv’nor himself, standing there in his camel hair coat and black leather string-backs, wreathed in a slowly arcing aura of gun-smoke. ‘This isn’t law enforcement … this is some sort of crazy macho playground you’re romping around in, you and your bloody Magnum. This isn’t what I signed up for. This isn’t the job I know. What the hell am I doing saddled with you, Gene?’
From the corner of his mouth, Gene replied: ‘Go on home to your kids, Herb.’ He leant over the groaning man sprawled at his feet, kicked away the now dented licence plate bearing the name Gertrude, and said: ‘And as for you, sunshine – you’re nicked … what’s left of you.’
Borstal Slags is available for download on 14 March 2013
About the Author
Tom Graham left school at 14 without qualifications. He is a smoker, and says that writing the Life on Mars novels is the nearest thing he’s had to a regular job since he got banned from driving. He part-owns a greyhound called Arthur and his ambition is to get fruity with Raquel Welch (to be clear about it, that’s Tom’s ambition, not Arthur’s).
Also by Tom Graham
Life on Mars: Blood, Bullets and Blue Stratos
Copyright
Th
is novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Copyright © Kudos Film and Television Limited 2012
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Tom Graham asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
Life On Mars? c.1971 David Bowie
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Tom Graham, author of Life on Mars: A Fistful of Knuckles