by Ian Patrick
“You what? You think I grassed you up? What about all the other jobs we were on and nothing happened? Why me? I was there don’t forget, waiting for you to come out! I’m hardly going to grass and have the old bill come to where I’m about to get a wad load of cash and a motor. You’re off your head. Working here’s fried your brain. Now we can talk all day long but I’ve got a job to do so put the piece down and let’s get on with it.”
“Who’s that?”
A gravel-sounding female’s voice emanates from a far room. She sounds drunk but odds on just stoned on a cocktail of drugs. I can hear the faint sounds of a child’s murmur coming from the same place. The child sounds sick and definitely newborn by the cry.
“Shut the kid up and don’t come out. I’ve got this.” Treacle isn’t happy either.
The gun has now moved up to my forehead and his face is in mine. The smell of sweet putrid breath spews forth as he speaks.
“Take your fucking clothes off now or I’m going to pull the trigger.”
I have limited time to waste here. I acquiesce and strip, dropping my clothing one by one on the dirt-encrusted floor. As I move to remove shoes they stick to the linoleum hall surface and as I raise my foot a tile comes up with it. Treacle just points the gun and spits until I’ve undressed fully.
“Turn around slowly and bend over.”
I do as he says.
“Happy now? Can I put my clothes back on?”
He’s not replying. I’m reluctant to turn around fully. You are when someone has a gun trained at you. It doesn’t matter how many times you’ve faced one, the feeling of imminent death is still the same. I turn my head only and keep my hands down by my side.
A glance at the smashed mirror on the wall and I can see him looking at me. He steps closer, the gun held loosely at his side. He then raises it and runs the muzzle down the scars on my back. I tense as it runs over the welt ridges that have grown with me over time. The curiosity has now got the better of him and he appears more relaxed.
“What happened to you? You look like you’ve been caught screwing an Arab’s wife. When did you get the leg?”
“The welts are a life of beatings as a kid. The leg… I got shot. Now I’d love to chat but I need my clothes.”
He appears happier. He lowers the weapon to his side and waves it at the clothes indicating I can put them on. No one outside the police has seen my leg. In my role, some disabilities are best left hidden. I’ve adapted with it and don’t recognise it as a disability. I have a slight limp, nothing more. It has made me look upon life in a different way. A way that most human beings don’t live by. I faced death and won by the fact the armed robber couldn’t shoot straight. As he exited the jewellers, the shout was given to attack. All our gunships were on him as he came out. We knew he was going to be there. We’d known what he was planning for weeks and when it would be. Someone like me had befriended him and agreed to drive the getaway car. We weren’t going to let an armed robber get back in a car with the undercover officer. That was never part of the plan.
It was all going to be easy. We’d stake out the jewellers, watch him go in and take him out in the act of the robbery. Right place wrong time for me. I was already out of the car, MP5 trained on the gunman as he exited the shop. I shouted, ‘Armed police, drop your weapon!’ He didn’t listen and got a shot in. I got hit in the shin. He got hit twice by a double tap to the chest by my partner. He was dead before he hit the floor. I was in the air ambulance on my way to hospital. I got a commendation and a chat with the commissioner at my hospital bedside. He vowed to have a war on gun-related crime. The media never knew my identity. I just missed my job. They couldn’t get rid of a disabled copper either. That would make bad press.
Treacle is the only person, on this side of my life, to know my secret. I was lucky in Bali as my stay was short and white linen trousers were the order of the day and I chose to wear shoes. The monks knew but didn’t ask questions. I did what I’ve always done, adapt and overcome. This current situation is a bind though, as it can only end one way. I slowly put my clothes back on, the stench getting more pronounced as the lamps do their job. I’m conscious of a baby being here and I already know I can’t leave the kid.
Treacle is now relaxed and turning towards the living room where the business end is taking place. He opens a door and a black plastic sheet bats him in the face as he goes in. I follow. The farm is well towards harvest, the leaves sway every now and then with the heat and he walks through the plants touching them with the gun and smelling them every now and then. At the far end of the room is a mattress on the floor and used works litter the carpet. Syringes with needles fixed and blood inside discarded like the junkies lives.
On the mattress is the female. I use the description lightly as I cannot tell from the haggard gaunt face. On her left tit an infant barely days old is trying to extract milk. The female is out of it. A needle in her arm with works attached has been recently used and her head is rolling against the wall she’s propped against. I’ve never seen such depravity as this in all my service. I feel the need to vomit but I’m in role and Treacle has a gun. I can’t take my eyes from the child. She can’t support the baby as her arms are dropping by her side and the child just lays on its front desperately trying to attach its mouth to her nipple.
“Wake up you fucking bitch, the kid needs feeding.”
Treacle slaps her face and she turns in his direction, her pupils wide and fixed. Her mouth tries to move in response but the muscle fails as the brain can’t communicate with that area of her face.
“When did she drop the kid?”
“It ain’t hers. It’s a mate of hers. This one had her kid taken off her at birth two days ago and she said she’d look after this kid for her mate whilst she goes out and scores. Waste of fucking time, look at her.”
I can’t take my eyes off her. He slaps her again and she’s gone. Unresponsive. He picks the baby up by its piss-sodden babygrow and puts it in a council recycling box.
“He’ll be fine in there. Come through here and feast your eyes on this lot.”
He takes me through to an adjoining room. I take a look at the baby who’s on his back just staring up at the ceiling. He’s breathing but listless. There’s a blanket in the box. It’s blue. The same used in cells at the station. I’m on my own. I’ve been told there is no backup and if I get caught… I don’t contemplate that. My instincts have reacted with the situation I’ve found myself in and it must be resolved to the satisfaction of all parties concerned.
In the room are bin liners full of cultivated plants. I don’t use but it smells great. Reminds me of checking the drugs safe when I did custody. Skinny man still has the gun and he’s using it as a pointing prop showing me the gear. I check my watch, 1300 hours. I have no phone. To bring it in here would have been foolish. On a mantelpiece next to a water-stained picture of another child is a syringe prepped and ready to go. He must have been getting ready for a hit before I knocked. The needle is on. His back is to me and I take my opportunity. He’s an easy target now he’s relaxed, even with the gun. I plunge the syringe in his right bicep and push the plunger at the same time. He turns and tries to pistol-whip me but I bring my head back and away and catch his forearm, as it swings round.
He staggers and I push his hand with the gun towards his face and he drops the pistol on the floor and goes to his knees. The drugs are kicking in, his eyes are glazing then he goes. I drop him unceremoniously to the floor. I take the pistol and stick it in the crease of my back. I check it for safety before doing it. In the next room I monitor the baby’s pulse. He’s still alive. The other two I leave. My exit strategy hadn’t involved extracting a baby in a recycling box. I pick up the crate containing the baby and move towards the door to the flat. I put him down in the hall and turn back. In the room containing the main crop I search for any other drugs. Cannabis plants aren’t going to be the only drug of choice here. On the floor is a yellow box. I open it and there are twelve fu
ll strips of Gabapentin or ‘gabbies’, the druggie’s choice of pain meds.
I find a syringe and attach a discarded needle. Back in the kitchen I search for any fluid other than water. There’s a bottle of vinegar. I draw up some vinegar to halfway in the syringe. The tablets I empty, pouring the Gabapentin powder into the works. I calculate this will amount to 21,000 milligrams as the box is full. I top the works up with bleach. The baby is asleep. I go back through the live plant room to the room containing the harvested crop and the comatose Treacle. He got his name after his propensity to eliminate competition by waterboarding rivals with a mixture of bleach and treacle to sweeten the taste.
He’s spark out on the floor. Saliva is running down a ravine made by his part open mouth. I elevate his right arm and take a deep breath. I shake the syringe; it looks gritty but dissolved well. I need this to go to his heart quickly. He moans but doesn’t say anything coherent. I look at my cocktail of death. He remembered me when he shouldn’t have, he knows me, he treats women and children like dirt and has no respect for the elderly. I push the syringe into his bicep vein and press the plunger. In law this is classed as murder. I prefer to see it as community policing. I leave the works in. It will look better when the old bill arrive. It will be treated as suicide or murder by a rival gang. Chances of detection nil. Want or resolve to solve the crime, none.
I don’t wait to see if he’s dead. I need to dispose of the kid and get back to the main job. The baby is asleep. It’s a good thing as he’s seen enough for one day. I look through the small eyehole cut into the cloth over the kitchen window. It’s purposely cut to observe the stair side of the landing. No access from the other side. It’s clear. I take the crate and sleeping baby and exit left out of the flat. I shut the door. No one about. I take the stairs. It’s easier descending but I try not to shake the crate around too much. I don’t need a shaken baby syndrome case to explain away.
I get to the ground floor. I look at the rubbish chute. It’s still full. I hear a loud diesel engine and the sound of reversing beeps. It’s the council refuse team. It’s bin day. I’m in luck. I take a last look at the little man. He’s in a bad way but I can’t drop him at a hospital, there are cameras everywhere. I’m only left with one choice. I put the container on top of the large refuse bin. It sits steadily on top of a ripped nappy bag and a rotting Indian meal. I pull my hat down and zip up my coat so the collars meet over my chin.
The refuse lorry has finished at the other block and begins reversing towards me. I exit across the road as the lorry draws level with the containers. I turn and see two men take the handles of the main bin and pull it towards the rear of the lorry. This was not meant to happen. The men attach the rear winch to the refuse bin and one of the men moves towards the lift button at the side of the truck. I turn and walk towards them as he goes to press the button. Then it happens. The button’s pressed. The box wobbles precariously on top as the bin’s wheels lift off the ground. I quicken my pace then the sound of the engine is muffled by a piercing mew. The man presses the emergency stop button. He lowers the bin and grabs the black crate and lifts it off.
“Hang on I think someone’s dumped a kitten.” The crate is lowered to the floor.
“Here Dick, someone’s only gone and dumped a baby!”
I walk past the truck and, as they concentrate on the child, throw the gun into the rear of the dustcart and carry on walking. As I leave I can hear one of the men on a phone asking for an ambulance. My job here is done. The old dear can return, Lenny gets his house back and a baby gets a chance at life. I’ve also removed a parasite from a residential premises. I collect my phones from a council salt bin where I’d secreted them earlier. I check my messages. The screen is blank. I phone Stoner. She’ll need to update Lenny on the morning’s work and I need to be left alone now to prepare for the off. The gloves I keep. I’ll discard them away from here.
She answers on the third ring.
“Tell Lenny his mother can move back in a couple of days. If the police ask her she’s to say she was staying with a relative, which is the case. So when do I turn the other phone on? I need to know what’s happening? Where I need to be. What part of the country.”
I stop and pause for breath.
“You’re keen ain’t ya? You don’t like it when a woman’s in control do ya? Bet you like to take control in the sack, eh…?”
“You’ll never know sweetheart. Now, when’s the off?”
“I’ve just spoken to him as it goes. He says he’ll call me back in a couple of hours. Sit tight, lover boy, until I call you later. Go and get a massage or something. You’re wound up more than my coil.”
With that she hangs up. I’m at a loss, I can’t leave London, not that I have any intention of doing so. My work premises is out of bounds whilst I’m actively deployed and DCI Winter would shoot me rather than return the cup of tea she owes me. I need to unwind. The near miss on the baby has shaken me up. I’ve already killed one child and two would be too much. For the first time in two weeks I notice pain in my left leg. Today isn’t the day for me to take a dive. I feel alone and it’s not a good place to be.
I see an unlicensed cab and wave at him. He looks in his rearview mirror then pulls over. I jump in the back.
“Elephant and Castle, cheers.”
He nods. He looks Polish, not that his place of origin matters to me. I just need to get home and pack. I won’t be returning to the calm of the centre. I don’t know where I will be returning to or when. Bali was the longest I’ve stayed in one place. The police don’t really know my true address as I don’t stay long enough to warrant them knowing. After this job I hope I won’t be returning to London at all.
16
You can’t play hardball if you don’t have a pump. Hamer doesn’t know it but I’ll be his shadow whilst he goes about his weary way intimidating the public and generally being a prick. I chose today, as it’s a designated down day by DCI Winter on account of her team’s budget being over spent after two days of nothing happening. Stoner has been on another planet and I chose to stay in the city and entertain a Lithuanian barmaid. Even criminals need some time out. The drugs and guns aren’t on the move as first thought. The skip lorry is still being worked on, though I don’t know why.
So rather than sit or lie around I thought I’d take this time to get to know Mr Hamer a little more. I’m good like that. It’s Thursday and according to Stoner he always has his lunch in the grounds of Temple . She says he likes it there as he was meant to be a lawyer but that didn’t work out so he took to crime. Not much difference in my eyes. They shit on you all the same for the greatest pot of money. Most of it, the public’s. I arrive at 1130 hours and take a look outside the church where he likes to take his mid-morning snack. Bang on time he turns up shuffling his fat frame towards the reinforced concrete bench. He stuffs his lardy butt down and concentrates on his Subway. He only looks up and grins when a female walks past.
I’m oblivious to him. I’m out in the open dressed casually in a black T-shirt, jeans and Converse shoes. Yes, I wear shoes. Even prosthetics are made to shoe size. I have more hair now than he would have seen me with on both my head and face. Not too much growth but enough to distort any memory of my appearance he may have stored. He doesn’t take long to consume his sandwich. It was foot long but to him a light bite. He wipes his grease-stained hands and mouth with a paper napkin and with the grace of a gorilla rises from his seat and stretches. I have one eye on my book and the other on him. He starts walking towards me and his phone goes, he stops and answers it. I look down and carry on reading. He’s getting closer now, ten feet if that.
“Where are you? I’m where we always meet! Where do you think I am? Hang on… I see you, I see you.” He shuts the phone off and goes back to the bench and sits down.
I wonder if he’s made me but have to trust my instinct that he hasn’t. I’ll shoot myself if I’ve fucked this up. I remain where I am for now. I want eyes on who’s meeting him but I’m p
raying it’s not Stoner or Ron. A male approaches him, he’s around six foot athletically built with a nonchalant swagger. He’s wearing a light cotton scarf despite the warmth of the day. He has the appearance of an actor but I know he’s no screen artist, he’s a cop paid to act like he isn’t. I don’t know him personally and he won’t have met me. He sits next to Hamer and they shake hands. They’re then joined by a shorter guy. Cop number two and clearly the boss of cop one. Hamer is on the books with the filth. Oh happy days.
I remain as neither of them is paying any interest in me. I decide to take the heat down by removing my lower limb and placing it next to me. The cops glance over, paying the same inquisitive interest as anyone else would, but carrying on the conversation with Hamer. I just look at my limb and massage the stump of my leg. Threat level reduced, just an amputee enjoying some rays. The meeting lasts about ten minutes. I can’t hear what they’re saying but Hamer looks twitchy. He’s sweating and it isn’t from the Subway. I know fear when I see it and he’s an anxious man. My suspicions are confirmed when boss cop takes out a piece of paper and passes Hamer a pen and he signs it. An envelope is then passed over and it’s full. I’ve seen full envelopes, this one cannot close, and as I bend down to put my leg back on I can see the top is open and it contains cash. I would guess around two grand. He looks about, puts it in a briefcase and gets up to leave.
He waddles past me and carries on towards the exit and out onto the street. The other two get up and walk in the opposite direction. Their counter surveillance is poor. Same route in and out. I wait until he’s rounded the corner from my sight and start my follow. He doesn’t look back; he’s on a regular route and doesn’t feel the need to be cautious. I use the cover of shops, stopping every other one and looking in the window as he carries on walking. At bus stops, I wait until he’s further ahead then join the throng of Londoners grabbing their ten-minute lunch breaks. He doesn’t move quickly and those he approaches move aside and let him pass. They’re given no choice, either move or be moved by his pendulous gut. The heels of his shoes are worn down to the right and that’s good going for a pair of Dr Martens.