A Good Year for the Roses (1988) (23 page)

The cabbie dropped me off at the gates to Brockwell park. I crossed over the road and walked under the railway bridge. When I got to the warehouse, there were lights burning on the ground floor. The mesh gates were open and I went round to the back of the building. The loading bay was closed up tight. The outside steps leading down to the basement looked promising so I crept down them on tip-toe. I couldn't see any sign of life, and with luck George would be on his own on a weekend afternoon. The basement area smelt of cats and was piled with garbage. Underfoot the ground was slimy. I picked my way as quietly as possible through the junk and tried the windows, one by one. All of them were bolted and barred. Down at the end of the entry, around a blind corner was a door. I tried the handle. Of course it was locked tight. I felt sick, after all my brave intentions, I couldn't even get into the place.

I leant back against the wall and tried to concoct a plan. As I was thinking, I heard the rattle of the loading bay door opening. I peered up from the basement, through iron railings and saw the door rolling up into it's mounting. Standing in the opening was the fat man from the Brixton squat, who I'd subsequently seen pump two shots into the back of the Rolls-Royce in Norwood Cemetery. The man that David had told me was named Grant, now dressed in khaki fatigue trousers and an Iron Maiden T-Shirt.

I unzipped the sports bag and took out the Colt Cobra, which I tucked into the waistband of my jeans, at the back, out of sight again. I carefully removed the M10 and wrapped the leather strap around my forearm. I left the bag amongst the other rubbish in the entry. I walked back through the muck and climbed the stone steps slowly back to ground level. Grant was carefully man-handling a giant juke-box onto the edge of the loading bay.

So it was business as usual at George's. The box was probably full of A.1 pink Peruvian flake.

The sort of stuff that makes it a pleasure to need a new septum. Grant seemed to be alone. I pussy-footed round until he was clearly in my view, but facing away from me.

‘Turn around,’ I said quietly. He stiffened, and let the juke-box tilt back gently onto its feet, then slowly turned his head until he could see me.

‘Hello again,’ I said. ‘Now turn around like I told you to and keep your hands where I can see them.’ The words sounded stilted and overdramatic. But coupled with the machinegun I was holding, pointed at his back, they seemed to work. He turned on the balls of his feet and stood with his arms raised from the sides of his body. All at once I heard the sound of an engine from behind me. Without thinking, I turned my head and saw a Hi-Ace truck with the words ‘BRIGHT LEISURE’ painted on the sides turn beneath the arch directly behind me and pull into the yard. At the wheel was the Heavyweight. The Ingram was no longer covering Grant, and he took his chance and ran back into the shadows inside the warehouse. Heavyweight, meanwhile, seeing me standing holding the machinepistol hit the brakes of the van. It skidded to a halt on the damp cobbles. When it stopped, he tried to put it into reverse, but only managed to stall the engine. He was desperately trying to re-start it when I ran up to the vehicle and stuck the barrel of the M10 through the open window of the van.

‘Leave it,’ I ordered. He immediately took his hand off the ignition key. ‘Get out,’ I continued, and stepped back from the cab door so as to allow him room to do so. He opened the door slowly and stepped out of the truck. ‘Face down on the ground,’ I said, jamming the gun into his side. He dropped to the muddy ground as if to start a series of press-ups. ‘Spreadeagle,’ I shouted. He concurred. Just as I was going to frisk him, I heard heavy footsteps from within the darkened warehouse. Through the gloom I saw Grant running towards the loading bay door. He was carrying the sawn-off I'd already seen him use to great effect.

‘Get up,’ I said to the black man lying on the ground. ‘Get behind the truck, quick.’ He sprang to his feet and I pulled him out of Grant's firing line, behind the van. I kept the Ingram poking into the negro's spine, with my left hand twisted into the material of his shirt. I peered out from behind the protection of the bodywork of the Hi-Ace. We were so close I could smell his sour odour.

‘This is on full automatic,’ I hissed into his ear. ‘If I pull the trigger, your guts are down the road.’

Grant slid to a halt behind the juke-box which he had abandoned on the loading bay floor. I saw him stealing a glance towards us, using the box as a shield. My hand was greasy with sweat on the pistol grip of my gun. I was scared again. I didn't want to die in a muddy yard in a South London slum . I wanted to live and would do anything to make sure I did. I hammered the muzzle of the Ingram into the Heavyweight's kidney and whispered into his ear. ‘Walk slowly in front of me.’

‘Fuck off, Blood,’ he said. They were the first words he'd spoken since driving into the yard.

‘I'll shoot you in the back if you don't, now move,’ I said threateningly. I let go of his shirt to check that the magazine of the machine-pistol was pushed securely home, and he took his chance to make a break for it. He powdered himself around the side of the truck, shouting as he went, ‘Don't shoot, it's me.’

Grant took no notice, perhaps he was as scared as me. Obviously he'd identified the Ingram for what it was. As the black man left the shelter of the van, Grant stepped from behind the juke-box and fired his shot gun. Immediately he ducked back. The shot hit the Heavyweight in mid-stride, across his upper arms and chest. The force of the sawn-off's load snapped his head back. A gout of blood, skin and material from his shirt fountained from his body, a good deal of it splashing onto me. His legs kept pumping, but the punch from the blast knocked his body backwards. He did a lazy half-flip and landed in a puddle of dirty water by the front bumper of the truck. I squinted through the side window of the van, and saw through the windscreen, Grant, half hidden by the juke-box. He was desperately trying to re-load his gun. In the excitement he must have discharged both barrels. It was all the edge I required.

I moved out from my cover and pulled the trigger of the Ingram. The tiny gun burped noisily in my hands, and I felt the kick reverberate up my arms. I'd aimed too low, but the muzzle velocity pulled the gun upwards as I'd remembered it would. The shells hit the juke-box, shattering coloured glass, plastic and chrome which flew in all directions. At that range, it was as if there was nothing in the way. The bullets zipped up Grant's chest, throwing him backwards onto a work bench which collapsed under his weight in a cloud of dust. He lay in the debris, blood pumping from his wounds. The shot gun lay by his side. I paused to draw a shakey breath. The shooting had taken less than twenty seconds to occur. It felt like a lifetime. For two out of three of us involved, it was.

I checked the Heavyweight's body. He was dead. The mass of pellets from the shot gun had nearly ripped one of his arms off. The puddle in which he lay was stained a deep red colour. I didn't feel a thing. I remembered what he and Lynch had done to Terry Southall.

Next I ran over and jumped up onto the loading bay. Grant was still alive, but only barely. His heart was still beating, but there was nowhere for the blood to go. His chest was a mess, blood and fluid ran across the concrete floor of the bay. I breathed deeply to retain my equilibrium. I left him where he lay. I'm no doctor, and even if I was I'd have done nothing.

I checked the magazine of the Ingram. There were twelve bullets left, which meant I'd pumped twenty shots into Grant's body. I was quite happy, he'd deserved it.

I picked up the sawn-off that he had dropped; it was empty. I found the two fresh cartridges he'd been trying to load on the floor. I finished the job. I could feel the presence of more people in the warehouse and I needed all the firepower I could muster, besides I wanted the shot gun for evidence. I hung the M10 by it's strap from my shoulder and, shot gun at the ready, I moved deeper into the building. I walked slowly through the loading bay and into the dimness of the warehouse proper.

Juke-boxes, arcade video games and pin tables lined the walls. Pool tables filled the middle of the windowless storage area looking like great coffins under their cloudy plastic wrappings. The mezzanine gallery that ran close under the roof was in darkness. The only light in that place came from weak flourescent fitments that hung down at the end of rusty chains and tied into the power system by thin, snakelike cables. I prowled between the equipment, looking from left to right. Everything was quiet until I heard the squeak of a rubber sole on the metal walkway above me, and to my right.

I saw a muzzle flash in the gloom of the mezzanine and heard the explosion of gun-shots. The first two bullets smashed into the slate top of a pool table in front of me. The third hit me in the meat of my upper left arm. I felt as if I'd been smacked by a length of 2×4 timber. The bullet spun me round and dropped me into the aisle formed by the rows of pool tables. As a reflex, when I fell I pulled one of the triggers of the shot gun. The pellets bounced harmlessly against the concrete walls of the warehouse.

Whether or not I actually passed out, I don't know, but I found myself lying on cold stone clutching the sawn-off. The Ingram was lying by my side. I heard footsteps descending the metal stairs from the gallery. Through slitted eyes I watched the blonde man, Lynch, peering through the bannisters in my direction. I fired the other barrel of the shot gun. He ducked back out of sight, firing the pistol in his hand as he went. The bullet raised sparks from the stone floor on which I lay, and splinters cut into the skin of my face. I reached for the machine pistol with my right hand as I lay face down on the cold floor. Time dragged by and my arm began to throb from the bullet wound. I could feel blood collecting in the sleeve of my jacket. It felt warm against my chilled skin. I guessed that five minutes had passed, but it might as well have been five hours, when I heard soft footsteps coming towards me. I kept my head down and prayed that Lynch wouldn't just put a bullet into my skull to confirm I was out of the picture. With my eyes still half closed I saw his feet in their white sneakers moving closer. Apart from an echo of the gun-shots in my ears, everything was quiet.

He walked slowly up to me. The combination of the splashes of blood from the Heavyweight's fatal wound, plus that from my injured arm, together with the trickles of blood I could feel running down my face as a result of being hit by the concrete splinters must have convinced him I was dead, or at least badly wounded. I tried not to breathe as he came even closer. He allowed his gun-hand to rest down by his side. The empty shot gun was in clear sight but the Ingram was in shadow. He stopped and kicked the sawn-off away from me. Whilst he was momentarily distracted, I lifted the M10 and pointed it up in his direction. He tried in vain to bring his revolver round to bear on me.

‘Bad idea motherfucker,’ I said as I squeezed the trigger and watched the bullets cut him down. My gun emptied in less than a second. At point blank range the slugs tore into his body and tumbled him back down the aisle, screaming wordless screams. His pistol flew from his grasp and landed somewhere in the darkness. He lay, kicking his legs spasmodically until he was still. I climbed to my feet, feeling like a whipped dog and wiped the blood of my eyes with my sleeve. Still carrying the empty machine gun I went to look for George Bright in his inner sanctum.

I walked down the short flight of stairs to the basement carrying the Ingram like a talisman. I'd given up any idea of being quiet, as the noise from the gunfight would have awakened Sleeping Beauty in the close confines of the concrete building.

I could feel the sticky ooze of blood running down my left arm and I left a trail of crimson spots on the uncarpeted steps as I descended into the bowels of the warehouse. Lights burned, but there was no sound. I pushed open the door to George's office. He was sitting behind his desk. His expression could have been carved from wood. The surface of the desk was stacked with long, transparent packets of what might have been icing sugar, but I knew weren't. Behind him the safe was standing with its steel door slightly ajar. My arm was beginning to stiffen up and I felt a little dizzy. George didn't acknowledge my presence. I looked around the office. There was a tea towel draped over the handle of the electric kettle standing on the filing cabinet. I tossed the Ingram carelessly onto the desk and went over to fetch the cloth. There was a single edged razor blade in an ashtray beside the kettle. All the better to cut the lines out with, I thought. I picked up the blade and sliced the edge of the cloth. Using my right hand and my teeth I ripped off a length of rag. I tied the thin material awkwardly around my arm just above the bullet wound. I knotted it into a rough tourniquet as tightly as I could using my teeth again. It reminded me of the preparation for shooting up, but I put the thought out of my mind. My little piece of first-aid had been conducted in perfect silence. I felt just a little freaked out at being so studiously ignored.

‘Well, George,’ I said to break the silence. ‘Is this how it ends?’

‘She's dead,’ he said bluntly.

‘I know, I was there,’ I replied. I sat down on the chair on my side of the desk and let my left arm hang limply at my side.

‘Wasn't that what you wanted?’ I asked.

‘Me?’ He looked at me for the first time. ‘Me, you bastard? Of course it wasn't. I loved her.’

‘Enough to turn her out as a whore?’

From somewhere above I heard a faint noise. Perhaps it was a mouse, or a rat, or any one of the noises that can be heard in an old building as it settles on its foundations, or perhaps it wasn't.

I ignored the sound.

‘Why me George?’ I continued. ‘Why pick on me for your bloody scheme?’

‘I wanted her found,’ he replied.

‘You succeeded, but why me?’ I asked again.

‘You'll never understand,’ he said. I was the first to agree.

‘I loved her,’ he said again. I was getting more and more pissed off with him.

‘Love!’ I spat out the word. ‘For Christ's sake don't bring love into it.’

‘Why don't you just go?’ he said after a moment.

‘Just like that George, just go. You must know I can't do that.’

‘Take one of these.’ He gestured at the packets that littered the desk top. ‘You know what they are, don't you? And you like it, he said that you did.’ I didn't bother to ask who ‘he’ was. George picked up a scalpel blade from the clutter in front of him and split a packet from end to end. ‘Try it,’ he invited. I dipped my finger into the powder that spilt from the cut in the plastic. I tasted the bitter dust on the end of my tongue and immediately felt the freeze turn my mouth numb.

‘Top grade, George, supreme even,’ I said. ‘Connoisseur's coke, no-one's walked on this batch yet.’

‘Take one, and go,’ he said. ‘Any one of these bags is worth close to eighty grand.’ He turned in his chair and looked at the open safe. ‘Or cash,’ he said, his voice rising. ‘I've got plenty of cash.’ He got up from his chair and went to the safe. He pulled the door all the way open. The interior was stacked with neatly bundled bank notes.

‘I heard you were small time, George, but I heard wrong,’ I said. ‘Keep your drugs, I don't dip into that bag any more. As for your money, it wouldn't get me far. Too many people are looking for me. No, my friend. It's you I want. I need you to tell everyone how I was set up.’

‘No,’ he said, turning from the safe. He walked calmly back to the desk and picked up the Ingram that I had dropped onto it.

‘Put it down George, I'm not impressed,’ I said gently.

He swung the machine gun round and pointed it at my chest.

‘I'll kill you,’ he said.

‘No George,’ I said tiredly. ‘You look about as happy holding that thing as a nun caught changing the batteries in her vibrator. You're used to other people doing your killing for you. Besides it's not loaded.’

‘Don't try that one on me,’ he sneered.

‘You are a prat, George,’ I told him as I got up from the chair on which I was sitting.

I was wrong about the killing part. He was prepared to pull the trigger and did. There was a metallic click from the firing action of the M 10 and nothing else. George looked down at the weapon in pure frustration. I snatched the gun from him with my good hand and busted him on the side of the head with the butt end. He fell to the floor, knocking his chair over as he went. I flung the Ingram into the corner of the room, knelt beside him and felt for the pulse in his throat. It was weak, but regular. The last thing I wanted to do was top him. I righted his seat and slumped into it on his side of the desk. I heard another noise, this time from directly outside the office, and the door began to open slowly inwards. ‘Come in John,’ I said. ‘I was beginning to wonder where you were hiding yourself.’