Civvies (28 page)

Dillon leaned over the washbasin, splashing cold water into his face. He blinked the water from his eyes and stared at his hands, shaking uncontrollably. His face in the mirror was ashen. He reached for the towel. From the office along the passage he could hear Harry’s voice: ‘Sorry to ring so late, Wally, but we’re on an all-night job. Na! Bit of security work, they can’t afford a dog.’ When Dillon came in, drying his hands, Harry was standing at the desk, laughing into the phone. On the blotter in front of him lay the photostats, the two images, full face, left-right profiles, stark under the lamplight. ‘Just wanted to make sure you’re on for some work tomorrow… yeah, G’night.’ He hung up. ‘You get shot of that friggin’ rifle, take it back where it came from, just get the thing out,’ Dillon said. He tossed the towel down and indicated the photostats with a curt nod, his eyes very dark in his pale face. ‘No more. I mean it, Harry, and I’m warnin’ you… Burn it, do it.’ ‘What’s the matter, Frank, lost your bottle?’ ‘Yeah, maybe I have.’ Dillon looked away, scowling. ‘We just killed a bloke. I dunno how it makes you feel —’ ‘I feel fine,’ Harry interrupted. He looked fine too, blue eyes bright, high colour in his cheeks, adrenalin surging through him. ‘An’ I sorted Wally, he thinks we’re on an all-nighter.’ ‘Well I don’t feel fine, I feel like shit. You want to keep going, then you get out of the firm. I got too much to lose, an’ I’m not losin’ it for you, for…’ hardly hesitating ‘… my lads. It’s over, Harry.’ ‘Over for you, over for them,’ Harry said, a harsh edge to his voice. ‘They were just kids — one of ‘em, Phil, he’d only enlisted six months.’ Dillon went up, grabbed a fistful of Harry’s combat jacket, his eyes blazing. ‘You’re using them, Harry, don’t do this to me! We’re in civvies, we got no right to take the law into our own hands.’ ‘This is Army business —’ ‘Bullshit. And we’re not in the Army, we’re in civvies.’ ‘They don’t wear a uniform neither,’ Harry said stolidly, the immovable object, the implacable force. ‘But it’s their war, it’s not ours, not any more. It’s over, and if you want to lose all this —’ Dillon gestured round ‘ — then we’ll buy you out. I won’t let you — or that scum — drag me down.’ Dillon stared into the blue eyes. Harry stared back. A moment’s silence passed, which lasted several ages, until Dillon said: ‘So I’m asking you, let it go.’ He couldn’t or wouldn’t. Or would he? ‘I can’t do it, Harry, I’m out, man.’ The towel lay over the back of the chair, where Dillon had tossed it. Now he was throwing it in again, and he didn’t care that Harry knew it, or that Harry might call him traitor, coward, betrayer. The lads were dead, let that be an end to it. What’s past is past. It took a long time, each word had to be dragged from his heels upwards, landing like lead in his chest, words that strangled him, he was so charged with emotion. Not weeping, they were not those kind of tears that trickled down Dillon’s cheeks and glistened in the line of his scar, to Harry it was not even Dillon speaking, the depth of sorrow was like the aftermath of a hard punch in the gut. ‘I want out Harry, let me go. I have too much to lose, I’m finished with this, God forgive me … I want out!’ Harry straightened his shoulders. He thought he knew all there was to know about Dillon, but he’d learned something more. Another depth to the man he’d never suspected, through all their years together. Another Sergeant Dillon entirely. He didn’t know whether it was an added strength, or a hidden weakness, but none of that seemed to matter, and he clasped Dillon tightly in an embrace that said he didn’t care, that it was over, done with, finished. ‘You’re the Guv’nor,’ Harry said.

Harry drove into the Roche Laundry Services’ car park and parked the security wagon on the diagonal yellow stripes outside the main office. He put on his visored helmet and tightened the chinstrap, hoping, praying, that it might muffle or even, praise be, cut out Cliff’s endless yakking completely. No such luck. Getting out and walking round to join Harry, Cliff kept it up. ‘… I tell you, if I’d known what it was gonna be like, I’d never have agreed, she’s goin’ nuts. I’m workin’, right, and I get back to bleat-bleat, you think she was the first woman to get pregnant. She keeps havin’ fittings for the weddin’ gown, rehearsals for the weddin’ — terrified her Dad’ll find out.’ ‘Well, they’ll all know six months after yer weddin’, she’ll be in the maternity ward,’ Harry said, for something to say. ‘Why not just tell ‘em?’ They went through reception to the Wages office, where the canvas sacks, fastened and sealed with dated lead slugs, were piled on a trolley awaiting them. They showed their IDs. ‘Huh!’ Cliff retorted. ‘You think I want that bugger round — he hates me!’ He shook his head, gave a long-suffering sigh. ‘You got the right idea, Harry — stay single!’ One pulling, the other pushing, they wheeled the trolley out and started loading up. The sacks were heavy, and it was hard work, but at least it kept Cliff quiet for a while. Harry was grateful for small mercies. Across the main road from Roche Laundry Services, on the second floor of what had been, pre-recession, the Streatham branch of a company supplying contract carpets to city offices, a man in a black boiler suit watched the loading operation through binoculars, speaking into a short-wave transceiver fastened with parcel tape to his right shoulder. ‘Right on schedule… stacking the dough… I count twelve sacks, no, thirteen, unlucky for some… okay, they’re closing the doors… ‘ ‘I’ve had more rehearsals than they have at an amateur dramatics,’ Cliff grumbled, slamming his door shut and operating the dead-lock bolt. ‘The bridesmaids are now up to seven, there’s kids, pageboys, it’ll look like a pantomime.’ Harry pulled the wagon round in a tight turn, blue smoke bellowing. ‘… It’s gonna be a real embarrassment. Frank’s gonna be best man, she wants everyone in top hats Harry halted at the gate, checked both ways, pulled out. He pushed the visor up with his thumb but kept the helmet on. ‘They’re on their way, turning right, that means they’ll be using the A23 route. Over and out.’ At the next roundabout the wagon took the right-hand fork and slid into the flow on the A23 southbound. Harry filtered through into the fast lane and put his foot down flat to the floor. ‘… I said to her, wouldn’t it be a better idea if we took a honeymoon at a later date, like she’s sick most mornings.’ Harry nodded, both hands gripping the wheel. Something Cliff had said ten minutes ago distantly registered, tickled him. ‘You won’t get Frank in a penguin suit — an’ you’ll look a right prat. They don’t have toppers your size!’ Harry glanced over and laughed, more at Cliff’s glum face than at his own weak joke. Serve him right, getting hitched. Dickhead. At Thornton Heath he switched back down the lanes, ready for the Croydon turn-off. A convenient gap in front of a large removals van doing under fifty let him into the slow lane. As they were leaving the A23 a lorry loaded up with logs came down a slip road to their left and instead of stopping, kept on going, causing Harry to brake. He thumped the horn, gave a long blast. ‘Stupid git… you see that? Cut right in front of us!’ ‘Hey!’ Cliff was staring into the nearside wing-mirror. ‘You got a big vehicle right on your tail, Harry — overtake!’ Harry flicked his indicator on, clocking the removals van in his wing-mirror. It was closing in. Then it flashed its lights, as if warning him not to overtake. The lorry in front had slowed down, the security wagon boxed between the two. About to swing out, Harry realised that the removals van was coming up alongside. It drew level. The open passenger side window was only a couple of feet away, a man with a ski mask covering his face leaning out, a sub-machine-gun cradled in the crook of his elbow. ‘Pull over… Pull over!’ Harry eased down on the brake slightly, as if to show willing. The removals van did likewise, keeping dead level. ‘Hang on, Cliff,’ Harry muttered, and side-rammed the removals van with the wagon’s armour plating. The van rocked but kept with them. Harry rammed it again, harder, and had the satisfaction of seeing the van sway alarmingly, lose speed and drop behind. Cliff was bashing the horn, urging the lorry in front to get a move on. He might have been pissing into the wind for all the difference it made. He grabbed Harry’s arm, as a warning, but Harry had already seen it. The tailgate of the lorry, attached by a rope to the cab, was suddenly released, the logs slithering out and tumbling into the road. Harry wrestled with the wheel as the wagon bounced like a bucking bronco. A log jammed under the front bumper, the wagon slewing left and right as Harry fought to keep on the road. The removals van came up behind, gave them a terrific shunt up the backside. It came again, the wagon shuddering under the impact, its rear doors buckling. The log had worked itself up into the wheel housing, and there was a horrible grinding, splintering noise as the front wheels locked solid, bringing the wagon to a jolting halt. Two men leapt from the back of the van and raced forward to the buckled rear doors, one of them lugging a holdall. The raider with the sub-machine-gun jumped down and ran up to Harry’s window. ‘Hands on your heads!’ Harry shoved Cliff back as the lad leaned across, all fired up, ready to have a go. ‘Don’t be a hero, they’re armed.’ A mite impatient, the raider smashed the gun’s metal butt against the mesh-reinforced window. ‘Hands on your fucking heads!’ The wagon shuddered and rocked — the dull boom of an explosion, a gush of white smoke as the rear doors were blown off. In the wing-mirror Harry could see the sacks being tossed from hand to hand. It was done a damn sight quicker than it had taken him and Cliff to load them. The man at the window never budged his eyes once, the large bore business end of the weapon pressed against the glass. Harry heard the distinctive thwack-thwack-thwack of a silenced automatic as the men pumped bullets into the tyres. The security wagon sank slowly onto its rims. The raider in the ski mask jerked his head at his companions. ‘Go — go — go! All clear!’ They dived into the back of the van and pulled the big doors shut behind them. Covering Harry and Cliff, the raider backed away a step. He glanced behind, judging the right moment to turn and jump aboard. The van came up alongside. The raider half-turned, getting ready. Harry threw the dead-lock bolt. He kicked the door open, catching the end of the submachine-gun, and leapt out. The raider staggered but kept on his feet. He turned and started to run for the van. Harry lunged, got a hand on his shoulder. The raider took a swipe with the weapon, missed, and Harry grabbed it off him. Still holding onto the raider’s jacket shoulder, Harry tossed the gun to Cliff. The raider was half-in, half-out of the van door, Harry hanging on like grim death, both of them being dragged along as the van picked up speed. Cliff brought the gun up, sighted, but the two men were too close together to risk a shot. He saw Harry clawing at the raider’s head, ripping the mask up so that Cliff snatched a glimpse of the man’s left profile. Frantic now, the raider back-heeled, and lucky for him, unlucky for Harry, found a soft target in Harry’s balls. Harry let go, dropped, rolled, curled over, hugging himself. Cliff let one off, aiming for the tyres. He missed with the first, bagged a rear tyre with the second. The van veered left, then right, straightened up and was off. Harry was on the ground, bent over, clutching his property. ‘You okay… Harry?’ Harry pulled his helmet off. His face was green. His lips were tight against his gritted teeth. ‘Me voice sound higher? Ohhh… Kerrrist!’ He started to heave, then held his breath to stop himself vomiting. From the back of the wagon, Cliff yelled to him, ‘they cleaned us out, Harry. Harry…?’ Harry was on his knees on the grass verge, bringing up last night’s Murphy’s stout and vindaloo. He wiped his mouth and gingerly climbed to his feet, walking back towards Cliff doing an impersonation of John Wayne riding an invisible horse. He gestured for Cliff to hand the gun over and checked it out. He thought it looked familiar. It was an L2A3 Sterling 9mm sub-machine-gun, a standard British Army weapon issued to tank crewmen and artillery support services. Harry tucked the triangular metal frame butt against his shoulder and blew out the wagon’s windscreen. He fired again and shattered the driver’s window. While Cliff stood gaping at him as if he’d lost his marbles, Harry walked up to the wagon and head-butted the armour-plated side panel. He staggered drunkenly backwards, a gash pouring blood. ‘Go get the cops,’ he told Cliff, sinking to the ground. ‘Mess yourself up a bit!’ ‘For the law…?’ Harry was in agony, clutching his head. ‘No, you prat! The bloody laundry wages have gone! We got to look like we almost got ourselves killed for it!’ ‘What you mean, almost?’ said Cliff indignantly. ‘They were bloody pros, I tell you that much. Knew what they were doin’, an’ they could handle themselves.’ The same notion had occurred to Cliff. ‘One of ‘em,’ frowning and shaking his head, ‘I’m sure I’ve seen him before…’

Dillon picked up the Sterling from the desk and glanced at Harry, sitting looking sorry for himself with an ice-pack on his head. ‘Cops knows about this?’ ‘Na, I stashed it under a hedge.’ ‘What about the laundry company, they know?’ Harry snorted. ‘Guv’nor was grovellin’ his thanks to us in front of the cops — you know, how we risked our lives, what’s money!’ Cliff was drying his neck and hands on a towel. ‘He’s insured, won’t hurt him.’ ‘Screw him!’ Harry said. ‘Our wagon’s a write-off, Frank. They were good, an’ you know somethin’ — I think they were Army trained.’ He indicated the gun. ‘That’s Army, similar to the one we used.’ Dillon said angrily, ‘You should’ve handed it over!’ ‘We’re insured, aren’t we?’ Cliff said with a shrug. ‘Yeah, we’re insured,’ said Dillon grimly. ‘Third party, fire and theft!’” ‘Thank Christ for that.’ Dillon rolled his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Theft of the vehicle, you prat! Oh Jesus, this is all we need…’ He put the gun down and stared dismally at the dismal view of the basement steps. ‘I don’t believe it. Why is it every time we make two steps forward we take ten back? Why?’ ‘You think we’ll lose the account?’ ‘We got no wagon, Cliff.’ ‘We got the Mercedes — an’ I tell you,’ Harry stabbed a finger, ‘if we’d had that they’d never have got us trapped. I mean, our top speed in that bus was eight…’ The phone rang and Dillon answered. ‘An’ then it shuddered, we were easy pickings.’ ‘Stag Security… hang on.’ Dillon thrust the phone at Cliff. ‘Shirley!’ Dillon paced up and down, rubbing his forehead. He said to Harry, ‘This is a real downer, you an’ me’ll have to see if we can get another wagon.’ He tapped the Sterling on the desk. ‘Bloody get this out of the way an’ all.’ Cliff was holding the phone away from his ear. Finally he managed to get a word in. ‘Don’t scream at me like it was our fault, I’m still shakin’. We were held up, yeah!’ Dillon gave Harry a look and walked out. ‘I’ll tell you everythin’ when I see you…’ Harry tossed a bunch of keys onto the desk. ‘Tell her now. You man the office, me and Frank’ll see if we can sort a replacement wagon.’ He lumbered to the door. ‘Hey, Harry!’ Cliff covered the receiver. ‘What about tonight’s job?’ ‘I’ll be back. Get hold of Wally and Taylor, we need four blokes.’ Cliff gave the thumbs-up and went back to telling his fiancee about the morning’s raid.