R.I.P Robbie Silva (3 page)

When I showed up, I shouted out to them – they looked stunned, shocked to see me. All I saw was the whites of their eyes widening. They were big lads, but I was game. I went in with the head and decked one, the other, a big ginger holding the girl's arms, dropped her on the ground; she fell like a sack of tatties. He went to gub me and caught me on the cheek. It was a good swipe but I brushed it off like swatting a fly and laid in about him. It was all kidney punches, must have been dozens of them because when I was finished I was sweating and panting; I realised I'd been holding him up as he slumped down the wall of the close.

I was wrecked, right out of it. Puggled.

The girl was lying on the cobbles; she was gone too. Looked like she was curled up for sleep. I got her on her feet and back to the road; flagged down a Joe Baxi.

Her name was Susan and she lived in Pilton; I told the square-peg that. He didn't have anything to say about my story though. There was nothing about triggers or such shite and I never got to see what he wrote down in his wee pad about me.

I couldn't have given a shit.

* * * *

She parked the Beemer up at the kerb; a reverse job slung in there sweet as a nut. Quite the driver, Gail. When she pulled out the keys she hit me with a wink, was like a shutter closing over the big baby brown eye for a second then it was sparkling once more.

'You ready?' she said.

'I was born ready.'

That got me a squeeze of the thigh and a snatched kiss before she was easing out the door backwards. I took off my jacket and threw it under the passenger seat.

It was a little access road about three, maybe four, hundred yards long. At the end was a garage, place that did motorbikes and by the looks of it, the odd dodgy spray-job; streaks of paint testers running down the front wall. There was nobody out the front of the garage and the street – split into the kind of boxy wee rat-hole flats and bedsits you get all over Edinburgh – was quiet as the grave. Must have been Giro day. Or that prick Jeremy Kyle was on.

I took a good deck up and down for signs of life. I knew the routine. This type of lark is okay for kicks when you start out, a good buzz, bit of an adrenalin high, but after you have your collar felt a few times the pitfalls dawn on you. There were blaggers in the grey-bar Hilton lived for that kind of thing; got a blast out of being hunted and rumbled. They were long-term lags though. Hitting fifty-five or sixty with thirty years of it parked up inside. Nut-jobs. They'd sit in the yard yakking about doing over a post office and living like kings, holed up in a Travelodge with the bedspread scattered in notes. They'd no sooner land a few grand than they'd be blowing it in Scotbet or splashing for rounds in some skanky drinkers. Like I say, I've no fear of landing another stretch – meat and drink to me – only thing I can't take is the stoat-the-balls. Paedos, kiddie-fiddlers, beasts ... whatever you call them, they're all sub-human filth. Leave me alone with one of the bastards for a few minutes and they get a taste of their own fucking medicine. But, like I say, I'm no fucking idiot either. Careful does it. A hoor of a business.

Gail called out to me, 'What's up?'

I was stood in the street, checking out the locks on some heavy wooden gates leading through to a communal drying area, said, 'Nothing. Just coming.'

As Gail headed to the end of the road, I leaned back onto the gates. The locks heaved, squeaked a bit; the wood creaked. When I leaned back I saw the rusty screws holding in the lock had separated from the rotten wood. One kick, maybe even a shove would put the gates through.

When I caught up with Gail she was easing herself off a wall; she looked calm. This was unusual. Most folk get hyped-up before something like this – Gail looked like she was up for another day at the office. I'd seen people piss themselves, puke their guts up, start shaking uncontrollably, but the ones with no nerves were the ones you had to watch. Pound to a pail of shite they were likely to go scripto on the job and end up lamping some poor old cunt who was only in for a Daily Record and a packet of Pandrops.

'You sure you know what you're doing?' I said to her.

A smile, broad one. 'You're kidding me on, right?'

I shook my head.

'Look, Jed boy, you don't need to worry about me.' She leaned forward, hooked an arm round my neck and slipped her tongue in my mouth. She'd managed to reassure me.

When we hit the shopping concourse, I touched the shooter's handle, made sure it was tucked into my waistband well enough. It was. There was a shoe shop up on the left. I pointed it out to Gail. 'Nip in and get a pair of Pretty Pollys, eh?'

'You're shitting me.'

I shook my head. She sparked, 'Why me?'

'Because it looks a bit odd a bloke buying that sort of stuff, don't you think?'

Her eyes narrowed. 'Okay. American Tan, I take it?'

'Aye, whatever.'

When she got back from the shoe shop, Gail handed me the packet of tights and I stuffed them in my back pocket. I saw the Jambo's store now – it gave me a bit of a rush. 'There it is,' I said.

Gail smiled; her white teeth dazzled me. 'Let's do the bastard.'

'Hang about.' I held her arm, waited for a woman with a tartan shopping trolley to go past.

'
Wha–
?'

'Didn't want her going in there and us ending up dancing around that fucking trolley on our way out.'

I let the old wifey get a few yards past the store and then I nodded Gail over the road. The building was home to a block of flats and the entry was a blue door beside the Jambo's shop front. I pointed Gail over there. We stood in the hallway as I pressed the top button on the buzzer; it read 'Davis' in an immature hand. A whiney English accent answered. 'Hello.'

'Fed-Ex for Smith ... the buzzer's out.'

He buzzed us in.

I pushed the door and Gail followed. Inside the grey hallway I took out the tights, ripped the legs apart and handed one to Gail. She pulled it over her face. I shook my head.

'Pull it down when we get right outside. Just leave it on the back of your head, okay.'

'You sound like you've done this before,' she said.

I grinned, thought about saying 'Aye, once or twice,' but held schtum.

I took a few deep breaths, checked the shooter again, then looked at Gail. She hadn't altered one bit since we'd been in the pub.

'Ready to roll, then?' I said.

'Fucking right!'

* * * *

First thing I noticed on the street was the old wifey trailing that tartan shopping trolley back up towards the Jambo's shop. Fucking hell, I thought, but it was too late to go back now. There were some I'd pulled jobs with would walk at this stage, superstitious and all that, but I didn't go for all that bullshit patter.

I hugged the outline of the shop front, moved fast. Just before I reached the door I pulled down the stockings and removed the shooter. On the way in I upped the aggression immediately.

'Hands on the till now, y'cunt!'

The Jambo had a skinny wee roll-up in his mouth, obviously just about to go for a sly gasp. When he saw me his mouth widened and the rollie dangled from his lower lip. I didn't give him long enough to recognise the shooter, brought it across his coupon and split his cheek. The rollie went for a flier.

'You fucking deaf or stupid, cunt? Eh? Eh?... Money out the till now!'

There was no-one in the shop but some movement behind me started to tug at my attention. I made a cardinal error, turned away from the Jambo. Behind me Gail was turning over the shelves, tipping tins and Weetabix packets onto the floor. I stood watching in disbelief. In a second she ran past me, mounted the counter, her hot-pants sliding on the shiny surface as she grabbed a bottle of Smirnoff off the rack.

I was frozen. Didn't know whether to shout at her or run. My mind blanked. I watched as she brought the bottle down over his head and then he crumpled on the floor, blood gushing from a serious head wound.

'The fuck are you doing?' I yelled.

Gail started to kick at the Jambo, stamp on his face. Her blows were too insubstantial to do much damage but before long the soles of her shoes were covered in blood and she slipped about on the slimy floor.

'Cunt ... fucking cunt ...' she yelled. She had the stocking off her face now, turned up so she could get a better look at him. It made me scan for cameras but I didn't see any.

As I gazed about the shop something kicked in me and I got sense enough to turn the till around and rifle it. I filled my pockets with cash. Must have been the best part of a grand in there. When I was done I looked back to find Gail had righted herself; she turned to the cigarettes counter and pulled down a can of lighter fluid, started to douse the Jambo with it.

'No ... fucksake ...' I shouted out to her but she was gone on some nut-job trip. I put the shooter back in my jeans and tried to grab the canister off her but she was beyond my reach. I turned to mount the counter; heard the Jambo coming round, moaning. Then I heard the match strike. I was over the counter as Gail dropped the flaming match. He went up like a lantern.

'Jesus-
fucking
-Christ, girl ... what are you doing?'

She was laughing now, lolling her head back as she said, 'He had it fucking coming ... he
so
had it coming!'

* * * *

There's been a couple of time in my life when I just seemed to burst out my skin. You run on some kind of weird energy that doesn't seem to be yours. It's like when you hear about these folk in car crashes and they have a kid trapped inside and they find this super strength to lift the motor off its wheels to free the nipper ... this was one of those moments.

I grabbed Gail by the waist and flung her over the counter out of the way. She didn't land right and staggered into a stack of Ariel washing-powder boxes. The lot went flying. There was a puff of powder raised as my arms swung back over the counter. I grabbed an old anorak that was sitting on the back of the chair by the till. I wrapped the navy and red hood around my hand and started beating the fat Jambo with it. The flames shot out the sides and then there was a black escape of smoke and they were gone after three or four swipes. When I was done, I dropped the jacket.

The Jambo looked fucked, but he was alive. I was grateful for that. I propped him up and he yelped a bit. His arse-cheeks squeaked on the floor as he went and a brown streak appeared on the lino – he'd shit himself; I didn't blame the cunt.

I was about to ask if he was okay when the door opened and an Asian bit came in and started screaming. Her hands were up at her face, but she didn't seem to be moving anything else; it was like she was frozen to the spot. Just screaming and bawling.

I knew I had to mush.

I ran round the counter and grabbed Gail's arm. She didn't like that, wanted to fight me. I showed her a fist, said, 'Move. Or you're going cold.'

She got the message.

The Asian bit's screams brought in people from the street. A workie in Adidas trackies and, behind him, the old diddy with the tartan shopping trolley lolled into the doorway. This was the last thing I needed. The workie looked like he was thinking of squaring up to me, so I sorted that problem out first. I grabbed his left ear and brought his head forward as I sunk mine into his nose – a fountain of blood escaped as he fell to the ground.

At the door I fronted the old dear, said, 'Excuse me, love.'

She didn't get the message, so I put my hands on her shoulders. She smelled of lavender as I motioned her to the side.

Gail was already on her way out when I hit the street. I'd side-stepped the shopping trolley but the handle caught my foot as I went and the day's messages – fucking kilos of spuds and a frozen chicken – keeled me over. As I went a few tins of mushy peas rolled out in front of me. I picked one up and, in blind rage, threw it out into the road.

There were cars stopped now. People staring. Gail shouting, 'Get off your fucking arse.'

I was ready to kick her own arse into her fucking neck for this turn of events. It was all her fault, but then I spotted a suit on his mobi and I knew we had to nash. Proper fast.

I got on my feet and shook off the shopping trolley. Gail was already heading over the road. Cars screeched as we went; a few daft cunts sounded their horn at us. I was raging. I'd scraped my shoulder in the fall and it stung like a bastard. Those fuckers can count themselves lucky they didn't get a good leathering or at least a few holes in their windscreens.

'Move it! Move it! Move it!' yelled Gail.

I ran after her. She was on the other side of the road now and heading back for the side-road. I caught her up. The square-pegs on the pavement pinned themselves against shop fronts as we went. It was almost funny; I mean, thinking back I can laugh about it ... but at the time it was a fucking disaster movie in progress.

I got my stride, hadn't realised how muscle-bound I'd become in the pound; my thighs were rubbing together and the friction was painful. At the top of the side-road I looked back to see if anyone was following. They had more sense.