Authors: Mark Timlin
'Perfect,'
said Mark.
When
eleven pm rolled around, Tubbs parked his BMW behind
Beretta's
silver Lexus outside the pub. Inside, things were winding down after a quiet
weeknight session. Tubbs pushed open the door and saw Beretta, Karl, Moses, and
a woman he hadn't seen before but who was cut from the same cloth as Lulu,
sitting at a corner table that was covered in dirty glasses and overflowing
ashtrays. The £25,000 that Mark had given him from the fast depleting stash in
John Jenner's safe was in a shoulder bag, the Browning down the back of his
pants, and his mobile phone, charged up, live and connected to Mark's in the
top pocket of his jacket. From where Mark and Eddie were sitting, up on the
estate, in an anonymous and untraceable Ford Escort - courtesy of Dev - they
could hear everything that was said. Both were dressed in black, gloved up,
with balaclava helmets rolled up over their heads, like watch caps.
'Mr
Tubbs, my man,' said Beretta as Tubbs approached the table. 'Good to see you
again. Did I not say that you'd be back soon?'
'You
did, and you were right,' Tubbs agreed.
'You
know everyone except for Comfort. She's my number two woman.'
Comfort
looked to be so out of it, she didn't care what number she was. Or maybe she
just knew better than to argue. She just looked up at Tubbs with unfocused
eyes, then buried her face in her drink.
'A
line, my man?' asked Beretta, but Tubbs shook his head.
'Later,'
he said. 'Let's get down to business.'
'Not before
you've had a drink. Hey Shorty, another round here and…?' he made a quizzical
face at Tubbs.
'Lager,'
said Tubbs.
'A
lager for my friend.'
The
same little barman put down the cloth he'd been using to dry a row of glasses,
and busied himself with the order.
'Sit
down,' said Beretta. Tubbs complied and Shorty rushed over with a tray of full
glasses which he distributed around the table before starting to clear away the
empties. 'Leave them,' said Beretta, and he did.
Tubbs
placed the bag of cash between his feet and lifted his glass, toasted the
quartet and drank.
'So
business is good,' said Beretta.
Tubbs
nodded.
'Like
I said it would. And you have money?'
Another
nod from Tubbs.
'Fine.
We'll finish this and go back to mine. Lulu's sleeping one off, but I'm sure we
can scare her out of bed, and then we party.'
'Sounds
good,' said Tubbs.
Inside
the Escort, Mark gave Eddie the thumbs up and pressed the mute button on his
phone. 'They'll be coming soon,' he said. 'Get ready.'
Eddie
reached round for the sawn-off shotgun he'd owned since the 80s, broke it open
and inserted two twelve-gauge shells into the breach. Then he snapped it shut
and pulled back the hammers.
For
the first time, Mark recognised the boy who'd run wild on the streets of south
London all those years ago, and he knew that everything was going to be fine.
He himself was carrying one of the guns that he'd kept hidden in a secret
compartment built into the Range Rover he'd driven back from the Continent - a
twenty-shot, fully automatic, drumloaded shotgun, known as a 'street sweeper'.
He'd alternated buckshot and solid shells when loading it and Eddie's eyes had
almost popped out of their sockets when he'd shown it to him. 'You hardly need
us,' he'd said, and Mark had just grinned and winked at him. It felt good to
hold the heavy weapon in his hands and smell the old gunpowder that never went
away, despite almost constant cleaning.
Mark
dropped the gun on to the back seat, started the car and drove closer to
Beretta's block. He killed the engine and clicked off the mute button on his
mobile. 'Let's get this show on the road,' he heard Beretta say, and gave Eddie
the thumbs up again.
Back
at the pub, the five at the table were the last customers in, the jukebox was
turned off and the lights dimmed. Behind the bar, Shorty stood hesitantly,
wondering if Beretta's crew were looking for a lock in, or whether for once he
might get to see his bed before dawn.
Bed
it was. As the four men rose, Beretta pulled Comfort to her feet and they left
without saying thanks. Shorty shook his head and went to the door and locked
it.
Outside,
the five of them split up to their separate cars and set off towards the
estate.
'We're
on our way,' was all Tubbs said before surreptitiously switching off his phone.
'They're
coming,' said Mark to Eddie, and did the same.
The
silver grey Lexus slid like a big fish through the streets of Brixton, its
headlights casting long shadows into the night, closely followed by Tubbs's
BMW. Inside the lead car the three black men and their woman sat back, secure
in their own invincibility, as the CD player pumped out loud garage music.
The
BMW drew up outside the block of flats where Beretta kept his safe house. The
engine died and the music and lights were extinguished. The Beemer pulled in
two car lengths behind it.
Opposite,
in the Ford, Mark said: 'They're here.'
He
and Eddie looked at each other, pulled the balaclavas down over their faces,
pushed opened their doors and stepped out. 'Oi, junkie!' Mark shouted over the
top of the car. 'Hold on a minute.'
All
four turned as one. Moses and Karl one side of the car, Beretta and the woman
the other. The woman hadn't been in the equation originally, but it was too
late to worry about her now. Just another innocent victim. Collateral damage.
Tubbs's driver's door opened too and he emerged, the Browning in his right
hand.
'Just
stand still,' said Mark and his words rang out clearly into the night air, but
Beretta and his men paid no attention. 'Go Dizzy,' yelled Mark as he pulled the
trigger on the streetsweeper and Eddie fired too, the double blast from the two
shots that sounded as one echoing around the flats.
The
twin blasts cut Moses and Karl down, one load of buckshot hitting Moses in the
chest and the other smashing into Karl's side. They fell against the body of
the Lexus in tandem and bounced back on to the road, their bodies ripped and
torn by the lead, both of the car's side windows imploded into crystal dust.
Tubbs
aimed at Beretta, pulled the trigger, but nothing happened and he cursed and
slapped at the safety catch on his pistol as Beretta ducked behind the car
reaching into his coat for the gun hidden there. The woman just stood, her hand
going to her mouth to cut off the scream that was growing in her throat.
Mark
fired again and almost blew her head from her shoulders. The hand covering her
face was severed from its wrist and flew across the pavement, landing on the
scruffy grass verge in front of the block.
Beretta,
meanwhile, crabbed himself away from the car, attempting to take shelter behind
the low wall that separated the estate from the public road. He produced a
handgun as he went. In fact, he would've been better employed staying where he
was and engaging the gunmen, but the sight and sound of the attack had
momentarily panicked him and he'd lost his usual cool as the woman's blood had
splashed over his clothes.
Lights
were coming on all over the blocks, and a young white couple heading out to buy
a late fish supper at the chip shop round the corner were suddenly illuminated
as they crossed the grass, and Eddie turned and aimed his shooter in their
direction.
'Leave
'em,' yelled Mark, high on adrenalin, and Eddie put up his gun.
That
was his mistake. Although dying, Karl had managed to haul the Glock he carried
in a holster underneath one arm and fire it once before slumping back on the
bloody road. More by luck than judgment, the bullet hit Eddie in the forehead
and he was dead before he hit the ground.
'Shit,'
screamed Mark, firing at Karl; his body jumped and was still, his gun sliding
across the street into the gutter.
Tubbs
was firing at Beretta, who was sheltered by the wall. Beretta returned fire and
knocked Tubbs to the ground. It was all going wrong. Mark kept pumping slugs
and shot towards Beretta, sending lumps of brick off the wall, but otherwise
producing no effect. Then Tubbs climbed to his feet, blood pumping from his
wound and he ran towards Beretta, crossing between Mark and his target and
forcing him to hold fire.
'Get
down, Tubbs!' Mark shouted, but it was too late. At point blank range Beretta
fired at Tubbs and he crashed to the ground, blood pooling black under his
body. Beretta snaked along the ground to the front door of the flats. As he
entered, Mark fired once more and saw a hit, but Beretta double tapped a
response and forced him to duck down behind the Ford.
Mark
peered over the bonnet, but all he could see was the door swinging shut behind
Beretta. Things had gone from bad to worse. A cursory glance at the bodies of
his friends confirmed their demise, and he considered getting into the Ford and
leaving but he wouldn't give Beretta the satisfaction. Instead he ran across
the street and into the front of the block.
As
Mark hit the cracked and filthy frosted glass doors with his shoulder, ready to
take his revenge on Beretta in a blast of fire, he saw the lift doors closing.
Shit,
he thought. Just my bad luck: this would be the night the sodding lift works.
Ten fucking floors. And the only way is shanks' s pony. He carefully opened the
door to the stairs, just in case Beretta had tried to fool him and was waiting,
but the well was empty. Empty, dark and smelly, it echoed with every step and
he climbed up.
Wet
with sweat, his legs shaking at the unaccustomed exercise, Mark listened out in
case Beretta was lying in wait at the top stairwell, but it was deserted. Must
get a bike, he thought. Or, if I get out of this alive, maybe I'll join a gym,
thinking of what Eddie had said in the pub the last time they'd met. No
exercise for him now, or romantic nights in the arms of an Irish barmaid. Mark
paused for a moment before entering the tenth floor corridor, his ears waiting
for the sound of sirens which must eventually come. Surely someone had called
three nines after the fire-fight in the very public street outside? But all was
quiet.
Gently
once again, Mark pushed open the door at the end of the short landing and he
peered down the tunnel. All was still and quiet: the lift doors were open and
the car was empty.
Mark
walked down the corridor on tiptoe until he came to flat number 80. The door
was locked and he didn't have a key.
'Knock,
knock,' he said, then stood at an angle to the door, raised his weapon and
fired at the lock. The sound of the explosions was deafening in the confined
space and sparks and smoke filled the hallway. But after the fourth round the
reinforced door sagged and he booted it open with his Doc Marten shod foot.
'Beretta,' he yelled, although he could hardly hear his own voice after the
concussion from the powerful shotgun. 'Give it up, you bastard. I'm coming in.'
There
was no reply that he could hear, so he flattened himself against the wall and
peered through the doorway. The flat's small hallway was empty and the centre
light was out, making it dark and shadowy. A thin glow shone under the bottom
of the door at the end. He tried to remember how Tubbs had described the
interior of the apartment. Must be the living room, he thought. But where was
Beretta? And how badly was he hit?
Still
there was no sound of the cops. But by now, Mark was so deafened by the
gunshots and concentrating so deeply on every sound and movement inside the
flat that, for all he knew, there could be armed response coppers on the stairs
right now toting HKs.
Fuck
'em, he thought, as he fully reloaded the streetsweeper, dropping empty,
smoking cartridge cases into his pocket. Leave nothing except the dead had
always been his motto. He padded across the carpet, bent almost double and
leaning to one side to leave as small a target as possible. There were closed
doors on both sides of the hall but he ignored them. Go to the light, was all
he could think. Go to the light and kill the bastard who had killed his
friends.
And
then he was there.
At
the closed door, behind which, God only knew…
He raised
the gun to the door and pulled the trigger. The wood bowed immediately and a
huge opening appeared in the centre. Mark dodged back into the closest doorway
as more holes were punched into the cheap wood - this time from inside and from
a handgun.