Guns Of Brixton (17 page)

    The
man pulled a roll from his jacket, tossed it over and Mark resealed the packet
and put it back in the case which closed with a click. 'How long you going to
be with that?' He indicated the money.

    'A
minute,' said the man as the machine finished counting and satisfied, he put
the cash back in the bag and zipped it shut. 'All seems to be well.'

    'Then
I'll say ta ta,' said Mark, and when the man frowned, he added, 'Goodbye.'

    'Oh
yes, goodbye,' said the man, and they both stood and he stuck out his hand.

    Mark
shrugged and shook it.

    The
man turned and tugged the sliding door open again, and indicated Mark should
lead the way. 'After you,' said Mark, and the foreign man pulled a face but didn't
speak and jumped out in the snow which was starting to come down heavily.
Whilst they'd been in the back of the van the sky had darkened considerably and
the lights around the car park had switched themselves on. Mark followed the
man out of the truck and headed straight for his motor.

    'So
far, so good,' Mark said to himself, but he spoke too soon.

    He
reached the Ford's driver's door and opened it, seeing that the man had swung
open the front passenger door of the Mercedes. In the far corner of the parking
area Mark noticed a car start and its lights came on full beam. Then, in a
split second that slowed like a piece of film stuck in the gate of a projector,
he saw that no one had recently walked across the tarmac, which was already
lightly covered with snow, towards it.

    Something's
wrong, he thought.

    Footprints.
No footprints.

    The
car's motor revved and it headed straight towards the Cosworth and the van.
'Fuck,' he shouted to no one in particular, throwing the case into the passenger
well, falling into the driver's seat, banging his knee painfully on something
as he did so, and hitting the ignition key which was still in the lock. The
engine caught at once and Mark slapped the gear lever into first and took off,
the driver's door still open. Then another car, headlights flaring, pulled in
across the entrance to the carpark and Mark aimed the Ford at the empty flower
bed as the swinging door hit the back of a parked Transit and slammed shut.

    Yet
another car started and headed in pursuit of him, but Mark whipped the stick
into second, slammed his foot on the accelerator and rocketed past it, just
clashing bumpers as they went. The Cosworth flew over the black earth and
ripped through the fence as Mark pulled the steering wheel hard left and swung
out on to the road in the direction of the motorway, leaving a long black mark
on the tarmac and several angry drivers in his wake. He went through the gears
fast and kept his foot hard down as the speedo ran up to seventy, then eighty,
as he overtook everything in his way, lights on full beam and hand hard on the
horn. All the other cars on the road had their lights on too, because of the
weather, so it was difficult to make out who was chasing him and who just going
about their normal business. The motorway signs got more frequent, flipping
past like playing cards. When Mark reached the junction, he shoved the Cosworth
through the roundabout and on to the slip road, cutting up a big
sixteen-wheeler who showed his anger with three blasts on his klaxon. Was it
cops or was it bad guys? Mark kept wondering. Who the fuck were those people at
the restaurant? Was it a bust or a stitchup?

    By
the time the car reached the end of the slip, Mark had pushed the speed up to
one-twenty and still climbing. He blasted out on to the motorway, dodged
between two slow-moving trucks and headed straight across to lane three. The
rest of the traffic looked like it was standing still as he pulled back and
forth into the middle lane to pass traffic travelling at the speed limit. The
snow was getting heavier and the traffic, apart from the Cossie, was slowing.
'Come on you fuckers,' Mark yelled as he swerved through the cars. Then in his
peripheral vision he saw blue lights flashing as a police jam sandwich joined
in the fun just behind him. At this rate he was going to end up doing five
miles per hour and getting jammed up as the traffic slowed before Chiswick
again, and then the cops could box him in and it would be all over.

    Mark
bullied his way back into the fast lane again and slowed to a legal seventy,
the cop car still following but unable or without the bottle, or maybe under
orders not to force its way through the thickening traffic on Mark's left. He
was looking for a way out and suddenly it presented itself. Up ahead, but
getting closer by the second, the central barrier was broken for maybe three
car lengths, and instead of a waist-high hard metal barrier, all that kept the
opposing traffic apart was a line of red and white plastic bollards, maybe two
foot high, screwed into the ground; Mark downshifted, the Cosworth's gears
shrieking in protest, jammed the brakes on hard, saw the terrified face of the
driver of the car following him as he braked too, probably sending a domino
effect as far back as Swansea, and with a tug to the right and a clatter of
plastic on the undercarriage, Mark was going the wrong way down the west-bound
motorway.

    Cars,
trucks, cabs and lorries were heading his way and he left a skidding,
brake-screaming carnage around him as he cut across the approaching traffic
going up through the box again and found the hard shoulder, praying that no
fucker had broken down and was being fixed by the AA or RAC, otherwise they
were all going to be in for a big surprise.

    He
almost laughed out loud as he saw the effect he was having on the oncoming
vehicles, and then like the answer to a prayer there in front of him was a slip
road joining the motorway, which he took, bounced across the central
reservation again, leaving what sounded like vital parts of the Ford clattering
into the gutter as he joined the correct lane of traffic leaving the westbound
M4.

    Mark
took the first turning, a road heading God knows where, the wipers slapping and
the snow hitting the windscreen like chunks of paper tissue. And then, just
ahead, he saw a bus pulling into a stop. Mark swerved round it and slowed
slightly. Where's the next bloody bus stop? he wondered. And, a mile or so
further, he saw one. And right next to it was a turning. He swung the Ford into
it and a few yards down on the left was the entrance to a narrow lane. Mark
pulled in, bare twigs scratching the side of the Cosworth, and braked to halt.
He got out, forcing the door hard against the hedge, taking the briefcase with
him, his brain speeding from the hit of coke and the excitement of the chase.
Despite the dropping temperature his body was slick with sweat that felt like
it was freezing on his skin. Who the fuck touched this motor? he thought,
almost hopping from foot to foot with excitement and fear. Dev had a record as
long as the Blackwall Tunnel, his prints were on file, and Mark didn't want to
leave any evidence of his involvement. He ran to the back of the car and opened
the boot. Just like he remembered there was a can lying next to the spare
wheel. Water or petrol? he wondered as he shook the can and opened it. He
recoiled slightly from the fumes. Terrific, he thought, and splashed fuel on to
the boot's carpet then took the can back to the front of the car and threw the
rest over the driver's seat and into the front well of the Ford, heaving the
can into the back.

    Matches.
Matches, he thought. Christ I'm not ready for this. He slammed open the glove
compartment and inside was a half empty book from a restaurant in south London.
'Thank you, God,' he said aloud, lit a match, set fire to the rest and tossed
the whole book on to the front seat. The last thing he saw as he closed the
door was a blue flame dancing across the leather interior. He picked up the
briefcase in his gloved hands and ran back to the main road just in time to
hail the bus, an old green and white doubledecker that had seen better days.
Its destination sign read ETON. Always wanted to go there, he thought as he
asked the driver for the town centre, paid the fare and ran upstairs. There
were just two passengers sitting in the front and he moved to the rear and
collapsed into the back seat. He was still shaking as the bus gathered speed.
He looked over his shoulder and over the tops of the hedges he saw an orange glow
though the fast-gathering darkness and the falling snow. Then, above the noise
of the ancient diesel he heard the sound of sirens and two police cars, blue
lights flashing, breasted the hill behind them and gained fast on the bus.

    'Oh
shit,' he whispered and reached for the comfort of the butt of his pistol. But
the two squad cars raced past and were soon lost to sight. Mark laughed out
loud and as he took one last look behind he imagined he heard the explosion as
the Ford's petrol tank caught and in the distance the orange glow grew
brighter.

    Once
at the Eton town terminus Mark followed the signs to the railway station,
caught the next train back to Paddington, which luckily arrived just a few
minutes after he'd bought his ticket, as he didn't fancy sitting around in the
waiting room. The train sluggishly wove its way through the outer, then inner
suburbs, stopping at every station on the way and it was late afternoon before
Mark caught a bus to south London.

    When
he got off at Tulse Hill he called the house on his mobile. 'Christ, I thought,
you were dead,' said John Jenner when he answered. 'You've been on TV. Local
news.'

    'Terrific,'
said Mark.

    'Where
are you?'

    'Just
walking up the road.'

    Jenner
met him at the gate carrying an umbrella to protect him from the snow. They
went indoors and Mark hung his jacket over a chair as Jenner checked the bag.
'Was it cops chasing me?' asked Mark after he poured himself a large brandy.
Jenner nodded. 'Did they get the other guys?' 'Looks like it.'

    'Are
they gonna grass us up?'

    'They
wouldn't dare. Anyway they don't even know who we are, same as I don't know
them. We just communicate by safe phone.' 'Thank Christ for that.' 'You did
well. What happened to the motor?' 'Burnt it out. Wasn't that on the news too?'
'No.'

    'You
knew, didn't you, Uncle?' 'No.'

    'Yes
you did.'

    'I
thought something might happen, but I wasn't sure.' 'Well, thanks for sharing.'
'I thought if I did you wouldn't go.' 'Too bloody right.'

    Jenner
smiled. 'But you did it, Mark. You came good. I'm proud of you.' 'If you ever
do anything like that again, I'm off.' 'I won't, I promise.'

    'Jesus,
Uncle, give us another drink will you. I'm spitting feathers here.'

    Sean
Pierce heard about the aborted bust by the Thames Valley drug squad during his
normal course of duties the next morning. It was just another war story as far
as he was concerned. Some crazy crackhead in a souped up motor causing mayhem
on the motorway. A burnt out Ford had been discovered, and the local force had
captured a pair of foreign nationals carrying two hundred grand in used notes.
The Ford's driver had got away. Nothing new there, and nothing for him to worry
about. Just another crime report amongst hundreds. A little more exciting, than
the average domestic dispute, that was all. At least interesting enough to get
a mention on
London Tonight,
and would probably make headlines in the
Eton Gazette
or whatever the local paper down there was called, but that
was it. Or at least he thought so.

    At
the same time as Sean was reading about his exploits, Mark woke up with a
slight hangover, a little way up the road. He, John and Chas had sat up into
the small hours discussing what had gone wrong with the exchange and its
possible ramifications, at the same time drinking John Jenner's bar dry.

    'If I
catch whoever grassed us up, I'll castrate the fucker,' were the last words
Mark remembered as John Jenner had made his unsteady way to bed around four
o'clock.

    Mark
wiped the sleep from his eyes and went to the bathroom. Once dressed he
wandered down to the kitchen where Chas was sitting reading
The Sun.
'A
star,' he said.

    'What?'

    'You
got a mention. You'll have to start a scrapbook.'

    Mark
leaned over his shoulder and read the short news item on page six about the
previous day's goings on. 'Bloody hell,' he said.
'I hope there's not
man
y
like that.'

    'Feeling
a bit rough, son?' asked Chas, looking into Mark's dull and bloodshot eyes.

    'Just
a bit.'

    'Cuppa
tea and a bacon sarnie'll set you right.'

    Mark
nodded weakly and took a seat at the kitchen table whilst Chas busied himself
preparing the breakfast. 'Anyone about?' he asked.