Guns Of Brixton (53 page)

    Yes,
my man, thought Mark. You're there, and I'm going to huff and puff and blow
your house down. Once again his finger found the trigger of the shotgun and he
pumped half a dozen rounds at the door, which literally blew off its hinges. He
ran to the doorway and tumbled inside, hiding behind a chair. After a few
seconds he took a look. The place was a mess, smoke wreathing around a single
lamp burning in the corner.

    On
the coffee table bags of cocaine and stacks of cash were piled high and on the
sofa beyond, half sitting, half lying was Beretta, his face grey and
old-looking, one hand covering the bloody wound in his side, blood soaking
through his white shirt. In his other hand, he held his gun, the weapon almost
slipping from his gore-covered fingers.

    'Gotcha,'
said Mark standing, and Beretta looked up through hooded eyes and raised the
pistol as if it weighed a ton. 'Too late,' said Mark. 'This is for Tubbs and
Eddie,' and he fired once again over the table at Beretta's chest, the spread
of the buckshot blowing the drugs and money into the air in a cloud of powder
and torn paper before ripping another hole in the black man's torso.

    Mark
stood in the smoke and dust, licking at the coke that settled on his top lip
and laughed out loud. All for what? he thought. All for fuck all. And, just as
he was about to turn and leave, he felt a terrible blow to his back. He turned
and saw a young black woman standing behind him, a long kitchen knife in her
hand streaked with blood, about to stab him again. Lulu he thought. The
beautiful Lulu. Bloody hell, I forgot all about her, and there she was hiding,
all the time waiting to stab me in the back. How typical of a woman. He pushed
the barrel of the streetsweeper deep into her skinny stomach and fired, almost
cutting her completely in half and sending long trails of hot blood up the wall
behind her. She doubled up, dropped the knife and fell on to the carpet hard,
twitched twice and was still.

    'Stupid
bitch,' Mark said aloud to her bloody corpse, as the pain from the stab wound
wracked his body and he knew he was in trouble. He looked at the wreck of the
room, the cocaine settling on every surface like snow, making Beretta's face as
white as a circus clown's and contrasting surreally with a thin dribble of
blood that trickled from the side of his mouth. Mark knew he had to get out of
there, quick. And empty handed, at that.

    He
went back down the hall into the corridor. A couple of the front doors were
cracked open slightly as the inhabitants checked out the results of the short
battle that had intruded on their late night telly viewing, but when he raised
his gun they slammed shut in his face, one by one.

    And
then, through his battered eardrums he finally did hear the sound of sirens
getting closer, and knew that his troubles might only just have begun.

    He
ran to the still open lift and pressed the button for the first floor. Slowly
the doors closed and it descended, and he could hear nothing but the creaking
of its old machinery. Finally, after what seemed like forever, the doors opened
to the sound of sirens right outside and he knew he'd have to abandon the
bodies of his friends, as well as the Ford and the BMW, to the forces of law
and order, and all that that entailed.

    When
he'd been hiding in the rubbish chute a couple of days earlier, he'd noticed
that the opening on the first floor was big enough for a man to slide down. Now
he ran down the corridor and pushed himself out through the gap, his legs
dangling, and breathed in the first fresh air in what seemed like hours. It
didn't matter that this was 'fresh' air fouled by the stink of the inhabitants'
garbage. All was quiet at the back of the flats, the commotion of cops and
civilians exclusively at the front. Mark took another deep breath and jumped
down to the ground below, landing awkwardly, the shock shooting up to the wound
he could feel was still bleeding into his clothes. But how badly he was hurt he
had no idea.

    He
limped off over the scrubby grass towards the edge of the estate. Behind him he
heard a shout, which only made him run faster, although the pain of the wound
in his back made him feel weak and dizzy.

    If I
can get to the road, he thought, I'll be all right. Just the road. Dear God,
let me make it to the road.

    By
this time sirens were coming from all directions and Mark knew that he was
close to capture and a life sentence. Not fucking likely, he thought. I'm not
going inside, not with Jimmy Hunter due out any time now. I want that bastard,
outside, for myself.

    Mark
jumped over the low wall of the estate before he realised he was still carrying
his gun. Not something to be seen with, he reckoned, and straight away saw a
skip outside a terraced house being done up by some optimist, convinced that
Brixton was going to be the 'new Notting Hill'. He stuffed it and his balaclava
deep into the building Waste that littered the skip. And blessing the fact that
his dark clothes would disguise any blood stains, he straightened his shoulders
with an effort, and walked confidently along the pavement. Just then a squad
car came screaming round the corner, seeming to slow at the sight of him, then
picked up speed, blues flashing and two-tone sirens yelping, heading back the
way he'd come.

    Mark
breathed a real sigh of relief, even though it hurt, turned the corner, and
headed for John Jenner's house.

    It
wasn't much of a walk, but Mark had to stay in the shadows, ducking down behind
parked motors whenever a police car showed, which was often, and by the time he
got there, he was weak and dizzy from loss of blood. He rang the bell by the
front gate, and after what seemed an eternity, Chas buzzed him in.

    'Christ,
what happened?' asked the big man once they'd arrived in the kitchen, Mark
sinking into a chair.

    'Gone
to shit,' said Mark. 'Get me a drink will you? Something strong.'

    'You
look like death,' said Chas, doing as he was asked, and pouring Mark a large
brandy from a bottle of Remy on the counter.

    'Not
me,' replied Mark. 'Tubbs, Eddie. All the spades. She stabbed me.'

    'Who?'

    'Beretta's
bird. Get Uncle John.'

    Chas
rushed out and reappeared a moment later with John Jenner. 'Oh my God, Mark,'
he said. 'What's happened to you?'

    'I've
been stabbed. Uncle, I'm sorry, it all went…'

    'Never
mind about all that now,' said Jenner. 'Let me see.'

    Mark
slumped forward in the chair and the older man looked at his back. 'Hospital,'
he said. 'Chas get an ambulance…'

    'No,'
said Mark. 'You fix me up.'

    'This
is serious,' said Jenner.

    'No,'
repeated Mark. 'If it'd hit anything vital, I'd be dead.'

    'You
look like you almost are,' said Chas.

    'I'll
be all right. I just need patching up.'

    'Martine,'
said Jenner. 'She's upstairs. She'll do it. She knows some first aid. Get her,
Chas.' 'Not Martine,' protested Mark.

    'Yes,
Martine,' insisted Jenner. 'Go on, Chas.'

    Once
again the big man left the room. In a few minutes he arrived back with Martine
in tow. 'What the hell?' she said, seeing Mark's parchment- white face and the
blood that was now beginning to drip on to the floor. 'What have you done?'

    'You
should see the other fellah,' said Mark with a humourless grin. 'Can you step
the bleeding?'

    'Let's
see,' said Martine. 'Take off your top.'

    With
difficulty and some help from her, Mark managed to strip down to his bare skin.
The blood had started to clot, but pulling away his shirt and T-shirt started
it off again. Meanwhile Chas had found a box of medical supplies, including
bandages and tape. 'Haven't needed this for ages,' he said. 'But we're always
prepared.'

    'Right,
you two,' said Martine to Chas and Jenner. 'Out.'

    Reluctantly
the two men left the room and Martine said: 'I've got you all to myself again,'
she said. 'And half-naked too.'

    'But
not capable,' said Mark.

    'Don't
you believe it,' she replied. 'I can make the dead dance.'

    'I'm
not dead yet.'

    She
reversed the kitchen chair and made Mark sit facing the back and examined the
wound. 'You should get this seen to properly,' she said. 'It's deep and there's
some fabric been pushed inside. It could get infected.'

    'I'll
survive. Just patch me up so's I can go and speak to Uncle John. And I'm afraid
he's not going to like what I've got to tell him.'

    'Not
a bad bod,' she said, ignoring him. 'A bit scarred up. This isn't the first
time you've been in the wars, is it?'

    'I've
had my share.'

    'I
never saw it properly the last time, in the dark.' She ran her hand down his
spine and said: 'And I could've been all yours. Instead of that cross-eyed
bitch who always fucks you up.'

    'Martine,'
said Mark. 'Just do it, will you?'

    'Sure.'
She busied herself cleaning up the wound and got hold of the bottle of brandy.
'This might sting,' she said and splashed the spirit into the cut.

    'Fucking
hell!' Mark yelled, almost passing out from the shock. 'Careful.'

    'Don't
be such a baby.' And then, much more gently than Mark expected, she taped the wound
together with butterfly strips of tape and bandaged his shoulder, running the
fabric under his armpit. 'That should do,' she said finally. 'Not
Casualty
exactly, but it's the best I can manage with what I've got.' She handed him a
bottle of pills. 'These are painkillers. A bit past their sell-by date, but
they might help.'

    Mark
undid the bottle and swallowed a couple of pills, washed down with brandy.
'Thanks,' he said. 'I'd better find some clean clothes.'

    'I'll
go,' said Martine, gathering up his bloodstained garments. 'And I'll get Chas
to burn these.'

    'Thanks
again,' said Mark.

    'You
know, we could've been magic,' said Martine as she left the room. 'But it's
your loss, you moron. You'll regret it, I promise.'

    Maybe
it
is
my loss, thought Mark, as he sipped more brandy from the bottle.
And maybe I will regret it, but that's life.

    When
Martine returned with a shirt and sweater and helped Mark put them on, he said:
'I've got to give Uncle John the bad news now,' and got to his feet.

    'He'll
get over it.'

    'I
hope so.'

    'And
you take care, darlin',' she said and jumped up and kissed him full on the
mouth.

    'You'll
have me over,' he said, grabbing the chair for support.

    'That's
always been my plan. Anyway, I'm off upstairs. I don't want to be there if Dad
goes into one.'

    'Nor
do I,' replied Mark. 'But I'm afraid he might.'

    She
looked at him one more time. 'When will I see you?' she asked.

    He
shook his head. 'I don't know.'

    'Nothing
new there then,' she said and left him alone.

    Painfully
he left the room after her and went up to find John Jenner and Chas. They were
sitting together in the living room in silence as he entered and sat gingerly
in one soft armchair.

    'So
what happened?' asked Jenner.

    'It
all went wrong,' said Mark and briefly filled them in on the events of the
night.

    'You
lost the money and the drugs,' said Jenner when he'd finished.

    'And
Eddie and Tubbs,' said Mark.

    'But
you killed the spades.'

    Mark nodded.
'And the two women.'

    'So
five dead niggers,' said Jenner. 'No loss.'

    'Six
if you count Tubbs,' said Mark.

    'You
know I didn't mean that.'

    'So
what if you did. But I just left them. There was nothing I could do.' Mark felt
like crying but knew it was just a waste of time and tears both.

    'Those
things happen,' said Jenner.

    'But
not to me. And I left the two motors and weapons and my DNA on the knife in the
flat. It's fucked, Uncle John.'