Guns Of Brixton (81 page)

    'You'll
never get away,' said Sean through gritted teeth from the back.

    'Don't
you fucking believe it,' said Mark, and the Mondeo clipped the bumper of the
approaching police car and it tipped over on to its side and smacked into the
one behind. 'It's just like snooker,' he said. 'You've got to get your angles right.'

    'You're
hit,' said Sean.

    'Too
fucking right. There goes my plans for tonight.'

    'Which
were?'

    'Running
off with your sister and her kids. Going to find somewhere warm and live there,
happily ever after.'

    'You
were what?'

    'Save
your breath, Sean. It's fucked now. Me and Linda were always fucked up.'

    'Are
you going to the hospital?' wheezed Sean.

    'No,'
said Mark. 'I reckon you and me should have a talk.'

    'Bollocks
to talking, I need help,' said Sean, taking out his mobile. His hands were
sticky with blood and felt weak and clumsy, and the phone slipped from him
grasp. Mark slowed the car, picked it up from the floor and tossed it out of
the window on his side, under the path of a white van.

    'Sorry,'
he said. 'Battery's flat.'

    At
the airport roundabout, Mark headed away from London towards Beckton and the
North Circular until he saw a piece of derelict land next to a small park. He
skidded across two lanes of traffic, bounced hard over the kerb and swung
through a gap in the fence that fronted the site. The car sped across the
ground, leaving a trail of dust until it slewed to a halt in the shadow of an
electricity pylon whose wires hissed in the heat of the early afternoon. The
dust slowly settled on the car's paintwork like a dry drizzle as Mark switched
off the motor.

    As
the engine noise died, Sean poked his pistol through the gap between the two
front seats towards Mark. His body was a mass of pain below his waist and,
although he know his wounds were possibly fatal, his

    mind
was still clear. He'd shot another police officer, found and lost his father,
been shot, and had been played by the man who betrayed his sister, all in a few
minutes. And now this.

    'We
need to get to a hospital,' he said, through lips white with strain.

    Mark
knew they were both in deep trouble. The blood from the bullet wound in his
back had pooled on the driver's seat and the scent of it was sharp in his
nostrils. 'No hospital for us, mate,' he said. 'No point. I don't think that
either of us is going to get out of this alive.'

    'Take
us,' said Sean, cocking his pistol, 'now.'

    Mark
laughed out loud but the sound was too much like a death rattle for him to
really appreciate the joke. 'What you going to do, mate?' he asked. 'Shoot me,
then drag yourself round and drive? Look at the state of you, you can't even
move.' He looked into the rear of the car at Sean's blood-soaked clothes. Using
the back of his seat as a rest, he pointed his gun at him, grimacing with pain
at the effort of the movement.

    Sean
said nothing.

    'Can
you?' pressed Mark. 'You're buggered, mate, and so am I. But that's nothing new
is it, for either of us?'

    Sean
knew it was the truth but wouldn't admit it. 'Hospital now,' he said, 'or I'll
kill you, I bloody will.'

    'They
call this a "Mexican standoff' - did you know that, Sean?' asked Mark. 'I
saw it in an old cowboy film one afternoon on TV. Black and white. Funny the
things you remember.'

    'You
should do something better with your time. Apart from robbing and killing
innocent people, if you know what I mean.'

    'Hark
at Mr Perfect. Talking of robbing and killing, how about your dad? How about
yourself? You killed one of your own back there, son. It's all up for you now,
whatever happens. They don't like coppers in prison, so I've heard. It's all
shit in the chocolate pudding or ground-up light bulbs in your tea. Or maybe
it's the other way round.' He laughed again.

    Sean
was silent.

    'Got
no answer, have you?'

    Sean
wouldn't meet his gaze.

    'Ever
heard of a place called London Necropolis?' asked Mark after a moment.

    Sean
shook his head. 'What the fuck are you talking about?'

    'It
was a station at Waterloo.' Mark saw the look in Sean's eyes. 'Honest. No time for
lies now, mate. A railway station for trains full of dead bodies, run by the
London Necropolis Company. On their way to Woking. A place called Brookwood
Cemetery. Biggest in the world, it was supposed to be. Enough room for every
stiff in London. That was the plan. If it was still going, we'd all end up
there. All of us. Your dad, my dad. You, me and Uncle Tom Cobley and all. But
it never happened. The company went skint. Then it got bombed in the last war.
The station did. But you can still see the entrance if you know where to look:
121 Westminster Bridge Road. Bloody yuppies' bar now. I'd like to see some of
them yuppies on the way to the cemetery.' He laughed and started a fit of
coughing. 'Funny, isn't it, mate? What you find out from books.'

    'From
the prison library?' said Sean.

    'Never
done time, son,' said Mark. 'I was always off the radar. Real gangsters never
go inside. Only fucking stupid losers who come out, write a book and make more
than they ever did from blagging. Not fair, is it? Funny really. Know what else
is funny?' He didn't wait for an answer. 'I'll tell you. All the people who've
died in the history of the world since time began and nobody knows what it's
like to die. Not really. Seeing the white light, out of body experiences, I
reckon that's all cobblers. What do you think?'

    Sean
didn't answer, but Mark wasn't really expecting a reply.

    'Bloody
strange,' he went on. 'But not to worry, you and me are going to find out
soon.'

    'Not
if I can help it. Not me anyway.'

    'Save
it, Sean,' said Mark. 'You're a dead man walking. Or at least sitting down.'

    Sean
said nothing, but deep down he knew that Mark was right.

    'Mind
if I smoke?' asked Mark. 'I know you don't approve. But one

    thing's
sure, neither of us is going to kick off from lung cancer. At least there's
that.'

    Sean
didn't reply, so, with an effort, Mark pulled the pack from his pocket. The
cigarette he extracted had bloody fingerprints on it, and he lit it with his
Zippo, and the simple effort caused him so much pain he almost cried. Smoke
drifted through the empty window frame and vanished.

    'So
what now, then?' said Sean.

    'We
sit here,' said Mark. 'Have a chat.'

    'I've
nothing to say to you.'

    'Nothing?
I don't believe you. There must be something, for Christ's sake. I mean, we
have a past. I thought for sure you'd recognise me that day in the Beehive.
Steve. I ask you.'

    'I
should've,' said Sean. 'But it's been a long time, and you looked so different.
The beard and the glasses. And your eyes.'

    'Good
job you didn't,' said Mark. 'Or I'd've never got a result.'

    'Call
this a result?' said Sean.

    'Could've
been worse. Could've been a lot worse… Or maybe not.'

    'You're
bloody crazy,' said Sean.

    'All
the things we've got in common,' Mark continued, as if Sean hadn't spoken.
'Never a talk. But if we're ever going to do it, now's the time, before it's
too late.'

    From
far away they both heard the scream of a police siren, but it faded away on the
hot afternoon air.

    'No
help there, then,' said Mark. 'Too fast for that lot.'

    'They'll
be here.'

    'Not
until we're beyond help,' said Mark. 'But then we've always been that, haven't
we, Sean, my boy?'

    'Says
you.'

    'Says
me.'

    'So
you've been seeing Linda,' said Sean after a moment.

    'Yeah.
Never could leave her alone. I came back before. Last winter. Uncle John wanted
my help.'

    'John
Jenner.'

    'Yeah,'
said Mark, pausing to take a breath. 'I'm glad I got to see him before he died.
I was there the day you and your sidekick called at his house about that thing
in Basingstoke.' 'That was you.'

    'Yeah.
Your grass was right. It was funny, John and Chas both knew who you were. What
your dad did.' 'They never said.'

    'They
wouldn't, would they? Then I found Linda again, and we… Well. You know. But
then I had to go away. I hurt her again.' 'I wondered what was up with her.' 'I
was never very good for her.' 'You can say that again.' 'We had some good
times, though.' 'Did you?' 'Sure.'

    'I wish
you'd never met her,' said Sean.

    'Would've
been for the best, probably. But I wanted to see you both, after what Jimmy
did.'

    'So
everything was all about my father.' 'Yeah. In the first place. Then
circumstances sort of took over.' 'Why didn't you just leave me?' asked Sean.
'Just now. Why bother with all this?'

    'Like
your dad left mine? No mate. No such luck. All our lives we've been heading for
this, and I didn't want to spoil it.' 'You are mad.' 'No. Just a bit annoyed.'
'Is that why?' 'Why what?' 'You know.'

    'What?'
said Mark. 'Come on, say it, mate.' 'Why you went after Linda?'

    'No.
Don't you bloody understand? I loved her the minute I saw her.' 'But you never
treated her right,' said Sean.

    'We
didn't have much of a chance, if you think about it.'

    'You
can say that again.'

    'Still,
it's over now. Or it soon will be.'
_t

    'It'll
never be over,' said Sean, 'Until you and me are both dead.'

    'That's
exactly what I mean,' said Mark. 'Exactly.' He leaned back in his seat and
groaned at the pain in his back. 'Exactly,' he said again as the hot sun beat
down on the car.

    Sean
was the first to pass out. His wound was still pumping blood. 'Please, Mark,'
he begged. 'For pity's sake, get us out of here.'

    'Pity,'
said Mark. 'I've noticed there's not much pity around these days. Anyway, we'll
be gone soon enough. To a better place perhaps. What do you think?'

    There
was no reply.

    'Sean,'
said Mark. 'Sean. Can you hear me?' But all was quiet from the back of the car.

    Mark
pulled himself out of his seat and into the back of the car to join Sean. He
felt for a pulse but it was so faint as to be almost nothing. 'Brothers,' he
said. 'Like fucking brothers we were. Sorry mate, you deserved better. We

    all
did.' He gathered him in his arms as their life's blood mixed.

    A
small boy on a bike saw the two men in the car with its window blown out, and
pedalled home fast. His mother, who had stopped believing his wild tales years
before, was eventually dragged from her terraced house in the modern close not
far from the wasteland, uttering dire threats about what would happen if he was
lying. When she saw the two bodies on the back seat, glued together with their
own blood, flies already feasting on them, she ran home and called the police.

    Within
minutes, armed units had surrounded the Mondeo. After no response to several
shouted warnings, the ranking inspector authorised the troops to move in. Six
blue-clad coppers gingerly made their way across the waste ground to the car
where they found the two men huddled together in the back.

    'You'd
better get some medical help here, fast,' said the first policeman on the
scene. 'They're alive, but it doesn't look good.'

    The
inspector called for the air ambulance from the London Hospital. 'Get here
now,' he ordered, 'I want them alive.'

    Fifteen
minutes later, woken by the relentless whirring of the helicopter's blades,
Mark's eyes fluttered open. As he slowly focused on the shape beside him, he
finally recognised Sean. He was perfectly still. Mark opened his mouth and
tried to speak, but was unable to make a sound. He felt as cold and heavy as a
stone. The weight of his eyelids