Big City Jacks (2 page)

He found an ‘F' registered Ford Escort Fresco that fitted the bill nicely. It was the sort of car that could have been started with a spoon, but Keith used the screwdriver he always carried with him and jammed it into the ignition. Within a minute he was on the road, threading his way through the streets towards Colin's pad.

It was a nightmare journey for him, constantly believing he was being tailed. But he arrived intact and pulled up down the road from Colin's house, which was in a cul-de-sac. He remained in the car for a while, eyes peeled and watchful, his thin-walled heart pounding – for a change – a self-induced drug, adrenaline, through his veins. He pulled out the screwdriver and the engine died. Then he sat there a while longer in the darkened car, watching, waiting. Everything seemed fine. Colin's house looked normal, in as much as a house with a US army tank and a British army Land Rover parked in the front garden could be.

Eventually Keith climbed slowly out of the car, senses pinging with tension, and walked to the front door of the house. He knocked gently, head hunched down between his shoulders. From inside he could hear the sound of a battle raging. He knocked louder and tried the handle, but the door was locked. Annoyance got the better of him then and he hammered on the door until, suddenly, the sound of warfare stopped, the door was unlocked and opened.

In full World War Two battledress, the chubby yet diminutive figure of Keith's best friend, Colin the Commando, stared at him from under the rim of a tin hat.

‘No need to knock so bloody loud!'

‘Let me in.' Keith shoved past.

‘I'm just watching
Saving Private Ryan
.' Colin locked the front door.

‘Fancy that,' Keith said sarcastically. ‘That sports bag I left you to look after? I need it.'

‘Summat up?' Colin sensed his friend's tension.

‘You could say that. Where is it?'

‘You OK, pal? You look shell-shocked.'

Keith caught his breath with a stutter, momentarily realizing just how bad things were. ‘I need the bag, man . . . OK?'

‘OK, OK.' Colin saluted, then removed his helmet, revealing his totally bald head. ‘Under the sink.' He led Keith through. ‘So what's going on? You look like you've shat yourself.'

‘You don't need to know, OK?'

‘Whatever,' Colin shrugged. He placed his helmet down in a space between ration tins on the draining board, opened the cupboard below and pulled out the sports bag.

‘You haven't looked in it, have you?'

Colin the tubby commando shifted uncomfortably. ‘You told me not to, so I didn't,' he tried to blag it.

‘Good.'

‘What's in it?'

Keith opened his mouth, but his proposed little speech about what was and wasn't good for Colin to know was terminated before it began by a pounding on the front door. ‘Shit,' he breathed. ‘You expecting anyone other than Germans?'

Colin looked towards the front door, then at the ash-grey face of his friend from school days. ‘No, I'm not . . . but you're in deep shit, aren't you?' he said perceptively.

‘Yeah, look pal,' Keith said urgently, ‘stall the bastards for me, will ya?'

‘Colin? Colin Carruthers?' a harsh voice demanded through the letterbox. ‘We need a word, matey.'

‘You go out back and leg it . . . I'll sort these people out . . . go on, shoo, fuck off!' He urged Keith towards the back door.

‘Thanks – you're a mate.'

‘No sweat.' Colin saluted him again, then said grimly, ‘I just hope that twenty-five big uns is worth it.'

The two friends exchanged knowing looks.

‘Cunt – you peeked.'

‘Yeah, now go,' Colin ordered him with a push, ‘and thanks for bringing the heavies to my house.'

‘No probs.' As Keith turned towards the back door, a chill of deep fear spread through him faster than Ebola as the voice through the letterbox shouted, ‘Colin, we know you're in there. We can hear voices. Open up or we'll kick the fucking door down.' He yanked open the back door and ran into the obstacle course of discarded, rusting army machinery that littered Colin's garden.

Inside, Colin donned his tin hat again and went to the understairs cupboard. He pulled out a Thompson sub-machine gun, strapped the weapon over a shoulder and turned menacingly to the front door, which was now being kicked violently.

‘OK, OK,' he shouted and flung open the door, stepping back into a threatening combat stance, Tommy gun at the hip, trained and ready to fire . . . except it was empty. ‘Right, you mothers,' he screamed, ‘what the chuffin' hell do you want?'

There were two men there, hard-looking and eager – but when they saw the gun in Colin's hands, they stopped dead. Their own hands shot up and they backed off warily.

‘Whoa . . . hold it, pal,' the best-dressed one of the two said. ‘Take a chill pill.'

‘Why the fuck you tryina knock my door down?' snarled Colin.

Keith jumped and stumbled through Colin's garden, climbed through the broken fence into next door's less cluttered one, and started to run hard. He was not thinking now, just responding to the stimulus, getting as far away from danger as possible. And then his small brain kicked in and directed him back to the stolen Ford Escort parked down the road from Colin's pad. If he could just get back to it, sneak into it, get it going again . . . that could put real distance between him and his pursuers.

He fell spectacularly through a hedge and found himself back on the cul-de-sac, only metres away from the car.

Ducking low, he crept round the back of it, down the side and slid into the driver's seat. He kept his head down at the level of the dashboard, one eye on the road, whilst he started to fiddle with the screwdriver. He jammed it back into the ignition and rived it round.

The engine whirred over, died.

Keith cursed desperately.

Down at the gate leading to Colin's house, he saw the dark figure of a man appear and stare in his direction. Keith's head bobbed down out of sight as he fiddled with the screwdriver again.

Once more the engine turned reluctantly. And died.

The man at the gate was peering with more interest towards him.

‘Come on, come on,' Keith muttered.

There was a shout. The man at the gate took a few strides in Keith's direction.

He twisted the screwdriver desperately. This time the car started with a backfire and a plume of blue smoke. Ahead, the man stepped into the road and shouted again. He was joined by a second man who vaulted Colin's garden wall. Both then began to hurry towards the car.

Keith rammed it into gear and the old banger lurched.

In the glow of the fluorescent street light, Keith saw both men reach underneath their jackets. At first, his intention had been to mow them down, but as their hands came out with guns, he had an immediate change of heart and courage. He literally stood on the brake and found reverse gear. Within a second the Escort was slewing backwards, picking up speed, the engine and the gearbox screaming in unison as speed increased.

Keith's head swivelled backwards and forwards as he tried to keep an eye on his own rearwards progress and that of the two armed men who were now on their toes.

He saw one raise his gun. There was a crack and a hole appeared in the windscreen, then a whizz as the bullet almost creased his arm and embedded itself somewhere in the back of the car. They were firing at him!

Keith yanked the wheel down and the front of the car spun, tyres squealing. The back tyres smacked on the kerb. He heaved on the steering wheel, wishing he had stolen a car with power steering.

They were closing on him and he was presenting them with a nice wide target. Ducking low again, he forced the gear stick down into first and revved the nuts off the engine as the clutch connected it to the gearbox and, once more, the car did a good impression of a marsupial – bouncing like mad – until he regained control and, then – miraculously without stalling the beast – he raced away.

Behind him, both men came to a standstill, watching him disappear, their guns held down by their sides.

Keith watched them in the rear-view mirror.

‘Bastards,' he said. He punched the air victoriously. Then he saw the bullet hole in the windscreen and his guts churned with a loud, slurping noise.

‘What do we do?'

The men were panting, but not breathless. They slid their guns back into their waistband holsters and stood side by side in the middle of the road, watching their prey escape.

It was the older of the two who had asked the question.

The younger man glanced furtively up and down the street, noticing they were quickly becoming the centre of attention as one or two people emerged from their houses, drawn by the sound of gunfire and the screaming engine.

‘We get out of here and we find him and we sort him – that's what we do.'

He was called Lynch. He was young and out to make an impression. He spun on his heels in the street, muttering, ‘Even some of these low lifes might call the cops,' referring to the nosy householders, ‘so we'd better get gone.'

Followed by the older man, whose name was Bignall, the two disappeared into the night like spectres.

‘We nearly had him,' Bignall said as they got into their car parked three streets away. It was a dull-looking Rover 214, nothing special or memorable, just the right kind of transport for the city. The sort of vehicle that fitted in with any background and could be left anywhere and probably not get stolen because it was such a boring car.

‘Yeah, nearly,' agreed Lynch. He sat in the front passenger seat, next to Bignall who would be driving. His mind was working fast, going over the few snippets of gen that Colin the Commando had divulged in their very short, but fruitful and violent meeting. Lynch looked at his fist and winced at the grazed knuckles, where he had slightly mis-punched and caught Colin's tin hat instead of his face. It had hurt . . . but it had hurt Colin more.

Lynch sucked his knuckles thoughtfully. Bignall started the car and began to drive.

‘Where to?'

Lynch checked his watch. ‘You're due to start work soon, aren't you?'

‘Yep – but I could call in sick.'

Lynch shook his head. ‘No need for that. You drive round to your place and I'll keep the car. It's always better to go to work.'

Bignall squinted cautiously at Lynch. ‘How about some dosh? I've been doing this most of the day with you.'

Lynch nodded and pulled out a fat roll of banknotes. He peeled five twenties off and dropped them into Bignall's greedy paw. As an afterthought he dropped him an extra twenty. ‘Bonus for being so helpful.'

‘Cheers . . . you're a real mate.' Bignall grinned widely at the unexpected windfall. This game was pretty worthwhile after all.

Lynch ran his hands over his short-cropped hair and smoothed down his sharp jacket, breathing out, getting comfortable, whilst he thought about the problem of Keith Snell. In some ways he was responsible for letting Snell off the hook in the first place and now he was charged with the responsibility of dealing with the issue. It was a task that meant a lot to Lynch, his make-or-break time. If he was successful it would do him no end of good, but if he ballsed it up he could say bye-bye to a lot of wealth and status. Dealing with Snell and retrieving the money was a route to the inner sanctum, to the lucrative lifestyle offered by the invincibles. But only if he got the money back.

They arrived at Bignall's flat. Lynch slid awkwardly across into the driving seat as Bignall got out. Bignall leaned back into the car.

‘Want me to deal with the shooters?'

Lynch considered the question for a moment, chewing his bottom lip. It was unlikely he would need a gun again that evening, so it would be better not to have it with him. He handed the weapon over to Bignall and said, ‘You know what to do?'

‘I know.' Bignall slid the gun into his jacket pocket and slammed shut the car door, turned to walk away to his house.

Lynch wound his window down. ‘Did you get the car number?' he called to Bignall's retreating back.

‘Yeah . . . I'll sort it and let you know what the score is.'

Lynch drove away and headed towards Manchester city centre, his grazed knuckles throbbing painfully. ‘Not good,' he said to himself, ‘not good at all.'

Keith drove the old car hard, clouds of black and blue fumes pouring from the exhaust as he gunned the engine against its natural desire to rest. His watery eyes kept returning to the bullet hole in the windscreen. Shit, he thought, as it dawned on him for the first time that he had made a very serious error of judgement. He shivered involuntarily at what might have been had the bullet smacked him in the head. But never once did he consider returning the money. Now it was his and he refused to sacrifice the prospect of the new life he had set his heart on.

He drove recklessly across the city, constantly checking his mirrors to see if he was being tailed, finding himself descending the slip road on to the M60 Manchester ring road at Prestwich. How he had arrived there, he did not know. He was beginning to sweat and shake slightly . . . the first signs of a requirement for what he knew would be a heavy hit.

Only when he was on the motorway proper did his brain clear slightly and he realized where he was. He had been navigating on autopilot, no particular plan in mind, but as he gathered his senses he had an idea. He veered off the M60 and joined the M61, heading west.

‘Blackpool!' he thought with a blinding flash of clarity, ‘is the place for me.' It was the resort to which all runaways went and hid. He knew people there who might hide him, would give him some protection; it was a place he could catch his breath and make some real plans.

Cheered by the thought of the bright lights – he could have some fun there, too, and definitely score – he pushed the accelerator to the floor, noting for the first time he could actually see the road surface through a hole in the footwell.