Judas Pig Part 13

Well, not only does the kid flash the fifty spot at Spud, but both of them give him the w.a.n.ker sign as well, before tearing back across the road and having it on their toes. And all Spud can do is sit there stewing like a prune and with his face cherrying red-hot, while me and Danny collapse into hysterics. The lights then turn green and Spud chucks an angry right, leaving Danny to kick down the accelerator on our motor and for us to swish gracefully on, straight ahead.

'And that's the difference between that old c.u.n.t and us,' says Danny. 'Cla.s.s.'

'And bundles of it,' I say. And the pair of us can't help but laugh to think that not only have we just mugged one of London's premier gangsters off in front of his boys. But this coming weekend we'll be bending him over and smacking his a.r.s.e so hard he won't be able to sit down for at least six moon.

'SO YOU SEE, Billy, there is no missing link,' says Fat Ray to me from the driving seat of a ringed Transit van we're in, parked on top of a hill overlooking an industrial estate near Dartford, Kent, that's been locked up for the weekend. Behind a worn flowery curtain at the rear of us, my firm is seated in the back on the floor playing cards. And all of us are simply biding time and waiting for the lorry carrying Spud Murphy's puff to arrive. So far it's an hour overdue.

'No missing link, Ray?' I reply abstractedly, winding my window half-down to expel the fustiness and stink emanating from Fat Ray's a.r.s.ehole and stale clobber.

'Nah, there was a quirk in the evolutionary scale and some of our ancestors ended up living by the sea, and in consequence started eating loads of fish, which made their brains grow really big. And that's how we got to be so intelligent. Take dolphins for instance, they're much cleverer than chimpanzees. They used to use them in the Second World War to lay mines on enemy s.h.i.+ps.'

'But dolphins are mammals, Ray.'

'Yeah, but they eat lots of fish.'

'Mmmmm.'

'And fish are a lot cleverer than you think. I was over at Mick the Malt's flat a couple of weeks ago, and he'd got hold of this octopus from Billingsgate market. Fair size it was, and still alive. So, we're sitting in his kitchen, and he puts it in a saucepan of water on top of the oven, and then turned it on to cook it. And f.u.c.k me if the thing didn't reach out with one of its tentacles and turn the gas off.'

'b.o.l.l.o.c.ks!' I say, turning to stare Fat Ray full in the eye.

'It's the truth, Billy. I saw it with me own eyes.'

But there's no time to ascertain whether Fat Ray's story is fact or fable, because just as I'm about to pursue a further line of inquiry on the cranial capabilities of octopuses, the lorry carrying Spud Murphy's drugs chugs into view at the bottom of the hill.

'Bingo!' I whisper, whilst nodding into the distance. 'There's our baby.' Pulling aside the curtain behind me I let my firm know we're ready to rock and roll. And no sooner do the words leave my mouth, than playing cards are thrown into an untidy heap on the van's floor, balaclavas are pulled on, and guns speedily checked and stashed into shoulder holsters. With the tension mounting I watch intently as the lorry pulls up then stops in front of a padlocked gate, where the driver toots his horn once. In a minute or so a man appears out of the front unit, walks towards the metal gate and undoes the heavy-duty lock before releasing the chain holding the gates together, allowing the lorry to crawl in and park up.

A loud hiss of air brakes punctures the quiet, letting all of us in the van know the lorry's journey is now complete and our coup is full on. As the driver disembarks his cohort re-chains and padlocks the gate, after which they both disappear into the unit.

'All right, son,' I say to Fat Ray. 'Let's go.' And then we're away, trundling steadily down the small shady lane that leads to the entrance of the industrial estate. About two hundred yards from the gates I tell Fat Ray to cut the engine, and we coast the final stretch in silence.

After slowing to a halt outside the gates, Fat Ray clambers from the Transit clutching an oversized pair of bolt croppers, before waddling as fast as his fat will allow him to the gate, where he expertly crops the padlock chain with a swift and silent chomp of the cutters, during which time I pull down my own balaclava, pull out my gun and join my firm by the side of the van. After quick nods all round through masked faces we take up positions with guns drawn, outside the unit's door. Danny then kicks it open and piles inside with us hot on his heels.

'POLIIICE!' we all scream at the top of our voices and pointing guns at what turn out to be four startled members of Spud Murphy's gang, seated round an upturned oil drum and drinking tea from grease-encrusted mugs. 'GET DOWN ON THE f.u.c.kING FLOOR, OR WE'LL BLOW YOUR f.u.c.kING HEADS OFF!' we scream once more, pumped high on adrenaline and with our blood pressure pus.h.i.+ng our aortas to breaking point, as once more we sate that craving that no criminal can do without, the need to keep on pus.h.i.+ng our luck to the limit. It ain't just about dough, it's about being alive, being in control and instilling fear. And as we bear down on the firm, who are now sitting slack-jawed and still as statues, I soak up the look on their stunned faces with a self-satisfied grin, as they all then drop like well-struck ninepins to the floor, and all the while pleading for us not to shoot because they ain't tooled up.

Each of our firm then takes a man apiece, stands over him and places the sharp, cold steel barrel of his gun to the back of his sweating captive's neck. A m.u.f.fled bang echoes around the steel structure, and the man beneath Danny lets out a low moan, causing me to look up.

'f.u.c.k!' I say quietly to myself, with the realisation that Danny's just shot his man in the back of the leg, just for the h.e.l.l of it. A jolt of anger surges through me, 'cos I promised Delroy that no one would get hurt on this bit of graft. Besides, there was just no need for it. These p.r.i.c.ks we've just laid down are already s.h.i.+tting Stillsons, so why the f.u.c.king violence?

'Keys to the lorry!' shouts out Danny, and after a few seconds of silence, the man laying flat under Frankie reefs around in his trouser pockets, before holding up a quivering hand containing the set of keys we've come for. Frankie s.n.a.t.c.hes them off the owner and walks outside to hand them over to Fat Ray.

'Mobile phones!' shouts out Stevie, as me and him then go round relieving the four men of their mobiles, before smas.h.i.+ng them underfoot.

After pulling out the only phone in the wall and tras.h.i.+ng it, Frankie commandeers the keys to the unit. I then open up a CS gas canister, which I throw smoking into the middle of the four men, as the three of us quickly vamoose, while the gas fumes spread and the room reverberates with the sound of choking and vomiting. After locking the door up from the outside, Frankie then lobs the keys into a nearby hedge. With Fat Ray now in control behind the wheel of the lorry, he pulls off with us following at a safe distance in the Transit. Job done, piece of p.i.s.s. An hour or so later and me and my firm, minus Fat Ray, are standing grouped together in a small semicircle inside our Mile End slaughter, with the lorry parked up and all of us feeling pretty pleased with ourselves. For those of you not involved in the criminal game, you just can't imagine the feeling that sweet bits of graft like this bring. Imagine it, down to a little bit of inside information, a large bit of bottle, and admittedly no shortage of Lady Luck, you waltz into a gaff and lay down a few mugs with some ironware, before waltzing back out with a lorry load of drugs wrapped around your b.o.l.l.o.c.ks, and with no one any the wiser. And of course when you rob from other criminals they can't run screaming to Old Bill.

'Sweet bit of graft,' says Stevie, rubbing his hands together and smiling with undisguised glee.

'Fair day's work for a fair day's pay,' says Danny, allowing himself a rare smile.

'Spud'll be blowing smoke rings out of his a.r.s.e when he finds out,' I say.

'f.u.c.k that potato-headed c.u.n.t,' says Danny.

'I heard he was gonna spend the dough from this deal on a new ski lift for his gaff at Beckton,' says Stevie.

'f.u.c.king gargoyle,' sneers Frankie. 'He'd have been better off spending it on a f.u.c.king face lift.' At which we all have a little laugh, solely at Spud Murphy's expense, of course. And this is my coup really, which means I'm well over the moon. And so, with a smile on my mooey and a swagger in my stroll, I make my way over to the back of the lorry, put my foot on the tailgate, grip the door handle, pull, and start to ease the back door open. And as the first gasp of air rushes out from the container I swear I can already smell the sweet freedom that this one last bit of graft is going to help buy. Putting one foot on the tow bar I tense my body and pull myself up onto the back of the lorry.

'f.u.c.king h.e.l.l!' I shout out, quickly jumping back out and slamming the door shut, whilst simultaneously pulling out my gun and pointing it at the tailgate. Without any hesitation my firm comes running over, also pulling out tools, to join me in covering the rear of the lorry.

'What the f.u.c.k's going on?' they're all shouting at me, and looking for answers. 'Looks like you seen a f.u.c.king ghost!'

'It's worse than a f.u.c.king ghost,' I tell them. 'It's Delroy's little cousin, Shakesy. He's standing in the back there holding a twelve-bore f.u.c.king shotgun.'

'What the f.u.c.k's that lowlife n.i.g.g.e.r chavvie doing in the back of the lorry?' says Frankie.

'You said this was gonna be f.u.c.king sweet,' says Danny.

'It is,' I tell him. But really I'm thinking, oh s.h.i.+t, while standing here not quite believing what I've just seen.

After taking a few much-needed seconds to gather my senses, I move forward and put my face to the back of the lorry.

'Can you f.u.c.king hear me?' I shout at the top my voice.

'Yeah!' comes back Shakesy's barely audible and quivering reply.

'Now I need to know,' I shout to him again. 'Do you know who you're grafting for?'

'Spud Murphy,' comes back the answer.

'How the f.u.c.k did you get to be grafting for that slag?'

'Me and my gang burgled a slaughter of his a couple of months ago and he caught us. He was gonna break our legs but said we could fight our way out, if any of us had the b.o.l.l.o.c.ks. So I had a straighter with young Spud. You and Delroy taught me how to box, didn't ya, so I knew I could do the business. Beat ten bells of s.h.i.+t out of him. Then Spud Murphy said if I ever needed any graft...'

'Enough, I've heard enough,' I scream back at him angrily, adding, 'And do you know what you're minding?'

'The other gear.'

'Oh, for f.u.c.k's sake,' I say, dropping my head forward and shaking it sadly.

'You ain't gonna tell me mum, are you, Billy?'

'Listen you silly little c.u.n.t, I'm the one asking the questions.'

'OK.'

'No, I ain't gonna tell your mum, but what I am gonna do is have a word with some of my pals, then I'm gonna come back to you and we're gonna sort this out.'

'OK!' Shakesy shouts back, his voice now sounding a little stronger, before then adding, 'Is Danny Longshanks mad at me?'

Jesus wept, he surely f.u.c.king did, I mutter under my breath, and wis.h.i.+ng that the kid hadn't mentioned Danny's name, because Danny's clocked it, and the kid already knows way too much, which means I'm bang up against it now. And what should have been taking a beautiful piece of candy from a plug-ugly baby, is now unfurling into some demented Trojan Horse tragedy.

'What the f.u.c.k's going on now, Billy?' says Danny.

'That slag Spud must've smelt something,' I say. 'Reckon he's used the silly little c.u.n.t as insurance or something.'

'He's gotta f.u.c.king go,' says Frankie, c.o.c.king back the trigger on his tool.

'Leave it out, boys,' I say. 'He's only a f.u.c.king baby. And he's like family to me.'

'More like family than us, is he?' sneers Stevie.

'I didn't mean it like that,' I say. 'It's just that, well, he ain't a bad kid. Been having it right f.u.c.king hard.'

'Yeah, well we all know about having it f.u.c.king hard, Billy,' says Frankie.

'f.u.c.king right,' says Danny. 'And if we let him go, the minute Spud claims hold of him, he'll lollar us all up.'

'Right, just listen to what I've got to say,' I tell them, realising it's going to be an uphill struggle all the way. 'How long we been together?'

Seconds pa.s.s but there ain't no reply. They're all just standing there staring at me, so I carry on regardless. 'Have I ever let any of you down? No, f.u.c.king right I ain't. Always been there. f.u.c.king h.e.l.l! Come h.e.l.l or high water. That's why you call me the Cinzano man, ain't it? Anytime, anyplace, any-f.u.c.king-where.'

But my spiel ain't working, I can see that. They're all still standing there, mouths shut and brains closed. So I field my best play. 'Look, I'll guarantee the kid will stay schtummo,' I tell them. 'I'll send him away on a little holiday. Go see his relatives, it'll be sweet. C'mon fellas, give the kid a squeeze.' After playing my best shot, I run a cold grey stare over each and every one of them, devouring every inch of the their ugly, bitter twisted faces as I do so, in a search for just one tiny ounce of compa.s.sion. But there ain't none. Then Danny speaks.

'All right, you got it, Billy. But if we hear one f.u.c.king word out on the street, he goes.'

'Sweet, f.u.c.king sweet!' I yell, punching the air. 'Don't worry, I'll scare the life out of the little f.u.c.ker, he won't know what's. .h.i.t him.'

Turning back to face the lorry I tell Shakesy, 'Now, I'm gonna open the door and you can come out.'

'OK,' he shouts, as I gently ease open the door to find the kid leaping straight into my arms and crying like a baby. So what am I going to do, beat the s.h.i.+t out of him? I feel like crying myself. Fancy getting himself into this mess. But what the f.u.c.k can I say, I've been there and done it all a million times myself.

'It's all right, it's all right,' I tell him, squeezing him tight in the first cuddle he's probably had in five years.

BANG! is all I hear, as without warning Danny steps forward and puts a single bullet in the back of the kid's head, just like that. No fuss. Matter of fact. And the kid simply drops to the floor like a stone and lays there, brown bread in a pool of red, leaving me cuddling an empty s.p.a.ce.

'Like I said,' says Danny, stuffing his gun back in its holster. 'The little f.u.c.ker would've come his load once Spud got hold of him.'

After standing, thunderbolt-shocked and gutted for about thirty seconds I start to walk away as if sleepwalking through a bad nightmare.

'f.u.c.king great!' I shout at the three of them, without even realising what I'm saying. 'We're killing f.u.c.king kids now, are we?'

'Your att.i.tude f.u.c.king stinks,' screams Danny at me, but I'm oblivious to them and just carrying on walking, and with my subconscious telling me I don't even want to look at any of these f.u.c.king child-killing sc.u.mbags.

'Don't stink as much as this,' I shout back without turning my head. 'I'm out, you can count me out.'

'Don't you walk away from me, you c.u.n.t,' growls Danny, but I'm already half out of the door and on my way to my motor.

'Let him go,' I hear Frankie say.

'Yeah, let him go and cry and rub his f.u.c.king p.u.s.s.y like the b.i.t.c.h he is,' shouts out Stevie. And with those words ringing in my ears I climb into my motor and drive off.

THREE DAYS AND I ain't hardly slept a wink, having been holed up in my Docklands flat sniffing too much gear, drinking too much booze, zombied out on the sofa and staring up at the ceiling and crying. What a pitiful c.u.n.t I am. A grown-up gangster blubbering away like a wet behind the ears nancy boy. I blame the f.a.ggotry in me bubbling to the surface like a badly-infected boil. I ain't in denial, I know it's there. But I despise it, especially because its making me feel as if I'm about to explode, what with the pain I've got fermenting inside. There don't seem to be any sense to any of this anymore, if ever there was. And to cap it all Danny's getting more unstable by the minute. I just know nothing good's going to come out of him killing Shakesy. And now I've had time to think about it, things have been building to a head between me and him since he topped my pal Jewish Dave. And what with me walking away from the killing the other day I've got a feeling my own days are numbered. It's a terrifying position to be in, knowing every meet I go on now could be my last. Besides, there's still more storm clouds on the horizon in the shape of Woodsy, the nutty gangster whose missus, Jennifer, Danny was banging while he was in the b.o.o.b. Today's the day he's out on home leave, and my firm's on their way round to pick me up before going round his old girl's house to plot him up and top him. And it ain't even my f.u.c.king grief. Every last bit of it is down to Danny's dangling b.o.l.l.o.c.ks. I would dearly love to go on the missing but I've still got a large amount of dough due me, so I'll have to hang on in there. But I'll tell you this for nothing. Once I've picked my share up I'm straight out the back door. I've been around too long and seen too many good people end up with one in the nut just because they overstayed their welcome. And ain't no way that's going to happen to me.

Just as I'm garnering further thoughts about my planned final exit from gangster-land, my mobile phone sparks into life. Its shrill tone stiffens my body like a board, almost sending me into cardiac arrest. But knowing I've got to keep things sweet with all those around me, I have no choice but to answer it.

'Billy?' says a crackly voice down the end of the line. 'It's me, Delroy!' And straight away, it sets me to thinking that I'm really not up for this little p.r.i.c.k at the moment.

'I told you not to ring me, you f.u.c.king dinlow,' I snap back at him, while wis.h.i.+ng I could bite his head off with a single chomp.

'I'm sorry but I had to. The s.h.i.+t's. .h.i.t the fan!'

'What s.h.i.+t's. .h.i.t what fan?'

'Me sister was taking me dog out this morning, and Big Spud-'

'What have I told you about rockering on phones, you f.u.c.king mug!' I shout at him, before lowering my voice and instructing him to, 'Take five, get your act together and call me back on a landline.' After which, I click off my mobile and toss it angrily to the floor, remembering how many times I've told that little p.r.i.c.k that criminals can't trust c.u.n.t-eyed mobile phones. But more to the fact than that, we can't trust any types of phones. There's more good people doing bird down to talking on the blower than I don't know what. Talking on any blower is a bad habit to get into, full stop, and Delroy f.u.c.king knows that. But at the moment I have to say, I know my landline is sweet because I had a pal of mine sweep it with a bug detector a couple of weeks ago. But that don't mean I'm happy about the situation, because now you can see what I've been saying all along. You get a small fish in a small pond like Delroy, wants to be a big fish in a big pond. But as soon as he thinks there's a bit of grief his bottle starts whistling Dixie. Small-timers like him trying to hit the big time are the reason that those that have made it start getting nicked or topped. Plus, I don't get no extra for babysitting clowns. But I will calm him down. Not for his sake, but mine. I've got one foot out of this s.h.i.+tpit of an existence already, and there's no way I'm going to let this bottley little p.r.i.c.k drag me back in over my head. My landline rings and I answer it.

'Right, now listen to me, D,' I tell him. 'Before you start rockering down the blower, take a deep breath, start from the beginning and just give me the facts. I don't want any f.u.c.king conspiracy theories or proper names.'

'Sorry, mate. I was panicking a bit, that's all.'

'Well, panicking is as pointless as praying. If you can't handle the heat go back to nicking Curly f.u.c.king Wurlies from corner shops.'

'I'll be OK, Billy. Anyway. Me sister was out walking me dog, along the balcony, because Shakesy, the little f.u.c.ker has gone on the missing again. So this bloke stopped her and asked her where the chavvie who normally walks the dog is, which is Shakesy. I mean you know he looks after it for me. She said she didn't know. So the c.u.n.t picked up me dog and threw it over. Four f.u.c.king floors, man, squashed like a pancake. Then he beat me sister up. Punched her in the stomach and all that. It's on top man, it's on top. It was Big Spud, man. Billy, me dog's f.u.c.king dead, man.'

'f.u.c.k the poxy dog,' I say. 'You can buy another f.u.c.king dog. They all look the f.u.c.king same anyway. And how do you know it was Big Spud?'

'She described him to me, man. It was him. Why was he looking for Shakesy? I mean, he's got f.u.c.k all to do with this, Billy.'

'f.u.c.k knows, although I did hear that Shakesy and his little firm burgled Spud Murphy's slaughter a week or so ago. Maybe Big Spud was looking for him for that. It won't have nothing to do with us, whatsoever. Believe me, Spud Murphy ain't even probably told his boys he's had a load of gear in.'

'You reckon?'

'One million per cent. Now what you've got to do is slip out the way for a few days, like I told you in the first place. I'm meeting up with my people later today and we'll put some feelers out. But you're a million miles away, believe me. You've put two and two together and come up with a load of paranoid b.o.l.l.o.c.ks. Anyways, how's your sister, OK?'

'Bit shook up. So, you reckon it's nothing to worry about?'

'Just told you. Now don't ring me again, I f.u.c.king mean it. If you call me one more time, we'll fall out. You're behaving like a p.r.i.c.k.' And with that, I cut Delroy off before he can talk further.

Of course I lied. What did you want me to do, tell him that Danny's topped his cousin, or nephew, or whatever the f.u.c.k he his? f.u.c.king pointless, he ain't Lazarus! Everything that happens from now on is about me, no one else. And besides, what he don't know won't hurt him. It's what you do know that gets you killed in this game. So Spud's on it straight away, obviously. What a slippery old slag! But what the f.u.c.k, I'll be out of this in the next few days and they can all get on knocking each other over like ninepins. I can swallow all the properties I own, even the ones I've got with Danny. All told, I'll have enough readies to start again anywhere I f.u.c.king like. I must admit though I'm p.i.s.sed off that Big Spud punched Delroy's sister up the ribs. She's a good girl, got nothing whatsoever to with this, and I ain't just saying that because I've been slipping her a goldfish for the last six moon. But first things first and I'll put that on the back burner for now. And then when I meet up with my people I'll use the Spud Murphy situation to take the dairy off of me for the moment. Buy myself some time and muddy the waters a little bit.

'HE'S f.u.c.kING TOAST,' growls Danny from the pa.s.senger seat of our firm's Mercedes, as I climb in feeling like more like an embalmed mummy than a human being. And that's the only greeting I get as I slide shakily onto the backseat, shut the door and we pull away from the front of my apartment block with Stevie driving. It's then that I notice that Frankie's on the missing, which means the slippery c.u.n.t has w.a.n.gled himself out another bit of nonsensical graft.

'Who's f.u.c.king toast?' I say, wiping the sweat from my brow with a piece of soiled tissue paper left over from last night's Chinese takeaway.

'Denny Dalston,' says Stevie. 'Maddy done him for us last night. Called him out on a moody bit of graft over near the Ally Pally and blew the c.u.n.t's f.u.c.king nut off as he sat in his motor listening to Tony Blackburn.'

'Fitting end for the dopey c.u.n.t,' I say. 'And one less f.u.c.king maggot for us to worry about.'