‘The fuck you looking at?’
He loved it, the dope cruising in his veins, the Walther snug in his jacket. He began to hum the theme from The Sopranos.
His fervour faltered a little when he got into the house and old Bill introduced him to the crew. Jesus, how old were they?
Four of them, none under seventy. Bill said:
‘Meet the gang.’
McDonald snapped:
‘No names, this is a professional gig.’
Got their attention.
Already, from the street, he could hear the shouts, yahoos of the coming evening. One of the men looked nervously towards the window, and Bill said:
‘It’s early yet, they’re just warming up, come midnight they’ll be in full roar.’
McDonald said nothing for a moment, then asked:
‘You get everything?’
Bill, anxious to please, went to get the equipment and one of the guys asked McDonald:
‘You’re a copper?’
He had an edge, an accusation to his question.
McDonald said:
‘I’m your best hope is what I am.’
A guy wearing a tartan scarf asked:
‘What do you think we can do, they’re running riot out there?’
McDonald said:
‘We’re going to reclaim a tiny part of Great Britain.’
They stared at him with scepticism and he said:
‘First we take back this street and then who knows.’
Bill arrived back, with a bin liner, emptied the contents on the carpet, out tumbled baseball bats, balaclavas, cricket bats, and one lethal-looking hammer.
McDonald said:
‘Okay, let’s get primed.’
He doled out the various items and the men seemed unsure as they hefted the various weapons. McDonald asked:
‘Is there a key figure in the gangs?’
Bill said:
‘A West Indian kid, about twenty, he seems to control most of the activity. He’s always surrounded by four or five dangerous-looking guys, one black and three white guys.’
He sounded horrified that white men would be part of such mayhem. McDonald asked:
‘He got a name?’
One of the others said:
‘They call him “Trick”.’
McDonald smiled, said:
‘Trick or treat.’
He checked his watch, looked at Bill, said:
‘We have some time, how about some refreshments while I lay out the plan of action.’
Bill had sherry, some cider, and a bottle of gin that looked like it had been there since the Second World War. Bill dispensed mugs and McDonald did the host bit, poured gener ous amounts of each beverage to his crew. He had a large gin himself, said:
‘Now listen up, this is not going to be pretty, once we get out there, you do exactly like I’m about to tell you. If you have any qualms, get to fuck home now.’
He waited, saw some nervous glances, but they stayed put, he said:
‘Good, now here’s how it’s going to go down.’
When he’d finished, one of the men, sipping sherry, asked:
‘Isn’t that a tad… drastic?’
McDonald walked over to him, stopped, then lashed out, knocking the mug across the room, said:
‘Don’t ever… ever question me. You want to live in fear, huddled under the sheets, or do you want to be a man?’
There was a stunned silence, then Bill said:
‘We’re with you, Boss.’
McDonald liked that, liked it a lot.
The four old men, McDonald watched them as the time ticked away and the noise from the street intensified. There was the guy in the tartan scarf who seemed gung ho, especially after the pint of cider. Next, was a guy with thick glasses, and McDonald tagged him as the owl. He might be useful if he could actually see anything. Bill, of course, and sitting beside him was a solid-looking man, who might have been a docker in his day. McDonald reckoned he’d be fine. Then was there the librarian, you just knew he’d never swung anything more wieldly than a book.
McDonald went through the strategy again, insisting they not waver from this, the whole fuel being… fast and dirty.
He popped a tab of speed and told them to suit up. In the balaclavas, dark clothing, they seemed a touch more formidable but not really up to close scrutiny. He nodded and as they moved to the back door, the librarian halted, said: ‘I can’t… I can’t go out there.’
McDonald wanted to knock him on his arse, the whole deal could fold right there, he said:
‘Okay, that’s fine. You go and gather up some serious booze, you can be the provisions officer. We’ll need fortifying.’
And then they were moving along the back garden, McDonald held a thick length of pipe in his hand, they came round the street, McDonald in the lead, the four close behind.
Gathered round a minivan were a loud, boisterous group. The centre was a small guy in his twenties, swigging from a bottle of vodka, giving it large. Trick
As arranged, they waded in immediately, swinging bats, hammer, and not uttering a sound. They felled most of the gang in the initial assault, and McDonald was cheered to see the docker give a few extra kicks to the guy he’d dropped. Then McDonald was in front of Trick, whose jaw had literally dropped, he gasped:
‘The fuck is this?’ McDonald swung the pipe, crushing the guy’s lower jaw, and kicked him in the balls as his head snapped back, McDonald knelt by him, grabbed his hair, twisted, said:
‘You ever appear in this street again, we’ll kill you and everyone belonging to you.’
He heard a groan behind him, Bill had taken a knife in the gut, the knife holder was standing now, professional stance, his mouth leaking blood, he glared at them, growled:
‘C’mon, you wankers, who’s next…?’
They’d had the initial advantage of surprise and had done really well but it all hung in the balance, a moment when all could go down the toilet, and he could sense his crew on the verge of flight.
He shot the knife holder, in both knees, said:
‘Troops disengage.’
He had to drag Bill along, blood seeping from his stomach, the docker grabbed his other arm and they were down the street, circled behind the houses and back thorough the gardens. McDonald could hear the wail of sirens. It struck him that for the first time in his career, that sound was the enemy. They were back inside the house, the librarian waiting, his face chalky white. McDonald ordered:
‘Hit the lights, we’ll stay in the kitchen.’
There were three bottles of Glenfiddich on the kitchen table, McDonald got Bill onto a chair, let his head rest on the table, and grabbed a bottle, tore the seal off it, drank deep, passed the bottle to the docker, and then examined Bill’s wound. It was nasty, and Bill had gone into shock. McDonald grabbed another bottle, got the top off, and poured the whisky on the gash, Bill howled in anguish, McDonald commanded:
‘Get me something to bind this.’
He was handed a pile of bandages and some towels and sweat pouring off him, he managed to bind the wound. The docker said:
‘He’ll need hospitalization.’
McDonald nodded, said:
‘Give me five minutes to get clear, then call an ambulance, say he was a victim of a mugging. Get the gear stashed away. The rest of you go home, I’ll be in touch.’ They stood for a moment, staring at him, and he said:
‘You did good.’
He took another swig of the bottle and took off through the back garden. He dumped his balaclava in a bin, kept to the back streets moving fast and, on the edge of Clapham, hailed a cab, got in the back, and he was out of there. The driver, smoking a joint, had the radio on, loud. McDonald settled back in his seat, as Dire Straits sang… ’The Sultans of Swing.’
A wide grin began to move across McDonald’s face. He watched the streets as the cab sped on, groups of people everywhere and he thought: