I identify the priority target as The Knife, since he’s the one with the weapons, and as he turns my way, I let him have it with a liberal burst of the spray. He tries to cover his face but he’s not fast enough, and as he chokes and splutters against the fumes, at the same time bringing his knife round in my direction, I knock him down with a swift left hook. He hits the sofa, out for the count.
But The Crim’s a bit quicker, having had that much more time to react, and he yanks his head away as I fire off another burst of the spray. He’s exposed in this position, and I come forward and punch him in the kidneys, twice in quick succession. He stumbles and loses his footing, and I grab him by his coat and pull him close, shoving the canister against his nose and spraying off the last of its contents straight up his nostrils.
He starts gasping for air and twisting round uncontrollably, smashing into the stereo unit, part of which falls on his head with a loud clunk. I let go of him and turn round to look for Vanya, who’s giving the prone, mewing Humphrey a bit of a working over. I pull her off him and, at that moment hear the sound of a toilet flushing round the corner, just out of sight.
Oh no! The Gang! In all the excitement, I’ve forgotten about him, and now I’m out of spray. A second later, he comes into the room – twenty-five stone of muscle and jelly. The guy’s amazingly fast for one so immense, I have to give him that.
“Run!” shouts Vanya rather unnecessarily, but he’s almost upon me, leering like a demented clown and, worse still, The Knife is starting to get to his feet, obviously not quite as knocked out as I’d thought.
I strike The Gang with a three-punch combination, every blow slamming into his tiny, childlike face, but they might as well be kisses for all the damage they’re doing, and he keeps coming forward, wrapping great arms round my torso, and dragging me into a vice-like bearhug that quite literally takes my breath away. I try to say something but no sound comes out. I feel my ribs giving way. I have never been in such pain in my life, and I think that if I die like this, it will be a truly terrible way to go. And it’s all because of that arsehole, Kevin.
In the background, I can see The Knife rubbing his eyes. He hisses to his colleague not to kill me. He wants to end my life himself. It almost seems preferable to what I’m going through now.
But then The Gang’s grip loosens, and he suddenly goes boss-eyed. I get my right arm free and deliver an uppercut that catches him under the chin. The grip loosens still more and I struggle free, bumping into Vanya, whose hand is thrust between The Gang’s legs, twisting savagely. As the Americans would say, this girl has spunk.
We turn together, just in time to see The Knife slashing his weapon in a throat-high arc, and it takes all my old reactions to fend off the blow, using my right arm to block his, and my left to deliver two vicious little jabs – bang bang – right into his pockmarked mug.
He actually says “Ouch!”, then goes straight over backwards, landing on the carpet, only to be trampled on by The Crim, who is still blundering around the room like a drunk gatecrashing a ballet performance.
And then we’re out the door and down the stairs, taking them two and three at a time, and I can hear The Gang lumbering behind us. Vanya stumbles and I grab her arm and pull her upright. We hit the street at a mad dash, veering right in the direction of the BMW. She starts fiddling in the pocket of her jeans for the keys, thinking that’s she’s going to be the one driving, but there’s no way that’s going to happen.
“This is my car, darling!” I shout, pulling out the spares and flicking off the central locking.
Reluctantly, she jumps in the passenger side, while I leap in the driver’s seat and switch on the ignition. The engine purrs into life, and I pull out into the road. I can see The Gang in the rear view mirror, coming down the road after us. He’s gaining but there’s not a lot he can do now and I accelerate away, feeling pleasantly satisfied, at least until Vanya tells me that the Bow-bury Gardens is actually a dead end road, and I’m going in the wrong direction.
I do a quick three-point turn in the middle of the road, and swing the car back round, accelerating. Twenty yards away, The Gang is in the middle of the road, looming up like an immovable stone monolith, but this is a strong car, and a good deal more substantial than the man currently standing in front of me.
I think The Gang must belatedly realize this because at the last second, he leaps to one side, belly-flopping onto the bonnet of some poor sod’s Renault Megane with a huge crash. It takes me a moment to realize that it is in fact The Wolverine’s car and that now he’s definitely going to be walking home tonight.
I keep driving, gliding round the bend and onto the main road. Mission almost accomplished.
“Thanks for that,” says Vanya, leaning over and putting a hand on my arm. She smells nice, and I think there might be passion in her pale eyes, although to be fair, I’ve been wrong about this sort of thing before.
“What the hell was that all about?” I ask her, and she tells me.
Apparently, Stephen Humphrey is providing lucrative defence contracts to one of The Crim’s front companies in return for cash. A very big contract is coming up and, on hearing that The Crim is driving one of the new BMWs, Humphrey wants to take possession of the car in lieu of his usual payment. The Crim reluctantly agrees and Humphrey and Vanya go for a spin. Vanya, however, has been tiring of Humphrey of late, and they end up having a violent argument. In the ensuing mêlée, Vanya physically removes the MP from the car, damaging his toupee in the process, and then drives off home, concluding that actually London life isn’t for her. She decides to take the 7-Series and drive it, and her meagre possessions, back to Slovakia.
But just as she’s leaving, The Crim and his boys turn up, along with a crooked-haired Humphrey thirsting for revenge. Which is where I came in.
I ask her if she’s going to take the plane home now.
She looks disappointed. “Is this really your car?” she asks.
“I’m afraid it is,” I tell her.
“So,” she says, looking at me with an interest she’s never shown before, “what are you going to do? The men you attacked are going to be pretty upset and I understand that Mr Sneddon is a very powerful man.”
It’s a good question, and one I haven’t really given a lot of thought to. “We’ll have to see,” I say enigmatically.
By this time, we’ve pulled up outside Aunt Lena’s house. I know that whatever happens, I’ve got to keep her out of the way of The Crim, who’s going to be looking to settle scores in any way he can.
But there’s something odd here. In Aunt Lena’s one-car carport sits another 7-Series, brand new like mine. I park up behind it and, taking the spare keys from Vanya, just in case she decides to do another runner, tell her to wait for me.
As I reach the front door, it opens and who should I see standing there but the fugitive himself, cousin Kevin? He immediately opens fire with a barrage of excuses for his absence, as well as heartfelt apologies and gestures of thanks. The whole tirade’s a pile of bullshit, of course, but you have to give him ten out of ten for effort.
“Where’s your mum?” I ask him, and then remember that I actually told her to stay round her friend Marjorie’s house on the next street until all this boiled over.
“Have you got The Crim’s money?” I demand. “He reckons it’s thirty-four grand.”
“Thirty-four thousand?” he pipes up. “That’s ruinous. Tell you the truth,” he adds, which is usually the prelude to a lie, “I’ve been down in Monaco. Made some money on the tables. Had everything ready for The Crim, but then I saw this motor in the showroom near the casino…” He motions towards the car, “and I just had to have it. It’s beautiful, Billy,” he says. “Supreme engineering.”