A Fistful of Knuckles (30 page)

‘I … I’m not sure I want to,’ stammered Kersey. His face was ashen.

‘It wasn’t a request, Kersey, it was a polite but firm instruction.’

Kersey froze. He’d seen more than enough blood for one day.

‘Think of it like opening a present on Christmas morning,’ said Gene, not very helpfully. ‘A great big lovely present full of mushed up body parts. That’s what I’m getting
you,
Tyler.’

Kersey looked to Sam for help.

‘Show me what to do,’ Sam told him. ‘You don’t have to watch.’

‘Turn it on with the key,’ Kersey said. ‘Then release that handle, slowly.’

Even as he spoke, Kersey was backing away, his face turning from white to green.

‘Everybody stand clear,’ Sam announced. ‘You all ready? On the count of three.’

‘It’s not Apollo Twelve, Tyler,’ grumbled Gene. ‘Just get on with it, you big fanny.’

Sam turned the starter key. The crusher’s mighty pistons rattled and roared into life. Black smoke belched from the motors. He glanced around, just to ensure no-one was getting too close – and at that moment a sudden flash of reflected light caught his eye. Matilda’s sister truck was pulling up, just beyond the parked Cortina and the patrol cars; like its counterpart, it too had a custom-made licence plate propped up against the windscreen, which bore the name
Gertrude.

But it wasn’t the sun reflecting on the lorry that caught Sam’s attention, it was the sudden flash of light on the crowbar wielded by a masked man who was rushing out from behind a heap of smashed cars. The man jumped on to the lorry’s running board, threw open the door and began battering at the driver inside the cab.

‘Guv!’ Sam shouted. His voice was drowned out by the bellowing of the crusher. ‘Guv! Look!’

But nobody could hear him.

Gertrude swerved left and right, then the driver’s door flew open and the driver himself tumbled out, battered and bleeding.

Leaving the crusher running, Sam bolted towards the hijacked lorry. Gene and the coppers gawped at him in incomprehension as he ran off.

‘Tyler … what the f …’

‘Felony in progress!’ Sam shouted as he ran. ‘Felony in bleedin’ progress!’

The lorry turned clumsily, crashing through a mountain of metal junk. This, at last, got everyone’s attention. The uniformed coppers stood and gawped. Gene reached instinctively under his coat for the Magnum.

Gertrude executed its blundering u-turn and went thundering out of the yard, smashing through a couple of parked cars in the street beyond before roaring recklessly away.

Sam reached the driver where he lay. He was splattered with blood, terrified and confused, but conscious enough to growl at Sam, ‘That bastard nicked Gerty!’

‘What the hell’s on your truck that’s so valuable?’

‘Old fridges! Just a load of old pipes and fridges! And for that he bashed my bonce and nicked my bloody Gerty!’

‘We’ll have him!’ Sam vowed. ‘We will
have
him!’ He turned to the uniformed officer. ‘Don’t just stand there, get after that truck! Get on your radios, organize a road block!’ As the coppers scrambled into their little Austins and set their lights flashing, Sam called to Gene, ‘I think we should stay here, Guv. We can monitor the pursuit over the radio, and make sure nobody tinkers with that crusher.’

‘Monitor the pursuit?’ sneered Gene, jangling his car keys as he strode swiftly towards the Cortina. ‘I
am
the pursuit, Tyler. I was
born
the bloody pursuit!’

He disappeared into the car and gunned the engine. Sam dived in beside him.

‘Guv, wait, I really think we should …’

But Gene wasn’t having any of it. They were off, rocketing past the marked patrol cars and ripping helter-skelter into the street. Sam flinched as the Cortina’s bonnet skimmed an oncoming car with barely an inch to spare.

‘Want to cast yet more aspersions on my driving, Tyler?’ Gene grunted at him.

‘I just want to get home alive, Guv.’

They were hurtling along, diesel smoke from Gertrude snorting into the air fifty yards ahead of them. Just behind the Cortina, the two patrol cars were rattling along, their lights flashing, burning-out their feeble engines to keep up with the chase. The radio under the dashboard was alive with wild chatter as the word went round: truck on the rampage – heading for the heart of the city – block it, stop it, do what the hell you have to do but damn well
get it off the road!

‘
I’ll
flamin’ get him off the road,’ Gene growled, and the Magnum was now in his hand, cocked and deadly.

‘Guv, for God’s sake, put that thing away!’

‘It’s
my
toy, and
I
wanna play with it!’

‘You can’t start blazing away in the streets, Gene!’ Sam bellowed at him. ‘You will
kill
people!’

‘Only badduns.’

Gertrude was only a few yards ahead of them now, crashing madly forward in a black cloud like some sort of runaway demon.

‘It’s a sitting bleedin’ duck for a pot shot!’ Gene declared. ‘I can’t resist it, I’m having a crack.’

He leant out of the window, driving one–handed, and lined up the mighty barrel of the Magnum with Gertrude’s rear tyres … but before he could squeeze off a shot, the truck swung suddenly to the left, smashing through a Pelican crossing and sending people running in all directions. Oncoming cars blared their horns and swerved madly out of the way.

‘
He’s
gonna splat more civvies than
me!
’ Gene spat, thrusting the gun at him. ‘Take the Magnum and shoot him, Tyler!’

The Cortina’s engine howled as Gene floored the gas. Gertude roared right across in front of them. Gene flung the wheel as they mounted the pavement, missed a phone box by a gnat’s gonad, then roared back onto the road.

‘I said shoot him, Tyler!’

‘Shut it! I can’t hear the radio.’

‘This is no time for Diddy David Hamilton!’

‘The
police
radio, you cretin!’ Sam leant closer to the crackling speaker. ‘Sounds like somebody’s got a plan.’

‘Plan? What sort of plan?’

‘I’m
trying
to hear!’

Between Gene’s shouting and the screaming of tyres on tarmac, Sam could just make out one of the patrol cars announcing that it had cut down a back street to head-off the truck. Sam glanced up and saw the little Austin pulling up bravely on the road ahead, blocking the way. The two coppers jumped out and indicated firmly for Gertrude to stop – stop – STOP!

But Gertrude didn’t. The two coppers flung themselves clear as the thundering lorry ploughed straight into their titchy patrol car and just kept going. The Austin shattered. Its body crumpled beneath the mighty truck. A single wheel rolled sadly away from the mangled remains, slowed, and fell over.

‘
That
was the plan?’ muttered Gene, stamping on the gas and swerving around the wreckage of the Austin. He powered the Cortina alongside the truck. ‘It’s time for a Genie plan.’

‘Not so close!’ Sam yelled. ‘He’ll veer across and roll right over us!’

‘
Roll over the Cortina?!
He wouldn’t ruddy
dare!
’

‘Pull back, Gene!’

This time, Sam grabbed the wheel.

‘OFF
the motor!’ bellowed Gene, shoving him roughly away.

‘You’ve lost it, Gene!’ Sam shouted back. ‘You’re acting like a lunatic! People are going to get killed!
We
are going to get killed!’

‘Stop being such a pissy-pants.’

The Cortina drew right up to Gertrude, almost nudging her filthy rear bumper with its radiator grill.

‘You’re bleedin’ Tonto, Guv,’ Sam said, shaking his head. ‘You are medically a mentalist.’

‘Nah, I’ve just got balls.’

‘Look out!’

The monstrous truck cut directly in front of the Cortina, its brake lights blazing and its juddering exhaust pipe farting a great blast of filthy black fumes across the windscreen. Gene threw the wheel and the Cortina ducked away as Gertrude cut across a corner, burst through a line of parked cars and then flattened a street lamp.

‘He must
really
want them fridges
,
’ said Gene. ‘Keep your shell-likes stuck to them police reports, Tyler. I want to know exactly where that truck’s headed.’

Gene floored the pedal and jerked the wheel wildly to the left. The Cortina zoomed down one narrow street after another.

‘What are you going, Guv?’ asked Sam, bracing himself in his seat. ‘Overtaking it so you can face it head on? That’s insane! You saw what it did to that Austin!’

‘This ain’t a chuffin’ Austin, you tart, now keep listening!’

Sam strained to hear the radio: ‘Lansdowne Road … Ellsmore Road … now he’s cutting across that bit of grass outside the Fox & Hounds … wrong way up Farley Street… . Left into Rokeby Crescent …’

‘Has he reached the top of Keyes Street yet?’

‘Nearly.’

Without warning, Gene slammed on the brakes, throwing Sam hard against the dashboard.

‘You could’ve warned me you were gonna do that, Guv!’

‘Why didn’t you clunk-click like Jimmy tells you? Folks die.’

Gene threw open the door and swept out into the street. He strode, straight-backed and narrow-eyed, to the middle of the road, and there he made his stand, his off-white leather loafers planted squarely on the oil-stained tarmac. The smooth barrel of the Magnum glittered dully in the golden-red rays of the setting sun.

Sam stumbled from the car, watching Gene feed fresh rounds into the gun to make up a full barrel.

‘Guv? What are you doing?’

Gene gave the Magnum a flick of the wrist.
Ka-chunk!
The barrel snapped back into the housing. Ready for action.

From the twilight shadows at the far end of the road there came a clamour and a roar, as if a rampaging, diesel-powered dragon were approaching.

Gene rested his finger on the trigger of the Magnum. He stilled his breath. He focused. He flexed and limbered his shooting arm; tilted his head; made the vertebrae in his neck go crack.

And then Gertrude appeared, rattling out of the shadows at speed, making straight down the road directly for Hunt. Its bank of headlights flared, turning Gene into a motionless silhouette.

‘Guv … that thing’s going to slam straight into you and just keep on rolling …’

‘It will not pass,’ Gene murmured, almost to himself.

‘It’s going to flatten you, Guv,
and
the Cortina!’

‘It – will not – pass!’

Gene raised the Magnum.

The truck blasted its horn, sending a ragged spear of steam stabbing up into the darkening sky. Gene replied with the Magnum. Fire spat from the muzzle. Gertrude’s windscreen exploded. A second shot cracked the radiator grill and thudded into the engine block. A third, fourth, and then a fifth ripped one after the other through the front axle.

But it was the sixth that delivered the sucker punch. It smacked through the bonnet and struck something – something vulnerable, something vital – deep inside Gertrude’s rusty bodywork. The truck screamed like a transfixed vampire. The cabin lurched forward as the axle beneath it gave way and flew apart, busting the chassis and driving the front bumper into the tarmac like a plough. Sheer weight and momentum carried the broken-backed monster forward a dozen or more yards, gouging a furrow in the road and throwing up showers of stones and debris, until, with a shuddering crack, the truck jolted to a stop. The man in the mask came catapulting through the jagged remains of the windscreen and fetched up in a ruinous heap at Gene Hunt’s feet. The cargo of old fridges and metal piping crashed and smashed like a steel wave that broke over the cab and cascaded deafeningly all over the road. Gertrude’s mortally wounded engine spewed a noisy jet of steam and then died. The headlights went dark. The scattered metallic debris came to rest. A last shard of glass fell from the windscreen and tinkled onto the road. Silence settled over the twilit street.

Gene glanced about at his handiwork, nodded to himself, and blew the smoke from the muzzle of the Magnum. Another job well done.

‘You
are
mad,’ said Sam, shaking his head slowly as he looked from the gun to the shattered remains of the lorry, from the blood-stained man crumpled at the guv’nor’s feet to the guv’nor himself, standing there in his camel hair coat and black leather string-backs, wreathed in a slowly arcing aura of gun-smoke. ‘This isn’t law enforcement … this is some sort of crazy macho playground you’re romping around in, you and your bloody Magnum. This isn’t what I signed up for. This isn’t the job I know. What the hell am I doing saddled with you, Gene?’

From the corner of his mouth, Gene replied: ‘Go on home to your kids, Herb.’ He leant over the groaning man sprawled at his feet, kicked away the now dented licence plate bearing the name
Gertrude,
and said: ‘And as for you, sunshine – you’re nicked … what’s left of you.’

Borstal Slags
is available for download on 14 March 2013

Tom Graham left school at 14 without qualifications. He is a smoker, and says that writing the
Life on Mars
novels is the nearest thing he’s had to a regular job since he got banned from driving. He part-owns a greyhound called Arthur and his ambition is to get fruity with Raquel Welch (to be clear about it, that’s Tom’s ambition, not Arthur’s).

Life on Mars: Blood, Bullets and Blue Stratos

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Harper

An imprint of HarperCollins
Publishers

77–85 Fulham Palace Road,

Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Copyright © Kudos Film and Television Limited 2012

Cover image produced with the kind permission of John Simm and Philip Glenister.

Tom Graham asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work