Rant (16 page)

Barbu frowned some more.

I decided to help out.

‘Good show!' I shouted, ‘Let's arrest them all. And about bally time too. That's the chappie you want, up there.'

‘Shut up, Crackenthorpe,' hissed Barbu. ‘What do you want with me? I've done nothing wrong.'

‘Nae, sir,' said Mallefant, ‘it's no' you Ah've come fer. It's this wee gentleman here. An' hes name's no' Crackenthorpe. Hes names Michael Rant and he's wanted fer suspected murder, robbery and assault. An' those yon shady buggers wi im are wented fir questionin' an all. So if youse will excuse us.'

My heart sank. It was all over.

Then, ‘I don't think so,' said Barbu. ‘I think we need to have a quiet word with all of you before you go anywhere. My men here will escort you into the back office here and—'

‘If you insist on impeding an officer of the law in the kerrying oot a hes duty, sir, Ah may well have to arrest
you
an all. Ah should warn ye that this building is surroonded by armed polismen, and they will open fire if Ah'm nut allowed to walk oot a hyer under mah own poower.'

‘I've already tried that line,' I said forlornly. ‘Didn't work.'

‘Enough,' said Barbu. ‘Take them away.'

The four large men in black began to move menacingly towards us, whilst everyone else backed away in unison, forming a ring around us.

‘What now?' I whispered to Sam out of the corner of my mouth.

‘You tell me,' he answered, not even bothering to lower his voice. ‘You've managed so beautifully up to now.'

Suddenly a barrage of cracks and pops rang out. To the uninitiated it may sound like gunfire, but I realised it must be Mr Agent Smith creating his diversion. His big bomb was (thankfully) out of commission but he had improvised skilfully. I saw him dash along a walkway, throwing what I presumed to be tear gas grenades as he went. The whole room began to fill with smoke. I saw Sophie disappear into the corridor with Davie and Beth, closely followed by Mallefant and then everyone else in the room, with Mr Van G shuffling along in the rear.

Barbu's men opened fire even as he shouted at them not to, and I saw Mr Agent Smith fall and lie still at the head of a spiral staircase. Sam grabbed my arm and started dragging me away from the exit.

‘We've got to get those cases,' he whispered, ‘it's our only chance.'

We staggered on through the smoke, waving our hands in front of us, eyes streaming, when I tripped over something. I felt along its length, pulling away when I grabbed a handful of testicles. I peered through painful eyelids and saw that it was one of the men in black. He was unconscious but still held his gun. I pulled it out of his hand and a sudden thought made me look to see what he had tripped over.

It was one of the suitcases.

Bingo!

I picked it up and started staggering in the direction I had last seen Sam. I hissed his name a couple of times but there was no reply.

I decided I'd better hurry and started to make my way toward the exit.

And ran full tilt into someone.

I heard him groan and fall with a thump, as I staggered and managed to hold myself up against the wall. I turned toward him, holding out the gun, ready to shoot. Providing the safety catch was off. And I hadn't gone stone blind by then.

‘Goddammit, clumsy fucking Limey bastard!'

Sam.

‘I know that's you, Rant. Take my hand.'

I reached out and pulled him to his feet. ‘I found one of the cases, but I can't see so well. Go see if you can find the other one.'

‘I already have,' I said, holding it up. But he couldn't see it. ‘Let's go.'

There was movement behind us, the sound of someone searching. I led Sam away from the noise and found an old wooden door, which opened quietly. We sneaked through. The light was dim in here but I spotted a rack of torches and picked up one for each of us, shoving his into his coat pocket and flicking mine on.

I could just make out a spiral staircase going down. I led Sam towards it and we descended. About halfway there was a water pipe, and we paused a moment to rinse out our eyes.

There was also a smell. It got stronger the further down we went.

‘I think we're headed into the sewers.'

‘Shit!' he exclaimed, holding his nose.

‘That about covers it,' I said. ‘Maybe we should go back up.'

Then we heard a door bang high above us, followed by the sound of running feet.

We carried on down.

At the bottom the staircase opened into a large, vaulted tunnel, with no clue as to where to go.

‘What do we do?' I squeaked. Along the pipe a couple of rats squeaked back. Maybe they fancied me as a potential mate.

‘Split up,' he said, ‘you go that way, and I'll go this. If you make it, head for the safe house and we'll decide what to do from there. Good luck.'

‘How do I find my way out?'

The footsteps were loud on the stairs now. He gave me a few tips and then splashed off into the dark.

Our pursuers were almost on top of me now. For a second I contemplated just giving myself up, but then I thought of Anna.

‘I'm coming, babe,' I said, to nobody but the rats. The rats squeaked back, obviously excited and cheering me on. ‘I'm coming.'

Now

The prison cafeteria is noisy, bustling. The clamouring voices seem as though they are being piped in from outside. A scene-setting hubbub. A disjointed chorus of ever-present violence and malevolence.

I keep myself nearsighted. I do not allow my eyes or my mind to focus on anything. I have decided that introversion will serve me well whilst I am here. No joking, no wisecracks from me. I know that I will not survive long in this place if I cannot keep myself closed off. Quiet.

I take the tray that is offered to me and find a seat with the minimum of fuss. Prison slop. Glue and sawdust poured over a chop made from the insole of someone's shoe. Mashed potato with the consistency of wallpaper paste. Peas like painted ball bearings. I fear for my fillings and do not put anything in my mouth. I find it hard to pretend I am hungry. Eyes follow me greedily, hungrily. I do not know who amongst these people is my friend – or who is my foe. Though I am aware that the former would take a great deal more finding than the latter.

I sigh.

‘This is all bullshit,' I mutter under my breath.

‘Quiet, Rant!' booms a voice.

The others titter to themselves until order is restored by basilisk-like stares and hissing threats. Bastards. They'll be sorry.

From the corner of my eye I see The Pipe leave his seat at the corner table and head towards me. I have been expecting this. I am prepared, rehearsed. I breathe deeply, try to relax. Luckily no one notices, as The Pipe now has the full focus of everyone present.

The Pipe is what is known as a bit of a character. This particular character is called The Pipe because he used to beat his victims unconscious with a four-foot length of steel pipe. The Pipe would then use his pipe to break his victim's arms and legs at the knee and elbow joint. And then The Pipe would insert his pipe as far as he could into the victim's rectum. Apparently this is farther than you might think. After a judicious application of superglue, The Pipe would then attach his pipe to a high-pressure air hose such as those found in garages for inflating car tyres, and he would fill up his victims until they popped.

Some people just have a little too much time and imagination on their hands. Except when it comes to choosing nicknames, obviously.

Of course, The Pipe only did this to wrong'uns. Victims who were also villains like him. That's all right then. Although I am very aware that I am now a villain in the eyes of those around me. Oh, Lordy.

Then I become aware that he is standing behind me. I sense, rather than see, as he lunges towards me and I turn and extend my arm in one movement. Exactly as I have been taught.

The corner of the metal tray in my hand catches him across the nose and blood gushes spectacularly down the front of his prison overalls. I take this in and am amazed at how little it affects me. Of late I have become conditioned to random displays of violence in ways that I would never have imagined possible.

‘Bastah!' shouts The Pipe. ‘Ah'm gonna pipe you now, you shit!'

How original, I think, stepping quickly to the side as he lunges at me again. Where do they get their lines from? Cons R Us or the Mockney Muppet Mart, perhaps?

As The Pipe turns I notice that he has, as predicted, changed his weapon of choice for a homemade short knife of sorts, made from the bridge of his false teeth, sharpened and stuck into a wooden lace bobbin.

‘Come 'ere, shit,' he murmurs. ‘Come 'ere while I stabs you, come 'ere for a stabbin', get 'ere now while I gives you what you deserves, you shit.'

I resist the temptation to tell him that if he carries on like this he will have to change his name from The Pipe to The Shitstabber, and hold the tray out in front of me like a shield.

Then, suddenly, everything leaks away into darkness and amid the angry shouts and screams I can feel the moment slipping away. Torches flash back and forth, trying to locate the source of the problem and I know that, for the moment at least, I am no longer a part of the equation.

I leave the babble behind me as I allow myself to slip into the comforting blackness.

Thursday May 6
th
. 4pm.

It was as black as pitch down there.

The tunnels and sewerage pipes seemed to split in every direction except the one I wanted to follow.
Just keep heading downhill
, Sam had said,
and sooner or later you have to come out on the river and there are any number of outlets and pipes there.

Simple physics. For simple people. Every branch I took seemed to lead me further and further uphill. And being a simple person, without even the simplest grasp of physics, it never occurred to me to turn around and run the other way. The downhill way. Quite apart from the fact that Bela Barbu's cronies were back there somewhere, splashing about and (presumably) uttering fruity phrases in whatever language they spoke, and that the stench in these tunnels made it extremely difficult for me to concentrate on anything beyond holding my breath, I now seemed to have reached the very bowels (as it were) of the sewerage system and every passageway seemed to lead upwards.

I had tried to shake off my pursuers but it was impossible to move silently through the cramped tunnels with any kind of speed, and they had been gaining on me steadily and relentlessly.

As I came to yet another sewer junction with no sign of an exit I paused and tried to take stock of my situation. As usual my stock and funds were low and I appeared to be in a seller's market. If I wasn't up to my neck in shit then I was certainly up to my knees in it and sinking fast.

I toyed (for all of about a second) with the idea of ducking down beneath the thick brown gloop that came up to my knees and hiding until my pursuers had passed by. But I had a feeling that they weren't going to give up that easily, and the sludge looked so thick that I could only imagine myself afloat like a greasy brown turd in a toilet, or a greasy brown American tourist on top of the Dead Sea.

My torch was beginning to flicker.

It looked as though I was going to have to make a stand of some description.

I looked down at the gun I'd liberated. Was I up to using it? As the thick splashing and cursing behind me started to grow louder, it looked like I was about to find out.

In the dying torchlight I spotted a small alcove. I stepped up into it, pushed myself back up against the wall as far as I could and switched off the torch. I had only just managed it when lights began to reflect off the surface of the water around me, giving the chamber a dull yellow glow. The sound of splashing grew louder, and dim figures, wading along in single file, began to enter from the tunnel. They had suddenly all grown quiet, as if sensing a trap of some kind; they paused less than three feet from where I cowered.

The only sound now was the constant dripping, and a rumbling noise in the distance.

There were three of them. Silently they moved to cover the three exits from the chamber. Now the only way open was the way we'd all come.

I sank down onto my hands and knees as silently as I could, until only my head was above the thick sludge. I gagged for a moment, and had to pause and close my eyes to stem a wave of giddiness and nausea.

One of my pursuers chose this moment to slip. He threw his legs into the air, performed a gymnastic manoeuvre which would probably have got him a 9.9 in the Olympics for difficulty, if only a 1.1 for execution, and fell headlong into the filth. I laughed silently, which did mean my mouth was open when the resultant wave of crap hit me. This taught me not to laugh at other people's misfortunes. Sort of.

The other two guys didn't have my insight, however, and they giggled like schoolboys at their companion, who stood up spluttering and cursing and rounded on them, shouting angrily and waving his gun around.

Whilst they were otherwise engaged, I started to creep along toward the only empty exit, pushing the briefcase ahead of me and keeping as low as possible whilst resisting the urge to spit. Or swallow. As I crept into the tunnel the shouting seemed to increase in volume, whilst the air around me seemed to grow even more thick and cloying, though I wouldn't have thought this was possible. Somewhere in the back of my mind a story popped up about the gas that builds up in sewer systems, and I started to panic that I would pass out and choke to death down here. At the moment that seemed the least of my worries, however, and I slowly turned to check out how my followers were doing.

They seemed to be fighting among themselves quite happily now, and I started pushing myself along backwards through the muck away from them. The freestyle diver lashed out and punched one of the others in the face, knocking him into the grim stream that flowed around his knees. Needless to say, this isn't one of the recommendations in
How to Make Friends and Influence People
; he came up spluttering and screaming blue murder, in between bouts of puking. The third guy thought this was all too much and started slapping his knees and laughing uproariously. The other two rounded on him menacingly, and he managed to stifle the laughing, but even I could hear him snottering out a few giggles. They started to advance on him, muttering something that could only be taken as a serious threat to his manhood, even if you didn't understand the lingo. Which I didn't. So of course they could have been asking for a cuddle and a wet wipe, but somehow I doubt it. Mr Clean straightened up and said something threatening right back, and clonked Mr Pukeymouth with his torch, buying himself enough time to pull out his gun.

I had been quite enjoying this exchange, slowly distancing myself from it and finding myself about twenty feet away now. It was becoming more like watching a film or television. With smell-surround. When the gun appeared, though, I suddenly found myself wanting to stand up and shout, ‘Excuse me, but I've done the gun-shooting-in-enclosed-spaces-with-gaseous-emissions and really, trust me, it's not big or clever and does nothing for tonsorial elegance.' Fortunately my fear of being shot was greater than my fear of being theoretically blown to smithereens, so I kept my mouth shit—sorry,
shut
. For which I am truly grateful.

For, as you have by no doubt guessed, Mr Clean pulled his trigger and fired a shot into the roof of the chamber. The only thing that happened at this point is that Mr Olympic Diver and Mr Pukeymouth dived back into the primordial slime from whence they came. When they surfaced, both were holding their own pocket cannons and looking for something to fill with holes.

I started back-pedalling furiously, no longer worried about the noise. It was pretty unlikely they'd hear me over their own racket, anyway.

The weaving torches and the muzzle flashes from the guns gave the whole scene a kind of strobing effect, and I watched in horror as the three of them jerked back and forth around the tiny chamber. Then Mr Pukeymouth plunged into the tunnel I was in, firing one last shot over his shoulder as he dived headlong, and landed with a splat and the sound of thick, plopping bubbles.

I finally panicked a bit too much and lost my footing on the greasy bricks beneath me as I pushed backwards. My head slipped under the flowing river of poop. For a second I was blinded by the thick liquid as it flowed into my ears, eyes and nose, and then the world seemed illuminated once more as the gloop around me contracted, sending me shooting down the passageway like a foot into a well-oiled sea boot.

I halted abruptly at the next sharp bend by cunningly jamming my head into the brick wall and cushioning the impact with my neck and shoulder muscles. I floated there for a few seconds, trying to gather my thoughts – you know the sort of thing:
Where am I? What's my name? What is the principal export of Madagascar? What the fuck happened to my spine?
Then I sucked in the enticing aroma of burned crap and it all came flooding back to me. It's coffee and vanilla, I think. The principal export of Madagascar, not the smell. The other details were still a little fuzzy to me.

I gazed back down the tunnel in the direction I thought I'd come from, but there was nothing but blackness. I couldn't hear anything, but that could have been the combined effect of having been at the centre of my fourth explosion in less than two days and having my ears stuffed with prime quality people-manure.

I stood up shakily. I was having great difficulty straightening my back out properly, but I think a burly blacksmith with a trouser press and a steamroller would have had trouble straightening my back out just at that moment, so I made the best of it and struggled along, like a puppet Quasimodo made out of cack, into the gloom. At least the ground under my feet seemed to be falling at last.

Somewhere ahead I could hear the sound of traffic and I instinctively followed it – pausing only to clean some of the gloop out of my ears – taking a few wrong turns and backtracking as the sound gradually increased.

Eventually I walked full length into a steel ladder and, once I had got my faculties back, I peered upwards through the gloom. There seemed to be dim light filtering down through a manhole cover.

Cautiously, I began to climb.

About halfway up there was a crawl space. Unsure of where exactly I would be surfacing, I decided the wise option would be to hide the case and the gun, then try to climb out without attracting too much attention. Not the easiest of tasks, granted, given my physical state, but at least it would give me an air of victimhood rather than armed lunacy. Incriminating items stashed, I continued climbing and, after much struggling and swearing, lifted the heavy cover off.

I peered around, trying to figure out where in London I'd managed to escape to. I was hoping to have put as much distance between Barbu's goons and myself as possible.

The building in front of me did look strangely familiar, and I tried to rack my knowledge of London landmarks to figure out where it…