Last Day at Work. Not Much of a Leaving Present.

I always said I’d never write this. Far too personal. Far too many painful memories of that period of my working life. Names have been changed, timescale too, but it’s my last day at work. It was a long time ago and any account is constrained by the inadequacies of the author, severely so in this case, but I’m hoping these few lines will allow me to draw a line, leave the past behind. So many opportunities await. Moving on now. Burn, Baby, Burn has been in Amazon Top 100 for 152 days, briefly in the Top Ten. Its time has gone now. The ideal time to seek new ventures.

Anyway, here it is. The final entry. Warts and all.

The door closed behind me as I hit the far wall. I turned around, saw their faces, knew it was serious. There’d been no warning. None at all. A minute ago I’d been sharing a joke with Deggsy on my way out to the car park, then the other door opened and I knew instantly I was blown. The fat man was a face I knew from a former life. Back when I had a different name, hair down way past my shoulders, lived in a very different world. Nowadays, I was Corporate. Smart suit, freshly scrubbed, well turned out. The fat man bridged the gap between those very different worlds. I couldn’t remember his name, but that didn’t matter. He was here and that could only mean trouble.

‘That’s him,’ he said, wheezing a little. ‘He’s smarter dressed than he used to be, but that’s him. Not likely to forget him, am I?’

The others didn’t reply, but it didn’t really need an answer. The last time I’d seen the fat man he’d been ducking his head, scrambling into the back of a police car, cuffed and practically shitting himself. He had been the money man, not exactly a frontline warrior, but he knew where all the drugs money ended up and that knowledge was vital. The big man had gone in the van hours ago with his minders, bloodied and still half asleep as the front door had been broken down at three in the morning. The fat man was a loose end and I’d only stayed around to see the job come to a conclusion.

‘You’d better fuck off then,’ Deggsy said and the fat man was out through the door as fast as a man of his bulk could manage.

Deggsy turned back to me, a smile plastered across his face. ‘I always thought you were too good to be true,’ he said.

‘Did you bollocks,’ I replied. No need to try to bluster it out. The fat man had told his tale and this job was at an end. The situation was one my Control always tried to avoid talking about. ‘Can’t happen,’ he always said. ‘Your cover’s too good. We’re always on hand if the shit hits the fan.’ Well, this was exactly the situation he’d described and I was very much on my own.

Behind Deggsy were two doormen from one of the clubs over the water. Birkenhead boys. Shaven heads, no necks, steroid-induced muscles bulging out from under tight black tee-shirts. I didn’t know them by name, but I’d seen them around. Low level muscle called in when it became necessary to give someone a smacking. I wasn’t concerned about them, but Deggsy was different. Deggsy had thought me a mate, had helped me rise through the ranks, had even introduced me to the big man. Undercover work is stressful at best, but the dangers were multiplied tenfold when it became a personal affront. The fat man, a face from my past, ten years ago at least, had been enough to convince the big man of the threat I posed to his freedom. He’d want me out of the way, but giving the job to Deggsy had been a masterstroke. I knew the way the big man’s mind worked. He was shrewd, clever, ruthless, but also a born leader. Deggsy had made errors, pushing me forward into a position where I had access to the big man. This was his chance to make amends.

Deggsy murmured something I didn’t catch to the other two and they moved forward, arms forced wide by their bulk, like a pair of silverbacks. I stood still, let them take hold of an arm each, hold me still. There weren’t any other obvious options. Deggsy moved closer, punched me, hard, in the face. Just the one punch, but I was held firmly on either side with my back against the wall so it did some damage. I looked at him, said nothing. This wasn’t the time or the place to plead for mercy. That had never been an option. I’d seen the manner in which punishments and retribution had been meted out to others often enough. No point in expecting words to have any effect. I wasn’t due to check in for another eight hours, my Control would have had no more warning of this development than I’d had. No help to be had there.

Deggsy wasn’t in a mood to chat either. He drew the gun from his jacket pocket, showed it to me, eyes glinting. I stared impassively back at him, but the realisation had sunk in at first sight of the gun. The order had come down from the big man and this was to be an execution. They may not have known who I was working for, knew I wasn’t a policeman, but when the big man was threatened there was only ever one outcome. The threat had to disappear.

The two minders retained a tight grip but edged slightly away from me, perhaps wary of a ricochet. They needn’t have worried. I’d seen Deggsy shoot before and his hand would be rock steady. I stared at him as he raised the gun towards my face, watched his finger slowly whiten on the trigger, then CLICK!

‘Fuck!’ Deggsy said, lowering the gun and shaking it. He broke it apart, checked the magazine, raised it again. This time there were no histrionics, no taunting, no delay.

CLICK!

One of the minders sniggered, the sound dying away as Deggsy’s eyes flashed impotent rage in his direction. The gun clattered to the floor and a clubbing fist lashed out. I felt the blood run down my cheek, but kept my eyes fixed mockingly on the man in front of me. ‘What’s up, Degs? Broke your favourite toy?’

This time the blows that rained in were less controlled, did less damage and I found a little more opportunity to ride with the punches.

‘You’re fuckin’ dead, pal,’ Deggsy snarled, walking away and picking up the gun from the floor. ‘Keep him here,’ he barked and walked out, slamming the door.

‘Gone for another gun,’ the sniggerer said, releasing my arm. ‘He’ll be back.’

I didn’t doubt it.

The room was on the ground floor of a derelict club that was under consideration of refurbishment. The fact that Deggsy had drawn a gun, tried to fire it, told me there was no-one else around. This wasn’t a job that welcomed witnesses. I also suspected he’d have to go elsewhere to find another weapon and, in confirmation, heard his Audi fire up in the alley outside. As the engine note faded away, I took stock of the two minders he’d left behind. Plenty of bulk, not much else, I reckoned, but they were a formidable barrier if I intended to walk away from this room.

‘What the fuck you lookin’ at?’

I shrugged, moved away slightly. Deggsy had been reason enough to be concerned. Deggsy with a gun, even more so, but these two were a different matter. They’d never have left me to go and get a replacement gun. That gorilla mentality, honed in a hundred or so street brawls, would have guaranteed their response. These were men who’d never seen the necessity to own a gun. Even a knife was an unnecessary encumbrance. They had fists, brute strength, what else did they ever need?

I stood and faced them, dwarfed by their bulk, but seeing the glimmer of a way out. I doubted either of these men had lost a fight since they’d started school. Their sheer size would have battered opponents to the ground. It was that air of invincibility that I was depending on to preserve my life a little longer. It had to be now, before Deggsy returned, that much was certain.

The problem with always being the winner of a fight was complacency. An inability to consider the possibility of defeat. That was my edge. These two had never known defeat, but they’d never fought anyone like me either. I didn’t fight fair. I certainly had no intention of trading punches with them. That would leave me in a crumpled heap on the floor. I had other plans.

‘Just me and the fat boys then?’ I said, concentrating on the taller man. He was six-foot six, twenty stones at least and just about every pound was bone and muscle. The logo on the tee-shirt was that of a gym where men like himself raised massive weights overhead. His eyes narrowed as what passed for brain cells processed my remark. He stepped forward, drew back a massive fist ready to punch me and his partner giggled in anticipation. Street fighting is an acquired skill; one neither of these men had ever bothered to learn. Pushing and shoving, a few flailing fists, that was all they knew. A classical boxer would have utilised his greater mobility, wider range of punches, to cut either of them to ribbons, but that required skills I didn’t possess. I’d not boxed since my youth, but street fighting was very much my area of expertise. Big men, really big men, rely solely on the power of their fists, their bulk sufficient to overpower any opponent foolish enough to face them, toe to toe.

As the man with the gym logo drew his arm back I was already on the move. He’d telegraphed his intention and allowed me plenty of time to counter. A punch looks good on a cinema screen, but is a massively inefficient weapon. A gun would allow him to put me on the floor at a safe distance, a knife would have made a defence difficult, but drawing back a fist to throw a punch was meat and drink to a street fighter. I moved inside the radius of his swing, pivoting on one leg and driving the point of my elbow into his face. The sound of bone cracking, the sudden spurt of blood, brought a gasp to his lips and I continued to spin, bringing the point of my shoe into the nerve cluster inside his right knee, popping the knee joint and tearing ligaments. He squealed and collapsed in an ungainly heap to the floor. One step forward and I kicked him full in the face, fresh bone splintering, before coming to a halt a couple of paces from the other man.

‘Come on then,’ I said. He didn’t even glance at his colleague writhing on the floor, but did exactly what I’d expected him to do, put his head down and rush me, arms grappling for a hold. I’d banked on his reaction, knew his response would be immediate attack, and was ready. On the balls of my feet I could go either way, pushed off to the left, just far enough to evade his grasp, and hit him a solid blow on the ear. Not enough to hurt him, certainly not enough to disable him, but enough to enrage him. He bellowed, whipped around like a Range Rover making a three-point turn, but I’d already moved to one side and flicked out a hand, punching him in the same place on his right ear.

I rarely punch anyone in a fight. The human hand contains far too many tiny bones and is easily damaged, but these were little more than taps. Lacking weapons, the best means of doing damage is elbows, knees, or a solid pair of shoes, all of which I possessed. The best weapon of all, available to everyone, is the human head. Specifically, the solid ridge of bone covering the forehead. Used correctly it has all the stopping power of a bowling ball and, as my opponent was still turning in confusion away from the place he’d expected me to be standing I took three quick steps forward and butted him on the bridge of his nose. I felt his face collapse, bone and cartilage crunching beneath me, and he dropped like a stone. Locally, the head butt is known as a Liverpool Kiss and it’s still the best means of ending a fight at a stroke.

The other man was conscious, but out of it. Cradling his face and oblivious to anything else. I stepped over him, walked to the door and opened it. The alley outside was empty and I could hear the distant hum of traffic rumbling along Upper Parliament Street. I closed the door and walked away, wiping the blood from my face with my sleeve. This wasn’t an area where the locals faint at the sight of blood, but I needed to get to a phone, report in and get Control to pull me out of here before Deggsy got back and discovered my absence.

I found a call box, reported in, settled down to wait. They’d be quick. This job was over, my cover blown, and there’d be a few days of debriefing to come, but I’d already made a decision. This would be my last job.