I’m working on a new project. The previous blog post, The Question, is a snippet of this work in progress. This piece happened an hour previously. I work like this, arse about face. Not an ideal system, but I’m stuck with it. Just a very rough draft at this early stage, but writing it down in my blog helps to keep me interested.
I stood at the foot of the tower block. Looking up. I’d lived here, few years ago, before I’d been betrayed. Sold out. Prison, followed by the Special Hospital. The man who’d betrayed me had taken over my turf. Even taken over my apartment. I didn’t know whether he was still here, but would soon find out.
The apartment on the top floor, twenty-two storeys above my head, wasn’t luxurious. It was a shitty flat with few creature comforts. What set it apart was the location. The lifts had never worked. After repeated acts of sabotage the Council stopped bothering to send a repair team out. Every person approaching the block had been clocked by the watchers and a report made to the top floor. Young kids made the best watchers. Keen eyesight, eager to please, desperate to advance further in the organisation. I knew all this. So I should; it had been my idea. My presence would have been reported. A lone male, unknown and as yet unidentified. That was only the first line of defence. The next stage was far more daunting.
Ever since I’d read about William the Conqueror’s construction of Motte and Bailey castles in the eleventh century, the idea making a base as difficult as possible for attackers occupied my mind. To storm the top floor of this block required an enemy to climb twenty-two floors, every stairwell, every landing a potential hazard, ensuring they arrived at their objective exhausted and in the worst possible state to fight an encroached defensive force. I’d planned for the deployment of soldiers on every landing; pit bull terriers roaming freely with a brief to attack anyone rash enough to stray into their territory. All designed to buy time. A rival gang or a police raid: it made no difference. Drug stocks, weapons, cash, all were at risk and had to be defended rigorously.
I saw no-one on the first three landings and this concerned me, but made my task easier. The new regime and whoever was in charge had made no attempt to intercept me, suggesting they were either over-complacent or incompetent.
The fourth landing was where it kicked off. The broken lights, glass scattered over the top steps, were the first indication of someone finally taking my presence seriously. The broken glass was obviously recent as anyone using the stairs would otherwise have kicked it to one side. An advance warning; suggesting the perpetrators weren’t particularly bright.
I carried on walking, all those hours of exercise paying off as I was breathing easily. Three shapes approached; hoodies in place, white trainers standing out even in the encroaching gloom. I didn’t waste time in starting a conversation, moving forward, my hand already drawing the scalpel from its place of concealment. I’d slashed the first youth across his face before the other two even noticed I was armed. As he fell I cut the nearer lad with a backhand swing, saw the blood spurt and ran straight at the remaining figure as he turned to flee. I caught hold of his hood, swinging him around and straight into the brick wall of the corner flat. I wasn’t even breathing hard, but the three-man reception committee were no longer interested in me. Two were bleeding freely from facial wounds and the other lad was unconscious. I left them on the landing and continued to climb.
The top landing was deserted and I’d seen no other signs of life on any of the other floors. I’d not really expected to see much evidence of other residents as the block’s inhabitants tended to keep themselves to themselves, behind closed doors. The flat I’d lived in was the first on the left, but nobody stood guard outside. A CCTV camera, apparently a recent addition judging by its unblemished state, was trained on the landing and the top of the staircase. New technology was no substitute for manpower, in my view, but this at least was some explanation for the absence of anyone on sentry duty. I hung around for a moment or two, regaining my breath. I was fitter than most, but twenty-two flights of stairs were a test for anyone.
The efficiency of the CCTV system was demonstrated almost immediately as the door to the flat I’d intended visiting opened and a large figure emerged. He was a big man. Shaven headed, half a head taller than myself and much heavier added up to an intimidating package while the scar tissue and flattened nose suggested he was no stranger to the art of combat. To get the job of looking after the Big Man he’d obviously won most of those battles, but also revealed a fair amount of collateral damage along the way.
He looked at me so, but remained on the doorstep so I had ample opportunity to appraise him at leisure. Intelligence wouldn’t have been an integral element of the job description, but what he may have lacked in sagacity he made up for in sheer bulk. That massive domed head was an obvious weapon; one butt from that and any fight would be at an end. Broad shoulders stretched the seams of his jacket and the dangling hands were twice the size of mine. Getting up close wasn’t an option. If he got those arms around me he’d win the battle, despite anything I could offer in return.
Hit first. Hit hard. Hit fast and rely on speed and agility, that would be the plan. Try and end it before he was even aware he was being attacked. As a plan, it was okay. The alternative scenario was grim. I had one weapon in my armoury which I doubted he’d have even considered: I didn’t fear him. I’d never known fear. Never entertained the possibility of defeat. Would accept any punishment as long as I prevailed in the end. I also had the advantage of having been certified insane.
I took a deep breath. Maintain focus and stay calm. Use that assertive energy that’s built up over the past hour.
Apart from the scalpel, I had no weapons; nothing with a hard edge, apart from a solid pair of shoes. The landing was narrow – about four feet wide – with a low wall overlooking the wasteland on one side and solid brick on the other.
It wasn’t ideal.
I’d have preferred more room to manoeuvre, but there wasn’t much I could do about it now.
The man barring my way 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. Street fighting is an acquired skill; one I doubted this man had ever bothered to learn. Pushing and shoving, a few flailing fists, that was all he knew. In a boxing ring, a skilful boxer would have utilised his greater mobility, wider range of punches, to cut him to ribbons, but that required skills I didn’t possess. I’d not boxed since my youth in Borstal, 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.
I walked closer, the blade hidden in the palm of my right hand. He let me get within a yard of the door before he held out a meaty hand, barring my way.
‘Stop there,’ he said, his voice surprisingly high for such a big man. Steroid usage has that effect. I stopped, looked at him, my face impassive. I’d concealed a coin in my free hand and allowed it to drop onto the tiled floor. His eyes dropped to follow its progress and my right hand whipped out, the blade opening a deep gash on the inside of his forearm. I’d not attempted a killing strike as the risk of failure was too great. He looked at the blood dripping from his arm in consternation. Immediately after cutting him, I dropped down, slashing twice, forehand and backhand, behind his knees, severing the tendons and taking him down. Whether through surprise or stupidity he didn’t make a sound. I stood and kicked him full in the face with the solid brogues I’d taken from the dead man whose car I’d borrowed. Bone and cartilage crumpled and I managed two more solid kicks before he rolled into a ball preventing further blows.
I stepped over him, carefully avoiding the blood, and pushed open the door to the flat. In front of me was a long corridor with a room at the far end which I knew to be the bedroom. First door on the left was the kitchen and I went quickly past that and pushed open the door opposite. The furniture had changed, but the large safe was still here. I recognized it at once, but the man kneeling in front of it, frantically searching through its interior was a stranger. As he removed a gun from beneath the rolls of banknotes I took two swift steps and kicked it out of his hand. It clattered into the corner of the room, lodging up against the far wall. I ignored it. Guns have their uses, but I’d not be needing it.
The plastic bags of heroin, each wrap exactly the same in size ands weight as its neighbour were laid out on the table, ready for delivery to the runners. The money was there too. So much money. I’d had the same system: minimal quantities at risk at street level, cash on delivery, each dealer having small amounts of product and cash on his person at any time in case of arrest or enemy action. This was the nerve centre, protected by its location and, in my time, virtually impregnable.
The man cradling what looked like a broken wrist had regained the power of speech. ‘Who the fuck are you?’ He asked.
I didn’t reply, but took a step forward, swinging the blade. I missed his eyes but his forehead spurted blood and he screamed, cowering on the floor. I left him, walked through the flat, kicking open doors. Nobody else at home. I returned to the front door and kicked the minder again. He stayed very still, not moving at all. I didn’t know whether he was unconscious, dead or feigning injury to prevent further damage so I cut his throat, sawing away with the scalpel until I cut through his spinal column. He’d not be going anywhere now.
Returning to the flat, the man was still bleeding, keening softly and trying in vain to staunch the blood. ‘Take your clothes off and come with me,’ I said. ‘We need to talk.’
