Nick Oldham - Big City Jacks

In the glow of the fluorescent street light, Keith saw both men reach underneath their jackets. At first, his intention had been to mow them down, but as their hands came out with guns, he had an immediate change of heart and courage. He literally stood on the brake and found reverse gear. Within a second the Escort was slewing backwards, picking up speed, the engine and the gearbox screaming in unison as speed increased.

Keith’s head swivelled backwards and forwards as he tried to keep an eye on his own rearwards progress and that of the two armed men who were now on their toes.

He saw one raise his gun. There was a crack and a hole appeared in the windscreen, then a whizz as the bullet almost creased his arm and embedded itself somewhere in the back of the car. They were firing at him!

Keith yanked the wheel down and the front of the car spun, tyres squealing. The back tyres smacked on the kerb. He heaved on the steering wheel, wishing he had stolen a car with power steering.

They were closing on him and he was presenting them with a nice wide target. Ducking low again, he forced the gear stick down into first and revved the nuts off the engine as the clutch connected it to the gearbox and, once more, the car did a good impression of a marsupial — bouncing like mad — until he regained control and, then — miraculously without stalling the beast — he raced away.

Behind him, both men came to a standstill, watching him disappear, their guns held down by their sides.

Keith watched them in the rear-view mirror.

‘Bastards,’ he said. He punched the air victoriously. Then he saw the bullet hole in the windscreen and his guts churned with a loud, slurping noise.

‘What do we do?’

The men were panting, but not breathless. They slid their guns back into their waistband holsters and stood side by side in the middle of the road, watching their prey escape.

It was the older of the two who had asked the question.

The younger man glanced furtively up and down the street, noticing they were quickly becoming the centre of attention as one or two people emerged from their houses, drawn by the sound of gunfire and the screaming engine.

‘We get out of here and we find him and we sort him — that’s what we do.’

He was called Lynch. He was young and out to make an impression. He spun on his heels in the street, muttering, ‘Even some of these low lifes might call the cops,’ referring to the nosy householders, ‘so we’d better get gone.’

Followed by the older man, whose name was Bignall, the two disappeared into the night like spectres.

‘We nearly had him,’ Bignall said as they got into their car parked three streets away. It was a dull-looking Rover 214, nothing special or memorable, just the right kind of transport for the city. The sort of vehicle that fitted in with any background and could be left anywhere and probably not get stolen because it was such a boring car.

‘Yeah, nearly,’ agreed Lynch. He sat in the front passenger seat, next to Bignall who would be driving. His mind was working fast, going over the few snippets of gen that Colin the Commando had divulged in their very short, but fruitful and violent meeting. Lynch looked at his fist and winced at the grazed knuckles, where he had slightly mis-punched and caught Colin’s tin hat instead of his face. It had hurt. . but it had hurt Colin more.

Lynch sucked his knuckles thoughtfully. Bignall started the car and began to drive.

‘Where to?’

Lynch checked his watch. ‘You’re due to start work soon, aren’t you?’

‘Yep — but I could call in sick.’

Lynch shook his head. ‘No need for that. You drive round to your place and I’ll keep the car. It’s always better to go to work.’

Bignall squinted cautiously at Lynch. ‘How about some dosh? I’ve been doing this most of the day with you.’

Lynch nodded and pulled out a fat roll of banknotes. He peeled five twenties off and dropped them into Bignall’s greedy paw. As an afterthought he dropped him an extra twenty. ‘Bonus for being so helpful.’

‘Cheers. . you’re a real mate.’ Bignall grinned widely at the unexpected windfall. This game was pretty worthwhile after all.

Lynch ran his hands over his short-cropped hair and smoothed down his sharp jacket, breathing out, getting comfortable, whilst he thought about the problem of Keith Snell. In some ways he was responsible for letting Snell off the hook in the first place and now he was charged with the responsibility of dealing with the issue. It was a task that meant a lot to Lynch, his make-or-break time. If he was successful it would do him no end of good, but if he ballsed it up he could say bye-bye to a lot of wealth and status. Dealing with Snell and retrieving the money was a route to the inner sanctum, to the lucrative lifestyle offered by the invincibles. But only if he got the money back.

They arrived at Bignall’s flat. Lynch slid awkwardly across into the driving seat as Bignall got out. Bignall leaned back into the car.

‘Want me to deal with the shooters?’

Lynch considered the question for a moment, chewing his bottom lip. It was unlikely he would need a gun again that evening, so it would be better not to have it with him. He handed the weapon over to Bignall and said, ‘You know what to do?’

‘I know.’ Bignall slid the gun into his jacket pocket and slammed shut the car door, turned to walk away to his house.

Lynch wound his window down. ‘Did you get the car number?’ he called to Bignall’s retreating back.

‘Yeah. . I’ll sort it and let you know what the score is.’

Lynch drove away and headed towards Manchester city centre, his grazed knuckles throbbing painfully. ‘Not good,’ he said to himself, ‘not good at all.’

Keith drove the old car hard, clouds of black and blue fumes pouring from the exhaust as he gunned the engine against its natural desire to rest. His watery eyes kept returning to the bullet hole in the windscreen. Shit, he thought, as it dawned on him for the first time that he had made a very serious error of judgement. He shivered involuntarily at what might have been had the bullet smacked him in the head. But never once did he consider returning the money. Now it was his and he refused to sacrifice the prospect of the new life he had set his heart on.

He drove recklessly across the city, constantly checking his mirrors to see if he was being tailed, finding himself descending the slip road on to the M60 Manchester ring road at Prestwich. How he had arrived there, he did not know. He was beginning to sweat and shake slightly. . the first signs of a requirement for what he knew would be a heavy hit.

Only when he was on the motorway proper did his brain clear slightly and he realized where he was. He had been navigating on autopilot, no particular plan in mind, but as he gathered his senses he had an idea. He veered off the M60 and joined the M61, heading west.

‘Blackpool!’ he thought with a blinding flash of clarity, ‘is the place for me.’ It was the resort to which all runaways went and hid. He knew people there who might hide him, would give him some protection; it was a place he could catch his breath and make some real plans.

Cheered by the thought of the bright lights — he could have some fun there, too, and definitely score — he pushed the accelerator to the floor, noting for the first time he could actually see the road surface through a hole in the footwell.

‘Bleedin’ kids, joyridin’ bastards,’ snarled the owner of the car. ‘I’ve had it nicked a few times, but it always turns up eventually. No doubt it’ll get torched sometime.’ His anger turned to resignation, the sad attitude of a repeat crime victim past caring. He was a big, unshaven man with a massive beer gut hanging over the waistband of his tracksuit bottoms, wearing a grubby vest and zip-up slippers. ‘Bloody thing’s droppin’ t’ pieces anyway.’