Stephen Leather: True Colours

Weaver switched off the engine. ‘Right, lads, let’s get this done,’ he said. He popped the boot, climbed out and walked around to the back of the car. The four men joined him. Connolly was bobbing from side to side as if bursting to go to the toilet. There were four red plastic fuel cans with black spouts lined up in the boot. ‘Take one each,’ said Weaver, standing aside so that the men could get to them.

‘Where did you get the petrol from?’ asked Taylor.

‘Why?’ said Weaver.

‘CCTV,’ said Taylor. ‘The cops will ask around to see if anyone bought petrol local. They always do.’

‘They can ask all they want,’ said Weaver. ‘I got this a month ago, took a drive up the M1 and bought it at a couple of service stations. The CCTV will be long gone.’

‘Smart,’ said Taylor.

Weaver grinned. ‘Like I said, this isn’t my first time.’ He slammed the boot shut. ‘Right, here’s the SP. It used to be that they were two semi-detached houses but the council has made it into one house. They knocked down a few walls inside but they left in the front and back doors. Get that? The house has two front doors and two back doors. So to make sure, we need to do all four doors. Right, Colin, you and Barry head around the back of the house. Pour it all around the doors and get as much inside as you can. Do the windows as well. If there’s an open window, use that.’

Connolly nodded eagerly. He was still switching his weight from leg to leg like an overexcited toddler. ‘Can I light it?’

Weaver ignored the Irishman. ‘Once you’re set, listen for me,’ he said to McDermid. ‘As soon as you hear mine go up, drop a couple of matches and leg it back to the car.’ He patted McDermid on the shoulder and he and Connolly hurried towards the house. It was in the middle of a row of semi-detached houses that had been built of brick but over the years all had been either painted or clad in stone. A few of the houses had been well maintained and had new roofs and wood and glass porches built around the front doors, but most had fallen into disrepair and had gardens full of children’s toys and household rubbish.

‘Right, lads,’ said Weaver. ‘Let’s get this done and then we can get back to the pub.’ He headed down the street with Taylor and Harris close behind him. Connolly and McDermid had already opened the wrought-iron gate that led to the garden and were walking around the side of the house. A dog barked down the road but then went quiet.

Weaver held the gate open and Taylor and Harris walked by him, the only sound the sloshing of the petrol in the cans. A siren burst into life somewhere in the distance and the men tensed, but within seconds it was clear that whatever it was it was moving away from them.

The two gardens had been merged into one and then paved over. There were spindly conifers in earthenware tubs either side of the front doors. Weaver gestured at the letterbox. ‘You can be mother,’ he said to Harris. ‘I’ll get the other one.’

All the lights were off in the house and the downstairs curtains were open. As Weaver tiptoed across to the second front door, Taylor looked through the window. There was a large dining table with eight chairs around it and the remains of a meal. There was another table piled high with schoolbooks next to half a dozen backpacks.

Harris grinned and crouched down. He put the can on the ground and unscrewed the cap. The smell of petrol immediately assailed their nostrils.

‘Smells like victory,’ said Taylor.

Harris frowned and looked up. ‘What?’

‘That movie. Apocalypse Now . But he was talking about napalm.’

‘What is napalm exactly?’ asked Harris, screwing the black spout into place. ‘I’ve never understood that.’

‘It’s petrol mixed with a gel,’ said Taylor. ‘It makes it sticky so that it burns longer.’

‘We should try that one time,’ said Harris.

‘Nah, it’s a bugger to pour and there’s less vapour so you don’t get that “whoof” that gets Connolly so excited,’ said Taylor.

Harris straightened up. ‘You know a lot about it,’ he said.

‘I had an interesting childhood,’ said Taylor. ‘Had a mate who got a kick out of blowing things up.’ He gestured at the house. ‘For something like this, petrol is best.’

‘Get yours ready, Andy,’ said Harris, looking around. ‘We need to get it poured quickly, we don’t want anyone waking up and smelling the fumes.’

Weaver was already at the second front door, unscrewing the cap of his petrol can. He looked over at Harris and gave him a thumbs-up.

‘Right,’ said Harris. ‘Here we go. Open yours and pour it over the window.’

Taylor nodded, bent down and began unscrewing the cap.

Harris shivered in the cold night air and then froze as he saw Connolly appear at the side of the house. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ Harris hissed.

Connolly said nothing. He wasn’t carrying his petrol can and his hands trembled at his sides.

‘What’s the problem?’ hissed Harris.

McDermid appeared behind Connolly, his face as pale as the moon overhead. Something prodded Weaver in the back and he lurched forward and stumbled into Connolly and then Harris saw the armed cop, dressed in black with a carbine up against his shoulder. ‘Cops!’ he shouted, and turned towards the gate.

Weaver had already begun pouring petrol through the letterbox but he stopped when he heard Harris shout. He pulled the can away from the door. ‘What’s happening?’

‘Cops!’ shouted Harris, sprinting for the garden gate, the petrol can in his hands.

Weaver swore, dropped his can and started running towards the wall. He stopped short when he saw the armed cop standing in the road. The cop was aiming his gun at Weaver’s chest, over the waist-high brick wall. Weaver slowly raised his hands.

Harris reached the gate but as he pulled it open he saw a third armed cop, with silver sergeant’s stripes on the shoulders of his black overalls. Taylor came up behind Harris. ‘Cops?’ he said. ‘Where the hell did the cops come from?’

‘Put down the can!’ shouted the sergeant.

Harris threw petrol at him and it splattered across the pavement and on to the policeman’s boots.

‘Put down the can!’ shouted the sergeant again. He was aiming his gun at Harris but he could see that he was unarmed.

Harris grinned and threw more petrol at the policeman. The sergeant took a step back. ‘This is your last warning, put down the can!’

‘You can’t shoot me, I’m not armed!’ shouted Harris.

‘Stuart, mate, he will shoot you,’ said Taylor, raising his hands.

Harris took a cigarette lighter from his pocket and held it up. ‘Come near me and this place goes up!’ he shouted. It was a stainless-steel Zippo and he flicked up the cap.

‘The house is empty,’ said the sergeant. ‘We got the family out before you got here.’

‘It’ll still burn!’ said Harris. ‘And you’ll go up with it.’

‘Don’t be a twat, Stuart,’ said Taylor. ‘Burning to death isn’t a pleasant way to go.’

Harris ignored him and brandished the lighter in the air. ‘I’m serious,’ he said. ‘Get away from me or we’ll both go up in flames, the house too.’ He splashed more petrol across the pavement and it splattered over the sergeant’s boots again.

The sergeant looked over at his colleague. ‘Arm your taser, Den!’ he shouted.

The cop let his carbine hang on its sling as he pulled his yellow taser from its holster on his belt.

Taylor looked over his shoulder. The third cop had pushed Connolly and McDermid forward and they were now standing close to the front door. Connolly darted to the side and grabbed the can that Taylor had been carrying and with a loud whoop threw petrol over the cop next to McDermid. Petrol splashed over his bulletproof vest and overalls and the man staggered back, cursing.