Billy Rags by Ted Lewis

“Course, there’s still plenty of room if you want to get anybody else off your hands.”
    Hopper began to back away towards the catwalk.
    â€œWhat’s the matter with you, Hopper? Finished that floor already?”
    Hopper turned to look at Swain.
    â€œWho told you to get up off your knees?” said Swain. “Get down and get finished. If you stop once more I’ll open the cage and let them have you.”
    Hopper got down again and began to swab the floor. Swain stayed on the other side of the catwalk, watching.
    Tommy turned his attention to Hopper.
    â€œWe had an interesting evening last night,” Tommy said.
    Hopper didn’t look up but he was trembling like a leaf.
    â€œShould have been there. We got the records out and had a party.”
    While he’d been talking Tommy had taken the key out of his pocket and gently slipped it into the lock.
    â€œWe all read out our party pieces. Everybody had a go. Really is a pity you weren’t there. Because yours was by far the most interesting. Really. I can’t remember when I last enjoyed such a good read.”
    Tommy flicked his cigarette end through the bars and into Hopper’s bucket. Hopper stared hypnotised into the water. That was when Tommy made his move. And Ray and me made ours.
    Tommy swung the gate and grabbed Hopper by his hair. Ray and I scrambled through the barricade to get to the gate but the minute Tommy stepped out six screws appeared from either side of the gate. They’d been there all the fucking time, just holding their bloody breath and waiting.
    Tommy didn’t have a chance. Three of the screws claimed for him while the other three pushed their way inside the gate. But I’ll give Tommy this, he didn’t let go of Hopper. Still clutching Hopper by the hair he tried to swing him round towards the gate just in case any of us could get to Hopper and haul him in. But Ray and me had the other three screws on our hands and there was nothing we could do about it.
    In front of us I could see the rest of the screws racing across the catwalk towards the gate. I chopped off one of the screws inside the gate and Ray was sorting another and the third didn’t have a chance at all because Walter and his clubmen had got to us and they finally had someone to ease their tensions on.
    We bundled the screws out and met the second wave through the bars but they didn’t last very long because the position was exactly the same as when we first got in. A lot of fucking good their hide and seek had done them.
    I stood back and watched Tommy after the screws had been chucked out. Before they gave him the stick he got his boot in Hopper’s face and the other one across Hopper’s fingers. But he just wasn’t able to get the one in where it mattered. Hopper had pulled it again. I thought: there’ll be a third time. There’s got to be a third time. Then it’ll be us who are lucky. Not Hopper. Not next time.
    I’m sitting in the café with Howard and Johnno. Early evening sunlight warms the formica of the table top. Empty espresso cups are huddled together at tables and to make room for Howard’s invisible blueprints of the coming job.
    â€œThis point’s the really tricky bit,” he says. “Getting on the roof’s a piece of piss. A doddle. The skylight’ll be nothing, either. It’s just the drop from the skylight to the stockroom floor. We can only guess at the height. But we’ve got to be careful because the walls are no thicker than the wallpaper. Next door, as I say, they’re always up. The old bat never sleeps. She probably wanders about all night just waiting for something like this to happen. I remember when we used to neck round the back in the alley she was always sticking her head out the window and bawling at us. She could hear a Durex slipping on at fifty paces. So, as I say, it’s just the drop down. Nice and soft and we’ll be