couple of minutes away. I ran all the way
there. They did their stuff, and told me to go home.
I didn't argue. After that I was forever grazing my
knees and elbows and taking myself off to Guy's,
then home for the rest of the day.
All I needed now were a few new sutures and
some more antibiotics to counter any infection in
the wound and the shit I must have swallowed.
They'd do it, no trouble. This was south London.
It wasn't like they didn't know how to treat
gunshot wounds. Once they'd sewn me up
and handed out some more antibiotics and
painkillers, I'd be looking for Dom, and my first
stop would be Tallulah and Ruby's. They were
the real casualties. My arm would heal.
I stuck it out for another twenty minutes as old
people vomited into plastic containers and called
for their forty-something children, who were
wandering round, trying to find out why
their parents had been abandoned in the
corridors.
It depressed the shit out of me, and reinforced
my own plans for old age. I wasn't going to hang
about. Once I started pissing in my pants, it was
time to drop myself.
I got to my feet, picked up all my worldly
goods in my Bergen, and asked the Polish
builders to keep my seat for me.
At the coffee machine, I scrabbled in my
pocket for change with my free hand, when a
gravel-voiced Ulsterman piped up behind me:
'It's all right, boy, I'll get that.'
I didn't turn. I knew who it was. I could feel his
roll-up tobacco breath against my ear. My heart
sank.
'Shirley Temple, if I remember right?' A worn
brown leather-covered arm brushed past my face
and a big freckled hand threw a quid into the slot
and punched 'white no sugar' with a nicotine-stained
forefinger.
25
Sundance saw the expression on my face. 'Don't
worry, boy, we're not carrying. We're not going to
hurt you.'
We? Where there was Sundance, you also got
Trainers. I looked round and, sure enough, he
was sitting a little further down the corridor.
He was there to block a getaway, but he seemed
more intent on checking out the nurses, cleaners,
female patients, anyone with a pair of tits. His
forearms rippled below his short-sleeved shirt as
he worked a roll-up. His Red Hand of Ulster
tattoo had just been lasered off last time I saw
him, and all traces of it had now disappeared.
I didn't care what Sundance said. I was fucking
concerned. They had kicked the shit out of me
once before just because the Yes Man, the arse-hole
they worked for, felt in that kind of mood.
He'd given me a brief to kill a kid, which would
send a warning to his father. I hadn't complied,
so Sundance and Trainers had introduced me to
the Yes Man's alternative brief: go to Panama and
kill the father. If not, Kelly, a child who was my
last remaining link with the human race, would
die.
I'd nicknamed him Sundance because of his
thick, blond, side-parted hair and Robert
Redford looks, back in the days when Bob was
young enough to play Paul Newman's mate. The
years hadn't been kind. His face had dropped an
inch or two, and the parting had widened to take
in much of the top of his nut.
And Trainers? He'd got his name because he
wore them all the time and they were the first
thing I'd seen of him when they were kicking me
to shit.
They'd obviously kept hitting the weights
since their days in the H Blocks, but still looked
bulked-up rather than honed. With their broken
noses and big barrel chests they wouldn't have
been out of place outside a nightclub in ill-fitting
dinner jackets and Dr Martens. But they were in
the Good Lads' Club now, and worked for the
Firm.
Sundance nodded down at my arm as the cup
dropped on to the tray. 'Had a bit of a rough time
there, eh? I saw it on the news. Hit a bone?'
I shook my head. He glanced up again as the
cup filled. 'Fucking chaos out there, eh?'
As if he'd know. Guys like him were just
muscle, not two brain cells to rub together. They
stayed local, within the M25. These days, they
were probably used to fight the new enemy –
anyone with a towel on their
there. They did their stuff, and told me to go home.
I didn't argue. After that I was forever grazing my
knees and elbows and taking myself off to Guy's,
then home for the rest of the day.
All I needed now were a few new sutures and
some more antibiotics to counter any infection in
the wound and the shit I must have swallowed.
They'd do it, no trouble. This was south London.
It wasn't like they didn't know how to treat
gunshot wounds. Once they'd sewn me up
and handed out some more antibiotics and
painkillers, I'd be looking for Dom, and my first
stop would be Tallulah and Ruby's. They were
the real casualties. My arm would heal.
I stuck it out for another twenty minutes as old
people vomited into plastic containers and called
for their forty-something children, who were
wandering round, trying to find out why
their parents had been abandoned in the
corridors.
It depressed the shit out of me, and reinforced
my own plans for old age. I wasn't going to hang
about. Once I started pissing in my pants, it was
time to drop myself.
I got to my feet, picked up all my worldly
goods in my Bergen, and asked the Polish
builders to keep my seat for me.
At the coffee machine, I scrabbled in my
pocket for change with my free hand, when a
gravel-voiced Ulsterman piped up behind me:
'It's all right, boy, I'll get that.'
I didn't turn. I knew who it was. I could feel his
roll-up tobacco breath against my ear. My heart
sank.
'Shirley Temple, if I remember right?' A worn
brown leather-covered arm brushed past my face
and a big freckled hand threw a quid into the slot
and punched 'white no sugar' with a nicotine-stained
forefinger.
25
Sundance saw the expression on my face. 'Don't
worry, boy, we're not carrying. We're not going to
hurt you.'
We? Where there was Sundance, you also got
Trainers. I looked round and, sure enough, he
was sitting a little further down the corridor.
He was there to block a getaway, but he seemed
more intent on checking out the nurses, cleaners,
female patients, anyone with a pair of tits. His
forearms rippled below his short-sleeved shirt as
he worked a roll-up. His Red Hand of Ulster
tattoo had just been lasered off last time I saw
him, and all traces of it had now disappeared.
I didn't care what Sundance said. I was fucking
concerned. They had kicked the shit out of me
once before just because the Yes Man, the arse-hole
they worked for, felt in that kind of mood.
He'd given me a brief to kill a kid, which would
send a warning to his father. I hadn't complied,
so Sundance and Trainers had introduced me to
the Yes Man's alternative brief: go to Panama and
kill the father. If not, Kelly, a child who was my
last remaining link with the human race, would
die.
I'd nicknamed him Sundance because of his
thick, blond, side-parted hair and Robert
Redford looks, back in the days when Bob was
young enough to play Paul Newman's mate. The
years hadn't been kind. His face had dropped an
inch or two, and the parting had widened to take
in much of the top of his nut.
And Trainers? He'd got his name because he
wore them all the time and they were the first
thing I'd seen of him when they were kicking me
to shit.
They'd obviously kept hitting the weights
since their days in the H Blocks, but still looked
bulked-up rather than honed. With their broken
noses and big barrel chests they wouldn't have
been out of place outside a nightclub in ill-fitting
dinner jackets and Dr Martens. But they were in
the Good Lads' Club now, and worked for the
Firm.
Sundance nodded down at my arm as the cup
dropped on to the tray. 'Had a bit of a rough time
there, eh? I saw it on the news. Hit a bone?'
I shook my head. He glanced up again as the
cup filled. 'Fucking chaos out there, eh?'
As if he'd know. Guys like him were just
muscle, not two brain cells to rub together. They
stayed local, within the M25. These days, they
were probably used to fight the new enemy –
anyone with a towel on their
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