Powder Wars by Graham Johnson

value. Which was a sickener, by the way, with these being premium artics and that. I was in the yard when I got a call off Billy Grimwood. He told me he was in the Crow’s Nest, one of the boozers in town he’d took over, and this fence was saying that he could get rid of the Volvo wagons.
    Went down to see this feller. He was giving it loads, saying that he knew a big haulage firm in London who would take them off us for £40,000. This feller seemed too keen, knowmean? As though he was trying to impress me and Billy with this big mad London deal, but the meter was on, la. It was only a matter of time before the busies would turn the yard over so I had to show some commitment.
    The feller said that we’d have to drive them down to London there and then. So that night I drove one and Snowball drove another. A-roads and all of that, to keep a low profile. Got one of the lads to follow us down in the car to make sure we was all right and that. But when we get there there were no cockneys to meet us. This feller says he’ll have to run round to get the buyers to come and see us.
    I was like that: ‘For fucks sake.’ So we parked them in this nice, quiet street well out of the way, and went to get our heads down at a mate of ours. I fucking hated crashing like this in London. Roughing it. Waking up with a hangover on someone’s floor, like as though I was going to Wembley or whatever. I felt grim and lost. I just wanted to do the deal and get off.
    Twenty-four hours later still no show. I went back to have a vidi at the tractors to make sure they’re all right, and lo and fucking behold, the busies have got onto them. Pure under surveillance, they were. Just a little car with two plain-clothes busies well up this suburban road, but I was onto them straightaway. We’d also got one of the lads to keep an eye on them. He said that there’d been people sniffing around them the night before. Either the fence had set us up or his London pals were turning him over. Either way, la, I was extremely bored by all this. Telling you, la, but I said fuck all. There was no point.
    The next day me, Snowball and the fence got in the car. I told Snowball to get on the M1 and get back to Liverpool. Snowball was driving. I was in the front passenger seat. It was a Nissan Sunny – Japanese cars had just started taking off over here and that. It was small and super low-key. The fence was in the back seat. In fairness, he didn’t look guilty. He just kept going on that he was sorry and all, too, about his fucking about.
    As soon as we got on the motorway I turned round and just laid into the cunt. Proper fucking punching him, I were. Proper haymakers and digs and that. Just holding his head so he couldn’t move and twatting his face repeatedly and without no mercy. He was fucking screaming and crying. His legs were hitting the roof, leaving like indentures in the polystyrene roof lining. Crying for his mum, he was, this prick. He knew he was going to die, in fairness, was fighting for his life, to be honest.
    I was like that: ‘You cheeky cunt. You not only lose me £40,000 and grass me up, but now you’re putting marks on the roof of my car. You cunt.’
    I’m furious with the prick by now. Proper lost it, I did. Snowball now joined in. He was doing 70 mph. I remember thinking, these Sunnys are sound, la. Nifty and that. He had his right hand on the wheel, but was lashing out at this feller with his left arm. Pulling his hair and that and ragging his nose. Next thing I say: ‘Open the fucking door to the middle lane.’
    Snowball’s like that: ‘Fuck that. You’ll kill the cunt.’
    I’m like: ‘Just do it, will you, you prick.’
    I’d had enough of this fellow in the back now. Blubbering and that. There’s no way he’d be staying in the car for the next three hours and that, all the way back home, but I can see Snowball’s half