Thurley, panting and groaning on top of him cent, virginal Judy, in some
verminous bed at a dingy studio apartment; and suddenly he realized that
it was this man who had messed up his, Ron’s, life, and that maybe a
hero was what he needed to be to win back the respect of his only child;
and that no-goods like this corrupt detective wearing a stocking mask in
bed with Judy and carrying a shotgun was the kind who always messed it
up for good people like Ron Biggins; so he took two steps forward and
punched the astonished young man’s nose, and the man stumbled and pulled
both triggers of his gun, shooting not Ron, but another masked man
beside him, who screamed blood and fell down; and Ron stared, horrified,
at the blood until the first man hit him over the head very hard with
the metal barrel of the gun, and Ron passed out again.
Jacko knelt beside Deaf Willie and pulled the shreds of stocking away
from the older man’s face. Willie’s face was a dreadful mess, and Jacko
went pale.” Jacko and his like usually inflicted wounds upon their
victims and one another with blunt instruments; consequently Jacko had
never seen gunshot wounds before. And since in-house training in first
aid was not one of the perks in Tony Cox’s management training scheme,
Jacko did not really know what to do. But he was capable of quick
thinking.
He looked up. The others were standing around, staring. Jacko yelled:
“Get on with it, you dozy bastards!” They jumped.
He bent closer to Willie and said: “Can you hear me, Mate?”
Willie’s face twisted, but he was unable to speak.
Jesse knelt on Willie’s other side. “We got to get him to hospital,” he
said.
Jacko was ahead of him. “I need a hot car,” he said. He pointed to a
blue Volvo parked nearby.
“Whose is that?”
“It belongs to the owner of the yard,” Jesse said.
“Perfect. Help me get Willie in there.”
Jacko took his shoulders and Jesse his legs. They carried him to the
car, whimpering, and put him on the backseat. The keys were in the
ignition.
One of the men called from the currency truck.
“All done, Jacko.” Jacko would have struck the man for using his name,
but he was preoccupied. He said to Jesse:
“Know where you’re going?”
“Yes, but you’re supposed to come with me.”
“Never mind. I’ll get Willie to hospital somehow, and meet you at the
farm. Tell Tony what happened. Now, drive slow, don’t shoot the lights,
pull up at zebra crossings, do it like it was a bleeding driving test,
okay?” “Yes,” Jesse said. He ran back to the getaway van and tested the
rear doors. They were locked.
He stripped the brown paper off the license plate. its purpose had been
to stop the guards getting the number; Tony Cox thought of
everything–and got behind the wheel.
Jacko started the Volvo. Someone opened the yard gate. The rest of the
men were already getting into their own cars and peeling off their
gloves and masks. Jesse pulled out in the van and turned right. Jacko
followed him out and went the site way.
As he accelerated down the street, he glanced at his watch: ten
twenty-seven. The whole thing had taken eleven minutes. Tony was right:
he had said they would be away and clear in the time it takes a squad
car to get from Vine Street nick to the Isle of Dogs. It had been a
beautiful job, except for poor Deaf Willie. Jacko hoped he would live to
spend his share.
He was approaching the hospital. He had figured out the way he would
play it, but he needed Willie to be out of sight. He said: “Will? Can
you get on the floor?” There was no response. Jacko glanced back.
Willie’s eyes were such a mess that words like “open” and “shut” no
longer applied.
But the poor sod must be unconscious. Jacko reached behind and pulled
the body off the seat onto the floor. It fell with a painful bump.
He steered into the hospital grounds and parked in the car park. He got