wasn’t happy. “You lot could fuck up a good pussy,” he said. “Lose the phone and motor and meet me at the lock up.”
We had to ditch and torch the Corrolla. We drove it to a stretch of wasteland. It was deserted, an obvious lack of law and order there made it an ideal dumping ground. I put one end of a hose into the fuel tank and my lips on the other, sucked up some fuel into an empty bottle, stuffed a strip of rag into it and moved away from the motor. I lit the rag with a lighter and flung the petrol bomb into the back of the motor. “Get in there!” I said to Caspar. “See if the pig-dogs can get any DNA off that.”
We got away from the burning motor pronto, before it blew up. We put our heads down and marched ten minutes down the road to a deserted industrial estate. There was a unit there belonging to Dog Sick. It was a workshop where he had some arl arse repairing de-activated bangers, fitting new barrels and breech blocks, mainly Mac-10s and Baikals. Dog Sick was waiting for us, he had the key and a petrol can.
He was waiting and opened up, we went in and took off all our clothes. We were starkers and washed ourselves down with the petrol. It was a must, we had to get rid of gun powder residue, hair fibres and blood. We set fire to the boiler suits and balaclavas in a metal bin. Forensics was a kick in the balls; it had to be destroyed at all costs. DNA evidence would be our downfall and send us down for a long stretch, if we weren’t super careful.
The bangers and vests were left there. Dog Sick was like David Blaine; he could make them disappear. We got cleaned up and put on a change of clothes, walked out the unit and into the hire car Dog Sick kept because it was an anonymous little runner that wouldn’t attract attention from the bizzies.
He turned the Renault Megane onto the main road and drove off towards our arse end of the estate. We passed a fire engine and a couple of police cars speeding to the burning car wreck in the opposite direction. I sat back in the passenger seat and made myself comfortable. We had managed to swerve them again, stay free from detection.
8.
Dog Sick dropped me off at the top of our road to get myself in order; relaxed and innocent-looking. My heart was doing somersaults and I was drenched in sweat from all the carry-on. About ten minutes passed as I sat on a garden wall reflecting on the nights madness, steadying my nerves before the careful, silent creep back into the house.
It was after midnight and I went in with stealth, sneaking up the stairs to my room, mission accomplished. I nearly shit myself; my mam was in my bedroom, waiting vigilantly on the end of my bed to collar me on re-entry.
Most of the lads dealing on the estate were living with their mams because we were scrapping by, just making enough to make ends meet. My poor, long-suffering mam was pulling her hair out, as I had gotten more and more involved in the outlaw lifestyle. I was turning into a top fucking menace to society, but she had tried her best to put me off; going fucking mental on us, giving me some proper clouts and threatening to chuck me out onto the street.
She clocked the bruising and the ear and, obviously, sussed something was up. “Look at the state of you! And what’s that smell - petrol? What have you been up to, now?” she said, accusingly.
She knew by intuition that whatever I had been up to, it was seriously wrong and before I could answer, she told me that there had been a gun fight at the Bricklayers pub and some young people had been shot. I lied through my teeth, denying any involvement and proclaiming my innocence. “You’re a liar, Ow-wee!” she raised her voice, getting wound up. “Me friend Judy phoned me up in a right state and one of those kids is her daughter Kirsty.”
It was at this point that everything went ballistic with my mam bursting with rage and screaming at me. “You’re an animal! You’re scum! Nothing but a two-bob gangster!”
She
We had to ditch and torch the Corrolla. We drove it to a stretch of wasteland. It was deserted, an obvious lack of law and order there made it an ideal dumping ground. I put one end of a hose into the fuel tank and my lips on the other, sucked up some fuel into an empty bottle, stuffed a strip of rag into it and moved away from the motor. I lit the rag with a lighter and flung the petrol bomb into the back of the motor. “Get in there!” I said to Caspar. “See if the pig-dogs can get any DNA off that.”
We got away from the burning motor pronto, before it blew up. We put our heads down and marched ten minutes down the road to a deserted industrial estate. There was a unit there belonging to Dog Sick. It was a workshop where he had some arl arse repairing de-activated bangers, fitting new barrels and breech blocks, mainly Mac-10s and Baikals. Dog Sick was waiting for us, he had the key and a petrol can.
He was waiting and opened up, we went in and took off all our clothes. We were starkers and washed ourselves down with the petrol. It was a must, we had to get rid of gun powder residue, hair fibres and blood. We set fire to the boiler suits and balaclavas in a metal bin. Forensics was a kick in the balls; it had to be destroyed at all costs. DNA evidence would be our downfall and send us down for a long stretch, if we weren’t super careful.
The bangers and vests were left there. Dog Sick was like David Blaine; he could make them disappear. We got cleaned up and put on a change of clothes, walked out the unit and into the hire car Dog Sick kept because it was an anonymous little runner that wouldn’t attract attention from the bizzies.
He turned the Renault Megane onto the main road and drove off towards our arse end of the estate. We passed a fire engine and a couple of police cars speeding to the burning car wreck in the opposite direction. I sat back in the passenger seat and made myself comfortable. We had managed to swerve them again, stay free from detection.
8.
Dog Sick dropped me off at the top of our road to get myself in order; relaxed and innocent-looking. My heart was doing somersaults and I was drenched in sweat from all the carry-on. About ten minutes passed as I sat on a garden wall reflecting on the nights madness, steadying my nerves before the careful, silent creep back into the house.
It was after midnight and I went in with stealth, sneaking up the stairs to my room, mission accomplished. I nearly shit myself; my mam was in my bedroom, waiting vigilantly on the end of my bed to collar me on re-entry.
Most of the lads dealing on the estate were living with their mams because we were scrapping by, just making enough to make ends meet. My poor, long-suffering mam was pulling her hair out, as I had gotten more and more involved in the outlaw lifestyle. I was turning into a top fucking menace to society, but she had tried her best to put me off; going fucking mental on us, giving me some proper clouts and threatening to chuck me out onto the street.
She clocked the bruising and the ear and, obviously, sussed something was up. “Look at the state of you! And what’s that smell - petrol? What have you been up to, now?” she said, accusingly.
She knew by intuition that whatever I had been up to, it was seriously wrong and before I could answer, she told me that there had been a gun fight at the Bricklayers pub and some young people had been shot. I lied through my teeth, denying any involvement and proclaiming my innocence. “You’re a liar, Ow-wee!” she raised her voice, getting wound up. “Me friend Judy phoned me up in a right state and one of those kids is her daughter Kirsty.”
It was at this point that everything went ballistic with my mam bursting with rage and screaming at me. “You’re an animal! You’re scum! Nothing but a two-bob gangster!”
She
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