'Sniper Two is a woman, she's in her early thirties and she has brown hair.' I resisted the temptation to say more. I needed to show him I knew a lot, but without running out of information too early.
There was silence. I got the impression that Sundance had started to listen carefully, which I took as my chance to carry on. 'You need to tell him,' I said.
'Just think about the shit you'll be in if you don't. Frampton won't be first in the queue for taking the blame. It'll be you lot who get that for sure.' The message had at least got through to Trainers. He was swapping glances with Sundance in the mirror: my cue not even to look up now, but let them get on with it.
We stopped at a set of lights, level with carloads of families swigging from cans of Coke and doing the bored- in-the-back-seat stuff. The four of us just sat there as if we were on our way to a funeral. It was pointless me trying to raise the alarm with any of these people as they smoked or picked their noses waiting for the green. I just had to depend on Sundance to make a decision soon. If he didn't, I'd try again, and keep on until they silenced me. I'd been trying hard not to think about that too much.
We approached a large retail park, with signs for B&Q, Halford's and McDonald's.
Sundance pointed at the entrance sign.
'In there for five.' The indicator immediately started clicking and we cut across the traffic.
I tried not to show my elation, and let my eyes concentrate hard on the lunchbox of tricks at the top of the sports bag as I felt the Merc lurch over a speed bump.
We stopped near a bacon roll and stewy tea van, and Sundance immediately got out. Trolleys filled with pot plants, paint and planks of wood trundled past on the tarmac as he walked out of sight somewhere behind us, dialling into a StarT ac that he'd pulled from his jacket.
The rest of us sat in silence. The driver just looked ahead through his sunglasses and Trainers turned round in his seat to try to see what Sundance was up to, taking care to cover my handcuffs so the DIYers couldn't see that we weren't there for the kitchen sale.
I wasn't really thinking or worrying about anything, just idly watching a young shell-suited couple load up their ancient XRi with boxes of wall tiles and grout. Maybe I was trying to avoid the fact that the call he was making meant life or death for me.
Sundance shook me out of my dreamlike state as he slumped back into the Merc and slammed the door. The other two looked at him expectantly probably hoping to be told to drive me down to Beachy Head and give me a helping hand in my tragic suicide.
There was nothing from him for twenty seconds or so while he put his seat-belt on. It was like waiting for the doctor to tell me if I had cancer or not. He sat for a while and looked disturbed; I didn't know what to think but took it as a good sign, without really knowing why.
Eventually, after putting the StarT ac away, he looked at the driver.
'Kennington.'
I knew where Kennington was, but didn't know what it meant to them. Not that it really mattered: I just felt a surge of relief about the change of plan.
Whatever had been going to happen to me had been postponed.
At length Sundance muttered, 'If you're fucking with me, things will get hurtful.'
I nodded into the rear-view mirror as he gave me the thousand-metre stare. There was no need for further conversation as we drove back up the Old Kent Road. I was going to save all that for later, for the Yes Man. Leaning against the window to rest my arms and ease the tension of the handcuffs on my wrists, I gazed like a child at the world passing by, the glass steaming around my face.
Somebody turned on the radio and the soothing sound of violins filled the Merc.
It struck me as strange; I wouldn't have expected these boys to be into classical music any more than I was.
I knew the area we were driving through like the back of my hand. As a ten-year old I had played there while bunking school. In those days the place was one big mass of minging council estates, dodgy secondhand-car dealers and old men in pubs drinking bottles of light ale. But now it looked as if every available square metre was being gentrified. The place was crawling with luxury developments and 911 Caireras, and all the pubs had been converted into wine bars. I wondered where all the old men went now to keep out of the cold.
We were approaching Elephant and Castle again. The music finished and a female voice came on with an update on the incident that had shaken London. There were unconfirmed reports, she said, that three people had been killed in a gun battle with police, and that the bomb blast in Whitehall had produced between ten and sixteen minor casualties, who were being treated in hospital. Tony Blair had expressed his absolute outrage from his villa in Italy, and the emergency services were on full alert as further explosions could not be ruled out. No one as yet had claimed responsibility for the blast.
We rounded the Elephant and Castle and headed towards Kennington, pulling over as two police vans sirened their way past.
Sundance turned to me and shook his head in mock disapproval. Tut-tut-rut. See you you're a menace to society, you are.'
As the news finished and the music returned I continued to look out of the window. I was a menace to myself, not society. Why couldn't I steer clear of shit for a change, instead of heading straight for it like a light- drunk moth?
We passed Kennington tube station, then took a right into a quiet residential street. The street name had been ripped from its post and the wooden backing was covered in graffiti. We turned again and the driver had to brake as he came across six or seven kids in the middle of the road, kicking a ball against the gable end of a turn- of-the-century terrace. They stopped and let us through, then immediately got back to trying to demolish the wall.
We drove about forty metres further, then stopped. Sundance hit his key fob and a graffiti-covered double garage shutter started to roll up. Left and right of it was a pitted brown brick wall; above was a rusty metal frame that had probably once held a neon sign. Empty drinks cans littered the ground. Inside was completely empty. As we drove in, I saw that all around the old brick walls were tool boards with faded, red-painted shapes of what was supposed to be hanging there. Years ago it had probably been a one-man garage set-up. A faded Chelsea FC team poster was pinned to a door. Judging by the long haircuts, sideburns and very tight shorts, it was seventies vintage.
The shutter door rattled and squeaked its way down behind me, gradually cutting off the noise of the kids kicking the ball. The engine was cut and the three of them started to get out.
Sundance disappeared through the football poster door, leaving it open behind him, with luck for me to get dragged through. Anything to be out of the car and have the pressure off my wrists. Maybe I'd even get given a brew. I hadn't eaten or drunk anything since the night before: there'd been too much to do and I'd simply forgotten. Just placing the bomb on the hotel roof had taken the best part of four hours, and an Egg McMuffin had been the last thing on my mind.
While I was watching the door swing back slowly to reveal the Chelsea mop heads again, Trainers leant down and undid the cuffs pinning me to the seat. Then he and the driver got hold of me and dragged me out. We headed towards the door; I was beginning to feel that maybe I'd get away with this after all. Then I gave myself a good mental slapping: every time I had this feeling I came unstuck.
What was happening here meant nothing until I saw the Yes Man and told him my piece. I decided to do my best not to annoy these boys while we waited. They were doing their best to intimidate me; things are always more worrying when there is no verbal contact and no information, and it was working a little, that was for sure. Not a lot, but enough.
They dragged me through the door and into a windowless, rectangular space with pitted, dirty whitewashed brick walls. The room was airless, hot and humid, and to add to the mix somebody had been smoking roll-ups. A harsh, double fluorescent unit in the ceiling gave the impression there was nowhere to hide.
On the floor in the left-hand corner was a steam-powered TV with a shiny new swordfish aerial hanging from a nail on the wall. It was the only thing in the room that looked as if it hadn't been purchased from a junk shop. Facing it was a worn-out brown velour three-piece suite. The arms were threadbare, and the seats sagged and were dotted with cigarette burns. Plugged into adaptors in the same socket as the TV were a green upright plastic kettle, a toaster, and battery chargers for three mobiles. The place reminded me of a minicab office, with old newspapers and Burger King drinks cups providing the finishing touches.
