So get over there, sort it out.’
Andrews wanted to ask if it was a good idea to send two white cops to Brixton but followed McDonald as he headed out. As she struggled to keep up with the rapid pace he was setting, she asked:
‘Am, how’ve you been?’
He never looked at her, answered:
‘Fucking hunky-dory.’
And that nailed that.
Brixton, as usual, was teeming, and they got lots of snide remarks as they moved through the crowds. Coldharbour Lane was unusually quiet, and McDonald asked:
‘What’s the name?’
‘Name?’
‘Yeah, of the person we’re supposed to be cautioning.’
‘Oh.’
She had to consult her notebook, not easy at the pace he was maintaining, and he said:
‘Before the winter, yeah?’
‘Jamil, he’s in the ground-floor flat, Number 19.’
McDonald grinned, said:
‘Jamil, bet he votes Tory’
They banged at the door and no reply, so McDonald gave a look around, then put his boot to it and it gave way. Andrews said nothing, simply followed him inside. Music was blaring from the first flat on the ground floor and McDonald said:
‘Jamil, I presume.’
The door opened and a white woman came crashing out, screaming obscenities, stopped on seeing them, and went:
‘Oh…’
Andrews asked:
‘Is Mr Jamil at home?’
The woman stared at her as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing, then: ‘Mister… That is fucking priceless, but if you mean the no-good, lying, cheating bastard who think he’s Bob fucking Marley then yeah, Mister Jamil is home… and receiving guests.’
She gave a hysterical laugh. Andrews didn’t know who Bob Marley was, her tastes tended to Beyonce and J. Lo. The woman headed for the street, said:
‘Bust his ass good.’
McDonald said:
‘Sounds like grounds to enter.’
And went into the flat. Andrews felt this was definitely one of those times to call for back-up but followed anyway. The smell of weed hung in the air like cordite. African spears, shields, knives lined the walls. It took them a moment to see through the haze. Sitting in a low chair, back to the wall, was a bald man, black as coal, dressed in shorts only. His body was slick with oils. The music was deafening. He peered at them through slit eyes, said: ‘You muthahfuckahs want?’
McDonald moved to the music console, turned it off. The silence was total, then the man asked:
‘The fuck you doing, whitey?’
McDonald moved to the table, picked up a bag of weed, said:
‘You’re busted, bro.’
The man smiled, displaying gold teeth and a scarlet tongue. He looked at Andrews, said:
‘Yo a foxy bitch, yeah?’
Andrews tried to take charge, said:
‘If you’d care to accompany us to the station.’
Even McDonald turned to look at her. In the moment McDonald looked away, Jamil put his hands under the chair, produced a sawn-off, said:
‘Surprise.’
McDonald couldn’t believe this was happening again. He remembered the last time he’d stared into the barrel of a gun. The seconds before the guy pulled the trigger, sweat pouring off his face and the fucking awful pain. The months of rehabilitation and the fear, the sickening, creeping fear. His body started to shake, and Jamil said:
‘Y’all want to turn on my music again.’
McDonald turned to the console then ran for all he was worth, expecting shots in his back, and he was in the street, drenched in sweat but unhurt.
Jamil seemed stunned that the cop had legged it, not half as stunned as Andrews, whose jaw had literally fallen. Jamil smiled, those gold teeth gleaming, the barrels swinging to her midriff, said:
‘How dat song go?… “I Got You Babe.” ‘
Well, whenever it gets too bad, I just step out and kill a few people. I frig them to death with a barbed-wire cob I have. After that I feel fine.
19
Roberts was the first to arrive at Coldharbour Lane, followed by the Heavy Mob, the tooled-up gang, ready to shoot on sight, the street sealed off and all the preparations for a siege being set. McDonald, still sweating heavily, said to Roberts:
‘He’s got a sawn-off, Andrews is there with him.’
Roberts stared at him, smelling the stink of desperation, asked:
‘How’d you get to be out here?’
McDonald had been readying this since he’d called for back-up, said:
‘I ah… managed to distract him, then went for back-up.’
Roberts’s eyes, boring through him, asked:
‘Let me see if I get this right. He has a gun, you distract him, then you take off. How’d that help Andrews?’
McDonald wiped the sweat from his eyes, said:
‘It may not have been the best plan, but it was on the spur of the moment. I mean, better than him having two hostages, don’t you think?’
Roberts looked round at the gathering force of coppers, said:
‘I’d work on that story before you tell it again. The way it is now, sounds like you fucked off
McDonald had been praying that Roberts would buy the yarn. Now, in desperation, he said:
‘I’m sure Andrews will back up my view.’
Roberts said:
‘If she comes out, you think saving your ass is going to be her first concern?’
The door opened and McDonald heard the bolts on a 100 weapons rack, a sharp intake of breath seemed to course the street. Jamil was out first, his hands behind his back. Followed by Andrews.
McDonald had wanted to roar:
‘Shoot the fucker.’
Roberts was running to the house, shouting:
‘Hold your fire.’
