Having made a decent amount of money in the last year, Shaun had bought a small house over in Croxteth close to the West Derby golf course. It was a good place to keep a low profile and living in Toxteth seemed to be causing them endless problems. Their mother, Doreen, who was in and out of rehab for alcohol and drugs, lived in a small annexe at the back of the house. Shaun didn’t trust her with the keys to the main part of the house. If she relapsed and went on a bender, she’d end up selling everything in therefor coke or smack.
‘Mum all right?’ Curtis asked, breaking the growing tension in the car. His nerves were making him feel sick.
‘Sound. Forty ciggies and a box of Roses,’ Shaun said.
‘Living the fuckin’ dream, eh?’ Curtis said, but his mind was still on the night ahead.
Shaun smiled and said, ‘Uncle Ray’s gonna pop in tonight, so she’ll be made up.’
‘And he can keep her off the ale,’ Curtis added. Their mum was in her late thirties, but she looked ten years older.
The noise from The Abbey pub seemed to have gone up in volume. Checking his watch, Curtis saw it was eleven. Only an hour to a new millennium. But that wasn’t of any interest to them. Something else was going to kick off that night.
Curtis and his brother were angry that a well-known Yardie gang from Toxteth, the Hill Street Posse, had taken over the pub and, more importantly, the dealing of drugs in there. This was Croxteth for fuck’s sake! They were on Curtis’ turf so they had to make a stand. But Duane Miller, who was their leader, had a terrifying reputation. He had once stabbed and burnt the wife of a rival who ripped him off in a drug deal.
‘Where’s Little Jack?’ Curtis asked, trying to distract himself. ‘Little’ Jack Gibson was Shaun and Curtis’ cousin. He was an innocent looking ten year old ‘runner’ whose job it was to act as a lookout when they were dealing drugs. Most of the time he carried a football under his arm to complete the look of total innocence. Tonight, ‘Little Jack’ was going to be far less conspicuous lurking around The Abbey than any of them.
Shaun looked down at the burner phone. ‘Text from Little Jack. Duane Miller arrived thirty minutes ago.’
Shaun looked at his younger brother and then at Sparrow and Chuck. ‘Time to go, lads.’
Curtis could feel it in the pit of his stomach as the adrenaline began to pump through his veins. There was no going back. And he didn’t want to lose face in front of them.
Shaun slapped Curtis’ cheek playfully, ‘Eh, don’t worry lad. This has gotta be done, you know that.’
The four men got out of the car in silence. They were already wearing black gloves and carried baseball bats. Curtis pulled on his black knitted balaclava and jogged to the side of the pub with the others. The noise was deafening – music, shouting and laughter.
Little Jack came out from behind one of the huge bins and wandered over. Curtis could see he was looking scared.
‘Nice one, Jack,’ Sparrow said, clapping him on the back.
Curtis watched as Shaun leant over and looked at Jack. ‘Don’t worry there, my little mate. They’re not gonna know what fuckin’ hit them.’
Reaching into his pocket, Shaun pulled out a CS gas grenade and handed it to Little Jack. They had been through the plan that morning. Jack was going to get into the pub by saying that his mother was in there and it was an emergency. When he got close to the bar, he was going to pull the pin, drop the grenade on the floor and walk out. If the bouncers asked, he couldn’t find her. Twenty seconds later, all mayhem would ensue.
Little Jack nodded, took the grenade and disappeared around the corner. Curtis took a deep breath and held it for a moment. This was it.
They stood in silence waiting.
The next minute seemed to last an eternity, and all Curtis could hear was the banging of his pulse in his ear drum.
Suddenly there were the screams of women from inside. Little Jack appeared, gave them a nod and scarpered.
There were more screams. Shouts of men yelling to ‘Get out!’. The crash of glasses smashing and furniture being overturned in the panic to get out of the pub.
‘Here we go, lads,’ Shaun said as the four balaclavared men appeared from the side of the pub. ‘Show time.’
‘Happy fucking millennium, you cunts,’ Curtis yelled, taking his bat and getting ready to get stuck in. Something had clicked inside him. If he was going to get hurt or killed, he was going to go down swinging – not as a coward.
People were staggering out of the pub, coughing, squinting and rubbing their faces. The CS gas came drifting out of the doors and windows. Women sat on the curb crying with their arms around each other. The biggest party of the century had been ruined.
A black youth came at them wielding a knife, ‘Come on then, blud. You tha big man, eh?’
Curtis stepped forward with no warning, swung the bat and hit the youth in the temple with a loud THWACK. ‘Fuck off back to Toxteth, you prick!’
The youth crumpled to the floor semi-conscious and then lay still.
Suddenly, Duane Miller came forward pointing a handgun at Curtis. Miller was enormous, shaven headed, and as he spoke, the light caught his two gold teeth. ‘You fuck up me party? Eh? Now I’m gonna fuck you up, bwoy!’
Miller came forward a few more steps, then stopped and gave Curtis a sarcastic smile.
Oh shit! This is it!
Curtis held his breath. Miller was going to kill him right there and then. There was nothing he could do.
CRACK! CRACK!
Curtis jumped at the explosive sound of a gun. He ducked down as he waited to feel the sharp pain of a bullet entering his body.
Nothing.
What’s
