a reply to: SprocketUK
I know a few Poles and they are a lot of fun, drinking, football, being loud. Just like us. Not Mickey
though. He was quiet, spoke in short, harsh syllables (When he did speak) and had dead eyes, like a shark's. You look into them and there's nothing
remotely human about the things. The last seat was taken up by Dazza, a mate of mine since primary school and my tightest brother in the whole club.
He, like me, wasn't best pleased with this gig either and I caught his look in the mirror on the sun shield a few times as we headed up the A120,
skirting the southern extremities of London, then heading North on the boring, dilapidated stretch of the M11.
There was nothing else to do but sit and chain smoke in grim silence, keeping an eye out for cops or customs guys or maybe someone more criminally
minded. The Webley thirty eight that had to be as old as my granddad dug into my ribs and was a constant reminder of the fact this was somewhere I
didn't want to be. I should have said no, should have handed my cut in and just walked away. But I was trapped by routine, by the fear of change, just
like the guy trying not to sob in his office cubicle, facing the prospect of another tasteless microwave meal, washed down with too much cheap wine
and shared with a woman he fell out of love with ten years ago and just too scared of the unknown to get up and walk away.
The lead car, then the truck with the container on pulled into the farm entrance, bouncing slowly along the half mile track to come to a stop behind
some old stables and a barn. I got out and stretched with a groan that was echoed by the other blokes. My back cracked a couple of times as I leant
over to the left, then the right and waited as the lead guys walked around and met up with a bunch of tracksuits who had come out of the stables.
There was a bit of tooing and frowing before the container was opened. Spud went and chatted with Tiny while the tracksuits unloaded a few dozen
tellies, big Samsung ones, still in their boxes. Then, with more care a few smaller, cube shaped ones. Obviously the powder. Finally they climbed up
and dragged out and threw down a bunch of crying, terrified girls. My fists clenched so hard that my nails drew blood from my palms as I watched for a
moment, then turned away, unable to look any more. There was some shouting, some muffled squeals, the sounds of fists hitting soft flesh...It went on
far too long and I took a few steps away, falling in with Dazza and taking the smoke he held out. “God, I hate this.” he murmured. “I nodded
and said “I've decided Daz, if he ever asks again, I'm turning in my colours. I can't do this.” His mouth was held taut in a grim line at that,
but he nodded and I knew he got it.
I shrugged off the overly jokey, light banter of the others as the truck was sealed up and we headed back to the cars. I decided that as soon as I had
a moment, I was going to send the location of the farm to the cops, see if they couldn't do some good for once. The rest of the journey passed in
poisonous silence, broken only by the hiss of the radio as Spud tried to find a station that wasn't playing rap or some other rubbish that no one with
a brain would want to listen to.
When we got to the industrial estate in Birmingham, the rest of the cargo was unloaded and I excused myself for a minute to go and take a leak. I
texted the locations and a brief description to the crime stoppers number, then walked back out to get in the car, feeling a little more human
finally. I handed over the Webley and burner phone back at the clubhouse and received my own back in return and went out and got absolutely hammered.
No amount of booze can completely remove some feelings though, I just got to that dead, zombie state, then went home, slept on the couch and woke up
to a row.
Now I was riding slowly, really slowly, only about five miles per hour over the speed limit as I snaked my way through back streets Not in any rush at
all. The text said “Club meeting, mandatory, nineteen hundred.” I knew what it was about. Those scumbags got raided and all hell let loose while
I was off my face. Tiny had obviously checked the phones and seen that it was mine that sent the texts..I didn't harbour any doubts at all that I was
in for it, big time. I was a snitch, a grass. A traitor to my club....I couldn't argue with that. There'd be no point in arguing. It would just make
me look weak and wouldn't do the tiniest bit of good. I was a dead man, just not quite yet.
I felt free!
For the first time in god knows how long, nothing mattered. It really didn't. The phone bill? The red letters off the gas and electric companies? The
court summons for beating those blokes outside the pub last month? None of it.
There's a clarity that comes to us in these moments, something you will never understand until the scales lift from your eyes and you can truly see,
truly appreciate what it is to be alive, able to chart your own course without consequences, or at least, without the fear of consequences.
I wound the throttle on, a grin spreading on my face and, as we passed through the ton in the flash of a speed camera, I let out a raw, primal scream.
The ultimate rebel yell.
By the time I got to the club house it was five past seven. I practically jumped off the bike, my body fizzing with that adrenaline rush, every nerve
humming, every sinew straining, vibrating like taut wire, full of potential energy.
The doors practically smashed off their hinges as I burst in past the startled probies doing their stag and I strode into the chapel larger than I
ever felt in life before. Tiny's eyes were like saucers as her stared up, wildly, obviously caught in mid rant as he had been describing what a
scumbag I was to everyone. I almost sang then. Nothing was real, my knife just appeared in my hand as I leapt across the thick oak of the table and
cut his throat clean. I laughed and turned to my brothers and said “We don't do that stuff. We just don't. That's why I grassed.” I was about to
say something else when I was kicked in the chest by the full force of both barrels of Gruff's sawn off. It blew me back against the wall and as I
slid down, the images of my brothers slowly fading, I saw Daz take him with his own blade. Then it just seemed to get dark.
I don't know how long it's been dark for, but it's slowly gotten a little lighter at times, not enough to see by, just enough to know there is some
light. I'm hot and feeling as though I am being squashed. I can't really feel anything either, it's like I am disconnected from my limbs almost. I
can't taste or breathe or anything really. I can think though. I don't know if I am dead or merely in some hospital somewhere, in intensive care.
That squashing is getting worse. I feel sick and can't tell which way is up.
Jeez, my head is in some kind of clamp! My skull is splitting. I am in hell. There's screaming, muffled, but it's definitely there.
God, I'm sorry. I am. Please. Stop it!
My...I can't remember, there's light..what..wha....
An indistinct voice says “It's over Karen, you've done it luv. You have a beautiful baby boy.”
edit on 41pThu, 09 Mar 2017 10:14:41 -060020172017-03-09T10:14:41-06:00kAmerica/Chicago31000000k by SprocketUK because: