Homecoming Blues Read online

I located the car, a battered old Ford, in the staff car park. I climbed behind the wheel and threw the file on the passenger seat. What a homecoming this was turning out to be, that quiet time seemed farther away. I thought about going back to the pub to check on dad but decided not to. He would be safe enough for now.

  I picked up the file and had a scan through, needing a place to start from. Scanning the list of businesses, I picked one at random then turned the key in the ignition. There was no way I could face my dad at the moment, so after reading through the file I drove aimlessly around, thinking through my situation and the best way to go about it. I felt as though I was standing on the edge of a cliff, the devil on one side telling me to jump and the devils brother on the other saying he will push me if I do not. Back a day and already I had been dragged into the cesspool. Duggan was playing a dangerous game. He may have one of the biggest firms in London, but in my mind, he had gone too far, putting the threat on my dad. Unlike many of my contemporaries, I worshipped my dad. Not through fear but good old-fashioned respect, and that is why I decided I was going to take Duggan down.

  I found myself pulling into the kerb across the road from a travel agent in Canning town. It was a front for one of Gulag Thirteen’s gambling dens. I opened the file and studied the pictures of some of the main players. The head of the firm was one Nicolai Chevko, who liked to be called Nico for short, after the character from one of Stephen Seagals films. He was ex KGB and a thoroughly nasty guy. I did not expect for one moment, Nico to rock up here, but as I looked across the road, a face from the file I did recognize, entered the travel agents.

  Boris Dragosani was ex Spetznaz, the Russian equivalent of our SAS. He was a large confident looking man, with a face like a kicked in lunch tin and a huge ugly mars-bar across his forehead, giving him a permanent frown. A few minutes later, he exited with two Slavic gorillas in tow. They climbed into a dark coloured Merc. I decided to tail their car and see where they took me. For the next couple of hours we toured London, touching base with all four corners of the compass. It soon became apparent to me their empire was vast, even rivalling that of Duggan himself. Most of the locations may have been run down decrepit hovels but I had no doubt a lot of money would be flowing through each premises. Dragosani and his monkeys must have been on a collection run because after each stop they exited the building and opened the boot of their car and deposited a fat envelope or carrier bag inside. No doubt filled with cash.

  What information Duggan's Police source had given him was only the tip of the iceberg. Night was closing in as they pulled up outside a scrap yard in Grays, Thurrock near the Docks. One of the monkeys removed a large hold all from the boot and they walked towards the yard entrance. Two fierce looking Rottweilers, chained to the side of a metal building, growled and barked at the visitors who ignored them and entered the building. I had been sitting in my car for quite a while waiting for their return, my focus entirely on the door to the building, so I did not notice the two figures who appeared out of the darkness beside my car. I only knew something was wrong when my driver side window was smashed in. Before I could react, two powerful hands were dragging me from the car. I was crushed under a blow to my head and I saw stars before the lights go out.

  Consciousness came to me slowly, arriving in a coalescence of shadow and light. I heard voices from far away, drawing closer sounding as if I was listening underwater to the conversation. Drums were pounding and a thousand Zulu warriors were doing the Ubangi stomp on the back of my skull. Full awareness of my situation arrived soon after and I was indeed in the shit. I was tied to a chair in a room that smelled of stale piss. I kept my eyes closed, not wanting whoever was there to know I was awake. I had cocked up big style. My attention had been focused so much on the scrap yard; I had failed to be aware of anything else. I realised I was an amateur in this game and these boys were professionals. Sometime during my follow, I had shown out and they had clocked me, and then waited for the right moment to bushwhack my ass. The voices were in Russian, they were not arguing, just passing the time of day as if snatching someone was an everyday occurrence for them. I thought it was time to open my eyes and let whatever games they had planned commence. I knew some kind of torture was in my immediate future so I steeled myself to face it, having taken part in escape and evasion exercises with the S.A.S, I hoped I was prepared.

  I was in a corrugated walled room. Three men sat at a battered wooden desk in front of me, Dragosani and the two monkeys, he picked up at the travel agents. They noticed I was awake.

  "Ah you are back with us," Dragosani said, his voice heavily accented in the style of a bad actor playing a Russian spy in some Bond movie. If my situation were not so dire, I would have laughed.

  "Why were you following us, are you politzei?" I did not answer; one of his bum boys stood up and with surprising speed smashed a fist into the side of my head, knocking me and the chair over. Stars appeared again, the drummers went into a frenzy and the Zulus now stomped as if their feet had burst into flame, I tasted blood.

  "I do not like to ask questions twice. If you do not answer me Vadim will crush your skull under his boot." Dragosani growled. Vadim raised his foot above my head.

  Feeling sorry for the burning footed Zulus, I thought I had better say something.

  "I was taking a break from driving, having a rest like. What’s this all about? Who are you?"

  Boris smiled thinly.

  "Please do not take us for peasant fools. You have been following us for most of the day."

  When I was knocked to the floor, my bonds had loosened. Whoever had tied me up had not been a boy scout. Hopefully, it would be in my favour. As I worked at my bindings, I decided to tell the truth because if my plan worked they would not be going anywhere.

  "You're holding Phil Duggan's daughter. He asked me to find her."

  Dragosani signaled to Vadim who lowered his boot away from my head and returned to the desk.

  He steepled his manicured fingers and looked at me for a few moments.

  "So you are hired help and now we have two hostages to wield against the duplicitous Mr. Duggan."

  He turned to his uglier than sin mates, and they conversed in their native tongue ignoring me. I worked furiously at my bonds and soon freed my hands. Luckily, they had not tied my feet; that would save time.

  After a bit more convo between the Marx brothers. Dragosani, took a pen from the inside pocket of his jacket and wrote something on a pad on the desk. He tore off the page and handed it to Vadim who looked at it before pocketing it.

  "It is your lucky day Duggan's lackey. Vadim and Aleks will take you to her," he smiled that thin smile again.“Unfortunately you will be staying with her for a while."

  He stood up and shook hands with Vadim and Aleks. Without a backward glance, he left the room.

  I did not want to get too excited but hopefully what Dragosani had written down was the address where Jamie Lee was being held, I could not be that lucky could I?

  Vadim approached and I steeled myself as he righted the chair and me. As he bent to untie me, I slammed the chair into Vadim, who was knocked to the floor. I Jumped up and slammed my foot down into his groin, once, twice. His fetid breathe exploded from his lungs and he curled into a ball, cupping his baby making bits. Aleks dived over the desk and came at me like a Sambo wrestler. I could not afford to let this man get hold of me or try and play his game. As he came in I resorted to the tried and tested martial art move seen on many a Sunday afternoon western movie, I picked up the chair and swung it round, smashing it to pieces against the side of his head. His eyes rolled up and he collapsed without a sound.

  Meanwhile Vadim had regained his composure and I think he was a little upset at what I had done to him. He now had a knife in his hand and approached me, jabbing the air with his blade and mumbling in Russian. I circled away from him, kee
ping out of his reach. He jabbed at my face. I smacked down on the inside of his forearm with my fist, going for the cluster of nerves. In any other man it would have made them drop the knife as their hand lost feeling. This guy was tough; I had heard that part of their training in Russian Special Forces was to undergo torture for real. Designed to build up resistance to pain, they also did it for fun once part of the Mafia. Crazy people! He reversed his blade and swung in a scything arc; I ducked and punched him twice in the kidneys.

  He just laughed at this and came at me again. Aleks was making figure eights in the air with the blade and coming closer, a smile of pleasure on his face.

  Blades are dangerous tools in the hands of an amateur but even more so when wielded by an expert and this man was. He fainted with his left hand but I was ready, making it appear though I had fallen for his trick. He reversed the blade and stepped in swiping it round in an arc. I ducked, coming up and striking Aleks, as hard as I could, in the face with my elbow. Blood spurted from his now broken nose and he fell back. I was on him like a tramp in a Harry Ramsden dustbin, punching and kicking until he moved no more. I fell back against the wall exhausted. Thinking I had better shift my arse, I retrieved the note from Vadim's pocket and without looking at it shoved it into my trouser pocket. Pulling open the door, I was faced with a sight, which turned my insides to ice. A mountain of a man in a dirty vest and jeans, was straining against two chains attached to the two devil dogs I had seen earlier, snarling and growling, slaver spraying from their angry mouths. As I did not want to become a human pedigree chum, I legged it off to my right, heading deeper into the scrap yard. Looking over my shoulder, I saw the man release the dogs. They charged like two lethal weapons of destruction and I was under no illusion what they would do if they caught up with me. I ran around a large pile of scrap, the dogs gaining on me. Their handler, moving fast despite his size, was bringing up the rear. I was nearing the corrugated metal wall, which surrounded the yard. Against the wall, someone had left a flatbed lorry up on bricks, the kind you used to see delivering coal. Without looking, I knew the dogs would soon be snapping at my heels. I could almost feel their hot breath on me and their razor sharp teeth rending my flesh.

  With a grunt, I jumped up onto the flat bed then launched myself at the wall, which was a further five-foot higher. I caught hold and thanked god this part had no barbed wire which covered other parts of the surrounding wall.

  As I pulled myself over, a bullet spanged into the metal next to me. Shit, I forced myself to move faster and within seconds I was over, dropping down to the edge of a train track next to the yard. I could hear the disgruntled barks of doggy defeat and the curses of their owner. Not wanting to hang around, I ran along the track until I was adjacent to a housing estate.

  Ducking down into some bushes, I listened for sounds of pursuit. All was quiet except for nearby traffic noise. Quickly scrambling over the wooden fence that separated the estate from the Rail, I dropped down into a darkened cul de sac. Red-bricked flats towered above me on both sides. There were no signs of twitching curtains or other forms of life, so I casually walked along as if I belonged there. I could not let myself fall foul again so I knew I had to up my game if I was to stay alive.

  Walking round the flats on my left brought me to the road where my car was parked. I did not expect to see it, but there it was, still parked across the entrance from the yard. My heart thumped hard against my ribcage as I slowly walked towards the car. Any minute now, I expected the two Rottys to come charging from the entrance. Nothing happened, and I arrived at my car unscathed and unnoticed. The keys were still in the ignition and I brushed off the broken glass from the passenger seat and climbed in. I desperately needed a drink and something for the headache still pounding away inside my head. I headed onto the A126; there was an all-night Tesco nearby.

  Five minutes later, I was pulling into the supermarket car park. Before I climbed out, I took the note out of my pocket and unfolded it. Written on the note was an address on Warley Road just off the M25. I was unfamiliar with the road, although I did know many faces had property in the area. If I was going to go in blind, I was going to need some gear. Time to contact Paulie. I put my hand in my pocket and cursed, realising I had left my mobile back at the pub. I climbed out of the car into the chill night air and headed for the entrance.

  After purchasing a bottle of Coke and some Brufen tablets, I headed over to the public phone, which was situated next to the cafe area. I dialed the pub number and it was answered after three rings. A voice answered which I did not recognise at first, then the penny dropped, it was Tony Malpas. My heart stopped for a second.

  "Jimmy, nice to hear from you, got any news for me?" I ignored his question and asked him if Dad was about.

  "He's 'avin a rest Jimmy boy. You just make sure you get Jamie Lee back for Mr. Duggan."

  I felt like reaching down through the phone line and ringing his scrawny neck.

  "If you've hurt him..."

  Malpas chuckled, "Now, now Jimmy, play nice eh."

  "Is Paulie there?"

  I heard his name called and a few seconds later Paulie came on the line.

  "What's up fat boy?"

  "Shut up you tart, you’re the one with the jelly belly."

  "I need a bit of help mate; can you get hold of any Yoggas?" I deliberately used the Romany Gypsy term for gun because we were on an open line.

  "Fuck me mate, didn't you 'ave enough of them when you was action man?"

  "Can you or can't you?"

  "'Course I can. Where are you?" I gave him my location and he said he would be there in an hour and half. My mind was racing now at the thought of what was happening to my dad. I slammed down the receiver and the security guard by the entrance gave me a stern look.

  Fuck him! I had more things to worry about than a jumped up Tesco Policeman. I moodily made my way back to the car to wait for Paulie, all the while imagining what I was going to do to Malpas and Duggan when I got back to London. For now though, I had to put it in a mental box and sealed it for later viewing.

  Paulie arrived just before ten o'clock. The headlights from his battered white van swept across the nearly empty car park and he glided to a halt next to me. I got out and shook hands with him when he exited his vehicle.

  "Jimmy, what the hell is going on?"

  "Duggan's put me onto finding his daughter. He's gonna do for me dad if I don't bring her back," I said, desperation written all over my face.

  "Bastard, any help you want, I'm there. I mean it, I love yer old man. Since me dad died he's looked out for me." He put an arm round my shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

  "What you got for me then?"

  Paulie opened the rear van doors to reveal a large metal trunk.

  "Wait till you see these babies,"

  He looked like a kid at Christmas, his face flushed with excitement. Climbing into the back, Paulie opened the trunk to reveal several racked Submachine guns.

  "Heckler and Koch Mp5s, the dog’s bollocks of a gun mate," he laughed, "But then you'd know that."

  I hefted one of the 9 mm guns and tested the action, smooth as a super-models arse but sexier.

  "These look brand new, still got the factory oil on 'em."

  "They are, still virgins, Duggan took them off a crew who were going to use them for a bank job," he said. "They got pinched for something else before having a chance. The missus of one of 'em offloaded 'em to us. Been cached ever since."

  I loved the irony of the situation. I was going to use Duggan's own weapons against him. I had definitely decided Duggan was going to pay for threatening my dad. He was going to get payback, Dalton style.

  Paulie rummaged around in the van and came back with a canvas hold all, "I also got these for you too."

  I opened the bag to reveal an H and K USP 9mm pistol with six magazines, four flash-bangs and four frag grenades as well as a Cold Steel Counter Tac I combat knife in a boot sheaf. There was also a holster for the pis
tol.

  "And finally I thought you could use these." He tossed me a set of black combat pants and jacket.

  "If you gonna go all Ninja on their assess, you may as well look the part." Laughing as I caught them I said, "You've surpassed my expectations Paulie, I only expected a Saturday night special or somethin'."

  "Ha, I ain't no Del boy. They don't call me Paulie the main man for nothing."

  "Paulie, they don't!" He feigned a hurt look.

  "Well they could so one day."

  I put all the gear into the hold all plus ten banana mags for the MP5 and placed them in the boot of my car. Slamming it shut, I turned back to him.

  "When did you last see my dad?"

  "Last night, Malpas and Duffy took him off somewhere. Thought it was strange at the time. They made me look after the bar and close up and everything."

  "Well do me a flavour will you? Have a discreet sniff around; see if you can find where they holding him?"

  "I will mate. You have some good luck. Don't get yourself dead."

  "A thousand rag heads couldn't do it,” I snorted, “it's gonna be a piece of piss. Especially now you have given me enough hardware to start World- War-Three."

  We shook hands and he got back in his van. I watched until he drove out of sight. Well, here I was on British soil, just back from a war in a foreign land, about to go to war with the Russian Mafia. My mind drifted back to that town in Helmand province, we had been led to believe a group of insurgents had holed up in a fort on the edge of the town. Our informant led us to the fort then vanished, over a thousand of Osama’s little firm descended on us, and we legged it for the cover inside the fort. Half of our crew was killed in the ensuing flight. So there we were, holed up while the insurgents took pot shots whenever a head was raised. Grisman, who was our radio operator, had been killed as we ran to the fort, so we could not call up help. Shit creek and paddle came to mind. As the hours wore on and the rag heads moved ever closer to us, it was decided someone had to go out and retrieve the radio. I volunteered for this job, forgetting that age-old adage; never volunteer.

  I crouched by the entrance to the fort. As my mates laid down a volley of covering fire, I scuttled out to the cover of a burnt out truck. A hail of gunfire assaulted the fort's walls as the insurgents returned fire. I crawled under the truck. Grisman was ten feet away from me across an open area, with insurgents hidden in buildings on both sides. To the left of me, I saw a bearded man pop his head out of an alley. He stepped out and lifted a RPG-7 rocket launcher to his shoulder. I opened fire on his position. My bullets slammed into the wall next to him. He twisted away and fired. The high explosive warhead whooshed across the street and through the window of a building adjacent to his position. Dust, flames, and body parts flew out. The screams of the dead and dying filled the afternoon air.

  More shots came from the buildings in front of me, some aimed at the fort, others at my position. I pushed my head into the sand until the firing had stopped.

  Someone in the fort threw a smoke grenade, which exploded, in front of my position. Under the veil of smoke, I crawled to where Grisman lay and grabbed the radio, quickly retreating to the cover of the truck. A fusillade of bullets smacked into the truck with the sound of lethal hailstones. I felt a burning sensation along my right leg as one of the bullets creased me. Luckily, the radio was undamaged and I put the call in to Camp Bastion requesting air support and evac.

  Having received confirmation of support, I started to make my way back when I was brought to a halt by the sounds of gunfire and screams from inside the fort. I jumped up and ran for the entrance. The insurgents had made their way to the rear of the fort and were now inside. I ran through into the fort to scenes of ferocious hand-to-hand combat. They had over run my squad’s positions. I watched in horror frozen to the spot, my mate, John Harris went down in front of me, his throat slit. Harris’s blood sprayed me, snapping me from my freeze. I raised my weapon and shot his killer between the eyes.

  I lost it before the insurgent’s body hit the ground. I opened up, going crazy. My mind had retreated in on itself. I felt nothing, not even anger. I had stepped outside myself and like a spectator, watched the events unfold. My bullets struck home, but because of my detachment, I failed to differentiate between friend and foe. Only four squad mates remained, and each was fighting two or three of the enemy. Both fell under my onslaught.

  The madness in the heat of battle continued, when several insurgents jumped me from behind, why they did not slit my throat, I have no idea? My final memory before blackness overtook me was the sight of four Blackhawk choppers flying low over the fort.

  I fell out of the car and puked as the memory faded. Shame washed over me as I forced the Technicolor images, in all their gory detail, back in the box and flung them to the deepest recess of my mind. I had killed three of my squad mates before I was knocked senseless. Despite what I had done, we both came out heroes. After fifteen years and postings in some real hot spots, I had cracked that fateful day. The head doctors called it Post Traumatic Stress, me I called it a head fuck.

  Wiping my mouth on the back of my jacket sleeve, I climbed back behind the wheel. Now was not the time to fall apart. I thought I had come to terms with what happened, obviously not. I should be sitting in some military jail now, not free to go about my business. Those upstairs decided differently. In their view, if I had not lost it all of us would have been dead. They still covered up what actually happened, not written up as a blue on blue. It was written up my squad mates died at the hands of enemy insurgents, that was how it was relayed to the media, and my mates loved ones.

  I shoved all thoughts of that day aside and headed off into the night, destination Warley Road: Upminster.

  Act 3