One pulling, the other pushing, they wheeled the trolley out and started loading up. The sacks were heavy, and it was hard work, but at least it kept Cliff quiet for a while. Harry was grateful for small mercies.
Across the main road from Roche Laundry Services, on the second floor of what had been, pre-recession, the Streatham branch of a company supplying contract carpets to city offices, a man in a black boiler suit watched the loading operation through binoculars, speaking into a short-wave transceiver fastened with parcel tape to his right shoulder.
'Right on schedule… stacking the dough… I count twelve sacks, no, thirteen, unlucky for some… okay, they're closing the doors… '
'I've had more rehearsals than they have at an amateur dramatics,' Cliff grumbled, slamming his door shut and operating the dead-lock bolt. 'The bridesmaids are now up to seven, there's kids, pageboys, it'll look like a pantomime.' Harry pulled the wagon round in a tight turn, blue smoke bellowing. '… It's gonna be a real embarrassment. Frank's gonna be best man, she wants everyone in top hats
Harry halted at the gate, checked both ways, pulled out. He pushed the visor up with his thumb but kept the helmet on.
'They're on their way, turning right, that means they'll be using the A23 route. Over and out.'
At the next roundabout the wagon took the right-hand fork and slid into the flow on the A23 southbound. Harry filtered through into the fast lane and put his foot down flat to the floor.
'… I said to her, wouldn't it be a better idea if we took a honeymoon at a later date, like she's sick most mornings.'
Harry nodded, both hands gripping the wheel. Something Cliff had said ten minutes ago distantly registered, tickled him. 'You won't get Frank in a penguin suit – an' you'll look a right prat. They don't have toppers your size!'
Harry glanced over and laughed, more at Cliff's glum face than at his own weak joke. Serve him right, getting hitched. Dickhead.
At Thornton Heath he switched back down the lanes, ready for the Croydon turn-off. A convenient gap in front of a large removals van doing under fifty let him into the slow lane. As they were leaving the A23 a lorry loaded up with logs came down a slip road to their left and instead of stopping, kept on going, causing Harry to brake. He thumped the horn, gave a long blast.
'Stupid git… you see that? Cut right in front of us!'
'Hey!' Cliff was staring into the nearside wing-mirror. 'You got a big vehicle right on your tail, Harry – overtake!'
Harry flicked his indicator on, clocking the removals van in his wing-mirror. It was closing in. Then it flashed its lights, as if warning him not to overtake. The lorry in front had slowed down, the security wagon boxed between the two. About to swing out, Harry realised that the removals van was coming up alongside. It drew level. The open passenger side window was only a couple of feet away, a man with a ski mask covering his face leaning out, a sub-machine-gun cradled in the crook of his elbow.
'Pull over… Pull over!'
Harry eased down on the brake slightly, as if to show willing. The removals van did likewise, keeping dead level.
'Hang on, Cliff,' Harry muttered, and side-rammed the removals van with the wagon's armour plating. The van rocked but kept with them. Harry rammed it again, harder, and had the satisfaction of seeing the van sway alarmingly, lose speed and drop behind.
Cliff was bashing the horn, urging the lorry in front to get a move on. He might have been pissing into the wind for all the difference it made. He grabbed Harry's arm, as a warning, but Harry had already seen it. The tailgate of the lorry, attached by a rope to the cab, was suddenly released, the logs slithering out and tumbling into the road. Harry wrestled with the wheel as the wagon bounced like a bucking bronco. A log jammed under the front bumper, the wagon slewing left and right as Harry fought to keep on the road.
The removals van came up behind, gave them a terrific shunt up the backside. It came again, the wagon shuddering under the impact, its rear doors buckling. The log had worked itself up into the wheel housing, and there was a horrible grinding, splintering noise as the front wheels locked solid, bringing the wagon to a jolting halt.
Two men leapt from the back of the van and raced forward to the buckled rear doors, one of them lugging a holdall. The raider with the sub-machine-gun jumped down and ran up to Harry's window. 'Hands on your heads!'
Harry shoved Cliff back as the lad leaned across, all fired up, ready to have a go. 'Don't be a hero, they're armed.'
A mite impatient, the raider smashed the gun's metal butt against the mesh-reinforced window.
'Hands on your fucking heads!'
The wagon shuddered and rocked – the dull boom of an explosion, a gush of white smoke as the rear doors were blown off. In the wing-mirror Harry could see the sacks being tossed from hand to hand. It was done a damn sight quicker than it had taken him and Cliff to load them. The man at the window never budged his eyes once, the large bore business end of the weapon pressed against the glass. Harry heard the distinctive thwack-thwack-thwack of a silenced automatic as the men pumped bullets into the tyres. The security wagon sank slowly onto its rims.
The raider in the ski mask jerked his head at his companions. 'Go – go – go! All clear!' They dived into the back of the van and pulled the big doors shut behind them.
Covering Harry and Cliff, the raider backed away a step. He glanced behind, judging the right moment to turn and jump aboard. The van came up alongside. The raider half-turned, getting ready. Harry threw the dead-lock bolt. He kicked the door open, catching the end of the submachine-gun, and leapt out. The raider staggered but kept on his feet. He turned and started to run for the van. Harry lunged, got a hand on his shoulder. The raider took a swipe with the weapon, missed, and Harry grabbed it off him. Still holding onto the raider's jacket shoulder, Harry tossed the gun to Cliff. The raider was half-in, half-out of the van door, Harry hanging on like grim death, both of them being dragged along as the van picked up speed. Cliff brought the gun up, sighted, but the two men were too close together to risk a shot. He saw Harry clawing at the raider's head, ripping the mask up so that Cliff snatched a glimpse of the man's left profile. Frantic now, the raider back-heeled, and lucky for him, unlucky for Harry, found a soft target in Harry's balls. Harry let go, dropped, rolled, curled over, hugging himself. Cliff let one off, aiming for the tyres. He missed with the first, bagged a rear tyre with the second. The van veered left, then right, straightened up and was off.
Harry was on the ground, bent over, clutching his property.
'You okay… Harry?'
Harry pulled his helmet off. His face was green. His lips were tight against his gritted teeth. 'Me voice sound higher? Ohhh… Kerrrist!' He started to heave, then held his breath to stop himself vomiting.
From the back of the wagon, Cliff yelled to him, 'they cleaned us out, Harry. Harry…?'
Harry was on his knees on the grass verge, bringing up last night's Murphy's stout and vindaloo. He wiped his mouth and gingerly climbed to his feet, walking back towards Cliff doing an impersonation of John Wayne riding an invisible horse.
He gestured for Cliff to hand the gun over and checked it out. He thought it looked familiar. It was an L2A3 Sterling 9mm sub-machine-gun, a standard British Army weapon issued to tank crewmen and artillery support services. Harry tucked the triangular metal frame butt against his shoulder and blew out the wagon's windscreen. He fired again and shattered the driver's window. While Cliff stood gaping at him as if he'd lost his marbles, Harry walked up to the wagon and head-butted the armour-plated side panel. He staggered drunkenly backwards, a gash pouring blood.