“Be careful, but check any gaps beneath where stuff may be hidden,” instructed Bill.
Their perseverance paid off, Curtis finding a bulk packet of paracetamol, a major find. His face beamed from Bill’s praise. They gathered outside, ready to push on with their search when the sound of a vehicle drew their attention.
The white van flew around the corner, this time no warning from a backfiring engine. It screeched to a halt directly in front of the group, the back doors swung open, and three men exited. The driver and passenger also clambered out. The driver swung his shotgun towards Bill who was much faster and responded with a blast from a single barrel of his side by side shotgun straight into the man’s chest. A pistol cracked, and Curtis clutched his chest, a red bloom already forming on his clothing. Before the pistol bearer could line up on someone else, Jake’s crowbar connected with the man’s skull, the crack almost as audible as the second pistol shot from the passenger of the van who, panicking, missed, but felt the full force of Bill’s second shotgun barrel. The man was flung back into the middle of the street. As Bill charged around the front of the van, then down the other side, he heard a single gunshot and hoped to God it was Terry firing, and not one of his own lads going down. Once at the rear of the van, he quickly assessed the situation. He saw Jake, the crowbar dropping from his hand as a knife dug deep into his gut. But Jake’s attacker now had a bloodied back from the spread of shot pellets fired from Terry’s single-barrelled Remington. The one assailant left ran at Bill, whose shotgun was now empty. Bill brought the butt of his shotgun round and down on the side of the man’s head. A wet thump was heard as the butt connected, the man dropping to the ground, unconscious, possibly dead.
Bill looked about him, breaking open the shotgun; the used shells ejected, and frantically reloaded his shotgun not taking his eyes off the immediate vicinity.
“Grab their bloody weapons,” he yelled to his stunned group as he ran over to Jake, who was on lying on the road, groaning as he clutched his stomach. Having seen the long-bladed knife, Bill didn’t hold out much chance of Jake surviving. They had some medical supplies back at the tower and two highly qualified nurses, but getting him back there would be another matter. His ears pricked up as he heard an explosion off in the distance, coming from the east, followed by the sounds of gunfire.
“What the hell is that?” called Terry.
“Buggered if I know, but I don’t like the sound of it. Vincent, Aleck, get Jake in the back of the van now. Have you got their weapons?”
“Yes,” responded Aleck. “I’ve searched them for ammo as well. A nice little haul.”
“Great job, Aleck, but we need to get a move on before any of their friends decide to turn up. How’s Curtis?”
“He’s a goner, Bill,” called Terry.
“Grab his stuff and get it into the van.”
“We leaving him?”
“Yes, but we’ll come back if we get the chance.”
Bill went over to the one of the survivors who had attacked them. He was sitting up with his head resting between his hands.
“Why?” Bill asked him.
The man looked up, blood running down his face from the deep wound where the butt of Bill’s shotgun had connected with his head. “This is… our patch.”
“So you decided to kill us, is that it?”
The man lowered his eyes, and Bill struck again with the butt of the shotgun, this time on top of the attacker’s head, jarring Bill’s powerful arms such was the force of the blow that split the man’s skull. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
“But what about Curtis?”
“Leave him, Terry. We can’t take him back, can we? Think about it. Get in.”
They piled into the van, Vincent and Aleck in the back with Jake, his midriff now soaked in blood. Aleck, using scarves, stuffed as much material as possible over the wound in an attempt to staunch the flow of blood. They were losing the battle: the knife had been thrust deep into Jake’s stomach, the blade tearing an even bigger hole as the assailant had collapsed from the blast of pellets that struck him from behind, dragging the knife down, tearing more flesh. The van jerked and Jake groaned.
In the driving seat, Bill ground the gears, quickly double-clutching in order to get the van moving. The vehicle kangarooed slightly until the labouring engine found the revs to power the wreck forward.
“Keep a watch,” he warned Terry in the passenger seat.
“Do you think there’ll be more?”
“Who knows?”
Bill wound down the window as he accelerated along Frith Road, the van leaning over dangerously as he swerved left down Church Street, a black cloud of smoke ejected from the exhaust as it backfired, the engine straining as Bill took the vehicle up and down the gears. Above the noise of the engine, both heard two more shots to the east, in their direction of travel, possibly coming from the location of the tower. The engine screamed as the van powered down Church Street, Bill’s eyes flicking left and right, conscious that something was amiss. The scavengers, or one of the gangs, were likely on the prowl. The gears grated again as he changed down, swinging the van left onto the wide four-lane Wellesley Road and left again, skidding to a halt in Dinwall Avenue.
“Why are we stopping?”
“The bikes, we need the bloody bikes.”
Bill was out in a second, leaving the engine running. He pulled both back doors open and yelled at the men inside. “Get the bikes in.”
“There won’t be enough room,” responded Vincent.
“Fucking make room. Come on, move, now.”
Vincent and Aleck jumped down from the back and, along with Bill, collected the six bikes from their hiding place while Terry watched over them. Bill knelt on the back step of the van. “How you doing, buddy?”
Jake’s eyes flickered, the whites showing for a moment. “Feel like shit, Bill. Get me back, yeah?”
“Don’t worry, we’re minutes away now.”
A clatter of bikes interrupted the conversation, and Jake was pushed over to the side to make way for the bikes that were to be stowed in the back, the last one lying flat on top of the five others. It was crammed in the back, one of the bikes lying across Jake at an angle.
“We can’t shut the left-hand door, Bill,” exclaimed Vincent.
“Don’t worry about it, just hang on to the bloody thing. Get your weapons ready. Something stinks.”
Bill returned to the driver’s seat, aware that the engine was barely ticking over. He revved it before it completely gave up the ghost, coaxing it back to life.
“Load this.” Bill handed Terry a pistol. “Do you know how to use it?”
“I think so.”
“Give it here.”
Terry handed Bill the pistol, the one he had taken off one of the attackers, and Bill took off the magazine, and tested the spring. Three or four rounds, he estimated. He pulled back the working parts, ejecting a live round. He clipped the bullet into the magazine, reattached it to the pistol, and cocked the weapon again; ensuring one was now up the spout. He ensured the safety was off.
“You’ve got about five rounds and the safety’s off, so watch where you bloody well point it. Just aim and shoot at anyone that gets in our way.”
Bill slammed his door shut, put the van into reverse gear, left hand down and completed a one-eighty turn, back out onto Wellesley Road, straight across all lanes and the tramlines, and headed down George Street, past the burnt-out McDonald’s and Waitrose on the left. They crossed the bridge over the railway line, Croydon’s railway station down below on the left, the barrier that had prevented the firestorm on the western side from reaching the tower block.