Chapter 38

When the Glock clicked empty, I let the air out of my lungs. Sweat was stinging my eyes and I wiped them with the back of my hand. The smell of gunpowder and spent munitions filled the air. There was an eerie silence although the ringing in my ears was deafening. I grabbed the Mossberg and reloaded, leaving the Glock on the bonnet of the Jeep. Edging around the vehicle I surveyed the aftermath. Bungalow was sitting up against the Jaguar. His chest moved almost imperceptibly and it was saturated with blood. His eyes had rolled back into his head. His hands were empty but I couldn’t see his gun.

Flattop was face down, his body sprawled on top of Joseph. A flap of skin hung from his cheek and the top of his ear was missing. There was blood pooling beneath them but I couldn’t distinguish who it belonged to. I kicked his leg but didn’t get any response.

“Joseph,” I shouted. I grabbed flattop’s ankle and dragged his body to one side. There was a bullet wound in the centre of his forehead. His eyes had the glaze of a dead fish. They stared at me accusingly. Joseph groaned and opened his eyes. His hands were covering a wound to his abdomen. Blood was running between his fingers. “You’re shot.”

“Thanks for that, Einstein,” he moaned.

“Is it bad?”

Joseph pulled up his sweatshirt to reveal a Kevlar vest beneath. There was a flattened slug embedded in the chest and a deep L shaped cut below the navel. “A bullet hit my belt buckle. There’s a field kit in the first cupboard along from the fridge. Can you get it?” he sounded short of breath.

“Good job you had that vest on,” I pointed to the slug. “You must have realised there would be trouble.”

“I had a hunch but I thought that once I had explained who these people are that they would come around.”

“You should have taken the Glock.”

“I didn’t intend on shooting them. I’m bleeding here.”

“Sorry.”

“I need that kit. I’ll get patched up and then we need to leave.”

“Two minutes,” I said running for the stairs. The door was locked. “What’s the code?”

“Three, five, seven, nine,” he called breathlessly.

I had a feeling that he’d broken a few ribs. If he had, then he would be virtually useless for a week. I punched in the digits and the door clicked open. Taking the stairs two at a time, I bolted up to the living area. Inside the first cupboard was an olive green rucksack. Behind it the shelves were symmetrically stacked with crepe bandages, rolls of Elastoplasts and large gauze pads. I looked inside the rucksack and there appeared to be a selection of each already packed. I was about to pick up the bag when the gunshots started over again. There were two shots followed by four more. I had no idea who was shooting at who but I had to assume that Bungalow wasn’t dead. The gunfire died down replaced with the same deafening silence as before.

I ran to the stairs and cleared the top flight. I reached the landing and crouched against the wall. The door to the garage had closed behind me. If I hesitated, Joseph could bleed to death but what if he’d been shot again? What if Bungalow was alive and had his gun? If I stepped blindly into the garage then bungalow would get a free shot at me. I heard a thump on the other side of the door; then a dragging, sliding sound.

“Joseph.” I called.

Nothing.

“Joseph.”

Nothing. Then a shuffling sound. I was torn. Joseph could be bleeding to death on the other side of the door unable to answer me. The alternative was that bungalow was alive. “Joseph, knock on the door if you’re there.”

Knock knock.

“Are you shot again?”

Knock knock.

“Is Johnny Concrete dead?”

Knock knock.

“How many packs of cigars did you buy me?”

Silence. I thought it could be him.

“Three or four, Joseph?”

Knock knock knock. Then I heard someone punching numbers into the lock. Joseph had shouted the code to me. Bungalow would have heard it.

“Nice try but I don’t smoke cigars, fucking retard!” I shouted and ran back up the stairs. I assessed my predicament. The Mossberg was loaded with three shells. I had no ammunition on this side of the door. Everything that I needed was in the garage, so I couldn’t jump from the balcony and run away. The police would pick me up in hours. Bungalow was badly wounded but determined to get to me.

“We’ll see who the fucking retard is when I get hold of you, you little prick!” The door was open and he was in the stairwell. I knew that his knee was shattered so climbing the stairs would be a long and painfully slow process.

I grabbed the settee and dragged it towards the top of the stairs. I used it to block the staircase and then knelt and peeped over the banister. He was slumped against the wall, crawling on all fours one stair at a time. He looked up and raised the gun. I pulled away as a nine millimetre bullet hit the wooden rail, splintering it into a dozen pieces. A three inch shard pierced the soft skin behind my ear. I swore under my breath and pulled it out. Blood trickled from the puncture wound forming a red stream down my neck. When it reached my shoulder the stream split into two, running down my chest and my back. I decided not to look over the banister again.

I couldn’t get a clear shot at him on the bottom flight and I didn’t want to use my shells until absolutely necessary. If he reached the living room then I would retreat to the kitchen area and use the granite breakfast island as cover. I could hear his breathing on the lower staircase. It was laboured and his progress was slow. I looked around for inspiration. Glass. I ran and lifted the top from the glass coffee table. Heaving it onto my shoulder, I turned and walked to the stairwell. I took a deep breath and tossed it over the banister.

There was second of silence then it clattered off the wall. There was a dong sound like a bell. It resounded off the slate walls and for a moment, I thought the toughened glass was going to remain intact. Then it hit the stairs and shattered into a thousand tiny pieces. It sounded like marbles hitting a tiled floor.

“You little bastard!”

“Crawl over that, retard,” I shouted in response. Three shots rang out from the stairwell. The bullets ripped into the ceiling blasting huge chunks of wood away from the beams. I ran to the kitchen and opened the cupboard doors one at a time. The mug cupboard was full. I grabbed a tray and stacked as many as I could on it and then ran back to the banister. One by one I pelted the stairwell wall with them. I could hear Bungalow gasping for air. Encouraged by his protestations, I repeatedly ran back to the kitchen and emptied the cupboards. The glass cupboard was crammed. I tossed three trays full of wine glasses, pint glasses, tumblers and flutes before starting on the plates. By the time I’d run out of breakables, the landing had three inches of sharp fragments covering it. Sweat ran from every pore of my body. The waterproofs were not conducive to keeping dry on the inside when the body was put under extreme exertion.

“You scrawny little shit!” Bungalow screamed. “I’m going to gut you, you fucking bastard!”

“We’ll see, retard,” I laughed coldly. “Unless you can stand up and walk, you’ll be cut to ribbons before you cross the landing.”

I thought about setting fire to the stairwell but I had to keep them intact. I had to get to the garage. There were crunching noises and muffled curses coming from the stairs. He sounded closer now. I guessed he was on the landing. The television was still running the news and when I glanced at it, a commercial break gave me another idea. I ran to the kitchen and pulled four large saucepans from the cupboards. Filling them with scorching hot water from the tap, I emptied a kilo of granulated sugar into each and lifted them onto the stove. I lit the four rings beneath them and then poured the contents of three bottles of sunflower cooking oil into the mixture. I filled the kettle and switched that on too. The crunching noises were slowly making progress across the landing. He would be at the bottom of the top flight in a few minutes. I poured every sticky substance that I could find into the pans. Ketchup, milk, butter, mayonnaise, chilli sauce, brown sauce, honey and then I emptied the bleach from the cleaning cupboard into the mix.

Within minutes, I had four pans of scalding goo. I grabbed some oven gloves and picked up the heaviest vessel with two hands. The burning liquid threatened to slop all over me and I slowed my steps as I approached the stairwell. Bungalow was still moving. From the sound of his breathing, I guessed where he was in relevance to the banister; I took a deep breath and tipped the concoction over the top. I missed his head but the bulk of the liquid soaked his shoulder and right arm. The liquid struck and there was a momentary delay before his nerve endings registered the Napalm like substance. The oil and sugar made it cling to the skin and burned deeply. He wailed like a banshee and flailed about trying to escape the pain. “You fucking bastard!” he screamed. The rest of his words were undecipherable; nothing but an incoherent stream of abuse.

As much as I could have watched him bouncing off the walls all day, I ran back and picked up the second largest pan. He must have anticipated my movements. As I neared the banister, three shots blasted the rail to smithereens. I tossed the pan and the liquid into the stairwell blindly.

“Bastard!” The abuse was high pitched more like a squeal than a shout. I glanced over quickly and a bullet whistled past me and ricocheted off the ceiling. The left hand side of his face was red raw. He tried to wipe the burning liquid from his face with his hands but the sticky substance stuck to the flesh of his fingers instead. He staggered backwards and flopped onto his back. Sharp fragments of pot and glass pierced his skin and he wriggled and flipped like a dying fish on the deck of a boat. The gun lay discarded in the glass. “I’ll fucking kill you!”

I turned and ran for a third time, retrieving the third pan. This time I had time to take aim, the gun wasn’t a threat any longer. I poured the contents onto his upturned face, stifling his screams to a low gurgling sound. He clawed at his eyes and face, desperately trying to escape the pain. Shards of glass were now stuck to his hands and instead of relieving his agony by wiping his skin he ripped the scalded flesh away from the muscle below. He dug his heels into the floor and pushed himself backwards, trying to reach the end of the landing and the safety of the lower flight of stairs. It spurred me to get the job finished and I sprinted to the stove and picked up the last pan.

When I returned to the banister, Bungalow had made it a few yards but his legs were just visible and they were still. There was trail of blood stretching along the landing where he had slid over the broken glass. The gun was in the same place. I had made the mistake of thinking that he was dead once today, I didn’t want to make it again. I tipped the last batch over him. His body from the waist down was saturated in the burning liquid. He didn’t flinch. I sat with my back against the settee and fumbled with shaking fingers for my cigarettes. The menthol smoke calmed my nerves and I smoked it without pausing for a proper breath. Looking through the windows, I could see that the light was fading. It was time to go before it was too late but I had to see if Joseph was alive or dead first.