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War of the Hoodies part two.
I walked along Ashbourne Avenue as the sun sat low in the sky. Some street lamps had already clicked on. I stopped outside the gate of Davis's semi-detached bungalow. The garden was a clone of all the others in the avenue and I imagine everybody ran out their lawnmowers in perfect harmony every Sunday morning and gave their grass paradises a quick short back and sides. By now Gazza's corpse would be in the first stages of decomposing. I wondered if this cunt thought about that as he mowed his lawn and washed his car.
I'd slung the Bench pack across me back and was starting to feel the sweat gathering where the shotgun pressed against the skin. I didn't have much time once the execution was carried out, this area of Manchester was in the suburbs and relatively quiet, but vigilantes were never very far away in the cities. I wore black jeans and jacket - nothing too suspect. The usual hoody and combat pants uniform were having a rest on my bedroom floor today.
I pushed the gate, it opened silently, of course. This type of street would frown on a creaking gate. The path was gravelly and I felt every stone crunch underfoot as I made me way to the back door. Me online contact, Scarecrow, told me that Davis lived on his own and hardly ever went out after dark. It was me best chance of getting him, so I crouched behind the wheely bin and waited for nightfall.
It were almost two hours before semi-darkness, I stood slowly easing the cramp out of me legs. Next job was to load the sawn off, tap on his door and give him proper justice. I opened the bag and pulled out the gun. Scrambled a coupla shells from me pocket and managed to load up without blowing me foot off. Walked to the door, knocked and waited.
He recognised me as soon as he opened the door and I had to get the barrel into the gap between door and frame before he slammed it shut. Shoved it open and pushed him to the floor. This were better than 'Robbery With Violence' - a PS2 game that Dad took off me as soon as he knew I'd bought it. Didn't matter, I just went over to Gazza's place and played on his, that is I did when he were alive. This bastard had taken that away from me. He was making mewling noises as I lifted the gun and pulled back the hammers. Clickety click - two fat ladies for one fat git.
I squeezed the triggers, the noise were fucking incredible, summat to do with being indoors. It hadn't sounded anywhere near as loud as this when he killed Gaz. Then the smell hit me, it were like gunpowder and shit - well gross. I looked down at his body for a sec, I'd blown a hole in his chest and part of his face were missing. You could see bits of skull. I threw up on the hall carpet - even grosser. It were what Scarecrow had called a calculated risk, the filth wouldn't have my dna on record unless I'd been involved with them in the past and I hadn't. So unless they could prove different, there were no way they could connect me to this. I checked me Man United watch. By nine I'd be at the train station, having dumped the bag and gun in the canal, pity about the bag. By ten thirty tops I'd be back in Middenfirth, at Jacko's place, where I'd swear I'd been all night. His mam had been at the boozer with his latest 'uncle' since before seven and wouldn't be back home much before midnight.
As I left the bungalow, I knew that the neighbours would be out and wondering what the fuck were happening. I remembered Scarecrow's advice, 'walk away, casual like, never run, the filth'll chase you straight off if you look guilty. If they do tell you to stop, do what they say.'
I strolled past opening doors and open mouths, didn't look left nor right. I were so fucking cool, really. It were a hell of as rush an' all. I'd taken a life - I were a god. I were feeling sick again. I reached a small bridge across the canal before throwing up again. This time mostly liquid followed by dry retching. Wiping tears from my eyes, I scrambled down a grass bank to the canal path. With regret I dumped the sawn-off and the Bench bag in the canal, watched them sink. Then I stuffed my hands in my jacket pockets and started walking.
Bloody train were late, fucking typical, I bet Carlos the Jackal never had this problem. Anyhow I were still installed in Jacko's bedroom in front of his pc by eleven. He had accessed a great porno site and we were transfixed by this bird half-naked giving it some to a geezer with an impossibly big dick. Then there was a clatter downstairs and we were back onto 'Crime Investigation' at the press of a button. His mam popped her head around the door and peered at me blearily,
"Michael, wha' you doin' ere?" God she were drunk as a skunk, "'Adn't you berrer ge' 'ome?"
I nodded, made a note of the porno website on my palm and left.
In five hundred years time, most of us will be forgotten dust. But Hitler will still be remembered, God loves irony.