Johnson - Gang War
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- Book:Gang War
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- Year:2011
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Gang War: summary, description and annotation
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Inspired byreal life events, this grittyfirst novel by a true crime authoris acontemporary TrainspottingIf those pricks want a war, lad, well show what some proper soljas can do.Dylan, Nogger, and their crew tax rival drug dealers using a red-hot steam iron and celebrate by making videos of themselves raping wannabe WAGs. In their world, guns and knives are as common as cellphones. But when an innocent three-year-old girl is killed in the crossfire, extreme measures are brought in to combat gang warfare. From burgeoning organized crime to warped celebrity culture, this is an apocalyptic vision of a world in freefall. This gripping debut novel is all the more shocking because it is inspired by real-life events.
Johnson: author's other books
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Johnson
Sudhir Venkatesh
Vanessa R. Panfil
Vanessa R. Panfil
Sanyika Shakur
Paul R. Kavieff
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Graham Johnson is an investigative reporter and crime writer.
This is his first novel.
Also by Graham Johnson:
Powder Wars
Football and Gangsters
Druglord
The Devil
Darkness Descending
GANG WARGraham Johnson This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licenced or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the authors and publishers rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Epub ISBN: 9781845968526
Version 1.0
www.mainstreampublishing.com
This edition, 2011
Copyright Graham Johnson, 2010
All rights reserved
The moral right of the author has been asserted
First published (under the title Soljas) in Great Britain in 2010 by
MAINSTREAM PUBLISHING COMPANY
(EDINBURGH) LTD
7 Albany Street
Edinburgh EH1 3UG
ISBN 9781845966997
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any other means without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for insertion in a magazine, newspaper or broadcast
This book is a work of fiction. It is inspired by real events but all characters are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons is entirely coincidental. Names of real well-known people appear in the story, but the events surrounding those individuals and quotes given are entirely the work of the authors imagination
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
To Emma, Sonny, Raya,
Connie and Clara
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I would like to thank everyone at Mainstream Publishing, and I am grateful to Tom Williams and Annabel Merullo at Peters Fraser & Dunlop. Thank you to G.W. for his advice and support. In addition, I would like to thank Marcella Edwards for her support and Tony Mitchell for his detailed information about the Mac-10 sub-machine gun.
CONTENTS
PART ONE
BUILD-UP
CHAPTER 1
AGGRAVATED BURGLARY
Bang! Door goes in, kicked through. White plastic UPVC, double-glazed, brass handle. Its hanging off at an angle by the lower hinge. Tax raid. Burg. The lads run in, Lowied up, head to toe in black. Black Berghaus trapper hats, black North Face jackets, ski masks, black Reebok Classic trainies, Lowe Alpine leather gloves.
Jay, 14, runs into the front room with a golf club, a sand iron. The dealers birds sat off on the couch, her baby in front of the plasma. Jay swings. Wallops the bird on the side of the arm. Fuuuuck Offf! he shouts, like hes just scored a goal, concentrating on the contact at the same time. He gives a little Stevie G goal celebration, finger pointed lazily to the non-existent crowd. See that arm go, lad, he says, as one of the others bails past the living room door, heading upstairs. The girl goes down. Screams. Urine.
New Loon, hooded up, is right up the stairs into the front bedroom. Knows where hes going. The dealers in his pit. Smell of green and a few stripes chopped out on a CD box. Knocker has his nine millie out, held ghetto-style, turned anticlockwise so that its on the horizontal. Hes buzzing off the sight of the Lowie glove gripping the nine. Wheres the gear, lad?
Nogger flies through the bedroom door behind him. No messing about. Shiv out. Quilt off. One up the arse. Stab. Stab. Stab. Wheres the parcel, lad? Anal prolapse. Shit and blood all over the sheets. New Loon laughs, pure hyena, snorts the lines off the CD case. Nogger, again: Wheres the gear, lad?
Bloot goes through the bathroom door. Granma on the bog. Shes only thirty-odd. Bang! Alehouse haymaker right to the side of her head. Fuuuuck Offf! Shes banged out straight away. Right into the bath she goes, leg sticking out. KOd. Looks like shes still sobbing, but shes gently convulsing, spittle bubbling off her gob, sighing like a dog.
Girl, girl? Be quiet, girl, says Bloot, convinced she can still hear him. Well be gone in a minute. Just in case shes blagging, he tries to give her the chance to save herself from further torture. Wheres ylads parcel, girl? Give it up and well get off. Bloot looks side-on and sees one of the lads, Iggo, bounding up the stairs.
See that, lad? asks Bloot, visibly proud of his punch on the auld one, grinning under his Lowies, eyes dancing with fire. Into the bath, lad. One dig. Right into the bath.
Iggo stands at the top of the stairs, leaning on his putter, laughing. Go ead, lad. Shes a fucking snitch anyway. Remember that, lad. The woman registers the statement. Slightly louder moaning sounds. She sighs a denial.
Iggo gently lifts his club, swings it slightly, taking aim. Carefully to and fro like a pro, aiming for the ball of the ankle thats sticking out of the bath. Move back, lad, he tells Bloot. He nods for Bloot to step back against the tiled wall as he gently moves his feet up and down, wiggling his toes. He loosens his swing, flapping his arms up and down in a gentle, slo-mo version of The Birdie Song.
Crack! The putter smashes into the womans ankle. The foot dislocates from the leg, and, for a split second, shoots off into the air, before it is pulled back sharp by the bag of skin it is in. It then rotates, Misery-style.
Iggo: Fuuuuck Offf! Stretching the words out slowly, as though tracking a ball flying to his satisfaction over the green. Granma lets out a mad howl. See that go, lad, says Iggo. See her ankle just... go. Iggo, made up with his shot, swaps the putter into his left hand and clacks his fingers, ghetto-stylie, but theres no sound because of his gloves.
He turns left into the bedroom where New Loon and Nogger are terroring the dealer. Bloods still pouring out of his arse but hes not yet shitting out the goods. Is this prick said nothing yet? he asks, speed-growling through his teeth, emphasising the sound ick with genuine anger, emitting a gurgling sound at the same time. Feeling confident after his boss bit of green work in the bathroom. Fucking little prick, he repeats, his accent so thick you could wring it out, cracking the putter across the dealers back, the word prick bringing him some stress relief. Hes still coming down off the rush of smashing the womans ankle, but frustrated that the dealer hasnt yet collapsed.
Nogger turns to Iggo: Wheres the iron, lad?
Here yare, lad. Heres an iron, lad, he says, proffering his golf club, laughing at his 19th-hole joke.
Thats a putter, you soft cunt. Theyre all grinning under their hoods now, knowing full well what type of iron is being referred to. I mean the Tefal, lad. Or the Rowenta. A red-hot one, if you please. Nogger using the banter for effect, casually warning the dealer that proceedings are about to be upscaled considerably unless he tells them where his stash is. No response.
New Loon bails out of the room to look for the iron. Down the stairs nearly in one go, then back up, more slowly this time, Morphy Richards 40311 in one hand, the baby, in bits, in the other.
Downstairs, the younger lads have been in by now and out. Plasma gone, Xbox gone, Wii gone, Virgin V+ box and all that gone. The dealers car a boss little blue Vectra is off the drive now, on the main road, ready to go. The young ones are revving it, scanning for po-po. Later, this ones good for a show, flooring it round the estate in front of the lads, on video.
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