The Last 10 Seconds

I’ve come close to the edge before. One time, not long after I’d started out in undercover, I infiltrated a gang of West Ham football hooligans to try to gather evidence against some of their top guys, who were suspected of involvement in drug dealing and gun running. The assignment lasted four months, and during that time I had to prove myself by joining in the clashes with rival fans. This meant hand-to-hand fighting. Hitting people in the face; kicking them when they were on the ground; chucking chairs through pub windows (I did that twice). I’d like to say that I tried to do as little damage to people as possible, but that’s not entirely true. Several times I found myself caught up in the thrill of the moment – it’s difficult not to when the war cries break out and the adrenalin’s pumping through you. You’re surrounded by your mates, guys you know will always watch your back, and it was the nearest thing to going into battle that I’ve ever experienced. It was wrong, I always knew that, but I justified it by telling myself that joining in was the only way I was going to keep my cover intact. And anyway, the men I was fighting against were football hooligans too, and knew the score when they got involved.

Then, during a mass brawl on the Seven Sisters Road with Spurs fans, I was one of ten people caught on CCTV throwing punches and kicks. Stills of the footage were shown on Crimestoppers, and though it was thankfully pretty grainy (this being the early days of CCTV), I was still recognized by both my bosses at the time, Dougie MacLeod and Captain Bob, as well as several colleagues. Not surprisingly, this caused huge embarrassment among the Met’s brass who, desperate to avoid a scandal, got Crimestoppers to remove my mug from their website, stopped any further broadcasts, and told Captain Bob to pull me off the job immediately.

The grim irony in all this was that my guest appearance on Crimestoppers improved my credibility within the Firm no end. On the day I was told it was all over, I got a call from the Firm’s head honcho, and our main target, saying that he wanted a meet. But it was too late. I tried to persuade Captain Bob that it had to be worth carrying on now that I was finally in with the people we were after, but he wasn’t having any of it. Sometimes as an undercover copper you’ve got to commit crimes to prevent other, bigger ones from happening further down the line. The key is not to get caught. I did, and it cost me a black mark on my record.

What I’d just done was different, though, because I’d deliberately shot two men. The fact that it was self-defence, and that they’d almost certainly survive if they received medical treatment, wasn’t making me feel better either. There was always the chance that they were seriously wounded, or that they wouldn’t get help in time, and then I’d have one, maybe even two deaths on my conscience. And if they did get help, it was also possible that one of them might talk to the cops. I was pretty sure that the big guy I’d taken in the legs wasn’t the sort to blab, but Weyman Grimes was a small-time scrote, and he could get me into a whole shedload of trouble. And not the slap-on-the-wrist kind either. A shooting meant I was looking at an attempted murder charge, regardless of the circumstances. Even if I got off, I’d lose my job and my pension and end up on the scrapheap at the age of only thirty-three. And if I was found guilty I was looking at the next ten years of my life at least inside, cooped up with the paedophiles and rapists for my own safety.

I don’t usually worry about things. You can’t in my job, otherwise you’d end up with a coronary. But it was difficult to get over the enormity of what I’d just done, and on the journey over I’d been contemplating the idea of coming clean. Getting Tommy to stop the car, making my excuses and walking free, then calling Captain Bob to let him know what I’d done.

But in the end, I decided not to. I’d worked for too long now to infiltrate Tyrone Wolfe’s crew simply to walk away as soon as the going got tough. I wanted to bring these guys down – Wolfe, Haddock, even Tommy – and I wasn’t going to let anything get in the way of that.

I still had the gun. Unloaded now and pushed down the back of my jeans. I’d break it up and get rid of it later, so it wouldn’t be found. In the meantime, pressed against my coccyx, it was just serving as a constant and uncomfortable reminder of my recklessness. The device in my watch had also recorded the whole thing, as well as my conversation with Tommy on the way over there, and now I was going to have to bin the recording in the name of self-preservation.