R.I.P Robbie Silva Read Online Free Page A
Author: Tony Black
Tags: Criminals, Crime thriller, Edinburgh, petty thieves, gangster thriller, noir thriller, heist thriller
I went a few tins of mushy peas rolled out in front of me. I picked one up and, in blind rage, threw it out into the road.
There were cars stopped now. People staring. Gail shouting, 'Get off your fucking arse.'
I was ready to kick her own arse into her fucking neck for this turn of events. It was all her fault, but then I spotted a suit on his mobi and I knew we had to nash. Proper fast.
I got on my feet and shook off the shopping trolley. Gail was already heading over the road. Cars screeched as we went; a few daft cunts sounded their horn at us. I was raging. I'd scraped my shoulder in the fall and it stung like a bastard. Those fuckers can count themselves lucky they didn't get a good leathering or at least a few holes in their windscreens.
'Move it! Move it! Move it!' yelled Gail.
I ran after her. She was on the other side of the road now and heading back for the side-road. I caught her up. The square-pegs on the pavement pinned themselves against shop fronts as we went. It was almost funny; I mean, thinking back I can laugh about it ... but at the time it was a fucking disaster movie in progress.
I got my stride, hadn't realised how muscle-bound I'd become in the pound; my thighs were rubbing together and the friction was painful. At the top of the side-road I looked back to see if anyone was following. They had more sense.
As we turned the bend, I removed the stocking. Gail took hers off too and dropped it on the street.
'Pick it up!' I said.
'What?'
'Pick it up ... think the Filth won't find that?' Jesus, these days, you can't be too careful. Don't need to watch CSI to get the fucking message ... one hair and you're done.
She picked it up, started to jog, but I hauled her back. We settled into duckwalking towards the car. I was still pumped, sorely pissed and ready to cane Gail's arse for her but experience had taught me to keep it together at times like this.
I was clocking the garage, looking for signs of life when I heard the beep-beeping. Up the road – where the Beemer was parked – an HGV was turning. Fuck! This was all we needed. I saw from the driver's face that he was lost, had taken a wrong turn and was trying to manoeuvre himself out of trouble. I knew the fucking feeling.
'Shit ... what do we do now?' said Gail.
I grabbed her wrist, walked her towards the wooden gate I'd checked earlier. When we stopped I pressed my back against the panel. The locks were rotten and the screws rusted. I leaned my weight there for three or four seconds but it didn't shift.
'What's wrong?'
I didn't answer.
The gate was stronger than I thought.
The beep-beeping continued up the road. The driver was embarrassed. He waved, thought we'd stopped to look at him. I gave him a nod; as he turned back to the wheel I put the force of my shoulders into the gate. It sprung.
'Right, this way ...' I said.
The last thing I heard as I eased through the gap was the beep-beeping being replaced by the sound of sirens. It was the filth.
* * * *
I'd fucked up and I knew it.
Normally on a job like this there'd be two motors – one from Sam's Hot Car Lot and a change-over car that's near-as-damn-it to legit. But Christ on the bloody cross, I'd dived in with only the one car ... and one we couldn't get to at that. A hoor of a business.
The filth were on the main street now, couple of squad cars by the sound of it. I heard some randomers shouting at them – probably directing them to our whereabouts. Gail looked a bit grim; she was panting hard and there was sweat on her brow and her top lip.
'What do we do?'
'Follow me.'
It was a back yard to a block of flats, what you might call a drying green. I ran to the edge of the wall and took a deck at the path; it led nowhere.
'Fuck.'
'What's up?' She was panicking.
I took off my shirt and threw it on the grass, told her to do the same.
'What?'
'Don't fucking question – do!'
She stripped and I ran to the line, hoicked down a couple of white shirts – they were
There were cars stopped now. People staring. Gail shouting, 'Get off your fucking arse.'
I was ready to kick her own arse into her fucking neck for this turn of events. It was all her fault, but then I spotted a suit on his mobi and I knew we had to nash. Proper fast.
I got on my feet and shook off the shopping trolley. Gail was already heading over the road. Cars screeched as we went; a few daft cunts sounded their horn at us. I was raging. I'd scraped my shoulder in the fall and it stung like a bastard. Those fuckers can count themselves lucky they didn't get a good leathering or at least a few holes in their windscreens.
'Move it! Move it! Move it!' yelled Gail.
I ran after her. She was on the other side of the road now and heading back for the side-road. I caught her up. The square-pegs on the pavement pinned themselves against shop fronts as we went. It was almost funny; I mean, thinking back I can laugh about it ... but at the time it was a fucking disaster movie in progress.
I got my stride, hadn't realised how muscle-bound I'd become in the pound; my thighs were rubbing together and the friction was painful. At the top of the side-road I looked back to see if anyone was following. They had more sense.
As we turned the bend, I removed the stocking. Gail took hers off too and dropped it on the street.
'Pick it up!' I said.
'What?'
'Pick it up ... think the Filth won't find that?' Jesus, these days, you can't be too careful. Don't need to watch CSI to get the fucking message ... one hair and you're done.
She picked it up, started to jog, but I hauled her back. We settled into duckwalking towards the car. I was still pumped, sorely pissed and ready to cane Gail's arse for her but experience had taught me to keep it together at times like this.
I was clocking the garage, looking for signs of life when I heard the beep-beeping. Up the road – where the Beemer was parked – an HGV was turning. Fuck! This was all we needed. I saw from the driver's face that he was lost, had taken a wrong turn and was trying to manoeuvre himself out of trouble. I knew the fucking feeling.
'Shit ... what do we do now?' said Gail.
I grabbed her wrist, walked her towards the wooden gate I'd checked earlier. When we stopped I pressed my back against the panel. The locks were rotten and the screws rusted. I leaned my weight there for three or four seconds but it didn't shift.
'What's wrong?'
I didn't answer.
The gate was stronger than I thought.
The beep-beeping continued up the road. The driver was embarrassed. He waved, thought we'd stopped to look at him. I gave him a nod; as he turned back to the wheel I put the force of my shoulders into the gate. It sprung.
'Right, this way ...' I said.
The last thing I heard as I eased through the gap was the beep-beeping being replaced by the sound of sirens. It was the filth.
* * * *
I'd fucked up and I knew it.
Normally on a job like this there'd be two motors – one from Sam's Hot Car Lot and a change-over car that's near-as-damn-it to legit. But Christ on the bloody cross, I'd dived in with only the one car ... and one we couldn't get to at that. A hoor of a business.
The filth were on the main street now, couple of squad cars by the sound of it. I heard some randomers shouting at them – probably directing them to our whereabouts. Gail looked a bit grim; she was panting hard and there was sweat on her brow and her top lip.
'What do we do?'
'Follow me.'
It was a back yard to a block of flats, what you might call a drying green. I ran to the edge of the wall and took a deck at the path; it led nowhere.
'Fuck.'
'What's up?' She was panicking.
I took off my shirt and threw it on the grass, told her to do the same.
'What?'
'Don't fucking question – do!'
She stripped and I ran to the line, hoicked down a couple of white shirts – they were