Floyd - 10 Years later...

• Floyd - 10 Years Later – 1997


‘Floyd, wake up son!’ Motioning to the second man the third man nodded the approval of a back handed slap. A blur later, one smashed across the right side of Floyd’s bloodied and sweaty face. In his subconscious he had heard the command of ‘Wake up son’ the slap was overkill. His cheekbone ringing ‘Yes mate, I can hear you mate, what the fuck man?’ Taking an adverse reaction to such a comment ‘I’m not your fucking man you little prick.’ Immediately Floyd saw the errors of his way and started to grovel. ‘Sorry mate, I didn’t mean, I mean, I didn’t mean it in that way. You know what I mean? It wasn’t meant that way, what do you want me to say man? Shit sorry..!’ Too late, the steel kitchen knife found its way through the muscle of his right bicep. Agonizing screams were muffled as the seconds mans forearm gripped Floyd’s mouth and face cutting off his oxygen and stifled his gritted moans. ‘Let’s get one thing straight Floydy my boy, you better start having some fucking manners mate. I’m not your fucking man, where do you think you are?’ Waving away any intention of a rebuke, the third man continued his torrent. ‘Diane was a pretty girl wasn’t she Floyd? Look at the fucking picture you slag. Tell me why you felt the need to beat the shit out her. Made you feel like a big fucking man did it? Little cunts like you should be fucking banished from the earth. You’re a fucking waste of space!’ The second man released his grip and a second backhanded slap connected with the left hand side of Floyds face. Disgusted the third man left the room.

Pacing, the third man dialled luminescent numbers on his new slim-line Sony Ericsson mobile telephone and waited for connection. Several pips later. ‘Errol? Yes mate, everything is cool. Okey doeky will do. How’s Di? Alright mate no probs. Talk to you later’. His eardrums straining, Floyd could have sworn he had heard the name Errol. A fresh wave of sweat rolled down the contours of his face. Beckoning, the third man nodded his head suggesting a group discussion was in order. Floyd was left bleeding, sobbing and alone in the dank room. Tensing the one leg that had not been subjected to too much trauma and flexing his good arm he fought against the digging steel cuffs; Apart from making welts, Floyd achieved nothing but more pain.

Was he going to die? Nah, course not! He had only bashed up some silly bird. It may have been Errol’s youngest daughter and surely a few digs were to be expected of course, but nothing else. When he had heard the BMW skid up beside him a few hours earlier the thought of ‘RUN!!’ had flashed slowly through his stoned mind, by the time the electricity had connected millions of neurons and they had found their way to the relevant parts of his brain, it was far too late. Reflection brought his memory back to the moment when he had struck Diane’s pert nose with his third punch, soft cartilage giving way to his hard middle knuckle. As far as he was concerned she had taken a fucking liberty. One of his pals Mark had seen Diane out on the town the week before getting a bit close with another geezer. His mate had said that many moments were spent that shouldn’t have been spent ‘If you know what I mean Floyd?’ This was all the ammunition he had needed. Fact was a commodity not worth the effort.

As that punch had squarely connected and she hit the floor unconscious, he had stolen her cigarettes and her last few joints off the dining table, checked himself in the hallway mirror and exited the flat out into the Saturday herds of Kentish Town market as it was closing down for another days trading. Another blended dull citizen, melting into the background. That was three days ago. After the first sleepless night he had pretty much forgotten about his savage assault. In his world life always moved along regardless, unfortunately life moved in haphazard ways. Sometimes you got away with things in this world, sometimes you didn’t. Seeing shadows moving he stopped his lame attempt at escape.

His pleading began as soon as the three men re-entered the small pokey room. ‘Listen mate, I know that was Errol on the phone…’ Floyd had now decided if he gave a smidgen of truth his fate would possibly be reduced. Working with stacked odds, he would close his case. Swallowing a mouthful of congealed iron and directing his comments wholly to the third man '…What did Errol say? Tell him I’m sorry, really fucking sorry! I only gave her a little slap, honest! It was only a little back hander!’ As the words flowed, Floyd heard himself unfortunately so had the three men. His eyes squinted and he waited for the injuries. They never came. Hearing the third man inquire - ‘Go on. So you gave her a little slap. What else?’ - and amazed at his good fortune, Floyd quickly responded ‘Nothing much mate honest. I think she might have fell on the cooker and banged her head. I don’t know mate! It happened so fast’. Just as fast, a knuckle dusted fist smashed into the right side of his ribcage. A wheeze later and it was possible one rib had shattered and jagged bits had entered his right lung. ‘You’re a fucking liar Floyd. Errol sends his regards’. Two 9mm bullets disappeared into Floyds face. One shattered his right cheek bone; the second pushed his frontal lobe inward ever so slightly. Before his body slumped, he was already dead. Making the decision to wipe this piece of shit out had not been taken lightly. Giving someone a good beating or handing out a few slaps with blunt instruments was on a completely different level to taking another person’s life. Mindless killers we were not. Unfortunately for Floyd that decision had been made in his absence two days ago. If he was alive, Floyd would have had this sobering thought. The second day after he had bashed Diane, he had pretty much concluded that he had gotten away with that bashing and had begun to relax. In fact, he had only been eluding the inevitable. Several tooled up geezers inside several motors had been hunting him for the past two days and he had somehow managed to escape his death sentence for those two days, blissfully unaware of his fate. No doubt that irony would have probably also escaped him. Looking at the first and second man for any response, the third man noted the business faces staring back at him. There was work to do. ‘I’ll phone Roxy. Bern, Tricxy do the honours’.