LITMIR.BIZ

      VIC DARK

       ‘I played for high stakes and lost. The judge sentenced me to 48 years in prison.

      ‘Standing in the dock were the “cozzers”; they smiled and shook hands, the no-good slags! Next morning I woke up in one of Her Majesty’s Prisons and there I stayed, in a world full of terrorists, crazies and murderers. There is precious little left to truly shock the bejesus out of me, except betrayal by a friend – or a so-called friend!’

      I was sitting in a flash office in Tottenham, east London, interviewing Vic Dark – some call him ‘The Man’. The office looked like it belonged to JR Ewing from the popular soap Dallas – all heavy oak panels and comfortable leather chairs. It was Vic’s brother’s office, the owner of a successful company. A condition of Vic’s parole is that he has a job, so his brother employed him!

      ‘It pissed the screws off when, on my release from prison, my brother picked me up in his brand-spanking-new Bentley convertible,’ Vic sniggered.

      Vic’s mood soon changes when he mentions a former friend who I’ll call ‘Jock’. He curses and snarls with anger cat having spent 12 years inside for him. Vic continues, ‘I should have shot the slag. Put one in his nut …’

      It is a story beyond belief. Vic spoke with such venom and anger, as if it all happened yesterday. The wounds were so obviously still raw.

      Vic and ‘Jock’ were on an armed robbery. There was a bit of a hiccup and Vic shot a security guard. To be precise, he blew his fucking thumb off! Some hiccup! ‘Jock’ panicked and called Vic’s name, then rushed to help the guard. Vic shot the guard again; the bullet went through the guard and into ‘Jock’. They were supposed to be professional armed robbers but it was quickly turning into a farce. Alarm bells rang, sirens wailed and police surrounded the building.

      Vic had to decide whether to leave ‘Jock’ behind or take him with him. Vic’s eyes bulged through the slits in his balaclava as if he’d taken an ounce of ‘whizz’. But he had no need for illegal substances – he was high on adrenalin.

      Vic decided to help his friend and pulled his balaclava off. He was hot and sweaty and it felt good to feel the cool air. He picked up his wounded mate and carried him out of the building, armed to the teeth, screaming at police, ‘Stand Back or I’ll shoot.’

      He took a policeman hostage and put his mate in the back of the police car. He aimed his gun at the terrified officer’s head, then made him drive. The officer was rigid with fear as the car sped off into the distance.

      In the ensuing chase, somehow the gun went off, the bullet whizzing past the officer’s head. The officer wanted to be invisible. He tried desperately to sink ever deeper into the driver’s seat. Sweat poured from his forehead. He put his hand up to guard his head, pleading for his life, ‘Don’t kill me, please don’t kill me.’

      Vic wasn’t going to kill him. At the time, his mind was racing. A million scenarios went through his head. Killing the Old Bill was the last thing on his mind. The car took off, hell for leather, through the streets of London until they reached leafy suburbia.

      The car screeched to a halt outside a secluded house in the middle of nowhere.

      Vic made the officer carry his wounded friend towards the house where he proceeded to kick the door in, much to the surprise of an Irishman called John Stackpoole, who was quietly eating his dinner. There was none of the usual Irish blarney like ‘Top of the morning!’ or ‘Wattleygetcha?’ It was more a case of, ‘WHAT THE FUCK …?’ Vic wasted no words and demanded the keys to the stunned Irishman’s car. After bundling his wounded mate and the officer into the motor, he had no choice but to take the Irishman hostage as well.

      My jaw dropped open. I gasped, I couldn’t believe what Vic was telling me. Vic shook his head.

      ‘I know, I know, the whole story sounds fucking unbelievable. But it’s true, every single word, and it gets worse …’

      As the car sped away at high speed, armed response units were called and a high-speed chase, accompanied by helicopters, snaked its way across London. It was complete mayhem. The next port of call was a Chinese restaurant, but not for a take-away – Vic needed a new set of wheels. After several shouts and threats, another hostage joined the not-so-merry day-trippers, a man called Lam Quang Tran.

      The whole thing was gathering speed and momentum like a runaway train. They all had a one-way ticket to nowhere – a fucking nightmare! Vic had to get away. He had to dump all this excess baggage.

      Finally, it all came to a shuddering halt. But not in a station, in a fucking potato field of all things. Vic dumped the hostages and had it away on his toes. He was fully loaded with all guns blazing, the Old Bill in hot pursuit. He made his way to the middle of the field and buried himself under the mud and spuds, with both arms by his sides holding a gun in each hand. He waited and waited. Police with snarling dogs

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