Gary and Bill distributed the tin foil cartons between the crew. Eddie’s stomach was rumbling. He had eaten nothing since breakfast. He ripped the lid off his main dish and was rewarded with a rich waft of chicken vindaloo. The food was only lukewarm at that point, but it bothered him not.
Charlie checked his watch. ‘Eat up fellas. The main man from the East End crew will be here in half an hour’. Eddie swallowed a chunk of chicken and wiped the sauce from the side of his mouth.
‘They’re coming here? Bit risky ain’t it’
‘They know the score,’ said Gary. ‘They’ll come in the back entrance’.
‘Oh err,’ said Roger, laughing. Bill sniggered.
Charlie rolled his eyes. ‘Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up,’ he said. ‘Just remember, if we fuck this up, a bit of backdoor action is all you’ll have to look forward to for the next fifteen years’. He collected the empty food packaging and put it into a bin bag. ‘All rubbish goes into these sacks. Gary’s gonna take it away and burn it all when we’re done. Don’t leave nuffin’ behind. Not so much as a fag butt or a sweet wrapper. Got it?’ He kicked Mike’s booted right foot.
‘I got it,’ Mike replied.
The sound of the back gate opening caught Charlie’s attention. Mike jumped up and peered through the gap between the curtains. He smiled. ‘It’s them,’ he said.
‘Right boys,’ said Charlie. ‘We need these blokes if we’re gonna get this job done, so play nice and get to know them’. They all rose to their feet. Charlie walked over to where Mike was still looking out the window. ‘You better be right about this lot. I ain’t never liked cockneys’.
‘I thought you had family in Peckham? Uncle, weren’t it?’
‘Yeah,’ said Charlie. ‘And he was a right bastard’. There was a light knock on the back door and Bill darted down the hallway to unlock the door and returned a moment later followed by two men.
The first, a tall man with greasy brown hair and wearing a black donkey jacket, grinned as soon as he saw Mike. The second, a wiry-looking man with a Harrington and tight jeans, hung back near the door with his hands in his pockets.
‘Mikey, how the devil are yer, son?’ said the first man in a strong East London accent. He appeared to be in his late thirties, Eddie decided.
Mike took a few steps towards him and thrust out his right hand. ‘Doin’ just fine, Bobby. Good to see you again. How are you doing?’
‘Never better’.
‘And the old man?’ asked Mike.
‘Cancer got him last year,’ he replied.
‘Shit, sorry about that, mate’.
The East Ender shrugged. ‘Don’t be. It was the old fucker’s time. To tell the truth, he was doin’ me tits in by the end. I was tempted to put a pillow over his head and finish him off myself’. He laughed and glanced around the room. ‘So, you gonna make the introductions, Mikey?’
Mike pointed at Charlie, who stepped forward. ‘This is Charlie,’ said Mike. ‘Charlie, this is Bobby Pickering. Me and him did a few jobs together in the mid-seventies. When you was doing your stretch in the Scrubs’.
Charlie shook the East Londoner’s outstretched hand and gave it a firm handshake. ‘Good to have you and your lads on this job, Bobby’.
‘The pleasure’s all ours. I appreciate you lads puttin’ your trust in us, Mr Lawson. To tell the truth, my boys are all a bit in awe of you and your crew. But we won’t let you down, that you can count on’.
‘I don’t doubt it. And none of that “Mr Lawson”. It’s just Charlie’. He gestured towards the sofas as he sat himself down on a wooden chair. The East Ender sat down on the couch, followed by Mike. ‘So, I take it Gary’s gone through the plan with you?’
‘Of course. And I made sure it’s ingrained in my boys’ heads,’ said Pickering.
Charlie nodded at the lad in the Harrington, who returned the silent greeting with a nod of his own. ‘So, where’s the rest of your crew?’
‘I thought it best not to bring everyone. Might attract attention’.
Charlie smiled. ‘Good thinking,’ he said.
‘Told you these geezers was sharp,’ said Mike.
‘Well, let me introduce this lot,’ said Charlie. He pointed at Roger, who was standing talking to his cousin, Gary. ‘This is Roger, Gary’s cousin, and this is Bill’. He gave Bill a slap on the thigh.
‘Good to meet you,’ said Bill. Pickering gave him a cordial smiled.
‘And this is me brother, Eddie’.
Pickering leaned over to where Eddie had plonked himself down next to Mike and shook his hand. ‘A genuine pleasure, Eddie. Fought in the Falklands, didn’t yer? Para, right?’
Eddie let his hand drop. ‘I was,’ he said while giving his brother a questioning stare.
‘Well I hope you got your share of Argies,’ said Pickering. ‘Fuckin’ dagos. We gave em’ a right good hiding, didn’t we?’
‘Did we?’ said Eddie. ‘If you had been there you’d know just how close they came to kickin’ us back into the sea’.
The East Londoner smiled wryly. ‘I meant no offence’.
‘S’alright,’ said Mike. ‘The kid’s just a bit tired, ain’t you, son?’ said Mike.
‘Tired of people that weren’t there tellin’ me what it was like,’ said Eddie.
‘Alright boys,’ said Charlie. ‘Bobby didn’t mean nuffin’ by it. Let’s focus on why we’re all here, why don’t we?’ Charlie gestured towards the young-looking skinhead in the Harrington. ‘So, what’s your name son?’
The man looked to Pickering, who answered on his behalf. ‘This is my young lieutenant, Gerry Lannigan. His old man’s a Paddy, but we don’t hold that against him’. He laughed. ‘One hundred percent reliable, he is. Never let me down’. The East Ender shifted his stare at Eddie. ‘Just like the rest of my boys. Solid fighters, the lot of them. They do what they’re told’.
‘It ain’t fighters we need,’ said Eddie.
‘Nah, you need blokes who you can trust to follow orders and stick to the plan. My boys will do that,’ said Pickering. Gary approached carrying a six-pack of Castlemaine XXXX cans. He offered one to the East Ender. ‘But if it comes to it, they’ll get stuck in too. They’re proper friggin’ warriors. Trust me’. He opened the yellow and red can and took a long swig.
‘Well, let’s hope it don’t come to that,’ said Charlie, taking a can from Gary.
‘So, out of curiosity,’ said Pickering. ‘What are you after in the depot?’ He got no reply. ‘Or, shouldn’t I be asking that?’ he said, looking around the room.
‘Trade secret, I’m afraid,’ said Charlie. ‘But you’ll get your hundred grand if it goes to plan. That’s all you need to know’.
Pickering chuckled. ‘Figured you’d say something like that’. The East Ender took another swig of the beer. ‘Furry muff, as they say. So, we meet up tomorrow at seven?’
‘That’s right’, said Gary. ‘The Wheatsheaf in Harlington. The car park’s round the back. Nice and quiet’.
Pickering placed the can down on the threadbare carpet and stood up. He held out his hand to Charlie. ‘Good to meet you. All of you. I’m lookin’ forward to this. The start of a beautiful friendship, I reckon’. He smiled at Eddie. ‘See you at the pub, lads’.
Eddie watched as Pickering walked towards the rear door, followed closely by his quiet lieutenant. He waited until he heard the door shut.
‘I don’t trust him,’ he said.
‘No?’ said Mike. ‘Well, I do. And they’re in on it now, so pucker up and get your head in the game’.
Eddie stood up to face Mike. ‘Ain’t me that needs to step up,’ he said.
‘Calm it, ladies,’ said Bill, pushing himself between the two men.
‘Bill’s right. It’s been a tiring trip. We’re all friggin’ cream crackered,’ said Charlie. ‘Go lock up, Roger. Bill, start collecting the trash. After that, it’s time to get some shut eye’. He watched as the crew made their way out of the living room, before shifting towards his
brother. Eddie was shaking his head. ‘What’s the problem, bruv?’
‘I told you, I don’t like them’. Charlie dismissed his brother’s assertion with a wave of his hand.
‘Look, you don’t have to like them. But Mike vouches for them, and I back his judgement. He’s known Bobby Pickering for over a decade. When you’ve done a few jobs with someone, you get to know them trust me. Get yourself some kip, you look knackered’.
Eddie glanced at his watch. It was only just past nine o’clock. ‘I need to unwind first’. He walked over to the old TV that sat on an upturned Britvic crate, switched it on, and sat back down on the sofa and lit a cigarette. The nine o’clock news was on BBC One. Bill walked across the room and punched on the third button to turn the channel over to ITV.
‘What the fuck?’ said Eddie, glaring at Bill.
‘The Crampton Report is on,’ said Bill. ‘You know? That wanker who’s been following us around in Spain’. Eddie sighed, but he could not be bothered to argue. Bill picked up two unopened cans of lager and sat down next to Eddie. ‘He’s after some timeshare sellers on the Costa Brava in this one. That’s what it says in this’. He held up a copy of the Radio Times. A smug-looking Noel Edmonds stood, arms folded on the front cover above the headline, “Telly Addict”.
Eddie sat back on the sofa. He realised that it was the source of the room’s musty atmosphere but was too weary to care. The show was already several minutes old when the presenter, Jeremy Crampton, could be seen being manhandled by two enormous men, one of whom was threatening to hit him with a cricket bat.
‘Fuck off, or I’ll bloody smack you with this,’ said the rotund man in a Birmingham accent. Bill laughed out loud, attracting Roger and Gary back into the room.
‘What are you watching?’ said Roger.
‘It’s that Jeremy Crampton show, innit?’ said Bill.
‘I hope they give him a good kicking,’ said Mike from the kitchen doorway. He walked back in and picked up the last remaining can of beer.
‘I thought I told you lot to get some kip,’ said Charlie, also now in the room.
‘It’s that wanker TV reporter,’ said Roger. ‘The one Mikey lamped in Marbella’.
‘I barely touched him, the bleedin’ faggot,’ said Mike.
They sat in silence watching the proceedings for the next twenty minutes, routing for the shifty fraudsters who had, Crampton stated, tricked dozens of naive Brits out of over a million pounds for timeshares that did not even exist.
‘That’s the way to make some dosh,’ said Roger. Bill looked towards Charlie and said,’ Maybe we should get in contact with them, Charlie. They might want to invest in the property deal’.
Charlie shook his head. ‘Not on your nelly. Friggin’ cheats, the lot of them. I wouldn’t trust them further than I could throw them’.
The programme finished and cut to the closing credits. The crew pushed themselves up from the sofas, but their attention was suddenly caught by the channel announcer.
‘Next week, join Jeremy Crampton as he investigates the seedy British criminals living in the south of Spain in the next episode, Gangsters on the Costa del Crime,’ said the voice from the television. A short video clip showed.
‘Hang on,’ said Roger. ‘That’s Marbella, ain’t it?’ Charlie stood motionless, the cigarette in his hand burning perilously close to his fingers. The clip continued and, to the group’s collective discomfort, cut to a scene that they all knew only too well; the moment just a few days earlier outside Hotel Fuerte when Mike had accosted Crampton and his crew before driving off in his Ferrari.
‘Shit,’ said Bill. ‘They must have had another camera’.
‘Fuck,’ said Mike. Eddie stared at the screen. Grainy police profile photos of Mike, Charlie, Kenny, Roger and Bill were being displayed under the title, “Gangsters in Paradise”. Charlie sat down on the wooden seat and dropped his cigarette butt into the beer can. Eddie heard the short sizzle as it made contact with the dregs inside.
‘What do we do now, Charlie?’ asked Bill.
Charlie sat staring at the top of the beer can, saying nothing.
‘Charlie?’ said Roger.
Charlie pointed at the television. ‘Turn that fucking thing off,’ he said.
‘What about the job? We still doin’ it?’ asked Bill’.
‘Too late to stop now,’ said Mike. ‘We’re at least a hundred grand in the hole, what with the fishing boat captain, vehicles and everything else’.
Charlie nodded. ‘Exactly,’ said Charlie. ‘We’re gonna have to be even more careful. But we’re here now. It’s too late to pull out now’. He crushed the can and dropped it into a black bin liner that Gary had been using to collect the rubbish. ‘We’ll meet up with Pickering’s crew in the morning and do our recce. If all looks good, we hit the depot the day after, as planned’. He stood up. ‘I’m going to bed’. With that, he walked off to the nearest bedroom.
The crew glanced at each other for a few seconds before following Charlie’s lead. Eddie was the last to get up. He finished his lager and tossed the empty can into the refuse sack.
‘What else can go wrong?’ he thought as he ambled to the bedroom door.
Chapter Sixteen
Scoping Out The Joint
Eddie opened his eyes. It was dark, save for a sliver of artificial light from a lamppost breaking its way through the crack in the curtain. He could hear footsteps in a nearby room. He lay still, waiting for his senses to resume normal functioning.
Where the fuck am I?
He recognised Charlie talking in the living room outside the door, and it brought him back into the present. His breathing slowed, and he unzipped the sleeping bag he had brought from England to Spain and, now, back again. He was thankful he had not had to use the ancient army-surplus blankets that Gary had provided to the other members of the crew.
He pressed the tiny button on the side of his LCD wristwatch to illuminate the display. It had just passed five o’clock in the morning. In twenty-four hours they would set off to rob the United Security depot near Heathrow, at which point he would become that which he had promised his mother he would never be - a criminal.
He got up, found his jeans and the tee-shirt from the previous day, and dressed, trying not to wake Mike who was snoring gently on another mattress a few feet away. The wooden door lacked a lock, and he had propped his backpack against it to keep it shut the previous evening. He pushed the bag aside with his foot and opened the door.
Charlie stood at the doorway to the narrow kitchen, talking to Bill and Roger, who were both holding small white teacups.
‘Alright, bruv. Sleep okay?’ said Charlie.
‘I did,’ said Eddie, reflecting on the fact that he had slept for seven hours solid free from nightmares.
‘Beat’s that friggin’ boat,’ said Bill.
‘Does it half,’ said Roger. ‘I hate boats. The booze ferry to Calais used to be bad enough. At least that didn’t smell of flippin’ fish’.
‘Brew?’ asked Charlie.
Eddie nodded and slipped into the kitchen. ‘Tell me the plan again,’ he asked.
Charlie handed him a cup of tea. It was piping hot. Eddie blew on the liquid’s surface before taking a careful sip. ‘We’re meeting up with the East End crew in Harlington to do a recce for ourselves. We need to make sure Gary’s intel is kosher’.
Eddie’s stomach rumbled.
‘There’s a greasy spoon around the corner,’ said Charlie, smiling. ‘Gary has nipped out for some bacon sarnies before we set off’. Charlie placed his empty mug into the ceramic sink. ‘I’ll go wake the sleeping beauty. You lot drink up. We’re setting off in twenty minutes’.
Gary arrived back a few minutes later with a bag full of tepid bacon sandwiches. The crew devoured them before then setting off out of the maisonette’s rear door, through the alleyway to Gary’s camper van.
The drive to their rendezvous at the pub in Harlington took forty minutes, and as they pulled up behind the bu
ilding’s rear, they found the East End crew already waiting for them stood smoking around a blue Volvo estate. Bobby Pickering stood with one hand in his jeans pocket, scrutinising the Commer van as it pulled up. He had a wry smile on his face.
‘Let’s keep this professional, boys,’ said Charlie, his eyes fixed on Eddie. ‘We need ’em, remember?’ he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small torch.
‘I’ll play nice,’ said Eddie as he pulled the side door open.
Pickering walked over to the van and held out his hand. Eddie gave it a firm shake. ‘Good morning, Edward,’ he said.
‘Only me mum called me “Eddie”. He was still holding the East Ender’s hand.
‘Right you are,’ said Pickering. ‘Listen, I hope there ain’t no hard feelings about last night. Me going on about the Falklands and all that. Didn’t mean nuffin by it, you understand?’
‘He understands,’ said Charlie. ‘Don’t you, bruv?’
‘Of course,’ Eddie replied. ‘I was just knackered after that boat trip’. He relaxed his grip and Pickering withdrew his hand. Eddie felt sure he had made the man wince.
‘West London, East London, it don’t matter. We’re all on the same team,’ said Charlie. ‘If we stick together and do our jobs, we make a lot of money. If we fuck it up, we’re each looking at a long stretch inside’.
The two sets of men introduced themselves before Charlie interrupted them by turning on his torch. He was holding a large paper envelope out of which he removed several pieces of notepaper. He held the light above the top sheet. ‘These are layouts of the depot and the surrounding areas’. He held one of the photocopied sheets up and pointed at the map sketched on it. ‘There’s four vantage points marked. Get familiar with the layout. Also, there’s four escape routes marked. If the shit hits the fan, make your way out on foot down one of these’. He checked the faces of the surrounding men. ‘Not that the shit will hit the fan, coz everything will go just like we planned it. Like clockwork, right Mikey?’
Mike shuffled his feet and mumbled something in Roger’s ear.
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