The Lighterman: The Kray Twins are out for revenge... (Charles Holborne Legal Thrillers Book 3)

by Simon Michael

  Izzy casts off the stern ropes on each of the two barges in turn and walks for’ard across the deck of the leeward barge. Charlie waits by the head rope on the other barge. Izzy nods, and they simultaneously cast off the head ropes on both barges and swiftly lash the two together. They work well together, quickly and efficiently. Charlie is now almost as competent as his older cousin.

  Union Jack had at first been reluctant to employ the sixteen-year-old even when shorthanded.

  “’E’s a big strong lad, I grant you, but ’e ain’t been doing it long enough,’ he said a few times, despite Jonjo’s insistence that Charlie was the brightest apprentice he’d ever had and that he picked things up very fast.

  Then, a couple of months back, Union Jack’s brother-in-law Ernie suffered an injury, leaving Jack in need of a lighterman at short notice, and he’d taken a chance. Since then he’d used Charlie on several occasions, and while Charlie loved working with Uncle Jonjo, it made a pleasant change to spend time with another Master, especially one whose family had been working the river for centuries.

  The skin on Charlie’s face, the V of his neck and his lower arms, olive coloured even after a winter covered by clothing, are now deeply bronzed by the sun. What little puppy fat he still had when he started working on the river in the winter of 1940 has now been replaced by hard, knotted muscle. While his mother, Millie Horowitz, is a competent but unenthusiastic cook, Aunt Bea lives to feed her large household in Shadwell and would happily spend her entire life in the kitchen, producing meal after meal. Whatever time of the day or night the men return, there’s always something on the stove or in the oven keeping warm for them, often courtesy of Bea’s ancient uncle in Poplar, a kosher butcher. Despite rationing, there’s always an extra chop or two or half a chicken wrapped up in the brown paper bags Charlie collects for her. Since Charlie started living at Juniper Street, under Aunt Bea’s loving ministrations he has filled out and acquired his adult musculature.

  Despite the fact that Charlie has less time to go to the boxing gym, the hard work and agility required as a lighterman have left him leaner and in better condition than he has ever been in his life. He revels in his physicality; his body will do exactly what he requires of it, and at times he feels almost superhuman in his aliveness. The time has gone when Izzy could best Charlie in their playful boxing and wrestling matches, fought to while away the long hours waiting for the tide or for permission to enter port. Charlie still lets Izzy win occasionally, but the older boy is well aware that Charlie is keeping something in reserve. He isn’t offended; in fact, Charlie’s sensitivity to Izzy’s pride adds one more item to the list of reasons why Izzy loves him.

  Izzy raises his arm to Union Jack who waits, looking out from the wheelhouse of The Fairweather. Jack keeps the tug stationary, head on to the tide, its engine bubbling and chugging softly. In response to Izzy’s signal he slips the gear and moves the tug forward slowly and, as the tug passes the barges Izzy jumps nimbly over the gunwales from the barge to land on its deck.

  With the tug still moving, Izzy throws a tow rope to Charlie who catches it neatly and makes it fast to the Sampson post. Charlie then leaps onto the second barge and catches the second tow rope thrown by Izzy, making that fast as well. Jack slows the engine and puts it into reverse, backing towards the prow of the barges to let Izzy rejoin Charlie. The two young lightermen spend the next few seconds loosening and tightening the tow ropes in turn until they are satisfied that the barges are in perfect position before tying them off. Jack moves the tug forward, the tow ropes tauten, the tug takes the weight, and the two barges tied astern line up like reluctant sheep and start moving.

  Charlie sits by the hatch of the barge towards the centre of the river, his arms around his knees. Two tin mugs of tea sit on the deck by his side. As the junior apprentice, one of his principal duties is to boil water on the tiny two-ring gas stove in the lighter’s cabin to keep them all regularly supplied with fresh tea.

  Izzy comes over and sits next to him, his legs crossed, their knees almost touching. He reaches across Charlie’s bare torso to grab a mug of tea and sips noisily. They sit in companionable silence, watching the West India Docks slide by on the port side.

  Charlie is fascinated by the hundreds of cranes bristling into the blue sky. He imagines them to be giant herons, swinging and dipping their bills as they load and unload the ships below them. He finds the work of a lighterman endlessly fascinating and is sad when he acknowledges that his time on the river must soon end. He has remained in correspondence with his family in Wales over the last months and has seen his father twice when Harry travelled to London to attend to business.

  Millie and Harry reluctantly accepted that Charlie wanted to stay in Shadwell and, now the Blitz is over, they are less worried about him than they were. But in his last letters Harry made it clear that he expects Charlie to do more with his life than be a lighterman, however much Charlie may love it. Charlie knows that it’s only a matter of time before his father comes to reclaim him and take him back to his education and the claustrophobic Horowitz household.

  Today, however, he is as happy as he has ever been. He loves the warmth of the sun on his skin, the wind stirring his sleek curly hair, the light dancing on the water and the seagulls’ screams as they swoop and dive in the air above him, hoping for something edible to be thrown or dumped over the back of the barges. And tonight they’re going up West to dance and spend some money. Charlie has a date with a young nurse called Alison.

  He looks across at Izzy’s profile. He has never had a friend like Izzy, and he admires the older boy for his charm, his kindness and his sense of humour. There’s always a spark of amusement dancing in those brown eyes, even when one of his adventures — usually criminal — goes horribly wrong, like the time their getaway lorry from a night-time warehouse burglary refused to start because he’d forgotten to put petrol in the tank. They’d had to leg it, leaving a consignment of copper bars worth over three hundred pounds. Charlie had expected Izzy to be downcast, but he told and retold the story to his mates in the local pubs for weeks, laughing at his own incompetence.

  They are heading downstream to return the barges to Greenwich where they will await the arrival of a ship from the west coast of Canada later that day. The ship will moor at the same buoys and discharge one hundred tons of timber and tinned salmon direct into the barges, which will then be towed to the River Lea via Limehouse Cut.

  Jack has something to attend to, so he plans to leave the lads on board the barges just in case the Canadian ship arrives early. Izzy has enough experience by now to oversee loading and comparing tally cards, but Jack is confident he’ll be back in good time.

  Izzy and Charlie are looking forward to a lazy afternoon on the barge in the sunshine. To celebrate his birthday, Izzy has a couple of bottles of brown ale in the tiny cabin and a pack of cards; Charlie has Great Expectations to finish. In addition, in the inside pocket of Charlie’s jacket stowed below is a birthday present for Izzy: a fob watch Charlie found on a second-hand stall in Petticoat Lane and which he’s had repaired and cleaned. Izzy, always a snappy dresser when up West, likes to wear waistcoats, and Charlie has spent a week’s wages on the watch. He thinks it will look swanky across Izzy’s chest.

  They drop the barges at the mooring buoys and Jack takes his leave. The two young men settle down to wait. Despite the hooting of ships horns and the faint noises of machinery and shouting from the wharves and docks on both sides of the river, it’s peaceful in the sunshine, the barges bobbing up and down gently in the wash of passing ships of all sizes and origins.

  Charlie stretches out on the deck, Dickens held in one hand and the other shading his eyes from the sun. Izzy makes himself a second cup of tea and sits with his legs dangling in the water, playing idly with some pieces of cork left over from an earlier consignment and watching a pair of Polish 1500 tonner flat-irons making their way upstream towards Kingston Power Station to unload their coal.

  After a whil
e he becomes bored and sends a piece of cork skimming through the air towards Charlie. It lands just behind Charlie’s head. Charlie doesn’t notice it and so Izzy tries again with a larger and flatter piece which, again, he spins with a flick of his wrist. This one catches the breeze, overshoots Charlie, and lands in the water on the starboard side of the barge.

  Izzy stands and walks the few paces to where Charlie lies, engrossed in his book, and deliberately stands between Charlie and the sun. Charlie still doesn’t move. Then, with no warning, Charlie sweeps his hand across the deck, aiming for Izzy’s legs. Izzy half-jumps out of the way but Charlie’s blow catches his departing ankle and Izzy tumbles over.

  Before he has time to get up Charlie has dropped the book and is on top of him, laughing and scrabbling for his cousin’s wrists to pin them down. He lies across Izzy’s chest, his greater weight preventing Izzy from lifting his torso from the deck and forcing Izzy’s shoulder blades flat to the ground for a count of three. Izzy is laughing so hard, he can’t summon the strength to shove Charlie off him.

  ‘One … two … three!’ shouts Charlie, and he rolls off Izzy’s body and in a single movement sweeps Izzy’s cap off his head, holding it aloft as if it were his prize.

  Izzy jumps up, trying to retrieve the cap but, although taller than Charlie, is unable to get it as Charlie spins and turns. Moving lightly on the balls of his feet as if in the ring, Charlie bobs and weaves, throwing the cap from one hand to the other and back again, keeping it constantly out of Izzy’s reach. He finally throws it up in the air, expecting Izzy to grab it as it descends, but sends it slightly too high. A gust of wind catches it and it spins over the side and into the water. Without thinking Charlie launches himself over the side of the barge and dives neatly into the water before the cap has time to sink. He surfaces after a second, the cap held aloft.

  ‘Jesus, Charlie!’ exclaims Izzy. ‘Get out of there! How many times do I have to tell you?’

  Charlie had forgotten the filthy state of the Thames. Jonjo, Union Jack and Izzy have all warned him repeatedly that if falls in he’ll need his stomach pumped. People die after swallowing Thames water, and had Charlie’s dive been seen by a policeman he would have been collared and taken to hospital, like it or not.

  Izzy reaches down and grabs Charlie’s wrist, hauling him back aboard.

  ‘I was careful. I held my breath and I didn’t swallow anything,’ Charlie assures Izzy. ‘Here,’ he says, offering the cap back.

  Izzy takes it, shakes it, and puts it back in its accustomed position on the back of his head, adjusting it carefully to just the right angle. Charlie runs his hands through his wet curls, shaking off the excess water, and then stands. He yawns and reaches for the heavens, stretching like a cat. He is altogether unaware of Izzy’s lingering sidelong glance at his glistening torso or the longing in his cousin’s eyes, and they settle down again to while away the hours.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  1964

  Charles rings the bell to summon the redheaded prison officer. He stands in front of the door, composing himself. His jacket is back on, buttoned up to hide the dampness of Merlin’s tears and his own blood on his shirt; the prosecution papers are neatly bundled and held in his hand with his blue notebook, which is now almost completely full of his angular handwriting. The shiv remains concealed in his pocket. It’s taking a chance, but he has never before been searched on the way out.

  Blood leaks from both nostrils, and his left eye is gradually closing from a puffy bruise. Merlin looks worse: his top lip is split and dribbles blood in his mouth which, every few seconds, he spits on the floor; there’s a deep gash on his left cheekbone which will probably need a couple of stitches; and he wonders if Charles may have cracked one of his ribs as it hurts like hell to breathe.

  They both hear the heavy tread of the giant prison officer approaching the conference room. Charles faces Merlin and smiles briefly. Merlin winks at him. The door opens.

  ‘This — what the fuck?’ exclaims the officer.

  ‘The prisoner attacked me,’ says Charles calmly as he walks through the open door.

  ‘Right. Wait in reception, and I’ll get a medical orderly to look at you,’ says the officer. He points at Merlin and smiles threateningly. ‘You’re in big trouble,’ he says.

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ says Charles with an attempt at a smile. ‘I can look after myself, and he came off a lot worse. I’m not pressing charges.’

  ‘You can’t let this arrogant little toe-rag get away with assaulting you.’

  ‘I couldn’t give evidence about it; it’s all covered by legal professional privilege,’ lies Charles. ‘But you might want to have his chest x-rayed. I thought I heard a rib crack.’

  The prison officer scratches his head uncertainly, looking from Charles to Merlin and back again, slack-jawed with astonishment.

  ‘Come on, man. Stop fretting,’ chides Charles. ‘I’m not complaining. I’ve had a good workout, and now I’ve got a day’s work to do. Busy weekend ahead.’

  The officer takes one last look at the two men and shrugs. Fucking Jew boys; can never guess what they’ll do next. ‘Suit yourself,’ he says.

  ‘Can I speak to Mr Kray please?’

  There’s a lot of noise at the end of the line. ‘Which Mr Kray?’

  ‘Mr Ronnie Kray.’

  ‘Who’s speaking?’

  ‘Uncle Izzy from Brixton.’

  ‘What’s that? You’re gonna to have to shout — oh, there you are, Ron. I think this is for you, but I can’t hear ’im proper.’

  The handset is passed to someone else. ‘Regal Billiard Hall, Ronnie Kray speaking.’

  ‘Ronnie, it’s me.’

  ‘About time. How’d it go?’

  ‘Sorry Ron, but it didn’t work. That brief’s got nine lives. He’s put Conway in the hospital wing and, let me tell you, Conway’s a right mess. He’s game though; Bernie on the gate reckons the lawyer’s eye was closed and he had a broken nose.’

  ‘That’s no fuckin’ good to me, is it?’

  ‘No.’

  There’s a pause at the end of the line in the billiard hall. ‘All right,’ says Ronnie. ‘Thanks for letting me know. What’d you do with the shiv?’

  ‘I think Holborne must’ve got it off ’im. I searched Conway myself and he ain’t got it. One more thing: we’ve gotta produce him on Monday for the arraignment, but it’ll probably be put off for a few days. He’s in no fit state to give evidence; he can barely speak.’

  ‘OK. That might be as well. I’ll get back to you when I’ve had a think.’

  ‘Righto.’

  Charles pushes open the street door to his apartment building. He had hoped that the reception desk would be unattended — it usually is — but on this occasion Dennis is on duty, a duster in one hand and polish in the other.

  ‘Afternoon, Mr H,’ he says.

  ‘Good afternoon, Dennis. How’s the family?’ replies Charles as he walks swiftly down the hall towards the desk.

  ‘Doing very nicely, thank you, sir,’ replies the porter-cum-concierge, bending to tidy the shelves behind the desk, and not looking at Charles. ‘Brenda’s pregnant again, so it looks like I’m going to be a granddad for a second time.’

  ‘Congratulations,’ says Charles. He considers calling the lift, but the ancient rattling contraption moves more slowly than a Chelsea pensioner, and so he decides to use the stairs. ‘Got to run,’ he calls, as he starts up the carpeted stairs two at a time.

  In the flat Charles strips to the waist and, standing before the mirror in the bedroom, inspects the damage. He’d instructed Merlin to make the evidence of a fight noticeable, so it’s largely confined to Charles’s face. There’s a scratch along the line of his collar where he imagines he was caught by a fingernail, but otherwise his upper body and torso are unmarked. Just as well: it’s going to be a tough night, and Charles needs to be at one hundred percent.

  He walks to the bathroom, grabbing the bottle of Scotch and a g
lass tumbler on the way. In the bathroom he pours himself a large slug of whisky and downs it in one. He refills the glass and puts it on the side of the enamel sink. Turning on the light over the mirror, he leans forward to examine his face. He’d thought that the left eye was going to close completely, but the swelling’s not as bad as he feared. Both lids look puffy and red, but he can still see.

  ‘Good shot, Izzy,’ he congratulates his cousin in absentia.

  Under his nose there is a sizeable patch of dried blood on his top lip, but there appears to be little new seepage from the nostrils. Charles lifts his top lip to examine its underside. It’s quite sore where another good punch crushed it against his top teeth, and there’s still a little fresh blood seeping from his gum, staining his top teeth red. He reaches for the glass of whisky, takes a mouthful and rinses it around his mouth. He’s about to spit it into the basin but thinks better of it and swallows instead. Overall, not bad. It’s impossible to judge these things to a nicety.

  Charles wonders how Merlin’s getting on. His injuries had to be enough to fool both the prison authorities and those reporting to Ronnie Kray; if they’re enough to render Merlin temporarily unfit for trial without doing serious damage, better still. Nonetheless, Charles had to take care not to overdo it. Both he and Merlin know only too well how easy it is to misjudge such things, sometimes with fatal consequences.

  He turns over in his mind Merlin’s revelations about his sexuality. Now Charles thinks about it, he isn’t altogether surprised. At age nineteen Merlin was the most beautiful young man Charles had ever seen, and he was utterly charming. Whenever they were out together during the war, at the pubs in the East End or the clubs and dancehalls up West, Charles was amazed at how many glances were thrown Merlin’s way, and by almost as many men as women. Merlin would laugh it off and flirt outrageously, but he still always went home with Charles. In fact, remembers Charles, he couldn’t recall Merlin having a regular girlfriend at all during that two-year period. But it was the war: many young men and women had short-lived transient relationships.