‘Sergeant,’ he says to Tiptoes, following me and Mort out, ‘keep an eye on these three.’
‘Cody,’ I ask as soon as he arrives, ‘where the fuck is Kinky? You ain’t let him fuckin–’
‘Didn’t fuckin Tiptoes tell ya?’
‘No, Cody. Where the fuck’s this fuckin Kinky?’
‘Follow me.’
He walks us down the hall and opens one of the doors. He turns the light on with his gloved hand and politely moves aside to allow me and Morty to go in first. A smell hits me first. If it was bad coming through the front door this almost knocks me over. ‘Kinky,’ says Mister Garret, nodding into the bedroom. I walk in.
Kinky’s dead. One look’s all it takes. His eyes are open in tiny slits about a quarter of an inch wide. He looks peaceful, frozen in time, like a waxwork or a carving of Jesus on the cross, arms out wide, head tilted slightly to one side. The colour has left his black face leaving it ashen. His lips already look blue. He’s on a tatty mattress, with a grubby duvet half covering him, and on the floor by his side are a candle, a spoon, a bottle of water, a Bic lighter, an empty wrap and a tiny, but seemingly very effective, works with minute traces of blood on the inside. The shit and piss have dropped outta him onto the mattress.
‘Don’t touch anything. Keep you hands in your pockets, removes temptation,’ says Cody, whispering.
‘Poor cunt,’ says Morty, shaking his head.
‘Sad way for anyone to end up, but listen, this bottle next door reckon someone give him two grand in readies to drop the bird out,’ says Cody.
‘So he’s spunked the lot on brown,’ says Mort, who’s got a purple silk hanky held against his nose.
‘And rocks as well, ‘n’ givin the boys next door a good time. After the clinic he woulda been clean and to suddenly jump back in where ya left off . . .’
Cody lets Kinky’s dead body speak for itself. He turns to me. ‘Would Jimmy give him two key in readies on the old man’s behalf?’
‘Fuck knows, Cody. Maybe we should be gettin outta here.’
Kinky had bought himself some new clothes, a couple of sweats and a pair of jogging pants. One of the sweats still has the shop labels on. A pair of box-fresh white Reeboks has been placed tidily together at the bottom of the mattress, all ready for the next day’s rough and tumble. Kinky’s tied the laces with bows at the top so he can admire them as he falls asleep. The box is in the corner, neat, like he wanted to keep it.
‘They, them lot next door, had about eight hundred quid when we flopped on ’em. ’
‘Let ’em keep it,’ says Morty. ‘It ain’t ours.’
‘How’d you find him?’ I ask, nodding at Kinky.
‘Easy, really,’ says Cody, ‘and a bitta luck. Asked about, put soma your cash ‘bout and here we are. He was a bit high-profile when he got back from the country with two grand. That’s a lotta money on the street round here.’
Guys like Kinky don’t open savings accounts or put themselves on a little weekly pension, they iron it out as quick as possible, cos deep down they think they’ve got no fuckin right having readies. To them it’s a means to an end, and the end is oblivion. Kinky’s experiencing the ultimate oblivion right now.
‘Whose gaff is this, Cody?’ I ask.
‘The tenant is up the Cally, in the Ville, doing six months for being a nuisance to society, nothin heavy, and Graham, the nut-nut, is meant to be lookin after it for him.’
‘He’s doin a lovely job, ain’t he,’ says Mort, nodding at Kinky. ‘Bodies in the bedroom, everything sold, the whole gaff lookin like a fuckin khazi.’
‘Let’s leave Kinky in peace,’ says Cody, showing a side to his character I never realised he had. Me and Cody are walking out the door but Morty’s mumbling something, almost to himself, very unlike Mort.
‘What’s ‘at, Mort?’ asks Cody, standing in the doorway.
‘I was just saying, some guys make it, some guys don’t,’ says Morty, crossing himself as he leaves.
‘Tell them what you just told me,’ Tiptoes says to the rent when we reappear. The atmosphere is a lot more subdued. I think Tiptoes might have threatened the righteous one with a bitta ABH or something stronger cos he’s a bit jittery and twitchy but mostly silent. Every time he goes to speak, Tiptoes, who can actually have a row, that’s why he’s on this mission, silences him with a pointy finger and a stern look.
‘You’re not police, are ya, really?’ says the kid in an accent that’s pure over-the-pipe Saff London.
‘What makes you think that, son? Speak your mind, don’t be frightened,’ says Cody.
‘Cos you don’t get old bill, CID, looking like him,’ he says, pointing at Mister Mortimer, who grins.
‘You’d be surprised, son, what old bill look like,’ says Cody knowingly. ‘I promise you I could point you out old bill that don’t look like old bill, not in a million years.’
‘And old bill can’t afford shoes like them. You can turn it in now, Graham,’ he says, pointing at my black suede Gucci loafers. He’s very sharp, this kid.
‘They could save up,’ says Cody.
‘You’ve all got too much money,’ says the kid.
‘Would it matter if we weren’t the police?’
‘I couldn’t give a fuck. Can we keep that money?’
‘If you behave I’ll think about it. Let me tell you something, okay? If any of these three here got upset, you’d fuckin wish they were old bill. Can you see that?’
The kid, who it must be said has got a lotta fuckin balls, surveys us and nods.
‘Now, junior, tell me what you told my mate and you, Graham, keep fuckin quiet. Okay?’
‘Kinky reckons he got the money to leave the Richard alone but he really liked her.’
‘But by who? Did he say?’ I ask.
‘I dunno, mate, but she said give it back cos it can only do harm but he says that he’s gonna keep the money and keep seeing her. She was staying here.’
‘She was here?!’ says me and Cody at the same time. Cody turns and gives me a ‘Leave this to me’ look.
‘Up until three days ago. She wouldn’t use no gear or nothin and she didn’t want Kinky using it either, she said she could get them both off it but when the money turned up he had a little boot.’
‘A chase?’
‘Yeah,’ he shrugs, ‘but she went fuckin mad so he didn’t know what to do cos he wants to have a bitta tackle but he don’t wanna lose the bird either.’
‘Try and think, who give him the money?’
‘He wouldn’t say.’
‘Or he didn’t know.’
‘I’m not with ya,’ says the kid.
‘It come through a third party.’
‘You’ve lost me now.’
‘It don’t matter. How did he react?’
‘He was largin it. You’d do the same, but she wouldn’t have it with him if he was using, see, so he was fucked, weren’t he.’
‘Where did she go?’
‘Brighton.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I heard them arguing.’
‘And she fucked off? When?’
‘Tuesday morning. He got this dough Sunday night. She hung about tryin to sort him but he weren’t havin it so she chipped.’
‘To Brighton?’
‘Yeah. She’s givin it “Do ya think it’s that easy, do ya, taking the money and messin these people about, do ya?’”
‘Who did she mean.’
‘I dunno. Gissa snout, mate,’ he says to Mort.
Morty gives the kid a snout and lights it for him, which is very rare.
‘Giss one for Ron.’
Morty throws snout over to the other two on the sofa.
‘I meant for later on, mate,’ says the kid.
‘Play your cards right and one won’t have to worry about salmon for a while, son,’ says Cody.
‘Okay, Dad,’ he says, laughing, trying to jolly-up his pals, who are still rigid with fear. ‘I tell ya this,’ he says,
leaning forward and taking a massive lug on his snout, ‘I went in there to try and ponce a bitta gear off Kinky but he was fast asleep, snorin and that, so I tea-leafed a bit. You ever done gear?’
He looks at us one at a time and we all shake our heads.
‘I didn’t think you had, somehow, but when you gotta ’ave a bitta gear, you gotta ’ave a bitta gear, you know what I mean?’
No. I thought we’d established that.
‘So I choord a bit and had a sly one. Little while later, early this mornin, I hear someone creepin ‘bout. I think it’s Kinky sussed me out, yeah? But it ain’t. It’s some geezer loiding the front door so I’m thinkin it’s cozzers . . .’
‘Then what?’ asks Cody. All six of us are waiting to hear what happened.
‘Then I goofed out. I thought if it’s a spin, I’ve had a nice bitta gear, fuck ’em, I’m sweet.’
‘Are you sure this really happened?’
‘Listen, mate, if you want me to swear it happened, then it happened, and if you want me to go the other way, I sweet with that ‘n’ all. You tell me.’
‘You ever hear of the truth, son?’ says Cody.
‘Fuckin ‘ell. Don’t get the fuckin hump, mate, I’m tryin to help you out here, mate.’
‘You ever hear of tellin the truth?’
‘Listen, mate, I didn’t come crashin in ‘ere earlier sayin I was old bill.’
‘He’s got ya there, brov,’ says Morty, who’s formed an affinity with the kid.
‘Is that all you know, son?’ says Cody.
‘That’s it, mate,’ says the kid.
‘Either of you two got anything you wanna add?’
They shake their heads.
‘You got somewhere to go?’
They nod their heads.
‘Let’s go then. Anything you wanna get before we go?’
The kid jumps up, disappears, but before I know it he’s back with the Reeboks, the sweats and the jog pants, stuffing them back into the carrier bag they came in.
‘This is what we’re gonna do. You listening?’ says Cody. ‘We’re gonna stroll outta here, in the lift, heads down, don’t be lookin at those CCTVs, okay? We’re gonna walk round the corner, twice to the right. You can tell your left and right, can’t ya? Good. Follow me. My pal here–’ nodding at Tiptoes ‘– is gonna be tailin us out and when I think it’s sweet, I’m gonna give you these readies back, okay? Any questions? No? Good.’
Tiptoes is already out, quietly checking the landing. Suddenly he jumps back inside and shuts the door. I can hear the lift door opening and people getting out. Tiptoes has his finger over his lips. I can hear myself breathing and a large family of Bangladeshis chattering as they move past the door. The language sounds like a sing-song, like Italian. We’re all silent but I can hear the people outside laughing and joking. Then it stops and a door shuts along the landing.
Tiptoes creeps out and holds the lift. At his nod we all pile in and go to the ground floor. Graham points out a back door and we all move through that instead of going past the security guard. When we’re out on the street again, Cody takes point and leads us up and over the Gray’s Inn Road. He’s paranoid about ready-eyes, is Cody, and the whole area is smashed alive with them. Suddenly he darts down a small turning then very quickly pulls the three desperadoes into the disused fire exit of a cheap hotel for the carve-up.
Cody’s given them a carpet, three hundred, each and a very quick, very loud, very stern warning about talking too much. Me and Morty are standing on the pavement nonchalantly and we can hear it.
‘I’ll find ya like I found him and I’ll fuckin kill ya, okay? I fuckin said “okay?”!’
The kid emerges from the doorway.
‘See ya, pal,’ he says, nicking Morty’s live snout outta his hand and sticking his readies down his pants.
‘Don’t be fuckin spendin all that on the brown, see what happened to your pal,’ says Morty, shaking his head.
‘Kinky didn’t go over,’ shouts the kid, running backwards, on his way to an important appointment with a ten-pound bag. ‘Someone did him in.’
Chance’d Be a Fine Thing
Cody and Tiptoes come outta the doorway, both looking up and down the street but it’s deserted.
‘Listen,’ says Cody with an edge in his voice, ‘I think we need a little chat. There’s a café two hundred yards up the Cally, George’s, give us ten minutes. You two go that way and we’ll go this, okay?’
With that they march off at high speed, leaving me and Mort wandering down this quiet back street that still has cobbles on the road.
‘That geezer, I knew him,’ says Morty.
‘Who, Tiptoes? You would, he’s a face.’
‘No, Kinky.’
I stopped walking.
‘Really? How?’
‘He’s a distant relation, tenth cousin removed or something.’
‘Shit, really? I’m sorry, Mort’
‘It’s all right. I ain’t seen him or his family since he was about five, twenty years ago.’
He lights another fag.
‘It took me a while back there to work it out. Trevor Atkins. Cute kid, as I remember, but he was distant.’
‘All the same, it’s a cuntish way to end up . . . What can I say?’
‘There’s nothin to say, is there. It ain’t a big deal. I didn’t wanna say anythin back there with those two.’
‘Don’t say anythin now, either. They don’t need to know.’
We walk the long way round, enjoying the fresh air again. We walk into the café and order coffees.
‘Not eatin, lads?’ says the soapy geezer behind the ramp. ‘Why not ‘ave a bitta cake, lads.’
The cake looks like it’s been here as long as he has, the fuckin cellophane’s dusty. Morty don’t like the gaff. It’s a bit too greasy for him. The tables haven’t been wiped down properly. They’ve been wiped with a greasy rag so the Formica’s slippery and bit more shiny than it should be. He’s got his look on, the look he puts on when it’s all a bit distasteful and grubby. He sits down but keeps his raincoat buttoned up, his driving gloves on and his elbows off the table.
Cody motions me outside straight away.
‘I know what yer gonna say, Cody.’
‘This is a bit fuckin much, mate, fuckin stiffs. I thought this was gonna be a giggle. Did you hear what that kid was saying back there? Someone offed his mate.’
‘The kid’s spark out, shot away, tell ya anythin. Listen, I’ve had a think. I’ll give ya the three and ‘alf I owe ya but if you just find the bird down in Brighton, I weigh you on ten grand.’
‘Are we talkin thirteen and a ‘alf gee?’
‘No. That’s bein greedy, Cody. I’m talkin ten.’
‘I was gonna give Tiptoes something outta my whack, a coupla grand, even, see how things went, but now he could be webbed up in a murder–’
‘The geezer OD’d, happens all the time ‘round ‘ere, you said it yourself. Listen, you get a train to Brighton from the Thameslink over there you could be ten grand richer tomorrow.’
‘You pay Tiptoes his whack, two grand?’
‘Done,’ I agree.
When I thought they had Kinky and the princess I realised how much I wanted out of this thing. I consider it twelve large well spent. Cody opens the door of the café slightly and calls over to Tiptoes to come outside.
‘Fancy a trip to Brighton? Two gee?’ says Cody.
Tiptoes nods slightly and away they march back down the Caledonian Road towards the station. I turn round and spot Morty. He’s got a faraway look on his boat. As I go to walk back into the café I bump into someone trying to get through the door at exactly the same time as me.
‘Watch where ya fuckin goin, ya little cunt,’ the geezer gives it, twitching his head and sticking his chest out like he really wants to know. The geezer’s got a few naughty Mars Bars. One runs from the bottom of his right eye to the middle of his chin, so he’s obviously come second a few times. He’s a big
fat cunt so I could nut the geezer right on the hooter, leg it and he’d die of a fuckin heart attack before he caught me, but instead I swallow, act the prince, and let the geezer squeeze through first. He’s dressed like a total lamp anyway, chucking up a smell of neglect and stale brew. He’s having trouble walking so he’s got enough problems going on for today and so have I.
‘Morty!’ the fat geezer shouts as he sees Mister Mortimer. ‘Fuckin ‘ell, long time no see, ya fuckin cunt, where ya been hidin?’
Morty was looking about as tranquil as I’d ever seen him until this oaf starts hooting. He looks like he’s been snapped out of a daydream and landed with a bump. I’ll know in the very first second that Morty looks at this geezer whether he’s pleased to see him or not. He might not be saying anything but I’ll know from instinct. Morty looks up and it’s a definite negative, like the geezer’s in the exhausting-nuisance category. The fat geezer plonks himself down opposite Morty and when I sit down at the same table he looks at me with a snarl, like I’m the interloper.
‘Hello, Freddie,’ says Morty in the voice he saves for funerals.
With that, this Freddie-geezer’s off into the big Auld Lang Syne number like they were best mates but they lost touch. He’s shouting at the geezer behind the ramp, calling on the massive fry-up, and he looks like he eats it three times a day. Morty’s a big boy now and if he don’t wanna talk to this Freddie character he’ll get up and move. I tell Morty I’m going outside to use the phone and this Freddie says, ‘Go on, fuck off, then,’ and laughs like it’s really hilarious.
I try Geno yet again but no joy. I don’t wanna go back in just yet so I mooch about in a couple of shops for about five minutes and then stroll back. Morty hasn’t moved a hair or touched his coffee but Freddie’s in full flow and tucking in at the same time. It’s fuckin revolting to watch Freddie eat at close quarters. He’s shovelling fried eggs and beans, putting rashers of bacon into his mouth and then pulling off the rind with his chubby fingers. He’s eating so fast, it’s urgent business, he’s getting breathless. He’s chatting his rubbish the whole time. Under different circumstances this could almost be funny but the mood ain’t right today. He’s pronged a sausage in the middle and he’s taking bites outta each end. I can’t believe this geezer. He’s wiping up egg-yolk and grease with bread and marge. I don’t like being around mongrels like him any longer than I have to. I’ll need a tetanus injection if I do. The cunt revolts me and he’s talking non-stop, everyone’s a grass, a slag, a muggy-cunt or a wrong’un, or thinks they’re Charlie Potatoes cos they’ve got a few bob.
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