Guns of Brixton (2010)

by Timlin, Mark

  ‘You take care,’ said her father as she kissed him farewell.

  ‘Always do,’ she said and vanished, slamming the door behind her.

  ‘Except when it comes to husbands,’ he said with a trace of bitterness. ‘Now where were we?’

  ‘You were going to tell me about you and Dad,’ said Mark.

  ‘What, when we were at school?’

  ‘No, later than that. When you started all this. Before he became a copper.’

  ‘All right, son,’ said Jenner. ‘But you’ve got to remember, it was a different world in those days.’

  FIVE

  It had been summer then. The late summer of 1965, and John Jenner was nineteen years old. He remembered the morning as easily as if it had been yesterday. Sitting in that elegant room talking to his late best friend’s son, the memory was so clear he could almost smell it. The excitement. The possibilities.

  The mid 60s, and, like the song says, England swings like a pendulum do. But it hadn’t swung soon or hard enough for John Jenner and his best friend Billy Farrow, so they decided to do something about it. They’d talked about it often. There they were in their late teens, going nowhere, whilst other boys of their own age were killing and being killed in southeast Asia, and others were jetting about the world making fortunes with their music. Something seemed to have gone wrong with their lives.

  Pills were the answer. Little blue, yellow and purple pills chock full of amphetamines that fuelled the lifestyle of mods and rockers alike. John knew how to get hold of thousands of them. And at a tanner each – forty for a pound in the pubs and clubs of London – and an investment of precisely nothing to get them, he and Billy would be rich within weeks if not days. John worked in a print works in Stockwell. He earned the princely sum of fifteen pounds a week before deductions. He made up his wages with petty theft and shoplifting. He knew that couldn’t last. Eventually he’d get his collar felt and go away. So be it, he thought. But if he was going to do bird it would be for something worthwhile. Hence the burglary he was planning. He knew about the pills because the firm he worked for did some printing for a pharmaceutical import/export company, and he’d been sent down with proofs enough times that he almost had free run of the place.

  Simple.

  That summery Saturday morning, John woke up in a strange bed in Edith Grove, Chelsea, just a few hundred yards from the big river.

  In those days, John was a handsome young man, everyone said so. A shade over six feet tall in his socks, his Anello & Davide elastic-sided boots adding two inches with their Cuban heels. His hair, which was thick and curly just like his daughter’s would be in thirty-five years time, had been allowed to grow into a full Beatles For Sale LP cover style, and his dress was on the cusp of mod and rock star. That Saturday morning he was wearing black drainpipe trousers, a pale blue tab-collared shirt without a tie, and a blue and white striped single breasted seersucker jacket with narrow lapels and three buttons. The previous night he had dropped into a club in Fulham to see a new band, and had met the girl who was fast asleep in the narrow bed on which he sat to tug on his boots.

  John hated putting on soiled clothing. He hated not having shaved and being forced to clean his teeth with a stranger’s brush. But he’d enjoyed fucking the girl he’d met at the club. She was what the boys he ran with called ‘a posh sort’, and he couldn’t wait to tell them what contortions he’d put her through that’d left her still snoring under the tangled sheets as the sun rose high over London town.

  The house was crammed with bedsits and somewhere he heard a toilet flush and someone had a radio playing, tuned to one of the pirate stations. The song was ‘Satisfaction’ by the Stones, and he sat for a moment and listened to it, strained through the tiny speakers of the transistor.

  He smiled to himself and shook the girl’s shoulder as he remembered the satisfaction they had both enjoyed all night long.

  ‘Whassamatter,’ she mumbled after a minute.

  Now what the fuck was her name? he thought, and then it came to him. ‘Matilda,’ he said.

  ‘Wha’?’

  ‘I gotta go.’

  ‘What time is it?’

  He looked at his cheap watch. ‘Ten.’

  ‘Shit. Middle of the night.’

  ‘Sure. But I got things to do.’

  She opened her puffy, mascara-smeared eyes. ‘Don’t go,’ she said. ‘We can screw again.’

  ‘Did you like it?’ he asked.

  ‘Lovely. I’m all sticky and sore.’

  ‘Me too. But I’ve got to meet someone. Business.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘You cockneys are all the same. Love ‘em and leave em.’

  He grinned, leant down and kissed her, and her sweetsour bed smell almost made him relent and get back in for another go. ‘I’ll call you,’ he said.

  ‘No you won’t.’

  ‘Course I will.’

  ‘Promise.’

  ‘Promise.’

  She sat up and the sheets slid off her breasts and the sight of her baby pink nipples reinforced his urge to stay, but he knew that Billy would be calling for him soon, and if he didn’t show he’d never hear the end of it.

  ‘Give us that pen,’ she said. He passed her the Bic and she wrote a Chelsea number on the back of his hand.

  ‘The Yardbirds are on at the Marquee on Monday. Will you take me?’ she asked.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Then call me.’

  He kissed her once more and checked his hair in the mirror before he left. He never saw her again.

  Outside the sun was shining and the birds were singing, and the red buses running down the King’s Road sparkled like new. John smiled and strolled down to the river and looked down at the mud exposed by the low tide and decided that there was no greater city in which to live. And Saturday morning was the best time of the week. Especially when it was the one Saturday in four he didn’t have to turn up to work. Not long now, he thought, and I’ll have every Saturday off. Every day of the week for that matter.

  He hopped on a 137 bus to Streatham Hill, then walked to his parents’ house in a narrow, mean street between Brixton and Tulse Hill.

  It took him well over an hour to make the journey. Christ, he thought, I’ve got to get a car. He’d had his licence for six months already, but the deposit for a motor was still well out of reach. Not for much longer, he thought, as he trudged the last half mile. The midday sun was hot and he was sweating through his creased clothing, and the cheap leather of his boots. One day soon I’ll have a hundred pairs, he thought. If they get dirty I’ll just chuck them away. The thought cheered him up and he straightened his shoulders and lengthened his stride as he entered the street he knew so well.

  His mum and dad were sitting in the kitchen when he arrived home, listening to the same station that had been playing at Matilda’s. His father, Arthur Jenner, detested modern pop but the boy and his mother persisted, and during the day when there was nothing on the TV, he relented, even if he still moaned and groaned that he couldn’t understand the words of the jungle music. He worked as a market porter at Covent Garden Market and had only arrived home from work a few minutes before John rolled in. As usual, he’d been to one of the market pubs on his way and smelled strongly of mild and bitter.

  ‘What time do you call this?’ he said when his only son walked into the room.

  It was par for the course, the sort of family exchange that had become ritual as John had got older. Almost a game. John made a big deal of examining his watch face. ‘Eleven thirty precisely, and all’s well.’

  ‘Don’t be funny with me, boy. Out all night with some loose tart I suppose.’

  ‘Arthur,’ said Margaret Jenner. ‘Really.’

  Then his father turned on her. ‘And turn that sodding racket off.’

  ‘It’s the new Hollies single,’ John protested. ‘It’s the business.’

  ‘I don’t care if it’s the new pansy’s single. That’s
what they are and you as well,’ said his father.

  Before Arthur could get into his stride, they heard a ring at the front door. ‘That’ll be Billy,’ said John, relieved at the interruption.

  ‘It might be the man from the Pru,’ said Margaret. ‘Or the milkman. He wants paying.’

  ‘I’ll go and see,’ said John, leaving the kitchen and walking the length of the short hall to open the front door. It was Billy. ‘Thank Christ,’ said John. ‘The old man’s doing his nut as usual.’

  Billy was still strictly mod. That morning he was dressed in pristine brown suede Hush Puppies, white socks, checked hipsters with a slight flare, held up by a wide, white leather belt, a navy blue button down shirt with a massive collar and a scarlet jacket in the same style as his friend’s. ‘Come on in, blue eyes,’ said John. ‘I’ve just got home.’

  ‘Where you been?’

  ‘I went to that new place in Fulham. Met a bird. Had it off. You should’ve seen her. Well tasty.’

  ‘You lucky sod.’

  ‘I told you to come.’

  ‘I’ve got no dough.’

  ‘You will have.’ And he led his friend back to the kitchen.

  ‘Hello, Billy,’ said Margaret. ‘Cup of tea? Something to eat?’

  ‘Are you feeding the whole world now?’ said Arthur. ‘You’d think we were made of money.’

  ‘Don’t pay any attention, love,’ said Margaret, busying herself with the kettle.

  ‘Just a cuppa please, Mrs J,’ said Billy.

  ‘And I’d better get changed,’ said John. ‘I fancy a trip up west, have a gander at what’s new round the shops.’

  ‘Poofs,’ said Arthur. ‘The pair of you.’ And the boys laughed out loud.

  Billy’s hair was strictly mod, too. Lighter than his friend, it was razor-cut with a one-inch part at the front and a slight bouffant backcombed over the crown. That was poofy too, according to Arthur. Almost everything the boys did was poofy according to him. Arthur still sported the short-back-and-sides he’d kept since his army days, when his drill sergeant had assured him that only homosexuals grew their hair long. The fact that the neighbourhood girls flocked around his son and his friend was still a source of amazement to the older man.

  ‘A spell in the army would do you both good,’ Arthur said. ‘Why they ever stopped National Service I don’t know.’

  It was an old song the boys had heard a million times before and they pulled faces behind Arthur’s back. ‘Leave them, Art,’ protested his wife. ‘They look lovely.’

  ‘Lovely,’ said Arthur getting into his stride, but knowing he couldn’t win and deep down not really wanting to. ‘I’ll give ‘em lovely. Got a job yet, Bill?’ Billy had had several jobs since leaving school but hadn’t been able to hold on to any of them, which was a source of constant irritation to his own father.

  ‘Still looking Mr J,’ he said. The conversation reminded him too much of what he got at home.

  ‘You wouldn’t last long in this house, I’m telling you. Now I’m going to the lav’,’ said Arthur, and he took his Daily Mirror and retired to the outside lavatory where the rest of his family knew he’d probably stay for at least an hour.

  ‘Take no notice,’ said John’s mother. ‘It’s just his way.’

  ‘Sure,’ said John. ‘Now I’ve got to have a bath and get changed. Give me half an hour.’

  He went next door to the tiny scullery and shut the door firmly behind him. Christ, he thought. I can’t wait ‘til I get somewhere with a proper bathroom and a lavatory where you don’t have to go out in the rain to have a piss and freeze your dick off when you’re doing it, let alone anything else. He took the lid off the narrow, battered bath where it doubled as a seat or a shelf, and turned on the tap that set the Ascot water heater belching and farting as it sent a stream of boiling water into the bath tub.

  When he was satisfied with the temperature, he hopped in and shaved whilst he was sitting in the water, peering into a tiny mirror surrounded by seashells and the slogan ‘A Present From Scarborough’, and using a plastic jug for a shaving mug. Once clean he let out the water and ran a rag round the tidemark. With a thin towel wrapped around his waist, he went back into the kitchen.

  ‘Wow,’ said his mother. ‘Charlton Heston.’

  ‘Yeah, Mum, sure. Got any clean shirts?’

  ‘I’d never live it down if I hadn’t. They’re in your room.’

  John’s small bedroom was in the eaves of the house and there was scarcely room in it for a single bed and a chest of drawers. The house was really too small for the three of them, but Arthur refused to contemplate moving and he told John in no uncertain terms that if he wanted somewhere bigger to sleep he’d bloody well better get out and find one.

  John went up the two flights of stairs into the tiny, hot, airless room and found half a dozen pristine shirts hanging up behind the door. He chose a pink, frilly-fronted item from the same shop that The Kinks bought their stage clothes. It had already almost caused several fights in that tough part of town. He teamed it with tight, narrow-legged jeans, desert boots and a black leather jacket.

  He went back downstairs and pulled Billy out of the kitchen where he’d just finished his tea. ‘See you later, Mum,’ he said as they left.

  ‘Are you back for tea?’ she shouted behind them.

  ‘No,’ replied her son. ‘There’s an alldayer at the ‘Mingo, then we’re off down the Scene. We’ll be back in the morning.’

  ‘You boys,’ she said exasperatedly. ‘Just be careful. You hear.’

  In fact they had no intention of visiting either of the clubs they’d mentioned. But they still made the long trip up to Soho. Soho was where John and Billy felt most at home, where they occasionally caught sight of their favourite group members. They felt that they fitted into the area, and they headed for their favourite café, the Blue Angel, to discuss their plans.

  Once inside, at a quiet table, with a cup of frothy coffee each, they went over them for the last time.

  ‘Right,’ said John out of the corner of his mouth. ‘The warehouse is underneath the arches at Vauxhall. It’s a piece of cake getting in. Just a crappy old burglar alarm with wires sticking out everywhere. I had a good look last week. We cut those and jemmy the door. Wally’s borrowed his brother’s van. We need that to get the pills to the shed.’

  Arthur had an allotment by the railway in Herne Hill that he never bothered with. Why bother growing your own when you worked at Covent Garden, where the fruit and veg just dropped off the shelves and into your voluminous pockets? he’d say. But he refused to give it up as it was the right of every Englishman to have a piece of land to work. That summer John and Billy had volunteered to tidy up the place, much to Arthur’s amazement. That gave them access to the shed on the tiny patch of land. It was secured by a padlock to which John now had the only key. There was a narrow side street beside the allotments where they could park the van and so transfer the pills. Wally was an old mate. Another mod, he’d give them the use of his brother’s old minivan in exchange for speed. Simple.

  ‘What time we meeting him?’ asked Billy.

  ‘Ten. It won’t get dark ‘til then this time of year.’

  ‘So what do we do now?’

  ‘Go to the pictures. There’s the new James Bond on at the Odeon. We can sit through it twice.’

  Which they did.

  At ten o’clock that night, John and Billy were waiting near the Oval tube station when Wally arrived in the van. Earlier that week John had dropped off a couple of pairs of gloves and two torches at Wally’s place and they were waiting for them underneath the front seat. The two youths climbed into the tiny vehicle: John in the passenger seat, his friend in the back, moaning about the dirt that was getting on to his trousers. ‘You’ll be able to buy a dozen new pairs next week,’ said John as the van drove off towards Vauxhall.

  The job was as simple as John had said it would be. Once over the front fence, the alarm succumbed to the blades of the wirecut
ters, and the lock on the front door of the warehouse was almost laughably simple to break open. Once inside, John and Billy, with Wally at the door keeping watch for passing coppers, found the boxes full of jars of amphetamine tablets, one thousand per jar, one dozen jars per box. There were ten boxes in all. The two boys’ heads swum at the thought. Then John found something else. By the light of his torch he saw a box marked ‘Mandrax Tablets’. Mandies. The famed sleeping pill that was also reputed to be an aphrodisiac. ‘A mandy makes ‘em randy’ was what he’d heard. And there were two boxes of them. One thousand to a box. The three of them swiftly transferred the twelve cartons to the little motor, then headed for Herne Hill.

  There the transfer was quickly made and Wally took his payment of a thousand purple hearts. John thought it was a bit much, but a deal was a deal. At least it would keep Wally happy for long enough to give them a chance to move the swag again. An old mate or not, if Wally knew where the drugs were, the chances were he’d come back for more.

  John and Billy watched as the tail lights of the minivan vanished up Denmark Hill and they shook hands. ‘We’ve done it, mate,’ said John. ‘We’re going to be rich.’

  SIX

  ‘And that was how it all started proper,’ concluded John Jenner.

  ‘I never really knew about all that.’

  ‘You never asked.’

  ‘I know. I was too full of myself. So what happened next?’

  ‘Lots. I’ll tell you another time. There will be another time, won’t there?’

  ‘Looks like it, don’t it? Now I’m back in the bosom of hearth and home.’

  ‘Yeah. You haven’t seen your room yet. You hungry?’

  ‘Not really. I’m still stuffed from that lunch.’

  ‘Yeah, me too. But I’ve got to eat regular. Got to feed the cancer or else it gets angry and gives me grief.’

  ‘I don’t know how you can talk about it like that.’

  ‘Because it’s part of me. As much a part now as my eyes and ears.’

  ‘But it’s going to kill you.’