by Timlin, Mark
Grudgingly John took out an envelope containing about a hundred doobies and a wad of ten shilling and one pound notes and handed them over.
‘Nice,’ said Maurice. ‘Very nice. Now, like I said, piss off out of here and don’t come back.’
‘See you later, Morry,’ said John, apparently not scared at all of the gun stuck in his ribs.
‘Not if I see you first.’
The two boys came out of the stall, through the club and into the warm air of Wardour Street that was still twenty degrees cooler than inside the packed club.
‘Fucking terrific,’ said Billy.
‘Not to worry,’ said John. ‘Plenty more where they came from.’
‘I nearly shit myself.’
‘Me too, but it’ll be his turn next,’ said John.
‘We ain’t coming back here,’ said Billy, who, although no coward, had not been happy to see a gun involved in their little business.
‘Ain’t we?’ said John. ‘Don’t you believe it.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Billy.
‘You’ll find out,’ replied John. Billy didn’t like the expression on his friend’s face. In the orange light of the street lamps it looked like that of the Devil himself.
‘Tell us.’
‘Saturday. Dave Clark Five at the Tottenham Royal.’
‘So?’
‘So we go.’
‘But Maurice’ll be there.’
‘Yeah.’
‘With his mates.’
‘Yeah.’
‘And he’s got a fucking gun.’
‘So?’
Billy stopped and grabbed John’s arm. ‘So he’s warned us off…’
‘Fuck his luck. Are you with me?’
‘Course I am. No question.’
‘Then don’t worry, son,’ said John, pulling his friend close and looking him in the eyes. ‘We’re fucking minted.’
‘Yeah, you’re right,’ said Billy. ‘Bleedin’ magical, that’s us. Fuck Maurice’s luck, he doesn’t know who he’s dealing with here.’ And the pair lost themselves in the bright lights, almost dancing along the pavement as they went.
John bought his first gun that weekend. He got it from an old soldier who ran a pawnbroker’s shop in Lewisham. He told John he had liberated it during the First World War from an officer he’d killed after he kept trying to send him and his mates over the top at Ypres. John knew it was that old but didn’t believe the story. The man sat behind the counter of the dingy emporium dressed in a filthy, food-stained sweater and trousers that smelled of piss. He had half a dozen cats and they slunk around John’s legs as the two men, one just a boy really, the same age as the pawnbroker would have been at the time of the story he told, talked. The rumours locally were that, if the women of the parish need to claim their belongings but didn’t have the wherewithal, then they could take the old man’s cock out of his trousers and suck him off. Then they got the goods and the cash too. John couldn’t believe that any woman could be that hard up. But the story persisted until the shop burnt down one night in 1969, and the old man and several of his cats perished.
The revolver was a Webley & Scott .455 calibre Mark III Government Model with a seven and half inch barrel and hinged frame. It needed special ammunition made only by Webley themselves. The bullets looked as ancient as the seller, but he assured John they still worked. John didn’t think to ask how he’d know. There were six in the gun and he had six spare. The whole deal was available for a bargain price of fifty quid, a fortune. John did the deal on the Saturday morning of the Dave Clark Five concert. He shuddered as the old man’s hands touched his, and the cats rubbed up against his trousers. But a gun was a gun, and as soon as the transaction was done he fled back home.
He showed Billy the pistol in his bedroom when he arrived. It was massive, and fully loaded weighed almost three pounds. ‘Fucking hell,’ said Billy. ‘Are you sure? If we get nicked with that we’ll go down.’
‘Then we won’t get nicked then,’ said John. ‘This is groovy. It’ll show that fucker Maurice.’
‘Not ’alf. Are you going to use it, John?’
‘Not much point not to,’ replied John.
‘But you ain’t going to kill him?’
‘No, you silly sod. Just hurt him bad.’
‘Christ, mate, this is serious.’
‘So’s being scared to go up west,’ said John.
‘Yeah,’ said Billy. ‘That won’t do at all.’
‘We need a motor,’ said John. ‘How about Wally?’
‘If he’s about.’
‘Go and give him a call, will ya mate?’ The Jenner household, like so many at the time, not only had an outside lavatory, but it also did not have a private telephone. Wally’s dad, being something in the city, did.
Billy went out to the nearest callbox and John unloaded the gun. Being something of an aficionado of crime books and films, he cleaned the gun as well as he could with what was available in the house. Just as well, he thought, as he pushed a lump of cotton wool on the end of one of his mother’s knitting needles through the barrel and dug out what looked like an ounce of muck. The last thing I need is for this bloody thing to blow up in my hand.
Billy came back with good news. For a fiver, plus ten bob for petrol, Wally would chauffeur them to to Tottenham, wait and return.
‘Terrific,’ said John, tucking the Webley inside the waistband of his jeans and trying a fast draw which snagged the front sight of the gun in his belt. ‘Billy. Tonight you and me are going to make history.’
And make it they did.
The shoot out in the Tottenham Royal made the front pages of Monday’s papers, and John and Billy’s reputation for ever.
Wally drove them up to north London in his Minivan. All three boys were flying on purple hearts and John had bought a bottle of vodka and some Cokes and doctored the soft drinks with the liquor, which was passed around the van until all three were drunk.
‘Want me to come in?’ asked Wally when they’d parked the vehicle at the back of the dance hall.
‘No,’ said John. ‘This is our job. You just wait here.’
‘How long?’
‘As long as it takes.’
‘Got any fags?’
John passed over a half empty packet of Bristol, today’s cigarette, if the television adverts were to be believed.
‘A light?’
‘Don’t you ever buy your own?’
‘Not if I can help it.’
John felt around in his pockets and found a book of matches and tossed them into Wally’s lap. ‘Want me to smoke it for you too?’ he asked.
‘That’s all right, mate,’ replied Wally with a big grin as he lit up. ‘I can manage.’
‘Fine,’ said John. ‘Just be here.’
‘I will. You owe me five quid, remember.’
John and Billy exited the car and joined the throng queuing to hear the last local performance of the ‘Tottenham Sound’. The Dave Clark Five were due back in America where their popularity at that time, as one of the top three British invasion bands, was huge. The ratio of birds to blokes inside was about five to one and the smell of so many perfumes made the boys wink at each other as they squeezed through the crowd, rubbing up against as many girls as they could on their way to the ticket booth.
They paid their six and sixpence each and were soon inside the massive interior of the hall.
‘Maurice always hangs out by the bar,’ said John. ‘Near the gents so he can do his business inside.’
‘That’s where I like to do my business too,’ said Billy with a grin. ‘Inside the gents.’
‘Shut up, you prick,’ said his friend. ‘Be serious. I’m going to shoot that cunt tonight, and fuck knows what’ll happen then.’
‘Just don’t kill the bastard, that’s all,’ said Billy.
‘Fuck off. I already told you. I’ll shoot him in the leg. I just want to frighten the cunt.’
‘Don’t forget he’s got a gun hims
elf.’
‘I won’t, stupid. But will he use it?’
Billy was suddenly terrified. He worshipped his friend and couldn’t think what life would be like without him. ‘You’ll be careful won’t you? This ain’t a film.’
John winked at him, but didn’t know if he’d seen it in the light from the massive mirrorball that hung from the ceiling. It turned slowly in the heat from the dance floor. ‘Don’t you worry about me, son,’ he said. ‘I’m just going to give the sod a fright. I’ll teach him to nick our stuff.’
‘And our money,’ interjected Billy.
‘And the dosh. Now go and get us something to drink while I take a wander. I’ll meet you back here in ten minutes, all right?’
‘All right,’ said Billy and began to fight his way through the scrum in front of the bar.
The drinks of choice that night were gin and orange squash (no ice) for the females and light ale for the blokes. Billy caught the eye of a tasty looking barmaid dressed in a short skirt and a pink fluffy jumper that showed off her best assets to the max, and yelled for two lights over the hubbub of Billy Preston on the sound system. She produced them and he gave her a bunch of change and pushed his way backwards out of the crowd. There was no sign of John, so he put his bottle on the shelf that surrounded one of the doric columns that held up the Royal’s roof and found his cigarettes. He lit one up and checked out the talent. John could look after himself.
Meanwhile, John Jenner had spotted Maurice in his usual spot, surrounded by his mates and their girls eager to get smashed on Maurice’s stash. He too pushed himself through the throng and tapped Maurice on the shoulder. ‘Blimey,’ said the older man. ‘Fancy seeing you here, Johnny.’
‘Got a minute, Maurice?’
‘For you, anytime. No hard feelings about the other night I hope.’
‘Not one. I just want to talk business.’
‘Spot on, son. Come into my office,’ and they both made their way into the gents. ‘So what’s it to be?’ asked Maurice when they were inside, alone except for a solitary mod emptying his bladder into the urinal.
‘I was thinking about a partnership,’ said John. ‘I’ve got a lot of gear.’
‘So I heard. That place in Vauxhall wasn’t it?’
‘Never mind,’ said John as the mod did up the zipper of his purple jeans and with a grin to Maurice left the lavatory without washing his hands.
‘So?’ said Maurice.
‘You done us up the other night,’ said John.
‘Yeah. Sorry about that. But you kids gotta learn.’
‘Maurice, you’re a cunt, and I don’t like you,’ said John pulling the pistol from under his jacket. ‘In fact I’ve come up here to tell you that if you stick your nose in my business again I’m going to shoot it off.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘No. And you remember what I said about no hard feelings?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I lied.’
And John pulled the trigger.
The explosion was the loudest sound he’d ever heard. He’d not had a chance to try the pistol out and had just trusted the old man in the pawnshop. Trusted him that the gun would work. Trusted that the bullet would fly, and fly it did. Straight into Maurice’s leg and out through the other side jetting a spout of blood across the white tiled walls of the toilet, and the recoil from the antique firearm almost took John’s hand off at the wrist.
‘You fucker!’ screamed Maurice as his leg gave way and he fell to the floor. ‘You dirty little fucker!’
‘That’s the difference between you and me, Mo,’ said John, his ears ringing from the report. ‘You just show your gun. I use mine. And if I ever, ever, see you again anywhere where I’m doing business, I’ll finish the job.’
And without another word, he spun on the Cuban heel of his Beatle boot, left the toilet where outside Dave Clark and his band were just hitting their stride through Glad All Over, and the beat of the bass drum had drowned out the sound of the shot. He found Billy, and steered him through the crowd of dancing fans, outside into Tottenham High Street and to Wally’s waiting Minivan.
‘What happened?’ Billy asked as the small van sped through the streets towards the river and south London beyond. ‘What happened?’
‘I shot the fucker, didn’t I?’ replied John proudly, although his hands were shaking so much he could hardly light the cigarette from the packet Wally had left on the dashboard. ‘It was just like fucking Shane.’
‘Fucking hell,’ said Billy. ‘You’re fucking mad, John.’
‘Not half as mad as him.’
‘Did you kill him?’
‘I only shot him in the leg.’
‘That could still kill him,’ said Wally, who was also something of a connoisseur of American crime films and pulp fiction.
‘Do me a favour,’ said John. Then laughed. ‘Fucking too bad if it does.’
‘Did you get our money back?’ asked Billy.
Shit, thought John. I forgot all about that.
‘No,’ he said after a minute. ‘I said you’d pop round and collect it.’
TEN
Mark stayed in his flat for the rest of the afternoon, surrounded by the smell of stale chip fat, his ancient record player and portable TV his only companions. In fact, they’d been his only companions since he’d moved there a few weeks previously. During those weeks no one but him had passed through the doorway. But that was nothing new. For the past few years his life had been lived in a succession of apartments of varying degrees of luxuriousness – or lack of it – alone with no friends or lovers. This was probably the worst, but he’d needed to conserve his financial resources as he waited for Jimmy Hunter’s release. The last Christmas had been the most miserable that he could remember, with a frozen turkey dinner for one his only concession to the season. And on New Year’s Eve he’d gone to bed at ten with a bottle of brandy, a pack of cigarettes and BBC Radio Essex for company.
Twilight came early that January day, and Mark thought back to the Christmases he’d spent with John, Hazel, Martine and Chas down in south London. He’d been happy then. Or at least as happy as he could ever remember being. Not that happiness had ever been a big part of his existence; it had always seemed just out of reach. Something that other people experienced, but which had always eluded him, like that pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
The Jenners’ house had always been warm and cosy, with a massive Christmas tree twinkling in the living room, under which mysterious boxes kept appearing. Hazel had loved wrapping parcels, making them bright and colourful with different papers and ribbons. Almost too good to open, John Jenner had always remarked. Not that it stopped Mark and Martine ripping them to shreds early on Christmas morning, before the grownups were fully awake. Then Hazel would make breakfast before getting down to the serious business of preparing the lunch. And what lunches they were. Always enough to feed the five thousand, with some to spare.
Mark wondered what Christmas was like there without her now. There’d only been a couple afterwards when he’d been around, and cheerless celebrations they had been. No doubt these days Chas cooked a feast, but there would always be memories and an empty chair at the dining table. Maybe two.
Mark found a bottle of cheap scotch in his cupboard and sat in the ratty armchair drinking until it was almost too dark to see. It was Make Your Mind Up Time and he knew it. He could go back to London and do what John wanted or he could vanish again, this time for good. There was no middle way now that he and John had made contact again. And John needed Mark’s help, just as the older man had given him so much help in the past. He had money enough to go and get somewhere warm. But what would he do there?
‘Bugger,’ he said aloud at last. ‘It’s time to shit or get off the pot.’ But he knew, as he’d known since he had spoken to John, that there was really only one answer he could give.
When the bottle was empty, and night completely covered Canvey Island, he pulled his phone from out of his
overcoat pocket, switched it on, saw there were no messages, and selected John Jenner’s number on the memory. The phone rang once, twice, three times, before he heard John’s voice say, ‘Jenner.’
‘Uncle John,’ he said.
‘Hello, Mark. How’s tricks?’
‘Not so dusty.’ It was an old routine they’d used for years. ‘You in tonight?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Then tell Chas to break out the fatted calf, I’m coming home.’
There was a long silence.
‘Uncle John, you there?’
‘I’m here.’
‘Well?’
‘How long you going to be?’
‘I’ve just got to pack up here. There’s not much. Bugger all in fact. I think I’ll leave most of it for the binmen.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Course I am. You knew you only had to ask.’
‘People change. I wasn’t sure at all.’
‘Whatever. I’m on my way.’
‘I’ll leave a light in the window.’
‘I’ll call when I’m close. And one thing, Uncle John…’
‘What?’
‘Get rid of that bloody Bros duvet.’
‘It’s as good as gone.’
‘I’ll see you later then.’
‘Look forward to it.’ They broke the connection.
Mark shoved his few clothes into a battered leather bag, then looked round the flat. Like he’d said, there wasn’t much. He flicked through his few albums, then shook his head. Fresh start, he thought, and abandoned the lot: records, record player, TV and the contents of the fridge and cupboards. He switched off the fire and lights and, without looking back, took the front door key down to the chippie and lodged it with the girl behind the counter. ‘Tell the landlord I got an offer I couldn’t refuse,’ he said to her. ‘I’m paid up ‘til the end of the month and he can have what I’ve left for the inconvenience.’
She was a sweet thing, although not very bright, and she’d harboured certain feelings for the handsome, sad looking man with the brilliant eyes who now and then popped in for cod and chips and a pickled onion. ‘Will we see you again?’ she asked as she dished out a fish cake to a waiting customer.