by Timlin, Mark
Mark wiped the sleep from his eyes and went to the bathroom. Once dressed he wandered down to the kitchen where Chas was sitting reading The Sun. ‘A star,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘You got a mention. You’ll have to start a scrapbook.’
Mark leaned over his shoulder and read the short news item on page six about the previous day’s goings on. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said. ‘I hope there’s not many like that.’
‘Feeling a bit rough, son?’ asked Chas, looking into Mark’s dull and bloodshot eyes.
‘Just a bit.’
‘Cuppa tea and a bacon sarnie’ll set you right.’
Mark nodded weakly and took a seat at the kitchen table whilst Chas busied himself preparing the breakfast. ‘Anyone about?’ he asked.
‘Martine’s gone to work and the boss is having a lie in.’
‘What bloody time is it then?’ asked Mark, having left his watch somewhere in his room.
‘About ten. I let you kip in.’
‘Thanks,’ said Mark as he accepted a mug of tea and felt better straight away at its hot sweetness. ‘What now?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, haven’t we got to get the stuff out of the house?’
‘No worries. It’s all arranged.’
‘Is it going to be picked up here?’
‘No. You’re going to drop it off.’
‘Oh shit.’
‘No worries. It’s a piece of cake.’
‘I seem to remember someone saying something similar about yesterday, and I ended up almost totalling myself on the sodding motorway.’
‘But you didn’t, son, did you?’ said Chas, dealing rashers on to buttered wholemeal. ‘That’s the point.’
Upstairs, John Jenner was waking up himself. He lay in a marriage bed that now, without his wife and with only an old cat for company, seemed to him as big as an aircraft carrier. Although it had been over ten years since she’d died, John still thought of her every day, and often had conversations with her as if she were still there, lying next to him. He smiled at the thought of her, although it was a bitter smile edged with tears. He’d tried to find another woman after her death, but no one came close. No one knew their private language or their shared jokes, and no one could ever know what it had been like for John and Hazel, as together they’d built up a successful criminal empire.
His thoughts then turned to Mark. He was so much like his father, yet so different. Billy Farrow had let John down badly, leaving him to run the gang alone when he’d joined the police. But at least he’d been enough of a good friend to leave him alone once on the force. It must have given Billy sleepless nights to have known so much about south London’s premier gangster and yet never to have nicked him. But then, John knew where the bodies were buried in Billy’s past and, for his part, had never said a word to anyone about that. They’d maintained an uneasy truce until Billy had died.
Jenner reached for the syringe and amp of morphine on the bedside table and measured out his morning dose. It was later than usual and the pain had woken him. Shit, he thought, when will all this end? But of course he knew. It would end in the graveyard, where everybody ended up eventually.
Expertly, he slid the needle into a vein and pushed down the plunger so that the warmth of the drug replaced the cold of the cancer’s bite and he lay back on his pillow and let his mind run away with itself.
* * *
Back in the summer of 1965, John Jenner hadn’t sent Billy to talk to Maurice Wright in the hospital where he’d been admitted for his gunshot wound. He went himself. In fact he went twice, because the first time the nurse on duty told him that the police were still interviewing Mr Wright.
‘Fine,’ he said, giving her the bunch of flowers he was carrying. ‘I’ll call again.’
‘Any message?’ she asked.
‘Just tell him a friend called,’ he said with a grin and left.
The second time, Maurice was alone and John found the side ward where he was sequestered without help. ‘Maurice,’ he said as he entered and closed the door behind him. ‘I see you got my flowers.’
Maurice Wright almost jumped out of bed at the sight of the man who’d shot him. ‘For Christ’s sake,’ he said. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Just visiting a friend,’ said Jenner, drawing up a chair to the side of the bed and plucking a grape from the bowl of fruit on the locker next to it. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not armed. I come in peace.’
‘Piss off.’
‘What you going to do about it, Maurice? Is that a pistol in your jammies or are you just pleased to see me?’
‘I’ll call a nurse.’
‘Blimey, you’ve got me right terrified. If you’ll just listen…’
‘You’ve got nothing to say that I want to hear.’
‘On the contrary, Maurice,’ said John, leaning closer. He was beginning to realise the power of words as well as the power of violence. ‘You should listen to me now and listen good. Otherwise the next time I might be taking flowers to your funeral.’
Maurice visibly paled to the colour of his bed sheets. He’d learnt at least one thing in the dancehall that night. Carrying a gun was one thing, using it was another. Jenner had the bottle, he didn’t. ‘Go on then,’ he whispered.
‘What’s the point of us fighting?’ asked John. ‘When we could work together.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Anything. You join my little firm and we can have Soho stitched up in a couple of weeks. Speed, dope, anything and everything.’
‘And who is your little firm?’ asked Maurice. ‘Jack fucking Spot and his boys?’
‘No,’ replied Vincent. ‘Me, Billy and Wally.’
Maurice sniggered.
‘But there’s going to be more soon,’ said John, himself realising that he was hardly talking about an army. ‘And you can be in on the ground floor.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Maurice. ‘Nice as it is of you to ask.’
‘I’m not asking, Maurice,’ said John. ‘I’m telling.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ said the older man. ‘I’ve got plenty of time.’
‘You do that,’ said John. ‘And I’ll be back.’ He took another grape and popped it into his mouth before standing to go. ‘And make sure you make the right decision. I’ll see you later.’
John left the hospital and walked to the nearby tube station. Two things I need, he thought as he waited for the train to come rumbling and clanking up to the platform, a set of wheels and some good men.
The wheels were easy, he’d got some cash and he’d bumped into a young Irish bloke called Dev at a party. Dev reckoned he could get him something tasty if he wasn’t too worried about the provenance. The men would be more difficult, but John’s head was full of ideas and later that day he sat with Billy in a café in Streatham and shared some with his best friend.
‘We need some more faces,’ he said over a cup of tea and a sticky bun.
‘Such as?’ asked Billy.
‘I was thinking of the Goon.’
Billy almost choked on his cream slice. ‘The Goon. You’re fucking joking, aren’t you? He’s mental.’
‘That’s why I want him. We need some mentals.’
‘You’re bloody mental yourself,’ said Billy. ‘Shooting Maurice. It was all over the papers.’
‘Good, eh?’ said John. ‘That’s what we need, a bit of public relations just like them pop groups.’
‘And a visit from the bloody coppers.’
‘Maurice won’t grass,’ said John.
‘No, he’ll wait until he gets out and come looking for you with his gun.’
‘He was shitting bricks, Billy my boy,’ said John with possibly a little more conviction than he felt. ‘And that’s why we need the Goon.’
The Goon’s real name was Martin Forbes. He was in his mid-twenties, six four and weighed in only just less than Wally’s Minivan. He was permanently unemployed and lived with his fifty-ye
ar-old mother in a prefab at the back of Brixton bus garage. He wasn’t the brightest button on the blazer, but what he lacked in brains he more than made up with brawn and total fearlessness. Many had thought it funny to mock his size and lack of brainpower and most had regretted it as soon as the Goon had held them up by the throat until their eyes popped and their blood vessels swelled almost to breaking point. ‘Don’t take the piss,’ the Goon would say. It was a foolish man who did it twice.
‘I’ll see him tomorrow,’ said John. ‘He’ll be down the pie and mash shop at twelve.’
The Goon was pretty well known for his regular habits. Every Tuesday he went into the local pie shop, had his fill of pie, mash and liquor, generally about three portions, then took another portion in a basin with a spotted handkerchief on top back to his mum’s for her tea.
The next day, it being Tuesday, John entered the cafe at twelve-fifteen. He thought it wise to let the Goon have his nourishment before springing his plan on him. He took the Webley, just in case. Jenner bought a cup of tea at the counter and, after some banter with the serving staff, took it over to the marble-topped table where the Goon was sitting alone. He plopped himself down on the wooden bench rubbed smooth and shiny by generations of pie eaters’ bottoms, opposite the big man.
‘Hello, Martin,’ he said.
The Goon built a miniature wall of China out of mashed potato on the top of his fork, dipped it delicately into the greenish gravy and swallowed the portion. ‘Hello, John.’
‘How’s it going?’ asked Jenner.
‘Not too bad.’
‘How’s Mum?’
‘Same. Always moaning. Can’t afford this, can’t afford that.’
‘Not working then, Martin.’
‘Nah.’
‘That’s good.’
‘Why?’ The Goon’s face darkened.
‘Because I’ve got a proposition for you.’
‘You?’
‘Me, Martin.’
‘Nobody calls me Martin.’
‘They will if you listen to what I have to say.’
‘Go on then.’
‘I’m offering you a job.’
The Goon rolled the idea round the inside of his head like a pinball in a machine. ‘Don’t work,’ he said. ‘I get the dole.’
‘What? A fiver a week? That don’t go very far, now does it? ‘Specially, Martin, when you’re eating pies for three.’ The Goon looked at him slitty-eyed.
‘You taking the piss?’
‘No.’
‘’Cos if you are…’ He made to rise from his seat and John nudged his knee with the barrel of the revolver he’d slipped out from under his jacket. ‘See that,’ said John. ‘Now, Martin, don’t get me wrong. I’m only showing you this to make you listen.’
‘Blimey,’ said the Goon, peering under the table. ‘Is it real?’
‘Course it is.’
‘Just like in the pictures.’
‘Better. You want one?’
‘A gun. Me?’
‘Sure. Why not? Come and work for me and you can have one for every day of the week.’
The Goon sat back, ignoring his lunch, which John knew was a great leap, and ran that idea around the inside of his head too. ‘Blimey, what do I have to do?’
‘Look after me and Billy and Wally. Watch our backs.’
‘What will you be doing?’ The Goon wasn’t entirely stupid. Just a bit slow.
John grinned. ‘Making money. Making lovely money.’
‘And you won’t call me the Goon?’
‘No fucker will ever call you the Goon again, I promise.’
‘All right, John,’ said the Goon, watching a skin form on the liquor on the side of his plate. ‘You’re on.’
And so the Jenner gang became four.
* * *
‘You awake, boss?’ Chas’s voice interrupted Jenner’s reverie, and looking at the clock, he realised he’d been lying half asleep, half awake for almost an hour.
‘Yes,’ he mumbled through gummy lips. ‘Took my dose a bit late, that’s all.’
‘Got a nice cup of tea for you. And the papers.’
‘Thanks, Chas,’ said Jenner, pushing himself up. ‘What would I do without you?’
‘Make your own tea I expect,’ said Chas as he put down the tray and drew the curtains on to another cheerless London morning.
‘Yeah. That’d be right.’ Jenner looked at his old friend as he fussed around the room, tidying piles of clothes and magazines. ‘Jesus, Chas, you’re getting more like your mum every day.’
‘She was a good old sort, my mum,’ replied Chas. ‘She patched us up enough times.’
‘God, but she did too. And hid us out from a few foes.’
‘She loved it,’ said Chas. ‘Now drink your tea before it gets cold.’
‘All right, mum.’
Chas pulled an ugly face and went to the door. ‘Oh and young Mark’s getting antsy about doing the drop later. You’d better come down and give him the full SP.’
‘He’s a good boy, Mark, isn’t he?’ said Jenner. ‘He’ll do.’
‘He needs some back up. It’s too much for one.’
‘He must still know some geezers he can row in. What do you reckon?’
‘I suppose,’ said Jenner. ‘I was just thinking about the old days. The Goon and Wally.’
‘What a fucking pair they were.’
‘Wally could never handle it.’
‘He did his bit.’
‘Yeah. But the Goon…’
‘Martin, you mean.’
‘I never could get used to calling him that,’ said John.
‘Me neither.’
‘But you’ve got a lot to thank him for.’
Chas leant against the door jamb.
‘He saved my life that time.’
‘Yeah, and paid the price.’
‘We should go visit his grave. We haven’t been for ages.’
‘And his mum’s next door.’
‘He always was fond of his mum.’
‘Another fine pair.’
‘We’ll do it, eh, Chas?’
‘Yeah. Soon as the weather improves.’ And with that he was gone. Jenner drank his tea, got up, went to the lavatory where, as usual, it took him a few minutes to get a dribble of urine to flow. ‘Fucking cancer,’ he said to himself in the mirror as he shaved. ‘It’ll be a good job when I’m out of all this.’
He dressed and went downstairs where Mark was moodily watching morning TV. ‘You all right, son?’ asked Jenner as he entered the living room.
‘Not too bad. But I’ll be happier when that gear’s out of the house and you’ve got your money.’
‘All in good time, son,’ said Jenner, looking at his watch. ‘This afternoon will do it.’
‘Where?’
‘Cash and carry in Loughborough Junction. But this time you’ll be doing the carrying and they’ll be paying the cash.’
‘How much?’
‘Enough. A tidy little profit for all of us. You’ll be able to get some new jeans.’
Mark looked ruefully at the faded pair he was wearing. ‘These have got months left in them yet.’
‘Get yourself a nice suit. Some white shirts and some knitted ties.’
‘You’ve been watching them Quentin Tarantino films again, Uncle, haven’t you?’
‘No I ain’t. I was watching Michael Caine the other night in Get Carter. What a bloke.’
‘What? Fat and bloody useless.’ Mark knew how to get Jenner riled. He’d teach him to take the piss out of his best Levis.
‘Caine is king,’ said Jenner.
‘Used to be maybe. Now he’s just a soppy old luvvie.’
‘Bollocks,’ said Jenner, easing himself into his armchair with a grunt.
‘You all right, Uncle?’
‘I will be. Where’s Chas?’
‘Sainsbury’s. He took the Bentley.’
‘He bloody would. Fancy making us a nice cup of tea then?’
> ‘Yeah, all right. Then I want to know exactly what’s happening after this. OK?’
‘Done.’
Mark went about his chore and returned with two cups.
‘Right,’ said Jenner when he’d taken a sip. ‘The cash and carry’s run by a pair of Paki likely lads.’ He told Mark the address. ‘It’s right behind the station at Loughborough. I’ve been doing business there for years. They’re good as gold for ragheads.’
Mark smiled. ‘Do you call them that?’
Jenner dismissed the question with a scowl. ‘Tommo and Ali run the joint,’ he continued. ‘You’d think they were as poor as church mice from the way they carry on, but believe me these boys are minted. Both got nice houses in Southall. But they dress like tramps and they always try and beat down the price. But I’ve done a deal. Now the only problem is, sometimes they’re a bit… you know… slipshod in their counting. So you’re going to have to count the cash on the spot I’m afraid.’
‘How much?’
‘Three hundred thousand.’
‘And I’ve got to count it?’
‘Terrible job counting money, ain’t it? What’s the matter with you? There’ll be a nice bonus in it for you when you come home, don’t worry.’
‘The geezer yesterday had a note counter. You got one?’
‘Fuck off. Let your fingers do the walking.’
‘All right, Uncle. Do I go on my own?’
‘That’s the plan. Don’t worry, they ain’t going to kill you and eat you. You ain’t Halal.’
‘Funny.’
‘I try.’
‘It weren’t them who put the word out about the swap, was it?’
‘No. Why would they? They want that stuff as bad as we want their money.’
Mark hung about the house for the rest of the morning, waiting for the time to pass until his appointment. At two-fifteen Jenner got the bag of cocaine out of the safe. ‘I’ll take the gun too,’ said Mark.
‘You don’t need a gun.’
‘I think I’ll be the judge of that.’
‘It’ll show disrespect.’
‘Only if I have to show it, and if I do, it’ll be me that’s being disrespected, won’t it?’
‘Fair enough.’
Mark strapped on the pistol and took the case of drugs to his motor. It was freezing out and his shoes slid on the pavement. He drove carefully to Loughborough Junction and parked the car on a meter in a side street close to the station. He checked the roads around the cash and carry for suspicious-looking people sitting in cold cars who could have been the Bill, but all seemed serene.