by Timlin, Mark
‘This place has changed,’ said Mark.
‘Changed,’ said Chas. ‘I’ll say it’s fucking changed. Used to be a nice old pub, but it’s gone downhill.’
‘What hasn’t, in your opinion?’ asked Mark.
‘Don’t be funny. You think things have got better?’
‘Some things. Technology. Would you still like cars with no heaters and wind-up gramophones and having to use a payphone to get in touch?’
‘We managed,’ said Chas. ‘And, for your information, I never had a wind-up gramophone.’
‘Dansette, was it?’ asked Mark with a grin.
‘Yeah. It was, as it goes, and I had to work all summer holidays in the grocers to get it.’
* * *
It had been a magic summer for Chas. Nineteen fifty nine, and he had been fourteen. He’d been in long trousers a couple of years and loved the sound of the music he listened to every night on Radio Luxembourg and the American Forces Network, under the covers in the bedroom in the attic of his parents’ house in Streatham Vale. Boy, he loved that music. The record that changed his life was Rockin’ Through The Rye by Bill Haley and The Comets. He’d heard it on Two Way Family Favourites, a request show on the old Light Programme, whilst eating his Sunday lunch – or dinner as they called it then – three years before. He’d practically felt his balls drop at the first notes and almost choked on a piece of hot roast potato as his father leapt to his feet to turn off ‘that bloody jungle music’ as he called it. Chas shared his old dad’s racist views, but was somehow blinkered about black musicians and the white ones that aped them. He adored them from that moment and still did. Lonnie Donegan, Jerry Lee Lewis, Elvis, The Drifters, Coasters, Platters et al. He ate them up over the next few years, but his father wouldn’t let him near the Bush radiogram where he stored his Ronnie Hilton, Mantovani, Alma Cogan and Ted Heath LPs. ‘If you want to play that rubbish, get your own,’ he’d said.
So Chas hunted out boys of his own age who were equally besotted with rock ‘n’ roll, and spent hours around their houses listening to everyone from Tommy Steele – just OK – to Cliff Richard – awful – in the hope of the occasional Little Richard record floating to the top of the pile.
As he sat in the pub with Mark, Chas yearned for those simpler days when he was an innocent and not yet the gangster he was to become. He’d broken his mother’s heart when he’d first been sent away in the early 60s, even though she’d slowly come round to the way he ran his life later on. His father, of course, had long washed his hands of the long haired lout that his son had become. That’s what he’d called him when he’d thrown Chas out of the house at age sixteen, with little more than the clothes he stood up in. His father had smashed up his record player and destroyed his precious vinyl that day and, although he could forgive him for the disownment, the records were another matter. They’d never spoken again. Not even at his mother’s funeral. When his father died a few years later, Chas didn’t even bother to attend his cremation. Burnt before he got to hell, was his opinion. And good riddance.
But that summer of 1959 had been the dog’s bollocks for Chas. He’d grown tall and strong over the previous winter playing football for the school and spending hours in the gymnasium building muscle. He’d done some boxing and won every bout he’d taken part in, making him quite a star with the girls. He’d lost his virginity that spring to a little raver called Sally from St Martin’s School For Girls, who must’ve worn twenty stiff petticoats under her brown gingham school dress. Fourteen. Early for those days, but now… pretty much average, he imagined, or maybe – looking at the little girls in the street dressed like tarts – it was as old as the hills.
Just before the summer holidays, he’d toured the shops and cafés close to home looking for part time work. The shop where his mum bought her groceries was run by an elderly Jewish man and his wife, and he’d offered him a couple of hours’ work a day, plus all day Saturdays, for the princely sum of a pound a week. Chas jumped at it. He’d yet to become the hardened thief he would be before too much time had passed, but he’d earned his spurs shoplifting small items at Woolworths, and he knew that on top of his wages he could probably nick enough fags and sweets to make his pay up to something decent. And if they left that old till unattended from time to time, he could lift a few bob as well. His pocket money from home was five shillings a week; that, plus the quid, plus whatever else he could scavenge, would soon get him that Dansette record player in the window of the electrical shop that he yearned for and admired every day on his way to school. Chas’d also noticed that the attached record bar, as they called them then, wasn’t too security minded. He was sure that he could nick a few forty-fives when it got busy in there.
So all summer he worked in the shop, delivering boxes of groceries on a broken down bicycle that the proprietor supplied, pocketing tips and stealing bits and pieces until, two days before school was due to start, he took twelve and a half quid into the electrical shop and purchased the machine. Laughable by today’s standards, the record player was made of cheap boxwood covered in red and white plastic, with a BSR ten-record autochange, a four-inch speaker and a single tone control. But it became the centre of his life. He begged, borrowed and stole records from wherever he could and, although the sound was as lo-fi as could be, it played those little plastic discs to perfection. Something that his recently purchased multispace CD player could never do. Maybe it was his age, he thought. Maybe you had to be a teenager.
It was the time of teddy boys. Italian style was just creeping into the shops. To go with his music, Chas needed a pair of Levi 501’s, a box jacket and some winklepickers. His father wouldn’t hear of it. ‘Stout shoes,’ he said. ‘Stout shoes for school that will last. And if you want jeans –’ he almost spat the word ‘– Ladybird do a perfectly good pair for ten and six at Woolworths.’ So Chas had to rob the money from his mother’s purse and his father’s wallet. Then hide them in the garden shed and change out of his hated Ladybirds before hitting the hot spots of Streatham and Croydon. It was at these coffee bars and record hops that he met the people he admired. Young villains with money in their pockets: he dreamed of emulating them, and did so until he was caught and sent down.
* * *
‘Drink up, Chas,’ said Mark, shaking the big man out of his reverie and back to the present, where rap music was pumping out from the pub jukebox. ‘We’d better be getting back.’
If only I could, thought Chas. Get back to simpler times. Duller times too, for sure. But they fitted his skin. Not like now, when he felt like he had ants running around inside his body all the time. But he only grunted, drained his glass and followed Mark back to the car. They drove home in silence.
Once there, Mark said to John. ‘I need to know more about these people. I’m going to wander up and have a look round on my own. Nobody knows me. I’ll buy some spliff and make myself busy.’ Then he had a thought. ‘Or maybe I’ll send somebody else.’
‘You take care,’ said John. ‘It’s the badlands up there.’
‘I’ll be fine, Uncle. And soon they’ll be out of your hair.’
John Jenner touched his receding pate and smiled for the first time. ‘Good. You do that, son and I’ll owe you.’
‘And get Martine off my case will you, Uncle?’ said Mark. ‘She’s getting to be a pain in the arse.’
‘Getting?’ said John Jenner.
‘You know what I mean.’
Later on his mobile rang. It was Eddie Dawes. ‘I’ve made a meet with Tubbs,’ he said.
‘When?’
‘Tomorrow. It’s his day off.’
‘Where?’
‘A pub in Holloway.’
‘What time?’ asked Mark.
‘Twelve.’
‘Fine. I’ll pick you up at your place. Elevenish.’
‘I’ll be waiting.’
Mark arrived in the familiar street just before the allotted hour, left the car at the kerb and went to Eddie’s door. He still lived in the
top flat in a terraced house off Stockwell Road. It hadn’t weathered well: the front door was battered and looked like it had been busted open several times and repaired by a blind man. A blind man had painted it too, sometime back in the last century, and the paint was peeling and blistered. Mark rang the doorbell marked ‘Dawes’, and a few minutes later Eddie appeared, pulling on his anorak. ‘I’d ask you up,’ he said. ‘But it could do with a tidy.’ If the flat was anything like the outside of the house, or indeed Eddie himself, Mark thought, a tidy was the least it needed, but he said nothing. They went to the Vogue and Eddie said: ‘I knew you’d have a nice motor.’
‘It’s stolen,’ said Mark.
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Good for you. Nick it in France, did you?’ asked Eddie after examining the plates.
‘Something like that.’
‘Good on you, Mark. Andy would be proud of you.’
Mark nodded. ‘When things are sorted, I’ll get something of my own.’
‘Lexus are good,’ said Eddie. ‘Always fancied a Lexus myself.’
‘We’ll see,’ said Mark as he started the car and headed towards the river.
They were mostly silent on the drive until Eddie directed Mark into the back streets of Holloway and pointed out their meeting place. It was another theme pub. Mark was getting heartily sick of the idea. This one was a taste of blarney; the name picked out in gold script on the sign, with shamrocks instead of punctuation marks, and enough Irish memorabilia inside to dam the Liffey. There was a hockey match playing on the TV, the sound low and an Irish tenor bleating from the sound system.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Mark. ‘I hate these places.’
‘They’re all the go,’ said Eddie as they went to the bar and Mark ordered two pints of Guinness. What else?
There was no sign of Tubbs; the entire clientele, what there was of it, was white. A few hard looking gentlemen sat around getting the feel of the auld sod, and a couple of ladies of rather dubious virtue sat at the bar sucking on glasses of the black nectar. Behind the bar counter a young man with short hair, dressed in black trousers, a white shirt and a black waistcoat busily polished a glass, occasionally taking surreptitious drags on a cigarette he had hidden behind the till. ‘Nice,’ said Mark. ‘You bring me to the best places.’
‘It’ll do,’ said Eddie. ‘It serves booze and the music’s not too bad.’
Mark gave him a funny look. ‘So where’s the man?’
‘He’ll be here.’
Mark looked at his watch.
‘Speak of the Devil,’ said Eddie as the door opened and a huge black man appeared. ‘Christ,’ said Mark. ‘Tubbs has got tubby.’
The black man walked to their table and Mark got to his feet. ‘Tubbs,’ he said.
‘Crockett,’ said the black man, his face splitting open to show two rows of even white teeth. ‘I never thought I’d see you again.’
‘Well, here I am,’ said Mark. ‘And if he’s not Dizzy, I’m not Crockett. Mark’ll do.’
That had been their names in their youth. Crockett and Tubbs from Miami Vice, Dizzy Dawes, Elvis and Andy. What a crew. And how times had changed.
‘Drink?’ asked Tubbs.
‘I’ll get them,’ said Mark. ‘It’s my treat.’
‘Rum and coke,’ said Tubbs. ‘With plenty of ice and a slice.’ Eddie Dawes pointed at his almost empty Guinness glass. Mark went to the bar and suddenly it was the 80s again.
* * *
The Miami Vice boys had all gone to Tulse Hill Comprehensive together, just a few yards up the road from John Jenner’s alma mater, the Strand. It hadn’t been a good school and Mark was glad when John had showed him that it had been demolished. It fact it had been a dump. A sink for all the losers in south London as far as he could remember. Him included.
The boys were all the same age and had entered their secondary education in 1981. The five had teamed up early on, in fact, just before Mark Farrow’s father had been murdered. It made him something of a celebrity at the school, that his policeman father had been gunned down only a couple of miles away. They didn’t start out to be villains, but circumstances, and Mark’s deteriorating home life, had led them into a life of crime. He was their leader and where he went the others followed.
Tubbs, at the time known simply as Winston McLeash, was one outcome of the marriage between a Scottish merchant seaman, Angus McLeash, who had carrot-coloured hair and the palest skin that Mark had ever seen, and a young Nigerian woman who was black enough to almost vanish in a darkened room. Winston, the eldest of their five children, all born neatly nine months after Angus’s various shore leaves, had fared well by the match. He was black, but not completely, and his hair was thick and shiny as if oiled. Life was not kind to redheaded black people, Mark had noted, so Tubbs had been lucky. He’d been a slim boy despite his nickname, but now his waistline had expanded. He toasted his two old friends when Mark brought their drinks over.
‘To good times,’ he said.
‘Looks like you’ve had more than a few lately,’ said Mark, tapping him on the belly.
Tubbs roared. ‘Too much fried chicken, my friend. Doesn’t do much for the figure.’
‘Well, it’s good to see you, Tubbs,’ said Mark. ‘I’ve missed you.’
The black man suddenly became serious. ‘No man,’ he said. ‘You want something, just like the old days. But me and Eddie have fallen on hard times, as you can see. So what do you need, and how much is it worth?’
Mark looked at Eddie. ‘I thought I’d leave it up to you to tell him,’ said the latter.
Mark nodded. Probably for the best, he thought. ‘A little job,’ he said. ‘Like the old days.’
‘What kind of job exactly?’ asked Tubbs.
Mark made a pistol out of his right hand and dropped his thumb like the hammer but said nothing.
‘It’s been a long time, man,’ said Tubbs. ‘Me and Eddie, we’re out of practice. What’s the fee again?’
‘Ten grand each. Cash. Unmarked notes out of sequence. A little reconnaissance and it should be all over by the weekend.’
‘Sounds good,’ said Tubbs. ‘Maybe too good. Who we going to fix?’
‘Some bad black boys from Brixton,’ replied Mark.
‘How bad?’
‘About as bad as they come.’
‘Ten grand each you say?’
Mark nodded.
‘Eddie?’ said Tubbs.
Dawes shrugged. ‘I’ve already said I’m in if you are.’
Tubbs smiled again. ‘I wish Elvis was here.’
‘Me too,’ said Mark.
‘What the hell,’ said Tubbs. ‘I can go home to the islands with that much dough.’
‘You’ve never been to the islands in your life,’ said Mark. ‘Closest you’ve been to the West Indies is a week in Lanzarote in 1989.’
‘Sure,’ said Tubbs. ‘You’re not wrong. But a man can dream can’t he?’
Mark nodded and went off to order another round.
TWENTY
‘You got a motor, Tubbs?’ asked Mark Farrow, upon his return.
‘An old banger. Vauxhall Astra. You can’t afford much on my wages.’
‘Not like some,’ said Eddie.
Mark ignored him. ‘You can get a new one if you do the job,’ he said to Tubbs. ‘Unless you blow it all on “the islands”.’
‘Might never come back,’ said Tubbs. ‘Open a fried chicken restaurant on the beach and spend my days drinking rum and chasing women.’
‘You’ll have to lose a bit of weight,’ said Eddie. ‘Otherwise you’ll never catch them.’
The big man rocked with laughter again. ‘You can come too, man,’ he said to Eddie. ‘Swim every morning in the sea before we open up.’
‘Nice idea,’ interrupted Mark. ‘But we’ve got business to discuss here first.’
His two old friends hushed up and listened.
‘There’s a bloke called Beretta up on the Ashworthy estate.
You remember it?’
They both nodded.
‘He deals dope and whores from what I’ve heard, and last week him and his two main men went in and killed some business associates of Uncle John. And by the way, had it off with a pile of charlie. Now, apparently they’ve been hassling the old firm for months, after a bit of trouble over some money owed. It’s time they were sorted. There’s a lot of aggro floating around and it has to end.’
‘And we’re going to do it?’ said Eddie.
‘Let the man finish,’ said Tubbs, visions of blue seas and white sands still floating around inside his head.
‘It’ll be fine,’ Mark reassured them. ‘They think Uncle John is finished, running scared. He’s not well.’
‘What’s the matter with him?’ asked Tubbs.
‘Cancer. Terminal.’
‘So what’s he worried about then?’ asked Eddie. ‘He’ll soon be out of it, won’t he?’
‘Thanks for your sympathy, Ed,’ said Mark.
‘Sorry. But you know what I mean.’
‘And you know Uncle John,’ said Mark. ‘He never gives in.’
‘What started the aggro?’ asked Tubbs. ‘As I remember, everyone had their own patch, stayed out of each other’s way and rubbed along pretty well.’
‘Times change,’ said Mark. ‘And three other people got dead a while back.’
‘Friends of Beretta, was it?’
Mark nodded. ‘An unfortunate overreaction from some geezers from Kent employed by Uncle John.’
‘And this mob got the hump about it.’
‘That’s about it.’
‘And we’ve got to sort it.’
Mark nodded again.
‘For ten grand.’
‘That’s the deal. But I’ve had another idea.’
‘What?’ asked Tubbs.
‘If we can get the dope back, I’ll up the ante.’
‘How much?’ asked Eddie.
‘Depends on how much is left. I reckon you two can cop for a third between you.’