Guns of Brixton (2010)

by Timlin, Mark

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘And when you’ve done that, why don’t you both go home and get some sleep,’ said Mark. ‘You look like you need it.’

  For once they did as he said. Obviously the sight of so much cash had made the pair of them realise who was boss. Or maybe they were both tired.

  Later that afternoon, Mark tried Linda on the off chance. ‘Can you talk?’ he asked when she answered the phone.

  ‘Yeah. The kids are upstairs in the playroom with Greta. I’m doing some housework, would you believe?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Well, I am.’

  ‘It’s good to hear you got domesticated.’

  ‘After you’ve had two children, it’s hard not to. For me anyway.’

  ‘So you’re doing a bit of dusting.’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Got your apron on?’

  ‘Not the kind of apron you’d like, part of a French maid’s outfit.’

  ‘Shame. Can I see you?’

  ‘What? In a French maid’s outfit?’

  ‘That would be good, but seriously, can we meet?’

  ‘Suppose so.’

  ‘Don’t sound so keen.’

  ‘Mark. We’ve been through this. I want to see you, but I don’t trust you an inch.’

  ‘I suppose I deserve that.’

  ‘You do.’

  ‘How can I prove to you how sorry I am?’

  ‘Just stick around. Be a nice bloke. Pay me compliments and tell me I look great even when I don’t. Just be a man. Not a shadow of one.’

  Mark was silent for a moment. ‘So I suppose a blow job is out of the question?’

  Linda laughed out loud. ‘You’re a dirty boy, Mark, but you’re getting me excited.’

  ‘So let’s meet.’

  ‘Not tonight. It’s Greta’s night off. I’m being a real mum. We’ve got the new Disney DVD and I’m ordering in pizza as a treat.’

  ‘You really are domesticated, aren’t you?’ said Mark.

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘Tomorrow then?’

  ‘Yes. I think I can manage that.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Come to the flat again. I’ll even cook for you.’

  ‘I don’t believe it. You’ve never cooked for me in your life.’

  ‘Maybe that’s where we went wrong. Maybe I should’ve.’

  ‘We never had the chance. Not with one thing and another.’

  ‘And that’s the really sad part.’

  ‘Don’t get morbid,’ he said, clutching his phone tightly.

  ‘With all the things that have happened to me, it’s hard not to.’

  ‘I’ll cheer you up.’

  ‘That’s what I was hoping you’d do.’

  ‘What time? Tomorrow, I mean.’

  ‘About seven. I’ll go round early and get the place sorted. Greta can look after Luke and Daisy. I’ll tell her… well, whatever I decide to tell her.’

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  ‘Fine. See you then.’

  ‘You will.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  ‘Bye, love.’

  And she hung up.

  The next morning Mark went to check the car that Dev had found. It was perfect. A bright red BMW 5 Series with plenty of chrome. The body had been lowered, and the wheel arches were flared over wide wheels with low profile tyres. Inside was a multichange CD player with a huge amplifier and a dozen speakers. The seats were black leather and a little fir tree air freshener hung from the rearview mirror.

  ‘What do you reckon?’ asked Dev.

  ‘Good,’ said Mark, walking round the car before inspecting the interior. ‘All it needs is a coke spoon in the glovebox for it to be perfect.’

  ‘Where’s it going?’ asked Dev.

  ‘Keep it here for now,’ said Mark. ‘I’ll have Tubbs pick it up later. Do you remember him?’

  ‘Sure. The black fellah.’

  ‘That’s the boy.’

  ‘I hope he dresses the part,’ said Dev.

  ‘Me too. I sent him off shopping yesterday with a pile of Uncle John’s money.’

  Mark called Tubbs right away and told him to get over to south London pronto.

  ‘No problemo,’ said Tubbs. ‘What about Eddie?’

  ‘Leave him. I just need you right now.’ And remembering what Dev had said added: ‘And wear something in character. You kick off today.’

  ‘Got just the thing.’

  The thing was a long leather overcoat over a black tracksuit with a thick gold chain around his neck. ‘How do I look?’ asked Tubbs an hour or so later, once he’d appeared at the Half Moon pub, just around the corner from Dev’s garage.

  ‘Like you’re auditioning for a part in the Wesley Snipes story,’ replied Mark.

  ‘Is that good?’

  ‘At least you left your leather hat at home.’

  ‘It’s in my car.’

  ‘I think it’d better stay there for now, don’t you?’

  Tubbs shrugged. ‘I love that hat. Cost you a lot.’

  ‘Where is it?’ asked Mark, ignoring Tubbs’s last comment.

  ‘On the back seat.’

  ‘The car I mean, fool.’

  Tubbs grinned, showing a lot of white teeth. ‘By the station, on a meter.’

  ‘Right. Let’s get it and dump it at Dev’s. From now on, you’re a bad boy from the frozen north of Highgate looking for a new source of snow. I’ll show you where these people hang out, then you’re on your own. Last chance to change your mind, Tubbsy boy.’

  ‘No, man,’ said Tubbs. ‘You’re going to change my life.’

  ‘One way or another,’ said Mark, too quietly for his friend to hear.

  They collected Tubbs’s ancient smoker of a car and drove to the garage. Dev looked at Tubbs in his new clothes and pulled a face at Mark, who shook his head in reply. This wasn’t the time for Tubbs to feel self-conscious. Not that it looked like he would be. He strode over to the BMW as if it had been made for him, which well it might have been, so perfectly did his new clothes fit the ostentatious motor. He shrugged his mighty shoulders in the huge coat and slid behind the wheel, turned on the ignition and altered the electric driver’s seat to accommodate his bulk. ‘Nice, man,’ he said to Dev. ‘Mark, my friend, pass me some CDs will you? They’re in the glove compartment of mine.’

  Mark went back to the Vauxhall and collected a handful of discs and took them to Tubbs who fitted them into the player in the boot before returning to his seat and fiddling with the controls on the dash. After a second, the sound of Snoop Doggy Dogg burst from the speakers and Tubbs danced on the seat. ‘Cool,’ he yelled above the din.

  Mark leant in and turned down the volume. ‘Bit ancient, isn’t it?’ he said.

  ‘Good old school rap,’ said Tubbs defensively. ‘Kill the bitch, kill the bitch,’ he sang.

  ‘Christ,’ said Dev. ‘What’s he all about?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Mark. ‘Just store that banger of his well out of sight and we’ll be off.’

  ‘Now you take care of that car,’ said Dev. ‘It’s not paid for.’

  ‘You amaze me,’ said Mark as he got into the passenger seat next to Tubbs. ‘I never would’ve believed it.’

  Tubbs switched on the engine, listened to the grumble from the twin exhausts, stuck it into first gear and shot off the forecourt into the traffic with a screech of tyre rubber. The last Mark saw of Dev was through the side mirror: he had a look on his face that said he thought he’d never see them or the car again.

  Mark directed Tubbs to Brixton Hill, then down a couple of back streets past the pub where Beretta and his mates did their business during the day. ‘They’re supposed to be there from lunchtime onwards,’ he said. ‘You can drop me off and then pay the place a visit. Just suss it out. They’ll come on to you as soon as they see this motor and what you’re wearing, I reckon. They’ll want to know the full SP. Just play it cool. There’s plenty of time. But you’r
e going to have to fly solo, Tubbs. They’re bound to know me, and I want you to get matey before they meet Eddie. So be careful.’

  ‘Man, I’ll be as cool as ice.’

  ‘That’s good. Now drop me off here and I’ll walk the rest of the way home.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Tubbs, bringing the car to as tyre-smoking halt.

  ‘And listen: drive carefully. This car with you inside it dressed like that might as well have a big arrow over it saying, “Mr Plod, please give me a pull”. So try and leave a little tread on the Dunlops, will you?’

  ‘I’ll even stop at zebra crossings,’ said Tubbs with a big grin.

  ‘Yeah, sure. Good luck and call me soon.’

  ‘Roger and out.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  ‘Man, I’ll be safe as houses.’

  Mark got out and slammed the door behind him, then watched as Tubbs spun the car on its axles and headed back to Brixton. ‘Sure,’ he said to its retreating back. ‘But there’s such things as earthquakes.’

  TWENTY-TWO

  Tubbs sped away from Mark, accelerating fast through the gears, the fat tyres of the BMW gripping the damp road like a dog with a juicy bone. It felt good to drive a motor like the Beemer after the rust bucket he owned and he wanted to get a feel for the car. Sure, Mark was right. It was an open invitation for a pull from the filth, but right then Tubbs felt on top of the world.

  Funnily enough, he’d always had a secret desire to be a copper, ever since he was a kid. But there hadn’t been many black police when he’d been of the right age and he’d heard about the way they were treated by both the public and by their own colleagues. Not well. Not well at all. But maybe if he’d joined up he’d’ve made commissioner, he thought. Or maybe sodding not.

  Undercover would’ve suited him, just like his namesake in Miami Vice. And now he was undercover, and if everything went OK, he’d have enough money to get out of this bitch of a cold city that had never treated him any more than rough, and get to the islands and make something of himself.

  Sweet dreams, he thought as he pulled up outside the boozer Mark had pointed out to him. But first he had to convince these fools that he was who he was pretending to be.

  He got out of the car, operated the central locking and alarm and worked his shoulders before pushing through the pub door.

  His first impression was that the stink of weed seemed to permeate every surface. Smoke hung low over the few drinkers inside, even at that early hour. The jukebox was on and Dandy Livingstone was warning Suzanne to beware of the Devil. Very apt, thought Tubbs.

  All heads turned as he entered. ‘Mornin’,’ he greeted the clientele. Without getting an answer, he headed to the bar, which seemed to be under the control of a small black individual in an Hawaiian shirt and jeans, perched on a high, chrome stool. ‘Gimme a beer, man,’ said Tubbs. ‘It’s been a long, aggravatin’ drive.’

  The black man pulled a Red Stripe from the cooler, uncapped it and stood it on the bar. ‘Glass?’ he asked. He didn’t usually offer, but Tubbs was a big man and he didn’t want to antagonise him.

  ‘No,’ said Tubbs and sank three quarters of the liquid with one swallow.

  ‘Two sixty -five,’ said the barman and Tubbs pulled a wad of Mark’s cash from his coat pocket and dropped a twenty on the bar. ‘Another, my man, if you please,’ he said, as he finished the first bottle and belched loudly.

  The little man did as he was bidden and delivered a second bottle which Tubbs sucked on briefly before hauling out a packet of cigarettes. ‘Got a light, my friend?’ he said to the nearest punter who produced a box of matches which he handed Tubbs. ‘Cheers,’ said the big man as he got the cigarette lit to his satisfaction and handed the box back. ‘I heard that this place was a friendly environment.’

  ‘Who you hear that from?’ asked the man.

  ‘Just friends, business acquaintances. You know.’

  The man sucked on his cheek. ‘Like?’

  Mark had known that this would happen and had supplied Tubbs with the name of a drug dealer presently doing time up north on category A. Another one of John Jenner’s old enemies. There seemed to be a lot of them about. ‘This is fucking risky, Tubbs,’ he’d said. ‘But it’s all we’ve got. I hate to send you in cold like this, but if you want to earn…’

  ‘So who am I?’ asked Tubbs.

  ‘That’s the problem. You are who you are. I can’t give you a false identity and an alias. You’ll just have to wing it.’

  ‘And if they check?’

  ‘Listen, man,’ said Mark. ‘These are bad fuckers. They’re not going to be able to get a look at the police national computer. They’re fucking animals. Even the bentest copper in the Met would think twice before webbing up with them. They won’t have a fucking clue, man. Losers, each of them. The only way they get ahead is with ultra violence. Fuck ’em. You can do it.’

  Tubbs said to the black guy at the bar: ‘I shared a cell with a geezer called Blakey, up in Brum. He told me to look for a face named Beretta. I’m just out and I need supplies.’

  ‘They fed you well inside,’ said the black man, looking Tubbs up and down.

  ‘Prison gym,’ he replied. ‘And it’s amazing what extras you can get in the shovel these days with mates on the out.’

  ‘So why don’t your mates help you now?’ asked the black man.

  ‘You know I took all the questions I could stomach from the pigs,’ said Tubbs. ‘I didn’t expect the same when I came in here for a quiet drink.’

  All of a sudden the door burst open and three more black men entered and the barman scuttled to get drink on the counter before they reached the jump. They were trouble, Tubbs didn’t have to be a genius to spot that. And it looked like they’d been too long on the toot. Their skin was the grey of elephant hide and all three seemed to have heavy colds. ‘Whose wheel’s in our space?’ the biggest of the black men demanded. ‘We had to walk.’

  ‘What car, man?’ asked the man Tubbs had been talking to.

  ‘Flash Beemer. Red,’ the other replied.

  ‘That’s me, man,’ said Tubbs. ‘I didn’t see no double yellows.’

  ‘Red route, boy,’ said the first man. ‘Our red route. Now get it moved.’

  ‘You a traffic warden, boy?’ said Tubbs. ‘You left your pretty uniform at home?’

  The three men looked at each other and then Tubbs. ‘Who the fuck are you?’ said one, a handsome man with a shaven head. ‘This is our pub.’

  ‘Just popped in for a drink,’ said Tubbs. ‘I heard good things about the place. But I reckon they was wrong.’

  ‘Who the fuck is this cunt?’ said the third black man to no one in particular, a cadaverous type with huge hands and feet. ‘Let’s kill the fucker.’ And with that, he pulled a handgun from the pocket of his overcoat.

  ‘Hey, man,’ said Tubbs, stepping back sharpish. ‘Chill. I’ll move the fucking car. I was just looking for someone called Beretta.’

  ‘Looks like you found it,’ said the man with the gun. ‘This is a fucking Beretta, you cunt.’ And he pointed it at Tubbs’s head.

  Everyone in the pub had moved out of the line of fire and Tubbs suddenly decided that maybe undercover wasn’t such a good place to be after all.

  ‘Why you looking for me?’ asked the first man pushing his companion’s gun down. ‘I’m Beretta, man. Who the fuck are you?’

  ‘My name’s Tubbs,’ said Tubbs. ‘I’ve been away. I heard that you could help me.’

  ‘With what?’ said the first man, his brow wrinkled in thought.

  Tubbs looked round. ‘In private, man,’ he said.

  ‘We’re all friends here,’ said Beretta. ‘At least I hope we are.’ His tone was menacing, and Tubbs tried hard not to swallow and give his nervousness away. ‘Now who gave you this information?’

  ‘A geezer called Blakey.’ Tubbs repeated his story. ‘We shared a cell for a few months in the Green.’

  Beretta’s forehead wrinkled even further. �
�How long you been out?’

  ‘A month or so,’ said Tubbs. ‘I took a holiday after.’

  Beretta nodded. ‘Moses. Chop one out,’ he said, and Tubbs almost heaved a sigh of relief.

  The man with the gun put it away, went to the bar, wiped it down with a pristine white handkerchief he’d taken from his pocket, produced a fat baggie of white powder, poured a hefty pile on to the bar, then chopped it into lines with a one-sided gold razorblade. ‘We the kings here,’ said Beretta. ‘No go zone for coppers. Are you a copper, my friend?’ he said to Tubbs.

  The pub went very quiet, the jukebox died and everyone seemed to hold their breath, including Moses who was making pretty patterns on the bar with the cocaine.

  ‘What the fuck…?’ said Tubbs, his voice rising. ‘Fuck you, man. You call me out as five-oh in front of these people. I got a reputation to think of. I’m leaving.’

  ‘Cool it, big man,’ said Beretta. ‘Stay and have a snort. It’s cool. Moses.…’

  Moses went back to his task and once the lines were out, the three took turns, using a gold tube that Moses supplied. Then it was Tubbs’s turn and he took a monstrous hit, which just about turned his brain to jelly.

  ‘Christ,’ he said, ‘That’s fucking good.’

  ‘Only the best for us and our friends,’ said Beretta.

  ‘You got any of this for sale?’ asked Tubbs, after he’d lit a cigarette and taken a hit on his beer to cut the metallic taste of the drug. ‘It’s just the sort of quality I could use.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Beretta. ‘And Blakey’s dead.’

  Christ, thought Tubbs, Mark never told me that, the bastard. ‘What?’ he said. ‘How? When?’

  ‘Got shanked in the shower a few weeks back,’ Beretta went on. ‘Thought you might’ve heard.’

  ‘He was fine when he used to spot for me in the gym,’ said Tubbs. ‘We looked out for each other.’

  ‘Sure you did. Shame you got out then. You could’ve watched his back.’

  ‘Man, that’s too bad,’ said Tubbs.

  ‘He never should’ve dropped the soap,’ said Moses, and all three laughed, like it was the best joke they’d heard in years.

  ‘Funny you never heard,’ said Beretta. ‘You being best mates and all. I wonder about you. Moses, you take this fucker to the shitter and check him out.’ He turned to Tubbs, squinted at him and said: ‘You wired?’