Guns of Brixton (2010)
Page 29
The next evening, Mark drove to the house in East Dulwich where Thomas and his mother rented their flat. Or at least his mother rented the flat and Thomas stayed there, rent free. It was a dump, but it was all she could afford. The top floor of a three-storey terraced house just off Lordship Lane, lined with pizza and fried chicken and hamburger takeouts. Mark sent money and would’ve sent more, but he knew it just got spent at the off licence and in betting shops.
Mark was on his way to a restaurant up west, where some dodgy mates were throwing a birthday party for another dodgy mate. Mark couldn’t remember any of their names now, but he could remember exactly what he was wearing. An Armani suit, Hugo Boss shirt and tie combo, Calvin Klein underwear and shoes by Church. He was a real little gentleman, as some old Dickensian character might have remarked. Under those smart clothes beat a heart of solid stone, or so he thought. But even stone can sometimes shatter when tapped from an unexpected direction. And, as tough as Mark might think he was, he would never be the same again after that dreadful night.
The front, party door was open when he arrived at the house. He shook his head and walked up the six dusty flights of uncarpeted stairs that led to his mother’s flat, past bicycles, a roll of carpet and mail that had gathered and seemingly multiplied with time, addressed to tenants old and new, present and departed. The door to her flat was open too. It was still light outside, but dismal indoors, and the bare bulb in the short hallway of the apartment glowed dimly. Mark gently pushed open the door, as if he expected an ambush. ‘Mum,’ he called, but all was quiet, except for the reverberation of reggae music from somewhere nearby. ‘Mum,’ he called again, walking down the hall. ‘You there?’
Still no answer. The kitchen was empty, so was the living room. Mark knocked on the bedroom door. He hated the thought of his mother and Bobby Thomas sleeping in there together, but when his knock went unheeded, he opened it and peeped inside. Empty too. He wondered if she had gone out for cigarettes or booze and forgotten he was coming. That left only the bathroom. The light was off and the door was ajar, but Mark pushed it open anyway and reached for the switch.
Afterwards, he wondered if he’d realised in the split second between the connection being made and the fluorescent fixture springing to life what he was about to find. He’d never know, but as his eyes adjusted to the light he saw the terrible truth. The bath was full of what looked at first sight like thin tomato juice and what he could see of his mother’s naked body lay in the mixture of blood and water, her white skin streaked with gore. Her head was tilted back, her eyes shut, and one arm hung over the edge of the porcelain, the wrist cut from palm to elbow in one vertical line – there was no hesitation marks. Blood had dripped on to the floor, making a sticky pool that had run over as far as the toilet bowl, but now it was clotting and hung like red strings from her fingertips. Water was still dribbling out of one of the taps, and the bath was almost full. His mother appeared to be floating, the water lapping around her chin and mouth, bubbling slightly when she breathed.
She was still breathing, that was all that Mark could think of. ‘Mum,’ he said, his mouth so dry it hurt to speak. ‘Oh Christ, Mum. What the hell have you done?’
The room seemed to contract: the walls and ceiling bearing down on him as if he was in a coffin.
He knelt beside the bath, the blood soaking the knees of his trousers. He tried to pull her upright and keep the water out of her nose and mouth. He wanted to get her out of the bath but she was a dead weight and he could feel panic growing inside him. Phone, he thought, he had to phone.
He left her and ran into the living room. Please God, don’t let it be cut off, he thought, then remembered that she’d called him the night before and felt blessed relief when he heard a dialling tone when he picked up the receiver. He dialled three nines with a shaking hand and said aloud, ‘Come on, come on,’ as it rang. It seemed like hours, but they picked up on the fourth ring.
‘Emergency. Which service do—’
‘Ambulance,’ he interrupted. ‘An ambulance, quick.’
‘Your number and address please, sir,’ said the voice.
Mark told the operator, and added, ‘It’s my mother. She… she’s cut her wrist.’
‘An ambulance will be with you as soon as possible,’ said the voice, but Mark had already dropped the handset on to the floor and raced back to the bathroom.
Nothing much had changed. His mother was lying in the bath, still breathing – Just – and blood ran slowly from her wrist.
Mark grabbed a hand towel and wrapped it around the wound on her right arm, then stuck his hand into the pink gruel in which she lay and pulled out her other wrist. That too was cut and Mark hastily wrapped a towel around it, knotting it tightly. He didn’t know if he was doing the right thing or the wrong thing, but at least he was doing something. Something to help.
He looked at his watch, its face stained with blood, and reckoned it was three minutes since he’d called 999. Three minutes that might have been three years, so slowly was time passing. ‘Come on,’ he said again, squeezing his mother in his arms.
And then, just as he did hear the klaxon getting closer, she opened her eyes and looked straight into his.
‘Blue eyes,’ she said. ‘Such beautiful blue eyes… Mark, promise me you’ll take care of everything…’ She stiffened, he heard a rattle in the back of her throat and she closed her eyes for the last time. He felt her spirit leave with her last exhalation of breath, and she died in his arms.
‘Mum,’ he cried, not believing what he saw. ‘Mum! Don’t go. Oh, Christ, why did you do it?’ He let her body drop and walked up and down the bathroom floor, trailing blood and water in his wake.
He raised his arms and lowered his head. ‘Why?’ he kept saying. ‘Why? Why? Why?’ He wanted to cry but no tears came. He stamped and wailed and beat his arms on his head, but still no tears came.
The ambulance men arrived, a minute or so late, thundering up the stairs, shouting as they came. But they were too late.
The paramedics did their best to revive Susan Thomas, but to no avail. Mark went with her in the ambulance, but it was hopeless, and they turned off their siren for the trip to Kings College Hospital.
An hour later, Mark was sitting outside the Accident and Emergency department in his damp, bloodstained clothes when John Jenner, Chas and Hazel arrived.
Hazel took him in her arms and held him tightly. ‘Mark,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘She waited for me before she died,’ whispered the boy. ‘She told me to take care of everything. How could she?’ and he sobbed into the collar of Hazel’s jacket.
‘It was all too much for her,’ Hazel said back. ‘She couldn’t cope.’
‘But to do that…’ said Mark.
‘Have the police been?’ asked John Jenner.
Mark nodded. ‘There’s one somewhere. I didn’t say much.’
‘Good,’ said Hazel.
‘Has anybody seen Thomas?’ asked John Jenner.
Mark looked up at him and shook his head. ‘He wasn’t there. I said I wouldn’t go round if he was…’ Once again he couldn’t finish the sentence.
It was then that Bobby Thomas arrived through the doors of A&E. He was pissed and belligerent. Mark had left a message with the neighbours downstairs, who’d come out to see what all the fuss was about. ‘Where is she?’ he demanded in a voice slurred from alcohol and God knew what else. ‘Where’s my little Susie?’
Mark lost it. He pulled away from Hazel, and before anyone could stop him, his blue eyes dark and wild, he pulled back his tight fist and hit Bobby Thomas full in the face. Thomas’s nose burst and more blood speckled Mark’s suit jacket. He went down hard and curled himself up into a ball and stayed there.
Chas grabbed Mark in a bear hug before the boy could follow through, lifting him clear off the floor and pushing him hard against the wall. ‘No, son,’ he said. ‘Not here, not now.’ Mark struggled for a moment, but the bigger, older man kept whispe
ring in his ear for him to be calm, and, after a few seconds, he was.
A nurse, alerted by the commotion arrived and shook her head as she surveyed the scene. ‘Can’t you people take it outside?’ she said. ‘We have enough trouble here as it is.’
Hazel went to her, apologising profusely. ‘Sorry, nurse,’ she said. ‘The boy just lost his mother.’
‘I know,’ replied the nurse. ‘Now are you going to stop or do I go and get that policeman?’
‘It’s stopped,’ said Hazel. ‘It’s all over.’
The nurse went to Thomas’s prone form and turned his head to look at his nose. ‘It’s broken,’ she said. ‘Come on, get up. I’ll fix it.’
Thomas staggered to his feet and, giving Mark a look of pure loathing, followed the nurse back into the ward.
John Jenner went over to Mark who was leaning against the wall looking at his swollen knuckles. ‘Come on, son,’ he said. ‘Let’s go home. There’s nothing we can do here except get nicked. We’ll come back tomorrow and sort everything out.’
‘Susan was Thomas’s wife,’ Hazel reminded him. ‘The arrangements are down to him.’
‘No,’ said Mark. ‘I want to do it.’
‘And so you shall,’ said Hazel. ‘Tomorrow. Things will look different tomorrow.’
Different, thought Mark as she led him out to their car. Not better – different. And that’s how it’s going to be from now on.
Bobby Thomas didn’t press charges against Mark, and because he was skint as usual, he allowed Mark to arrange the funeral and John Jenner to pick up the bill. Mark didn’t see him again until the inquest – the verdict was suicide – and again at the funeral in Greenwich cemetery. John Jenner paid for the headstone too, but Mark rarely visited his mother’s grave. It brought back too many painful memories. Just once every twelve months, when he was around, on the 9th of April, with a bunch of flowers to replace the dead ones that had lain there all year.
Mark assumed that he would never see Bobby Thomas again after that, but he was wrong. They were to meet again quite soon, and once more it would be a life-changing event for Mark Farrow.
It was a beautiful spring evening in May when it happened. One of those perfect days in London when everything fits together perfectly. The temperature was in the low 70s, with a warm breeze blowing in from Africa, pollution was down and the grass was green and sweet.
Mark got a call at a pub where he was collecting money for John Jenner. Mark tried to make the extortion as pleasant as possible. He’d have a mineral water with ice and lemon and engage the publican or his wife in some conversation. The owners of this particular boozer went along with the fiction that Mark was just another customer, unlike some of the calls on his list where he was treated with as much caution as one might afford a rabid dog. With respect, but no friendship, and most of them were more than happy to see the back of him as quickly as possible. It was just part of the job, and Mark had stopped caring long before.
‘Call for you, Mark,’ said the barman, holding up the phone.
Mark went behind the jump and took the receiver.
‘Mark?’ said John Jenner’s voice.
‘Yes, Uncle.’
‘What are you up to?’
‘Usual.’
‘Right. I need to see you.’
‘When?’
‘Now.’
‘Where?’
‘Dev’s scrap yard.’
‘Why?’
‘You’ll find out. How long will you be?’
‘Half hour. Maybe less.’
‘Good. Just toot your horn when you get there, Chas’ll let you in.’
‘What’s all this about, Uncle?’ asked Mark.
‘I told you, you’ll find out when you get here.’ And he hung up.
Mark replaced the receiver, smiled a thanks to the barman and went back to his drink. The brown envelope stuffed with cash was in his pocket and he finished the water, wished everyone a pleasant good night and left. What they said about him when he was gone was irrelevant as far as he was concerned.
He went out to his car and headed towards Herne Hill and Dev’s railway arch.
It was around eight when he arrived, and the evening had taken on a lavender tinge. The yard was up a half-demolished street of ancient slums, next to a council tip. The whole area was up for redevelopment and, at that time of night, was deserted. It stood behind high walls topped with razor wire and the only entrance was a pair of chain-link metal gates.
When he got there, Mark bipped his horn. After a few moments, Chas appeared and the gates swung open. He waved Mark through and closed them tight.
Mark got out of his BMW and joined Chas. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked.
‘Got a surprise for you,’ said Chas.
‘I don’t like surprises.’
‘You’ll like this one.’
They walked together through the piles of old motors, thirty and forty feet high, that always seemed to Mark to be on the verge of toppling down and crushing anyone underneath.
At the back of the yard was a huge structure like a wallless barn, the roof supported by eight metal braces, each as thick as a tree trunk. In one corner was a Portakabin that Dev used as an office, and in the other, the crushing machine. It was a huge beast of a thing, battered and black with oil from countless engines, with a crane at one end to lift the hapless motors to their destruction and eventual end as three-foot-square cubes of metal, glass and rubber.
In the centre of the barn was a sunken drain to take the effluent from the cars and wash it away to God knew where. All in all it was a very iffy concern and Dev only managed to keep it running because of the compulsory purchase order that was on the land, and a few well chosen backhanders that kept council and environmental health officials turning a blind eye to what hazards went on behind the closed doors.
John Jenner’s latest motor, a new Jaguar saloon, was parked up empty next to the Portakabin.
‘Inside,’ said Chas.
Mark turned the handle of the cabin and went in. It was dark apart from one dim bulb burning in a desk lamp, but Mark could still see who was there. John Jenner was perched on one edge of Dev’s untidy desk. In front of it, in a swivel chair, was Bobby Thomas. His arms were tied behind him with rope, and his ankles were constrained with more of the same. His mouth had been taped shut. ‘Hello, Mark,’ said Jenner. ‘Glad you could make it. Look what the cat dragged in.’
Thomas strained at the ropes.
‘Stop it,’ said Jenner, who got down from the desk and slapped him hard round the face.
‘What’s he doing here?’ asked Mark.
‘Went out for a walk and didn’t go home,’ said Jenner.
‘He was going down the pub,’ said Chas. ‘Drowning his sorrows.’ Then he looked at Mark and said: ‘Sorry.’
Mark shook off the bad choice of words. ‘I thought he’d left London.’
‘I told him to,’ said John Jenner. ‘At the funeral I explained what would happen if I saw him again, but he must’ve thought I was joking.’
‘Bad idea,’ said Chas.
‘Let’s hear what he’s got to say,’ said Jenner and ripped the tape off Thomas’s face, leaving tiny blood bubbles in the pores on his lips and chin.
‘You bastards!’ ranted Thomas. ‘If you don’t let me go I’ll have you for kidnapping!’
Jenner laughed. ‘Kidnapping. Hear that, Chas? He says he’ll do us for kidnapping. What do you think he’d say if I cut his dick off and shoved it down his throat?’
‘Not much,’ replied Chas. ‘With his dick in his mouth and all.’
‘From what I’ve heard, the size of it, he’d hardly notice,’ said Jenner.
‘Mark,’ said Thomas. ‘Tell ’em. It wasn’t my fault your mum killed herself. She wasn’t well.’
‘And whose fault was that?’ said Jenner. ‘Anyway, you won’t be missed. Remind me, what do you do for a living?’
‘I’m unemployed at the moment,’ said Thomas.
‘What are you going to do?’ asked Mark.
‘That’s up to you, son,’ replied Jenner. ‘What do you think?’
Mark said nothing.
‘Now where’s that…’ said Jenner. ‘Ah, here it is.’ And he moved some papers on the desk revealing an automatic pistol with a silencer screwed to the barrel. He picked up the gun and worked the action, forcing a round into the breech. Thomas went white and the smell of shit filled the room. Sure enough, a dark stain spread over the crotch of his trousers.
‘Oh dear,’ said Jenner, sighting down the barrel of the gun. ‘He’s messed his pants. What a shame.’
‘Don’t, please,’ begged Thomas.
Jenner handed the gun to Mark. ‘Here you are, son, it’s all yours.’
Mark hefted the front-heavy weight of the pistol in his hand. This was what he’d been waiting for for years. A chance to get even with Thomas. But looking at the flabby, scruffy, shit-stained alcoholic sitting in front of him, he couldn’t dredge up enough energy to pull the trigger.
‘Get him outside,’ said Jenner, and Chas lifted the man, seat and all, and carried him through the door of the Portakabin and dumped him on the filthy concrete outside.
‘Are you going to do it?’ asked Jenner. ‘He’s all yours.’
‘He’s pathetic,’ said Mark.
‘Yeah. He is now. But if we let him go, he’ll be boasting about it in some boozer before the week’s out. Saying we’ve gone soft, and we might never have the chance again.’
‘Can’t we just let him go? Get him out of London?’
‘I’ve done that once, like I said. He’s taking the piss. Do you want me to do it?’
Mark shook his head. He knew that Jenner was right. And he also knew that whatever happened, whether Thomas walked or not, the night would haunt him forever. The same way the sight of his mother dying in the bath had filled his dreams every night since the night he’d found her.
‘What did she tell you?’ pressed Jenner. ‘When you found her?’