by Timlin, Mark
‘Happy days,’ said Goldstein as he closed the door behind Jimmy. ‘Happy days indeed.’
Standing outside in the street, Jimmy knew he’d been done up like a kipper by Gerry. Clockwork variety. But he’d had no choice at the time. He’d left the bulk of his money with Marje for the family, but that was, like her, long gone. At least Gerry had had the decency to give him something back. But then, he must have known that he would have been a dead man if he hadn’t.
When the door to Goldstein’s shop was locked again, the jeweller went back to his office, picked up the phone and dialled a number he’d committed to memory. It was answered after half a dozen rings. ‘He’s on the out,’ he said.
‘I know. This morning. Has he been round?’
‘Just left.’
‘Good. Did you give him his money?’
‘Some. He’s coming back for the rest Friday.’
‘Perfect.’
‘I don’t like it.’
‘You’d like it even less if you’d come up empty. How did he look?’
‘Older.’
‘Aren’t we all?’
‘But not bad. Apart from the suit he was wearing.’
The man on the other end of the line ignored the comment.
‘Did you get him on tape?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘You’re doing well, Gerry.’
‘If he finds out what I’m doing…’
‘He won’t. Now, apart from the cash you’re holding, he’s skint. And he’s not about to go for retraining on a government scheme. He’ll want work and you’re just the man to find it for him.’
‘Christ, but I’m taking a chance.’
‘Not half the chance you’re taking if you cross me. Just be cool and no one will ever know. Ring me again on Friday after he’s been.
‘OK?’
‘OK.’
‘Good. We’ll talk then. And keep that tape.’ And the phone went dead in Goldstein’s ear.
Jimmy went back to Holborn, and found the tailors that Gerry Goldstein had referred to. It was all off the peg stuff, but Jimmy was fortunate that he was a stock size and hadn’t put on or lost much weight inside.
The assistant brought him a selection of suits to look at, and Jimmy was amazed when he put on the first jacket that it closely resembled the mod styles he’d worn back in the early 60s, being tight, high buttoned, narrow lapelled with a back vent. When he examined the clothes closely he saw that the material could be better and there was scrimping over the seams, but he needed clothes so he picked out three suits, one navy, one black and one dark grey, half a dozen shirts in various pastel shades, underwear, shoes and a cashmere overcoat that set him back over seven hundred quid.
He stripped naked in the changing room and dressed himself in new clothes from the skin outward, collected together what he’d left prison in and asked the assistant to bin it. Then he took his packages and found a coffee shop. Where to stay was the next dilemma. He fancied a few days on his own before he looked anyone up, and a hotel would be favourite. Somewhere where he could come and go as he pleased and eat and drink in his own time.
From his wanderings around London all those years ago, he remembered a grand Gothic pile in Russell Square. He wondered if it still existed or had been pulled down. It was close to Goldstein’s, an easy stroll, which would be handy. When his coffee cup was drained, he went outside and hailed a cab. When he got to the square he was pleased to see that the hotel was still there. He went in and up to the desk. ‘I’d like a room for a couple of nights,’ he said.
‘Luggage sir?’ asked the desk clerk.
‘It’s at the station,’ Jimmy improvised. ‘I’ve just arrived in town.’
He saw the look on the clerk’s face and held up the carrier bags from the tailor’s, adding: ‘I’ll pay cash. In advance.’ Not that he cared about what some jumped-up little shit behind a desk thought, but he didn’t need the hassle.
‘No problem, sir,’ was the reply.
‘I’d like something high up,’ Jimmy said. ‘With a balcony.’ He couldn’t bear the thought of not being able to breathe fresh air, if indeed the air around there was that fresh.
The clerk sold him a corner room with a balcony and a view of the square and a bellboy took his bags and showed him the way. The cost of the room for two nights was astronomical to Jimmy, but he paid up. As far as he was concerned, there was plenty more where that came from, and he intended to get hold of it quickly.
The room was a fair size, about six times as big as his cell. Once the boy had gone – regarding the new pound coin in his hand much as one might look at dog shit on the sole of one’s shoe – Jimmy hung up his new clothes, opened the French doors and went outside.
The view was perfect as far as he was concerned and, armed with a beer from the minibar, he stood and looked out over London and breathed deeply. In fact he was surprised at how much the beer affected him. Twenty years without certainly does something to a man. Not like the piss poor prison brew he was used to.
The rest of the day he spent exploring the new world he’d been released into. And what a strange world it was. Even the newspapers and what TV he was allowed to watch during the prescribed hours hadn’t prepared him for what he was to see for himself. Sex, it seemed, was the new currency. Everything was about bunk ups. And everyone was at it. Or at least that’s what you gathered if you relied on the media.
So he decided he’d get some. Christ, he thought, twenty years without a woman. Nothing but wanking and the likes of Terry the Poof for relief. But his first night he spent in the hotel, alone with the TV and the contents of the bar. Of course, there was a pay-to-view porn channel. Several in fact. So, dick in hand and totally pissed after a meal in the hotel restaurant, he fell asleep between clean sheets on a comfortable mattress.
He dreamed about the old days and revenge. He’d pleaded guilty to murder at the time. It was the only logical choice. But it still miffed him mightily that he’d never discovered who’d grassed him and the boys up for that bank raid in Brixton. The entire gang had gone away for varying sentences – apart from Dave Nicholls, of course, who’d died at the scene from multiple injuries. His body had been driven off in the coroner’s wagon, and without any relatives to pay for anything better, he’d been buried in Potter’s Field at the public expense.
Once he was settled with some real dough, Jimmy intended to look them all up, one by one, and find out the truth. But not all his dreams were revengeful. Some were quite pleasant. He dreamed he was down at the Scene club in Ham Yard, at the back of Piccadilly, where the mods gathered all those years ago to get blocked and listen to their favourite music.
* * *
He thought back to one event in particular. It was the night that The Animals played their first London gig. Must’ve been Christmas, 1963, long before he’d joined up with John Jenner. Jimmy was working then at an advertising agency in High Holborn. Not far, in fact, from where he was sleeping now, and he’d clocked the building as he passed in the cab. In those days, he was a young buck looking for excitement. Jimmy was a dedicated mod and, after work every Friday, he’d stroll down Kingsway to the ATV studios near the Aldwych and blag his way into where Ready, Steady, Go! was being transmitted live. RSG! was the scene maker’s show, presented by some old sod, but with the help of some of the coolest of the London mods. Cathy McGowan was Jimmy’s ideal bird, and one night he actually chatted her up in the bar afterwards. But she had bigger fish to fry. Pop stars were her meat and potatoes, so Jimmy had no chance. She wanted a bloke with loads of dough and a flash motor. That night Jimmy vowed that one day that would be him.
It wasn’t McGowan he dreamt about that night, but the girl he’d met at The Animals gig. The Scene was a tiny basement room, the steps leading from the street were narrow and steep and at the bottom stood a huge bouncer. And it was always packed. Sometimes the queue went round Ham Yard twice. That night it was freezing and Jimmy was dressed only in a suit. He refused to wear
an overcoat because it hid the beauty of his outfit. Three button, single breasted, silver tonic Mohair with a pale blue, giraffe collar, tab shirt and a navy knitted tie. Highly polished black Chelsea boots from Topper in Shaftesbury Avenue completed the ensemble and, although Jimmy was shivering as he waited to go in, he knew three things.
One, the French blues he’d necked with a coke in a café in Soho were kicking in; two, he was the smartest geezer in the queue; and three, once downstairs the steam would literally hang over the crowd as they danced, so hot and sweaty did the club get within an hour of opening.
He was on his own that night, although he was aware of most of the faces waiting to enter, and nodded to several. And when he eventually gained access, he made straight for one of the booths that lined one wall. He bought a bottle of Coke on the way and sat at the table and checked out the crowd.
Guy Stevens was in the record booth, playing a selection of American soul and rhythm and blues. Just the music Jimmy loved. Ray Charles, Bobby Parker, The Impressions. One after another the little seven-inch singles pounded their music over the sound system. It was getting hot. Excitement was in the air. The Animals were the primo group from Newcastle, with just one single under their belt, and their singer Eric Burdon was the closest thing Jimmy had heard to his American favourites. Fuck Mick Jagger. He was nowhere compared to Burdon, and Jimmy couldn’t wait for the set to start.
Then he saw her. When she and her friend entered, for Jimmy it was love at first sight. She was small, slim, dressed in a little two-piece mohair suit of her own. Navy blue. Underneath was a pale blue jumper and she wore Anello granny shoes with the little strap across the top and tiny heels. They were navy blue also. Her hair was short and black, viciously backcombed, and her face was white, with panda black eyes and a hint of red lipstick. She’s for me, thought Jimmy, but he played it cool. It wasn’t in the moddy boy make up to run after birds. They were supposed to make the first move, and the geezer could pick and choose.
Jimmy lit a cigarette and did a slow move with his hips to the music. He knew he was king of The Scene that night. Ever since he’d entered, his gear had got several approving nods from blokes who were real faces. Yeah, Jimmy was cool that night, and a bird like that on his arm would complete the ensemble. Not that Jimmy was without female company when he wanted it. He’d had loads of birds after losing his virginity one night in a Butlin’s chalet a couple of years previously; he’d been spending a week down in Southend with a couple of lads from the mail room at the ad agency. But Jimmy wouldn’t be tied down. That was, until Marje came into the room, and all that went by the board.
She’d noticed him too, he could tell. Although the room was getting crowded and smoky, he’d seen her eyes flash as they passed over him. He put the half-finished Coke on a shelf and did some fancy footwork with a reverse spin as Night Train by James Brown and The Famous Flames started. The two girls slid through the crowd in his direction and Jimmy smiled to himself as Guy Stevens segued into a stormer from Marvin Gaye. Jimmy leant against the wall and when the girls were within a few feet he allowed the smile to encompass them. ‘Hello,’ the girl of his dreams said, or rather yelled above the Motown beat.
‘Hello, yourself,’ Jimmy yelled back. But coolly. Always cool, always self absorbed, that was Jimmy. But for the first time ever, he felt that maybe it was time to let someone else into his world. The conversation, if it could be called that with the music cranked up to brain-destroying volume, was short. She was Marjorie, her friend was Susan. Both lived in Stockwell and both worked for a huge magazine company based on the South Bank. They’d been to school together, were two years younger than Jimmy and lived at home.
Jimmy liked the fact that they were south London girls. He’d dated women from all over London, and in those days the late transport was few and far between, and taxis, except in an emergency, were priced right out of the question.
‘You blocked?’ asked Marjorie after a few minutes.
Jimmy nodded through eyes as big as saucers. That speed was really working, helped by the carbonation in the Coca Cola, and he could feel it running though his veins like hot oil. ‘You?’ he said, feeling his teeth grind.
Marje shook her head, and Jimmy reached into his pocket, surreptitiously removed the envelope that he’d been given in a pub in the Strand earlier that evening. Inside were seven French blues. Jimmy had bought ten for five shillings earlier. He carefully pulled out two and gave one each to Marje and Susie. ‘Have one on me,’ he said.
The girls dutifully swallowed them, washed down by a mouthful of Jimmy’s Coke. ‘Sweet,’ said Jimmy, then broke all the rules by asking Marje to dance. The next tune was one of Jimmy’s all time favourites. You Can’t Sit Down by the Phil Upchurch Combo, a rare and pounding 45 that had come out a couple of years earlier. Marje nodded, Jimmy gave his Coke to Susie to hold, and steered Marje into the centre of the tiny dance floor. The music, the girl’s perfume and the amphetamine were a heady mix and Jimmy made his best moves as Marje danced close by. They touched, but didn’t hold each other. He admired her style and could tell by her smile that she admired his. His only thought was that things didn’t get much better than this.
The Animals were on late. They’d already done one gig in the suburbs but Jimmy didn’t care. He was up for the night. He’d swallowed another pill and felt ten foot tall. Marje told him she had to be in by twelve or there’d be a row at home, but Jimmy had got paid that afternoon and was still holding folding and figured a cab ride to Stockwell was going to be a worthwhile investment – especially as he was then still living with his mum in Brixton Hill, only half an hour’s walk away. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’ll get you home, Cinderella.’
‘And Susie.’
‘Not a problem.’
The Animals played a storming set that night, but Jimmy couldn’t remember any of it, apart from the great boots they wore. They played their first single, and as the crowd roared its approval, Jimmy felt Marje’s sweaty hand slide into his, and his chest swelled with pride.
That was the start of a relationship that lasted almost twenty years. Then he was banged up and she married another man.
* * *
When Jimmy awoke in the hotel bed to dawn’s early light, there were tears in his eyes. He’d loved his wife and he hadn’t been around when she’d died, which had hurt him badly though he’d never admitted it. And the kids too, who he hadn’t seen for years. They were also on his list for a visit, but Christ knew what he’d find. That was, of course, if he could find them at all.
Later, washed, shaved and dressed in his dark grey suit, Jimmy went down to breakfast. He felt good dining off white linen with silver cutlery and went for the Full Monty again. Afterwards he found the bellboy, and this time slipped him a tenner. When he had his full attention he inquired after the chance of some female company, and the boy smiled and winked. Jimmy listened as the young lad reeled off a list of likely young ladies. ‘I don’t care,’ he said. ‘Just as long as they do the business.’
‘All my birds do the business, don’t worry about that.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘I reckon it’s been a while since you had a woman.’
‘You’re a clever little fucker, ain’t you? But don’t get too clever for your own good.’
The boy ignored the implied threat. ‘Been away?’ he asked, and instead of giving him a cuff for his cheek, Jimmy nodded.
‘A long time?’
‘Too long.’
‘Thought so. You’re kind of pale.’
‘I’ll give you pale, arsehole. Don’t get smart with me or you’ll be sorry.’
‘I’ll get you sorted, don’t worry,’ said the boy, not missing a beat.
‘But it’ll cost ya.’
‘I’ve got dough,’ growled Jimmy.
‘You could’ve fooled me. It’s been a long time since anyone gave me a quid as a tip.’
‘Don’t worry, you’re making up for it now,’ said Jimmy.
‘So when do you want this bird?’ asked the boy.
‘Tonight. Are you working?’
‘Never stop,’ said the boy. ‘Got me old mum to keep.’ Somehow the boy reminded Jimmy of himself at the same age. ‘How long you want her for?’
‘All night.’
‘Two fifty plus my commish.’
‘Fucking Ada,’ said Jimmy.
‘But the bird I’ve got in mind is worth it. A lovely girl. Natural blonde and doesn’t give a monkeys what she does.’
‘Sounds all right.’
‘A gram of coke would help, of course,’ said the boy.
‘I bet. How much?’
‘Fifty for the best, plus my commish.’
‘How much are you making out of all this then?’ asked Jimmy.
‘Fifty nicker will cover my trouble.’
‘On top of the tenner?’
‘What tenner?’
Jimmy smiled again and counted out five more notes. ‘Now you vanish on me and I’ll find you, and your old mum won’t recognise you.’
‘Do I look like that sort of bloke?’ asked the boy with such a degree of indignation that Jimmy laughed out loud.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I trust you. Thousands wouldn’t. I’m off out today but I want her in my room by seven thirty tonight. And a couple of bottles of champagne on ice. Right?’
‘Right,’ said the boy. ‘I tell you what, I’ll get the bubbly in from outside. Half the price of what you’d pay here.’
‘Plus your commish,’ said Jimmy.
‘Bloody right.’
Jimmy hung around the area for the rest of the day. Just clocking events and trying not to think too much about what he was going to do once he returned to south London.
At seven thirty he was in his room, out on the balcony with a glass of cold white wine. A minute later, there was a knock on the door. He opened it to find a tall, good looking blonde in a trenchcoat waiting outside. ‘Mr Hunter?’ she asked.
‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘But call me Jimmy. Come in.’
She entered, bringing with her an aroma of something expensive. He breathed it in and enjoyed the fact that it was perfume meant to entice him and no one else. He helped her out of her coat and hung it up. Underneath, she was wearing a simple black dress and dark nylons, all the better to show off her spectacular, curvy figure and long legs. ‘I’m Jane,’ she said. ‘And I’m all yours.’