Guns of Brixton (2010)

by Timlin, Mark

  Sean knew it was the truth but wouldn’t admit it. ‘Hospital now,’ he said, ‘or I’ll kill you, I bloody will.’

  ‘They call this a “Mexican standoff” – did you know that, Sean?’ asked Mark. ‘I saw it in an old cowboy film one afternoon on TV. Black and white. Funny the things you remember.’

  ‘You should do something better with your time. Apart from robbing and killing innocent people, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Hark at Mr Perfect. Talking of robbing and killing, how about your dad? How about yourself? You killed one of your own back there, son. It’s all up for you now, whatever happens. They don’t like coppers in prison, so I’ve heard. It’s all shit in the chocolate pudding or ground-up light bulbs in your tea. Or maybe it’s the other way round.’ He laughed again.

  Sean was silent.

  ‘Got no answer, have you?’

  Sean wouldn’t meet his gaze.

  ‘Ever heard of a place called London Necropolis?’ asked Mark after a moment.

  Sean shook his head. ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

  ‘It was a station at Waterloo.’ Mark saw the look in Sean’s eyes. ‘Honest. No time for lies now, mate. A railway station for trains full of dead bodies, run by the London Necropolis Company. On their way to Woking. A place called Brookwood Cemetery. Biggest in the world, it was supposed to be. Enough room for every stiff in London. That was the plan. If it was still going, we’d all end up there. All of us. Your dad, my dad. You, me and Uncle Tom Cobley and all. But it never happened. The company went skint. Then it got bombed in the last war. The station did. But you can still see the entrance if you know where to look: 121 Westminster Bridge Road. Bloody yuppies’ bar now. I’d like to see some of them yuppies on the way to the cemetery.’ He laughed and started a fit of coughing. ‘Funny, isn’t it, mate? What you find out from books.’

  ‘From the prison library?’ said Sean.

  ‘Never done time, son,’ said Mark. ‘I was always off the radar. Real gangsters never go inside. Only fucking stupid losers who come out, write a book and make more than they ever did from blagging. Not fair, is it? Funny really. Know what else is funny?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘I’ll tell you. All the people who’ve died in the history of the world since time began and nobody knows what it’s like to die. Not really. Seeing the white light, out of body experiences, I reckon that’s all cobblers. What do you think?’

  Sean didn’t answer, but Mark wasn’t really expecting a reply.

  ‘Bloody strange,’ he went on. ‘But not to worry, you and me are going to find out soon.’

  ‘Not if I can help it. Not me anyway.’

  ‘Save it, Sean,’ said Mark. ‘You’re a dead man walking. Or at least sitting down.’

  Sean said nothing, but deep down he knew that Mark was right.

  ‘Mind if I smoke?’ asked Mark. ‘I know you don’t approve. But one thing’s sure, neither of us is going to kick off from lung cancer. At least there’s that.’

  Sean didn’t reply, so, with an effort, Mark pulled the pack from his pocket. The cigarette he extracted had bloody fingerprints on it, and he lit it with his Zippo, and the simple effort caused him so much pain he almost cried. Smoke drifted through the empty window frame and vanished.

  ‘So what now, then?’ said Sean.

  ‘We sit here,’ said Mark. ‘Have a chat.’

  ‘I’ve nothing to say to you.’

  ‘Nothing? I don’t believe you. There must be something, for Christ’s sake. I mean, we have a past. I thought for sure you’d recognise me that day in the Beehive. Steve. I ask you.’

  ‘I should’ve,’ said Sean. ‘But it’s been a long time, and you looked so different. The beard and the glasses. And your eyes.’

  ‘Good job you didn’t,’ said Mark. ‘Or I’d’ve never got a result.’

  ‘Call this a result?’ said Sean.

  ‘Could’ve been worse. Could’ve been a lot worse… Or maybe not.’

  ‘You’re bloody crazy,’ said Sean.

  ‘All the things we’ve got in common,’ Mark continued, as if Sean hadn’t spoken. ‘Never a talk. But if we’re ever going to do it, now’s the time, before it’s too late.’

  From far away they both heard the scream of a police siren, but it faded away on the hot afternoon air.

  ‘No help there, then,’ said Mark. ‘Too fast for that lot.’

  ‘They’ll be here.’

  ‘Not until we’re beyond help,’ said Mark. ‘But then we’ve always been that, haven’t we, Sean, my boy?’

  ‘Says you.’

  ‘Says me.’

  ‘So you’ve been seeing Linda,’ said Sean after a moment.

  ‘Yeah. Never could leave her alone. I came back before. Last winter. Uncle John wanted my help.’

  ‘John Jenner.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Mark, pausing to take a breath. ‘I’m glad I got to see him before he died. I was there the day you and your sidekick called at his house about that thing in Basingstoke.’

  ‘That was you.’

  ‘Yeah. Your grass was right. It was funny, John and Chas both knew who you were. What your dad did.’

  ‘They never said.’

  ‘They wouldn’t, would they? Then I found Linda again, and we… Well. You know. But then I had to go away. I hurt her again.’

  ‘I wondered what was up with her.’

  ‘I was never very good for her.’

  ‘You can say that again.’

  ‘We had some good times, though.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I wish you’d never met her,’ said Sean.

  ‘Would’ve been for the best, probably. But I wanted to see you both, after what Jimmy did.’

  ‘So everything was all about my father.’

  ‘Yeah. In the first place. Then circumstances sort of took over.’

  ‘Why didn’t you just leave me?’ asked Sean. ‘Just now. Why bother with all this?’

  ‘Like your dad left mine? No mate. No such luck. All our lives we’ve been heading for this, and I didn’t want to spoil it.’

  ‘You are mad.’

  ‘No. Just a bit annoyed.’

  ‘Is that why?’

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘You know.’

  ‘What?’ said Mark. ‘Come on, say it, mate.’

  ‘Why you went after Linda?’

  ‘No. Don’t you bloody understand? I loved her the minute I saw her.’

  ‘But you never treated her right,’ said Sean.

  ‘We didn’t have much of a chance, if you think about it.’

  ‘You can say that again.’

  ‘Still, it’s over now. Or it soon will be.’

  ‘It’ll never be over,’ said Sean, ‘Until you and me are both dead.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I mean,’ said Mark. ‘Exactly.’ He leaned back in his seat and groaned at the pain in his back. ‘Exactly,’ he said again as the hot sun beat down on the car.

  Sean was the first to pass out. His wound was still pumping blood. ‘Please, Mark,’ he begged. ‘For pity’s sake, get us out of here.’

  ‘Pity,’ said Mark. ‘I’ve noticed there’s not much pity around these days. Anyway, we’ll be gone soon enough. To a better place perhaps. What do you think?’

  There was no reply.

  ‘Sean,’ said Mark. ‘Sean. Can you hear me?’ But all was quiet from the back of the car.

  Mark pulled himself out of his seat and into the back of the car to join Sean. He felt for a pulse but it was so faint as to be almost nothing. ‘Brothers,’ he said. ‘Like fucking brothers we were. Sorry mate, you deserved better. We all did.’ He gathered him in his arms as their life’s blood mixed.

  * * *

  A small boy on a bike saw the two men in the car with its window blown out, and pedalled home fast. His mother, who had stopped believing his wild tales years before, was eventually dragged from her terraced house in the modern close not far from t
he wasteland, uttering dire threats about what would happen if he was lying. When she saw the two bodies on the back seat, glued together with their own blood, flies already feasting on them, she ran home and called the police.

  Within minutes, armed units had surrounded the Mondeo. After no response to several shouted warnings, the ranking inspector authorised the troops to move in. Six blue-clad coppers gingerly made their way across the waste ground to the car where they found the two men huddled together in the back.

  ‘You’d better get some medical help here, fast,’ said the first policeman on the scene. ‘They’re alive, but it doesn’t look good.’

  The inspector called for the air ambulance from the London Hospital. ‘Get here now,’ he ordered, ‘I want them alive.’

  Fifteen minutes later, woken by the relentless whirring of the helicopter’s blades, Mark’s eyes fluttered open. As he slowly focused on the shape beside him, he finally recognised Sean. He was perfectly still. Mark opened his mouth and tried to speak, but was unable to make a sound. He felt as cold and heavy as a stone. The weight of his eyelids was too much and, as they slowly closed, the darkness enveloped him.

  * * *

  Linda was at the rendezvous half an hour early. Her old school was deserted because of the holiday. The back of her truck was packed with suitcases. Mark had said he would be travelling light, so she’d only left a little room for his bits. She couldn’t believe what she’d had to pack for Luke and Daisy. There wasn’t much of her own stuff, she figured she could shop when they’d arrived at their new home. Inside her handbag were their passports and five thousand pounds in cash, her credit cards and cheque book. She’d left a note on Sean’s flat door telling him she would be away for a while and that they’d be in touch soon. There was no mention of Mark.

  Daisy was strapped into the child seat, fast asleep with a little white sun hat down low over her eyes. Luke was playing with some handheld video game and bouncing about under the constraint of his seat belt. She parked in the shade of the trees at the edge of the park where, all those years ago, Mark had waited for her in the pouring rain, and wound down her window to let in some air. The stereo played something from the 80s and she got out to smoke a cigarette away from the children. Neither of them seemed to notice. The afternoon was still and close and, away from the truck’s climate control, she had to pull her blouse away from her back to allow some air to reach her skin. Nothing was moving in the suburban street, except for a big black crow that froze when it saw Linda, then flapped its wings and took off, leaving her alone with her Silk Cut. She walked up to the school gates and gazed up the drive, remembering… remembering everything. The good and the bad times both.

  When the appointed hour arrived, she scanned the street for Mark’s car but, of course, it didn’t appear.

  She stayed there for an hour, pacing the street and smoking, but there was still no sign of him. ‘Damn him,’ she whispered to herself, as she added another filtertip to the ones flattened in the gutter around her feet. ‘Damn him to hell.’ She tried his mobile but it was switched off. She didn’t leave a message.

  As the shadows started to lengthen and Luke complained that he wanted to go to the toilet, she finally climbed back into the truck and switched on the engine. ‘Are we going on holiday, Mummy?’ the boy asked as she slowly drove away, still hoping that Mark would miraculously appear and smile the smile she loved and take her gently in his arms and promise her that everything was all right and that they were together forever this time.

  ‘I don’t think so, darling,’ Linda replied, as she tried to see through the tears that filled her eyes. ‘We’ll go another day.’

  And with that, she pointed the car in the direction of home.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Mark Timlin is the author of the Nick Sharman PI novels, which were filmed for ITV, starring Clive Owen. In a former rock ’n’ roll life, Timlin was a roadie for T Rex and The Who, and he ran a small and quite seedy music venue in Clapham, before turning to writing. His primary reason for picking up the pen was because he knew he could do a better job than most crime writers of the time. He wrote his first novel in 1988 and since then has written several dozen, in various genres and under assorted names. Known as the ‘bad boy of crime fiction’, Timlin has partly redeemed himself by becoming a major critical voice through his regular crime fiction reviews in the Independent on Sunday.

  COPYRIGHT

  Published by

  an imprint of John Blake Publishing Ltd,

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  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those may be liable in law accordingly.

  ePub ISBN 978 1 84358 557 2

  Mobi ISBN 978 1 84358 558 9

  PDF ISBN 978 1 84358 559 6

  First published as Answers from the Grave

  by The Do-Not-Press Ltd, 2004

  This edition published 2010

  ISBN: 978 1 84454 924 5

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.

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  © Text copyright Mark Timlin 2004

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Papers used by John Blake Publishing are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.

  series commissioning editor: Maxim Jakubowski