by Dan Fletcher
The Chief was seemingly satisfied that he had instilled a sufficient amount of pain, terror and regret into Mujide. He threw the machete to the floor and pocketed the ear. The clanging sound of the impact echoed around the silent and virtually empty warehouse. Now that he had vented his rage and anger on the unfortunate official, a deep sense of power and calm filled him.
Taking deep breaths he turned to his son. ‘When you get back to London you’ll send me a new Mercedes, I’m sure that this time the colonel will ensure that it arrives safely. God will be of no assistance to him if it doesn’t!’ Tunge nodded, unable to refuse.
Indeed the man was lucky his actions were a mistake and not deliberate. Otherwise he would not just be missing an ear, he and a few close family members would be feeding the fish at the bottom of Lagos Lagoon right now, as a message to anyone else who would try to steal from the Chief. Not that anyone in their right mind knowingly would, no matter how desperate they were.
CHAPTER FOUR
Showering quickly, John slipped into clean faded blue jeans, a white t-shirt and grey hoodie. Donning his faded brown leather jacket and battered trainers he headed out of his building. John turned right towards Newington Green. There he would catch the number73 down to St Paul’s Road, the first stage of his journey to Steve’s terraced house on Pretoria Avenue. Not far from the bottom of Walthamstow High Street.
Starving he stopped to buy a spicy chicken sandwich from the Jamaican fast food restaurant on the corner, which was a regular haunt. This was both due to his bachelor status, and the levels of bacteria growing in the kitchen back at home.
As usual the owner, Wycliffe, who looked like a yardie version of Snoop Dog, was stoned and joking with the couple of youths leaning against the counter waiting for their food.
‘Ello John! Waz apnin bredren?’ came his customary greeting.
John wanted to be on his way as the bus was due any minute, and considering his purpose he really wasn’t in the mood for small talk, even though he liked Wycliffe. ‘Hello mate, not much. Give me one of your special sandwiches, I’m in a bit of a rush.’
‘Can’t rush ya food man, give ya indigestion. Got ta take it real slow, like making luv ta a gud woman,’ grinned Wycliffe back at him, showing the goofy gap where his top front four teeth were missing. ‘Tawt a young lickle white boy like ya would na about tings like dat,’ he continued, savouring the moment, ‘wit ya highbrow education an all.’
John smiled back at the mocking proprietor, ‘Come on man the bus’ll be here any minute.’ He stood talking for a few minutes with the youths, waiting for his food. They were reading the sports pages that were resting on the counter, relishing their team’s recent run of form. John received his meal and bid them goodnight.
Closing the door behind him, the bus pulled in across the road and John had to sprint to catch it. Taking his seat, and regaining his breath, he wolfed down the sandwich on the short journey before he had to change buses. It was around seven thirty, but even mid-week the popular and trendy pubs along Upper Street were already teeming with life. Pulling into Highbury & Islington, John was tempted to pop into ‘The Buffalo Bar’ for a quick pint. But Alan’s words of warning came back to him and he managed to resist the temptation.
John entered the tube station and passed his monthly ticket through the machine, returning it to its holder as he took the escalators deep under London’s streets to the northbound platform below. The tube was littered with the remnants of yet another commuting day. It stank of the stale sweat of too many people crowded into a small space. Combined with a hint, subtle but unmistakable, of urine, left by the late night revellers and homeless the evening before.
On arrival at Blackhorse Road, not wanting to wait for the elevator which took ages, John sprinted up the stairs. He ran out of the station and into the cold, but welcome, night air. Feeling relieved to escape the stifling atmosphere of the underground.
After a brisk five minute walk and feeling refreshed he was knocking on the door of Steve’s mid-terrace home on Pretoria Avenue. Alternatively ‘Calcutta Row’, as it was unlovingly referred to by the skinhead. Steve and his neo Nazi entourage had taken to renaming Walthamstow as ‘Little India’. They had invented names for most of the streets surrounding the high street including their own.
It was true that white people had become a minority in the area. Due to cheap rentals and a poor local house market there had been an influx of immigrants, all looking for cheap accommodation. They were not all Indian, as depicted by Steve and the gang though. They were a vast blend of ethnic groups, including Turks, Greeks, Somalis, Ethiopians, Eastern Europeans and a host of other African countries. Most of who, in John’s opinion, were hard working and honest.
The high street shops and weekly market offered local employment for them, in jobs that most British people, including Steve, shied away from. ‘Ignorance is bliss I suppose,’ thought John. A light came on, visible behind the frosted glass panel above the door and he heard someone walk towards him.
‘Who the fuck is it,’ barked the unseen figure. The voice depicted that he was expecting trouble.
‘It’s John. Open up, I’m freezing my bloody bollocks off out here.’
John, probably due to his well-travelled upbringing, was the sort of person who could mix with all walks of life, from landed gentry to petty criminals. He tried to avoid the serious ones. Sub-consciously John adjusted his speech and mannerisms to suit whatever situation he found him-self in.
He listened as several deadbolts were slid back and the lock of the door eventually clicked open. The door swung inwards, bathing John in light from the hallway, and the figure stood aside to let him pass. Once John was inside he shut the door, relocking all the deadbolts behind them. John’s eyes adjusted to the increased light and he recognised him as one of the resident skinheads, known only to him by the nickname Steve used, ‘Red’.
Presumably because he had red hair, but as there was nothing there and his eyebrows appeared to be blonde, John was not entirely sure. The only things that were usually red were his eyeballs. Which might be the reason, he supposed.
He carried on into the living room, where Steve and another shaven disciple were sitting back, watching a kung fu film on a gigantic TV, much too big for the room. In front of them was what John guessed must be a coffee table, camouflaged with empty take-away boxes and beer cans. A haze of smoke and the strong smell of cannabis permeated the room. Steve held a strange looking contraption in his right hand, which was hanging limply down the side of the armchair. Both looked as red eyed as the guy who had opened the door, ruining John’s new theory.
Steve turned towards John as flumped onto the adjacent sofa, seeming to notice him for the first time. ‘Hello John. How you doing mate? Fancy a hit on this? Knock your bleeding socks off,’ he said. Knowing the procedure and that he had to accept, John took the bong from Steve’s outstretched hand.
Lighting it he inhaled deeply. Too deeply as it turned out, and his lungs seemed to explode in painful protest, which resulted in a prolonged coughing fit. ‘Told you it was strong didn’t I?’ beamed Steve, ‘Too much for a private school pussy like you.’ John nodded in agreement, still coughing and unable to speak.
‘What you after anyway?’ said Steve, moving on to business, expecting John to be looking for some coke.
‘It’s not what I want, but what I’ve got to sell, that I thought might interest you,’ John replied, catching Steve’s attention, wasted as he was.
‘What’s that then?’
‘Kilo of coke, brought you a sample,’ John replied, taking what was left of the packet Alan had entrusted him with from his inside jacket pocket. He threw the packet into Steve’s lap. ‘Have a go on that and let me know whether you want it or not. I need to know by Friday, otherwise it’ll have gone somewhere else.’
Steve picked the packet up, looking at it from different angles, ‘A kilo’s too much for me, but if it’s ok I should be able to find a buyer for you, for about
32K.’
That probably meant he was selling it for thirty five, but they wanted to get rid of it as soon as possible. So to sweeten the deal even further for him, John said, ‘We’ll call it thirty if you can do the deal on Friday.’
Steve frowned, ‘Why the big rush? Where’s this stuff from anyway?’
John looked him straight in the eye. ‘None of your bloody business, do you want it or not?’
Not really bothered Steve pocketed the coke and returned his attention to the TV, ‘Don’t know mate, have to talk to my man and let you know.’ John stayed for a while, in order to keep up appearances, before making excuses about work in the morning and heading off home.
That night John lay on his back in bed, staring at the ceiling, with the day’s events swimming around in his head. Until he eventually fell into a shallow and troubled sleep.
CHAPTER FIVE
Before going home, Alan drove to their yard in the arches under the railway lines, off Moorefield Road. He backed the van up as close to the wall as possible to stop it getting broken into. He turned the ignition off, put the rucksack over his shoulder and got out of the van, making sure both doors were locked as he did.
The lock up was rectangular, about twelve feet wide by thirty-six feet deep, its main feature was an arched brick ceiling, which supported the railway above. A train rumbled overhead as he went in, the metal racking lining the walls vibrated and swayed with its passing. Dust showering down from the bricks. Flicking on the strobe light, Alan locked the double doors behind him. Everything slowly settled back into place, and the room became still again.
Placing the rucksack on the workbench, he undid the straps and reverently removed the packet of cocaine. Grabbing one of the empty paint tins, they kept for mixing and cleaning brushes, he placed the packet inside. He put it on one of the shelves, behind some others. Not very sophisticated, but then that was Alan. Besides, he knew from experience that very often the best place to hide something was in plain sight.
Checking the time on his watch Alan realised he better get a move on or there would be hell to pay from Caitlyn, who would have the dinner ready. It was not that he was under the thumb, not entirely anyway, and Caitlyn was no tyrant. As long as he phoned or let her know in advance he wouldn’t be home, then there was no problem. She just didn’t like to be kept guessing.
Something Alan learnt the hard way early on in their marriage, when she locked him out the house on numerous occasions. It needed a strong woman to put up with his antics, and Alan knew deep down that he was lucky to have found one more than equal to the task.
The rest of Alan’s evening, in comparison to John’s, was the picture of domestic bliss. He walked the short distance to their home on Woodside Gardens, opened the front door and shouted his arrival.
‘Daddy!’ and, ‘Daddy’s home!’ were the responding cries, from Lucy and Rachel upstairs.
There were a few thumps, as they threw down whatever they were playing with, followed by a heavy drum roll of feet as they raced down the stairs to greet him. Their angelic faces beaming with pleasure to see him, a picture that was repeated every day he came home, yet still never failed to warm his soul. Alan gathered the two girls in his arms, hugging them tightly to him, smothering them in kisses.
There was the usual tirade of questions, and tales of what they had been up to at school that day. Nearly six years old, but tiny for her age, Lucy wanted to join the football team and couldn’t understand why girls were not allowed. Rachel, who was nine, and becoming more like her mother every day, was particularly excited to be receiving the attentions of some boy who she ‘really didn’t like’.
Of Irish decent, Caitlyn was still extremely attractive with long curly blonde hair, sparkling green eyes, a slightly pointed chin and an athletic figure. She always received admiring looks when they were out, much to Alan’s annoyance. Both the girls had luckily inherited her looks, not his, and Alan could see many painful teenage years ahead of him. Surrounded by women at home as he was, it still often amazed Alan how at such a young age girls seemed to inherently know how to manipulate men. Even Lucy knew how to smile sweetly and twist him around her little finger.
Picking the girls up, Alan walked into the kitchen where Caitlyn was taking a home-made lasagne from the oven. The smell of it, combined with the garlic bread on the table filled the room. ‘Hello gorgeous,' he said, 'smells fantastic!’
Caitlyn looked over her shoulder with fake annoyance. ‘Why is that always a surprise to you Alan?’
Alan put the girls down, stepped forward and wrapped his arms around his wife, kissing her on the neck. ‘Not surprised love,' he whispered in her ear, 'Flabbergasted.’ Caitlyn elbowed him in the ribs, and the kitchen pealed with laughter.
They were all in good spirits as they ate, the girls especially. 'Daddy,' Rachel said, 'is Santa going to bring my horse this year?' Alan looked out the window. They only had a small box garden. Quite where she expected the bloody thing to live, he didn’t know.
After clearing away, Alan settled the girls down for their customary story. Tonight it was ‘Big Friendly Giant’ by Roald Dahl, one of their favourites, and his. When he had finished, Alan kissed them both tenderly and wished them good night, then went back downstairs to share a drink with Caitlyn.
When they curled up in bed later facing each other, buoyed by the day’s events, Alan was still full of energy and started to kiss Caitlyn passionately. ‘I’m tired Alan, can we do this in the morning,’ she whispered into his ear. Caitlyn had always been a morning person claiming that was when she had the most energy. Alan wasn’t, undeterred he started to kiss her neck and ear, moving his hand up the inside of her thigh as he did so. He felt her inadvertently arch her back pushing her groin against his and her breath quickened.
He slowly caressed her thighs, deliberately not touching where he now knew she wanted him to. ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to do that special thing you like,’ Alan said, nibbling on her ear lobe.
Starting to kiss his neck now and running her hands over his spine she succumbed, ‘Well, I suppose you could.’ Grinning, Alan rolled her onto her back, pulling the cover over his head, he slowly moved down her body, teasing and biting her nipples gently, before passing her navel, and arriving at his destination.
Cuddling afterwards Caitlyn pulled back slightly and looked at Alan seriously, ‘There’s nothing I need to know is there?’
Alan wondered, not for the first time, how she could read him so easily, ‘Of course not babe, what makes you ask?’
Sighing deeply she nuzzled back into his neck, ‘I don’t know, just a feeling.’
Deciding to keep silent, Alan held her until he heard her breathing slow and she fell into a deep sleep. ‘What she doesn’t know can’t hurt her can it?’ thought Alan, before finally drifting off himself.
CHAPTER SIX
Although of average height and skinny, Max was feared by the other skinheads with good reason. Brought up in a series of foster homes after being abandoned by his mother at birth, he had suffered abuse, both mental and physical, from a very early age. At thirteen the latest in a series of foster dads tried to force himself on Max as he lay asleep in bed one sticky summer night, in their seemingly perfect suburban home in Peacehaven, on the Sussex coast. It was not the first time someone had tried to rape Max, indeed many had succeeded, but it was the last.
Waking up shocked and struggling under his overweight carer, he got hold of the lamp beside the bed and struck his ‘dad’ repeatedly on the side of the head. Covered in blood he didn’t even stop when the body went limp on top of him. He only gave up when he could no longer raise his arm through exhaustion.
Severely affected by his experiences, and too young to be sent to prison, Max had been sent to a youth detention centre just outside Brighton. Always sadistic, he learnt new ways to inflict pain on his fellow inmates. There he earned the nickname ‘Mad Max’, as he was wrongly considered to be insane. The truth was Max was way above average in inte
lligence, and very methodical in everything he did, he just liked hurting people.
Max liked the nickname believing it gave him certain kudos amongst his peers and it stuck with him through adult life. During his twenties he was in and out of prison a number of times for various assaults, culminating in an eight year sentence for stabbing someone who owed him money outside a West End club.
Since his last stretch Max became extremely paranoid about going back in. He had managed to keep out of prison for the last eight years by making sure he knew about everything that was going on around him, and also by having someone there to clean up if things got messy.
As a front for his illegal activities, and to combine a personal hobby, Max owned a small Tattoo Parlour on the High Road in Stamford Hill, along with the two floors above it. The top floor was used to store stolen goods before moving them on, and was a genuine Aladdin’s Cave, boasting a vast array of items, from the latest plasma TVs, to expensive jewellery and watches.
Drugs were never kept on the premises. As one of Max’s safety precautions they were always stored in a different location, for as little time as possible, and sold on. An apartment rented under a fictitious name, on Craven Park Road.
The first floor contained a large office come den, complete with sofas, Sony entertainment centre, a pool table, a 50’s style jukebox, and a small bar. Adjoining this was a bedroom, shower room and small kitchenette. Everything Max needed was on one floor, and he often spent weeks not leaving the building, as he kept a vigilant and untrusting eye on his stock.