Two Faced (Harry Tyler Book 2)

by Garry Bushell

  ‘No, but he’s got a lovely cock.’

  ‘See you …’ Harry spluttered with rage.

  ‘He’s even prettier when he’s angry.’

  Harry went to swing a left at Cindy. The bouncer blocked it. Incensed, Harry spun round and hit him with a straight right. It was his best punch. The man mountain shook his head as though a fly had landed on his chin.

  ‘Hit me like that again and I’m going to have to hit you back,’ he growled.

  ‘Hit him anyway,’ shrieked Cindy. ‘The homophobic cunt.’

  Harry stepped back and weighed up his options. William made the decision for him, flooring the security man with a wooden chair. The big lump seemed to defy gravity for a moment, rocking back and forth, before collapsing face down like a pole-axed ox.

  ‘Come on, Harry, let’s go,’ said Dinger urgently. ‘The two in the bog will be coming round soon.’

  ‘OK,’ Harry said, turning to jab at finger at the trannies. ‘But you two slags have got some coming.’

  They hit the stairs two at a time.

  ‘Someone’s upset him,’ sniffed Cindy.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Justine. ‘Drag. All that over a kiss. Imagine how cross he’d have been if we’d gargled with his goolies.’

  Harry let Dinger drive his car. He stopped at the Flying Dutchman, where the Ulsterman was staying. ‘One for the road?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Thanks for that, William.’

  ‘Make it Dinger. S’OK, mate. You saved my arse, it was only fair I saved yours.’

  ‘Very fucking funny.’

  They walked in and sat at the crowded bar. A DJ was playing in the small front room of the hotel.

  ‘Scotch?’

  ‘Please, mate.’ Harry thought for a moment. ‘How did you know they were geezers?’

  ‘Oh, the usual, the big hands, the Adam’s apples, the five o’clock shadow, the pipes, the copy of the Angling Times … mind you, in the half-light and with the perfume, they did look half decent.’

  ‘Mate, I don’t even want to think about it. What about your bit of bother?’

  ‘You guessed right. They were trying to double-cross us over a parcel.’ Dinger hesitated. ‘You’re a trader, you say, Harry?’

  ‘That’s right, mate: snides, sniff, handguns, whatever’s going.’

  ‘Well, this is where we differ. I’m a soldier. I only trade to fund what we have to do; we trade to fund the fight.’

  ‘You UVF?’

  ‘UDA. Two Scotches here please, love, and a couple of Buds.’ Dinger hesitated. ‘I don’t know where you stand on Ulster, Harry.’

  ‘I’ve gotta be honest, politics is not my game. But I’ve never believed that your lot was as bad as the other lot, whatever the papers say.’

  ‘Did we plant bombs on the mainland, Harry? Did we target working-class English kids in Birmingham and Woolwich, like the Provos?’

  ‘You’re banging on an open door, Dinger. As I read it your lot came about to protect your community. You were working with our security forces to do the jobs that our spineless politicians wouldn’t let our own boys do. But you’ve gotta admit the Catholics did have a rough fucking time of it, historically.’

  ‘The misery was never one-sided, mate. Our people have been getting massacred by the Irish since man first walked the earth, and today’s Loyalist paramilitaries are only the latest in a long line of men who have had to take up arms throughout the centuries, just to protect what we have. Though to be honest, I still say we should have taken the war across the border. Just for once, instead of defending, we should have taken the train to Dublin and let Eire know exactly what they’ve been paying for all these years.’

  ‘I can see that. If I were you I’d feel the same, and I know the “Free State” was in league with Adolf and all that. But thousands of Irish Catholics fought and died for this country too. I don’t hate anyone for their religion, Billy. I’m an atheist, thank God. And I think it’s a crying shame that the Orange and the Green can’t get along, respect each other’s right to exist – separately if need be. The way I see it, you’re British, I’m British and we’ll stay British, right?’

  ‘No problem, mate, but just remember that’s easy for you to say. Things you take for granted, I’ve had to fight every day of my life for. And I’ve probably had more mates murdered just for wanting those simple rights than you’ve known. Because of them, I can still call myself British. So let’s drink to them, and while we are at it we might as well push the boat out and buy these two a drink as well.’

  Two women in their twenties were alongside them at the bar.

  ‘Ladies, what are you having?’ Dinger asked.

  ‘Are you sure these are for real?’ said Harry in a stage whisper.

  ‘Oh, I’d lay money on it.’

  Harry came to at 5.35am in bed at the Queen’s Hotel with a barmaid called Sandra from Southport whose name he had forgotten. Gently extricating himself, he washed, stepped over two used condoms – not bad for a drunk! – packed and settled his room bill. There was a note waiting for him at reception. It quoted Kipling, saying simply, ‘Nine hundred and ninety-nine can’t bide the shame or mocking or laughter, but the Thousandth Man will stand by your side to the gallows-afoot – and after!’ Underneath was written, ‘H, I am your Thousandth Man. God speed. Q.S. – Dinger.’

  Harry was on the M25 by 10.15am. He had no inclination to go home, so he missed the M11 turn and headed on back into London on the A13, cutting off for an early dinner. Harry plotted up at the Elm Park Tavern near Aveley, and drank beer there until 9.30pm, when he left and headed for the Circus Tavern in hope of a comic or at least the Sunday Sport table dancers. Instead he found a talent showcase night in progress, so Harry stood at the back bar and went round the top shelf until they threw him out.

  When he awoke the next morning he had no idea where he was or how he’d got there. He was aware that he was face down on the floor, stinking of sick and facing a blue washing-up bowl. He was still fully dressed but minus his leather jacket. As he focused he saw two pink fluffy slippers just inches away. They faced him like the guns of a battleship. A wet sponge stinking of disinfectant hit him square on the head. He craned his neck up to see which enemy he was up against.

  ‘And you can clean that puke up yourself, Harry Dean,’ said a voice. It was a voice he knew but couldn’t immediately place. The voice went on: ‘I finished cleaning up your mess years ago.’

  Harry closed his eyes in disbelief and lowered his head the eight inches back to the carpet. How the hell had he made his way in the state he was in to Fullarton Crescent in South Ockendon?

  His ex-wife Dawn broke the silence. ‘To think you used to moan about me smoking. It’s just as well there’s no such thing as passive alcoholism or I’d be in line for a liver transplant having you under my roof. Do you remember much about last night, Harry? Or should I say this morning?’

  Harry shook his head. ‘No, sorry mate. Was I out of order?’

  ‘Am I missing something here, Harry? Hello, excuse me, but we are DIVORCED. You remarried. You don’t live here. Is it all coming back now?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Sorry? You’re sorry? I won’t ask how you found me here. What about me? What if I was still with my bloke? You’re lucky we broke up, he’d have given you a pasting.’

  Harry stared at the ground, hoping it would open up and swallow him.

  ‘Sorry, Dawnie. I was out me nut.’

  ‘Do you remember leaning up against the front door, head against my flipping bell? Do you remember calling the minicab driver a ‘fucking asylum-seeking ponce’ and telling him to piss off back to Afghanistan? Do you remember sitting on my sofa crying your eyes out, smashed out of your head?’

  ‘Sorry, Dawn.’

  ‘Stop saying sorry. You have no idea how pathetic that sounds. If Bernard had been here you’d have got a kicking and I’d have got a slap. What was on your mind?’

  ‘Bernard? Bernard who?’ />
  ‘Bernard-none-of-your-sodding-business Bernard. So who is dead then? That’s all you kept on about.’

  ‘Long story. Where’s me jacket?’

  ‘On the floor, where you left it, next to your left sock, where you left that.’

  ‘Can I use the bog?’

  ‘I’d run you a bath, you smelly bastard, but you’d probably drown. Go up and have a shower. And gargle with some Domestos, can you? You stink like a Tilbury dosser.’

  Harry stood under the shower for ten minutes, sponging himself down repeatedly. When he finally staggered from the unit, Dawn was there holding out a clean towel. She made no attempt to avert her eyes.

  ‘Thanks, Dawn.’

  ‘Here’s a toothbrush.’

  He took the toothbrush from her, noting that she had already squirted enough paste on it to freshen up Esther Rantzen.

  ‘Ta.’

  ‘Don’t thank me, this is the one I use to clean the toilet with.’

  Harry smiled. ‘You still look great, girl.’

  ‘Shall I ring your wife and let her know where you are?’

  He looked at her. The way he felt now, he wouldn’t have cared if she had.

  ‘No,’ he said finally. ‘I’ll square that one later.’

  ‘Thinks you’re working, does she? Bet she loves being constantly lied to and kept in the dark. I know I did.’

  ‘Oi, it was you that cheated on me, Dawn. Don’t forget that.’

  ‘You want a coffee?’

  ‘No, ta, just some water.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake Harry, go and get in the spare bed and sleep it off. I’ve gotta go out. Be back in four hours or so.’

  He didn’t argue. Dawn steered him into the spare room by the elbow.

  ‘When I get back I don’t wanna find you in my bed. Nor in me knickers drawer neither.’

  ‘OK. Thanks, darling.’

  ‘I am NOT your darling.’

  Harry blew her a kiss and slumped between the sheets. He came to just before 6pm. He could hear his ex-wife moving about downstairs. She had placed a towelling dressing gown at the end of the bed. He put it on and wandered down to the kitchen. Dawn handed him a glass of murky-looking liquid.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Olive oil, tomato ketchup, raw egg yolk, salt, pepper, Tabasco, Worcestershire sauce and vinegar. The best hangover cure known to man.’

  Harry didn’t look sure.

  ‘The olive oil flushes out your liver, the raw egg cleans out the toxins from the booze, the ketchup boosts your immune system with anti-oxidants …’

  ‘When did you get so smart?’

  ‘The day I left you.’

  Harry took a sip and pulled a face.

  ‘Can I have a shot of vodka in this to perk it up?’

  ‘No, you silly bugger. What you need is a banana as well to restore potassium but I’ve not got any of them so I’ve made you a corned beef sandwich. You’d better eat it.’

  He sat at the kitchen table opposite her.

  ‘Sorry, Dawn, I shouldn’t have come.’

  She lit up a Silk Cut and sighed smoke towards him.

  ‘So, you’re finished with your guy then?’ Harry asked.

  ‘Yeah, it was going nowhere. Bernard. Nice man but a little strange. His family were hounds but he’s respectable, a top accountant.’

  ‘From round here?’

  ‘No, North London.’

  ‘How was he strange?’

  ‘He …’Dawn hesitated. ‘He …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, he was straight as a dye, really successful and all that. But he believed …’

  Dawn collapsed in a fit of giggles.

  ‘What?’

  ‘He believed that God was an astronaut and the world is run by lizard men, like that David Icke does.’

  ‘Lizard men?’

  ‘Yeah. Prince Philip is a lizard, George Bush, Bin Laden, Putin, Saddam. All these world leaders are lizards according to him. One day I asked him why, if George Bush was a lizard and Bin Laden was a lizard, did they hate each other? And he said, “Where did you read it? In the papers. And who runs the papers? Lizard men.”’

  ‘Crack up! How did you keep a straight face?’

  ‘I couldn’t. I had to avoid the subject all the time. On every other level he was normal, it was just the lizard thing.’

  ‘How do you know he weren’t a lizard? Did he have a scaly cock?’

  ‘NO!’

  ‘I had a chameleon once, dropped it on a tartan rug and wore the fucker out.’

  ‘That is a bad gag, Harry.’ She laughed.

  ‘Is Eddie Izzard a lizard? Is Steve Irwin the lizard of Aus?’

  She held her hand up to stop him.

  ‘So has there been anyone else in your life then, after the lizard man?’

  ‘No, only me rampant rabbit … but what’s that got to do with you?’

  ‘Just curious.’

  ‘Where’s this going, H?’

  ‘Matter for you, sarge. But I wouldn’t mind crashing the night, I need some space to get me head together. No sex, just stay here?’

  ‘Harry, when you used to say that it meant I had to get me twangers on.’

  ‘Nah, look, I’ll take you for a nice Italian as a thank-you for putting up with me and afterwards I promise I’ll behave.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Absolutely no sex.’

  ‘No sex.’

  He kissed her gently on the lips.

  ‘Just a little snuggle.’

  * * * * *

  They sank into her bed at 10.15pm. ‘No sex,’ Dawn whispered. She turned her back to him.

  ‘No sex,’ said Harry as he spooned his body against her and slipped a hand around her stomach. Just the smell of Dawn excited him. She felt his hardness against her and didn’t pull away.

  ‘You can massage my shoulders if you like.’

  ‘You’d better slip your nightie off then,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It gets in the way.’

  Even in the half-light, Harry could see the faded bruises and scratch marks on Dawn’s back. He rubbed them tenderly.

  ‘How did you do this?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘These bruises.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, pausing just a moment too long. ‘I was just mucking about with Tracy’s boys. They’re a handful now. They don’t know their own strength.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Don’t go all Sherlock Holmes on me, Harry.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Just get on with the job in hand.’

  ‘Yes, sarge.’

  They made love twice before sheer physical exhaustion overpowered his libido.

  Dawn woke Harry up at 9am with two rounds of bacon sandwiches and a mug of hot tea; she slipped back into bed with him as he ate.

  ‘So, you’re doing well?’ she asked.

  ‘Ticking over, can’t complain. You?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Yeah. Does this feel a bit awkward to you?’

  ‘No. To be honest it feels just right.’

  ‘What was that about last night then?’

  ‘A clear case of déjà screw.’

  ‘Be serious, Harry. I’m confused. It’s like we haven’t seen each other for so many years, and here we are shagging again. I mean, I don’t even know what’s happened in your life. I know you’re still in the job, which doesn’t surprise me, but you were rambling away incoherently about your undercover work. How long have you been doing that now?’

  ‘On and off for the best part of sixteen years.’

  ‘You ever been caught out?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘So what was the best “infiltration”?’

  ‘The best result was putting Johnny Too away, the Baker gang out of South London.’

  ‘I saw that on the news.’

  ‘But the most enjoyable case was a few years ago when I had to get into the r
oad crew of a shock rock band, a right lairy bunch of scumbags. They were running drugs, handguns, all sorts. It’s a long story.’

  ‘And will I have to wait another ten years to hear it?’

  ‘Say the word and I’m back here tomorrow, doll.’

  Dawn hesitated for a heartbeat.

  ‘You enjoy your work, Harry?’

  ‘Love it.’

  ‘As much as sex?’

  ‘Almost.’

  ‘Really?’ Dawn reached under the covers and caressed Harry’s cock. He put what was left of his sandwich on the bedside table.

  ‘Maybe I’m exaggerating,’ he grinned, reacting immediately to her touch. ‘There ain’t nothing in the world as good as this …’

  Harry got home at 2.37pm. The house was empty, but Kara’s clothes were still in the wardrobe. He undressed and got into bed. It was 8pm when he heard the front door slam. He heard Kara’s footsteps on the stairs as she put the children to bed. He feigned sleep but his wife never came in. She slept in the spare room.

  When Harry went down to breakfast, Kara was standing over the washing machine. She didn’t turn around.

  ‘Morning, love,’ he chirped.

  ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘Up North.’

  ‘No,’ she said turning towards him. ‘Since you came back.’

  Harry looked at her blankly.

  ‘They rang yesterday to tell you the funeral is next Thursday. And, Harry, I don’t use Fabreeze. Your clothes have been washed in it.’

  ‘I …’

  ‘Shut up. I don’t want any more of your lies. I don’t want anything. I’m going out with the kids, and when we come home we want you out of our life. Do you understand, Harry? We don’t want you no more.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  BROTHERS IN ARMS

  October 25, 1987.

  ‘Pump up the volume, pump up the volume, DANCE! DANCE!’

  Bob Stovell turned off the radio as he parked. He didn’t mind Gillingham; he had never had any agg here. Stovell pulled up the handbrake of the security van and stared long and hard into the near-side wing mirror. He was on the lookout for anyone suspicious, anyone loitering. A slim, pimply young man in a leather windbreak was holding his gurgling baby above his head and laughing at their reflection in a darkened window. Two teenage girls idled along trying to look older than they were, although the Rick Astley lapel badges conspired against them. And what was this? Stovell noticed a large, powerfully built geezer smoking a fag in the recess of the shop window next door to the North Kent Building Society. Stovell tensed. A maroon Ford Granada driven by a woman pulled up. The big man smiled and then hurried across the pavement to get in. Stovell watched the car drive off and relaxed. It was always the same; he saw an armed robber in every shop front. He had been robbed at gun-point last year and to his great embarrassment had soiled his pants. That would never happen again.