Paint It Black

by Mark Timlin

  ‘How’s every little thing?’ he asked. I looked at his eyes. He’d been at the charlie again, or maybe a rock of crack.

  ‘Just dandy,’ I said.

  ‘Got the dough?’

  ‘Naturally.’

  He pushed the briefcase towards me. I picked it up. It wasn’t light, wasn’t heavy.

  ‘Let’s take a walk,’ he said.

  We wandered away from the house on a path that led to a copse of trees.

  ‘No one waiting for us is there?’ I asked.

  ‘No, man. When I make a deal, I make a deal. I don’t want to be waiting round for people to rip me a new arsehole. Anyway, you a friend of Emerald’s. I’d never be able to go home again if he thought I done you up.’

  There was another bench by the trees. Darkman sat down, so did I. I slipped the catches on the case and opened it. Inside it was lined with foam cut out in the shape of an Uzi machine pistol which gleamed with oil. Above it, also sunk into the foam, was the phallic length of a suppressor. Four empty clips were next to the gun. I shut the case. Darkman passed me the Tesco bags. I looked inside them. In each were five cardboard ammunition boxes. I took one out. A white sticky label was pasted on the end of the box. Printed on it was ‘9 mm × 50’. I opened the box and saw the brass cases nestling there.

  ‘Good enough,’ I said, and took out the envelope and passed it to Darkman. He took out the money and counted it in a nanosecond, then smiled.

  ‘Good enough,’ he echoed, stood up and walked in the direction of Brixton. ‘Drop by for a taste any time,’ he said over his shoulder as he went. ‘And stay chilly. The Darkman likes his friends to be cool.’

  I picked up the briefcase and the bags and cut across the grass in the direction of the car. The only people I saw on the way back were two old biddies taking their springer spaniel for a walk.

  Dawn drove me home and we went up to the flat. I took out the Uzi, broke it down, cleaned, dry fired it and screwed on the suppressor to make sure it fitted. It all seemed kosher, but there was only one way for sure to find out. I took out the mags and showed Dawn how to load them. A tedious job, which didn’t suit her long fingernails, but she soon got the knack. We loaded the four sticks with one hundred and twenty rounds of nine-mill ammo and I put them, the silencer and the pistol back into their foam-filled coffin.

  As I was doing it, I saw that one corner of the foam was loose. I pried it open. Underneath was a wrap with about a half gram of coke inside and three ready-rolled grass joints. So that’s what Darkman had meant. I smiled as I lit up one of the joints.

  ‘Nice people to do business with,’ I said. ‘What’s the time?’

  ‘Nearly four.’

  ‘Let’s go eat.’

  We went to the local Chinese. Before we left the house I stashed the case and the two handguns in a hidyhole I’d long ago discovered under the eaves of the roof. I didn’t think we’d need to be armed at the restaurant. That was unless someone got ugly over the Peking duck.

  No one did.

  After the meal we went home, broke open a couple of beers, smoked another joint and went to bed. We had to be up early.

  I set the alarm for five, but was awake and up long before. I made strong black coffee and split out two lines of coke for us. Just the thing to get the sleep out of your eyes. Once fortified, I rescued the case and the .32, which I wrapped in a yellow duster, went down to the Chevy with Dawn, stashed the guns away in a compartment at the back of the wagon and headed for Epping Forest.

  We were there just before six. I found a secluded parking area off the A11 and dumped the car, took the guns out of the back and we hiked into the forest. It was very quiet in there at that time. Quiet enough for what we wanted. After about ten minutes’ walking we came into a clearing that suited our purposes perfectly. In one corner were two young trees, one maybe twelve inches in circumference, the other slightly bigger. I opened the case, took out the Uzi, screwed on the suppressor, loaded a clip, set the gun to full auto, winked at Dawn, aimed and pulled the trigger. The gun kicked back at me and tried to pull up and to the left, but the silencer worked perfectly and I doubted that the noise from the shots reached more than a few yards into the trees surrounding us. I emptied the clip in a couple of seconds and the smaller of the two saplings crashed to the floor of the forest as a stream of hot, brass cartridge cases spewed out of the ejector at the side of the gun.

  ‘Tim-ber,’ I said.

  ‘I must remember to cancel your subscription to the Friends of the Earth magazine.’

  ‘Funny,’ I replied, took the Colt out of my pocket and handed it to her. ‘Your turn. Don’t forget, fire the gun, don’t let the gun fire you. Aim at the other tree.’

  She took the pistol, held it two handed, bent her knees slightly and opened fire. The sound of the shots was loud in the clearing after the pop of the Uzi and birds rose in clouds from the treetops around us. All six bullets hit dead centre, clustering in a group that I could cover with one hand.

  ‘Christ,’ I said, walking over and examining the evidence. ‘You’re a natural. Or a lucky beginner. Do it again.’

  And she did. Reloading quickly from the bullets I gave her and transferring the empty cartridge cases to the pocket of her coat, emptying the cylinder for the second time and narrowing the spread of the hits even more.

  I felt like a right prat for lecturing her about shooting. She was a damned sight better shot than me. ‘Uncanny,’ I said. ‘You sure you’ve not done this before?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Amazing.’

  ‘Jealous?’

  ‘No. Relieved. Want a go with the Uzi?’

  ‘No,’ she replied. ‘This is more my speed,’ and she spun the Colt around her forefinger like a western gunslinger.

  ‘Please yourself.’ I unscrewed the suppressor from the machine pistol, popped the clip and put it, the silencer and the still warm gun back into the briefcase whilst Dawn busily collected the nine-millimetre cartridge cases from the ground. ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Let’s go, before anyone gets curious.’

  We went back to the car, which still stood alone in the parking area, and I put the guns away again and drove off in search of breakfast.

  Just down the road we found a Little Chef that was opening, and we both went straight to the toilets to wash the powder stains off our hands.

  When we were sitting at a corner table, with our food ordered and coffees in front of us, I said, ‘That’s it then, babe. What do you reckon?’

  ‘Brilliant. Better than sex.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘Sure I do. But don’t get hooked on it. It can get to be a habit. And remember, it’s different firing at people than at trees. People have a nasty way of firing back.’

  She covered my hand with hers and squeezed it. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I won’t.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So what do we do now?’

  ‘Eat breakfast, then go home and wait for Monkey to get in touch.’

  Which is exactly what we did.

  He called that same evening.

  ‘Mr S?’

  ‘Monkey?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘I ’ad a little shufti round that gaff.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Yeah. The BT man had to call. Fault on the line. The bird was there. Didn’t even know there was anythin’ wrong wiv it.’

  ‘And was there?’

  ‘Course. You know me, Mr S. I didn’t want the bleedin’ fing to ring while I was explainin’ myself.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And she was right tasty. Might’ve bin able t’do a bit o’ good for meself if I’d’ve ’ad more time.’

  ‘I think you’ve got a Casanova complex, Monkey.’

  ‘’Ave I? Is that good?’

  I ignored the question. ‘What about the house, Monkey?’

  ‘Oh yeah. You was right about the alarms. Go throug
h to some security firm’s got a couple of geezers runnin’ round in radio-controlled vans. I know the mob. Not bad, but a bit pricey, I reckon . . .’

  ‘Monkey.’

  ‘Sorry. No problem to fix. We’ll go in through the patio doors at the back. The side door through to the garden ain’t wired up.’

  ‘What about Rover?’

  ‘The doggie? Soldier, ’is name is. A lovely Dobermann. ’E’s all right. More of a pet than a danger I reckon, whatever they say. ’E likes treats. And I’ve got just the thing for ’im. There’s a big flap on the kitchen door so’s ’e can get in and out at night and patrol the back garden. But like I said, ’e’s a big softy. We got on like a house on fire. ’E’ll remember me, I ’spect. That’ll confuse ’im. And because ’e’s around there ain’t no infra reds, so once we’re in we’re in. Piece o’ cake.’

  ‘That’s good, Monkey. You did well. Thanks.’

  ‘No problem, Mr S. So when d’ya wanna go inside?’

  ‘Soon as possible. But they’ve got to be there.’

  ‘Friday night, tomorrow, Mr S. Football’s on satellite from Italy. Big match. Cup Winners’ cup or sumfin’. Milan versus Arsenal. ’E’s a big Gunners fan. She’s pissed off. She wanted to go up west to a club. But she reckons ’e’ll be legless by midnight whoever wins, so’s they’ll ’ave an early night.’

  ‘You’re a genius, Monkey.’

  ‘Reckon I am. I fink she wanted me to ask ’er out, but I never.’

  ‘Just as well.’

  ‘So tomorrow?’

  ‘Sounds good to me.’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘Two. Three.’

  ‘That’s best. Give ’em a chance to get well into the land of nod before we go in. There’s a boozer round the corner. The Love Lies Bleedin’. Know it?’

  ‘I’ve seen it.’

  ‘Meet you outside at two sharp.’

  ‘We’ll be there. I’ll have the rest of your money. You get us in, Monkey, then scarper. All right?’

  ‘Suits me.’

  ‘Tomorrow night then.’

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  And on that we finished the call.

  I told Dawn what was happening and broke down the weapons we’d be taking and gave them a clean.

  We were at the boozer right on time, Friday night. I wore my leather jacket, black Levi’s, Doc Martens and a woollen balaclava rolled up like a watch cap on my head. On my hands I was wearing a pair of black leather gloves. I carried the Browning in one of my jacket pockets, and the Uzi was in one of the Tesco’s shopping bags that Darkman had brought the bullets in, with the silencer in my other jacket pocket. Dawn was all padded up like the Michelin Man, which was exactly what I wanted Marshall to think she was – a geezer. She was wearing a couple of T-shirts, one of my Levi shirts, a denim jacket and a big down-filled jacket on top. On her legs she wore two pairs of jeans, a tight pair underneath and a baggy pair on top, and a pair of Doctor Martens of her own. She had rolled her hair up tightly and wore a balaclava too. Her .32 was stuck in her belt with the hammer resting on an empty chamber. I didn’t want her blowing a hole in her own belly, and, not surprisingly, neither did she. She also wore gloves and kept moaning that she was melting in all the clothes. With a bit of luck, and if she kept her mouth shut, we might confuse Marshall enough to think that we were a pair of blokes. If not, tough. I parked the Chevy opposite the car park entrance to the pub, and a minute later Monkey materialised beside the driver’s door.

  I wound down the window and he hunkered down next to me, nodded at Dawn and said, ‘Ready?’

  ‘Sure,’ I replied.

  ‘Let’s go then.’

  Dawn and I left the car together. I’d already taken the precaution of taking out the bulbs in the interior lights so that no one would see inside the car, and as we went I discarded the Tesco bag and screwed the suppressor on to the barrel of the Uzi. Monkey looked round at it and shook his head.

  When we got to Marshall’s front gate, we slid inside and stood in the shelter of the tree in the front garden. I reached into my pocket and took out the second part of Monkey’s money and handed it over. He was dressed in dark clothing too, with a bag hooked over one shoulder. He put the envelope into one of his pockets without looking at the contents.

  Trust. I like that.

  We padded along the grass beside the drive and crept round to the side of the house. Monkey found a pair of surgeon’s rubber gloves in his bag and pulled them on. He slipped the lock on the side door and pushed it open, gesturing for us to stand back as he did so. Then he reached into the bag again and pulled out a raw hamburger pattie. ‘Hey, Soldier,’ he whispered. ‘Come on, boy.’

  Even as he said it, the huge Dobermann appeared at the end of the alley formed by the garden wall and the side of the house.

  ‘Hey, boy,’ said Monkey, ‘catch,’ and lobbed the meat at the dog, who caught it in his mouth and swallowed it in one motion.

  Monkey held up his hand, and the three of us stood looking at the dog, for the longest ten seconds of my life until he keeled over silently and lay still.

  ‘I told you he likes his treats,’ said Monkey. ‘Come on round the back.’

  He led us round to the rear of the house, where the garden stretched away until it was lost in the darkness. We stood on the paved patio in front of a set of sliding double doors side by side in their aluminium frames and locked in the middle with a small round Chubb. Monkey took a tiny torch from his pocket, switched it on and checked the framework. Once satisfied, he stuck it in his mouth to leave his hands free, then hunted around in his bag once more and came out with a pair of tiny rubber suckers connected by a very long length of thin wire, which was attached by more wire to a tiny plastic junction box. He examined the frames of the patio doors and carefully attached one sucker on to a metal strip on the left-hand frame and the other to a similar strip sunk into the glass of the right-hand door, and allowed the connecting wire to drag on the ground. When he was satisfied, he touched a button on the box and a red light glinted into life. He tapped the left-hand door gently, took the torch out of his mouth and whispered, ‘That knocks out the alarm on this door. Easy. I told you. But don’t break the contact or the alarm’ll go off. You can leave it connected when you go. It’s not traceable.’

  I touched his arm in response.

  Next, from his bag he produced two more rubber suckers, this time roughly the size of lavatory plungers with metal handles on the tops and butterfly nuts sticking out of the ends of the handles. He stuck first one then the other to the glass of the left-hand door, tightening the butterfly nut each time, and with a hiss of air a vacuum was formed inside the suckers fixing them firmly to the window. Finally he produced a leather case from the bag, extracted a metal pick from it and dealt with the Chubb. Then he stood legs apart, gripped the handles of the suckers in each hand and lifted the patio door clean out of its frame, making sure it didn’t touch the wire, turned it and with a slight grunt placed it silently on the patio and leant it against the wall.

  ‘All yours,’ he said, with another look at the Uzi. He unfastened the big suction pads from the window and put them back in his bag. ‘I’m out of here. The master bedroom’s on the first floor. Door on the right. That’s where they’ll be.’

  Monkey obviously had done his homework. I touched him on the shoulder. ‘Thanks, Monk,’ I said. ‘See you.’

  ‘You don’t see me, Mr S,’ he said, picked up his bag and vanished silently into the gloom of the side passage.

  I tapped Dawn on the shoulder, pulled my balaclava down over my face and she did the same. I checked the magazine was firmly home in the Uzi’s butt, she drew her Colt, we both stepped over the thin wire that was preventing the alarm system from advertising our presence and into the living room of Marshall’s house. I pulled a small torch of my own from one of the pockets in my jacket and switched it on. Before leaving home I’d taken the precaution of masking off most of the crystal with black tape so that on
ly a thin beam of light emerged, and using it I led the way across the expanse of expensive tan carpeting to the door that led to the rest of the house.

  I eased open the door, moved silently into the hall and shone the light up the stairs. At the top a dim glow came from a small wattage bulb set in the ceiling and I switched off the torch and returned it to my pocket. Slowly and quietly Dawn and I started to climb the flight to the first floor.

  When we reached the top there was a wide corridor facing us. The first door on the right was ajar and I padded across the floor and pushed it gently open with my gloved hand. The room was illuminated by the splash from a street light from outside through undrawn curtains and I saw that the emperor size bed was inhabited by two still forms. I could hear the sound of snoring from one of them. Marshall, I assumed, sleeping off the beers he’d drunk whilst he watched Arsenal slaughter Milan four – nil. I hoped that was going to be the last good thing to happen to him for a long time.

  I pointed to the window, and Dawn crossed the room and drew the curtains with hardly a rustle from the material. When she was done I flipped on the light switch by the door and shouted, ‘Wakey, wakey,’ walked over to the bed, the Uzi in front of me, and booted the side of the mattress. Hard.

  There was a man and a woman in bed, and at my shout and the jolt to where they were sleeping, the man sat bolt upright and made as if to get out from under the covers.

  ‘Not so fast, fucker,’ I said, and cocked the Uzi. The sound of the bolt being thrown froze Marshall where he was.

  ‘James Andrew Marshall,’ I said. ‘Your worst nightmare just came true. A pair of lunatics with automatic weapons have invaded your house. So wake up, son, we’ve got things to talk about’

  ‘What . . .? What . . .?’ he mumbled through lips still numb with sleep.

  ‘You ’eard, shitcunt,’ I said, making my voice deeper and camping up the cockney accent. ‘Wipe the sleep out of your eyes, matey. We ain’t got all night.’

  ‘Jimmy. What is it?’ said the woman, sitting up and allowing the sheet to slide off a quite spectacular pair of breasts.