by Mark Timlin
‘Your sense of humour doesn’t improve, Diane,’ I said. ‘So what are you doing?’
‘I called in on Thursday morning. I had a few days owing and I said a crisis had come up and I needed to take them there and then. They’re expecting me back on Wednesday or Thursday this week.’
‘Thanks, babe. You’re the best. I’ll make it up to you.’
‘Don’t mention it. So what are you going to do? You haven’t answered my question.’
‘Oh, yeah. Once the stitches are out I’m going to make a social call.’
‘Who on?’
‘On whom, isn’t it? No? Yes?’
‘Don’t change the subject.’
‘Sorry. A geezer I haven’t met yet. A certain Mr Tony Lambretta. I think it’s time him and me had a chat.’
‘Him and I, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘No? Yes?’
The stitches came out the next afternoon. Diane used nail scissors with sharp, pointed ends to cut the cotton and was as gentle as she could be, but it still bloody hurt.
I checked the results in the bathroom mirror, and although there was some blood on the tracks, if I let my hair fall forward in a fringe the scar wasn’t that noticeable and would improve with time.
That is if I had much time left. Groucho and his boys were still out there and I doubted that they’d mislaid their guns.
But then I hadn’t mislaid mine either.
‘I need a car,’ I said to Diane as we ate supper together.
‘Sorry. No can do,’ she replied. ‘You know I don’t have one.’
‘Any company cars at work?’
‘Nick. No.’
‘You won’t get involved.’
‘I can’t.’
‘I was only kidding, sweetheart,’ I said. ‘But your face. No, I’m going to have to steal one.’
‘Can you do that?’
‘Well, I’ve got to tell you I’m not the greatest. But I can do it at a pinch. Give me a brick and a screwdriver and I’m your man.’
‘Can I come?’
I flashed on Dawn suddenly, and the times she’d helped me, and what happened to her subsequently, and her best friend, and the baby Dawn was carrying in her belly. Our baby. A little girl who was never to be born but instead would die inside her mother, burnt to death by people we’d made into our enemies.
‘No,’ I said. ‘No chance.’
I’d told her about Dawn, but not the details, and this wasn’t the time.
‘It’s too dangerous,’ I added.
‘Spoilsport.’
If only she knew.
‘Don’t worry, darling,’ I said. ‘I’ll be all right.’
‘Well, I’ve always got more needle and thread, I suppose.’
‘I wonder how Jack is,’ I said. ‘I think I’m going to find a phone box and give the hospital a call.’
‘Will you be all right?’
‘I hope so. But there’s only one way to find out.’
‘I’m coming with you. I don’t want you fainting in some doorway. I imagine it won’t be too dangerous to walk down the shops with you. In any case, I need a few things.’
‘That’d be great,’ I said.
Diane had cleaned the blood off my boots and jacket and I put them on. I grabbed her as she was passing and said, ‘You’re too good to me. I don’t deserve it. I could be giving you a ton of grief coming here.’
‘Where else would you go?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Shut up, then. I’ve enjoyed it. You can’t imagine how boring it is working in a finance office all your life. You give me some excitement.’
‘Not too much, I hope,’ I replied. ‘I’ve seen what’s happened to people who’ve helped me before.’
‘I don’t care what happens. I’ll have the rest of my life to be ordinary.’
And I hope it’s a long one, I thought, but said not a word.
We went out of the flat and everything in the street seemed bright after my enforced convalescence, and I was glad Diane was there to hold on to. We cut through some side roads to a shopping parade and I went into a phone box armed with a pile of coins and the hospital number that Diane had given me.
I got through after a couple of minutes of the ringing tone in my ear and asked for Intensive Care. More ringing tone, but just for a few seconds, and a female voice said, ‘Intensive Care. Sister speaking.’
‘You’ve got a Jack Robber there,’ I said.
‘That’s right,’ she said guardedly, and I wondered if Mr Plod was close by.
‘I’m his nephew Bill,’ I lied. ‘I’ve been away and I just heard about what happened and I wanted to know how he is.’
I crossed my fingers, almost certain she’d tell me he was in the mortuary.
‘He’s fine,’ she said. ‘Of course it’ll take time, but we’re confident that within a week or so we can release him from ICU, and with any luck he’ll be as right as rain in a month or so.’
I breathed out with relief. ‘That’s great. No chance of a word, I suppose.’
‘He’s not that much better, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘But relatives are welcome. You won’t be able to stay long, but at least you can catch a glimpse of him.’
‘I’ll try,’ I said. ‘Meanwhile if you can tell him his little nephew from Tulse Hill called . . .’
‘I’ll do that,’ she said.
‘Thank you, Sister,’ I said, and rang off.
My clothes were damp with sweat, but at least I hadn’t been responsible for Jack’s death, though I doubted I was going to be very popular with him.
I thought I’d better call Nancy then. I dialled her number from memory and she answered on the third ring. ‘Hello, Nance,’ I said,
‘Nick!’ she cried. ‘Where the hell have you been? I’ve had the police here.’
‘That’s the breaks,’ I said. ‘Me, I’ve been on a bed of pain.’
‘What happened?’
‘Haven’t you heard? I thought some of the Old Bill would’ve told you. Robber nearly got killed and I’m in the frame for doing it.’
‘That’s what they said.’
‘Bollocks, love. It was the people who did Harry. And they nearly did for the pair of us as well. I caught a stray shot.’
‘Are you all right?’
‘I’ll survive. But I’ve had a bad few days. That’s why I haven’t called before.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Never you mind. I’ve got a few things to do. But I’ll be around soon. Are you being watched?’
‘I don’t know. Should I be?’
‘Maybe. Listen, I’m going to go now. Don’t worry about a thing. Everything’s under control. I think I know exactly what’s going on. Don’t tell anyone I phoned. Anyone. I’ll be in touch. We’ll meet soon and I might be able to answer all your questions. Trust no fucker but me, no matter what they say. Just stay shtum.’
‘God, Nick, I’m so pleased you’re all right.’
‘Good. And I intend to stay that way. See you later, alligator.’ And I hung up on her.
Diane was waiting outside with two carrier bags, and I left the phone box and walked her home. As far as I could see not a single soul was interested in us.
I decided to take a ride out to Romford the next day. And when I woke up that morning I felt almost back to my old self. Not that my old self was much to write home about, but I reckoned I’d do.
But first a set of wheels.
‘Got a wire coat hanger and a big screwdriver?’ I said to Diane after we’d had some breakfast.
‘No problem,’ she said, went and rooted through the cupboard in the hallway and came up with the tool I wanted. Old, battered and paint-stained as it was. ‘There’s coat hangers in the wardrobe.’
I went into the bedroom and found a thin wire coat hanger, wrestled it open, doubled it, and pushed it down the sleeve of my jacket. The screwdriver went down the other. To be picked up by some local bobby on the beat as going prepared for theft would be bitterly ir
onic. But then, I thought, as I put the Detective Special in one jacket pocket, and my phone in the other, that would really be the least of my problems. The Colt was still loaded with five shells, and I had no spares, but then I figured that if I needed more than five shots I was fucked anyway.
I left Diane with a hug and a kiss and a promise to be back later and strolled down to the shops alone. I was potless and withdrew two hundred and fifty quid from the hole in the wall of a branch of my bank, suspecting that it would confirm to the coppers that I was still in the area, but sod that. It was just too bad. They couldn’t search every house and flat.
And then I went looking for a nice clean motor.
I walked through the streets of Maida Vale copping a look at the vehicular talent, but every time I thought I might be on a runner there were too many people about. Shit, I thought, as I looked at my watch. This is ridiculous.
Suddenly a male voice from behind me made me jump as it hissed, ‘Wanna score?’
I looked round and found a scruffy, dreadlocked boy in dirty jeans and a flowery shirt standing there.
‘Do what?’ I said.
‘I’ve been watching you. You’re looking for something.’
‘You’re right there.’ I had to laugh. No one ever asks me if I want to score these days. I thought I was too old or looked too much like a copper. This boy had to be desperate. ‘What you got?’
‘Some good charlie.’
I doubted if he’d know good charlie if it jumped up and bit him, but I’ve been wrong before. Lots of times.
‘I might. But I’ll need a taste,’ I said.
‘Come here.’ He led me through the covered alley at the side of a block of flats, and I watched for reinforcements who might be up for a quick mugging, but he seemed to be alone.
Once out of the public eye he pulled a thin wrap from his shirt pocket, opened it and offered it to me. Inside was a small quantity of white powder.
I did the old gum test and got a freeze, so I picked up some on my finger and snorted it. Good hit. Good gear. He’d been right.
‘How much?’ I asked.
‘Fifty a gram.’
‘All right,’ I said. ‘I’m game.
I turned away from him and separated fifty from my stash and handed it over. After he counted it, he gave me another slightly fatter wrap.
I tried that too and got the same buzz, and being friendly offered it to him. He grinned and helped himself to a little. ‘Cheers,’ he said.
Something suddenly occurred to me. The boy seemed like a typical inner city scally, and I said, ‘Do you know anyone who nicks motors?’
‘Are you serious?’ he replied, rubbing his nose.
‘Yeah.’
‘Me. I can. I used to do it, but it got too dodgy. I kept getting nicked.’
‘I’ll give you a ton if you can get me one now.’
‘I’ve got no tools.’
‘I’ve got a wire and a screwdriver.’
‘You are serious.’
‘Never more so.’
‘Give us. I knew you were looking for something.’
I rescued the tools I’d brought with me from inside my jacket and he said, ‘Anything in particular?’
‘Something fairly fast and not too obvious.’
‘Wait here.’ And he turned and walked fast out of the flats.
I lit a Silk Cut and tried to look like I worked for the council. I finished the cigarette and he suddenly popped up again from behind the wall and beckoned me.
I followed him out into the street where a two-litre white Montego was parked at the kerb, engine running. ‘Full tank,’ he said. ‘Who’s a lucky boy?’
‘Well done,’ I said, handed over my last hundred and got behind the wheel.
The screwdriver and wire were on the passenger seat, the ignition was busted and wires sprouted from the steering column, but otherwise everything was kosher.
I ran down the electric window and he said, ‘Stall it to stop the engine and touch the red and blue wires there’ – he pointed to the steering column – ‘to start it again. But be careful – you can get a nasty shock.’
‘Cheers,’ I said. ‘Are you often about?’
‘Most of the time.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Cedric. People call me Ricky.’
‘I’m Nicholas. People call me Nick. I might be able to put some work your way in the future, Ricky.’
‘There’s a café in the square,’ he said, pointing vaguely over the top of the flats. ‘Bunter’s, it’s called. Fucking silly name. But I hang around there sometimes. Just ask for Ricky.’
‘I might just do that,’ I said, put the car into gear and pulled away.
So there I was in a stolen car with an illegal firearm and a gram of coke. I felt a bit like Clyde without Bonnie. But I’d had a chance to drag my Bonnie along and passed on it.
At the first set of lights I took out the wrap, opened it and stuck a quarter of the contents up my hooter. I got a hit big time. About as big time as you could get without blowing the top off your head. Maybe this was going to be fun after all. And if I survived it I was definitely going to look up Ricky again.
I got to Romford, got lost, found myself, and eventually arrived at the estate where Robber and I had seen Groucho go into The Laurels. I drove around aimlessly for half an hour and then found the house itself. It took me a lot longer than it might, because every so often I was taking a toot of charlie and I was a bit disorientated. Maybe not the way to go into a potentially lethal situation, but if I’d’ve been straight I might never have gone in at all.
I steered the Montego down a lane that seemed to go round the back of the house’s grounds and drove it into a thicket away from the prying eyes of the security firm and stalled it to a halt.
I took myself, the last of my coke and my gun out for a stroll, and I felt like the last man with legs left in Essex as the only other humans I’d seen were well insulated inside tons of shiny metal.
I went right round the grounds of the house, looking for an easy way in. Finally I saw that the branch of one of the trees at the back of the property hung over the wall then dipped down until it almost touched the knee-high grass at the side of the lane. Nought out of ten for the tree surgeons involved.
I swung myself up through the leaves and worked myself gingerly along until I had passed over the wall and could just see the back of the house through the thick foliage. I dropped down on to the ground and froze for a minute or so. I’d been in close proximity to dogs before, and the last thing I wanted to meet right then was a pair of half-starved Dobermanns looking for their dinner. In other words, me.
But all was quiet and I moved through the undergrowth until I could see the lawns and flower beds leading up to the tennis courts, swimming pool, and patio area at the back of the house.
Nice bit of real estate, I thought, and compared it with my slightly bigger than a studio, one-room flat. And they say that crime doesn’t pay.
Talking of crime, I took the coke out of my pocket and snorted up the last of the gram, screwed up the wrap and risked a fine by littering the path right in front of me.
Desperado!
I skirted the path and made towards Tony Lambretta’s country seat, keeping as close to the bushes and trees as I could.
No one was having a quick couple of sets after an early lunch, and no one was splashing in the water.
Not that they couldn’t have. Like the garden, the courts were immaculate and the water in the pool looked so clean and fresh I was tempted to take a dip myself.
But right then I was more interested in seeing if there were any guards armed with semi-automatic weapons.
But all was serene. God was in his heaven and all was right with Tony Lambretta’s little world.
I decided to see if I could change all that.
I stepped softly on to the patio and looked at the blank windows facing me. Not a sign of a soul. I crept up to the patio doors and made a mask
with my hand so that I could see through to the other side.
No one.
Good, I thought, and tried the sliding door. It opened as smoothly and quietly as if it had just been oiled.
Better and better.
At least that proved there was someone home.
I stepped through the doorway and into some interior designer’s idea of a swinging pad for the middle to late nineties, all leather, suede and chrome with framed posters on the wall and a huge wet bar down one side, with captain’s chairs fixed to the marble floor on their swivelling bases.
Cool, I thought, business must be good, when someone stuck what felt suspiciously like the muzzle of a gun into my kidney.
‘I’ll take that,’ a male voice whispered in my ear, and a hand appeared around one side of me and took the cocked Colt out of my fist. Simple as that. No problems. But then I’ve got this strange attachment to my internal organs and fancied keeping them for a bit yet. ‘Move over there,’ the voice continued, and I walked forward slowly. ‘Hands away from the body.’
I did as I was told.
‘You made me jump,’ I said for something to say, and to keep whoever’s finger off the trigger.
‘Turn round,’ said the voice, and I did as I was told again, and a geezer I’d never seen before was standing there. He was thirtyish, medium height, medium build, nothing much facially, with dark thinning hair, a dark suit and a white shirt. Mr Average.
‘We’ve been watching you on the video,’ he said. ‘Who are you?’
‘Boys’ Brigade. Collecting for new instruments for the band. It’s unorthodox, I know, but we try new things all the time.’
You could tell he wasn’t amused, and he let down the hammer of the Colt and slid it into his pocket with his left hand. His right was busy with a 9mm Browning Hi-Power.
‘Who the fuck are you making jokes?’ shouted an angry voice from behind me. I looked round, and an older, fatter, balder, greasier bloke dressed in nothing less than two grands’ worth of Bond Street Italian designer style came waddling in. He was also shorter than the other geezer, and frankly the wide trousers he was wearing didn’t flatter his little legs.