A Kind of Hush

by Richard A. Johnson

  The diary was full of names, addresses and numbers. We found it difficult to understand, but it looked very important. On one page was stuck a leaflet, the heading of which read:

  DELIVERY SERVICE

  Just order the type and service that you require and

  we will deliver it to your door within two hours.

  No reasonable request denied.

  Why not live out your fantasies.

  Underneath was a telephone number and a computer password with a list of compatible computers using something called a 'modem' system.

  'What's all that mean?' I asked.

  'Seems to me like they're delivering kids like pizzas,' said Mick. 'And what's more, it's all high-tech. That means that it's big money and big people.'

  'How big, Mick?' I asked.

  'Fuck knows,' he said. 'But we may get a good idea if we check out some of these addresses.'

  'I'm game,' said Tony. 'But what do we do with it then?'

  'We could send it to the Old Bill,' said Den.

  'Not yet,' I said. I want to get this Gus geezer first.'

  'Okay,' said Mick. 'But what then?'

  T don't know yet,' I said, 'let's wait and see.'

  'Whatever we do,' said Mick, 'it's gotta be something very, very, special.' He winked. We all got the message.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I’d just left Ali, the tube was out of her nose and she was looking slightly better. She was full of questions. I answered as many as I could, as best as I could, leaving out of course one or two of the details that, like Jen, she would be better off not knowing. Jen, Beryl and Cheri turned up while I was there. Jen was more like the way I had remembered her, jeans, T-shirt, no make-up, trainers, she’d even had all of her long hair cut off and wore it now cut short like a boy. She looked great. Cheri was chirpy but hid from me when I said hello to her. Beryl picked her up and tickled her tummy; she chuckled and much to my relief she seemed okay.

  They were all talking at once, most of the talk being about Cheri. I felt a bit like a spare part so I thought that I’d shoot off and leave them to it. Before I could go, Jen said, ‘We’ve got something for you, Stu,’ and handed me a big parcel and four envelopes.

  ‘What’s this?’ I asked.

  ‘Open it and see,’ said Jen.

  I opened the envelopes first, they were birthday cards. I had forgotten that it was my birthday.

  There was one from Jen with a stupid-looking frog on it. One from Ali that she had obviously tried to sign herself. One from Cheri in the shape of a teddy-bear and her hand-print inside, and the last one was from Beryl. In it she had written, To Stewart with fondest love, Beryl and Chef.' I started to fill up, I had to get out of there.

  'Open the present, Stu, please open the present,' said Jen jumping up and down. I tore the paper off and inside was the most brilliant leather jacket that I had ever seen, it must have cost a bomb.

  'I remembered that you always wanted one when you were a kid,' Ali said. 'I hope this one's okay.'

  'Are you kidding,' I said, 'it's fu . . .' Beryl scowled at me, 'it's triffic, really triffic'

  I put it on, hugged them all and said, 'I must go, things to do you know.'

  Beryl said that she'd walk down with me. I turned to go then spun around and said, 'Oh, by the way chaps, Daddy gave me a Rolex,' and flashed my left arm. Both of the girls collapsed into hysterics, Ali moaning 'It hurts, it hurts' between laughs. Always leave 'em laughing, that's what I say.

  Beryl walked with me to the main entrance.

  'We need to sit down soon and talk about the future,' she said.

  'Are the girls a problem?' I asked.

  'No, it's not anything like that,' she said. 'They're a joy to have and I'm happier than I've been for a long time. It's just the long term, we've got to start making plans.'

  'You're right,' I said. 'Soon, Beryl, I promise.'

  'Okay, love,' she said and added, 'and as for you, I don't quite know what you're up to, although I can make some shrewd guesses. Just promise me that you'll be careful. Those girls have had enough pain.'

  'Cross my heart,' I said with an innocent look on my face.

  'Now don't mess about, Stewart,' she said sternly.

  'Sorry, Beryl,' I said. 'I promise that I'll be careful.'

  She stuck another of her lipstick smears on my cheek, ruffled my perfect hairstyle and went back inside.

  Mick had been waiting in the car. I climbed in and said, 'Okay, my son, let's go and see what that shitty old man of mine's left in his shitty old house.'

  'Nice jacket, sweety,' he said.

  'Fuck off, you git,' I said as we drove off laughing.

  We could feel that something was wrong as soon as we opened the door. For a start, the lights were on and all of the doors were wide open.

  'I definitely didn't leave it like this,' I said. We listened for any noises, but the house was quiet so we silently moved ahead and started to check the rooms. Every room had been turned over.

  Downstairs, all of the furniture in the front room had been ripped out and the television smashed in, the carpets were ripped up throughout. The cooker had been pulled from the wall in the kitchen and all of the crockery from the cupboards had been smashed. Corn flakes, tomato sauce, sugar, eggs you name it, everything was spilled on to the floor.

  Upstairs was no different, every room had been destroyed. The old man's room was by far the worst. His bed was in shreds. The carpet was piled in the corner on top of the completely smashed wardrobe. Cheri's cot was in pieces, the bedside cabinet unrecognisable, even the floorboards had been ripped up and were strewn all over the place like a kind of Chinese chopsticks. The word 'SLAG' had been spray-painted on the back wall where the bed had been and 'YOU'RE DEAD, YOU SCUM' was sprayed in a long jagged line around the rest.

  'Notice something wrong?' said Mick.

  'What d'you mean, course I fucking do,' I said.

  'No, not the mess,' he said, 'something else.'

  'What?'

  'Nothing's missing. The video, telly, stereo all smashed but not taken. Even your sister's jewellery is still there. This wasn't vandals, it was made to look like vandals by someone who was looking for something.'

  'The diary!' we both said together.

  'Let's fuck off out of here,' said Mick. We did, quick.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The week after that was very busy. I moved in at Mick’s, well I say Mick’s, but it’s really his sister’s place. She rented it from the council. She’d lived there with her husband and two kids for about five years when he upped and left her for another woman. She met another bloke with his own house over Finchley way and moved in with him. Mick just took the place over. The council haven’t said anything, the neighbours haven’t said anything, so what the hell, it beats squatting.

  Tony, Si and Alan moved in too. Pete, Den and Wiwa stayed all day with us but went home most nights.

  We checked out as many of the addresses in the diary that we could and by asking around locally we were gutted to find that many of the people listed were not the sort of people that my old man would usually hang around with. For instance, some of the addresses listed were houses obviously owned by people who had money and power. There were doctors, lawyers, teachers, a local councillor and a senior copper, as well as shopkeepers, bus drivers and those sort of people. But the biggest name by far was that of an MP.

  We also checked out the Fotojoy UK membership card. The address on the back took us down to Croydon. It was a dingy little photo-developing shop that did your photos in twenty-four hours or your money back. We went in and Mick flashed the card.

  An old guy behind the counter looked at the card, smiled at us and disappeared into the back of the shop. He returned a few seconds later with a large brown envelope and handed it to Mick.

  'I hope they are to your liking, gentlemen/ he said.

  'How much do I owe you?' said Mick.

  'Oh no, sir, it's all part of the service,' he said,
and wished us good-day. We went back to the car and opened the envelope.

  Now we'd both seen all sorts of porn photos before and we honestly thought that we could never be shocked, but these were terrible. The envelope contained pictures of kids with men, women, animals, bottles, vibrators, bananas, cucumbers, everything that you could imagine. We drove straight home and burned them. At least, we now knew what Fotojoy UK was.

  The last thing to check was the keys. There were five of them, like old-fashioned car keys. The label had a number six on it and was stamped Haringey Borough Council.

  'Garages,' said Mick, 'did your old man have a lockup?'

  'Dunno, I don't think so,' I said.

  'Ring Jen and ask her,' he said. I jumped to the phone and dialled.

  'Bingo,' I said as I put down the phone. 'She said that he took over one of those around the back about three years ago.'

  We were there within the hour. Number six had a blue door. One of the keys opened the lock, the door then swung up and over. There was a motor inside covered with one of those big grey plastic car covers. Against the wall were four old filing cabinets. Mick lifted the corner of the car cover.

  'Sheeeit! Check this out.' He whipped off the cover and there stood an immaculate Ford Orion 1600 GL, brand spanking new, the road tax still had eleven months to go.

  'Where the fuck did he get that?' I said. Mick was already inside checking it out.

  'I don't believe this,' he said. 'Come and look, Stu.'

  I opened the passenger door and watched as Mick pulled out the contents of the glove box.

  'Look,' he said, a look of wonderment on his face. The car keys and the fucking log book. Was your old man some sort of prat or something?'

  'Whose name's on the log book?' I asked.

  'Fotojoy UK,' said Mick. 'It's a company car.'

  'He must have worked for them then,' I said.

  'Right,' said Mick. 'Seems a pity to leave it here, Stu.'

  'Who said we're leaving it? No one knows what's happened and no one's looking for it.'

  'That's what I like to hear. It'll be a change driving a motor with a proper tax disc on it instead of a Guinness label.' He laughed.

  The other keys fitted the filing cabinets, but I wished they hadn't. They confirmed that he was working for Fotojoy UK. Pictures, pictures and more pictures. Hundreds, no thousands of them, just as bad if not worse than the shit that we had got earlier that day, and all of them in large brown envelopes. I locked them away again, thinking that later they could provide the evidence that the Old Bill might need.

  We both felt very sick and very angry. Everything that we had been doing over the years suddenly seemed right. If we had had any doubts, those photos wiped them out completely. No way could we allow people like that to continue.

  Chapter Seventeen

  ‘Police today confirmed that the body of a man has been found in the debris of a fire that took place in Hackney during the weekend. It is thought that the man was the victim of a gangland-style execution. A police spokesman said, “We believe that this man was killed by members of his own gang” and dismissed rumours of a war between rival factions of Triads.’

  ‘Wait till they see the house,’ said Mick as he flicked the telly off. ‘That’ll get them buzzing.’

  We were all at Mick’s planning what to do.

  ‘It’s too big,’ I said. ‘We’re out of our league with all this.’

  ‘So what do we do?’ asked Den.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said, ‘I just don’t know.’

  ‘Look, all we want is this piece of filth, Gus, right?’ said Mick. ‘Then what say we just get him and send the rest of the stuff anonymously to the Old Bill. They’ve got to do something with all that.’

  ‘I dunno,’ said Wivva. ‘Remember it was me that sussed out that one of the geezers in that diary was a copper, what if he’s on the team that we send it to.’

  ‘Good point,’ said Den.

  'Why not send it to one of those TV investigators, y'know like Roger Cook or that Esther Rantzen,' said Tony.

  They'll sort it.'

  'Only if it makes good telly,' said Pete.

  'And only if no one in telly is involved,' added Den.

  'Hmm, hmm,' grunted Mick. Then he said, 'But you're right Tony, that's what we need, someone we can trust.'

  'Okay, like who?' I asked. Everyone fell quiet.

  'Chris,' said Si. 'Uncle Chris.'

  We all looked at him.

  'Well he did all that at the Quo concert for us didn't he, and we did get on well didn't we?'

  'True,' said Mick. 'But why would he help us with this?'

  'Well a couple of years ago,' said Si, 'he blagged a place out Watford way. When he went through the bedroom he found a stash of H; he hates drug dealers, killed his brother they did. He once said, "Drug dealers and Nonces, they're the scum of the earth." Anyway, he finished the house, then he tipped off the Old Bill. The guy whose house it was went down for five years and no one bothered about the blagging. I'm sure he'll help us get these bastards.'

  'Right then, let's go see Uncle Chris,' said Mick.

  'No, I'll ring him, he'll come over,' said Si.

  Uncle Chris was no div. He had A-levels to prove it. He was thirty-eight years old and worked as an insurance agent knocking on doors and collecting the weekly payments from his customers, supplementing his income with what Si took from us and the occasional blagging. One, maybe two a year was his limit. 'No need to be greedy,' he would say. Sweet as a nut it was.

  It was him or his business friends who arranged the insurance for the houses that got mysteriously done, so he always knew, or heard when one was going to be empty for a while. If it was one of his customers that got done, he would always make sure that he was somewhere with a lot of witnesses when the roll took place. Chris was devious, hard too. He also knew a lot of people from a lot of games, which is how he came to get the passes for the Quo concert.

  His motor always had Elvis, Chuck Berry or Jerry Lee Lewis banging out at top volume, and he had an absolute passion for Lonnie Donnegan and skiffle. But as I said, he was no fool.

  Personally, I wouldn't trust him as far as I could throw him, but he did think the world of Si and that for me outweighed most of his bad points. Anyway, he was one of those blokes that you just couldn't help liking. Bent as a nine-bob note, stickiest fingers in the world, but would do anything for anyone.

  He studied the diary for over an hour, making notes on a piece of paper. Then he took a deep breath and said, 'Well boys, let's tell you what it seems you've got here.'

  The diary was mind-blowing. We all listened carefully and tried to take in everything that he was reading out.

  'Firstly,' said Chris, 'there are full names, addresses and telephone numbers of people that have used Alison and Jen, those are in turn cross-referenced to the person who introduced, or should I say recruited, them and the whole lot is then cross-referenced back to the person running the area. There seems to be nine areas in London, each with its own reference number and organiser. The organiser in this area is this bloke that you are looking for, Giis. His name, address and telephone number are all here.' Chris had drawn a crude diagram to help us to understand that the whole thing was run like one of those pyramid selling schemes.

  He went on, There's not much information on the other eight, but this book covers Gus's area completely/ He looked up. 'If this book is true, then it is the sickest thing that I have ever seen and it must be stopped.' He flicked to a page and looked at me.

  'Stu, Alison and Jen's names are on a list with the names of over two hundred others. Next to each name is a date of birth and a reference number. The reference number ties up with a list on the next page, each number describing a different kind of kid.

  'For instance, all of the even numbers are girls and the odd numbers are boys, with different numbers within those for different types of boys and girls - y'know, if they are black or Asian or something. Next to that list is a
scale of charges. Every sex act that you can think of is listed here with its own code number and each of those code numbers is again listed with its basic cost beside it.'

  He turned the page.

  'On this page is contact information. Nine telephone numbers are listed, each of them with their own particular ringing code, you know, ring three times, hang up and ring again sort of thing. Several of the numbers have been scrubbed out and replaced with new ones, one of them four times. So we can safely assume that these numbers are always being changed. At the top of the page is a number that has to be used if there is a problem with any of the other numbers. That one has been changed six times.

  'I've made a swift count of the number of times that Ali and Jen have been used and checked that against the basic charges listed. Sorry Stu, but your old man must have made at least twenty grand from those two within the past year alone.'

  He sat back and sighed deeply, then he said, This book is dynamite. If all of this is true, then I don't doubt that they would kill to get it back. If they know that you've got it, then God help you, or anyone who knows you.'

  'What d'you mean by that?' I asked.

  They've already jumped you once,' he said. 'When you took Jen away. You thought they were getting heavy because they had lost some income, but it's not the girl they want, it's what she knows. While she was working for them, they controlled her. Now they don't know what she's doing or saying. Add to that the strange disappearance of your old man and the fact that they can't find this book, then it's a fair bet that they are going to put two and two together and come looking for you. If they can't find you, then they'll look for Jen, if they can't find Jen, then they'll go for Ali. It will go on and on until either they find you, or they are stopped. They have far too much to lose otherwise.'

  'Why did they leave such an important book with my old man?' I asked.