Stay Another Day

by Mark Timlin

  So when Tommy hit the bricks all those years ago, with only the clothes he stood up in and a few quid in his bin, he’d had to fend for himself in the big bad outside world, and being slippery was his main talent.

  He’d started off doing a bit of hoisting from shops in the West End. He needed somewhere as a headquarters, and for that he needed cash. No problem. He went up to Soho and got a place in a shelter for kids on the street. It was rough. A dormitory where you slept with most of your clothes on, shoes stashed under the thin pillow so they wouldn’t get nicked, and toilet roll stolen from boozers in your pocket, so you could at least wipe your arse.

  Tommy put himself about the local pubs, chatting up likely looking marks and offering them bargains from Oxford Street and Knightsbridge to order. Simple. What did their hearts desire? A designer jacket from Harrods, denims from Selfridges, a tailored shirt from Jermyn Street. Half price, next day delivery, and no questions asked. Sometimes there was a little hole where the shop’s alarm had been cut out, but that was why the gear was so cheap.

  Also, Tommy, being who he was, found that gentlemen of a certain age and disposition were happy to part with cash for certain services. Small he was and pretty, with his tinted hair and smart clothes. And he could look younger than his age, if that was what they wanted. Because even though Tommy was living from hand to mouth, the sort of profession he was in demanded that he looked the part.

  Sometimes, the gentlemen could get a bit rough. They reminded him of his father, so Tommy learned to cut up rough himself. He still wasn’t brave, but the sight of a razor sharp flick knife next to the genitals often sorted out any ultra-violence towards Tommy.

  As his new bank account grew, so Tommy found he could afford to move up to smarter digs. First of all a room in Fitzrovia, then a flat over a shop in a back street in Holborn. Not the Ritz, but decent enough. Tommy kept the place nice – and he could afford to buy toilet roll now.

  Over the years that followed, Tommy turned into a regular little Fagin. He met boys on the rent circuit who picked up bits and pieces as they went, and Tommy would sit warm and comfortable in his flat, buying stuff in, then selling it on. More profitable than doing the nicking himself – and safer too.

  But things change, as they always do.

  18

  Things began to get too hot for Tommy in the West End towards the end of the nineties.

  He’d managed to stay under the radar for years by constantly moving about. He never forgot walking away from his mum and dad’s flat with nothing but what he stood up in, and could dump a residence in minutes. What did he need anyway? Just a bed, a chair, a decent TV, video and stereo system and some CDs. Easy to replace. Better than doing time any day. Over the years he’d moved from Holborn to King’s Cross, to Euston, Covent Garden, and what was his favourite, the bottom end of Edgware Road, close to Hyde Park, where the Arabs had made the area their own. He enjoyed their culture. There was plenty of homoeroticism amongst the men, both married and single, but Tommy had become less and less interested in sex, after all the Johns he’d serviced when he first left home. Instead it was the cuisine, and the long sessions drinking thick, black, sweet coffee, and eating sugared pastries in cafes, listening to strange music, and hearing strange languages that Tommy enjoyed most.

  But word was out. The traders in Oxford Street, Knightsbridge and Mayfair were becoming increasingly angry at the amount of high end goods that were going missing, and they were putting pressure on the police – who in turn were putting pressure on the courts – to come down heavily on the culprits. Gone were the days when a kid was captured by a store detective, passed on to the cops, taken away in a van, only to be immediately released and back at the hoist within half an hour. And when he or she appeared in court, they were just given a slap on the wrist, and a fine that could be paid for with less than an hour’s shoplifting.

  Even someone as careful as Tommy Campbell knew that his clean sheet couldn’t last forever, and when it was time to fold up his tent and do a vanishing act.

  So Tommy relocated to south London – but not too far south. Waterloo was just a couple of miles from his old hunting grounds, but a world away socially and economically.

  Tommy sub-let a council flat in a block in The Cut, close to the Old Vic, for a chunk of key money. One bedroom on the seventh floor, with a view across to the Elephant and Castle. This time he’d brought his necessities and was soon settled in. But of course he needed dough to live. The rent boys were left behind, but he soon found replacements. Young mums from the Aylesbury, the North Peckham, and the other, smaller estates between Waterloo and London Bridge.

  The girls were single, living with their kids in council flats, claiming benefits, and making money where and when they could. Even though they were on their own, there was no shortage of men, hence the growing number of illegitimate children in the area.

  Tommy met the first of his new recruits in the Cut Market where he was buying fruit and veg one Saturday afternoon. ‘You’ll get stuff free later when they close,’ said a chubby blonde teenager pushing a baby buggy.

  ‘Do what?’ he replied.

  ‘When they pack up, they leave all sorts of stuff lying about,’ she explained. ‘Everything. It’s not worth them keeping it ’til Monday, so you can have a good scrounge.’

  ‘I never knew,’ he said.

  ‘Not local?’

  ‘Just moved in last week.’

  ‘You’ll learn. Fancy a cuppa?’

  There was a Wimpy bar a few yards away, and they went in and ordered two teas and an orange squash for the baby, which she decanted into his bottle. ‘Jack,’ she said, indicating the infant who was sucking on the bottle’s teat like a fiend. ‘And I’m Sandra.’

  ‘Tommy,’ said Tommy. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

  ‘You looked a bit lost,’ she said, lighting a Benson and Hedges.

  ‘I am I suppose. More used to the other side of the river.’

  ‘It’s all right round here once you get used to it,’ she said. ‘So, you on the dole?’

  ‘Self employed,’ he replied, enjoying the conversation and the company. He was so used to being on his own, it didn’t often happen.

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Hoisting and flogging gear, as it goes,’ he said, deciding to tell the truth. If she didn’t like it, he’d leave. He couldn’t read her expression, but then she replied,

  ‘Blimey. I thought I recognised a mate when I saw you. Me too. Me and a few of my pals.’

  ‘Sweet,’ said Tommy. ‘Where d’you get rid of the stuff?’

  ‘Anywhere we can.’

  ‘You should get organised.’

  ‘It’s the kids see. Hard to do the bizzo when they’re around.’

  ‘I’ll sort you if you like,’ said Tommy. ‘That’s my game.’

  ‘You reckon.’

  ‘Trust me, I’ve done it for years up west, but things started to get a bit sticky.’

  ‘OK, Tommy. I’ll think about it. Got a mobile?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Give us the number and I’ll bell you.’

  Tommy wrote his phone number on the back of a paper napkin, and handed it over.

  ‘Cheers,’ said Sandra. ‘You got a bird?’

  ‘No,’ said Tommy.

  ‘Thought not. You got a bloke?’

  ‘You’re sharp,’ said Tommy.

  ‘Got to be round here,’ she said, cheekily.

  Tommy grinned, finished his tea, and left the cafe. Just like Sandra had said, there was fruit and vegetables in boxes all along the kerb, and people were picking through them. Tommy spotted a cauliflower with just a few black marks on the florets and popped it into his carrier bag. He waved to Sandra as he walked back past the Wimpy and she indicated that she would phone him, making the universal sign with her hand next to her ear. He gave her a thumbs up in repl
y.

  Result, he thought, as he made the short walk back to the flat.

  On the following Monday morning, around ten thirty, Tommy was sitting in front of the TV watching This Morning and eating his breakfast of toast, jam and tea, when his mobile buzzed. He didn’t recognise the number, but answered. ‘Tommy, it’s Sandra. Remember me?’

  ‘Course I do. What can I do for you?’

  ‘We should make a meet.’

  ‘All right. When?’

  ‘Soon as.’

  Tommy was careful about giving his address to someone he had just met, but he had spent most of Sunday exploring the area and had a plan. ‘There’s a park behind the Old Vic. With swings and things. Know it?’

  ‘Course.’

  ‘It’s a nice morning. How about we meet there? Jack can go on the roundabout.’

  ‘All right. See you there. What, say half an hour?’

  ‘Sounds OK to me,’ said Tommy. ‘See ya.’ And he turned off the phone.

  He finished his breakfast, washed up the few crocks and headed across The Cut to the park, stopping to get a paper in the corner newsagent on the way. The park was empty when he got there, it being a school day, and he sat on a bench, lit a cigarette and read the headlines. The sun was warm, and the back street outside was quiet, and all in all Tommy decided he’d made a good choice of his new location.

  Ten minutes later, Sandra walked down the street pushing Jack in his buggy. She was accompanied by a coffee coloured girl with her hair in braids, also pushing a pram. The pair joined Tommy on the bench. ‘Hello Tom,’ said Sandra. ‘This is my mate Shaz.’

  ‘Hello Shaz,’ said Tommy.

  ‘Hello,’ replied the girl ‘Nice to meetcha.’

  ‘I’ve had a few words with the girls,’ said Sandra. ‘And we want to give what you said a go. What’s the deal?’

  ‘You hoist the stuff and bring it to me,’ said Tommy. ‘I make contacts round and about, and flog the gear on at half the marked price. Then we split the dough fifty fifty. I used to do well up town, but like I told you, things got a bit iffy. So let’s not crowd the market first off. What sort of gear you talking about anyway?’

  ‘Anything fits up our skirts, or in the buggy with the kids,’ said Sandra. ‘Stuff for the home mostly. But we can get clothes. Women’s stuff usually, obviously. But if you get an order we’ll do our best to fill it.’

  Tommy was too much of a gentleman to mention that Sandra and Shaz’s skirts were so short, he didn’t think they’d get much gear up them. ‘Where do you get the stuff?’ he asked.

  ‘Croydon, Clapham, or we sometimes all pile into a motor and do the shopping centres in Essex and Kent.’

  ‘An awayday,’ said Tommy, smiling.

  ‘You got it.’

  And so the deal was made.

  And over the next year or so, Tommy had no regrets.

  Sandra and Shaz had a lot of mates, and they were most enthusiastic hoisters. Tommy rented a secure lockup close to his block that soon resembled Aladdin’s cave. The girls nicked anything that wasn’t nailed down. Sheets, duvets, kitchenware, radios, videos, CD players, CDs, children’s clothes, anything. They went out mob handed, keeping in touch by the mobile phones that were gradually getting more popular. They kept an eye out for store detectives, and occasionally there was a bit of fisticuffs if one got too close, but on the whole they kept the violence to a minimum. Business was slow at first, as Tommy had predicted, but it picked up fast when he began to be known around the local cafés and pubs. The money rolled in. Every couple of days, he’d host what he called his ‘coffee mornings’ when the girls would come to his flat, dump the babies in the bedroom under the eye of a little sister and in a fug of cigarette smoke, show Tommy their swag, and collect their earnings.

  He’d never in his life been happier. He had a family again.

  After the business was done, someone would go down The Cut and bring back a takeaway from one of the many restaurants in the market. After lunch, the girls would break out the joints and everyone got happily stoned and had a good old gossip.

  Although the young women were officially on their own, there was no shortage of blokes about. Boyfriends, brothers, brothers-in-law, uncles and dads. And most of them on the rob in some way or another. And what tales of villainy Tommy heard on those afternoons, surrounded by marijuana smoke. All sorts of dirty deeds done cheap, and sometimes not so cheap at that. Burglaries, armed robberies, drug deals, pimping. All sorts. He loved to listen, and when things went properly pear-shaped for him at the beginning of the new millennium, he discovered not only a way to slide out of trouble, but also a lucrative sideline. It ended up being his main source of income.

  19

  The beginning of Tommy’s downfall started out as just another day.

  After almost two years on the manor, he had become a well known fixture. The market-stall holders always gave him a cheery greeting. They, along with the local publicans, took advantage of his cheap gear, and he considered himself fireproof. The girls came and went, but there were always new recruits to be found, and Tommy made a fair living. Not extravagant, but then he was happy with the way things were.

  But once again, things were about to change.

  It all started one Saturday with Tommy in one of his locals on the Blackfriars Road, having a pie and chips washed down with a pint of Guinness. A well-dressed young couple came in, bought drinks, sat at the next table and began discussing the house they’d renovated in one of the turnings off Union Street. Recently there’d been an influx of what Tommy still considered to be Yuppies, buying up old properties in the newly-gentrified Borough and Waterloo areas, which were now considered property hot spots. Tommy had done business with lots of them on recommendation, and was always looking for new customers for his little empire. He listened hard as the woman complained about the price of a range of French cookware she wanted, and Tommy leant over and said, ‘Maybe I can help you.’

  The couple looked at him in surprise.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘But I couldn’t help overhearing.’

  ‘Oh, my wish list,’ said the young woman. ‘It’s a bore, but we’re so over budget on the house.’

  ‘I know,’ said Tommy. ‘It’s a joke. But I might be able to pick up some of that stuff. Le Creuset, right?’

  ‘You know about kitchenware?’ said the young bloke.

  ‘My line,’ said Tommy, smiling disarmingly.

  ‘And you can source it?’ said the woman.

  ‘Could take a week or so,’ said Tommy, who did indeed know about kitchenware, and the few shops that carried that top of the line range. ‘Volcanic orange, I take it?’

  Tommy’s new friends beamed at him. ‘How much?’ asked the man.

  ‘Half retail price to new customers,’ said Tommy.

  ‘You’re joking,’ said the woman. ‘How can you... ?’ She looked sceptical.

  ‘Don’t ask questions,’ said the man.

  Tommy smiled again. ‘It’s not a problem. Cut out the middle man. Easy really. Low overheads.’

  ‘Enough said,’ said the man. ‘Can we get you a drink?’

  ‘No thanks,’ said Tommy. ‘Must dash. Got a number I can reach you on?’

  The man supplied a mobile number. ‘I’ll bell you next week,’ said Tommy. ‘It weighs a bit this stuff, so you’ll have to collect.’

  ‘Our pleasure,’ said the man. ‘My name’s Steve by the way, and this is Delia.’

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ said Tommy. ‘Anyway, I’ll shoot off and see what I can see.’

  ‘Do you need some sort of deposit?’ asked the man, looking hopeful.

  ‘No,’ said Tommy. ‘I could be on the con. That’s not the way I do business. Ask anyone round here. If I can get the stuff, which I’m sure I can, it’ll be cash on delivery. Otherwise... well, let’s just see what happens.’
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  ‘I’ll wait for your call Tommy,’ said Steve, ‘And thanks. That stuff costs an arm and a leg in John Lewis.’

  ‘No problem,’ he replied, as he drained his glass and left.

  Tommy didn’t know it yet, but it was the beginning of the end.

  Although some of Tommy’s girls had come and gone, Sandra and Shaz were still with him, and still the most dedicated of shoplifters. When he got back from the pub that lunchtime he gave Sandra a call. ‘Got an order,’ he said when she answered.

  ‘What?’ she asked.

  ‘Pop round and I’ll tell you.’ He still didn’t like doing business on the phone.

  She turned up an hour later. ‘What?’ she asked when she was sitting down with a cup of tea. Her skirts were longer now, and she was chubbier, but that was because there was another little Sandra on the way. Father unknown. ‘It might be Geoff,’ she said. ‘Or it might be Terry. Or it might be someone I met down the boozer one night. Tommy, you know what I’m like when I’ve had a lager or two.’

  Tommy knew, then he explained what was wanted.

  ‘Christ,’ she said. ‘That stuff weighs a ton.’

  ‘You’ve got time. And take Shaz with you.’