by Julie Thomas
The room was bare, apart from five large chairs at one end. Each chair was occupied by a senior pupil dressed only in a toga made out of a white bed sheet, and each had a garland of plastic grapes and leaves on his head. Marcus’s first reaction was to laugh out loud, but he knew that would be suicide.
‘Name?’ It was the same voice – the sports star of the senior year.
‘Marcus Lane.’
‘Age?’
‘Fourteen.’
‘Form Four. You’re advanced for your age.’
Marcus always listened to his instinct, and this time his instinct was to keep quiet unless he was asked a direct question.
The boy to the left of the one speaking pointed at him. ‘I hear you have a gang of thugs who follow your orders. Is this true?’ he asked.
‘I … can persuade my fellow pupils to do what I ask them to do.’
All the boys smirked at him.
‘So, if we wanted some enforcers to help with the initiation ceremony, you could help us?’ asked the leader.
Marcus thought for a moment: be brave or be sensible? ‘What’s in it for me?’ he asked.
The leader smiled and looked at the floor. ‘What’s your father’s name, Lane?’
‘Norman Lane.’
‘And your grandfather is Tobias Lane.’
It wasn’t a question, so he didn’t answer it.
‘We help our initiates to experience the pleasures of the drunken state. Sometimes they want to stop before we want them to stop, and it would be useful to have boys to … help them to continue. Do you understand?’
Oh yes, Marcus thought to himself. I understand perfectly. You want some of my gang of thugs to hold down new members and pour alcohol down their throats until they can’t hold any more.
‘Yes,’ he said. Better to keep things simple at this stage.
‘Do you drink, Lane?’
He frowned. ‘Not often. I find being drunk diminishes my power over others.’
They all smirked again.
‘Bright lad. We’ll pay you £10 every time we use one of your boys.’
Marcus frowned again. Be brave.
‘I need to pay them, and there is some danger involved. If they get caught they risk expulsion, not you. Make it £15 and you have a deal.’
There was a moment’s silence, and he began to contemplate how difficult these seniors could make his life. Everyone seemed to be waiting for the boy in the middle to make up his mind. He studied Marcus.
‘Takes balls to drive a bargain with me. I like that. Fifteen quid it is. But I want your best muscle – strong and dumb. Understood?’
Marcus smiled at him. ‘Perfectly.’
‘You can go now.’
He nodded, turned on his heel and left the room. As he walked up the corridor, Marcus thought about how long it would be before he sat in a position like that, a senior, an intimidator, an enforcer. He knew he was already feared and respected, and he took great pleasure in living up to his brutal reputation, but age would enhance that. Three more years and he would be the king of this place. The thought gave him deep satisfaction.
The winter Marcus turned sixteen, his life changed in a few moments.
He wasn’t even at home – he was at boarding school – but the reach of family was long. His father and grandfather were sitting together in the drawing room of the Richmond house. It had been a very profitable year and the two men were indulging in a glass of port and a Cuban cigar.
‘I think it’s time Marcus left that school and joined the family,’ Norman said.
Tobias frowned and took a gulp of port before he answered. ‘You know Melissa’s very keen for him to get good qualifications, maybe even go to university –’
Norman snorted with barely concealed disgust. ‘What on earth for? By sixteen I was earning money from my own patch.’
‘He’s bright, he enjoys learning.’
‘She’s always pampered him and Millie. No, I think that’s completely unnecessary.’
Norman wanted to tell Tobias to keep his thoughts to himself, but his father was one of only two people who could make him hold his temper in check, and Melissa had counselled him against upsetting Tobias.
His father didn’t answer; instead, he put his glass down on the table at his elbow.
Norman glanced at him. ‘Are you feeling okay, Dad?’ he asked.
Tobias seemed to stare at the rug for a moment, then pulled himself to his feet. His face was turning grey and a light sheen of sweat had appeared out of nowhere.
He held out a hand towards his son. ‘No … I … have –’ Suddenly he clasped at his chest and his knees buckled. He slumped slowly to the floor and onto his side. Norman gripped a shoulder and rolled Tobias onto his back. Then he sat down again. His father was opening and closing his mouth, but no sound emerged and his eyes were bulging. He continued to clutch at his shirt, but his grasp was weakening.
Norman took a slug from his glass and inhaled his cigar. ‘I want to watch you die,’ he said softly. His eyes never left his father’s face as the life ebbed out of the older man. The process had always delighted him, but never to this extent. No death had ever changed his life the way this one would.
Tobias’s eyes were nearly closed and his breath was nothing more than a gurgling sound.
Norman leaned forward and whispered: ‘I’m going to change everything.’
When it was obvious that his father was dead, Norman got to his feet, bent over and picked up the other man’s wrist. There was no pulse. He walked briskly from the room, calling his mother’s name as he left.
After the funeral, Norman, Melissa, Millie and Marcus moved into the imposing Richmond house, and Tobias’s widow moved into their old home. Melissa fired most of the servants and hired new ones. Norman gave her an open chequebook to redecorate, while he set about modernising the family business. Against Melissa’s wishes, he also decided that it was time Marcus left that ‘damn expensive school’ and learned his trade.
‘But I like school!’
His father glared at him. Norman Lane was a colossal man at over six foot five, lean and muscular, with hands that balled easily into fists. ‘What use is it going to be to you? Damn history and Latin and geomet–’
‘It helps me understand the world, how it works –’
‘Bullshit! You need to learn to shoot well – not for game but at people, with a damn pistol. Learn how to make people obey you, be a leader. Learn not to be impulsive.’
That was rich, coming from his father. There was no sense in resisting, though, Marcus knew that, but somehow he had to have one last go.
‘Can I finish this year?’
‘No! Young Tom McGregor, the boy you went to primary school with? He left school in December and joined us. Dan says he’s making excellent progress, and I don’t want you to lag behind. I’m going to put you with Dan and Tom, and you can start shadowing Dan’s clients.’
‘But –’
‘Don’t you dare contradict me!’ his father roared.
Marcus saw the fists clench, bit his lower lip and said nothing more. Dan had been his grandfather’s second-in-command, and he knew the criminal underworld, from every disused warehouse to every crooked landlord. He would be a hard taskmaster but, if you planned a life of crime, there could be no better teacher. Accept the inevitable, that had been his mother’s advice, and he had to admit that the idea of firing a gun at real people was just a little bit more exciting than watching thugs kick the crap out of younger boys.
CHAPTER SIX
TOM GROWS UP
As Tom grew older he learned to control his fear, and his father lost interest in him as a victim. He started to single out Tom’s younger brother, one half of the set of twins and weaker and sicker than his siblings. Tom was furious but, try as he might, he couldn’t get Stuart to redirect his anger back towards his eldest son. It was the terror that Stuart needed to see.
Dorothy had taken refuge in prescribed tranquillisers and vodk
a, and sometimes didn’t get out of bed all day. Then one night it all changed.
Stuart was working for the Clerkenwell gang, clearing a street of hookers who worked for rivals, and he got knifed by a pimp. The hunting knife missed vital organs in its journey from the back of his body to the front, but he was in a bad way when the gang dropped him at the doors of the local hospital. The police rang, but Dorothy was in no fit state to go, so Tom went. He was fifteen and wary of anyone in authority – policemen, doctors, teachers, he hated them all.
‘I’m afraid the knife blade severed your father’s spinal cord and the damage appears to be permanent. He’ll come home eventually, but will be confined to a wheelchair.’
Tom looked at the doctor who was sitting opposite him and trying to break bad news gently.
Don’t show your joy, they won’t understand. Tom swallowed. ‘Paralysed?’ he asked in a small voice.
‘Yes, son, from the lower chest down. You’ll get some help on the NHS, but your family will have to do a lot for him.’
Tom nodded slowly.
‘What would happen if we couldn’t manage? My mum’s very sick – she’s in bed all day sometimes – and my older sisters have left home, and he wouldn’t like it if his kids had to do private stuff for him.’
The doctor paused and consulted his notes.
‘He would qualify for residence in a rest home, but we would need to talk to your mum about that.’
Tom considered the hell he could create for his father, but it would take work and it would slow down his life plan. So he made sure that Dorothy was unable to hold a lucid conversation with the medical establishment, much less look after her invalid husband.
After much consultation it was decided that the best place for Stuart was a care unit at a local rest home. Stuart protested violently to anyone who would listen, but the staff ignored him and his children didn’t visit. Tom took away his mother’s drugs and booze and booked her into a rehab clinic. She had nothing to hide from now. As a parting gift, Tom told the rest home staff that Stuart had been violent and was not a nice man.
The day he turned sixteen, Tom left school and went to see Tobias Lane. He was prepared to start at the bottom and work his way up.
‘I want to learn, sir.’
Lane studied him.
‘It’s hard work and it’s not pleasant.’
‘I’m not squeamish, and I know how to fight and shoot.’
‘Very well, I’ll put you with Dan. He’ll teach you everything you need to know. When do you want to start?’
‘Tomorrow. There’s something I have to do this afternoon.’
Tom went straight from the Lane house to the rest home where his father lived. It was four in the afternoon and Stuart was dozing in his wheelchair, facing the window overlooking the garden. He looked smaller, hunched and pitiful. Tom stood and watched him for a moment, then took the chair by one handle and swung it around. The movement woke Stuart up.
‘Tommy! About bloody time. Ya’ve come to take me hame.’
Tom shook his head. ‘No. You’ll die in this place. I’ve come to pay a debt. I want to thank you for teaching me to be a hard bastard.’
He balanced himself beside the chair and punched his father in the side of the head. Stuart’s body was sent backwards by the force, and the chair nearly overbalanced. Tom grabbed it and pulled it back down. He continued to punch with a closed fist for over a minute. Stuart’s face whipped from one direction to the other and blood spilled from the cuts. Finally Tom’s fury was spent and he stepped back.
CHAPTER SEVEN
VINNIE GROWS UP
School and Vinnie went together like oil and water. He had grown into far too much of a show-off to fit into the rigid public school system. But while he had no interest in sport and was too lazy to be overly academic, he could act and sing. It was clear that he was quick-witted and clever, and his teachers were frustrated by their inability to capture his interest. He could play the class clown to perfection, and his philosophy was ‘make others laugh with you before they laugh at you’ – a talent that saved him from being bullied.
Vinnie was just sixteen but he looked older at around five foot ten, thickset and barrel-chested, muscular and sturdy, with curly hair, pale blue eyes and a strong face. When his father had once told him that he, too, had a ‘Roman nose’, he had pored over books about famous Romans to find his nose on pictures of busts of Augustus, Agrippa and Julius Caesar, and finally decided it was a good thing. He was growing more like his father as his body matured; sometimes it made his mother draw a sharp breath when he walked into the room.
Those formative years around Marcus had rubbed off. He knew how to lie convincingly, cheat at cards and shoplift successfully, but he also knew that the danger lay in getting caught, so he took on the role of Fagin rather than that of the Artful Dodger. His charm, wit and flair for drama enabled him to explain the techniques required for successful thievery in humorous detail. He found a coat on a market stall that had pockets inside and out, and used it to teach his patsies to lift wallets, hide things up their sleeves, slip things into their pockets and evade detection. Soon he had the younger boys completely under his spell, and persuading them to carry out the crimes was easy.
Sometimes circumstances gave him the chance to make a profit and be a hero. One of his protégés, Joseph, had an older sister, Clara, who was particularly attractive and was devoted to books. However, she wasn’t very practical and was renowned for losing things. When her brother told Vinnie that she had borrowed an edition of The Annals of Imperial Rome by Tacitus, Vinnie persuaded him to ‘steal’ it and bring it to him. As luck would have it, there was no name inside it, nothing to distinguish it from any other copy.
In no time, word came back that Clara was distraught at the thought that she had lost someone else’s book.
Vinnie waited a day or two, then knocked on her door. ‘Good morning, Mrs Hill. Is Clara there?’
The middle-aged woman regarded him with suspicion. ‘What do you want with my daughter?’
Vinnie smiled. ‘My name is Vinnie Whitney-Ross, and I might be able to help her with a problem.’
Clara appeared in the background. ‘Who is it, Mum?’
Her mother turned around. ‘Vinnie someone. He says he might be able to help you with a problem.’
Clara beckoned her mother away and came to the door. ‘Hello, Vinnie. What problem?’
By way of an answer Vinnie pulled the book out of the bag he was carrying. She leapt forward and grabbed it from his hands.
‘My book! Where did you find it?’
‘Actually, it’s not your copy. I help on a second-hand book stall, and we had it in stock. Joseph said you had lost your copy, so I’ve come to the rescue.’
She was flicking through it and looking at the inside cover. ‘That’s wonderful, thank you! How much do you want for it?’
Vinnie hesitated. ‘Ordinarily we’d want a tenner but, as you’ve had a traumatic loss, let’s call it eight quid.’
She rushed down the steps and threw her arms around him. ‘Vinnie, you’re my hero.’
She planted a big kiss on his cheek, and he hugged her back.
‘So pleased to be of service.’
When Vinnie’s classmates brought him their ill-gotten gains, he smuggled the loot out in hollow books and took it across the city to Monty Joe, his dad’s old client, who could sell it in his chain of shops, on the market or down the pub. The smaller items, stationery, sweets and grubby magazines, Vinnie sold to other schoolboys through an intricate network of ever-changing empty lockers and coded messages. He gave the thieves thirty-five per cent of his proceeds, and it proved to be a good little earner. He had over £2000 in a well hidden shoebox by 1982, when it all came to a grinding halt.
His own preferred hunting ground was his friend’s book stall on the Portobello Road Market. All the punters thought Vinnie was a rookie trader with a very good line in patter. What set him apart were some cracking first
editions, nicked for him from bookshops, parental bookcases and the lockers of his rich fellow pupils.
One cold Saturday morning he was visited by a heavy-set, balding man wearing a Burberry raincoat.
‘Morning, sir. Looking for some classics?’
The man was perusing the books on the table and didn’t look up. ‘Poetry. I like poetry,’ he said quietly.
‘A very noble gift, being able to write poetry. Anyone in particular? We have some TS Eliot, a nice volume of John Donne, Robert Graves if you prefer something mod–’
‘Robert Frost. Got any Robert Frost?’
The man looked up, and Vinnie could see that he was sweating. His eyes flickered sideways and telegraphed his wish to be anywhere but here.
Something deep in Vinnie’s brain warned him that this interaction was not right. He turned and dug into a box of books on the chair behind him. ‘Actually, I might … ah yes, here it is. This came in only last week. In the Clearing, published in 1962.’
He handed the book over, and the man’s face lit up. ‘Excellent! How much do you want for it?’
‘It belongs to my friend. This is his stall and I mind it sometimes. I believe he said not to accept less than fifteen quid.’
The man extended his hand. ‘Done.’
Two days later Vinnie arrived at school and was sent straight to the headmaster’s office. It was a room he was familiar with, and he stood silently in front of the huge desk, hands behind his back, studying the carpet and waiting for the elderly man to finish writing.
Without looking at him, the headmaster opened a drawer, took out the book of Frost poetry and tossed it onto the desk in front of Vinnie. ‘Where did you get this?’ he barked.
Vinnie felt a net starting to close around him. ‘I’m not sure I know what you mean, sir.’
The old man raised his head and fixed his watery brown eyes on Vinnie. ‘Then let me explain, young man. I gave this book to my godson, Bartholomew, and told him to brag about it and then leave it in his locker. Sure enough, it was stolen. Last Saturday I sent my neighbour to a stall at the Portobello market and he purchased it for £15. From you. How do you explain that?’