Guns Of Brixton

by Mark Timlin

  'When?'

  'When something happens to you.'

  'He'll be well looked after. So will Martine. So will you if you'll let me.'

  'We'll see about that.'

  They were interrupted when Chas came into the room, still wearing his apron and carrying a tray, the contents of which he used to set the table by the window. He went out again and returned with a plate of food. 'Omelette and salad,' he said. 'Nothing special.'

  'Looks good,' said Jenner.

  The big man looked down at him and smiled. 'The best,' he said, 'I'm going to have Tootsie's stuff for my supper.'

  After he'd eaten, Jenner lit another joint and said. 'I'm going to turn in soon. I need my beauty sleep. You stay up as long as you like. Watch a film.' He pointed at a row of DVDs next to the widescreen TV in the corner. 'Got some good gangster ones there.'

  'I bet you have.'

  'American mostly, Brit ones are crap. That Guy Ritchie, what a wanker. Or listen to music. Just do what you like. It's liberty hall here.'

  'Thanks, Uncle John.'

  'Chas'll lock up. He'll wait for Martine. He don't sleep much these days. He'll make breakfast in the morning. Anytime you like. I sleep in.

  Mark was beginning to understand the seriousness of the illness that afflicted his old friend. In the silence that followed, Mark heard scratching at the door. 'What the hell's that?' he said.

  'Get it will you, son,' said Jenner.

  Mark went to the door and slowly opened it to reveal a scrawny old tabby standing outside. The cat opened its mouth and let out an almost silent yowl before limping in.

  'It can't be,' said Mark. 'Is it? Lily?'

  At the sound of her name, the cat raised its head, showing white, almost sightless eyes, and yowled again. 'Christ, it is,' said Mark. 'I thought she'd be dead and gone years ago. How old is she?'

  'Twenty, twenty-one,' said Jenner. Those Burmese moggies live to a ripe old age.'

  'Hazel's cat,' said Mark, closing the door and sitting again. 'That's amazing.'

  Jenner's wife had loved Lily, who she'd saved from being destroyed by a neighbour with too many kittens, and she'd spoilt her rotten.

  'I said I'd look after her, and I have,' said Jenner. 'She's almost blind, and a diabetic, but she still sleeps with me, and until her kidneys go and the starts pissing the bed, I won't have her put down. Though sometimes I think it would be kinder to do it.'

  'She used to sleep with me sometimes,' said Mark.

  'She's a bit of a tart is Lily. She'll sleep with anyone. If she tries it on again, kick her out. But don't kick her too hard, she's fragile.'

  'Course not.'

  The old cat made her slow way across the carpet and headbutted Janner's leg. He picked her up and put her on his lap, relit his spliff, leant down and let out a mouthful of smoke. Lily lifted her head again, breathed it in, turned round and went straight to sleep. 'She loves a bit of draw,' said Jenner. 'Helps her kip. A bit like me.' 'I don't believe you, Uncle,' said Mark.

  'Time for bed for us both,' said Jenner, and with that, he pushed.himself to his feet, hoisting the cat over his shoulder. 'I'll see you tomorrow, son,' he said. 'It's been a good day. A hell of a good day.'

  'I'm glad.'

  'Too long coming though.'

  Mark just nodded and looked up at his uncle. This once hard man. This

  Jack the lad. Now old and racked with cancer, clutching his dead wife's cat as if it was a straw to save him from the freezing sea of his own fate.

  'Goodnight then,' said Jenner.

  'Goodnight, Uncle John.'

  'You could just call me John, you know. That uncle business makes me feel ancient.'

  'Force of habit.'

  Jenner smiled and left the room.

  After he'd gone, Mark mooched around the room that had changed little in the years he'd been gone. The DVDs were new, and the home cinema too, but otherwise things were much the same. He looked at the books on the shelves. Crime fiction mostly, and some autobiographies by London criminals. He smiled at himself, thinking that maybe John Jenner had fancied doing one of those himself. He opened the silver cigarette box and looked at the neatly rolled joints and was tempted for a moment, but he shook his head, closed the box and decided to go to bed himself.

  He went back up to his old room. It was strange, more than strange to. find himself there. But it was warm, the bed still fitted his contours when he laid on it and stared up at the familiar ceiling. After a few minutes he went to the bathroom next door which had always been his alone and found a new toothbrush and toothpaste, soap and flannel, laid out on the washbasin, razor and shaving cream in the mirrored cabinet. He looked at his reflection and smiled wryly. It had indeed, as John Jenner had said, been a hell of a day. He cleaned his teeth, relieved himself, washed his hands and went back to the bedroom where he undressed, slid under the Bros duvet and was soon asleep.

  A noise awoke him sometime later. He had no idea what time it was. The door was open to allow light in from the hall and he saw that Martine wasstanding in the doorway. 'The prodigal returned,' she said, and he couldn't decide whether she was glad or sorry. Even from the other side of the room her perfume filled his head and he felt dizzy, although it might have been from the amount he'd had to drink during the day.

  'Just for tonight,' he said. His throat was dry and his tongue felt huge in his mouth.

  'No. You're back. I can tell.' 'Is that bad?'

  'No. Dad needs someone.' 'What about you?' 'I'm a girl. It's not the same.' 'I'm sorry.'

  'Don't be. It's not your fault. It's just the way it is.' 'Did you have a good time tonight?' he asked. 'Yeah. Not bad. Danced on the tables, that sort of thing.' 'What time is it?'

  'What does it matter? You didn't wait up for me.' 'I didn't think you'd want me to.' 'You'd be surprised.' 'Maybe.'

  'I used to do this years ago. Did you know that?' 'Do what?' He was confused.

  'Creep into your room when you were asleep and watch you.' 'Did you?' Now he was genuinely surprised. 'Why?' 'Because you were beautiful. I don't think you knew how beautiful. That's what made it special. All my girlfriends at school had crushes on you.' 'Did they? I never knew.' 'You could be very thick sometimes.' 'I know.'

  'So what happened, Mark? Did you take an ugly pill?' But there was no malice in her voice. He touched his face and felt the lines and the rasp of his beard.

  'Life happened to me,' he said.

  'It happened to all of us.'

  'But it hasn't affected you the same.'

  'Thank you, kind sir. Anyway, I'll let you get back to sleep. I didn't mean to wake you.'

  'I'm glad you did.'

  'Good. I loved you, you know.'

  'What?'

  'I was in love with you, just like all the other girls.' 'I never knew that either.'

  'But then, things change don't they?' She wiggled her fingers and shut the door so that he was in darkness again, apart from the reflection from the snow outside. He slumped back on his pillow and blew out a breath. Jesus, he thought. What am I letting myself in for here?

  Chapter 7

  Mark woke early. He rolled out of bed, checked the stairs for Martine and slipped quietly to the bathroom in his shorts. He didn't want to engage in another conversation with her and her sharp tongue without at least a cup of tea inside him, and preferably with his clothes on. He locked the bathroom door, made his ablutions, had a quick shower, shaved, and went back to get dressed. When he drew back the curtains he saw that it had snowed heavily in the night. The garden below looked beautiful with only a few bird and cat prints to spoil the pristine white.

  He got dressed in yesterday's clothes, ignoring the fitted wardrobe which held God alone knows what fashion mistakes from the past and went downstairs to the kitchen. It was just before nine by his watch. Chas was in situ, watching the BBC news. The kitchen was warm and smelled of cooked bacon.

  'Morning, Chas,' said Mark.

  'Morning, Mark,' replied Chas. 'Sleep well?'


  'Not bad. It was weird.'

  'I expect it was. Tea or coffee?'

  'Tea I think,' said Mark, unused to being waited on.

  'Any breakfast?'

  'Maybe later. Who's about?'

  'Just you and me so far. Martine will be down soon and when she's ' gone to work I'll take the boss up a cuppa.'

  'How is he, Chas?' asked Mark. 'How is he really?' 'He's dying.' 'So it's true.'

  'Course it is. He wouldn't lie to you about a thing like that. It comes and goes. Remission, then bad times. Remission again. You ever known anyone with cancer?'

  'No.'

  'It's a filthy thing but he's coping with it. Seeing you's cheered him up.'

  'Why didn't he get in touch before?'

  'Scared you wouldn't come.'

  'I'd walk over hot coals for that man.'

  'You haven't seen him in years.'

  'You know why.'

  'You should've done.'

  'I know,' said Mark. 'Don't you think I feel bad enough about it without you getting the cosh out?'

  'OK, Mark. But I thought it should be said.'

  'And now you've said it.'

  'No hard feelings I hope.'

  'What do you think?'

  'I think it's good to see you back.'

  'And I think it's good to be here.'

  'Fair enough,' said Chas. And Mark knew that things were all right between them. Just like old times.

  There were footsteps outside the kitchen and Martine entered, interrupting their conversation. Today she'd dressed warmly, with fur- lined boots.

  'Will you look at the weather?' she said. 'I might get lost in a blizzard.'

  'Not much chance of that with that nanny you're wearing,' remarked Chas. Martine's overcoat was bright scarlet with a fur collar. Red hair and red clothes often didn't work, but with Martine they did. In spades.

  'Do you like it?' she asked, doing a spin. 'It's new.'

  'Lovely,' said Mark.

  'What about breakfast?' asked Chas.

  'I'll get something at work.' 'No you won't. Take off the coat and sit. I'll get you some eggs.'

  'Oh Chas, don't fuss. I was just leaving.'

  'Don't "oh Chas" me. You're not going out on a day like this without something inside you.'

  'I'll be late.'

  'Blame the weather.'

  'He's just like Mum used to be,' said Martine.

  Mark laughed at the memory. She was right. Hazel had never let them out in the morning without something to eat, despite their protests. 'Breakfast is the most important meal of the day,' he said. Just like Hazel.

  Martine squidged up her eyes at him. 'Don't you start,' she said. 'It's bad enough with Chas bossing me about.'

  'I wouldn't dream of bossing you about, Martine,' said Mark.

  'You'd better not.' But she did as she was told, took off her coat, hung it outside the kitchen door and came back for a plate of toast and scrambled eggs. When she was finished Chas said, 'Let me run you up to town.'

  'No, Chas, you're all right. The roads'll be terrible. I'll get a bus to Brixton and go by tube.'

  'You're quite the democrat these days, aren't you?' said Mark. 'Seems to me I remember you having to get driven everywhere when you were a kid.'

  'I told you last night, times and people change. I work for my living and I enjoy every minute of it.'

  'Selling cheap schmutter at inflated prices,' said Chas.

  'The clothes at the shop are the best, Chas, and you know it. Stop ganging up on me, the pair of you.'

  'OK, miss,' said Chas and gave her a hug as she got up to go. 'But call me if you need anything.'

  'I will,' she said, kissed him hard on the cheek, wiggled her fingers at Mark just like she had done the previous night and left the room. A minute later they heard the front door slam and peace descended on the house.

  'She's… er, quite a girl,' said Mark.

  'They broke the mould. Only one like her was Hazel,' said Chas.

  'Yeah.'

  'You want some breakfast yourself now?'

  'Yeah. Watching her eat's given me an appetite.'

  'Full English?'

  'Sounds good.'

  Chas got out the frying pan and prepared eggs, bacon, mushrooms and fried bread which Mark wolfed down. When he was finished and the china and cutlery was in the dishwasher, Chas said, 'So what have you been up to all this time?'

  'What a question,' said Mark. 'It's been eight years.'

  'I know, I've been here all that time and watched the boss wishing you were too.'

  'Come on, Chas. I had to go.'

  'I know. But where?'

  'Didn't Dev tell you?'

  'I heard you kept in touch. Little Irish git never let on.'

  'I told him not to. I'd've known.'

  'I know you would've,' said Chas. 'We'd've been out for a visit.'

  'I moved around.'

  'Where to?'

  'All over Europe.'

  'How come?'

  'I fell in with this bloke.'

  'What bloke?'

  Mark knew he'd have to tell at least some of the story, so he lit up a cigarette, took an ashtray from the stack on one of the units and began. 'When I left London I went down to the coast. Got on the ferry… You know, walk on, walk off, and went to France. I had my passport, but they, hardly bothered with it. Then I-caught a train to Paris. Hung out for a few days and got a job.'

  'What kind of job?' asked Chas.

  'In a bar. Started out cleaning up, washing up. You know the sort of thing. Casual. Then one night one of the barman didn't come in and I filled in for him.'

  'You speak French now?'

  'Un peu.'

  'Do what?'

  'A bit.' Mark held up his forefinger and thumb a half inch apart. 'It wasn't hard. Most of the people spoke English, though they don't let on until they get to know you. I made mistakes, but I learned. I was young and I think the bloke who owned the place fancied me.' He saw the old fashioned look on Chas's face. 'But don't worry, Chas, he didn't do anything about it. He had hot and cold running geezers up in his flat. He didn't need me.'

  'Where did you live?'

  'Got a room with one of the chefs. Mental. He was always out of his head on some designer drug or another. But when the tips started coming in I rented a room off of a customer who had a little house up in Montmartre. Fucking beautiful it was. High ceilings, roof terrace and just down the way from the bar. Life was good. Then I met someone.'

  'A bird?'

  'No. Another bloke. Old boy. Name of Cam. Mr Cam everyone called him. I never knew what his other name was, or if that was his first or last. He could've been sixty, could've been eighty. And he wasn't gay. He wasn't much of anything. Just a nice old bloke as far as I was concerned.'

  'So what happened?'

  'He used to come in the bar every night and sometimes lunchtime. Tiny bloke. Only about five foot tall. And… Well I never worked out what he was 'til he told me. I knew he was from the far east, but I had no idea where. Then one night we was rabbiting. He spoke English better than you and me, and he let on. Vietnamese he was. From the south. Pissed off when the Americans left. He'd been up to something dodgy, I found out later. Buying black market stuff from the Yanks. Petrol, weapons, anything. Anyway, he'd been to a French school when they were trying to occupy the country before the Americans came, and was as good at French as he was at English, so he moved to Paris and set up in business.'

  'What kind of business?'

  'Monkey business. But at first he told me he was importing works of art. He looked the part too. White hair, smart suits, and spats would you believe. Anyway we got friendly. He loved the steak and chips in the bar and he was a good tipper. So one night I was locking up the place. Yeah, I got to be trusted enough to have the keys, and the old boy had been in, and when I came round into the alley at the back of the place to dump off some rubbish, there he was along with four other Asian blokes. But big blokes. And they're jabbering away
at each other and I can see it's all about to go off. Now, I've been a good boy all the time I've been in Paris. Kept my nose clean. But I'm not- going to have all this. I could've just pissed off but instead I get involved. The old boy tells me to leave it, but I don't. You know me.'

  Chas nodded.

  'And one of these other blokes gives me a shove and I shove back and away we go. Blimey, I've never seen anything like it. The old boy's like bloody Jackie Chan. Bish, bosh, he's off and we do for them.' Mark laughed at the memory. 'At least he does three and a half of them and I do half of one, and I'm on the floor covered in blood with my jacket all torn, and the old boy's standing there and his suit ain't even creased. So he picks me up and takes me round the corner to this little club I know nothing about, and he says, 'No cops,' and I say back that it would never occur to me to call them, and he gives me a funny little look but don't say nothing. And this club's full of Vietnamese too, and they start on at him because apparently they don't want any round eyes there. That's what they call us - round eyes. But he's as good as gold. He starts on at them in Vietnamese and must explain what happens, because after a minute they're all over me like a rash. Anyway the barman gives me a large brandy and then Mr Cam whizzes me upstairs to his flat.

  'It turns out he owns the whole gaff, see. And there's this beautiful Vietnamese girl there. His granddaughter I find out later. Her name's Lan. So she cleans me up and takes my jacket to mend where it's torn. Anyway, to cut a long story short, when I'm patched up, he calls me a cab and sends me home. The next day I'm as stiff as a board and call in sick. It's not a problem. But in the afternoon when I'm sitting in front of the telly trying to make head or tail of some old American film dubbed into French there's a knock at the door and it's him. He's bought me a big bag of fruit and a bottle of some Vietnamese rice wine and we sit down for chat.

  'He tells me that the blokes who gave him a hard time are North Vietnamese gangsters trying to muscle in on his club which was why he wouldn't call the cops. And he's grateful for my intervention as he calls it. I tell him I'm sure he didn't need it the way he could handle himself, but. he's still full of thanks and tells me if I need a doctor he'll cough for the bill. I tell him I'm fine, I've had worse, and end up telling him the story of why I left England. Not all of it mind. And suddenly he asks if I've ever killed anyone. Well, you can imagine that sort of puts the kibosh on the conversation there and then. Except I own up. I tell him yes I have, and he tells me he guessed. Can always tell. Which, as it goes, tells me a bit about him too. And he offers me a job there and then. He likes my bravery and loyalty he says. I just tell him I didn't like the odds, and he laughs. So he should've, as he could've sorted twice as many in my opinion without breaking a sweat. Import and export? I say and he laughs again. And that's when it all started.'