Guns Of Brixton

by Mark Timlin

  'Christ,' said Chas. 'Do you speak Vietnamese now and all?'

  'Di di mau,' said Mark.

  'What's that mean?'

  'Piss off.' He laughed.

  'And did you take the job?'

  Mark nodded. 'Sure.'

  'What was it?'

  'He asked me to kill someone.'

  Chas didn't speak for a moment, and when he did he said, 'And did you?'

  Mark nodded. 'Sure. I'd had the practice and the money and hours were better than working in the bar.'

  Chas nodded, then looked up at the kitchen clock. 'Blimey, is that the time? I'd better take the boss up his tea and see if he needs anything.'

  'Times certainly have changed here, Chas,' said Mark as Chas boiled water and put tea in a pot.

  'How so?'

  'You used to be an enforcer. Now you're chief cook and bottle washer.'

  'I do what needs to be done. But don't get the wrong idea. I can still do the business when necessary. I ain't gone soft because I've bought a cook book or two. No one should ever make that mistake. It could be fatal.' And with that he left the kitchen, tea cup on a tray, leaving Mark to think about what he'd said.

  John Jenner came down later in his dressing gown, grey stubble on s: his cheeks.

  'A good night?' asked Mark.

  'Not too bad. Only about half a dozen trips to the pisser. That's good- for me. What are you going to do today?'

  'I'm going to shoot back to my place and pick up my stuff.'

  'And then?'

  'I'm going to have a think about what you said.'

  'Good.'

  'What about you?'

  'I'm going to take the paper back to bed with me, do the crossword.'

  'Still crosswords eh, Uncle?'

  'It keeps my mind sharp. Will you call me later?'

  'Course I will.'

  And they left it at that.

  In fact John Jenner had had a particularly bad night. Seeing Ma Farrow again had brought back a lot of memories. Some pleasant, so. not so. And talking about Hazel had brought back the worst. She'd always been the lively one out of the two of them. The heart and soul of a pi that lasted a lot of years. But then she'd started to slow down all of sudden; the heart had gone out of her soul. But she refused to see a doctor, though Jenner nagged her rotten. It was only when she collapsed one day whilst out shopping in Oxford Street that she was forced to: an ambulance took her to Queen Mary's Hospital. When John Jenner arrived a couple of hours later, the cardiac consultant gave him the first of several bits of bad news. As far as they could tell at that early stage there was a problem with one of the valves in her heart and she needed immediate surgery. The valve was replaced with a mechanical one that ticked like a ten bob watch, but Hazel never really recovered. There was talk of a heart transplant, but even though John moved heaven and earth, the right match never turned up. And all the money in the world couldn't buy his wife's life back. Watching her die was the worst. Just as Mark had remembered the previous day in the restaurant. Watching the woman he loved fade to a shadow of her former self, her once lustrous red hair growing thin and dull and falling out in handfuls. And the light in her eyes slowly being extinguished.

  John Jenner hated to admit it, but when the end came it was almost a relief. Hated to admit it, and hated himself for feeling that way. Feelings he'd never shared with anyone, but which came back to haunt him in the darkest hours of the night. And now, he was fading himself. 'Serves you right,' he said to himself as he slowly made his way back to his bed and the Telegraph crossword.

  Mark Farrow drove to Canvey Island around noon. He'd rented a place there to lie low until Jimmy Hunter came out of prison. But the word that John Jenner needed to see him urgently had changed all that. Not that he was sorry. The place he'd rented was a dump, and he wouldn't miss it. By the time he left Tulse Hill, the snow had stopped and the roads had been salted.

  The chip shop underneath his flat, if that wasn't too grand a title for the couple of rooms he inhabited, was doing a desultory lunchtime trade when he got there. He dragged open the warped old double doors in the alley at the back of the shop and parked the Range Rover next to an overflowing dumpster that stank of rotten fish even in the freezing cold. He sighed as he climbed the icy, metal flight of stairs to his door. The place might be rank, he thought, but at least I could get the car out of sight. It was probably the sharpest motor for miles, and although not strictly his property, he didn't want it stolen or damaged. Too much hassle.

  He unlocked the door and slammed it behind him. The temperature in the' flat was sub zero. There was no central heating, only a couple of ancient gas fires. He went into his living room and drew back the curtains, allowing the thin daylight into the room. He looked around in disgust as he shucked off his overcoat and muffler and threw them on to a chair. He struck a match and the fire came to life with a burp, as he dropped into his lumpy armchair and surveyed the room, contrasting the dirty, scored beige wood chip wallpaper, the thin carpet and mismatched furniture with the inside of his uncle's house. As the room warmed the window steamed and he went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. One mug, one plate, one knife, fork and spoon sat on the draining board by the sink. He found still fresh milk in the fridge, which he admitted was the one advantage of a freezing room. A teabag and sugar went into the mug and he brewed his tea, dropping the sodden bag into the Asda carrier that served as his dustbin and went back into the living room.

  He looked through the few vinyl albums stacked against the wall, picked out an ancient copy of Otis Blue. It was an original American pressing on the yellow Volt label and would have been worth a fortune if not for the fact that the sleeve was torn and the grooves scratched, But Mark didn't care. He put it on the turntable of the ancient record player he'd picked up at a boot sale, side one, track one, and let the first few bars of My Girl fill the room, thinking as he did that there was probably a mint copy back at John Jenner's house.

  He smiled to himself, sat back down and thought about what his uncle had told him. He knew it was time he got his life sorted out. He was just marking time there on Canvey. Hiding from his past, his parent's past, his surrogate uncle's past and everything that was happening in south London.

  His time away had changed him. It would've changed anyone. He let his thoughts drift back.

  When his father had been killed, Mark had been just a kid, his mother was in her early thirties and couldn't cope with what had happened. Suddenly losing the only man she'd ever loved, being at the centre of a notorious murder case, and being left to look after a child alone had been more than she could deal with. She'd never been strong. Billy had been the strong one in the family. And after all the fuss had died down, Jimmy Hunter given his life sentence and the case closed, she went from bad to worse. There was money. The Met made sure of that. Compensation and a full pension meant that Susie Farrow and her son wouldn't starve. In fact, if Susie had been forced by penury to look for a job, things might never have ended up the way they did. But a widow with a bit of money would always be the target for men. And men came and went until Bobby Thomas turned up and didn't go away again.

  Bobby was a boozer who dabbled in drugs on the side. Nothing serious really. He liked a joint and maybe some coke at the weekend with the odd pill now and then. Nothing to get excited about. But when he was pissed up and speed ran through his veins he tended to get a bit violent. And Susie was no match for him. Nor was twelve-year-old Mark Farrow. He'd tried his best, but Thomas was a big man and loved to show just how big. Especially with women and children. Susie had been an orphan and never really got on with Billy's mum and dad, and Bobby Thomas didn't encourage any contact, until eventually they just faded out of Susie and Mark's life.

  At Mark's father's funeral, John Jenner, just another big man in a dark suit and black tie who wouldn't go to the wake after the service because of the big police presence, had spoken briefly to him, and given him a plain white card with his name, address and telephone number pr
inted on it. He'd told the boy he was an old friend of his dad, and if he ever needed anything, anything at all, he was to ring the number. Anytime, night or day. Just do it, the big man in the dark suit had said before he'd climbed into a green Jaguar driven by an even bigger man who wasn't introduced.

  As Thomas's drug and alcohol consumption - financed mostly by Susie's money - increased, so the violence worsened. What had been just a few digs, the occasional slap and twisted arm, escalated. In the summer of 1985, Thomas and Susie got married. The beatings took on a new edge, and with them, Susie, encouraged by her husband, began to drink more, sometimes also joining him in his drug taking.

  Mark was at his wit's end. His school-work, which had never been much cop, went from bad to worse. After one particularly bad weekend, he took the card that he had hidden on the evening of his father's funeral and called the number. A raspy voice, sounding like the creature from the black lagoon, answered after half a dozen rings and Mark almost hung up. Stutteringly he asked for the name on the card, and the voice demanded to know who was calling. Mark almost wet himself, and only the thought of his drunken mother, crying herself to sleep in the bedroom upstairs stiffened his resolve. He gave his name, the phone went down with a bang and after a minute, a softer, but still frightening voice took over.

  Mark told the owner of the voice what was going on, and after a second's pause he was told to wait where he was. It didn't occur to him until years later that whoever he was talking to knew exactly where that was. Thomas was still snoring in front of the television when there was the sound of a powerful engine outside, a soft tap on the door and the two men from the cemetery, the driver, a man mountain who simply introduced himself as Chas, and the man in the dark suit now wearing a leather jacket and jeans were on the doorstep. With them was a redheaded woman wearing a black leather suit and high heels. Jenner called her Hazel and she was the most beautiful woman Mark had ever seen. For a second he felt disloyal to his mother for thinking that.

  The next few minutes mapped out Mark's future. The woman we upstairs to the bedroom to see to Susie. John Jenner and Chas went and found Thomas. They dragged his comatose form out on to the back patio, Chas filled a vase with cold water from the sink and tossed it into Thomas's face. He came to with a start. When he saw the two men, with Mark in the background, he demanded to know what was going on.

  Neither man spoke, just stared with disgust as he blustered about calling the police. Then Chas produced a sawn off baseball bat and proceeded to give Thomas a beating. His arms, legs, back and groin took the brunt of Chas's fury until Jenner stepped in to restrain him. Chas asked Mark if he wanted to give his stepfather a few licks, but he refused. They left Bobby Thomas groaning in agony on the floor and went into the kitchen where Mark stood trembling with a mixture of elation and fear whilst Chas and Jenner helped themselves to beers from the fridge. When Hazel came down she told them that the girl needed the hospital but wouldn't go.

  She asked the boy if he wanted to get some things together and come with them, but Mark refused again, being terrified of what would happen when Thomas was alone with his mother. He was told not to worry, just to go and pack a bag. But he knew he couldn't leave her in pain, not even at the behest of the beautiful Hazel.

  'John,' said Hazel.

  'He's got to please himself,' said Jenner.

  'We can't leave him here,' said Hazel.

  'If that's what the boy wants.'

  Before they left, Jenner went outside again and Mark saw him kneel beside Thomas and talk to him, his mouth close to Thomas's ear. He spoke for a long time. When Thomas nodded, Jenner rose and collected Hazel and Chas and they left. 'The offer's open,' he said before he closed the front door. 'Anytime. Nothing's going to happen to you now.'

  'Thank you,' said Mark to their retreating backs before going upstairs to tend to his mother.

  The atmosphere in the house was never the same again. Mark realised for the first time in his life that some things, once done, can never be undone.

  The beatings ceased for a while, but as the bruises and the memory of that night faded from Thomas's body and mind, slowly and inevitably they started again. But he never touched Mark again.

  One Sunday night a year later, Mark faced his mother and told her that he couldn't go on the way they were. 'He'll end up killing you, Mum,' he said. 'You know he will. Why do you let him do it?'

  'No,' she replied, unsteady on her feet from two days of drinking, her once pretty face now ugly from the alcohol. 'He doesn't mean it. He loves me.'

  Mark also learned that year that people saw and heard what they wanted to, and with the best intentions in the world, some people refused to be helped.

  That night he did pack a bag, leaving most of his possessions behind. As midnight struck, he left the house for the last time and walked to all the way to John Jenner's, through a light rain that helped disguise the tears that were running down his face, the card he'd been given clutched tightly in his fist.

  That night was one of the last times he ever saw his mother alive.

  Chapter 8

  Not too far away from where Mark had eaten the breakfast that Chas had prepared for him, another man was also considering his past and future. But he hadn't enjoyed scrambled egg, bacon and mushrooms on a cheerful checked tablecloth in a warm kitchen. Instead he'd eaten porridge and toast courtesy of Her Majesty in a miserable dining room Inside Brixton prison. The same grim set of buildings that John Jenner had checked from the Range Rover the previous day as Mark had driven him down Brixton Hill on their way to lunch. After breakfast, Jimmy Hunter sat in his chilly cell, looking out over a courtyard where the clean mow was already a filthy grey. Everything around the prison soon took on that colour whatever the weather, and Hunter had seen almost twenty years of the seasons changing from one cell or another the length and breadth of the country.

  At first they'd moved him often, the authorities taking a grim pleasure In shifting him from prison to prison. The Isle of Wight, Birmingham, Manchester, Carlisle, Newcastle. The list was as long as the number of penal institutions in the United Kingdom. Always at short notice. Sometimes in the dead of night he'd be woken up by the screws, told to gather his few possessions, slung into the back of a barred van and driven to his new home. But eventually the moves had become less and less frequent. Times changed. Staff changed. And there were other, more recent villains to be sorted.

  Not that Jimmy had been totally forgotten. He was a cop killer after all. A mad dog shooter who had nearly died himself after being shot three times just down the road from where he now sat.

  He recognised a certain irony in that. The policemen who'd fired without challenging him that morning in 1982 had wanted him dead. He knew that. It stood to reason. He'd killed one of their own. One of his own if the truth be known. At least he had been one of his own when Jimmy had run with John Jenner and his mob. They'd never been nicked. That was how Billy Farrow could change horses in midstream. There was no record of his crimes and misdemeanours. Jimmy had thought that Jenner would use his knowledge of Billy against him, but Jenner stayed loyal to his old mate. Mug. But when it was just between the two of them that morning in Brixton market, Jimmy couldn't resist putting him away. He could still see Farrow's hand raised as if to ward off the shot, but you didn't ward off the contents of a shotgun cartridge loaded with double ought at point blank range. The force of the shot had chopped off Farrow's hand at the wrist before blowing a hole in his chest big enough for a cat to walk through. He hadn't stood a chance.

  The copper who'd shot Jimmy had knelt over him as he lay, bleeding in the gutter next to the body of DC Billy Farrow and told him to die. He remembered the face looming over him saying. 'Jimmy, you bastard. We've called an ambulance, but it'll be too late. You're done for, you fucker.' Then he'd kicked him.

  But that copper had been wrong. Even with three holes in him, Jimmy Hunter had refused to roll over and let his life slip away. One bullet had gone straight through his left thigh, exi
ting out of his leg without touching bone. Another had gone through his shoulder, smashing his collar bone as it went. That shoulder still ached on cold mornings like this. The third was the worst. The one that should have ended his life. A gutshot by a bullet that had run around inside him and had to be dug out by a stream of surgeons at King's College Hospital. He still had the scar. A second belly button about three inches to the right of the original.

  Twenty years, he thought. Twenty years, and now his release date was- in sight. By the spring he'd be out. Full sentence served. Jimmy had been up in front of several parole boards over the years, but his attitude and his behaviour inside had always resulted in a knock back. But now there was nothing they could do to prevent his freedom as long as he kept his nose clean. But then, a few months inside was still a long sentence. Prison time wasn't like time outside. An hour could seem like a day behind bars. A day like a year, as the second hand on his battered alarm clock slowed in front of his eyes and he could hardly see movement of it at all. Outside time could fly by unnoticed. Like those early days with Marje, when her dad had forbidden her to see her bad boy boyfriend. Those minutes they'd managed to snatch together when their love was new had flown by.

  He still thought of Marje a lot, although she was two years dead. He'd been in Belmarsh then, down Woolwich way, and the funeral had been in Norwood cemetery. Jimmy Hunter wasn't a sentimental man. Never had been much, and what sentiment he'd held on to had been leeched by his time in jail. But Marje had been a good wife. It was him that had let her down. What woman could be expected to wait the twenty years the judge at the Bailey had given to Jimmy Hunter? She'd loved Jimmy and she'd loved the son and daughter he'd given her. In the early years of his sentence she'd followed his wagon from prison to prison, spending what little money he'd left her on train fares to see him. She brought their children with her. Dragging the bewildered boy and girl from town to town, from visiting room to soulless visiting room.