Guns Of Brixton

by Mark Timlin

  John and Billy exited the car and joined the throng queuing to hear the last local performance of the 'Tottenham Sound'. The Dave Clark Five were due back in America where their popularity at that time, as one of the top three British invasion bands, was huge. The ratio of birds to blokes inside was about five to one and the smell of so many perfumes made the boys wink at each other as they squeezed through the crowd, rubbing up against as many girls as they could on their way to the ticket booth.

  They paid their six and sixpence each and were soon inside the massive interior of the hall.

  'Maurice always hangs out by the bar,' said John. 'Near the gents so he can do his business inside.'

  'That's where I like to do my business too,' said Billy with a grin. 'Inside the gents.'

  'Shut up, you prick,' said his friend. 'Be serious. I'm going to shoot that cunt tonight, and fuck knows what'll happen then.'

  'Just don't kill the bastard, that's all,' said Billy.

  'Fuck off. I already told you. I'll shoot him in the leg. I just want to frighten the cunt.'

  'Don't forget he's got a gun himself.'

  'I won't, stupid. But will he use it?'

  Billy was suddenly terrified. He worshipped his friend and couldn't think what life would be like without him. 'You'll be careful won't you? This ain't a film.'

  John winked at him, but didn't know if he'd seen it in the light from the massive mirrorball that hung from the ceiling. It turned slowly in the heat from the dance floor. 'Don't you worry about me, son,' he said. 'I'm just going to give the sod a fright. I'll teach him to nick our stuff.'

  'And our money,' interjected Billy.

  'And the dosh. Now go and get us something to drink while I take a wander. I'll meet you back here in ten minutes, all right?'

  'All right,' said Billy and began to fight his way through the scrum in front of the bar.

  The drinks of choice that night were gin and orange squash (no ice) for the females and light ale for the blokes. Billy caught the eye of a tasty looking barmaid dressed in a short skirt and a pink fluffy jumper that showed off her best assets to the max, and yelled for two lights over the hubbub of Billy Preston on the sound system. She produced them and he gave her a bunch of change and pushed his way backwards out of the crowd. There was no sign of John, so he put his bottle on the shelf that surrounded one of the doric columns that held up the Royal's roof and found his cigarettes. He lit one up and checked out the talent. John could look after himself.

  Meanwhile, John Jenner had spotted Maurice in his usual spot, surrounded by his mates and their girls eager to get smashed on Maurice's stash. He too pushed himself through the throng and tapped Maurice on the shoulder. 'Blimey,' said the older man. 'Fancy seeing you here, Johnny.'

  'Got a minute, Maurice?'

  'For you, anytime. No hard feelings about the other night I hope.'

  'Not one. I just want to talk business.'

  'Spot on, son. Come into my office,' and they both made their way into the gents. 'So what's it to be?' asked Maurice when they were inside, alone except for a solitary mod emptying his bladder into the urinal.

  'I was thinking about a partnership,' said John. 'I've got a lot of gear.'

  'So I heard. That place in Vauxhall wasn't it?'

  'Never mind,' said John as the mod did up the zipper of his purple jeans and with a grin to Maurice left the lavatory without washing his hands.

  'So?' said Maurice.

  'You done us up the other night,' said John.

  'Yeah. Sorry about that. But you kids gotta learn.'

  'Maurice, you're a cunt, and I don't like you,' said John pulling the pistol from under his jacket. 'In fact I've come up here to tell you that if you stick your nose in my business again I'm going to shoot it off.'

  'You're kidding.'

  'No. And you remember what I said about no hard feelings?'

  'Yeah.'

  'I lied.'

  And John pulled the trigger.

  The explosion was the loudest sound he'd ever heard. He'd not had a chance to try the pistol out and had just trusted the old man in the pawnshop. Trusted him that the gun would work. Trusted that the bullet would fly, and fly it did. Straight into Maurice's leg and out through the other side jetting a spout of blood across the white tiled walls of the toilet, and the recoil from the antique firearm almost took John's hand off at the wrist.

  'You fucker!' screamed Maurice as his leg gave way and he fell to the floor. 'You dirty little fucker!'

  'That's the difference between you and me, Mo,' said John, his ears ringing from the report. 'You just show your gun. I use mine. And if I ever, ever, see you again anywhere where I'm doing business, I'll finish the job.'

  And without another word, he spun on the Cuban heel of his Beatle boot, left the toilet where outside Dave Clark and his band were just hitting their stride through Glad All Over, and the beat of the bass drum had drowned out the sound of the shot. He found Billy, and steered him through the crowd of dancing fans, outside into Tottenham High Street and to Wally's waiting Minivan.

  'What happened?' Billy asked as the small van sped through the streets towards the river and south London beyond. 'What happened?'

  'I shot the fucker, didn't I?' replied John proudly, although his hands were shaking so much he could hardly light the cigarette from the packet Wally had left on the dashboard. 'It was just like fucking Shane.'

  'Fucking hell,' said Billy. 'You're fucking mad, John.'

  'Not half as mad as him.'

  'Did you kill him?'

  'I only shot him in the leg.'

  'That could still kill him,' said Wally, who was also something, of a connoisseur of American crime films and pulp fiction.

  'Do me a favour,' said John. Then laughed. 'Fucking too bad if it does.'

  'Did you get our money back?' asked Billy.

  Shit, thought John. I forgot all about that.

  'No,' he said after a minute. 'I said you'd pop round and collect it.'

  Chapter 10

  Mark stayed in his flat for the rest of the afternoon, surrounded by the smell of stale chip fat, his ancient record player and portable TV his only companions. In fact, they'd been his only companions since he'd moved there a few weeks previously. During those weeks no one but him had passed through the doorway. But that was nothing new. For the past few years his life had been lived in a succession of apartments of varying degrees of luxuriousness - or lack of it - alone with no friends^ or lovers. This was probably the worst, but he'd needed to conserve his financial resources as he waited for Jimmy Hunter's release. The last Christmas had been the most miserable that he could remember, with a frozen turkey dinner for one his only concession to the season. And on New Year's Eve he'd gone to bed at ten with a bottle of brandy, a pack of cigarettes and BBC Radio Essex for company.

  Twilight came early that January day, and Mark thought back to the Christmases he'd spent with John, Hazel, Martine and Chas down in south London. He'd been happy then. Or at least as happy as he could ever remember being. Not that happiness had ever been a big part of his existence; it had always seemed just out of reach. Something that other people experienced, but which had always eluded him, like that pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

  The Jenners' house had always been warm and cosy, with a massive Christmas tree twinkling in the living room, under which mysterious boxes kept appearing. Hazel had loved wrapping parcels, making them bright and colourful with different papers and ribbons. Almost too good to open, John Jenner had always remarked. Not that it stopped Mark and Martine ripping them to shreds early on Christmas morning, before the grownups were fully awake. Then Hazel would make breakfast before getting down to the serious business of preparing the lunch. And what lunches they were. Always enough to feed the five thousand, with some to spare.

  Mark wondered what Christmas was like there without her now. There'd only been a couple afterwards when he'd been around, and cheerless celebrations they had been. No doubt these d
ays Chas cooked a feast, but there would always be memories and an empty chair at the dining table. Maybe two.

  Mark found a bottle of cheap scotch in his cupboard and sat in the ratty armchair drinking until it was almost too dark to see. It was Make Your Mind Up Time and he knew it. He could go back to London and do what John wanted or he could vanish again, this time for good. There was no middle way now that he and John had made contact again. And John needed Mark's help, just as the older man had given him so much help in the past. He had money enough to go and get somewhere warm. But what would he do there?

  'Bugger,' he said aloud at last. 'It's time to shit or get off the pot.' But he knew, as he'd known since he had spoken to John, that there was really only one answer he could give.

  When the bottle was empty, and night completely covered Canvey Island, he pulled his phone from out of his overcoat pocket, switched it on, saw there were no messages, and selected John Jenner's number on the memory. The phone rang once, twice, three times, before he heard John's voice say, 'Jenner.'

  'Uncle John,' he said.

  'Hello, Mark. How's tricks?'

  'Not so dusty.' It was an old routine they'd used for years. 'You in tonight?'

  'Yeah.'

  'Then tell Chas to break out the fatted calf, I'm coming home.'

  There was a long silence.

  'Uncle John, you there?'

  'I'm here.'

  'Well?'

  'How long you going to be?'

  'I've just got to pack up here. There's not much. Bugger all in fact. I think I'll leave most of it for the binmen.'

  'You're sure?'

  'Course I am. You knew you only had to ask.'

  'People change. I wasn't sure at all.'

  'Whatever. I'm on my way.'

  'I'll leave a light in the window.'

  'I'll call when I'm close. And one thing, Uncle John…'

  'What?'

  'Get rid of that bloody Bros duvet.'

  'It's as good as gone.'

  'I'll see you later then.'

  'Look forward to it.' They broke the connection.

  Mark shoved his few clothes into a battered leather bag, then looked round the flat. Like he'd said, there wasn't much. He flicked through his few albums, then shook his head. Fresh start, he thought, and abandoned the lot: records, record player, TV and the contents of the fridge and cupboards. He switched off the fire and lights and, without looking back, took the front door key down to the chippie and lodged it with the girl behind the counter. 'Tell the landlord I got an offer I couldn't refuse,' he said to her. 'I'm paid up 'til the end of the month and he can have what I've left for the inconvenience.'

  She was a sweet thing, although not very bright, and she'd harboured certain feelings for the handsome, sad looking man with the brilliant eyes who now and then popped in for cod and chips and a pickled onion. 'Will we see you again?' she asked as she dished out a fish cake to a waiting customer.

  "Fraid not, love,' replied Mark, and he winked at her. 'Be good.' And he walked out into the freezing night, opened the yard doors, aimed his remote at the Vogue, got in, started it up and drove off in the direction of London, leaving them open behind him.

  Bloody hell, he thought. What am I getting into?

  It was late by the time he got to London and the roads were slick with ice, making driving dangerous, even for a 4WD, but he was in no hurry. He knew that as soon as he walked through the door of the house in Tulse Hill, nothing would ever be the same again for him or for its occupants.

  When he reached the top of Jenner's street, he stopped, selected the number on his mobile and the phone was answered in a second. 'Let down the drawbridge, Uncle John,' he said. 'I'm just up the road.'

  'Flash your lights at the front,' came the reply, which Mark did and the gate swung open. The black Mercedes, or one similar, was still parked across the street, its windows misted by the occupants' breath, but they made no move. Mark parked his car, grabbed his bag and walked to the already open front door and went inside. The gate closed behind him with a clang of metal on metal. Could be the condemned cell, he thought briefly, but dismissed the thought as quickly as it came.

  John Jenner was waiting in the hall and they embraced and Mark felt such a wave of nostalgia sweep over him that he had to swallow hard. 'Welcome home properly, Mark,' said Jenner with a catch in his voice. 'I knew you'd come.'

  'You know me too well.'

  'I don't really know you at all these days, Mark. But that'll change I hope. Come inside and get warm. Everyone else is in bed. I've been waiting up for you.'

  Mark did as he was told, leaving his coat in the hall, and he sat on the couch in front of the fire as John Jenner poured two large brandies. He passed one to Mark, sat opposite him and they toasted each other. 'So where do we start, Uncle?' asked the younger man. 'What do you want me to do?'

  'I've got an easy one for you first,' said Jenner. 'A little pickup job.'

  'Fair enough. On my own, or with Chas?'

  'All Chas wants to do is cook these days, whatever he says. He's getting old. He's all right as a driver, but anything else…'

  'He sorted out Martine's old man, didn't he?' 'This is a bit different.' 'All right, Uncle, I know. A bit dodge, is it?' 'Could be.'

  'Shit. Talk about throwing me in at the deep end. What is it I'm collecting?' 'Does it matter?'

  'Course it does. I've got to know what's what.'

  'The usual. Just a bit of gear.'

  'Smack?'

  'Coke.'

  Mark nodded. 'Whereabouts?'

  'Little Chef on the the A33 towards Basingstoke.'

  'When?'

  'Tomorrow afternoon. One o'clock.'

  'Christ, that soon. You were pretty sure of yourself, weren't you?' 'No. Just hoping.'

  'And what would've happened if I hadn't come back?' Jenner shrugged. 'I'd've found somebody.' 'What, overnight?'

  'Or I'd've gone myself. It don't matter, does it? You're here now. You'll go, won't you? We could use the readies. The old firm's a bit boracic. Those fucking minders outside are costing me a small fortune.'

  'Yeah, I'll go, Uncle, but I'm not happy about it. Sounds like you know something I don't.'

  'Everybody knows something other people don't.' 'How will I spot them?'

  'Silver Mercedes van with a black stripe. German plates.' 'Fair enough. How'll they find me?' 'They know what motor you're using.' 'Which is?'

  'Dev's got you a Ford Cosworth. Don't look like much apparently, but it drives just fine.'

  Dev Murphy had been Jenner's mechanic for as long as Mark could remember, a bad-tempered Irishman who could charm any engine to do exactly what he wanted. He'd taught Mark early on how to steal cars, which had been priceless information in later life. And Dev had been Mark's only point of contact in London during his time away. They were friends, and Mark had discovered that friends were few and far between.

  'Sounds all right. Where is it?'

  'At his place in Heme Hill.'

  'I can't believe he's still there after all this time.'

  'He'll be buried there.'

  'He's not the only one if what I've heard's true.'

  Jenner smiled. 'Now you'll need something to keep you company in case there's any trouble. Can't be too careful,' he said.

  'I thought everything was going to be cool.'

  'It will be.'

  'Are these people all right?'

  'Always have been before.'

  'Who are they?'

  'Better not to ask.'

  'I don't like this, Uncle…' '

  'You have to take some risks in life,' said Jenner.

  'Yeah, sure.'

  'So, you want something?'

  'I'd better I suppose.' They both knew what they were talking about.

  'Let's take a look then,' said Jenner.

  'Still the same place?'

  Jenner nodded. 'Come on,' he said.

  They went down into the cellars that stretched underneath the ho
use. It was cold down there, and damp, and smelled faintly of cats. Both men had to stoop to get under the beams that supported the floor above. At the far end there was an area that was going to be converted into a sort of den, but it had never been finished. Jenner had lost interest after Hazel had died. Part of it had been partitioned off, and the walls had been clad in dark pine.

  Jenner pressed one section and it popped open to reveal the face of a large combination safe. He spun the dial and pulled open the door. Mark remembered the first time his adopted uncle had shown him the safe.

  'What do you see?' he'd asked when he'd opened it.

  The teenage Mark had peered inside. 'Some readies,' he replied. 'Some papers, and some jewel boxes. Are they Hazel's stuff?'

  'Yes,' John Jenner had replied. 'Her best torn. A couple of rings and necklaces I've bought her over the years. Is that all?'

  Mark had looked again and nodded.

  'Check this,' John had said. He'd pressed something inside the safe and the back had opened inwards, a tiny light had come on and Mark had drawn in his breath sharply. Inside the hidden compartment had been several handguns hung up on pegs, plus boxes of ammunition and a couple of leather holsters.

  'Cool,' Mark had said. 'Very cool.'

  He felt much the same that winter's night as John did the business again. 'Open sesame,' he whispered.

  Inside the front of the safe was a large canvas bag that John Jenner tugged out and dropped on to the floor. 'The dough,' he explained.

  'How much?' asked Mark as he hefted the bag. It was heavy.

  'Two hundred K. All old notes. Nothing consecutive.'

  'I thought you were skint.'

  'That's it, Mark,' said the older man. 'That's my net worth apart from the house and the car and all the toys. And I had trouble raising that. That's why I need someone I can trust to do this.'

  'I hope your trust isn't misplaced.'

  'It's not. I trained you too well.'

  'Yeah,' said Mark, but it sounded hollow even to himself.

  Jenner grinned, showing his teeth and opened the back of the safe. 'Now what do you fancy?' he asked. 'Revolver or semi?'

  'Semi will do me,' said Mark.

  'Prone to jamming.'

  'But flatter. Less bulky.'