Guns Of Brixton

by Mark Timlin

  Yet another car started and headed in pursuit of him, but Mark whipped the stick into second, slammed his foot on the accelerator and rocketed past it, just clashing bumpers as they went. The Cosworth flew over the black earth and ripped through the fence as Mark pulled the steering wheel hard left and swung out on to the road in the direction of the motorway, leaving a long black mark on the tarmac and several angry drivers in his wake. He went through the gears fast and kept his foot hard down as the speedo ran up to seventy, then eighty, as he overtook everything in his way, lights on full beam and hand hard on the horn. All the other cars on the road had their lights on too, because of the weather, so it was difficult to make out who was chasing him and who just going about their normal business. The motorway signs got more frequent, flipping past like playing cards. When Mark reached the junction, he shoved the Cosworth through the roundabout and on to the slip road, cutting up a big sixteen-wheeler who showed his anger with three blasts on his klaxon. Was it cops or was it bad guys? Mark kept wondering. Who the fuck were those people at the restaurant? Was it a bust or a stitchup?

  By the time the car reached the end of the slip, Mark had pushed the speed up to one-twenty and still climbing. He blasted out on to the motorway, dodged between two slow-moving trucks and headed straight across to lane three. The rest of the traffic looked like it was standing still as he pulled back and forth into the middle lane to pass traffic travelling at the speed limit. The snow was getting heavier and the traffic, apart from the Cossie, was slowing. 'Come on you fuckers,' Mark yelled as he swerved through the cars. Then in his peripheral vision he saw blue lights flashing as a police jam sandwich joined in the fun just behind him. At this rate he was going to end up doing five miles per hour and getting jammed up as the traffic slowed before Chiswick again, and then the cops could box him in and it would be all over.

  Mark bullied his way back into the fast lane again and slowed to a legal seventy, the cop car still following but unable or without the bottle, or maybe under orders not to force its way through the thickening traffic on Mark's left. He was looking for a way out and suddenly it presented itself. Up ahead, but getting closer by the second, the central barrier was broken for maybe three car lengths, and instead of a waist-high hard metal barrier, all that kept the opposing traffic apart was a line of red and white plastic bollards, maybe two foot high, screwed into the ground; Mark downshifted, the Cosworth's gears shrieking in protest, jammed the brakes on hard, saw the terrified face of the driver of the car following him as he braked too, probably sending a domino effect as far back as Swansea, and with a tug to the right and a clatter of plastic on the undercarriage, Mark was going the wrong way down the west-bound motorway.

  Cars, trucks, cabs and lorries were heading his way and he left a skidding, brake-screaming carnage around him as he cut across the approaching traffic going up through the box again and found the hard shoulder, praying that no fucker had broken down and was being fixed by the AA or RAC, otherwise they were all going to be in for a big surprise.

  He almost laughed out loud as he saw the effect he was having on the oncoming vehicles, and then like the answer to a prayer there in front of him was a slip road joining the motorway, which he took, bounced across the central reservation again, leaving what sounded like vital parts of the Ford clattering into the gutter as he joined the correct lane of traffic leaving the westbound M4.

  Mark took the first turning, a road heading God knows where, the wipers slapping and the snow hitting the windscreen like chunks of paper tissue. And then, just ahead, he saw a bus pulling into a stop. Mark swerved round it and slowed slightly. Where's the next bloody bus stop? he wondered. And, a mile or so further, he saw one. And right next to it was a turning. He swung the Ford into it and a few yards down on the left was the entrance to a narrow lane. Mark pulled in, bare twigs scratching the side of the Cosworth, and braked to halt. He got out, forcing the door hard against the hedge, taking the briefcase with him, his brain speeding from the hit of coke and the excitement of the chase. Despite the dropping temperature his body was slick with sweat that felt like it was freezing on his skin. Who the fuck touched this motor? he thought, almost hopping from foot to foot with excitement and fear. Dev had a record as long as the Blackwall Tunnel, his prints were on file, and Mark didn't want to leave any evidence of his involvement. He ran to the back of the car and opened the boot. Just like he remembered there was a can lying next to the spare wheel. Water or petrol? he wondered as he shook the can and opened it. He recoiled slightly from the fumes. Terrific, he thought, and splashed fuel on to the boot's carpet then took the can back to the front of the car and threw the rest over the driver's seat and into the front well of the Ford, heaving the can into the back.

  Matches. Matches, he thought. Christ I'm not ready for this. He slammed open the glove compartment and inside was a half empty book from a restaurant in south London. 'Thank you, God,' he said aloud, lit a match, set fire to the rest and tossed the whole book on to the front seat. The last thing he saw as he closed the door was a blue flame dancing across the leather interior. He picked up the briefcase in his gloved hands and ran back to the main road just in time to hail the bus, an old green and white doubledecker that had seen better days. Its destination sign read ETON. Always wanted to go there, he thought as he asked the driver for the town centre, paid the fare and ran upstairs. There were just two passengers sitting in the front and he moved to the rear and collapsed into the back seat. He was still shaking as the bus gathered speed. He looked over his shoulder and over the tops of the hedges he saw an orange glow though the fast-gathering darkness and the falling snow. Then, above the noise of the ancient diesel he heard the sound of sirens and two police cars, blue lights flashing, breasted the hill behind them and gained fast on the bus.

  'Oh shit,' he whispered and reached for the comfort of the butt of his pistol. But the two squad cars raced past and were soon lost to sight. Mark laughed out loud and as he took one last look behind he imagined he heard the explosion as the Ford's petrol tank caught and in the distance the orange glow grew brighter.

  Once at the Eton town terminus Mark followed the signs to the railway station, caught the next train back to Paddington, which luckily arrived just a few minutes after he'd bought his ticket, as he didn't fancy sitting around in the waiting room. The train sluggishly wove its way through the outer, then inner suburbs, stopping at every station on the way and it was late afternoon before Mark caught a bus to south London.

  When he got off at Tulse Hill he called the house on his mobile. 'Christ, I thought, you were dead,' said John Jenner when he answered. 'You've been on TV. Local news.'

  'Terrific,' said Mark.

  'Where are you?'

  'Just walking up the road.'

  Jenner met him at the gate carrying an umbrella to protect him from the snow. They went indoors and Mark hung his jacket over a chair as Jenner checked the bag. 'Was it cops chasing me?' asked Mark after he poured himself a large brandy. Jenner nodded. 'Did they get the other guys?' 'Looks like it.'

  'Are they gonna grass us up?'

  'They wouldn't dare. Anyway they don't even know who we are, same as I don't know them. We just communicate by safe phone.' 'Thank Christ for that.' 'You did well. What happened to the motor?' 'Burnt it out. Wasn't that on the news too?' 'No.'

  'You knew, didn't you, Uncle?' 'No.'

  'Yes you did.'

  'I thought something might happen, but I wasn't sure.' 'Well, thanks for sharing.' 'I thought if I did you wouldn't go.' 'Too bloody right.'

  Jenner smiled. 'But you did it, Mark. You came good. I'm proud of you.' 'If you ever do anything like that again, I'm off.' 'I won't, I promise.'

  'Jesus, Uncle, give us another drink will you. I'm spitting feathers here.'

  Chapter 11

  Sean Pierce heard about the aborted bust by the Thames Valley drug squad during his normal course of duties the next morning. It was just another war story as far as he was concerned. Some crazy
crackhead in a souped up motor causing mayhem on the motorway. A burnt out Ford had been discovered, and the local force had captured a pair of foreign nationals carrying two hundred grand in used notes. The Ford's driver had got away. Nothing new there, and nothing for him to worry about. Just another crime report amongst hundreds. A little more exciting, than the average domestic dispute, that was all. At least interesting enough to get a mention on London Tonight, and would probably make headlines in the Eton Gazette or whatever the local paper down there was called, but that was it. Or at least he thought so.

  At the same time as Sean was reading about his exploits, Mark woke up with a slight hangover, a little way up the road. He, John and Chas had sat up into the small hours discussing what had gone wrong with the exchange and its possible ramifications, at the same time drinking John Jenner's bar dry.

  'If I catch whoever grassed us up, I'll castrate the fucker,' were the last words Mark remembered as John Jenner had made his unsteady way to bed around four o'clock.

  Mark wiped the sleep from his eyes and went to the bathroom. Once dressed he wandered down to the kitchen where Chas was sitting reading The Sun. 'A star,' he said.

  'What?'

  'You got a mention. You'll have to start a scrapbook.'

  Mark leaned over his shoulder and read the short news item on page six about the previous day's goings on. 'Bloody hell,' he said. 'I hope there's not many like that.'

  'Feeling a bit rough, son?' asked Chas, looking into Mark's dull and bloodshot eyes.

  'Just a bit.'

  'Cuppa tea and a bacon sarnie'll set you right.'

  Mark nodded weakly and took a seat at the kitchen table whilst Chas busied himself preparing the breakfast. 'Anyone about?' he asked.

  'Martine's gone to work and the boss is having a lie in.'

  'What bloody time is it then?' asked Mark, having left his watch somewhere in his room.

  'About ten. I let you kip in.'

  'Thanks,' said Mark as he accepted a mug of tea and felt better straight away at its hot sweetness. 'What now?'

  'How do you mean?'

  'Well, haven't we got to get the stuff out of the house?'

  'No worries. It's all arranged.'

  'Is it going to be picked up here?'

  'No. You're going to drop it off.'

  'Oh shit.'

  'No worries. It's a piece of cake.'

  'I seem to remember someone saying something similar about yesterday, and I ended up almost totalling myself on the sodding motorway.'

  'But you didn't, son, did you?' said Chas, dealing rashers on to buttered wholemeal. 'That's the point.'

  Upstairs, John Jenner was waking up himself. He lay in a marriage bed that now, without his wife and with only an old cat for company, seemed to him as big as an aircraft carrier. Although it had been over ten years since she'd died, John still thought of her every day, and often had conversations with her as if she were still there, lying next to' him. He smiled at the thought of her, although it was a bitter smile edged with tears. He'd tried to find another woman after her death, but no one came

  close. No one knew their private language or their shared jokes, and no one could ever know what it had been like for John and Hazel, as together they'd built up a successful criminal empire.

  His thoughts then turned to Mark. He was so much like his father, yet so different. Billy Farrow had let John down badly, leaving him to run the gang alone when he'd joined the police. But at least he'd been enough of a good friend to leave him alone once on the force. It must have given Billy sleepless nights to have known so much about south London's premier gangster and yet never to have nicked him. But then, John knew where the bodies were buried in Billy's past and, for his part, had never said a word to anyone about that. They'd maintained an uneasy truce until Billy had died.

  Jenner reached for the syringe and amp of morphine on the bedside table and measured out his morning dose. It was later than usual and the pain had woken him. Shit, he thought, when will all this end? But of course he knew. It would end in the graveyard, where everybody ended up eventually.

  Expertly, he slid the needle into a vein and pushed down the plunger so that the warmth of the drug replaced the cold of the cancer's bite and he lay back on his pillow and let his mind run away with itself.

  Back in the summer of 1965, John Jenner hadn't sent Billy to talk to Maurice Wright in the hospital where he'd been admitted for his gunshot wound. He went himself. In fact he went twice, because the first time the nurse on duty told him that the police were still interviewing Mr Wright.

  'Fine,' he said, giving her the bunch of flowers he was carrying. 'I'll call again.'

  'Any message?' she asked.

  'Just tell him a friend called,' he said with a grin and left.

  The second time, Maurice was alone and John found the side ward where he was sequestered without help. 'Maurice,' he said as he entered and closed the door behind him. 'I see you got my flowers.'

  Maurice Wright almost jumped out of bed at the sight of the man who'd shot him. 'For Christ's sake,' he said. 'What are you doing here?'

  'Just visiting a friend,' said Jenner, drawing up a chair to the side of the bed and plucking a grape from the bowl of fruit on the locker next to it.

  'Don't worry, I'm not armed. I come in peace.'

  'Piss off.'

  'What you going to do about it, Maurice? Is that a pistol in your jammies or are you just pleased to see me?'

  'I'll call a nurse.'

  'Blimey, you've got me right terrified. If you'll just listen…'

  'You've got nothing to say that I want to hear.'

  'On the contrary, Maurice,' said John, leaning closer. He was beginning to realise the power of words as well as the power of violence. 'You should listen to me now and listen good. Otherwise the next time I might be taking flowers to your funeral.'

  Maurice visibly paled to the colour of his bed sheets. He'd learnt at least one thing in the dancehall that night. Carrying a gun was one thing, using it was another. Jenner had the bottle, he didn't. 'Go on then,' he whispered.

  'What's the point of us fighting?' asked John. 'When we could work together.'

  'Doing what?'

  'Anything. You join my little firm and we can have Soho stitched up in a couple of weeks. Speed, dope, anything and everything.'

  'And who is your little firm?' asked Maurice. 'Jack fucking Spot and his boys?'

  'No,' replied Vincent. 'Me, Billy and Wally.'

  Maurice sniggered.

  'But there's going to be more soon,' said John, himself realising that he was hardly talking about an army. 'And you can be in on the ground floor.'

  'I don't think so,' said Maurice. 'Nice as it is of you to ask.'

  'I'm not asking, Maurice,' said John. 'I'm telling.'

  'I'll think about it,' said the older man. 'I've got plenty of time.'

  'You do that,' said John. 'And I'll be back.' He took another grape and popped it into his mouth before standing to go. 'And make sure you make the right decision. I'll see you later.'

  John left the hospital and walked to the nearby tube station. Two things I need, he thought as he waited for the train to come rumbling and clanking up to the platform, a set of wheels and some good men.

  The wheels were easy, he'd got some cash and he'd bumped into a young Irish bloke called Dev at a party. Dev reckoned he could get him something tasty if he wasn't too worried about the provenance. The men would be more difficult, but John's head was full of ideas and later that day he sat with Billy in a cafe in Streatham and shared some with his best friend.

  'We need some more faces,' he said over a cup of tea and a sticky bun.

  'Such as?' asked Billy.

  'I was thinking of the Goon.'

  Billy almost choked on his cream slice. 'The Goon. You're fucking joking, aren't you? He's mental.'

  'That's why I want him. We need some mentals.'

  'You're bloody mental yourself,' said Billy. 'Shooting
Maurice. It was all over the papers.'

  'Good, eh?' said John. 'That's what we need, a bit of public relations just like them pop groups.'

  'And a visit from the bloody coppers.'

  'Maurice won't grass,' said John..

  'No, he'll wait until he gets out and come looking for you with his gun.'

  'He was shitting bricks, Billy my boy,' said John with possibly a little more conviction than he felt. 'And that's why we need the Goon.'

  The Goon's real name was Martin Forbes. He was in his mid- twenties, six four and weighed in only just less than Wally's Minivan. He was permanently unemployed and lived with his fifty-year-old mother in a prefab at the back of Brixton bus garage. He wasn't the brightest button on the blazer, but what he lacked in brains he more than made up with brawn and total fearlessness. Many had thought it funny to mock his size and lack of brainpower and most had regretted it as soon as the Goon had held them up by the throat until their eyes popped and their blood vessels swelled almost to breaking point. 'Don't take the piss,' the Goon would say. It was a foolish man who did it twice.

  'I'll see him tomorrow,' said John. 'He'll be down the pie and mash shop at twelve.'

  The Goon was pretty well known for his regular habits. Every Tuesday he went into the local pie shop, had his fill of pie, mash and liquor, generally about three portions, then took another portion in a basin with a spotted handkerchief on top back to his mum's for her tea.

  The next day, it being Tuesday, John entered the cafe at twelve- fifteen. He thought it wise to let the Goon have his nourishment before springing his plan on him. He took the Webley, just in case. Jenner bought a cup of tea. at the counter and, after some banter with the serving staff, took it over to the marble-topped table where the Goon was sitting alone. He plopped himself down on the wooden bench rubbed smooth and shiny by generations of pie eaters' bottoms, opposite the big man.