A Good Year for the Roses (1988)

by Timlin, Mark

  ‘Don't threaten me Sharman, not in my own place, or you'll be carried out on a plank.’

  ‘Just don't fuck me about Em. In the last couple of days, I've been spat on, shat on, lied to and beaten. Now someone is threatening my daughter.’ I paused as I realised it wasn't the black man's fault that I was being got at, and I shouldn't take it out on him. ‘Christ Em.’ I said. ‘What the hell's going on?’ We're old friends who've been apart for too long and we're threatening each other. It's my fault, I'm sorry. This thing is driving me crazy.

  I smiled a tight smile and put my hand on his arm, but gently that time.

  Dreadlocks suddenly appeared beside me. ‘Is everything cool Boss?’ he asked, giving me a vicious look.

  ‘Everything's mellow D,’ replied Em. ‘Just a little disagreement. Get back to work Josh, and if I hear about anyone carrying a shooter in here again, you'll be down the Job Centre double quick. You and that goon outside. I employ you for security, not to look at your pretty faces.’

  Josh slunk away with his tail between his legs, meanwhile Em turned back to me and said, ‘I understand your predicament. Friends are friends and you did right to come to me. Just relax and have another drink.’

  After we'd been served Em sat and looked through me for a while. I sat and watched the clientele enjoying themselves. The place was pretty packed by then. I recognised one or two of the drinkers, but most were strangers to me. Two of Em's girls came over to say hello. They flirted with me for a minute or so, then Em dismissed them with a flick of his fat hand.

  ‘Got any cash, Nick?’ he asked.

  ‘I'm about as poor as a lost dog,’ I replied.

  ‘What do you want then? The loan of a shooter?’

  ‘Whatever it takes, I'll get,’ I told him.

  He thought for a moment, then decided.

  ‘I can't call from here,’ he said, ‘because walls have ears, and some ‘phones have ears too. Have you got a number that I can contact you on later tonight?’

  I gave him my home number written on the back of one of my cards.

  ‘Be there when I call, or all bets are off.’

  I told him I'd be there all evening and left the club. On the way out I saw Em's two girls again. They waved and giggled at me. I waved and giggled back.

  I took a takeaway Chicken Madras back to the flat. I thought about Cat. I hoped he was making out alright as I hadn't had a chance to feed him lately. I hardly tasted the food and left most of it to congeal in the foil container.

  I tried Laura's number, but there was no reply. I prayed that she and Judith, and Louis too, for that matter were safe. John Reid had gone to ground too. I spoke to his wife, but she had no idea of his whereabouts. I didn't tell her who was calling. I had no need of instant nostalgia. Finally I checked with George Bright. I had no luck there either.

  Chapter Twenty One

  I paced the floor and kept peering through the curtains. I felt frustrated and angry. Finally, just before nine, as it was getting dark, the ‘phone rang. It was Emerald.

  ‘Hello, Nicky,’ he said. ‘Are you alright?’

  ‘Just fine Emerald. What's the story?’

  ‘I've got a little something for you. Are you going to be home for a while?’

  I told him I was staying put. I didn't tell him, however, that Old Bill might drop around with a few questions about a certain body found in a bathroom in Brixton. Why spoil what might turn out to be a pleasant evening?

  ‘What's your address there?’ he asked.

  I told him.

  ‘Is there space for me to drive in?’ he enquired.

  I took the ‘phone over to the window and looked down onto the square of tarmac that we, the proud owners of the plaster-board separated dwelling units euphemistically referred to as the drive. Only one of the other occupants of the house owned a car. It was parked neatly on the front. There was ample room for another vehicle to sit next to it.

  ‘It looks fine,’ I said, and explained the layout of the house.

  ‘Right,’ said Emerald. ‘I'll be there in about half an hour. I'll drive straight in. Keep an eye out for me.’

  ‘What do you drive these days?’ I asked. I'd have bet money on it being a white BMW.

  ‘A BMW,’ he replied.

  ‘What colour?’

  ‘Black.’

  Close, I thought, but no cigar.

  ‘Seven series?’ I asked.

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘It's my job.’

  He chuckled down the phone. ‘Just keep an eye out,’ he said, and hung up.

  It was more like an hour before he arrived, and fully dark. I saw the big, black car crawl up the street, then stop and reverse into the driveway. I ran downstairs and let myself out of the front door. Emerald had switched off the engine and the lights of the car. It sat in front of me as shiny and black as a giant cockroach. The night was silent except for the ticking from the engine as it cooled in the still air. For a swift moment I was grabbed by panic. I was perfectly placed for a trap. I bent and looked through the rear window. Emerald's silver grey suit softly gleamed in the glow from the street lamps. The rest of the car seemed to be empty, so I relaxed. I hated being so paranoid, but it came with the territory.

  I moved to the driver's side of the car. The window slid silently down on its electric runners. Emerald stuck his big, smiley face through the gap.

  ‘Hi Nicky,’ he said. ‘Sorry I'm a bit late.’

  ‘No problem, Em, what have you got for me?’

  ‘Be patient, man,’ he said as he opened the door and eased his great bulk out of the car. I noticed that the courtesy light had been switched off. I was glad that the big man was on my side. He gestured for me to go to the back of the car. He unlocked the boot and gently raised the lid. A dim light lit the interior, but as the car was facing into the street we were shielded from the gaze of anyone passing by. I looked back at the house. It was all quiet. Everyone was busy with News at Ten. I peered over Emerald's shoulder into the boot. It was empty except for a bulky black garbage sack. The twin of the one hidden in my freezer containing the picture I had peeled from Terry's body earlier that day. I suppressed a shudder at the thought.

  ‘Check it out,’ said Em, barely able to contain his high spirits.

  I opened the top of the sack, and peeled the plastic back. It contained a real goodie. In the faint yellow glow from the boot light I saw the pistol grip of a shotgun. I pulled the weapon out and realised I was holding a Franchi Spas 12 bore, with a folding stock. It was no longer than two feet, and with its bulbous cartridge feed slung under the short barrel was a very tasty shooter.

  ‘For fuck's sake, Em,’ I said. ‘This is heavy duty.’

  ‘Sweet, ain't it?’ he replied.

  I pushed the gun back into the sack.

  ‘I'll check it out later, in private,’ I said.

  ‘That ain't all,’ he said. I rooted further into the bag and discovered three heavy cardboard boxes.

  ‘Check that one,’ said Emerald, and pointed at the largest of the three. I opened the box and discovered a short barrelled revolver. It had a black rubber grip and the metal parts were slick with oil. ‘Colt Cobra,’ said Em proudly. ‘Chambered for .38 calibre. It's brand new, never been fired.’

  ‘You're a marvel, my friend,’ I breathed. ‘What's in the other boxes?’

  ‘Shells for the shotgun, and fifty rounds for the Colt.’

  ‘How much?’ I asked.

  ‘Have them on me Nicky,’ he said, then grabbed my arm until the muscles cramped. ‘But no more fucking favours, understand. We're still friends, but we're all square now. And if you ever tell anyone where these weapons came from,’ he drew his finger across his throat, ‘you're dead meat.’

  ‘I can dig it, old buddy,’ I said as I picked up the sack from the floor of the boot.

  ‘Families are sacred, my man,’ said Emerald. ‘And any son-of-a-bitch who involves them in business deserves all he gets. Come and tell me what happe
ned when it's all over, if I don't see it on TV first.’ He giggled, slammed the boot lid, sashayed around to the driver's door and got into the car. He looked back out of the window when he had the engine fired up.

  ‘Teresa came in after you left. She was sorry she missed you. She told me to tell you to keep safe and come back and see her soon. She said she's never forgotten you.’

  The window hummed shut and he drove off the forecourt, turned into the street, and with a faint squeal of tyres, away into the night. I took the sack upstairs, reassured by it's weight and spent the rest of the night cleaning and dry-firing the guns and thinking about Teresa.

  Her name was a real blast from the past. Teresa Monette was a coffee coloured beauty who worked out of Emerald's club. She was tall, nearly as tall as me in her spike-heeled shoes. Her eyes were the biggest I've ever seen. They swam in the whites like black olives in twin bowls of milk. Her hair was a kinky mass that exploded from her scalp and cascaded down her back like a waterfall of pure jet. Her face and figure were enough to make the most hardened sinner repent and reach for his Bible.

  I first met her when I was spending an afternoon drowning my sorrows at the club. We liked each other immediately, and she ignored her potential customers to keep me company over a bottle of gin. I was intrigued that such an obviously intelligent woman was making her living selling her body. When I approached the subject she scornfully told me to mind my own business. Quite right too. I never mentioned the subject again. We spent hours that day talking about books, music and cooking. At the latter I was to discover she was an expert. I made it my business, over the subsequent months to keep a protective eye on her. Not that she really needed it. Emerald and his boys were her minders. She walked proudly through the nether-world that she inhabited. The girls who formed Emerald's team were safer walking the streets of South London than most straight women. I'm not endorsing the system, but if one of the girls was hassled, they didn't go running to the law. Emerald took care of business and there were no suspended sentences from his little firm. More than one John who'd turned a bit nasty had been dumped outside St. Tommy's with a multiple fracture.

  It's even rumoured, and who am I to disbelieve a tasty rumour, that when a certain stretch of derelict dockland is turned into the British Disneyland and as the contractors dredge the quiet, still waters, they'll find more than one or two cars sunk there with all the windows open and corpses roped securely to the steering wheels.

  Teresa turned out to be the proverbial tart with a heart, and believe me there's not many of them about, no matter what you see on TV. Or perhaps she just turned out to be a good friend. I must admit that when things got really desperate between Laura and me, there were times when I took comfort between Teresa's slim thighs. Often I fell asleep with my head supported on her breasts, my drunken tears wetting her soft, dark skin.

  But that was before I went strange and started living like a monk. I knew that the sight of us holding hands across a table, over the sizzle-grilled prawns in some quiet Chinese restaurant caused many a raised eyebrow and a cynical laugh amongst other members of the force. But I couldn't have cared less. When I'd started getting into drugs, Teresa had tried to help me. It was ironic, a total reversal of the expected roles. The whore trying to straighten out the copper. It was a hopeless task. The last time I'd seen her was just before I resigned. She came to visit me after I'd been shot. She bought me a bunch of white roses. She wanted to get into bed with me, and I wanted her to. The sister in charge of the ward had interrupted us, and regretfully we'd pulled apart from each other. Sister had hovered around with a dissapproving look on her face until Teresa left. We hadn't met since. I was glad that she remembered me. I hoped that if I could get out of my present situation, Teresa and I could meet again.

  Chapter Twenty Two

  So I was armed, but just with guns, not knowledge. I felt as if I'd been lost in a fast shuffle and been made to look like a complete fool. Two years off the streets had reduced my suss quotient to zero. I slept late on Thursday morning, or at least I lay in bed late and stared up at the fine cracks in the ceiling above me. When I was a kid in my little room at home, I'd imagined that they were the frontiers of vast continents that I would someday conquer. That morning they seemed to be maps of roads that led nowhere fast.

  I eventually dragged myself out of bed and showered and shaved. Whilst I was in the shower I shampooed my hair and removed the sticking plasters from the cut on my head. There was still a sizeable lump, but the wound was scabbing over and seemed to be healing satisfactorily.

  The morning was misty, but I could see the sun trying to break through, and the weatherman on the radio told me to expect an August day of uninterrupted sunshine. With that in mind I decided to give blue jeans the elbows for once. I pulled on a rather natty pair of Armani strides in a muted blue check and teamed them with a pale blue, long sleeved chambray workshirt. I found my navy espadrilles under the bed and wore them sans socks. I admired my bad self in the mirror and felt prepared for whatever the day might bring. Of course I was wrong, but why spoil a perfect record.

  I tried ‘phoning Laura, but there was no reply. I actually felt hungry for a change and cooked myself a pan of scrambled eggs. I boogied around the tiny kitchen and sang along with the radio as I prepared the food. For some reason I was feeling good, although God alone knew why. I should have been depressed, but I didn't fight the mood, just rolled with the flow.

  I sat at the little breakfast bar that separated the kitchen from the living room and ate my food and drank three cups of tea. At eleven the telephone rang. It was Laura. She sounded distant in both senses of the word.

  ‘Are you alright?’ I asked with relief at the sound of her voice.

  ‘Yes, but no thanks to you,’ she replied.

  ‘Leave it out Laura, please,’ I said exasperatedly. ‘I'll get dizzy from ducking the ricochets.’

  She was silent, and I listened to the crackling on the line.

  ‘Yes Nick, we're all OK.’ She heavily underlined the ‘all’.

  ‘Where are you?’ I asked.

  ‘In a hotel,’ she replied.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Not really. If you don't want to tell me, don't. Just as long as you're alright. How's Judith?’

  ‘She's fine. She thinks she's on a mystery tour, and in a way I suppose she's right.’

  ‘And Louis?’ I enquired.

  ‘This is not a social call Nick. I just phoned to settle your mind. Your friend asked me to.’

  ‘Who? John?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied.

  ‘Good, I'm glad he was useful. I spoke to him yesterday,’ I said.

  ‘He was unusually helpful for a policeman,’ she commented. Once again I could tell the word hurt her. She'd never forgiven my job for coming between us, as she always put it. I would have thought by then, with all the free dental care, she'd be grateful.

  ‘Did Louis get in touch with the local police?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, they weren't very pleased with you apparently. Hasn't anyone been to see you?’

  ‘No, John said he'd liase for me. That probably ruffled a few feathers. I've had enough of Old Bill.’

  ‘So have I, believe me.’

  ‘So everything's alright. You're sure no-one followed you?’

  ‘I'm sure. We borrowed a car from one of Louis’ friends. We all met up at some motorway services and switched cars in the petrol station. Then we went back down the motorway and changed over to B-roads. I think Louis quite enjoyed it.’

  ‘This isn't Starsky and Hutch, Laura,’ I warned. ‘This is serious.’

  ‘I know Nick, we're taking it seriously.’ I could almost feel warmth in her voice. Just like in the old days, before things went sour. Then she remembered herself. ‘I've got to go. Louis is waiting,’ she said.

  ‘Be careful now, and keep in touch. Give my love to Judy,’ I managed to say before she hung up without another word. Perhaps she'd h
eard the warmth too, and decided to put me back in my usual cold place. Still, what had I expected? A declaration of undying love? They'd gone out of the window when I joined the CID.

  As soon as I put the phone down it rang again. My, but I was popular that morning. It was John Reid on the line. ‘Good morning Nick,’ he said. ‘I see you're keeping bankers’ hours these days. Has good old George Bright come up with another sub?’

  ‘George fired me two days ago,’ I replied.

  ‘Oh really, what a wise man. So business is slow?’

  ‘Business is out of the window, John. It's down to me now. George Bright doesn't figure in it any more. He was history the minute I got that note about Judith.’

  ‘That's what I'm calling about,’ said John, in an official tone. ‘The shit's really hit the air conditioners about that. I tried to keep it as quiet as possible, but Louis the Lip was on the blower to his local nick the minute he finished talking to you yesterday. Fox got wind of it, and believe me he's doing his pieces up here. It's a good job you don't fall under Brixton jurisdiction, or you'd have been back for another little natter last night. Rubber hose job, I wouldn't be surprised. As it is Streatham CID aren't your biggest fans.’

  He was dead right. It was just as well the local law hadn't called round for a little chat. They might have bumped into Em and me with handfuls of illegal arms and ammunition. That would have given Fox food for thought.

  ‘Bollocks to them,’ I said. ‘What was I supposed to do? Go and tell the Station Sergeant? Get in the queue with all the wallies reporting their missing dogs? Or that someone's nicked the milk off the front step?’

  ‘That's beside the point,’ John continued. ‘I've put myself on the line for you again. Christ alone knows why. And as yet, nobody's seen this famous threatening letter. I supposed it does exist?’

  ‘What do you think?’ I asked disgustedly. ‘That I invented the sodding thing, then got Louis to take the girls off for a trip in the country for fun? You must think I'm really mental. Of course it exists. It's here now.’