by Paul Harris
“I fix it. It’s like a hobby but it’s getting out of hand.”
“This all other people’s gear then?”
He nodded and then dragged the Gibson slightly further out of my reach. “So, tell me what happened at the restaurant.”
“He was there with those pair of brothers, but you knew that already, didn’t you. Why you so tight with them, Sol? I don’t get that.”
Sol shrugged. “You got to play the hand you’re dealt. They come in handy sometimes.”
“Doing your dirty work?”
He shook his head at me but remained silent, biting his upper lip and trying not to appear as agitated as he clearly was.
“I was gonna kill him but I didn’t. Saved us all a load of grief really. He just pissed himself!”
“He laughed at you while you were threatening to crack him with a claw hammer? No way!” Sol’s jaw had dropped and his mouth was wide open, as were his eyes. He was gazing at me in disbelief. I felt my brow furrowing.
“No!” I objected. “Of course not! Well, to start with, he laughed but then when he saw the hammer in my hand, he just pissed himself.”
“Oh, you mean, literally, like.”
“Yeah, literally, like.”
Sol closed his mouth and his eyes returned to their usual circumferences “So, where is he now? The hospital or the morgue?”
“I told you, I was gonna kill him but I didn’t. I never touched him. He hit the deck before I even swung. He was out cold when I left him. He feinted. He pissed his pants first, and then he fainted. The mug!”
Chapter Fifteen
The Other Mark Chapman
“Who’s this Mark Chapman geezer, anyway?” asked Timmy.
“He’s the new bloke who introduces Match of the Day 2.” I told him.
“Yeah, I know that, but he ain’t no Des Lynham or Gary Lineker, is he?”
“Better than Adrian Chiles though,” I reassured him.
“Anything’s better than Adrian Chiles, even Eamonn Holmes, but he still ain’t no Gary Lineker.”
“Lineker’s probably busy flogging crisps.”
“What’s your favourite flavour crisps, Rod?” asked Buffalo.
“Bore off, will you!”
“Just asking.”
“Weren’t that the geezer who topped John Lennon?” enquired Lola, rubbing his head. “Mark Chapman?”
I gazed at the three of them in turn, and wondered if it was time I found some new friends. A bead of sweat was dribbling across Lola’s bald head and his bright red t-shirt displayed sweat stains extending out from his armpits. Buffalo was picking his nose and wiping it on his beard. Timmy was wondering just who the hell John Lennon was.
“Different geezer, same name,” I explained to Lola, and to Buffalo: “Pickled onion Monster Munch, if you must know.”
It’s peculiar how events that have no bearing whatsoever on your life or your future can affect you so profoundly. And then things that are completely relevant, and shape the path you will take, pass one by with barely a glance. What occurred in New York City on the eighth of December 1980 continues to resonate just like the hollow-point bullets that were fired at John Lennon by the other Mark Chapman that day.
Chapman took up a “combat stance” and fired five times, missing with his first shot, but, for one brief moment in history, he single-handedly stopped time itself. He was a fan, he’d asked for Lennon’s autograph only hours earlier and then, in an act that, to this day, still defies explanation, he shocked the world. Then he sat and waited for the police while Lennon bled out on the pavement. “Yes, I just shot John Lennon.” And he took his punishment while the world mourned.
Someone mentioned Roger Moore and I began to speculate about the topic of conversation as I edged along the bar to a position where I could be alone with my own thoughts and, possibly, begin to establish a plan for my own future. But Buffalo’s angle grinder of a voice continued to invade my private world. “Born in Stockwell, he was, you know!”
The sun was low in the sky and was beginning to dip below the rooftops on the opposite side of the road. As its last rays of light filtered through the stained and ragged net curtains, it blinded me to everything except for the trails of saliva that burst from peoples’ mouths as they spoke. They looked like meteor showers in a cosmic inferno.
“Who’s your favourite James Bond, Rod?” Buffalo shouted along the bar to my back, which was now turned on them.
Much to my own disappointment, I took the bait. “I think the new one will be good.”
“What new one?”
I turned to face Buffalo’s intense way of questioning and he knew that he’d hooked me. “I can’t remember his name.”
Lola looked at me as if I was making it up. “Pierce Brosnan?”
“No, not Pierce Brosnan. He’s the old one.”
Sensing that numbers were on his side, Timmy joined the debate. “There ain’t a new one.”
“Yeah, yeah, there is. Don’t you lot read the papers?”
“Not that shit you read,” said Timmy, “with the big words and no tits.”
“They’re filming one right now. The geezer out of Layer Cake.”
“What the fuck’s Layer Cake? A cookery programme?”
“He was in Road to Perdition too.”
Buffalo snorted. “That was Tom Hanks, you mug!”
I took a deep breath. “Yeah, whatever! Just leave me out of your boring conversations from now on.” And, with that, I cut myself free from them forever and broke some pretty decent friendships into the bargain.
The sun had disappeared completely now behind the shop fronts. It had submitted in the face of the inane conversation that men idly participate in and had retreated to its slumber. I was tempted to follow suit. This world had become dull and desolate and no longer offered me anything. They were my peers, but as I looked at them, I realised that they had become old men and I wasn’t ready for that just yet. What we lose as we get older is spontaneity and the will to enjoy ourselves regardless of the consequences, so I made a spontaneous and emphatic decision. “I gotta go,” I announced.
“I just bought you a pint,” said Timmy.
“Why?” It’s a strange habit that pub drinkers have. When one of the company begins to show signs of defeat, they surreptitiously purchase him more beer in attempt to keep him at the bar for far longer than he knows is good for him. “If I’d wanted another pint, you’d have been too tight to get me one!”
Timmy shrugged and, as the full glass was placed in front of me, I saw a stranger enter at the lounge door in the distance. He scanned the tables in the dining area and proceeded along the bar, always searching for someone that he recognised amongst the few remaining faces of mirth and of despondency. He was dressed smartly and conservatively, which prompted this assessment from Lola: “The filth, innit!” he whispered. “Why do they make it so bloody obvious, man?”
“Shit, Rod! What you done now?”
I narrowed my eyes and glared at Timmy. “Why’s it always me?” But, from somewhere deep within me, there was a surge of panic, even though I was quite positive that this was no policeman. I never dream about the police. “Old Bill wouldn’t come in here like that; they’d be in pairs.”
But, when the stranger saw me, he nodded. He seemed nervous; even more nervous than I was; as he made his way towards me.
“See? I told you,” said Timmy. “What you done? Bothwell wouldn’t go to the police. What you been doing?”
“Shut up about Bothwell!” I snapped. “That’s my business!”
Buffalo, Lola, and Timmy were edging nearer to the door behind them but I remained stock-still, watching the stranger’s approach. He halted at a respectable distance before speaking. “Mr Peddle?” His voice was soft with a hint of a tremor, but far too polite.
“It is Old Bill!” exclaimed Lola and the bar door swung open on its hinges as people began to leave.
My eyes hadn’t left the stranger’s piercing look; there was s
omething so familiar, and yet so distant. I wondered if Bothwell had sent him, or House; if he was armed, and what with. He took his eyes from mine and, nervously, glanced around. He seemed to be planning his escape route. “I can’t stay long; I have someone waiting for me in the car park.”
I took half a step towards him. “What do you want with me?”
“I wanted to buy you a drink…” He smiled warmly and no longer seemed so nervous. “…Dad.”
My heart burst, spilling forth years of guilt and frustration and torment. I felt my knees weaken and I swayed slightly, pressing the palms of my hand down on the top of the bar for stability. And, now, I did feel old. I took a breath, maybe two, and tried to regain my cucumber-cool composure.
“Thomas? Is it you?” I whispered.
He nodded and we both had a tear in our eyes.
“It’s been a lifetime’s ambition of mine to, one day, have a drink with my son, but, it has to be said, that your timing is very poor.” I laughed and clasped my hand on his shoulder. “Someone just bought me one, so I’ll get you one.”
Thomas shook his head. “I can’t Dad. Like I said…”
“There’s someone outside.”
“And, I can’t keep her waiting. It’d be unfair.”
“Can’t she come in?”
He bit his lip and seemed to be considering the idea. “She’s very shy, though, and not really a pub person, if you know what I mean.”
“You’re very well spoken.”
“Sorry.”
“What’s to be sorry about? I like the way you talk; it makes me proud. Do you go to University? How’s your mother?”
Thomas held his hands aloft as if to try to stem the tide of my fervid questioning. “I’ll go get her.” As he glanced towards the door again, he paused, and seemed distracted. “Oh, she’s here.”
And there, indeed, she was; here at last. She walked towards us, wearing a maroon leather jacket, zipped skin tight, and a pair of equally tight dark blue jeans. Her carefully coiffured short blonde hair shone beneath the inadequate lighting of the bar. Without ever speaking, she stole my paternalistic heart.
“This is Angker,” said Thomas, proudly.
“I know.”
Angker smiled in a way that I recognised. We needed no introduction. Thomas seemed a little confused. “Have you two met before?”
Her eyes were still locked on mine. “No,” I replied, and then I hugged him, whispering into his ear. “Keep her safe, Thomas. She’s forever.”
A Solitary Gunshot
Roughly an hour later, Rodney departed the Pig & Whistle with a broad smile on his face and a feeling of inspired satisfaction in his heart. A gateway to fulfilment appeared to have been flung open before him. A motorcycle revved its engine and sped from the pub car park. He waved at both rider and passenger as they passed him and he continued on his way with an unusually carefree gait.
The street was dark now and eerily quiet. The street lighting offered little comfort. He shivered and pulled the collar of his jacket up tight around his neck. The evening wasn’t a particularly cold one; indeed, the air was warm about his face; but there was something in that air that made him quicken his pace slightly.
As he approached the bus stop, a solitary gunshot rang out and echoed across the street from doorway to doorway. Rodney froze, rooted to the spot in anticipation of a second, more accurate shot. It sounded like a car backfiring but cars don’t backfire anymore. As the echoes died, a brief silence fell. Pedestrians fled to the cover of shop doorways, scanning for the source of the shot. A young girl screamed. A woman dragged her child into a telephone box. Rodney scanned too, still waiting for the second shot. The eerie quiet was smashed by the squeal of tyres as a white Volkswagen Golf GTI drifted across the junction of Ambrose Street and slowed to a walking pace opposite the Trumpet. And then there came the second shot.
Rodney plunged to the ground.
Chapter Sixteen
Rolling on Down the Road
It was early evening and I was running again, running hard, and much faster than I had for a long time. This time I knew that I couldn’t let them catch me because if they did it would be the last time. This time it was a matter of life and death. This time, nobody would catch me, just so long as I could make it to the gap between the bookie’s and the butcher’s shop; because then I’d be up between the shops, through the garages, and onto the playing fields before they had chance to get into second gear after queuing at the traffic lights at the bottom of the High Street.
The problem was that I hadn’t even got to the High Street yet. I was still boxed in between unbroken rows of terraced houses and shop fronts, their dimly lit windows a blur in my peripheral vision, and stained net curtains lending a ghostly aspect to the twilit scene.
I glanced over my shoulder to see my pursuers accelerating through the lights at the end of Station Road without indicating. I prayed for traffic, and ran on, ignoring the searing pain in my chest as my nicotine clad lungs clamoured for oxygen.
There were the customary group of smokers huddled together outside the Volunteer. As I approached the end of the street, one of them stuck out a leg in attempt to trip me over, more out of sport than vindictiveness. I leapt over his ankle and ran on towards the station. People were pouring from the entrance; a huge throng of them were milling around on the pavement, waiting for lifts and taxis, and making their goodbyes. I closed my eyes and bent my head towards them. They would move; they would have no choice. I collided with someone; a woman, I think; elderly, perhaps. I heard a muffled scream as she went down to the floor and a man’s voice swore angrily after me.
As I turned the corner into the High Street I saw Maude standing with her shopping trolley on the opposite side of the road waiting for the lights to change at the pedestrian crossing. She saw me too and shook her head with disdain, giving me her usual narrow-eyed and tight-lipped scowl. Then she turned her eyes from me as if dismissing me and, effectively, said goodbye forever.
I could just make out the red neon Ladbrokes sign flickering in the rapidly dimming evening sky, and I knew that sanctuary was within reach. People were everywhere, moving this way and that, in random movements with no pattern or design. I weaved in and out of the crowds, into shop doorways and out onto the road, and then back in to avoid oncoming traffic.
As the number 74 bus pulled away from the stop outside the station, burdened heavily with sleepy passengers, lurching somewhat unsteadily towards Hammersmith Bridge, I heard the screech of tyres as the pursuing Volkswagen swung recklessly around the corner and into the High Street. I reached the bookies just in time and darted into the narrow passageway that led to the lock-up garages at the rear of the shops. From the street behind me there resonated an almighty bang and my heart leapt. It sounded like a bomb exploding. Another terrorist bomb on the streets of London? A suicide bomber on the bus?
I stopped running and collapsed in a heap amongst the dog shit and condoms, my chest heaving as if ready to burst. I listened, and above the beating of my deafening pulse, I could hear pandemonium ensuing in the High Street. I dragged myself to my feet and staggered back to the gap between the shops. Leaning on the wall of the Butcher’s, I peered tentatively along the road in the direction from which I’d lately fled.
There had been no explosion and no terrorist attack. But the traffic had stopped and people were climbing out of their cars. People stood and stared, some were gathering at a safe distance, some were running. I heard a child scream and a baby began to cry.
I made my way towards the scene, slowly at first, and then gradually gathering pace. Passengers were climbing back off the bus to see what was happening. They looked pale and drawn, and some were trembling with shock. The bus itself looked intact and unscathed but as I passed it I saw Bothwell’s Golf pointing in the wrong direction, the bonnet crumpled, and the VW badge torn from its rightful place on the grill. Bothwell was slumped over the steering wheel shaking his head and looking distraught and confused. His b
rother was beside him, frantically trying to open the passenger door, his lips twitching incessantly as he jabbered nonsense. One of the rear doors was already open and Timmy Cubberley was running, like a man possessed, towards the river.
I shuffled towards the pedestrian crossing where most of the onlookers had been gathering. Two elderly ladies were hugging, trying to comfort one another, but weeping as they did so. A body lay in the road, motionless, and quite serene. A pool of blood was quickly extending outward from the battered head, sweeping all before it, and colouring everything a deep, deep red.
“Weren’t it her sister that was handcuffed to her bed by that pair of nutters; starved and dead?” someone whispered.
“Do you think she’s dead too?” whispered someone else in the crowd.
“Too darned right, she is,” came the reply.
I felt myself gagging with nausea. I could hear no more as my mind fell into silence. Everything became still; time, itself, seemed to have stopped. And, then I noticed a bright scarlet bangle rolling on down the road.
Dawn Raid
Following the accident in the High Street, I felt terminally ill and knew that I would never recover and that things would never be the same again. I didn’t leave my flat for a week. I just lay in bed waiting for a knock at the door and to be whisked back into the penal system. I painstakingly examined my role in recent events and attempted to assess the level of guilt and responsibility that I ought to attribute to my own actions.
Joe Large had been arrested in a dawn raid. An army of armed police officers had dragged him from his bed and out into the street while he was still in his pyjamas. He had confessed to the killing of the old man up in Kilburn but had washed his hands of any involvement in the death of Spider. Instead, he implicated Georgie Widdows yet further.