by Mark Timlin
‘I saw the film on TV.’
He huffed like I’d sworn in church. ‘We went there. The band and me. We were touring. We hired a fucking Cadillac. Traffic jams so long it overheated. We dumped it and started hitching. We didn’t play. Just went for the crack. Wasn’t even in Woodstock. Did you know that?’
I shook my head.
‘We didn’t. We got run out of town. The festival was forty miles down the road. Bad road. Ended up sitting in shit for two days in last week’s underwear.’
‘I remember the song,’ I ventured.
‘Fucking crap. Stardust, golden. The only golden thing I saw was liquid shit. And bad acid. Bastards thought it was funny to spike you. Didn’t dare eat or drink anything that wasn’t sealed up tight. You ever taken acid?’
‘A few times. Didn’t like it. Couldn’t control it.’
‘A control freak.’
‘If you like.’
‘Wish I was. Wouldn’t’ve been married three times. You married?’
‘Only once. Was. Not any more.’
‘Take my advice. Leave it at that. My first wife, lovely girl. We were only kids. She wouldn’t sleep with me without a ring. So we got wed. Lasted eighteen months until I found someone who would only sleep with me without a ring.’ I nodded.
‘Then wife number two. What a smasher. Bought her the world. Nothing was too good for her. She took the lot. Left with the kid and my Roller. Sold the house, all my records, most of my clothes, my jukebox, all I had was what I had on my back and a tax demand.’
‘Any more?’ I asked. Despite myself, I was getting interested. This poor fucker had had a worse time than me.
‘Just one more,’ he said. ‘Picked her up in a bar room in Memphis. Took me to Graceland. We broke in, got arrested, and spent the night in jail. It was love at first arraignment, as they say over there.’
‘And?’
‘I lost her to transcendental meditation and Pringles. She got as big as a house. Never marry a musician.’
‘Or a copper.’
‘No. You?’
‘Yes me.’
‘Copper and gangsta. Blood run with de hare and de hounds.’ He did a pretty decent patois. Normally white talking black is just annoying. ‘I was in a Bob Marley and The Wailers tribute band,’ he added.
Fair enough. Hence the dreads and the accent, I imagined. I didn’t ask him if he blacked up. I thought I might be rude.
‘Now where was I?’ he asked.
‘Woodstock. The song.’
‘Shit. Joni fucking Mitchell. What did she know? She was in a fucking helicopter. Cosying up to Graham fucking Nash. Lucky bugger.’
‘Happy days,’ I said.
‘For some. Fucking shit for the rest of us. As always.’ I couldn’t argue with that.
Just then the cell door opened with a bang and the sergeant appeared.
‘Come on Sharman,’ he said to me. ‘You’re wanted.’
‘What about me?’ said the old hippy.
‘Wait your turn.’
‘How about something to eat?’
‘The canteen’s closed. Flooding. I’ll send out for something.’
‘I’m vegan.’
‘You would be. Now, come on Sharman. Shake a leg.’
Leg dutifully shaken.
47
Theme from Special Branch – Norman Kay
I was left in another room with nothing but a metal table and four metal chairs, all bolted to the floor as furniture. There was a tiny window, less than a foot square, sunken into the pale green painted brickwork on one wall, complete with spider, a web and several flies in a worse position than me. On the table was a recorder; in one corner, high up, was a CCTV camera. Its little light, like the flies, was dead.
I sat in the chill that pervaded the room and wondered when next I would see freedom.
After ten minutes, the door opened, and, as I might have guessed, my man Smyth swept in, wearing a Burberry raincoat, and carrying a Burberry golfing umbrella.
‘I might have guessed,’ I said.
‘Sharman. I’m delighted to see you.’
‘I wish I could say the same.’
‘Come, come, there’s no need to be like that,’ he said, taking off his mac and folding it neatly over the back of one chair opposite me, and sitting on the other, carefully setting the creases in his trousers, so as not to bag the knees. Today, his suit was navy blue with a thick pinstripe, teamed with a pink, pin-through collar shirt, and a flowery tie. Natty fucking dread.
‘I think there is,’ I replied, ‘and I see you came dressed for the weather.’ I nodded at his macintosh.
He looked at my sad outfit, and said, ‘and you obviously didn’t.’
‘Touché.’
He grinned a big grin. ‘I was in the area, picking up the loot you hijacked, when I heard you were here, and couldn’t go without saying hello.’
‘Hello,’ I said.
‘You never called me. I did leave you a new telephone, after all.’
‘I lost it. I seem to be in the habit of doing that lately. Well, not so much losing them as having them taken away from me by various parties of one side of the law or the other.’
‘I can understand you being a bit peevish, but I did warn you,’ he said.
‘You did, when you were Special Branch. Who are you today?’
‘National Security. Covers a multitude of sins. Literally.’
‘And your name?’
‘It’s of no matter. I won’t be using it again.’
‘And I can do for you, what?’
‘That’s the spirit, old chap. You’ll find out. Now I must run.’
He stood, collected his coat and umbrella, and banged on the metal door of the room.
It was answered post haste, and he left with only a cheerful ‘TTFN’ and a hint of sandalwood aftershave to show he had ever been there.
48
Have A Whiff On Me – Lead Belly
I got put back in the cell. The old hippy was still there, looking glum. In his hand, he was holding one of those triangular cardboard sandwich packs. ‘He got me a cheese sandwich,’ he moaned. ‘I told him I was vegan. He didn’t know the difference between vegan and vegetarian, want it?’
I hadn’t eaten since my McDonald’s breakfast. ‘Sure,’ I said. As usual, it took a fight to open the pack, but eventually I got it open and dived in. Cheese, pickle, white bread. What was not to love?
‘So, how did it go?’ he asked.
‘Do you know?’ I replied. ‘I really don’t know.’
‘Could be worse then,’ he said.
‘Hardly.’
‘You need cheering up,’ he said. ‘Fancy a taste?’
‘Of?’
He winked and pulled off his right boot. His sock was more hole than sock, but he didn’t smell bad. He pulled and twisted the high heel, and it swung round, and it was hollow inside. He pulled out a silver paper wrap, and said, ‘It was this or a night’s lodging. Looks like I’m in for the night anyway. So I made the right choice.’
He carefully opened the wrap to show white powder with a few lumps. He held the paper in his left hand, and his right hand’s fingernails were hard and yellow, the little fingernail being at least an inch long. He dug it into the powder and stuck it up, first my right, then my left nostril. I’ll admit it, I inhaled.
It hit the spot too. ‘Thanks,’ I said.
‘A pleasure.’
‘Listen,’ he said, after he’d taken a nose full and returned the wrap to his boot heel, and his boot to his foot. ‘I like you. Give me a call and we’ll go for a drink.’ He pulled a scrap of paper and a nub of pencil from his shirt pocket. ‘Not very good at the searching here.’ Scribbled down a number and handed it to me.
‘Well, I don’t
think I’m going to be free for a drink for a long time,’ I said. ‘But thanks.’ A little kindness goes a long way.
Just then, the cell door opened again, and the sergeant said, ‘OK, you’re free to go.’
The hippy got up from the bed. ‘Not you, you,’ said the copper, chucking me a plastic sack full of my still damp clothes.
‘Are you sure?’
‘That’s what it says here,’ he said, holding up a clipboard. ‘You must have friends in high places. Now get dressed.’
‘See, mate,’ said the hippy. ‘Just to show you never can tell.’
I said nothing, just did as I was told, struggled into my jeans, shirt and leather jacket, then bade my cell mate farewell, and lots of luck, and followed the sergeant through to the front office, where I signed for my belongings. When I’d arrived, I only had my watch, wallet, cigarettes and Zippo. The bag I was holding felt like there was more. It had to be Smyth, and that probably meant more trouble. But at least I wasn’t banged up. Outside in the rain, I sheltered in the doorway and opened the bag I’d been given. Inside were my belongings plus a heavy envelope with SHARMAN printed on the front. Inside was a hundred pounds in tenners, a Range Rover key fob with two keys attached, an NCP parking ticket, with a parking bay number and a satnav code. I went back into the station. ‘Is there an NCP close?’ I asked.
‘Christ,’ said the sergeant. ‘Second left past the tube. Now get out of here before I change my mind.’
I thanked him and got out.
49
Kevlar – BTNG
I found the car park and the bay up close to the top floor. Neatly parked was a dark green Range Rover Vogue, this year’s model with dark tints all round. Nice motor. But not as nice as me, as the saying goes. Whatever powder the hippy had given me was racing my engine. I looked at my hands and my fingers shook. Not too much, just enough to keep me sharp. I thumbed the key fob and the hazard lights blinked and all four door locks clicked open. I got behind the wheel, and found another envelope taped to the dash. Once again SHARMAN was printed on the front. I opened it and there was a piece of paper inside handwritten – ‘under driver’s seat’.
I felt under and found a shopping bag. Inside was a Browning nine millimetre pistol, just like the one I’d left at Madge’s. I dropped out the clip. It was fully loaded with brass. I slapped it back, popped a round into the pipe, set the safety, and stuck it in the passenger side glove compartment. In the passenger well was a vest. Kevlar. With LAPD stencilled on the back. Smyth sure did get around. I stripped down to skin and pulled it on, fastened it, and put on my top again. Not comfortable, but comforting.
I threw my jacket into the truck, slid into the driver’s seat, switched on the engine which started with an expensive growl, put the code into the satnav and headed down to the street. I paid the extortionate fee out of the ton Smyth had left me and headed south. I was still cold, and my clothes sticky, so I banged the heat on high to dry them. My head was buzzing, and I just had to laugh at the situation I’d let myself be put in. I caught my reflection in the mirror. I looked like hell with eyes that almost sparked red. I looked away. The screen in the dash led me to leafy Wimbledon. That’s how the TV news always describes such a place when some horror has ruined the neighbourhood. Who knew what horror today would bring?
Just opposite the common, set well back from the road, was a double-fronted Victorian pile that would easily fetch a seven figure sum at auction. In front was a gravel-covered driveway, complete with three or four upmarket automobiles, including the white Bentley that had been parked at the Croydon warehouse, so I guessed Stowe-Hartley was in situ. Over the main gate was a sign that read, ‘Marchbank Nursing Home’. This must be the place.
I dumped the Range Rover on the pavement, stuck the Browning in my waistband, and marched up to the front door like I owned the place.
The front door was up three steps and between two columns. It was open. I pushed through and into a huge hall facing a wide, carpeted staircase. On the right was a desk containing a phone and computer. Behind it was an attractive blonde woman dressed in nurse’s whites.
I walked up to her. She smiled. I smiled back. ‘Is Mister Stowe-Hartley available?’ I asked.
‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘No.’
‘I’m sorry, he only sees visitors by appointment. He’s a very busy man.’
‘Me, too. I’m sure he’ll see me if you tell him I’m here. Sharman is the name.’
‘I’ll remember that. Maybe if you tell me what it’s concerning, I’ll tell him, and if you leave a number, I’ll make an appointment.’ I was getting fed up now, it had been a rough week, and my damp denims were chafing.
I pulled back the skirt of my leather jacket and showed her the butt of my pistol. ‘This is what it’s concerning,’ I said.
Her eyes widened and she pulled back away from me and screamed ‘Neville’ at the top of her voice.
From the back of the house, appeared the tattooed skinhead who had been at the warehouse. I pulled out the Browning and pointed it at his head. ‘Down now,’ I ordered. ‘Neville.’
He skidded to a halt and dropped to his knees as nursey dived across her desk, fingernails ready to rip my face off. I sidestepped and clouted her with the gun. Down she went like a chopped tree, and Neville pulled himself upright only to get an upswung firearm in the face. He joined the nurse on the Persian carpet.
They were both out, but not for long, so I ripped the phone out of the wall and tied them together with the cord. It wouldn’t hold them for long, but I didn’t need long to do what I was going to do.
I frisked Neville quickly. He was unarmed except for a heavy duty, pearl handled flicknife which I stuck in my pocket. You never know when you’ll need one. During all this nothing stirred in the house. They built these places with thick walls, the Victorians. I left the sleeping beauties and headed up the staircase, two at a time.
50
I Figli Morti from the original soundtrack of A Fistful of Dynamite/Duck You Sucker/Once Upon A Time In The Revolution/Gui’ La Testa – Ennio Morricone
At the top of the stairs, two hallways dog-legged towards the back of the property. I peered round one corner. Nothing but carpet and closed doors. I peered round the other. Bingo! A dozen yards away was a sofa next to another closed door. Perched on the seat was heavy number three from the warehouse, the one who’d given me the rabbit punches, reading the New Statesman. Wonders would never cease.
I tiptoed round the corner, the carpet deadening my approach. Then he looked up and saw me. I put my finger to my lips and whispered, ‘Not too many long words for you,’ then whacked him a good one on his nut, and he joined the pair downstairs in the land of nod.
I frisked him too, and came up with another Browning niner. I was getting quite a collection. I stuck it in my waistband at the back.
I left him lying on the seat and tried the handle of the door next to him. Locked. I stepped back, and with all the frustrations of the past week, I slammed my boot heel into the door just by the lock.
The Victorians may have built doors thick too, but nothing was going to stop me.
The door burst open and hit the wall beside it with a bang like the world ending and I found Stowe-Hartley on his knees in front of an open safe. Empty.
‘Get up off your fucking knees, man,’ I ordered.
‘What are you doing here? ’ he said. ‘You’re supposed to be in jail.’
‘The original bad penny. You see, someone up there likes me.’ I looked in the safe. ‘What happened there? Looks like you’ve been cleared out.’
He smiled. ‘Bad things happen.’
‘Get up,’ I said again. This time he did as he was told. ‘You armed?’ I asked him.
He shook his head.
I screwed the barrel of my gun into his forehead, and quickly frisked him. All I fo
und was his phone. ‘I’ll have this,’ I said, putting it into my pocket with the flick knife. Never know when it would come in handy too. Besides, I kept losing mine. ‘Now where is she?’ I demanded.
‘Upstairs.’
‘If you’ve hurt her…’ I didn’t finish the sentence.
‘She’s not been hurt,’ he said. ‘She’s just a little sleepy.’
I lost it then for a second, and smacked him round the head with the gun in my hand. He staggered a bit, then recovered. Tough guy. ‘You’ll be a little bit sleepy if I smack you again,’ I said. ‘Now lead the way, and don’t mess me about. It’s been a very trying week, and I can feel a headache coming on.’ We went out of his office and past the sofa. I gave heavy number three another clout just to keep him out of the game. I was past caring if he already had a concussion.
We went down the hall then up more stairs to a hallway without carpet. This was where the lucky inmates were kept. It smelled like a hospital.
Stowe-Hartley led me to a large room kitted out like a hospital with a pair of windows looking out over the common. Inside was Madge in a bed, a bag hooked up to a cannula in the back of her hand. A nurse was sitting in a chair next to her bed. More of a jailer I guessed. Madge was awake but drowsy.
‘Hey, Madge,’ I said. ‘Sleeping on the job?’
‘Nick. I knew you’d come.’
‘Count on it.’ I shut the door, then to the nurse. ‘Get that bloody thing out of her arm.’
She looked at Stowe-Hartley, then to the gun in my hand, and did as she was told.
‘So where’s the cash?’ I said to my host.
‘I don’t have it.’
‘Then who does?’
‘The boss.’
‘You’re the boss.’ He shook his head.
‘Then who is?’ I demanded.
He looked through the window. ‘There,’ he said.
I looked down. Standing at the back of a late model Volvo estate, grey in colour, the sort of car that looks docile until you whack down the accelerator, was, yeah, you guessed it, Smyth. He felt my eyes on him as he slammed the tailgate and looked up, then smiled and waved. No Bertie Wooster now, instead he was wearing a hoodie and jeans, and he was in the driver’s seat and away with a spray of stones from the rear wheels so fast I didn’t even have time to get his plate number.