by Mark Timlin
Now was the moment when anything could happen. There were just two witnesses left. Me, and the barman, and the robbers had three full barrels between them. It would’ve been easy to blow us both away.
Instead, yellow laces pocketed my watch and without a word the pair legged it outside and into a waiting navy blue S-reg, what I thought was five series BMW, and away, leaving just an empty till, a weeping boy and a brave but stupid punter bleeding out all over the floor. And me of course. On the way yellow laces grabbed the phone off the bar and threw it hard against the wall where it smashed into a dozen pieces.
‘Get a towel,’ I yelled at the barman. He did. I put it over the wound. ‘Hold it tight,’ I said. ‘Don’t leave him.’
The phone was a bust so I ran outside. On the right was a deli, on the left a mod men’s shop. I hit the deli door hard. Behind the counter was a young boy in a long white apron. They certainly seemed to be making staff younger these days. ‘Phone,’ I yelled, ‘there’s been a shooting.’
‘Is that what I heard,’ he gargled. I saw a telephone on the wall, grabbed it, dialled three nines and called for an ambulance. ‘Someone’s been shot,’ I said.
‘Where?’
‘What’s that place called?’ I said to the kid. ‘The bar?’
‘Jake’s.’
‘Jake’s,’ I echoed. ‘The Cut. What number?’ To the kid again.
‘Sixty-six.’
I passed the information on and went back to the bar. The boy was still holding the cloth to the customer’s chest. I felt for a pulse through the blood on his neck. Nothing. ‘You can stop now son,’ I said. The kid was covered in blood and still weeping and I felt like joining him again.
The ambulance arrived, followed shortly by the cops. I made a statement, told the officer who questioned me everything including the registration number of the BMW. The only thing I didn’t share was the colour of their shoe laces. He gave me a crime number to tell my insurance company. I didn’t know or care if my watch was insured. I intended to find it for myself.
The cop offered me a ride home which I declined. It had stopped raining and I fancied a walk to clear my head. I washed the last of the blood off my hands in the bar sink and wished the barman, who was sitting head in hands covered with a silver blanket, the best of luck. He didn’t reply. I expected he’d be looking for a new, safer job soon.
I strolled through the early evening streets towards Waterloo station. The temperature seemed to have risen and I took my time. When I got close I popped into what looked like a decent pub and had a pint. I had just enough change left in my pocket, and my Oyster for the bus ride home. It didn’t matter what I did. There was no one waiting at home. No one cared what I did. Whether I came or went, lived or died like that poor fucker in the bar. Maybe if I’d been sitting where he’d been and him at my table, perhaps I’d be on my way to the bone orchard now.
When I got to my flat I phoned the bank’s twenty four hour call centre and cancelled my bank card. It took a while as the line was crap and the individual at the other end didn’t have English as his first language. I didn’t do the same with my credit card. It only had a few hundred quid credit left as business, as usual, was spotty. I sat in front of my switched off TV and wondered how come I’d ended up like this.
I stayed low for the next few days. The London news had featured the murder of the man in the bar. His name had been John Thompson. He had been a pharmacist on his day off, up to London for a day that was to include a night at The Old Vic which was showing a Shakespeare season. He’d been single. He’d made a bad choice for lunch. Me too.
First thing I did before I got busy was to replace my phone.
Secondly I let my credit card company know my card had been stolen. Once again the call centre was somewhere east of Eden, but the bloke I got to talk to was most amenable even though he gave me a bit of a scolding for my tardiness. Finally I discovered the card had been used at John Coffey’s supermarket in Brixton at the back of the town hall, at a record shop in the market, a restaurant in Atlantic Road and a clothes shop, once again in the market. Then it had maxed out and had been refused at a record shop in Soho. I got the times and dates, and thanked the bloke for his time and he promised a new card would be heading my way shortly.
Now, by coincidence, John Coffey had used me and an associate to capture some shoplifters a few years before and we’d kept in touch. I called him up at his office in the building and he invited me to lunch. We met at his favourite pizza shop in the market. He was bigger, older, and his nappy hair had more grey, but his grin was as big as ever. We exchanged news and I told him the whole story. ‘Christ,’ he said. ‘That’s big news. And you were there?’
‘Right there.’
‘And your card was used at the shop. I really must improve the staff training.’
After lunch we went to the shop and he took me through to the back where the CCTV cameras were kept. I told the computer bloke the date and time of the transaction and he pulled up the video. The camera on the checkout showed a big white bloke who was probably yellow laces, and a blonde woman with him, in charge of a four wheeled baby buggy, buying up the shop. When he signed my name on the receipt with a flourish, his left hand jacket sleeve pulled up and there large as life was my Rolex, or a double. The video outside showed him in jeans, leather jacket and Docs. The video was monochrome but the laces were light in colour. Probably yellow. The car was a BMW, same series as the getaway car in Waterloo. I didn’t get the reg. I didn’t need it. I thanked John and left.
I went back to the market then and found the record shop. Nothing much more than a hole in the wall with a counter, racks of CDs and vinyl and two big fat speakers which pumped out reggae at a volume I’m sure was illegal. Behind the jump was a white boy with dreads. As the tune finished I asked him about the sale that had been made with my credit card, he spoke a cockney version of Jamaican patois and denied all knowledge, but I knew he was lying. I thanked him and left. Closing time for the shop was eight I saw from a sign in the window. Plenty of time to get home, have something to eat and get back to continue our conversation.
Eight pm found me outside the market at the entrance closest to the shop. Just as I hoped, dreadlocks appeared pushing an expensive looking racing bike. It was dark by then, and as he was fiddling with the light on the bike I grabbed him and shook him hard enough to make his teeth rattle.
‘You told me lies,’ I whispered in his ear. ‘You know who I was asking about.’
I felt his skinny shoulders through his sweater. ‘No,’ he said. The patois had vanished. Just a frightened cockney boy now.
‘Just tell me, and I’ll go away. I don’t want to hurt you.’
‘Chaucer house. Chaucer estate. Don’t know the number, but you can’t miss it. Ground floor party central. He’s always there. But they’ll eat you mon.’
‘Name?’
‘They call him Trojan.’
‘If you’re lying, or if you tell him I’ll beat you son.’ And with that I shook him again, but gently and let him go. He climbed onto his bike and wobbled off into the night.
I knew the Chaucer estate of old. LCC flats. Open walkways. No lifts. Condemned, but not executed. Squats, junkie hangouts, drug factories, needle parks, zombie dorms, lovely. But no cops, which was just what I wanted.
I went home then and went to bed. Tomorrow could be a long day.
I had a gun then, and a licence and belonged to a gun club before it was confiscated by the government. I haven’t voted since. Anyway, whoever you vote for you always get a politician. It was a Colt 1911 seven shot. If you were greedy, you could always put one in the pipe and pop another shell into the bottom of the clip. If you couldn’t get what you wanted with eight .45 bullets you might as well stay at home and make babies.
I took it out of the safe it was kept in the next morning, broke it down, cleaned it with Hoppe’s,
put Humpty back together again, and hung around my flat waiting for darkness to fall. When I left, I attached the gun with gaffa tape under the dash of the anonymous Japanese crap motor I was driving at the time. I didn’t want any nosy police checking me out so I drove well within the speed limit and made all the correct turn signals on the way to the Chaucer.
In the back of the car was my Louisville slugger. I had plans for Trojan.
The Chaucer stood, as it had stood since just after WW2 I reckoned. Once it had been the borough’s pride, but now it just reeked of the end of an era. I slid the car through the open break in the wall of the estate and let it drift down, lights off. There were a number of cars parked in the front of the six houses that made up the estate. All bangers much like mine. I slid the car to a halt and surveyed the scene. Most of the estate was in darkness, just a few dim lights showing signs of life, except for one flat on the ground floor of what I assumed was Chaucer house. Inside was brightly lit and the sound of reggae burst out of every window. I hunkered down and waited for something to happen. I didn’t have to wait long before a BMW five series drove down and parked up not far from my car. A big black geezer got out. Trojan no doubt. In the light from the flat I saw that the laces on his Doc Martens were coloured red.
He strolled across to the flat like he owned the place. I waited until he was inside before I left my car. As I went I pulled on skintight black leather gloves and retrieved the gun and the bat.
Next to the BMW was a rusty Transit van up on blocks. I stayed close and waited for Godot.
He was inside for close to an hour getting his rocks off on something or someone. I didn’t worry. I had nowhere to go. Eventually he came back out alone, as the music boomed on.
He walked to the BMW driver’s door and was busy with the keys when I stepped out from behind the van and said, ‘Trojan?’
He turned, and as he did I was already spinning the bat above my head and it crashed into his eyebrow just like he’d crashed into the eyebrow of poor dead pharmacist. He went down like a giant Redwood being felled and I finished the job by swinging the bat into his left knee cap. He cried out then, but ‘On A Ragga Tip’ was on the sound system inside, and he might as well have stayed silent. ‘Your mate,’ I said. ‘Where?’
‘Who?’
‘Waterloo. Jake’s Bar. Remember?’
He squinted up at me and remembered. ‘Yellow laces,’ I said. Keeping one eye on the flat.
‘Fuck off.’
I took up the Colt, pulled back the hammer and stuck it up his nose. ‘No one will hear,’ I said.
He thought about it for a moment, then good judgement prevailed. ‘Jacko,’ he said. ‘Jacko Smith.’
‘Where?’
He gave me an address, I had no way of knowing if it was kosher, but it was time to go. I left him lying there, one leg at an odd angle. Oh, bollocks, I thought, went back and smashed his other knee. I rescued my car and found a phone box that worked after four that didn’t, and called an ambulance on him. And the cops. It was the least I could do.
The address Trojan had given was just south of Stockwell tube station. Big houses, but split. This was just before gentrification dared creep into those mean south London streets. I drove up late morning. In my experience, the criminal classes kept bankers hours. Even those with babies in buggies. Parked outside the house in question was another five series BMW. Same colour, but different plates to the getaway car, but I’d bet my flat it belonged to Jacko, aka yellow laces. Boy, these fuckers loved their Beemers. Anyway, I noted down the registration in my notebook.
Sure enough, as a nearby clock struck twelve, Jacko and his bird, buggy and all came out of the house door carrying bags and boxes, put them in the boot of the BMW and headed off. I wondered if I was too late. Only one way to find out.
I gave them a minute and, with my gun in my belt, left my car and headed over to the house.
There were half a dozen bells by the door. The slip of paper next to FLAT 1 read Smith. The front door was unlocked and I pushed in. Inside were a couple of bikes, a load of uncollected junk mail and a bunch of dead flies. Par for the course for a cheap multi dwelling. Flat one was on the ground floor down the hall. I’d become quite proficient with my lock picks and I had the cheap lock done in a minute. Inside, in the hall were four large suitcases and a sports bag. Seems like they were coming back. Inside the bag were a load of wallets and credit and bank cards held by a rubber band. My wallet complete with photo was amongst them. Result! I creeped the rest of the tiny flat good. Someone was an excellent housekeeper. There wasn’t a dirty cup or ashtray to be found. Nothing else either. When I’d finished I sat in the living room facing the door, my gun in my hand, safety catch off.
I didn’t have to wait long. I heard a key in the lock and Smith and the blonde pushing the baby buggy came into the room. He was still wearing the Docs with yellow laces.
‘What the…?’
I pulled back the hammer of the Colt. ‘My watch.’ l said.
‘Fuck,’ said the blonde, who wasn’t half bad looking up close. Her hair was spiky and black at the roots. ‘I told you to ditch that thing. With his name on the back. Bad luck.’
‘I liked it,’ said Smith
‘Gimme,’ I said.
He pulled it off and tossed it to me. I caught it left handed never taking my eyes off him. ‘And I got my wallet,’ I said.
‘How’d you find us anyway?’ said Smith.
‘You and your friend. You should’ve stuck to black laces,’ I said.
He looked bemused. Not the brightest knife in the rack I figured.
‘I told you we should’ve gone just now,’ said the blonde.
‘We need stuff. And I had to fill up the car. And we needed another one for all your junk.’
‘We could’ve done that on the way. And we didn’t need another car.’
Before the conversation turned into a proper domestic I intervened. ‘Sorry about your situation. But now I think I should call the cops.’
Blonde looked down at the buggy. ‘Can I see to baby?’ she asked.
‘Sure,’ I said.
She leaned over and came out with the sawn off Smith had held at the bar, or a reasonable facsimile of, pulled back both hammers, and pointed it at my head. Smith saw the move and smiled. ‘Isn’t this what they call a Mexican standoff?’ He said.
Blimey, what kind of mug was I?
The two barrels of the gun looked as wide as two Channel tunnels from where I was sitting. ‘Be careful with that thing,’ I said.
‘I am,’ came the reply. ‘I’m not just some dizzy Essex blonde tart.’
‘This pistol has got a hair trigger,’ I said. Which it hadn’t. ‘That thing goes off, and so does mine. And it’s pointed straight between his eyes.’
‘Then what?’ Her again.
‘Then let me go. I’ve got what I want. No hard feelings.’
‘And then you call the cops.’ I saw her finger white on the triggers. She wanted to use that bloody thing. This bitch was a couple of fries short of a happy meal, that was for sure. And I’d bet she was the stoppo driver on the robbery.
‘No. I’m reaching for my phone.’ I took out my new Nokia gently with my left hand and tossed onto the couch. ‘No phone. You’ll be long gone before I could find a phone box that works round here.’
‘Let him go, Sylv,’ said Smith. ‘That fucking thing is pointed at me.’
‘I should let him shoot you,’ she said. ‘You fucking div.’
Christ, fancy being webbed up with this cow.
She came closer gun still at on me. ‘Go on,’ she said to Smith. ‘Let him through.’
So awkwardly I got up and still with the gun on Smith I left the room, then the flat, backing slowly down the hall. Outside I parked the gun inside my belt at the back and went down the front steps. Suddenly I was grabbed, and fo
rced down onto the cold pavement by a bloke in a leather and jeans until I was breathing in grit. I felt a gun at the side of my head and cuffs clicked tightly on to my wrists. Another bloke frisked me and whispered into a collar mic. ‘Gun, I have a gun here.’
‘It’s legal,’ I said.
‘Not loaded.’ He had a point.
‘You’re after Jacko Smith and his missus,’ I said.
He said nothing.
‘She’s got a loaded shotgun in the baby buggy.’
The cop passed that on.
Smith and Sylv came out then, and more men in plain clothes surrounded them and they ended up on the ground too. Served them right. Especially her. I’d nearly wet myself when she pointed that gun at me with that look on her face. As it turned out there was no baby in the buggy. No baby at all. But it was a good way to carry the shotgun around. They were both found guilty along with Trojan and are still inside as far as I know.
Me. I ended up in the choky again. My gun was confiscated and I ended up with a fine from the court. After all I had done for the guardians of law and order. Sometimes life isn’t fair.
And the last time I was in The Cut, Jake’s Bar was gone, replaced by Rooney’s Fish And Chip Plaice. See the clever way they spelled that. One thing I’ve discovered is of course life goes on.
Thanks to Michael Connelly for letting me plunder his Lincoln Lawyer novels for Bobby D, the Beemer Brief. Cheers mate! A copy of the book is on its way.
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