Hierarchy worked like that, mostly.
Yeah, most of the time, people kept to their dedicated places in life and rarely moved to the next rung up the totem. Not Alfie Lovejoy, though. Nah, Alfie was riding to the top and Lady F was going to provide the ticket to first class.
First things first, though. A family was standing in his way and they had to be shifted.
Chapter 15
Friday 23rd October—Barney Mortensen
Kensington and Chelsea, London
Barney Mortensen slid into a bike bay, out of the pissing rain. He dropped the kick stand, killed the engine, and the heap of shit’s hacking cough died. Bloody thing needed a new exhaust at the very least, but that crap were expensive. Not worth stumping up any more money on the rusty bag of bolts. If the meeting went good, he’d buy a new bike. Maybe a shiny Triumph Tiger. Always did fancy one of them babies. Shit hot, they were. Power to spare and rode as smooth as silk.
If there were a better way of shooting ’round London in rush hour than on a motorbike, he hadn’t found it yet.
He patted the dented black fuel tank and smiled. Although he were desperate to get shot of her, the old bitch had done him proud once again. She’d been with him years. When he were flush, he’d keep the Kwaka for the rough jobs and save the Triumph for impressing the boys.
Barney tugged off his bin lid, stuffed the leather gloves inside, and hung it on the handlebar by its strap. Despite parking in full view, there weren’t no lowlifes about. This ’hood were too upmarket for that. His stuff were gonna be safe outside a gaff like this one. Probably even had security. Maybe one of them uniformed doormen were gonna salute him on the way in and out.
Wouldn’t that be cool.
He ran his fingers through his long hair and wiped the grease on the arse of his jeans. Yeah, the hair deffo needed a wash. Should of scrubbed up before coming.
Now he’d pulled off the work with the brick, he’d got his way in. He’d pick up the rest of the wedge and say, “yes please,” to the next job. Any job. As part of Alfie Lovejoy’s growing team, he’d be one bit closer to ‘made man’ status. Untouchable. For once, Barney’s life were looking on the up.
He sniffed the air. Didn’t smell no fresher than nowhere else so close to the river, but it did look a damn sight smarter. No graffiti or nothing. Weren’t no homeless bums holding out begging bowls. No peeling paint on the doors and windows, no litter-filled doorways, and no overflowing dumpsters—he bet the ones he saw in the car park was emptied regular. Weekly even. The owners probably paid some private firm to keep the place this spotless.
How the rich fuckers lived.
One day, Barney. One day.
Smiling at his good fortune, he bounded up the steps to the entrance of Alfie’s block. He paused at the top to take another gander at the area.
Nice. So, so nice.
He punched the ‘Penthouse’ button on the security panel like what they told him to do, and stared, straight-faced, into the security camera.
Steady, Barney. Make this count.
This were like the second part of a job interview, the one after the practical test. Should of washed his fucking hair, fuck it. He tucked a stray lock behind his ear and waited.
After holding his pose for an age, the system clicked and a message on the screen read, ‘Take lift to Penthouse. Wipe feet.’
The latch popped. Barney pushed on the door and stepped inside, making sure any fucker watching the CCTVs could see him wipe his boots on the Welcome mat.
The foyer were a bit of a disappointment. There weren’t no uniformed concierge, just a rubbish bin in the corner, a fire-evacuation plan on the wall, and two potted plants either side of the lifts—great big ugly green things they was. Took up space and gave back fuck-all in return. Far as Barney could tell, they might even be plastic. Not that he’d risk pissing anyone off by touching the ugly fuckers.
The quiet inside the lobby made the ringing in his ears seem louder. The Kwaka’s knackered exhaust was fucking up his hearing. Owning a Triumph couldn’t come soon enough. Barney didn’t think he could cope with going deaf. No music in his life would drive him barmy.
Note to self. Until you can afford the Triumph, buy a bin-lid what cuts out sound better.
The lift doors stood open and ready to take him to the dosh—another example of the way his luck were running.
Barney stepped into the box and punched the top button. He closed his eyes. One day, he’d have his own place with air-con what sprayed perfume into the air. Wouldn’t take long, not if he passed the rest of the entrance exam. Dosh from a few more drive-bys would put him right up on top with the rest of the fuckers in their expensive suits. The pay were plenty good enough, and he didn’t mind sticking it to the filthy immigrants and their snivelling brats. Not one little bit. If an ordinary bloke like Alfie Lovejoy could afford to live in a place like this, why not Barnard Harold Mortensen?
It were stifling inside the metal box. Made him sweat like a pig on heat. Barney yanked down the zip to his leather jacket and pumped the front of his T-shirt, but it didn’t do no good.
Why keep the place so pigging hot?
Probably needed the warmth for the fucking potted plants. Rubber bastards. He wouldn’t have plants in his new place, no way. Them fuckers could take their clutter and their fucking potted plants and stuff them up their arseholes.
The lift rose the twenty-two floors in next to no time and the doors slid open right into Alfie’s front room. The Tugboat’s huge frame blocked his access. Probably named after his huge fuck-off face, the square-built Kiwi bodyguard pointed for Barney to leave the lift and waved a wand over him: arms, legs, crotch, front and back.
Security conscious or what?
Once satisfied Barney didn’t have an assault rifle stuck up his jacksie, the big fucker pointed to Barney’s boots and jerked his thumb. It took a moment to work out what he meant.
“You want me to take me boots off?”
The Tugboat dipped his head and pointed to a mat just inside the room. Showing respect for other people’s homes? Yeah, Barney could do that. No fucking probs.
He unzipped his boots, kicked them off, and placed them carefully beside the other outdoor shoes on the mat.
Only then did the Tugboat step aside and stand back by the side of the lift.
Barney took a moment to gawk.
Jesus H Christ!
How much would a place like this set someone back? Million and a half? Two?
Barney’s heart rate climbed. More sweat flowed, but this wave didn’t have nothing to do with the heat.
“Mr Lovejoy?” he called.
“Out here on the balcony. Grab a beer from the fridge and come join me.”
“Thanks … Mr Lovejoy. Be right there.”
Booze and a private audience with the main man. How cool were that?
Barney stepped into a pair of guest slippers before padding across the cream-and-white floor tiles. An American-sized refrigerator filled one corner of the kitchen. He helped himself to a bottle, flipped the lid, and sucked the froth before it dribbled over his hand and spilled to the floor.
“Come on, Mortensen. I don’t have all evening. I’m off out to the Midnight Club, and I hate being late.”
“Sorry, Mr Lovejoy.”
Barney looked lively and pushed through the door to the balcony before pissing off the main man. The minute he stepped out of the super-heated room, the freezing London air burned his lungs. He coughed.
The balcony wrapped around the building and the only thing stopping anyone from going arse over tit into the black were a weak-looking glass safety screen. Barney stuck close to the inner wall and waited.
Alfie Lovejoy lay back on an upholstered recliner. Protected from the icy wind by a heavy coat and knee-length suede boots, he sucked on a cigar the size of a baby’s arm. A cloud of blue-grey smoke hung around his head, mixing with the steam from his breath.
“Freezing out here, isn’t it?” Lovejoy said.
Barney set his bottle down on the glass-topped table and pulled the jacket zip up to his throat. Thank fuck he’d put on the slippers or his feet would have stuck to the floor tiles.
“It is a touch parky, Mr Lovejoy.”
“So why aren’t I sitting inside?” Alfie asked, taking another deep draw on the fat cigar.
Barney grabbed his beer, not that he needed a drink, but he thought it best not to refuse the hospitality of his new boss. Wouldn’t want to cause no offence. There weren’t no telling how the guy would react. And that safety screen didn’t look all that pigging safe.
He took a sip and tilted his head towards the view. “That there is worth a bit of a chill.”
Alfie sat up and placed both feet on the tiles. “That’s nothing special. You get used to it after a while. Give me the East End any day but”—he stubbed the cigar out on a silver plate and must have left thirty quid’s worth of stub smouldering, unused—“Lady F doesn’t like the smell of stale cigars.”
“Lady F?”
Alfie nodded and showed Barney his teeth in a high-wattage smile. Fuck, he were handsome. Barney heartbeat sped up.
“Yeah, she’s the squeeze I’m taking to the club tonight. Loves to see the flashing lights. So, enough about my love life. I understand you did a good job at the Greek place.”
Barney’s mouth dropped open. He couldn’t help it. He snapped his jaws together and swallowed before recovering enough to speak again. “You know already?”
“Of course.” Alfie said, smiling. “I have my sources.”
“It went down exactly the way you told me. I lobbed a brick through the window and scarpered.”
Alfie nodded. “So I hear. You did really well. ”
“Thank you, Mr Lovejoy.”
Barney waited a sec before taking another sip of beer. He wanted to ask about the rest of his money but couldn’t appear too needy. Locking in a place on the team had to be more important than the money right now, and most bosses preferred their employees to speak only when they was asked a direct question. Barney’s dad told him that. About the only thing the miserable old git ever learned him before drinking himself to death.
Alfie’s smile broadened. Looked like he’d had his teeth whitened since Barney last seen him. They shone bright against the fake tan. It looked good on him. Strong face, square jaw, baby blue eyes, fuck-off gorgeous. No wonder he were knocking around with a proper Lady. Lucky cow.
Barney swallowed hard, trying to ignore the stirring in his leathers. It wouldn’t be good to let Alfie know Barney’s dirty little secret. There weren’t no queers in the underworld, not at Barney’s level. He’d have to stay in the closet for a good bit longer.
“Excellent,” Alfie said, “that’ll teach the Greeks to say no to us.”
“Sorry, Mr Lovejoy?”
“Doesn’t matter. And you can call me Alfie, now you’re on the team.”
“I am? Fantastic. Thanks … Alfie. Do you have anything else for me?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. Get back here by noon Sunday. You can run interference and play lookout while Tuggy and I pay a call on an uppity Greek bitch and her spawn.” Alfie stood and waved him towards the door. “Now bugger off and let me get ready. Can’t keep a Lady waiting. Tuggy has the rest of your cash. We owe you another monkey, yes?”
“That’s right, Alfie. A monkey.”
Barney tried not to drool. A thousand quid for something he’d have done for free just to get his foot in the door? What weren’t to like? Whoever said Barney Mortensen weren’t going to amount to nothing wanted shooting.
Chapter 16
Saturday 24th October—Barney Mortensen
Camden, London
Barney belched loudly and lined the empty beer bottle next to all the others on the coffee table. Frankie stared at him through bloodshot, half-closed eyes. Jo-Jo snored heavily beside him, cramping Frankie for space, but Frankie didn’t seem to mind.
“Tell me again, man,” Frankie pleaded.
He slurred so much Barney had trouble understanding what the dozy fucker said. Still, he didn’t mind repeating his story. It weren’t every day he made a mark with the big boys. If he were being honest with himself, Barney loved the attention. When he’d waved the five hundred quid in crisp, clean tenners under their noses, he nearly wet himself with their reaction.
Hero worship. Barney loved it.
Fucking aces!
“Go on, man. I want all the details.”
Barney raised the bottle to his lips and tilted.
Fuck.
Being pissed screwed with his timing, and he dribbled most of it down the front of his T-shirt. Shit, it were his last clean one, too. Best make a trip to the laundrette. Couldn’t turn up for his next job looking like a fucking dosser. Wouldn’t be professional.
“Wish I’d been there, man,” Frankie said. “I’d have filmed it for prosperity.”
Barney snorted. “Posterity, Frankie-boy. You mean posterity, not prosperity.”
Frankie winked and pointed at the notes spread out on the table.
“Nah, man. I mean prosperity. We’s loaded,” he said and started giggling.
The giggle turned into a hysterical cackle and then became a hacking, choking rasp until Frankie doubled up, arms wrapped around his chest, struggling to breathe.
“Jesus, mate. You ought to see the quack about that cough. Sounds like you puked up half a lung. Fucking horrible. Ain’t right.”
Frankie came up, gasping for air and stared at him, white-faced and sweaty. “Nah. I’m alright. Doctor’s only gonna tell me to jack in the booze and the fags. What else do I got to live for?”
He wiped phlegm and lager from his chin and took another swig.
“So, go on, Barney. Blow-by-blow, full colour description. You was on the bike and pulled up outside the restaurant, and then you …”
He made a rolling forward movement with the hand holding the bottle. More lager spilled onto the stained and threadbare carpet.
Barney scratched his chin. As well as the trip to the laundrette, he’d shave before meeting Alfie on Sunday. Wash his hair, too. Had to smarten up if he wanted people to take him seriously.
“Yeah. There I were, nose-to-tail traffic outside the place. It were all lit up like on display, you know? Calling in the diners for their grub, only there weren’t nobody eating but the owner and his brats. Frizzy-haired little mongrels. They was at the table right by one of the windows.”
Frankie leaned forward, forearms resting on knees, both hands gripping the bottle, roll-up sticking out the corner of his mouth. He blinked away the smoke drifting into his eyes.
“Go on. Describe the place.”
Barney’s heart started racing. Just talking about it gave him a hard-on.
“You got these two fuck-off big windows either side of the door, right? I could of chosen the one on the left, but there weren’t nobody sitting by that one and I had my orders to scare the crap out of the owners, right?”
“Right,” Frankie echoed, his eyes shining bright.
“So, I thought to myself, ‘fuck the empty window, do the other one’. That’s when I slung the brick. Lobbed it right through the glass. Crash bang fucking wallop. Shattered into these little pieces that sparkled like Christmas lights, y’know? The old man were like, sparko. Lying across the table with ’is head pumping blood. And the little brats was screaming. Then I burned rubber. You should have seen me, man. I rode the Kwaka like Steve McQueen in that war movie. Only I didn’t get tangled up in no barbed wire at the end.”
Frankie snorted. Beer and snot blew out of his nose.
“You having that?” he asked, eyeing the last unopened bottle.
Barney looked at it for a moment before shaking his head. “Nah, better not. Got things to do in the morning. Places to go. People to meet. Alfie’s setting up another job for Sunday morning and I needs to be prepared.”
“In that case.”
Frankie drained his bottle and snatched up
the spare.
“Yeah, knock yourself out. I’m for my pit. Laters, man.”
Frankie waved the bottle at him. “Yeah, laters.”
Barney stood, staggered, threw a hand against the wall to right himself, and groped towards the stairs. “And keep the fucking noise down. I needs my kip.”
When Frankie didn’t respond by the time he reached the staircase, Barney hugged the banisters for support, and looked back. The Rasta tosser lay sprawled against Jo-Jo, eyes shut, mouth open. The contents of the open bottle flowing into his lap.
“Stupid fucks.”
As his dad kept telling him, “In this world, you snooze, you lose.”
Yeah, Dad. You kept saying that all the way from the dole queue to the pub. Arsehole.
Barney climbed up the four flights to his converted attic bedroom, pulling on the wobbly handrail to help him all the way.
He made it to the top in a bath of sweat. The minute he’d firmed up his place on Alfie’s crew, he’d be out of the squat and into his own flat. Maybe it wouldn’t be as flash as Alfie’s penthouse right away, but his bedroom wouldn’t be in no fucking attic.
His crappy, unmade bed squeaked in complaint when he dropped into it from a great height. He kicked off his boots, but didn’t bother removing his clothes. The shower could wait until morning.
Barney couldn’t breathe.
No air.
Couldn’t breathe!
Cold. Wet. He were in the river, drowning. Weeds filled his mouth. He gagged. Sank deeper. He fought, struggled, tried to kick for the surface but his arms and legs wouldn’t move. They was paralysed. Fish nibbled, bit into his wrists and ankles.
Oh, God.
He couldn’t breathe!
He opened his eyes. Light streamed in through an open doorway.
A familiar dark stain on a sloping ceiling and a skylight confirmed his bedroom.
Thank fuck, but … he still couldn’t move his hands or legs.
A nightmare? Heart attack? Stroke?
Movement flashed in the corner of his eye. A man. A man in his room? How?
Barney turned his head. Looked at his hands.
Ryan Kaine Page 14
