‘No it aint all right. I had Esther with me. One a them bricks could have smashed her face. And I don’t like being accused of somethin’ I never done.’
‘Doddsy give you a hard time, did he?’
‘Nah, not really. He’s all right.’
‘What’s that mean? All right? He’s a bastard. A right pig.’
‘He aint bent though, is he?’
‘Course ’e’s not bent. Doddsy? That’ll be the day. That’s the trouble with the force now. You can buy ’em for a tenner, and they’ll come in a coach. No, Doddsy’s old fashioned. But he’s still a right pig!’
Bimbo grinned. ‘I don’t understand you, Mac. Do you like him or hate him?’
‘Both. What you got planned today?’
‘Gonna see an old mate.’
‘Okay. Be here about three on Wednesday. I’ll have somethin’ for you.’
‘No more restaurants, Mac. I aint in that game.’
Mac shook his head and sighed. ‘What game do you think you’re in, son? It’s the same one we’re all in. You work for a boss, and he tells you when to shit and how to wipe your arse. Don’t be difficult.’
‘I think I might go labourin’ again,’ said Bimbo. ‘It’s gotta be better than this.’
‘I’ll see what I can do about the restaurants and such,’ said Mac. ‘I’ll see you Wednesday.’
Bimbo threaded his way through the High Street crowds and stopped at the Singhs’ general store. The daughter, Shamshad, was serving at the checkout. She was around eighteen, a shapely girl wearing tight jeans and a pink sweatshirt with the words Raw Evil embroidered across the chest. Bimbo paid for his apple and wondered what her mother thought of the fashion. It would never beat a sari for style, he decided.
He queued for twenty minutes for a number 11 bus and climbed to the top deck. Ever since childhood Bimbo had loved sitting on the upper deck, especially at the front. In those days the windows had rolled right down and a child could push his upper body out, stretch his arms and pretend to be Superman whizzing through the air, high above the worries of the world.
There was no seat at the front and Bimbo found himself a place left of centre. A hand tapped him on the shoulder. He turned.
‘How’s it goin’, pal?’ asked Willy Norris.
‘Not bad.’ Norris was a thirty-three year old lorry driver with his own artic. He lived in Ramsay Road with his wife and two daughters. Bimbo had known him for around seven years, from his first stretch in the Scrubs.
‘I’m goin’ down again, Bim.’
‘What they got you on?’
‘Receivin’. Sixty fruit machines. Lovely bits of kit.’
‘How long you got out?’
‘Remanded fourteen days. That bastard Lynch is charging five hundred for the remand. It’s a piggin’ liberty. Used to be two hundred.’
‘He’ll get rumbled one of these days.’
‘Yeah? Who’s gonna rumble a copper? Anyway I need the remand on bail to set Nancy up. Gotta sell the business. You don’t know no one what wants a trucking set up?’
‘Sorry, mate.’
‘Don’t matter. I’ll sort it out.’
‘How long do you think you’ll get?’
Norris shrugged. ‘Two. Maybe three. You still got that flat by the estate?’
‘Yeah.’
‘How’d you get on with all them niggers?’
‘Fares please,’ said a large, black conductor.
‘They don’t bovver me,’ said Bimbo, handing the man two fifty-pence pieces.
‘Bloody bovver me,’ said Norris. ‘You can’t move without fallin’ over one. And they’re all on bloody social security.’
The conductor moved on. ‘And they’re all so bloody surly. Did you see his face? If looks could kill, eh? It’s envy, see. You wanna stop for a pint?’
‘No. Gotta see someone.’
‘Been naughty has he?’ Bimbo bit back his anger and turned to face the front. A slim young woman in black leather trousers squeezed into the seat beside him.
‘Tasty!’ said Norris.
The woman turned, and raised the second finger of her right hand in an upward stabbing motion. ‘Up yours, arsehole!’
‘I think I’m in love, Bim,’ he said, happily.
Bimbo swung his head to look out of the grime smeared window. Two miles along and the High Street had been replaced by a dismal lookalike, the same drab shops, the same idle strollers, or groups standing in doorways. Norris leaned forward and whispered something in the woman’s ear. She reddened and looked around, but there were no other seats. Bimbo turned.
‘You’re beginning to annoy me, Willy. Shut it!’
‘Sorry, Bim. Honest to God.’
Bimbo looked at the woman. ‘Don’t take no notice, sweetheart. Enjoy the ride.’
‘Up yours as well,’ she told him.
Bimbo stepped from the bus in the centre of Shepherd’s Bush, moved swiftly through the crowds and on to the back roads to a secondary shopping area boasting a launderette, a newsagent, and a massage parlour-cum-health centre. The Body Spa had a pine frontage and a beautifully ornate door with a dozen leaded-glass circular windows. Bimbo pushed open the door and wiped his feet. The short hall was plushly carpeted and he padded silently to the reception area where a gorgeous brunette in a low cut dress was reading a paperback novel. She looked up as he entered.
‘Hello, Bim. Adrian’s out back.’
‘Busy?’
‘Not so’s you’d notice. Sheila got busted last week.’
‘What for?’
‘She offered the VIP Special to a detective constable.’
‘Unlucky.’
‘Yeah. The pig’s been here about a dozen times. How long does it take to suss out?’
‘You keepin’ well?’ he asked, to switch the subject.
‘Yes. And Mandy’s doing well at school. Best reader in her class. She’s going to be bright that one.’
‘She’s a nice kid. Is it all right to go through?’
‘You know you don’t have to ask.’
The rear office was clad in pine and furnished with a white desk, and black Chesterfield, with three matching armchairs set around a glass-topped coffee table. On the wall was a giant Aubrey Beardsley poster of two women arm in arm. Adrian was sitting on the sofa examining a set of computer print-outs. He smiled at Bimbo, stood and stretched.
‘I dunno how you get away with that gear,’ said Bimbo, taking in the blue and white silk shirt, the grey leather trousers and the shimmering shoes.
‘Style, my dear Bimbo. One needs grace and flair to carry it off. Do you like the shoes? Pure snakeskin.’
‘Nice.’
‘Nice?’ mimicked Adrian. ‘They were six hundred pounds. I bought them in Milan.’
‘I expect they’ll keep the rain off.’
‘You don’t change, do you, dear?’ replied Adrian, grinning. ‘Coffee?’ Adrian was twenty-four years old, and already rich by Bimbo’s standards. For a year they had shared a cell and Bimbo found him to be a witty companion. And he had a marvellous talent for always finding the bright side of any problem. Some months ago a group of thugs had given him a severe beating. From his hospital bed he told Bimbo it was a heaven-sent opportunity of – at last – having his teeth capped.
‘So how is life treating you?’ asked Adrian, handing him a small cup in an oval saucer. The coffee was rich and unusually strong.
‘Not bad.’
‘Still feeding that swan?’
‘Yeah. She’s buildin’ a nest again. Sad, really.’
‘Have you had a word with the council?’
‘What for?’
‘To find her a mate, for heaven’s sake.’
‘You can’t just go out and get a male black swan … can you?’
‘Why not? Just about everything else in this world is for sale.’
‘I never really thought about it.’ He handed back the empty cup.
‘My God, Bimbo, I think your hands are getting bigger. It’s like watching snakes writhing around a bird’s egg.’
‘You oughta get some mugs. I feel like an idiot sitting here with a bleedin’ thimble.’
‘I don’t know, you look kind of sweet. Endearing, in a murderous sort of way. You got work tonight?’
‘What’s on?’
‘Only a stag show, but there’s a live act after.’
‘You know I don’t like that sorta thing.’
‘You don’t have to watch it. You’ll be on the door. It’s worse for me. I’m inside.’
‘Where is it?’
‘You won’t believe it. St Mary’s church hall.’
‘You’re kiddin’?’
‘Straight up. Hired it for the Royal Order of Antlered Stags reunion. Good eh? Thirty five notes and seats one hundred.’
‘What if the vicar turns up?’
‘You stop him at the door.’
‘Bloody hell, Ade!’
‘We’re not breaking the rules. All they said was no alcohol. We’ve laid on some food, but they won’t be eating much.’
‘Not that film about pigs again?’
‘Nothing like watching a man screw a sow to put you off your bacon sarnies.’
‘That’s vile, Ade.’
‘The whole thing is vile, Bimbo,’ said Adrian, suddenly serious. ‘But a man has to make a living. I’ve got big expenses. Rich tastes.’
‘Is Sally doing the live act?’
‘No, she married an accountant. I’ve got this black chick. She’s new to the game, but she’s learning fast. She’s agreed to take someone from the audience after. So it’s a good raffle as well.’
‘What am I supposed to be looking for?’
‘It’s all ticket, Bim. Numbered tickets. No gatecrashers. No late arrivals. No Filth. Anyone not kosher does not get in.’
‘What time?’
‘Eight-thirty. You know St Mary’s?’
‘Yeah. Alvin doin’ the camera stuff?’
‘No. We had a tiff. He walked out.’
‘Sorry. Wasn’t he the one that waited for you while you was in nick?’
‘Yes. He’ll be back. It was just a stupid tiff. It wasn’t important. We were supposed to be going to Cyprus next week. I’ve hired a boat there. Now this … But he’ll be back. Four years we’ve been together.’
‘Yeah. I’d better be going.’
‘Another coffee?’
‘No, ta.’
‘I don’t suppose you’d fancy Cyprus, Bim? No funny business. Just a holiday.’
‘I never bin abroad, Ade. Don’t fancy it. Anyway you’re right. He’ll come back.’
2
Bimbo pounded his way along the canal path, seeking to exorcise his frustration. He could feel the tightness in his calves as lactic acid began to settle, signalling that he was heading into oxygen debt, where even his huge lungs could no longer supply enough air to maintain his speed. Running magazines were his only reading now. He knew about oxygen debt, and carbo-loading, pulse rates and recovery times.
His own pulse was a steady fifty beats a minute at rest, and 150 at the end of a long run. It took about eleven minutes to return to normal, which wasn’t too bad.
The tightness began to wear off and his breathing eased. He was in automatic now, moving at a steady nine-minute-mile pace, and his mind cleared.
No matter what, he’d never get involved in another restaurant caper, or indeed anything else that smacked of … smacked of what? Was it any worse to break some poor bugger’s arm because Reardon said so? And what of the pubs and clubs who paid protection? What if they decided to defy Reardon? Wouldn’t Bimbo be sent in, along with Nelson, or Roache or Taggart? He thought of the Cypriot waiter. He seemed like a decent bloke, and he’d been willing to stand up against those skinheads. Sadness settled on Bimbo. There was no getting away from it, when the man had turned on him he had been right! Shouldn’t have called him a dago, thought Bimbo.
He gritted his teeth and ran on. Sweat drenched his face, rolling in rivulets down his neck and back. One of these days he was going to run the London Marathon. That’d be good, he decided. That’d be worth something. The day was bright and clear, the evening fresh. Back at the flat he showered and donned his old track suit top with the tear at the shoulder. Draping his black donkey jacket over his arm, he left for the long walk to St Mary’s hall.
Eighty-seven people had so far packed into the tiny hall. Bimbo shut the door and slipped the lock into place. There had been no trouble, and no late arrivals, and the films had already started. The windows were sealed with black plastic, and no prying eyes would see the Swedish extravaganzas beaming from Adrian’s projector. Bimbo pulled up a chair in the hallway and sat down, resting his head against the brickwork. Another easy thirty pounds. With thirteen spare seats inside he could have watched the show, but what was the point? They never aroused him. They just made him uneasy. He didn’t know why. Maybe it was that old Sunday school teacher – what was his name? Wills? Wilson? Something like that? All that stuff about sins of the flesh, and wanking making you go blind. Bimbo chuckled, as he remembered the old man, and his white, waxed moustache. ‘Sex is an instrument of the Devil, yes the Devil! From sex comes wickedness and greed, covetousness and all things vile.’
Bimbo closed his eyes and thought about Sherry Parker. She’d won a sprint race once. He remembered her bursting through the tape, her face radiant with triumph, her nipples erect under the thin cotton top. He squirmed in his chair. That bastard Wilks! What right had he to marry her and then ruin her life? No, not just hers – the kids’ too.
At a quarter to ten there was a tap at the door. Bimbo opened it. A young black woman stepped in out of the rain, followed by two youngsters, both white and in their late teens.
‘Where can I get changed?’ she asked. Bimbo pointed to the kitchen.
‘How many in tonight?’
‘About ninety,’ he told her.
‘Can we get a drink?’
‘No. It’s a church hall.’
‘Is that supposed to make sense?’
‘I guess not. Done much of this?’
‘Enough. What’s the crowd like?’
‘About normal.’
‘I don’t think normal comes into it, does it?’ Producing a weary smile the girl waited for his reaction. Bimbo shrugged.
‘Dunno, I only watch the door.’
‘I don’t want no funny business tonight,’ she said. ‘I said I’d take one. No gang bangs.’
‘Adrian’s all right,’ he assured her. ‘It’ll be okay.’
‘Gay though, isn’t he? Hardly the tough type. Can he keep them in order? I was nearly put in hospital by a crowd in Brixton.’
‘This aint Brixton. And if you get worried just yell. I’ll be in like a shot. All right?’
‘I’d be happier if you were in there.’
‘Aint my scene, sweetheart. But I’ll be here.’
‘I could do with a drink,’ she said. ‘Is there a pub close?’
‘Across the road.’
‘Tony, love, nip out and get a bottle of whisky – Bell’s if they’ve got it.’
The tallest youth grinned sheepishly and moved to the door. Bimbo unlocked it and let him out.
‘He’s a bit nervous,’ said the girl. ‘He’s not done this before. I’m Miranda.’
‘Bimbo,’ he said, offering her his hand. She giggled.
‘That’s not a name, it’s a description. Nobody’s called Bimbo.’
‘I am. Real name’s John. John J. Jardine. Call me Bim, if you like.’
‘This is Daniel, Bim. He’s
my boyfriend.’ Bimbo nodded and ignored the outstretched hand.
‘What time we on?’ asked Miranda.
‘Adrian’ll be out in a minute. They’re about to serve food.’ At that moment a great groan went up from the audience.
‘What’s happening?’ asked Daniel.
‘You don’t want to know, son. You wanna get changed?’
‘Might as well,’ said Miranda. ‘Is there a mattress in there?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Thank heaven for small mercies,’ she said, picking up her bag and heading for the kitchen. Tony returned with the bottle. It was already open. He took another long swig.
‘How many people did you say?’
‘About ninety.’
He took another swallow, and followed Daniel and Miranda. Adrian stepped into the hallway.
‘They here, Bim?’
‘Yeah. Gettin’ changed.’
‘Good, the natives are restless. Raffle went well, but there’s several blokes want to have a go at her if she’s tasty.’
‘One is all,’ said Bimbo. ‘Make that clear.’
‘I have. You stay on hand though.’
‘Don’t worry about that. You watch that tall geezer with the gold neck chain. Don’t like the look of him.’
‘Good spot, Bim. He’s the one asking for seconds.’
Miranda appeared, dressed in white panties and bra with pale stockings and a red suspender belt. Behind her came the two boys, in capes and leather G-strings. Adrian led them into the hall, and a chorus of wolf whistles greeted them.
The show lasted another hour. Bimbo waited on edge, but there was no trouble and Miranda reappeared. She dressed swiftly and, followed by the two youths, left without saying goodbye.
With the last of the punters gone Adrian and Bimbo cleared away the chairs, folded the mattress and carried it to Adrian’s saloon. They carefully laid the equipment on the mattress in the wide boot, covering it all with a blanket. Bimbo climbed into the passenger seat and stretched his legs. Adrian switched on the engine and pulled out on to the main road.
‘Fancy a drink, Bim?’
‘No. How did it go?’
‘Not bad. The skinny kid couldn’t get a hard on. Felt sorry for him. But she put on a great show. I’ll use her again.’
White Knight/Black Swan Page 3
