‘He might be right,’ said Jackie Green. ‘Let me handle it. You think I can handle it, Mac?’
MacLeeland was squirming now, and the pain in his chest was sickening.
‘Forget it, Jackie,’ snapped Reardon. Turning to Mac he said: ‘Tell Roache I want it done before Saturday. Nothing too nasty. Maybe break his arm and mess his face a little. You understand me, Mac?’
‘Sure.’
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yeah. Wonderful.’
‘When did you have your last check up?’ asked Reardon, leaning forward and scanning Mac’s face.
‘Last week. I’m okay, Mr Reardon.’
‘I’m worried about you, Mac. Maybe this is all getting too much for you.’
‘No! I’m fine. As God’s my witness.’
Reardon stood and walked from the room. Jackie Green hovered. He leaned across the desk. ‘You like him, don’t you, this Bimbo?’
‘He’s all right.’
‘How special is he?’
‘He’s not a boxer, Mr Green. He’s just … you know … tough and willing. He’s a nice lad.’
Green smiled. ‘It’ll come to him and me, you know. I get a feelin’ for these things.’
‘l ’ope you’re wrong.’ Mac swallowed hard and pulled a bottle of pills from his pocket. His hands were shaking as he removed the cap, placing one of the pills under his tongue.
Alan Wilks had enjoyed himself. He’d won the snooker match with the last pot of the night, a long black that he’d cut into the top pocket. It was a stroke of extreme delicacy and precision that would not have disgraced Steve Davis. He’d pocketed forty quid as a result of that shot. And he’d got rid of those Seiko watches. All in all the sort of night that couldn’t fail to bring a smile to a man’s face. Nine hundred quid he’d taken in three days, of which twenty per cent was his own. One hundred and eighty pounds, plus the forty from snooker, sat snugly in the inside pocket of his leather bomber jacket.
He was whistling as he strolled towards the iron bridge. That barmaid from the Clifton wasn’t at all bad. Bit broad across the beam, but a lovely pair of fun bags, he thought. And she was on for it. Wilks always knew when they were on for it. Something about the eyes. He’d always been the envy of his mates for the amount of gash he could pull. People said there wasn’t a bird anywhere he couldn’t lay. But they was wrong. Not that he’d ever admit it. No, the real skill was spotting the birds who couldn’t wait to be shafted. The ones who wanted a bit of rough handling. Wilks always enjoyed that, the spanking and the humiliation they asked for, forcing them to do exactly what they wanted to do anyway. He’d only made two mistakes. The first was with that snooty clerk from the Box Company. She’d squealed like mad and it was only at the end that he realised she wasn’t play-acting. And he’d raped her. He’d lived in fear for months that she’d go to the law. But she didn’t. After that he’d gone back a couple of times to give her another go. Somehow it was better than the ones who wanted it. But she’d moved away and left no forwarding address. The second mistake was the worst though – marrying Sherry and letting her have the brats. Kids! What a waste of space. I want, I want, I want! And they ruined Sherry. Right laugh she used to be until they came along. You’re well out of it, son. Somebody told him that Bimbo Jardine was sniffing around her now. He’d get a shock. Like screwing a corpse.
Slowly he climbed the old bridge steps, listening to the sound of his footsteps echoing in the dark. He’d always liked the old bridge. A long time ago it had doubled as a cavalry fort for the youngsters, and then as a space station. He had a lot of good memories of the bridge. He’d got his first gash here with that Pamela bird. Ugly little cow, but a great arse.
He descended the steps and emerged by a cracked street lamp, stopping to light a cigarette. Suddenly a weight descended on his neck and his face, rammed into the steel tube of the street light. Twice more he felt his head cannon into the metal, then all thoughts fled.
He awoke an hour later. Rain had drenched him. He struggled to rise, fell, then pushed himself to his knees. One eye refused to open and he could not breathe through his nose. His hand sped to his jacket pocket. Gone! Two hundred and twenty quid. All gone.
‘Oh Jesus,’ he whimpered. ‘Oh Jesus! Why me?’
Bimbo stood in the queue at the building society, waiting for the red arrow to light. An elderly woman in front kept glancing back nervously and clutching her handbag. Bimbo smiled at her. She looked away. He transferred his gaze to the wall, and a huge picture of the High Street taken in 1911. It showed a tram and several horse-drawn wagons. In the foreground was a little boy in a flat cap. Bimbo liked the picture. It always made him feel good.
‘You’re on, son,’ said a man behind him. The elderly woman had moved forward and another red arrow beckoned Bimbo. He ambled to the counter. Beyond the double screen sat a young girl, pretty, but disfigured by acne. Bimbo dropped the blue book into the tray. ‘I wanna draw some cash,’ he said. ‘About three hundred.’
‘Can you fill out this form, sir?’
‘I aint got me glasses. Can you do it?’ He watched the girl’s pen speed across the form, then it was returned for his signature.
‘How would you like it, sir?’
‘Tens’ll do. How much I still got?’ She turned and tapped at the computer keys beside her.
‘Three hundred and seventy-seven pounds 22p.’
‘Not enough for a Ferrari then?’
‘You could buy a Ferrari tyre,’ she said, grinning. ‘Build it piece by piece.’
He took his money and added it to Wilks’ two hundred and twenty. Outside, the winds of autumn had scattered the rain clouds and brought a chill to the air. Bimbo took a bus to the town hall and found the rent office. A young man with tired eyes made the check he requested.
‘Mrs Wilks owes two hundred and forty-six pounds 75 pence,’ he said.
Bimbo laboriously counted out £250. ‘Do you have her rent book?’
‘Nah.’
‘Can you get her to bring it in?’
‘Can’t the rent collector do it?’
‘We don’t have rent collectors any more. Too dangerous out on the streets. Most people pay by direct debit.’
‘Too dangerous? There’s always bin rent collectors. Even when times was really rough.’
‘Not any more. That’s a jungle out there now,’ said the man.
‘Get off! Jungle? Thass West London. It aint changed.’
‘Have you seen the figures on muggings and burglaries and assaults?’
‘Well … it may have changed a bit.’
The man grinned. ‘If she doesn’t feel like bringing the rent book in she can always post it.’
‘Ta.’
In the corridor outside he saw Richard Kilbey. At first he did not recognise the vicar, for he was wearing a handsome Harris Tweed jacket, and a cravat was tucked into his cream shirt, instead of the usual white dog collar.
‘’Allo Rev, what you up to?’ Kilbey smiled and shook hands warmly.
‘I’m meeting two ladies for lunch.’
‘Well, you’ll impress ’em in that gear.’
‘I think not. And you? What are you doing here?’
‘A mate asked me to drop in and settle a bill. Are you allowed to take them collars off then?’
‘Yes. Once in a while. Special dispensation.’
‘Well, nice to see ya. By the way, how did things work out with that charity you was pushin’?’
‘The Refuge for Battered Wives? We’re still fund raising. That’s what today’s lunch is about.’
‘It’s run by dykes aint it?’
‘I have no idea. Would it matter?’
‘Guess not, Rev. See you Sunday.’ As he was about to leave Pam Edgerley and Liz Owlett approached. Kilbey smiled broadly and shook hands. Bimbo nodded to Liz.
‘You given any thought to me swan?’
‘I am looking into it, Mr … Mr?’
‘Jardine.’ Pam Edgerley held out her hand. Bimbo took it, gently.
‘Nice to see someone cares about something,’ she said. Bimbo nodded and wandered away. ‘God, he’s big!’ said Pam. ‘One of your flock, Richard?’
‘Loosely speaking. I rather like him. He’s blunt and honest – after his own fashion. And that makes him disconcerting at times. What was that about a swan?’
‘It was nothing,’ said Liz, sharply. ‘Shall we find somewhere to eat? I’m starving.’
Beyond the front doors Bimbo steered his way through the lunchtime crowds. The first Christmas cards were already on display as he eased himself into Debenham’s. Bloody hell, he thought. It’s only September. Moving along the stalls he stared longingly at the chocolate bars he had lusted after as a schoolboy. Somewhere along the line he had lost his taste for them. Yeah, that was it! The Scrubs! Chocolate never tasted the same behind a locked door. Like eating in a toilet. At the rear of the store he saw bank after bank of televisions, most of them showing racing. But, at the end, in beautifully sharp black and white, Bimbo caught a glimpse of Gary Cooper, walking down a dusty street. There was no sound but you could see the tension in Cooper’s face. Bimbo moved closer.
‘Greatest western ever made,’ said a young man in a Hepworth’s jacket and baggy trousers.
‘Nah. Shane was the best.’
‘Didn’t win Oscars though … did it?’
‘Buggered if I know. What’s this one then?’
‘High Noon,’ said the man, in a tone that signified, even to Bimbo, that the question should never have been asked. ‘Do you have a video?’
‘Nah. Aint got a telly. Never fancied one.’ The man’s expression moved instantly from helpful indifference to total concentration. Sincerity oozed from every pore. Bimbo grinned as the man spoke. ‘Let me show you some of our bargain buys. Here we have a Hitachi colour set, eight channel, remote control, superb …’
‘I’m unemployed – and broke,’ said Bimbo.
Instantly alone, Bimbo wandered the store, stopping at the toy section where he studied the Transformers. He’d a loved them as a lad. Toys what changed from lorries into robots. Ace.
As the afternoon wore on Bimbo tired of window shopping. He caught a bus to the station and wandered towards Stepney’s Antiques. Four doors short of the old man’s business he stopped and stared into the window of Cottage Video, where a superb poster of Winnie the Pooh had pride of place beside a large portrait of Clint Eastwood. Bimbo pushed open the door and stepped inside.
The walls were covered in shelves and lined with video jackets boasting every kind of film from war to comedy, porno to Pinocchio.
‘Well, Jesus Christ, if it aint the prodigal,’ said a voice. Bimbo spun. A powerfully built fair-haired man walked from behind the counter, thrusting his hand at Bimbo.
‘Stan? Bleedin’ hell, I never knew you was in this business. I thought you left the area.’
‘No way, son. Not with the money there is in this,’ said Stan Jarvis, with a crooked grin. ‘I started out with a suitcase and a few pornos and pirates, but that’s a mug’s game. I built a roll and took a chance. Talk about payin’ off in spades. I got three shops now – worth near a quarter of a mill, what with stock and that. You wanna cuppa?’
‘Nah, ta. I’m meetin’ somebody. It’s good to see ya, though.’
‘And you, son. See much of Ade?’
‘Now and again. He’s set up a massage parlour.’
‘Birds or blokes?’
Bimbo grinned. ‘Women. Nice bunch, too. You wanna pop down there.’
‘I would, but there’s enough free round here. Too bleedin’ much, as a matter of fact. I’m gettin’ worn out. Tell you what, before you go, I’ll give you a free membership. Then you can take films whenever you like.’
‘No point, Stan, I aint got a telly, let alone a video.’
‘I could help you out there. A ton the pair. I’ll even set them up for you.’
‘Is it straight?’
‘Come off a straight lorry, son.’
‘I dunno, Stan. I only like the old movies.’
‘I got ’em. John Wayne, Fred Astaire, Bob Hope. Not much call for ’em now, but I got ’em. You name it, I’ll drop it round.’
‘You got Shane?’
‘No, that I haven’t got. But I can get it. You still at the same place?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I’ll drop the gear round tonight – about ten.’
‘You couldn’t let me have a coupla posters for the wall, could ya?’
‘Sure. Whaddya fancy? Eastwood, Stallone … ?’
‘That Winnie the Pooh looks good. Anything, really, cartoons mainly.’
‘I didn’t know you had kids.’
‘I aint.’
‘No, course you aint. Very colourful, them cartoons. See you around ten.’
Bimbo left the shop and found himself facing Roache and Taggart, with a third man waiting just beyond them. The three men were tense, their eyes gleaming. Taggart stepped forward.
‘We got a message from Reardon,’ he said. Bimbo hit him in the mouth. Taggart flew backwards into the gutter, his head ramming into the wheel of a parked car, dislodging the hub cap, which rolled into the road. Taggart feebly tried to rise, but sagged back, the lead pipe rolling from his fingers.
‘Anyone else got a message?’ asked Bimbo. The third man backed away, but Roache leapt forward, sunlight gleaming from the brass knuckleduster on his right hand. Bimbo blocked the right cross with his left arm and hammered a punch to Roache’s solar plexus. The man folded, his head snapping down straight into Bimbo’s knee which thundered into Roache’s face. He was unconscious before his body slumped to the pavement.
The third man spread his hands. ‘I’m out of it,’ he said. Stan Jarvis came out of the shop carrying a wheel spanner.
‘You all right, Bim?’
‘Yeah, no sweat. Pair a pansies. See ya later.’
Bimbo walked slowly to the antiques shop, stepping into the cool, musty interior. Stepney was standing in the doorway. He shut the door, flipping the sign to ‘Closed’.
‘So, my friend,’ said the old man. ‘It has begun.’
6
‘Don’t you start!’ said Bimbo. The old man shook his head and led him through to the back of the shop, where a chessboard was set up on a wide oak table. The board was huge, the set fashioned to represent Napoleon against Wellington. The pawns were hussars, the knights lancers, the Bishops cannons, the Rooks fortresses. Stepney’s King was Napoleon.
‘That’s a bit tasty,’ said Bimbo.
‘I bought it today. I am glad you like it.’ Stepney moved a hussar pawn forward. ‘You know those men?’
‘Yeah. Two of ’em anyway.’
‘And now it is over, you think?’
‘Come on Step, play the bloody game,’ said Bimbo, bringing out a Knight to challenge the pawn. A second hussar was moved to defend the first.
‘I am talking about a game – just like chess. Now I ask again, do you think it is over?’
‘How the hell should I know?’ said Bimbo. ‘I’m just one of these bleedin’ pawns.’ He stood and moved around, idly staring at the antiques casually laid on the many shelves and tables.
‘That is what you are not any longer,’ Stepney told him. ‘They have barred you from the places you like to go. They have sent thugs to thrash you. Now what will they do?’
‘How come you’re such an expert?’ snapped Bimbo, returning to the table. Stepney unbuttoned his waistcoat and leaned back, hooking his thumbs in his braces, his button blue eyes fixed on Bimbo.
‘At last a sensible question. My dear Bimbo, I do not like to boast, but in this matter I am inde
ed an expert. In my youth, when I first joined the Party, Germany could have gone two ways: Bolshevism or National Socialism. It was decided to bait the Bolsheviks, and I helped organise spontaneous riots, the hunting down of their senior men. If they could not be discredited with scandal or rumour of scandal they were killed. You understand? Later, when we won, and the war began to turn against us, I was moved from the Eastern Front to join a Gestapo intelligence unit in Belgium. Believe me, Bimbo, there is nothing your friend Reardon can teach me. I know what he is doing, and why he is doing it.’
‘Not a nice bunch … the Gestapo,’ said Bimbo.
‘Will you listen? You think I am talking just to amuse myself? There are men still alive who would give thousands to know where I am, so that they could avenge themselves on me. You think I tell you this lightly? I tell you because I care about what happens to you.’
‘Sorry Step.’
‘You have begun a war, that will not end until you are defeated. Publicly. Conspicuously. In his wisdom, this Reardon has chosen you to illustrate his power. You have now thrashed his men and humiliated him once more. You should have let them beat you. It was the only sensible course. Now you must go away. Find employment in another area.’
‘I aint runnin’.’
‘Ach, Bimbo, I love you like a son, but your brains are not your best feature. It is not enough to have strength and courage. And what will be achieved by your staying behind to suffer, perhaps, maiming or even death?’
‘I never done nothin’ wrong. I just helped out a mate.’
‘What has this to do with anything? You committed no crime. So what? What crime did the Poles commit, or the Czechs, or the Austrians? Yet still our armies marched into their countries and stole their freedom. Your crime is the same as theirs, you are weak. Against an army even a strong man like you is no more than a sacrificial lamb. Who will care if the lamb bleats “I am not running”?’
‘And I aint no lamb.’
White Knight/Black Swan Page 11
