by Timlin, Mark
They gathered around the back of the white car and Mark handed out the weapons. ‘You two go in first and find Neville,’ he said to Paul and Dennis. ‘I’ll be right behind you. The rest of you follow on.’ He gave Paul a briefcase full of newspaper cut to the size of fifty pound notes, with the real thing top and bottom which would convince Neville it was ten grand if he wasn’t allowed to examine it. ‘Don’t let him get too close to this,’ he said. ‘Tease him until you’re outside.’
Again Paul didn’t look happy about the deception, but wisely stayed silent. Mark was bopping from his cocaine intake and the boy knew he’d brook no argument. ‘Don’t leave us with him too long, will you?’ Paul said.
‘Trust me,’ said Mark, grinding his teeth. ‘I’m a fucking doctor.’
‘What about the bouncers?’ asked Tubbs.
‘Depends who’s on and if we know them.’
‘We’ll know ’em.’ Tubbs again.
‘Chances are,’ said Mark.
‘So.’
‘So we ask them to take a break and give them a few quid.’
‘What happens if they’re not keen?’ asked Dizzy.
‘You’ve got your shooter. Convince them that discretion is the better part of valour.’
‘I can do that,’ said Dizzy, slipping the gun inside his combat pants and down one leg.
‘You only do that to impress the girls,’ said Mark.
‘No. I can do that without,’ replied Dizzy. ‘Remember the bird in the blue dress just now?’ And he lifted his shirt to show the red smears on his skin.
‘And she thought you were just pleased to see her.’
‘That’s the truth. And I intend to see her again.’
‘Come on then,’ said Mark. ‘Let’s do it. And let’s do it properly.’
The bouncers, two black guys and one white, were easy. They all knew Mark and the boys and let him, Paul and Dennis go to the front of the short queue. ‘The rest of my lads are behind me,’ Mark said as he slipped each a score.
‘No worries,’ said the head man.
‘And I wouldn’t worry too much if you hear a bit of a do in a minute. There’s someone inside who’s been taking the piss.’
‘Never seen a thing,’ said the security man as he let them through.
The brick railway arches, three in all, were black with years of accumulated muck and were connected by a series of short tunnels. The main entrance was through a small door let into larger double doors that were chained shut. Once inside, the noise hit Mark like a hammer. The bass beat at Mark’s chest as he looked through the mixture of strobe lights and a fog of dry ice that made visibility all but impossible. Perfect, he thought as he moved around the edge of a floor that was filled to capacity with dancers in various stages of undress, all moving spastically in the heat they generated. It must’ve been close to a hundred degrees inside and sooty water dripped from the ceiling on to the crowd below. That night the DJ was known as Phil The Lodger for no reason Mark could fathom, and he was perched on a small stage made of scaffolding in one corner of the largest arch, with music relayed through to the others by a series of speakers the size of small cars.
In the smallest of the arches where the volume of the music was marginally lower, a bar had been set up and sweaty individuals doled out overpriced water, beer and soft drinks. That was where Mark had arranged to meet Neville and do the deal.
Mark stood in the shadows and scoped out the bar. Christ, but the music was heavy. Mark enjoyed House music when he was stoned, but he actually preferred the Jazz and R&B that John Jenner had collected in the 60s and 70s.
Mark spotted Neville straight away. He was wearing a leather suit with a huge gold chain around his neck and enough rings to stock a jeweller’s shop. He was leaning on the jump like he owned the place, flanked by a couple of heavy-looking black guys acting as security for him and for the metal attaché case that stood at his feet.
Wanker, thought Mark as he grabbed Dennis by the elbow and pointed out the tall black man. ‘Go,’ he said.
Dennis and Paul both shrugged and moved into the bar area. Mark hung back until he saw them speak to Neville, a short conversation ensued. And then all five men walked behind the bar and out through a small door in the back wall. Mark smiled to himself and moved in the same direction, body swerving through the crowd, followed by the rest of his boys.
Mark went behind the bar and through the door that led into the yard where the organisers and staff parked their vehicles. Outside, it was cool and quiet and Mark felt the sweat begin to dry on his body. Neville and his minders were showing Paul and Dennis the contents of the metal case, the bag of fake money lying on the bonnet of a Ford Granada.
‘Neville!’ Mark yelled as he got close.
Neville turned and said: ‘Hey man, what you doin’ here?’
‘Is that the gear?’ Mark asked Paul, who threw the handful of pills he was holding on to the ground and nodded.
‘Rubbish?’ asked Mark.
‘Well, it ain’t ours,’ said Dennis. ‘Though they’re all tricked up with our logo.’
‘You’re having a laugh, aincha?’ said Mark, who stuck his foot on to the bumper of the Granada, tugged the little pistol out of its hiding place and stuck it into Neville’s face, just as the rest of the boys approached from the building in a flying V pattern, weapons at the ready.
‘Whassa matter, my man?’ said Neville, seemingly little perturbed.
‘What’s the fucking matter, you cunt?’ said Mark. ‘The matter is you’re selling duff gear on our patch.’
‘No, man,’ protested Neville like butter wouldn’t melt.
‘You’re taking the rise, Neville,’ said Mark. ‘Bootlegging our product and ruining our good name.’
‘No, man, just a bit of friendly competition.’
One of Neville’s minders, freaked by the sight of Mark’s pistol, decided to even things up by bringing his own weapon into play and stuck his hand inside his jacket. Tubbs hit him on the outside of his leg joint with the Louisville Slugger he was carrying and the man dropped on to one knee, the pistol clattering to the ground.
‘I’m going to kill you, Neville,’ said Mark, almost incandescent with fury that Neville didn’t seem scared.
‘No, man. We meant no harm.’
Just then, one of the bar staff came out of the door carrying a crate of empties which she dropped with a scream and Neville took off.
He ran across the yard and up a ramshackle metal staircase towards the top of the viaduct where the railway ran. ‘Shit,’ said Mark, giving chase, closely followed by Dizzy and Tubbs. The rest of the boys were left to sort out Neville’s two bodyguards, the barmaid, the case of pills, the gun and the money.
The staircase was attached to the wall with long bolts that had long since loosened, making it wobble and bang against the brickwork as Mark and the other two chased Neville to the top. Old paint and rust showered down on them as they clattered up.
At the top, Neville leapt over the lip of the wall and started to run in the direction of London Bridge station, jumping from sleeper to sleeper. The line was shadowy, with only the occasional bright white light from above giving illumination. It was quiet up there, except for the heavy breathing of the pursued and the pursuers. And then, in the distance, they all heard the heavy cough of a diesel engine starting up.
‘Give it up, Neville,’ yelled Mark. ‘You’re done.’
Neville stopped and leant forward as he tried to regain his wind, and Mark and the two others stopped too. ‘You’re fucked,’ said Mark. ‘Too much nooky.’
‘Fuck you,’ said Neville.
In the distance they heard the train’s brakes being released and its headlights came on.
‘Mark,’ said Neville. ‘We can come to some arrangement. There’s plenty out there for everyone.’
‘Piss off,’ said Tubbs. ‘We don’t do business like that.’
The train had started and was coming closer, picking up speed as it headed tow
ards Waterloo East.
Mark raised his gun. He’d never really thought that he’d use it, but Neville wouldn’t listen to reason.
The train’s headlamps picked out the four young men and their shadows lengthened along the rails.
‘Don’t be silly,’ said Neville. ‘You ain’t got the nerve.’
Mark squinted down the short barrel of the pistol and for the first time Neville realised he was serious.
‘No, Mark,’ he said,
‘Go on,’ yelled Dizzy. ‘Do the fucker.’
The sound of the engine was like a scream and the driver sounded the horn. Neville looked around and realised he was directly in its path and he made as if to jump out of the way, but slipped on the smooth metal of the rail and fell backwards. The great engine, its brakes full on, making the metal screech and the viaduct shake, cut across the young black man’s body. Neville’s scream merged with that of the train, and Mark, Tubbs and Dizzy moved back against the brickwork.
‘Fucking hell,’ said Mark as they watched Neville’s decapitated body being dragged over the sleepers. ‘Let’s get the fuck out of here.’
TWENTY-ONE
Even before the train driver managed to bring the engine to a halt, dismount and run back to Neville’s body, the three boys had vanished down the side of the viaduct and back to the yard.
Although it seemed to Mark as if years had passed since they had set off after Neville, when they returned to the yard, everything looked the same as it had when they had left. Andy, Dennis, Paul and Elvis were standing over Neville’s mates, holding their weapons – including the pistol the black man had dropped – with the barmaid looking on.
‘Let’s go,’ said Mark grabbing the case of pills and the bag of fake money. ‘It’s time we weren’t here.’
‘What’s up?’ demanded Elvis. ‘Why’d that train stop? What happened to it?’
‘It’s relatively undamaged,’ said Mark. ‘Which is more than be said for Neville. Now let’s get out of here before someone calls the cops. If they haven’t already.’
‘Where’s Neville?’ said one of the black men.
‘Gone to a better place,’ replied Mark. ‘Which is exactly what we’re going to do, and I reckon you should too. He’s brown bread up there.’ And he hustled the boys out of the yard via the back gate to their cars.
Neville’s death made headlines for a few days locally and it took a lot of John Jenner’s money and more than enough favours to get the boys off the hook. The official verdict was death by misadventure. A prank that went too far. Just a bunch of young men having fun which went disastrously wrong. But the wounds between the black and white gangsters never fully healed. Even now, Mark realised, what was happening in south London might have its roots in that dreadful night.
* * *
‘We done him good, didn’t we?’ said Eddie as he sipped his second beer.
‘He slipped,’ said Mark. ‘It was his own stupid fault.’
‘Those spades – sorry Tubbs – didn’t reckon that,’ said Eddie. ‘They always said we murdered him.’
‘Yeah. And if my uncle hadn’t given away most of his protection business in Brixton to keep them sweet we might’ve ended up in jail or worse.’
‘Have you done anything like it since?’ Tubbs asked Mark.
‘Don’t ask,’ he replied.
‘Was that why you fucked off like you did?’
‘Long story. I’ll tell you sometime, but not now.’
‘Fair enough. So when do we do it?’
‘Sooner rather than later,’ said Mark. ‘I’ll need to organise a motor and some cash for you. Have you got a mobile?’
‘No problemo,’ said Tubbs. ‘Plenty of those about. There’s always kids in the caff trying to sell them. I got this…’ He pulled a smart new Nokia from inside his jacket. ‘Ten quid, fully chipped.’
‘Give me the number,’ said Mark, and he wrote it down on the back of Eddie’s empty cigarette packet. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘I’m off to get things together. You coming, Eddie?’
‘No. I think I’ll stay here for a few with Tubbsy.’
‘Well, don’t get too pissed. And both of you, keep your mouths shut about this.’
‘Who’s to tell?’ said Tubbs.
‘Fair enough,’ said Mark. ‘But schtuum it, all right?’
The two men nodded and Mark made his leave, still wondering how it would all end.
He drove back to south London and found John Jenner rolling a spliff in his front room. ‘Leave that for a minute,’ said Mark. ‘I’ve got something we need to talk about.’
‘Talk away,’ said Jenner, and Mark explained his plan.
‘That’s the best you could do?’ said Jenner when he’d finished. ‘A pair of losers like them?’
‘They’re all right,’ said Mark, defending his old mates, although he was inclined to agree with Jenner. ‘Trust me.’
‘That’s what the bloody doctors said to me when I went in for a check up,’ replied Jenner. ‘And look what happened.’
‘Hardly their fault, Uncle John,’ said Mark.
‘Bloody right,’ said Jenner, wincing from pain. ‘Now do you mind if I finish this?’ he indicated the half-rolled joint in the table in front of him. ‘My insides are killing me.’
‘Go ahead,’ said Mark. ‘Just give me the keys to the safe. I need some dough.’
‘Don’t spend it all at once,’ said Jenner, licking the glue on his Rizla. ‘We might need it.’
What for? thought Mark, Funeral expenses? But he said nothing.
He went down to the cellar and counted out forty grand from the bag of cash he found there. Not that he intended to pay more than the minimum up front, but he wanted money of his own around in case everything went up the pictures.
He took the cash back to his room and stashed it behind the wardrobe, a hiding place that he’d always trusted in the old days, just keeping ten thousand back. Then he phoned Tubbs on the number he’d been given.
Tubbs was still with Eddie and they were still in the pub – or another pub for all he knew – judging by the noise in the background. ‘Are you pissed, Tubbs?’ asked Mark.
‘Just a bit. It’s the thought of all those island women.’
‘Forget that for now. We need to meet. But I want you sober. Can you get away tomorrow morning?’
‘Sure. I’ve got a good kid as assistant manager. University graduate, would you believe?’
‘I’d believe anything right now. So, tomorrow.’
‘Sure, I’ll phone him later. If I could drop him a few quid…’
‘Yeah, that’s sorted. I’ve got money here. But it’s not for spending in boozers.’
‘I’ll be as sober as a judge.’
‘Sure. I’ve had experience with judges and that doesn’t fill me with confidence.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘And try and keep Eddie on the straight.’
‘No worries. He can stay at my place tonight. You want him there tomorrow?’
‘Course. There’s a boozer in Waterloo. Quiet. Round the back of the station. The Little Red Engine. Know it?’
‘No. But I’ll find it.’
‘Be there tomorrow at eleven. We’ll talk then.’
‘No problem Mark.’
‘Good.’
‘And Mark…’
‘What?’
‘Thanks. Thanks for giving us a chance.’
‘You might not end up thanking me. This isn’t a joy ride.’
‘We know that.’
‘Eleven then. The Little Red Engine. Look up the address in the phone book.’
‘We’ll be there.’
Mark nodded, although he knew no one could see and pressed the ‘End’ button on his mobile.
He was at the pub dead on time and ordered a mineral water while he waited. Tubbs and Eddie arrived about eleven-fifteen, complaining about the lack of parking spaces. They both looked a little the worse for wear and again Mark wondered about t
he wisdom of using them in his plan. But needs must, he thought as he carried them over two bottles of overpriced water.
Eddie looked disgusted. ‘I need a proper drink,’ he moaned.
‘Drink it or leave it,’ said Mark. ‘But I need you on top.’
Eddie sipped at the drink and pulled a face but kept quiet.
‘What about wheels?’ asked Tubbs.
‘I’ve spoken to Dev. Remember him?’
Both men nodded.
‘He’s still in the game and thinks he knows where he can lay hands on some fancy BMW. You know the sort. Red, with black windows, lowered and flared.’
‘Sweet,’ said Tubbs. ‘I’ve always fancied one of those.’
‘Typical,’ said Eddie, grinning like a monkey.
Tubbs grabbed him in a neck lock. ‘Don’t disrespect me, mon,’ he said in a heavy West Indian accent. ‘Me chop your balls off and wear them for earrings.’
‘Leave it out, you two,’ said Mark. ‘This is serious.’
‘Sorry, baaas,’ said Tubbs and even Mark had to smile. He took an envelope of money out of his pocket and slid it across the table.
‘There’s five G’s in there,’ he said. ‘Four for you and one for him.’ He pushed Eddie on the shoulder. ‘Exes, right? Not just for booze, Eddie.’
Eddie pulled a ‘what, me?’ face and Mark smiled again. If he had to trust anyone he supposed that these two were as good as any, for all their faults. ‘I’ll know about the motor later. Keep in touch. Tubbs, you’d better take some proper time off. I don’t want you frying chicken when you’re supposed to be a player.’
‘I’ve got some holiday due,’ said Tubbs.
‘Use it. You’ve both got my number. Use that too. But don’t say anything on air that anyone could use.’
‘We’ll be OK,’ said Tubbs.
‘Yeah, I know,’ said Mark. ‘And get some clothes more fitting to your new occupation, Tubbs.’ He looked at his nylon jacket embossed with a cartoon chicken looking aghast at the sight of a flaming barbecue, teamed with a pair of baggy jeans. ‘I don’t think that’s the look of the day for a man looking for a big score of coke.’
Tubbs looked down at himself too and nodded his head in agreement. ‘You could be right. Fancy a trip to Camden, Eddie?’
