by Timlin, Mark
‘No man,’ said Tubbs. This geezer is as changeable as the weather, he thought. One minute all friends, the next as paranoid as fuck. Too much sugar on his cornflakes probably.
‘And?’ said Moses.
‘If he is, flush him.’
Moses, and the third man – Karl, Tubbs surmised – hustled Tubbs to the gents, which stank equally of piss and chemicals.
‘Strip, boy,’ said Moses. ‘Right down.’
Tubbs removed his new clothes, slowly draping them over the door to the sitdown.
‘You respect your threads.’ said Moses. ‘I like that in a man.’
‘You like peeping too,’ said Tubbs when he was naked. ‘You’ve been inside, I can tell. Whose bitch were you?’
Moses hit him hard with the barrel of his gun and Tubbs had to hold on to the wall to prevent himself falling. Meanwhile the third man was going through his pockets. ‘No ID,’ he said. ‘Man of mystery, huh?’
‘I don’t carry anything with my name on, ever,’ replied Tubbs, who’d purposefully dumped anything that could identify him before meeting Mark. ‘Strictly cash.’
Karl riffled through the notes he found and pulled an approving face. ‘You can say that again.’ Then to Moses: ‘He’s clean. No wires, no weapons. Just cash, and plenty of it.’
‘Gimme,’ said Moses, and the third man handed him the money. ‘Get dressed, boy,’ Moses said to Tubbs.
Tubbs did as he was told, looked in the stained mirror and touched the bloody lump on his head. ‘Here,’ said Moses and handed him the handkerchief he’d used to wipe down the bar. ‘No hard feelings.’
‘None taken,’ said Tubbs, dabbing at his face.
‘Outside,’ said Karl, and Tubbs, now fully dressed, walked back into the bar.
‘He’s clean,’ Moses said to Beretta. ‘And he brought us a present.’ He handed the cash over and Beretta slid it into his pocket. ‘How much?’ he said to Tubbs.
‘Two grand or thereabouts.’
‘What you need all that for?’
‘Just walking around money.’
‘Nice place to take a walk. Fair enough. Now what did you want with me?’
Tubbs looked at the other faces in the bar and said: ‘Like I said, it’s private.’
‘Yeah.’
‘So?’
‘Siddown,’ said Moses, then to the barman. ‘And get him what he’s drinking. And another round for us.’
The quartet moved to a spot behind the pool table, out of hearing of the rest. Once the barman had brought them their order and was safely back on his perch, Tubbs said: ‘I need some powder.’
‘Who doesn’t?’ asked Moses. ‘Where you from again?’
‘North London,’ replied Tubbs.
‘That’s a big place,’ said Beretta.
‘Holloway.’
‘How long were you away?’ asked Moses.
‘Two years.’
‘For what?’ Beretta again.
‘Weed. Got captured with a big bag. Cops didn’t take kindly to it.’
‘They tend not to,’ said Moses.
‘Now it’s bloody almost legal,’ said Tubbs.
‘Wrong time, wrong place,’ said Beretta and sniffed loudly, which was the cue for Moses to bring out the coke again, and all four hit on a line each.
‘This is good stuff,’ said Tubbs. ‘You got more?’
‘More than you can afford,’ said Beretta.
‘How much?’ asked Tubbs.
‘How much we got, or how much is it?’ said Beretta.
‘Both.’
‘You might be grass,’ said Moses. ‘Why should we tell you?’
‘You’ve got my two grand. And there’s plenty more where that came from.’
‘Our two grand now,’ Beretta corrected him.
‘OK, your two grand. Take it as a down payment.’
‘We’re taking it anyway,’ said the third man. ‘Sort of a gesture of faith on your part.’
‘Whatever,’ said Tubbs. ‘You got any now?’
‘You’ve got no money,’ said Moses.
‘I can get more.’
‘When?’
‘Tonight.’
‘Maybe,’ said Beretta. ‘You got a phone number?’
Tubbs reeled it off and Moses made a note of it in a little book. ‘We’ll think about it, Mr Tubbs,’ he said. ‘We’ll ring you later. Or maybe tomorrow. Or maybe never. We need to check a little. Make sure you ain’t five-oh. You get my drift?’
Tubbs nodded. He wondered what they’d turn up, if anything. He had a small record from way back, but that was under his real name, which he hadn’t supplied.
‘Now go,’ said Beretta. ‘We’ll talk later.’
Tubbs left the bar and climbed into the BMW, which he drove through the narrow streets of Brixton, before parking up and calling Mark Farrow on his mobile.
‘I met ’em,’ he said. ‘Not nice people. They told me Blakey was dead. Thanks for telling me. I felt like a right wanker.’
‘I never knew. Sorry, mate. So what happened?’
‘They gave me some lumps and took the two grand I was holding.’
‘And?’
‘And nothing. They’re doing some checking on me. But they’re so stoned I don’t reckon they’ll even remember my name in half an hour.’
‘It’s risky, Tubbs. If you want to pull out, do it now.’
‘No, Mark. They’ve got lots of dope, and I want us to get it.’
‘This is crazy,’ said Mark.
‘No worries,’ said Tubbs. ‘I’m going round to Eddie’s. They’re going to phone me.’
‘When?’
‘Whenever. Could be they’re dialling now, could be next week, could be never. I’m sorry about the cash, Mark.’
‘No problem. Did you make a fuss about it?’
‘No. One of them had a gun on me at the time. But I told them there was more where that came from.’
‘Good.’
‘You figure they’ll try and take the rest?’
‘Yeah. That’s why we hit them first.’
‘But I want that gear.’
‘Sure you do. We’ll work something out.’
TWENTY-THREE
Tubbs went round to Eddie’s flat, dug him out of bed and told him what had occurred at the pub. Eddie sat, bent over his first cup of tea, listening, then said: ‘Christ, Tubbs, this is getting heavy.’
‘We knew it would.’
‘They could’ve killed you.’
‘No pain, no gain, my man.’
‘So what now?’
‘Now we wait.’
And wait they did.
Meanwhile Mark was looking forward to his date with Linda.
Looking forward to it more than he thought he should, especially as he knew he’d put Tubbs in harm’s way. The day dragged by like a snail on downers. He kept checking that his phone was switched on, but he heard nothing from Tubbs, so when the appointed hour arrived, he arrived at the flat in Balham and rang the bell. Linda answered the door wearing a simple black dress and black nylons, with high heeled, strappy shoes. She’d curled her hair slightly, her eyes were mascaraed and her lips a deep shade of red. She looked wonderful. Mark stood in the doorway until she offered him her hand. ‘Are you going to stay out there all night?’ she asked.
‘No,’ he replied. ‘I just can’t believe how great you look.’
‘Takes longer every year,’ she said.
‘I don’t believe you,’ he said. ‘It’s natural.’
‘Tell that to Estée Lauder. Now are you coming in or not? It’s getting chilly and I’m not dressed for it.’
‘That’s true.’
‘But I’m dressed for something.’
‘What?’
‘Don’t be naive. I went shopping this afternoon.’
‘Where?’
‘Soho.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. A little shop I know called Agent Provocateur.’
‘What do they sell
?’
‘You have been away for a long time,’ she said, dragging him in, slamming the door and pulling up the hem of her skirt to show off stocking tops and pink, lacy suspenders. ‘Underwear,’ she said. ‘The most outrageous in London. I blushed when I bought it.’
‘For me?’
‘No. For the milkman. Of course for you, silly.’
‘I’m flattered.’
‘You should be. They cost me an arm and a leg. Now get upstairs. And you go first. I don’t want you looking at my bum.’
‘Isn’t that why you bought the underwear?’
‘Maybe. But later. I’ve cooked.’ They went upstairs, Mark in the lead. At the top he stopped and turned.
‘Wait a minute,’ he said. ‘Now you’re looking at my bum.’
‘And why not?’ she said. ‘It always was your best feature.’
‘Charming.’
‘All the girls at school thought so, and it hasn’t gone south – yet.’ Mark smiled and went into the living room where the table was set for two and was full of warm odours from the kitchen next door.
‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘Smells good.’
‘So it should. I’ve been slaving over the oven for hours.’ Mark suddenly felt a constriction in his chest and his eyes filled with tears. What a waste of all those years – we could’ve been together, he thought. Years we’ll never have back. Years wasted.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Linda.
‘Fine,’ he replied. ‘Never better in fact.’
‘Then take off your jacket, sit down, have a drink. Anything. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘No. Just thinking.’
‘Well, don’t think. It’s bad for the brain. Just enjoy.’
‘I’m sure I will. I’m starved.’
‘Good. I’ll open the wine.’ She was as good as her word and produced an expensive bottle of Pinot Grigio from the fridge.
‘I’ll do it,’ said Mark.
‘I love a masterful man,’ said Linda and kissed him, handing him the bottle. Her perfume was subtle but powerful and Mark’s head swam as he inhaled it.
‘Like it?’ she asked, noticing his reaction.
‘Love it. Smells even better than dinner.’
‘Seventy quid an ounce,’ she said. ‘No rubbish here.’
‘I know,’ he said and made a grab for her, but she danced out of his reach.
‘The wine,’ she said. ‘Quick, before it warms up.’
‘Yes, OK, the temperature is rising.’
‘So I noticed, big boy,’ she said. ‘And that ain’t the only thing, is it?’
Mark reddened at her remark. ‘Don’t tease me,’ he said.
‘That’s just what I intend to do. I’ve got a late pass tonight and I mean to make the most of it.’
Mark felt for the switch on his mobile phone, then pulled his finger away guiltily. He had to stay in touch with the outside world, much as he would have liked to put it out of his mind. ‘We will,’ he said.
‘We’d better. Now open that bottle whilst I check on the potatoes.’
Mark did as he was told and filled the glasses waiting on the table. He picked up his as Linda came back. ‘About another fifteen minutes,’ she said.
He reached for the other glass and handed it to her, that old, familiar electricity sparking as they touched. ‘A toast,’ he said. ‘To us.’
‘To us,’ she echoed and they clinked their glasses and drank. Mark’s mouth filled with the smoky taste of the wine.
‘That’s beautiful,’ he said. ‘Perfect. Just like you.’
‘Thank you,’ she replied. ‘Now why don’t you sit down,? You’re making the place look untidy.’
Once again, he did as he was told, sitting on the sofa whilst Linda took one of the dining chairs. ‘Sit by me,’ he said.
She shook her head. ‘Not now. The way I feel the dinner might burn.’
‘Would it matter? There’s plenty of takeaways in the street.’
‘Don’t be so bloody cheeky, Mark,’ she said. ‘I’ve not worked my fingers to the bone all afternoon for us to have lamb korma out of a foil container. There’s starters, roast lamb with green beans, and a pudding.’
‘You’re the only pudding I need,’ he said.
‘You bad boy. Just remember that everything comes to him who waits,’ and she crossed her legs provocatively, once again showing her stocking tops and the soft white thighs above.
‘It is getting warmer in here,’ said Mark. ‘Do you think we could open a window.?’
She blew him a kiss, put down her glass and went back into the kitchen, swinging her backside as she walked, and Mark wondered whether his appetite was greater for the food or for her.
Dinner was a great success. A simple smoked salmon terrine followed by noisettes of lamb with new potatoes and mange tout with a light rosemary jus, then tart tatine with cream.
‘You’ve outdone yourself,’ said Mark as he cleared his pudding plate.
‘I’m glad you like it. Delia helped.’
‘Who’s Delia?’ asked Mark mystified.
‘I keep forgetting you’ve been away so long,’ said Linda. ‘She’s a TV cook.’
None the wiser, Mark helped her stack the dishes in the sink before they returned to the living room. This time Linda sat on the sofa next to him. She’d already poured them a large brandy each. ‘Coffee?’ she asked.
‘Maybe later. After.’
‘After what?’
He put his brandy glass on the coffee table then took hers and put it next to his ‘After this,’ he said, gathering her into his arms and kissing her.
She wriggled around in his arms, her skirt riding up her thighs and he put his hand between her legs which she clamped tight. ‘Gotcha,’ she said.
And then from inside his jacket he heard his phone ring.
‘Leave it,’ whispered Linda.
‘I can’t.’
‘You can.’
The phone chirped on and he removed his hand, stood up and recovered it from his pocket. He checked the display, it said TUBBS and he pressed the receive button.
‘Shit,’ said Linda.
‘Hello,’ said Mark. ‘This better be important.’
‘I got a call from Beretta,’ said Tubbs above the sound of traffic.
‘He wants a meet.’
‘When?’
‘Now. As soon as possible. And he wants money.’
‘How much?’
‘Ten grand he said. He wants to do a deal.’
‘Shit,’ said Mark to himself. ‘I’m busy.’
‘He said if not tonight, not ever,’ said Tubbs. ‘Come on, Mark, this is what we’ve been waiting for. How busy can you be?’
‘Enough,’ said Mark, pulling a ‘I’m sorry’ face at Linda. ‘Where’s the meet?’
‘Outside Brixton Town Hall. I’ve got to call him when I’ve got the dough.’
‘I’m not with it,’ said Mark. ‘I’ll have to go home and get it.’
‘How soon?’
‘Where are you?’
‘With Eddie in Stockwell.’
‘Meet me at John’s place. You remember where it is don’t you?’
‘Sure I do. That big old house in Tulse Hill.’
‘That’s the one. I’ll be there in half an hour.’
‘Me too.’
‘Wait a minute. He’s got security outside. They may not be too pleased to see you.’
‘Shoot first and ask questions after?’
‘That’s about it. Park up the hill. I’ll drive down and you can flash me.’
‘I might get arrested.’
‘Fuck off Tubbs, I’m not in the mood for your jokes. You know what I mean.’
‘Chill man. Sure I do.’
‘So look out for me. You know my motor.’
‘Yeah.’
‘See ya,’ said Mark and he clicked off the phone.
‘You’re going,’ said Linda, her face pink with anger.
‘I’ve got
to.’
‘Always. You always go.’
‘This is important.’
‘And this isn’t.’ The sweep of her hand took in the whole room and herself.
‘Of course it is.’
‘But not more important than a phone call.’
‘You don’t understand.’
‘I understand only too well. I’ve made every effort for you, Mark. New knickers, food. What more do you want?’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Always sorry. Always disappearing. Always leaving people who care for you hanging out to dry…’
‘It’s not like that,’ he interrupted. ‘There’s something I have to do for John…’
‘And always John,’ she spat. ‘Bloody John Jenner. He’s your god, isn’t he? When John calls, Mark goes running. You even left your mother for him.’
The remark nailed Mark’s heart like the bolt from a crossbow. ‘Don’t say that,’ he said.
‘It’s true, Mark, and look what happened to her.’
‘Please, Linda.’
‘No,’ she said, getting up from the couch. ‘Go on, Mark, piss off. But just remember what you’re missing,’ and she pulled her dress over her head revealing froths of pink lace around her hips and breasts, showing off her figure so beautifully that Mark’s eyes goggled. ‘And this was your last chance, I promise,’ and she threw the dress to the floor and slammed out of the room.
Mark put on his jacket and left. Standing on the landing he could hear her sobs echoing through the building. ‘Shit,’ he whispered to himself, but instead of going upstairs he went down and out into the cold street with what she’d said about his mother ringing in his head. Mum, he thought. Jesus, Mum, I’m so sorry.
* * *
The last time Mark Farrow had seen his mother alive was on April 9, 1989, a date he’d never forget. It was also the first day he saw her dead. He was paying one of his rare visits after she’d called him up on the phone the day before. She’d sounded awful when they’d spoken. Things were going from bad to worse, she told him. She was drunk. Nothing new there: by then she was drunk most of the time. She begged him to come round, so he told her he’d be there the next day about seven, as long as Bobby Thomas wasn’t at home. He wouldn’t be, she told him. He hardly ever was these days, pubbing it mostly, or with some old slapper he’d pulled in one of the boozers he went to.
