by Timlin, Mark
Mark saw the smile and was glad, until he heard a commotion in the corridor outside. Chas’s deep voice and Martine’s too, almost hysterical. The door burst open and she came in like a small whirlwind. ‘What are you doing here?’ she shouted. ‘It’s all your fault!’
Mark disentangled his hand, stood and saw Chas in the doorway with the young nurse he’d met earlier behind him. ‘Leave it out, Martine,’ he said.
‘Leave it out?’ she shouted even louder. ‘Leave it out, you bastard? You came back and look at the state of him.’
‘I didn’t mean…’
‘Didn’t mean?’ she interrupted and began to beat on his chest with her tiny fists so that the pain in his back came flooding back and he winced.
‘Please!’ called the nurse from behind Chas’s huge back. ‘Please don’t. You’ll only make it worse for him.’
‘She’s right,’ said Chas and almost lifted Martine off her feet, dragging her into the corridor and marching her to the relatives’ room which, thankfully, was deserted, followed by Mark. ‘In here,’ he said.
They all went in and Chas closed the door firmly in the nurse’s face. ‘Stop it, both of you,’ he said quietly. ‘Let’s give the old man some respect.’
Martine sat on a chair, head in hands, and tears leaked through her fingers. Mark put his hand on her shoulder, but she shook him off. ‘I’m so sorry, Marty,’ he said. A name he hadn’t called her since they were much younger. ‘If I’d only known.’
But it was no good and he could see that.
John Jenner went flatline alone. No family, no medical staff in the room. The nurse heard the panic siren go off and called a code but it was no use. His body couldn’t take any more and it just shut down. He was still smiling when he died. Still dreaming of Hazel and better times.
The trio in the family room heard the commotion too and, differences forgotten, rushed to Jenner’s room. But they were forbidden entrance and had to watch the doctors and nurses attempt a resuscitation through the window. When it was all over, Martine staggered, and Chas helped her back to the relative’s room where she curled up on the uncomfortable sofa there. She was inconsolable and, after a few minutes, he left her and joined Mark, still looking through the window at Jenner’s still body.
‘Did you talk to him?’ asked Chas.
‘Yeah. He was talking about Hazel.’
‘He never did get over her dying, you know.’
‘I know. Martine said that he met her through you.’
‘Yeah, that’s right. She was a friend of my sister’s. I fancied her like mad, but I was too young. Then when she saw John, it was all over. You couldn’t get a cigarette paper between them.’
‘It was at some club, wasn’t it?’
‘Yeah. the Bali Hai in Streatham. What a place. We had some laughs there, I can tell you.’
‘You met him there too, didn’t you?’
‘Yeah. I was just out of borstal. I got nicked for stealing motors. Blimey, what a sodding place. Long shorts, vests and cold showers there, my boy. And they chopped all your bloody hair off. And the buggers who ran the place… All ex-army who’d give you a good hiding for looking at them sideways.’
‘How long were you there?’
‘Three months with no time off for good behaviour. Then when I came out, I got all booted and suited and went to the Bali to see what was happening. All the young villains went there. But there wasn’t much trouble. It was like an open city in a war. We left our differences at the door. Well, most of the time anyway.’
‘So how did you meet him?’
‘He made some comment about the barnet being so short. His was halfway down his back then. Hard to believe now, I know. He reckoned I looked like one of the Krays. I had this smashing navy blue suit, see, with a white on white shirt. I thought it was the business. He was like some kind of rock star. But we had a drink and he asked me to help him out with some villainy. I was skint, so I said yes. Anyway, who turns up but my sister and some mates including Hazel. She was a bit posh see, but the family had fallen on bad times. Anyway, she’s got the shortest mini you’ve ever seen and John asked her to dance… the rest’s history.’
‘You fancied her?’ asked Mark.
‘Every fucker fancied her, but she was particular. When she found out that John was a naughty boy, she liked him even more. She liked spending money, see. And she didn’t have any. But John promised her the world and he come good.’
‘I never knew.’
‘John don’t talk about it much. He’s never really been the same since she died. Always blamed himself.’
‘But it wasn’t his fault, was it?’
‘No. You don’t expect a young woman like that to have heart problems. And she’d never let on. She never even went to the doctor ’til it was too late to do anything. John called in all the big guns to try and do something for her but she was too far gone.’
‘I thought she was the business, too,’ said Mark. ‘It all fell apart for me after she died.’
‘For a lot of us.’
‘Listen, Chas,’ said Mark. ‘I’ve got to go. I shouldn’t be here. It’s screwing up Martine.’
‘Whatever you think,’ said Chas.
‘I’m staying in a hotel in Crystal Palace. Keep in touch by mobile. Let me know when the funeral is.’
‘I’ll do that.’
‘And Chas…’
‘Yeah.’
‘Look after her. She’s special.’
‘You can say that again. She’s got both of them in her.’
Mark smiled a rare smile for that day. ‘I know.’
And then he left.
Once back in his car, he sat for a while and let the tears flow. But who was he crying for? he wondered. For John Jenner or for himself? He was truly an orphan now. Alone and on the run. Eventually he dried his eyes on a tissue from the glove compartment, shrugged, grinned a wry grin, and drove back to the hotel.
* * *
It was the biggest funeral south London would see for years. Maybe decades. Maybe ever. John Jenner had been well known in the area, and well liked. At least by people who hadn’t crossed him and paid the price. And, as if to join in the mourning early on that Friday, less than a week after he died, the rains came. But it did little to dampen the enthusiasm of the locals. The service wasn’t until noon, but as early as ten am, the first spectators had begun to line the route between the funeral directors in Camberwell and the church beside the cemetery in Greenwich where Hazel was buried. When his wife had died, Jenner had bought adjoining plots so that one day he could lie next to her, for eternity.
That part of the capital has never been the most attractive, even in bright sunshine, but as the clouds thickened and the rain became heavier and the street lamps clicked on, it took on the air of desolation that suited the mood of the day for the mourners.
Jenner’s body had been lying in rest at a funeral home in Walworth, and Chas, Dev and Martine drove there in Jenner’s Bentley, with Chas at the wheel.
A few reporters and cameramen from the local papers and TV, who had been outside Jenner’s house, followed the car in convoy. Dev suggested shooting a few tyres out to detain them, but Chas put the block on the idea. ‘Not very good PR,’ he remarked.
When they arrived at the undertaker’s premises, it was like a circus outside. As if to underline the gloominess of the occasion, the rain had become heavier and, as they ran from the car to the entrance, they sheltered under a massive golf umbrella, its red and white stripes and the flashes from the photographers’ cameras, contrasting with the greyness of the day.
Inside the funeral home, the chief director was waiting, wringing his hands. ‘Miss Jenner, gentlemen,’ he said as they entered. ‘My sincere condolences.’
‘Thanks,’ said Martine brushing by him. ‘Is everything ready?’
‘Of course. The vehicles are in the back.’
He showed them through, past the other main mourners who had congregated there. It was a
n eclectic bunch. Old friends and enemies from the past. Old villains, some geriatric pop stars and a few footballers from pre-Premier Division days, plus business acquaintances of John Jenner, who – as Martine whispered to Chas – were only there to make sure he was dead.
In the service area at the back of the funeral parlour, the hearse and the cars for the mourners were parked in a circle, like a wagon train waiting for an indian attack.
The hearse in which Jenner’s body was waiting was horsedrawn, with a pair of Belgian Blacks between the shafts, their plumes and feathers bedraggled by the rain. Behind them were four Mercedes stretch limousines, their black cellulose gleaming under the raindrops.
‘Miss Jenner. You and your companions in the first car,’ said the director.
‘Fine,’ said Chas. ‘It all looks perfect.’
The director almost fainted with relief. It had not been his idea to make the arrangements, even though he was due to make a big profit on the day. And he knew that if he made a mistake with this funeral he would live to regret it, and had been most careful to sort out the protocol. ‘And there’s a police escort waiting,’ he added.
‘Who organised that?’ asked Chas, almost amused that the enemy would be there to assist one of their most wanted villains on his last journey, instead of escorting him to the local police station in handcuffs, as usually happened.
‘Inspector Lewis from Barton Street,’ he said. ‘They’ve closed the roads.’
‘Have they?’ said Chas. ‘How thoughtful of them.’
The mourners dispersed to the various cars, the horses pawed the ground, and pissed and shit as horses will. Resplendent in frock coat, top hat and with a huge black umbrella unfurled above his head, the funeral director led the procession out of the service area and on to the Walworth Road. The road itself had been closed by uniformed police ‘black rat’ outriders, causing huge traffic jams through Brixton, Camberwell, Kennington and Waterloo. As the cortege entered the street it was joined by two more Metropolitan Police outriders. The crowd roared, and there was a barrage of flashes bright enough to illuminate even that miserable day, which set the horses rearing and neighing.
As the official procession motored slowly up the Walworth Road, other motors joined it from almost every direction, until the cortege was almost a mile long. And behind them came the media. The hearse and every car present seemed to be submerged in flowers. The local florists had to have been rubbing their hands with glee at the profit they were making. Not since the last royal funeral had their shops been stripped of every bloom and display – and all at premium prices.
Slowly the procession ground towards the Elephant and Castle roundabout, the police outriders clearing the route as they approached, and then down the Old Kent Road towards St Martin’s Church in Deptford and the cemetery beyond.
Both sides of the street were lined with sodden spectators. Coffee stalls and hamburger wagons were doing a roaring trade. At the Bricklayer’s Arms, a pair of dwarves danced for silver. By the new Tesco’s supermarket, a little further down the Old Kent Road, a chain swallower exhibited the vomit he had dredged up from his stomach for the edification of the crowd. A Jazz band outside a wine bar played New Orleans funeral marches. Every pub on the route was doing premium business. Pickpockets and bagsnatchers had a field day. A couple of prostitutes worked out of a Transit van, giving blow jobs on a pair of mattresses. All in all, a wonderful south London holiday atmosphere pervaded the soaking streets.
The church service itself was remarkably restrained. Chas had seen to that. And afterwards, the massive procession travelled on a further mile to the cemetery.
Through the pouring rain, the mourners watched John Jenner being deposited in the ground. News crews and press cameramen vied for a view, held back by uniformed police officers. They listened as the priest spoke comforting words from the Bible, before throwing clumps of dirt on top of the coffin, which had been lowered into the grave. They landed with damp thuds, as all around the graveside official mourners and gatecrashers trod the wet earth to mud, trampling on other graves as they craned for a look. But not all the people present cast their eyes in that direction. There were policemen spotting villains, villains eyeballing the coppers they recognised, and some coppers were looking at their off duty colleagues and wondering about their motives for being there.
After Martine dropped a white rose into the maw of the grave, she slumped against Chas, who shook his head sadly and helped her back to the Mercedes, through rain that almost blinded him.
Mark watched the burial from a distance, as he’d watched the cortege arrive at the church. He knew he wouldn’t be welcome, Chas had spoken to him several times on the phone during the week and they’d met once. ‘She still blames you,’ the big man had said. ‘I can’t get it through her head that it could’ve happened any time.’
‘But it didn’t,’ said Mark. ‘It happened when he was pulled in for questioning about something I was responsible for.’
‘He was involved too, don’t forget,’ said Chas. ‘He put you up to it. If it hadn’t been for him, none of this would’ve happened.’
Mark shrugged. ‘So what?’ he said.
Chas slid a parcel across the table in the quiet Fulham pub where they’d met. ‘There’s some cash in there for you,’ he said. ‘Twenty grand. And half the coke that Tubbs bought that day. John would’ve liked you to have something. Everything else goes to Martine, according to the will.’
‘No,’ said Mark. ‘You’ll need it.’
‘He would’ve given it to you himself if he was here,’ said Chas. ‘He wanted you to have all the proceeds. And there’s plenty left for her. You’d be surprised the bits and pieces of money he had stashed away. And then there’s the house.’
‘But what about you, Chas?’
‘I’ll be all right. She wants me to stay on. And John set up a nice little pension fund for me years ago. Who’d’ve thought it, eh? Gangsters with pension funds.’
They both smiled at the thought and Mark said, ‘So this is it. You won’t see me at the funeral, though I’ll be around.’
‘And then?’
‘And then, who knows? I’ll worry about that when the time comes.’
He left his old friend and stashed the money and drugs into the compartment in the Range Rover that had held the streetsweeper. There it lay next to Mark’s other weapons. He spent another lonely night in another lonely hotel, this time in Penge. By then, the wound in his back was healing nicely. Martine must’ve done a better job than either of them had thought. He’d peeled back the bandage and the lips of the cut were clean and knitting together well. I bet she wishes she’d stabbed me herself now, he thought. But that’s life.
And he knew he couldn’t show his face at the funeral, even if he had been welcome. Too many of the mourners would have been plainclothes coppers. Instead, he stood under the shelter of a tree, collar up and a recently acquired trilby low over his eyes, as he watched Chas helped Martine from the lead car behind the hearse and support her into the church, and afterwards did the same at the rain-soaked cemetery. He watched as Jenner’s black-draped coffin was lowered slowly into the ground and as the priest spoke words he couldn’t hear. And he saw Martine throw a single white rose into the grave before going back to the car with Chas.
When everyone, apart from the gravediggers, had left, he walked down the path through the deluge and said his own final farewell to the man who had taken him into his home, all those years ago. By then he didn’t care if a whole platoon of armed police arrived and took him in. It might even have been a relief.
But no one showed and, with just a raise of his hand, he turned away and back to his car.
He drove to Croydon, parked outside Linda’s house, noticed that her four-wheel drive was sitting outside, and rang the front door bell.
Linda opened the door herself and her eyes widened when she saw who it was. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ she asked. ‘Don’t you know how dangerous it is? Hal
f the police in London are looking for you.’
‘Only half. Well, you can’t have everything. I came to see you.’
‘Well, you’ve seen me. Now you can go.’
‘Don’t be like that, Linda,’ he said.
‘What do you mean “like that”? You run out on me and I don’t hear from you for ten days, then my brother lets it slip that you’re a wanted man, and now you just turn up as if nothing had happened. And looking like hell, I might add.’
‘John died.’
‘I know that. I read the papers. The funeral’s today, isn’t it?’
‘It’s just over. Listen, can I come in?’
‘No,’ she said, blocking the doorway with her body.
‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘I’ll say what I came to say out here.’
‘Which is?’
‘I’ve got to leave the country. It’s too hot for me here.’
She shrugged. ‘That’s what you always do when things get too hot for you, isn’t it? Leave.’
‘Yeah,’ he agreed. ‘But this time it’s different.’
‘How?’
‘I want you to come with me.’
‘Me?’
Another nod.
‘What about the children?’
‘Bring them.’
‘You are joking.’
‘No. We could be a family.’
‘More like the authorities are looking for a man on his own, not one with a woman and two kids in tow.’
‘That’s unfair, Linda.’
‘Nothing’s unfair when it comes to you, Mark.’
‘Listen, I know I’ve been a bastard, but I’m so…’
