‘Well, they’ll have to wait until we’ve finished the stocktaking,’ said Lynne.
The car doors slammed and two tall, glittery blondes got out, wearing more gold than you’d find in Fort Knox or on Jimmy Savile.
‘Fantastic! It’s a Russian Princess alert,’ said George, perking up.
‘I thought you hated the Russians?’ said Lynne.
‘The men! The bullet heads with no necks. I’m not into rough. But the women usually take a shine to me,’ said George. ‘One of them once said that I looked like Hugh Grant.’ He straightened his tie in the mirror.
‘And, more to the point, Russians usually spend a fortune and I really need the dosh this month. I’m off to Barcelona next weekend and I work on commission, remember? We’ve got to let them in.’
Lynne just shrugged and finished off the cocaine.
‘Now it’s time for some serious rimming,’ said George.
Lynne made a gagging sound.
‘Metaphorically speaking, of course,’ said George. He wiped the white powder from his nose, pressed the button to open the security door and painted on a smile as wide as the Grand Canyon. He marched toward the door as Lynne tidied up.
‘Morning ladies,’ he beamed. Then he saw the Glock and his jaw dropped so much you could have scraped carpet fluff from his bottom lip.
***
Richard was feeling pretty smug. It had been an effort but he’d managed to find almost as many bottles of Chardonnay as he could fit into the back of his car.
He’d had a good drive around and had decided to head over to Brixton to see if one of the arty cinemas was open. Something to delay going back home for as long as possible. Or maybe he’d head over to Bermondsey for a gargle fest in one of his dad’s old boozers. Maybe one of the striptease pubs would be open.
The hangover was starting to bite as he turned into Coldharbour Lane and he could feel the pull of the hip flask in the Mercedes’ glove compartment. Resisting the temptation, he fumbled under the passenger seat for one of the CDs that had fallen there.
‘There you are, my beauty,’ he said, as he found ‘The Best of the Undertones’. And then he looked up.
‘Shit,’ he said, dropping the CD as he saw a black Jaguar career toward him.
‘You tosser, It’s a one way ...’ he floored the pedal and swerved the car away. He held his breath as he bounced the Mercedes onto the pavement, narrowly missing a fat man in a Santa Claus suit. He suddenly braked in front of a camping supplies shop advertising its January sale with the slogan ‘Now Is The Winter Of Our Discount Tents’.
***
‘Well, I’m as happy as pig in shit, James,’ said Kenny, swigging on his fourth can of Tizer and swerving the Jaguar around the corner, out of Brixton Hill Road and into Coldharbour Lane. He pulled off the wig and threw it into the back seat.
‘Let’s have butcher’s at this,’ said Big Jim, wiping the make-up from his face. He was sat in the passenger’s seat with the black holdall between his legs. He leaned forward and pulled the bag of jewellery towards him.
Kenny took a swig of Tizer and spilt the drink over his crotch. It was as cold as a taxman’s heart.
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ said Kenny. He started rubbing at the wet patch.
‘Looks like you’re enjoying that,’ said Big Jim. ‘Sure you’re not having a hand shandy, there?’
‘Well, I’m not one to blow my own trumpet,’ said Kenny. ‘If I could reach, I would, mind you.’
They both howled with laughter and then Kenny looked out of the window and froze.
‘Bollocks!’ he said, as a white Mercedes hurtled towards them.
He swerved the car and slammed into a wall between a kebab shop and a Poundshop. The kebab shop’s metal shutters rattled.
The driver side’s air bag suddenly deployed, punching Kenny in the stomach as Big Jim slammed into the windscreen with what Kenny thought was a girlish scream and smashed his head against the glass.
Fuck, thought Kenny, he was trapped. He started to panic and desperately wanted a piss. Taking a deep breath, he fumbled in his trouser pocket for his Swiss Army Knife and punctured the airbag, which deflated with a gasp.
He struggled out of his seat, the radiator hissing like a snake as the steam escaped. The car alarm was wailing and Big Jim really didn’t look too good at all.
***
Richard staggered out of his car and saw the wheezing Jag, its alarm screaming. A face was sliding down the windscreen like a snail leaving a trail of blood.
‘Christ...’ he said
He looked around. The street was deserted.
‘Oi! You! Yuppie!’
He looked up and saw a bald transvestite stumble out of the mashed Jaguar carrying a big black bag and a stainless steel briefcase. Richard fumbled in his pocket for his mobile and was ready to phone 999 when he felt cold steel against his forehead.
‘I’m taking your car,’ said Kenny, who looked as dazed and confused as Robert Plant.
‘And you’re driving.’
Shit, thought Richard, as he heard the approaching sirens screaming in the distance, why the hell not? It couldn’t be any worse than Camilla’s dinner party.
POLICE AND THIEVES
SEVEN
Tosh had a semi.
Ever since he’d walked into the musty, sweat-smelling interview room and clapped eyes upon the big bazookaed shop assistant from The Picture Palace, Detective Barry Toshack could feel himself getting a hard-on. He was struggling with the urge to sneak out to the gents and shake hands with the one-eyed milkman but all the CCTV bollocks that cluttered Brixton nick these days had started to make him paranoid. Big Brother really was copping an eyeful, alright. Mind you, so was he. He’d been pissed off when he found out he’d have to work New Year’s Day but this almost made up for it.
Detective Toshack had always been a knocker man. Give him a pair of luvverly jubblies to grab hold of and he didn’t give a toss about the rest of the bird. And this Lynne Callaway really fitted the bill. He certainly wouldn’t crawl over her to get to the missus. If he was still married.
Alright, so she was a bit of a butter face. Her face had more lines than the London Underground, but you don’t look at the fireplace while you’re poking the fire, do you?
Tosh wiped the Greggs cheese pasty crumbs from his Zapata moustache, crossed his legs and leaned towards Lynne, with a glint in his eye and a twinkle in his winkle.
‘So Mrs. ...’ he said.
‘Miss,’ said Lynne Calloway, reminding Tosh of an old Dick Emery sketch.
‘So, Miss Callaway, could you tell me what actually happened this morning?’
Lynne grimaced as she sipped dirty-looking coffee from a yellow plastic cup.
‘Well,’ said Lynne. ‘It was like I told the other police officer. Me and Gorgeous George were just starting on the stocktaking and ...’
Lynne paused and thought it best not to mention the mound of Columbian Marching Powder that her and Gorgeous George had hoovered up to take the edge off their New Year’s Day hangovers.
‘Isn’t it a little unusual for you to be working on New Year’s Day?’ said Tosh, scratching his armpit with one of the stubby ballpoint pens he collected from the local betting shop.
Lynne give a sour look that reminded Tosh of his ex-wife and his stiffy dwindled a tad.
‘Well,’ said Lynne, straightening her grand canyon of a cleavage, which had Tosh’s little private quickly standing to attention and saluting once again.
’Not at The Picture Palace. Mrs. Clarkeson, the owner, is, er, what you’d call careful with money.’
‘Short arms long pockets, eh?’ said Tosh.
‘Exactly,’ she said, with a grin.
‘She thinks that we shouldn’t waste a shop-day on stocktaking so she likes us to do it during the holidays.’
I’d do it with you any time, thought Tosh.
‘The shop’s open seven days a week as it is and I’m sure she’d love to open up on Christm
as Day and New Year’s Day as well, tight cow, but...’
Lynne flushed with anger.
‘Continue,’ he said, suddenly overwhelmed with the image of an angry Lynne Callaway bouncing up and down on his gear stick, her tits wobbling like jelly on the plate.
‘So, well, me and Gorgeous George, the junior assistant, that’s my nickname for him, well, we said we’d work New Year’s Day to do the stocktaking. In exchange for two days off in May. Well, we asked for three days at first but after a bit of back and forth with Mrs. Clarkeson she eventually agreed on the two.’
‘Very generous of her,’ said Tosh, only half paying attention and now vividly visualizing a soapy tit-wank from Lynne.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Lynne, crushing the plastic cup as she fumed. ‘She’s a saint, she is. Won’t even pay for CCTV in the shop! Anyway, so, me and Georgy got in bright and early.’
‘And a bit bleary eyed, I should imagine?’ said Tosh.
‘Oh, yeah,’ said Lynne, thinking of the happy talc again. ‘But needs must, eh? So, we were ready to start work when this car pulled up outside.’
‘Do you know what make of car?’ said Tosh.
‘A black Jaguar. One of them old, classy ones. My Uncle Nick used to have one,’ said Lynne.
Tosh nodded. ‘Go on.’
‘Anyway, a couple of big, blonde birds got out. They were all done up like dogs dinners, wearing more gold than Mr. T. Customers, I thought. On New Year’s Day, too.’
‘A bit unusual, eh?’ said Tosh.
‘Well, yeah but with all that gold and the like we had them down as Russians. The nouveau rich ones, you know? With more money than sense. Well, George just said to let them in,’ said Lynne, taking a packet of Wrigley’s Spearmint Gum from her crocodile skin handbag. ‘So, that’s what we did.’
‘On New Year’s Day,’ said Tosh, shaking his head in mock sympathy.
‘Yeah, well Mrs. Clarkeson would go off her rocker if she thought we’d turned customers away. Especially Russians. They spend a fortune, they do,’ said Lynne, patting her breasts again.
‘So you let them in.’
‘Yeah, Gorgeous George buzzed the security door open but when they came in we could see that they were ... well ...’
‘Were what?’ said Tosh.
‘Well, they were men. Men in drag. I thought one of them was that Lily Savage at first, I really did.’
‘And they were armed?’ said Tosh. ‘They had guns?’
‘Oh, yeah! Big ’uns, they had. Really big ’uns.’
And they weren’t the only ones, thought Tosh, playing pocket billiards and potting a pink ball.
EIGHT
Madge’s Mini Coffee Pot was stiflingly hot and cluttered with the usual hodge-podge of waifs and strays that seemed to congregate at greasy spoons on New Year’s Day. Behind the counter, Madge, a midget with a withered arm, was serving tea in half pint glasses to a couple of diminutive Teddy Boys. A sound system that was twice as big as Madge blasted out a Mott the Hoople song from a pair of raspy speakers.
Marty Cook was watching the streamers of steam rise from his muddy coffee and replaying his recurring fantasy of pushing a sawn-off shotgun up Doctor Phil’s rectum and saying, now this is what I call the blame game, before giving him the enema to end all enemas.
Less than a month earlier, Marty had barely known who Doctor Phil was but then it all went pear shaped when his wife Veronica slipped on a pool of puke at the Essex nightclub that they owned and broke her ankle.
Hence, her stuck at home all day convalescing and getting brainwashed by all the self-help crap on daytime TV: Opera Winfrey, Ricki Lake – just like in the Robbie Williams song.
If he was honest, Marty hadn’t minded most of it – it kept her chilled out most of the time – until she started to blather on and on about him finding a work/life balance and how Doctor Phil said that there was a high burn-out rate for urban professional couples – whatever they were – unless they found some ‘quality time’ together. It was Doctor Phil says this, Doctor Phil says that.
As per usual, he just nodded like one of the toy dogs his dad used to have in the back of his old Ford Fiesta but she really didn’t let up and it had started doing his napper in no end.
He shook his head as he looked around the café. He knew he looked out of place, what with his black Hugo Boss suit and bespoke black overcoat. But appearance meant a lot to Marty. He was just past fifty but he knew he looked younger. And he still had his wavy blonde hair, that he kept collar length. Most of the blokes that he knew were going bald before they hit forty.
Marty sipped his coffee and glanced out of the steamed up window as a glistening Harley Davidson skidded onto the pavement outside the café, splashing through a puddle and drenching the little figure of a disabled boy that stood outside the Scope charity shop.
The tall black-leather clad rider strode into the café, pulling off his black helmet to reveal his spikey punk haircut and opening up his biker’s jacket to reveal his priest’s dog-collar.
‘Christ, I’m sweating like Jimmy Savile in a morgue,’ said Father Tim Cook as he sat down in front of his tetchy younger brother.
‘I’m getting too old for this lark,’ he said, glancing at his Rolex. ‘Let’s hope we can get this finished ASAP.’
‘What’s on the goggle-box tonight, then?’ said Marty, picking at a bowl of Bombay Mix. ‘Heartbeat? Morse? Midsomer Murders?’
‘Lovejoy. A Lovejoy all-nighter, in fact,’ said Father Tim, with a grin that made him look half his sixty years. ‘Can’t beat a bit of Ian FuckShane. I love my digital telly, I do.’
‘Alright, Father,’ said Madge as she wandered over from behind the counter.
‘Greetings, Madge,’ said Tim.
‘How are you diddlin’, FT?’ she said, placing a West Ham FC mug filled with strong, dark tea in front of Tim.
‘Did you say how or who?’ said Tim, with a wink, as he topped up his tea with a shot of rum from his stainless steel hip flask. Madge cackled and wandered off.
Marty leaned back in his seat and gazed up at Phil Collins on the TV in the corner of the room. Father Tim followed his gaze.
‘Don’t you think that he always looks like he’s wearing a stocking mask over his head?’ said Tim.
Marty nodded. ‘If you like,’ he said, and turned back to his older brother.
‘Classy place you’ve brought me to, bruv,’ said Marty as the café suddenly filled up with a gaggle of overly done up female dwarves. Marty was reminded of the old Betty Boop cartoon and stifled a smile.
‘So, how did you find this hole in the wall?’ he continued, wiping spilled sugar from the sleeve of his suit.
‘How many other cafés can you find that open on New Year’s Day?’ said Tim. ’Anyway, the place has got character.’
‘Yes, seems to be attracting a niche market,’ said Marty.
‘Legend,’ said Tim
‘I’m sure it is in some circles,’ said Marty. ‘But ...’
‘No, Legend. You know the Ridley Scott film? Girly fantasy thing? Dungeons and dragons and the like?’ said Tim.
‘Oh yes,’ said Marty, ‘The one with Little Tommy Cruise. What about it?’
‘Well they made it just up the road at Shepperton Studios. Remember all those dwarves and that in it?’
‘I think we say vertically challenged these days, Tim,’ said Marty.
‘Do we, now?’ said Tim ‘Anyway, these were the days before CGI and the like that they used in the Lord of the Rings films. So they had to get real dwarves as extras. Hundreds of them.’
‘Not an easy task, I assume?’ said Marty, feeling impatient but knowing from experience that it was best to sit out Tim’s story.
‘Not a lot, no. So, they scoured the country for dwarves. Male. Female. Kids. Cats and dogs for all I know. They looked all over the shop. They went to every depressing northern mining town, sheep-shagging Yorkshire village they could find. The lot. Even Birmingham. And they got ’em.’
‘So?’ said Marty.
‘So, young man, a lot of these midgets, dwarves – whatever you want to call them – had never seen another ... one of their kind before. They were the only dwarves in the village! And a lot of them had never ever had any physical contact with one of the opposite sex, either,’ said Tim.
‘Ahah,’ said Marty.
‘Ahah, indeed,’ said Father Tim ‘They went wild! They were shagging whenever and wherever they could. People were opening cupboards and drawers and finding midgets humping, dwarves gobbling, gnomes knobbing. Vertically challenged orgies. The lot.’
‘And Marge?’ said Marty, wanting to get to the chase.
‘Well she was working on the film and after it finished she had the bright idea for...’
‘A midget escort agency?’ said Marty, grinning.
Tim nodded.
‘Bingo! Although, we call them vertically challenged these days.’ said Tim, taking out his iPhone and starting a game of Angry Birds.
NINE
The graffiti stained, piss smelling, lift rattled to a halt and Lynne rushed out and into her pokey tenth floor flat. Catching her breath, she closed the reinforced steel door behind her and double locked it.
She threw down her coat and bag on the black leather sofa, marched into the cramped kitchen and immediately necked a glass of gin and tonic that she had waiting for her in the fridge.
She stared at her collection of Costa Del Sol fridge magnets and went back into the living room. Then she looked out of the window.
Brixton was starting to light up, now it was getting darker. The street lights were twinkling like diamonds. The view was the best thing about the flat. She’s moved here after her lard arse hubby buggered off with that leggy Ukrainian bird who sold ice cream outside the Princess Diana Café on Mile End Road. They moved to Ipswich and got married as soon as Lynne’s divorce came through. Of course, once she got her British passport the Ukranian pissed off with a bullet headed volleyball player and Lynne’s hubby had a stroke, but not the sort he was used to getting. What goes around, comes around.
Guns of Brixton Page 3
