by Mark Timlin
'You're the boss. Colt or Browning?'
'Got a Browning niner?'
'Of course. Weapon of choice on the mean streets of Brixton.'
'That'll do me then. Whatever the brothers go for is OK by me.' John Jenner withdrew a metallic blue Browning nine-millimetre semiautomatic and gave it to Mark. He checked that the magazine was out and the chamber was clear before dry firing the weapon. John passed him a clip and a handful of bullets. 'Got a cleaning kit?' asked Mark.
'It's clean,' said Jenner.
'I prefer to do it myself, Uncle,' said Mark. 'No offence, but if I've got to carry it…'
'Sure, son,' said Jenner. 'That's what I like to see, a man who respects his weapon.' He reached in again and came out with a boxed cleaning kit and a container of gun oil. 'Holster?' he asked…
'Why not? They always stick in my spine when I put them down the back of my pants. Especially when I'm driving. Now I'm tired. If I'm working tomorrow I'd better get some beauty sleep.'
'No worries.'
Jenner shut the hidden compartment, put the bag of money back into the safe, closed it and they went back to the living room, Mark carrying the gun and accessories. They swallowed the remains of their drinks and went to bed.
Once inside his room, Mark saw that the Bros duvet had been replaced by one of plain navy blue. He sat on the bed and laid out the cleaning kit on the bedside table, cleaned and loaded the gun, stashed it under his pillow and went to bed. After he'd undressed he locked the door. He didn't want any visitors tonight.
Sweet dreams, he said to himself, before falling quickly asleep.
The next morning Mark lay in bed until he heard movement, then waited for the front door to slam and he assumed Martine had left for work. He got up then and went to the bathroom. Afterwards he went downstairs and found Chas in the kitchen. 'Morning,' he said.
'Morning, son. I hear you're back for good.' 'For good or evil, one of the two,' replied Mark, pouring himself a cup of coffee from the pot on the stove. 'Uncle John about yet?'
'I took him up a cuppa. He's awake.'
'Can I go see him?'
'Course. He's expecting you. Breakfast?'
'Not hungry, mate.' In fact Mark's stomach felt like his throat was full of cement and he had to force the coffee down.
'I'd come with you today,' said Chas. 'You know that.'
'I know. But Uncle John's got this earmarked for me.'
'Fair enough.'
'Right. I'll go and talk to him. See you in a bit.'
Mark left the kitchen and went up the four flights to his uncle's room which took up what had used to be the whole attic space. He knocked and his uncle called, 'Yeah?'
Mark went inside and John Jenner was sitting up with a cup of tea, the day's papers spread around him, and Lily asleep at the foot of the bed. 'Mornin',' said Mark.
'Good morning,' replied Jenner.
'How you doing?'
'Not too bad. All the better for you being here.'
'Thanks. Can't say as I feel the same.'
'Butterflies?'
'Feels like bloomin' carrier pigeons as it goes.'
They both laughed. 'One o'clock, you say, the meet?' said Mark, peering through the curtains at the outside world. The sky was black towards the south, but the temperature had risen slightly overnight, and there were only scraps of snow left on the ground and the bare branches of the trees dripped icy water.
'S'right.'
'Silver Merc van with a black stripe.'
'Got it.'
'I reckon to allow a couple of hours for the trip, just to be on the safe side. I want plenty of time to look around.' 'Whatever.'
'And Dev's got the motor.'
'No danger. It's waiting for you.'
'OK. I'll shoot over to Heme Hill about ten. I'll walk there. Go across the park. Then I'll take a slow wander into the country. Have an all day breakfast maybe. I might be hungry by then.'
'Whatever you want, son. You're the boss.'
'No I'm not. Anyway, I'll leave you to get up.'
'See you in a minute.'
'You will.'
Mark went back to his room, checked the Browning again, put on a sweater over his shirt and the shoulder holster over that. He pulled his clothes straight as they'd go and holstered the gun, then slipped on his leather jacket and a pair of thin leather gloves and checked himself in the mirror in the bathroom. Even with the jacket unzipped, nothing showed. Fucking Dirty Harry, he thought as he drew the gun that came easily out of the oiled leather. When he went downstairs his uncle was in the kitchen with the bag of readies.
'You'll take care of this, won't you?' he asked.
'Course I will. I just look like I'm going away.'
'Let's hope not,' said Jenner.
'They'll have to catch me first.'
By ten he was ready to go. 'Dev's expecting you,' said Jenner. 'Good luck, son.'
'Later,' said Mark and left.
Outside the temperature was plummeting again and he took off at a brisk pace for Brockwell Park and Dev's garage beyond. The walk took about thirty minutes and Mark enjoyed seeing the old landmarks, and he almost forgot the trepidation he felt about what he was about to do. Suddenly the thought of the many places he'd stayed in over the past eight or so years didn't seem so bad compared with the prospect of a prison cell. The sky was still dark, but the snow was holding off. When he reached the garage under the railway arches next to Heme Hill station where he'd spent so many days being taught about car engines, the sliding door was slightly ajar and he squeezed through. A partitioned-off section at the back acted as an office and he pushed open the door to find Dev sitting at a paper-strewn desk next to a space heater that blasted out hot air.
'You want to be more careful,' said Mark. 'You never know who's going to sneak in here.'
'Jesus Christ,' said the white-haired man at the desk with a start. 'Mark. How the devil are you?' Dev spoke with an Irish accent that fifty years in London had hardly changed, though in other ways he had changed plenty. As he came round from behind the desk Mark closed the door and saw that Dev had a acquired a bad limp and that his hands shook slightly. His uncle's firm are all growing so old, he thought. No wonder he wants some new blood.
Dev hugged Mark hard. 'It's been too long, boy,' he said. 'We've all missed you.'
'I missed you too.'
'You know it was hard keeping our letters and phone calls secret. John gave me a right blocking when he heard I'd known where you were.'
'That was the deal, Dev. I'm sorry I made you lie to him.'
'I never lied, Mark. I was just a wee bit economical with the truth, as the politicians say.'
'Whatever.'
'But I tell you, we're all glad to see you back where you belong.'
'I'm glad to be back.'
'Cuppa tea?' asked Dev.
'OK. But let's make it a quick one. Places to go, people to see, you know what I mean.'
'Indeed I do.'
Dev plugged in the kettle and put tea bags, milk and sugar into two shabby mugs before adding boiling water, passing one to Mark and taking the other back to his chair. Mark perched himself on the edge of the only other seat in the room, a stained and sagging armchair missing one leg and propped up by a pile of back copies of Auto Trader. 'I see you've got the customer service part of the business sorted, Dev,' he said,
'Ah fuck 'em. They come here to get their motors fixed cheap. That's all they care about.'
'So what you got for me?'
Dev gave him a sly smile. 'A right little goer. A Cosworth Sierra. One of the last ones made. Permanent four-wheel-drive, power brakes and steering. All in all a sweet little motor.'
'Nice. But you don't have to sell it to me, Dev.'
'Sorry. I get carried away.'
'I know, mate. I remember. Kosher, is it?'
'Well, not quite. You know they were they most nicked motor in the country once.'
'So I heard.'
'Well… this one migh
t be a bit, you know, iffy.'
'Not a cut and shut, promise me that. It ain't going to split in two if I put my foot down.'
'As if. It's all one motor, but with a few bits of some others bolted on, if you know what I mean.'
'Great. But then, as I'll only need it for the day, I don't suppose it matters.'
'It looks a bit scruffy too, but it goes great. That I can guarantee.'
'As I remember, your guarantees last until the motor's off the premises and the cheque's cleared.'
'Never take cheques. That's for mugs. You're family. For you, it's only the best.'
'Let's see it then. Where is it?'
'Out back. I didn't want anyone getting too busy. I still get the occasional visit from Old Bill, believe it or not.'
'No, really? I can't imagine why.'
'Cos they're nosy bleeders, that's why.'
They finished their tea and Dev followed Mark out into the garage, then through a small door that he unlocked, and led into a yard at the back. Under a tarpaulin that cascaded water when Dev pulled it off was a white
Ford Sierra Sapphire Cosworth on an 'L' plate. The paintwork was dull and the leather interior needed some work, but it still looked like a ravenous shark about to chew up some hapless swimmer. Out of his pocket Dev pulled a set of keys big enough to choke a horse, flipped through them, selected one, pulled it off the ring and gave it to Mark, who unlocked the boot - which was empty apart from the spare wheel, a jack and a plastic petrol can - and dropped in the bag of money. He went to the driver's door and settled into the bucket seat behind the wheel, fired up the engine which rumbled into life on the first try and soon settled down to a powerful-sounding burble. 'Sounds all right,' he said.
'I've done the brakes,' said Dev, 'Checked the levels and filled the tank. You'll be all right with this one, I promise.'
'I'd better be,' Mark said.
Dev whacked Mark on the shoulder through the open window, before dragging the gates of the yard open. Mark reversed through, then engaged first gear and steered the car towards the main road. In the rear- view mirror, he saw Dev give him a wave before he pulled the gates shut again. Mark gave him a thumbs up through the open window, turned on to the Norwood Road and headed west. The car responded well and Mark set the heater to warm and switched on the radio. He found a music station and worked his way along the South Circular until he saw the familiar signs for the M4 and the west. The traffic was heavy heading out of town, not helped by the wet roads, and the clouds were the colour of old bruises as he finally crossed the river at Kew and took the shortcut through to the A4 under the Chiswick Flyover that dripped water down from its cracked concrete. He drove the Ford up the ramp and joined the traffic flow before the road became motorway, two lanes expanded to three and Mark could put his foot down. Not too much, as he didn't want to get stopped by a traffic patrol, but just enough to clear the Cosworth's throat and feel what it could do.
He listened carefully as the car's revs mounted and the needle on the speedo swung up to the ton. Everything seemed to be working OK as Dev had promised, and after a few miles Mark slipped the car into the slow lane, keeping an eye out for anyone with undue interest in him. He'd been watching the road in the rearview mirror since he'd left Dev's garage and didn't think he was being followed. But there was something about his uncle's attitude that worried him. He came off the motorway at junction five, went round the roundabout twice then rejoined and pushed on to the services just past the Basingstoke turnoff. He stopped for a coffee, taking the bag of cash with him. You can never be too careful, thought Mark, looking out for hardfaced men of one side of the law or other. All he saw were reps, truck drivers, mums, dads and kids at the fag end of their Christmas holidays, selling, working, shopping or just having fun. All the normal things he'd never really done in his life. Mark realised then how alienated he'd become from regular people.
As the hands of his watch moved slowly towards the time of the rendezvous, he went back to the car where he stuffed the money bag between the front and rear seats, then drove back on to the motorway, came off at the next junction, went round and headed back in the direction of London before taking the A33 exit and driving down towards Basingstoke itself, as he'd been told to do. Within a few minutes he spotted the Little Chef on the right hand side of the road and stopped just past it in a layby with a view of the car park. It contained half a dozen cars and vans, but so far no silver Mercedes truck. The building was single storied, the tarmac area outside a little too big for the job since the motorway services had opened just a few miles away, and the front was protected by a white picket fence. Beyond this were flower beds, probably vibrantly coloured during the summer, but now just muddy patches with a few bits of green poking through yesterday's snow.
At ten to one, Mark did a swift U-turn and slid the Ford into the restaurant's car park, drove to the end under a leafless, dripping tree, stopped the engine and sat. The radio burbled in the background and just as the one o'clock news came on, the truck he was waiting for came off the road, circled the car park and drew up next to Mark's car, all but hiding it from observation from the Little Chefs big picture window. There were two people in the cab who briefly spoke before the righthand door opened and a tall, thin man in a parka, jeans and baseball cap got out. Mark slid down the passenger window of the Cosworth and the chilly breeze ruffled his hair as it finally began to snow. The man stepped towards the Ford, hunkered down and said through the window: 'You got something for me?'
Mark nodded, and the man opened the door and got inside. He smelled strongly of foreign cigarettes and spearmint. 'Show,' he said. He had a faint trace of an accent that Mark couldn't place.
'Where's the stuff?' asked Mark.
'Don't worry about that.'
'But I do.'
Mark hated this sort of thing. Everyone involved trying to show how hard they were. How macho. It was always the same, nothing changed.
The man sensed his discomfort, got it confused with aggression and said: 'Be calm. It's in the back of the truck.'
Mark sighed. 'OK,' he said. 'I was told you could be trusted.'
'I should think so,' said the man, the incongruity of his hurt innocence not lost on Mark who leaned back and hauled out the money bag. 'Check it,' he said.
The man put the bag on his knee and opened it. He looked at the money all gathered up in thousand pound bundles and smiled. 'Your side is trustworthy too,' he said. 'No problems ever.'
'Good,' said Mark.
'I'll count this inside,' said the man.
'Fair enough.' Mark actually didn't care any more. If they were going to take him out, so be it. But he checked the gun inside its holster nevertheless as they got out of the car and walked towards the truck, just casually like he was scratching an itch. The foreign man was facing away from him, and between him and the driver, so Mark was sure neither of them noticed.
The man pulled open a sliding door on the side of the van and climbed inside. Mark followed. The interior was warm and luxuriously furnished, with two revolving leather captain's chairs, carpet, a sofa bed and built-in cabinets. Very nice, thought Mark, a real home from home. The man flicked on a light switch and indicated that Mark should sit. When he had, he slid the door shut and sat down himself.
'This is what you want,' he said, shoving a metal briefcase towards Mark, who hauled it on to his lap and slipped the locks. Inside were the usual kilo packets, neatly wrapped in clear film and sealed with tape.
'Check any one,' the man said, pulling bundles of cash out of the bag. 'Be my guest.'
Mark was no chemist but he knew dope. He picked a packet at random, split the film with his thumbnail and took a taste. His tongue and gums numbed up nicely and he shuddered as he tasted the metallic bite of good cocaine. 'Yeah,' he said, sucking the residue from his lips and swallowing again. 'Seems all right. But then I'm just the courier. Any problems and I daresay you'll hear from my principal.'
'We've never heard from him yet,' said the f
oreign man who was busy splitting the bricks of money and feeding them through a note-counting machine which he'd produced from one of the fitted cupboards. 'At least, only to order more.'
'That's OK then,' said Mark. 'Got any tape for this?'
The man pulled a roll from his jacket, tossed it over and Mark resealed the packet and put it back in the case which closed with a click. 'How long you going to be with that?' He indicated the money.
'A minute,' said the man as the machine finished counting and satisfied, he put the cash back in the bag and zipped it shut. 'All seems to be well.'
'Then I'll say ta ta,' said Mark, and when the man frowned, he added, 'Goodbye.'
'Oh yes, goodbye,' said the man, and they both stood and he stuck out his hand.
Mark shrugged and shook it.
The man turned and tugged the sliding door open again, and indicated Mark should lead the way. 'After you,' said Mark, and the foreign man pulled a face but didn't speak and jumped out in the snow which was starting to come down heavily. Whilst they'd been in the back of the van the sky had darkened considerably and the lights around the car park had switched themselves on. Mark followed the man out of the truck and headed straight for his motor.
'So far, so good,' Mark said to himself, but he spoke too soon.
He reached the Ford's driver's door and opened it, seeing that the man had swung open the front passenger door of the Mercedes. In the far corner of the parking area Mark noticed a car start and its lights came on full beam. Then, in a split second that slowed like a piece of film stuck in the gate of a projector, he saw that no one had recently walked across the tarmac, which was already lightly covered with snow, towards it.
Something's wrong, he thought.
Footprints. No footprints.
The car's motor revved and it headed straight towards the Cosworth and the van. 'Fuck,' he shouted to no one in particular, throwing the case into the passenger well, falling into the driver's seat, banging his knee painfully on something as he did so, and hitting the ignition key which was still in the lock. The engine caught at once and Mark slapped the gear lever into first and took off, the driver's door still open. Then another car, headlights flaring, pulled in across the entrance to the carpark and Mark aimed the Ford at the empty flower bed as the swinging door hit the back of a parked Transit and slammed shut.
