Guns Of Brixton

by Mark Timlin

She gave Mark a long, cold look.

  'Who says I'm going to go away again?' he said.

  She smiled. 'Mark. One thing you taught me is that people like you always go away.'

  'But I'm here now.'

  'Don't get hissy. You pissed off once before and I expect you'll piss off again. I'm not going to build my life around you for a second time only to be left high and dry. So why don't we order?'

  .They did as she said, but Mark wasn't interested in the food. When the waitress left them alone he played with his glass and said: 'OK. You win. I'll play along.'

  'It's not a case of winning or losing. It's simply a case of being pragmatic. I've got a life and I don't intend to let you spoil it.'

  'I don't want to spoil it, I want to make it better.'

  'Then do what I ask.'

  There was no answer to that that he could think of.

  The rest of the meal passed pleasantly enough, but afterwards Mark couldn't remember much about it. He ate little, but Linda tucked in mightily. Their roles seemed to have reversed since his return.

  Afterwards they sat in her car, as she ran the engine for the heater.

  'So?' she asked.

  'So what?' he asked back.

  'Are you sure you want to carry on, now you've had more time to think?'

  'Play it your way?'

  She nodded.

  'You know what I'm going to say,' he said.

  'No I don't.'

  'Yes, I'm sure.'

  'Good.'

  'So when can I see you?' he asked, feeling like a little boy as he did so.

  'Call me on the mobile tonight. I'll see what I can get organised for the weekend. I'll get Greta or my other regular babysitter to look after Luke and Daisy on Saturday evening. We could meet at the flat.'

  Mark felt like he was about as important as the babysitter in her life. If she couldn't get one then he was on the out.

  'OK,' he said and opened the car door. 'I'll call you tonight.'

  'Give me a kiss then,' she said.

  He did, and she was careful not to muss her lipstick. Mark got out of the car and went back to his own where he sat and watched her leave. Once upon a time he could have had her for life but he'd messed up, and now she was getting her own back, and there was nothing he could do about it except walk away - and that was the last thing he wanted to do.

  He looked at his watch and started his car. The hours had flown and it was time to get to Stockwell to catch Eddie Dawes.

  He intended to park in the same cul de sac close to the Four Feathers where he'd parked in the old days. But when he turned the corner he didn't recognise the old pub where he and his little crew used to plan their many exploits. Gone was the miserable facade and in its place was a new name and a smart new frontage, even hanging baskets just waiting for the spring to arrive so they could burst into bloom.

  He opened the door and walked across the polished floor to the bar. At that time of day the place was almost empty, just a few drinkers sporadically dotted around, sitting as far away from each other as they possibly could. The in house music system was playing a Van Morrison album and the lunchtime specials were chalked up on a blackboard. In the old days, the Christmas decorations would still have been up mid January and the lunchtime 'specials' would have been restricted to ham or cheese rolls, with or without pickle. Things had certainly changed. Mark scoped the room for Eddie, and twice his gaze passed a big man in dirty jeans and an anorak sitting on a stool and gazing at his own reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Mark looked at his bearded face. Somewhere lost in there was his old friend.

  'Eddie?' he said, once he'd walked up to him.

  The big man turned. 'Mark Farrow,' he replied. 'Christ, I'd recognise you anywhere.'

  Which was more than Mark could say about Eddie, and once again he realised how much things had changed in his absence. Dizzy Dawes had been the sharpest dresser of any of the boys but now his appearance was that of someone who didn't care what he looked like. And he was half cut into the bargain. Shit, thought Mark, this isn't going to work.

  He sat at the next bar stool and nodded in the direction of Eddie's glass, which just contained the dregs of a pint. 'Drink?' he asked.

  'That's what I'm here for.'

  'Lager?'

  'Bitter. And a chaser. Scotch. Bells.'

  Mark ordered Eddie's drinks from the girl behind the jump and a pint of lager for himself, although he really didn't want it. When the drinks were brought and paid for he suggested they sit at one of the booths at the back of the pub. They carried their drinks over and sat down.

  'So, Mark?' said Eddie when he'd downed half his pint and wiped the foam from his moustache. 'Tell me all about yourself.'

  'Not much to tell.'

  'In eight years? I don't believe you. I bet you've had some fun.'

  'That's not how I'd describe it.'

  'So how would you describe it then?'

  'Another time, Eddie, eh?' said Mark. 'I'm looking to find the boys if I can. I need them.'

  'And when we needed you?'

  'I was gone, I know. I'm not proud of what I did, but, that's in the past.'

  'The past is all I've got.'

  'We can change that.'

  'We, white man?'

  Eddie's favourite expression. And for the first time Mark felt that his old friend was hiding somewhere inside the unwashed mess of a man sitting in front of him.

  'Got any fags?' asked Eddie.

  Mark pulled out his packet but there was only one left. He offered it to Eddie, who said: 'Typical. You never had any bloody smokes. Hold on, I'll get some.' He got to his feet, staggered, smiled self-consciously and hunted in his pockets for change. He came up light and said: 'Got any dough, Mark? I'm temporarily embarrassed. I was nursing that last pint waiting for you. Didn't you say something about a live injection?'

  'Sure,' said Mark. He pulled out a wad of cash and peeled off a tenner. Seeing Eddie's eyes on the money, he said: 'How much do you need?'

  'That lot wouldn't even start to cover it.'

  Mark peeled off another forty quid, added it to the tenner and put it on the table. 'There you go, mate. And there's plenty more where that came from if you're interested.'

  'Always interested,' said Eddie and picked up the small pile of notes with dirty hands tipped with bitten fingernails. 'Always interested:'

  He went to the bar for change and Mark saw that he ordered a swift scotch whilst he was there, downing it in one, before going to the cigarette machine. Mark had seen some problem drinkers in his time and it looked like Eddie Dawes was one of them. Just another little local difficulty to overcome, he thought as he waited for Eddie to return.

  When he sat down again, Mark said: 'So do you see any of the others these days?'

  'You are out of touch,' replied Eddie through a mouthful of smoke.

  'Put me back in touch then.'

  'OK. Andy's dead.'

  'What?'

  'Dead.'

  'What happened to him?'

  'Car crash, about three years ago. You remember him and cars.'

  'Course.' Andy had been a car thief extraordinaire. He'd even managed to steal a Maserati Spyder worth about two hundred thousand pounds from the lockup belonging to a main dealer. Exactly the same specs as the one driven by Don Johnston in Miami Vice, the TV series from which the boys got most of their fashion ideas at the time. They'd enjoyed burning up London until he'd piled it into a set of traffic lights in the Kings Road.

  'What was he driving?' asked Mark.

  'Funnily enough, a bog standard Ford Sierra. He was mini cabbing at the time.'

  'Stroll on. Elvis?'

  'He's inside. Doing a double handful in Parkhurst for dealing smack.'

  'Bloody hell. What about Tubbs?'

  'He's about.'

  'Where?'

  'Managing a KFC in Holloway.'

  'I don't believe this.'

  'What did you expect? That we were all doing well in your absenc
e?'

  'I didn't know.'

  'So what's the job?'

  'I need to take care of some spades who're getting above themselves.' 'How much care?'

  'Intensive care. Undertaker care.'

  'Heavy.'

  'We did it before, remember?'

  'How can I forget? I still dream about it sometimes.'

  'Yeah.'

  'So where did you get to, Mark?'

  'Long story.'

  'You keep saying that. Enlighten me.'

  'Not now. I need to think.'

  'You talked about money. How much?'

  Mark thought about the case full of cash in John Jenner's safe and plucked a figure from the air. 'Ten grand.' He'd worry about getting it later.

  'For what?'

  'A couple of days' work.'

  'Sounds all right.'

  Mark looked at the state of Eddie Dawes. 'I don't think so, Eddie. I don't think you're up to it.'

  'But I could use the money. And I've still got my little baby.' He was referring to the topped and tailed sawn-off double-barrelled Remington shotgun he'd used to great effect in the old days.

  'I would've thought you'd've dumped that years ago.'

  'Sentimental value.'

  'Listen, mate, I don't mean to be personal…'

  'But you're going to be.'

  'OK. Look at you. Man, you were the sharpest of the lot of us. What happened?'

  'Life happened. Bren leaving happened. Being out of work happened. You leaving happened.'

  'You can't blame me…'

  'I do. We were great, the five of us. We had a future. And look what went down. One dead, one banged up, one doing some stupid job for not much more than minimum wage, and me on my arse in an empty flat.'

  Mark didn't know what to say.

  'Then look at you. Nice clothes. Probably got a decent motor outside and talking grands. Something's wrong somewhere.'

  'Yeah.'

  'So?' •

  'So?'

  'So let me get in touch with Tubbs. It'll be just like the old days. Only three of us instead of five.'

  'These people killed three friends of Uncle John's the other day and nicked three hundred thousand quid's worth of coke. This is fucking heavy, Eddie. Not to be played about with. You could die.'

  'I'm already dead, Mark, if you hadn't noticed. I'm just walking around a little bit longer than most corpses. I don't give a shit about that. But for ten grand I'm prepared to do anything. It could be a whole new start for me.'

  'And what about Tubbs? These are black geezers.'

  'He always was an equal opportunities villain, Mark, remember? He wouldn't care if they were red, white or blue.'

  'And you still speak to him?'

  'Every now and then I go up Holloway and pig out on free chicken. It's his only perk.'

  'Where's he living?'

  'In a bedsit a couple of streets away from the shop. He always smells of fat.'

  'Lovely.'

  'So?'

  'All right, Ed, get in touch. Let's make a meet. It can't hurt.'

  'You got any more dough? I've got expenses.'

  What, a bus pass? thought Mark, but he didn't say it. Instead he peeled off another fifty quid and passed it over to Eddie Dawes. After giving him his mobile number, he left him to his drinking.

  Christ, he thought, when he returned to his car. Talk about the gang that couldn't shoot straight. But he only needed them for backup, and they'd been good as gold in the old days. So what could go wrong? Everything. That was what.

  Chapter 19

  ' So where do these spades hang out then?' Mark asked John Jenner and Chas on his return to the house.

  'On the Ashworthy,' growled John Jenner. 'Niggers like to stick together in their little tribes. Gather round the cooking pot at night and eat their stinking goat curry.'

  'Nice, Uncle,' said Mark. 'A very modern outlook. We had goat curry at Tootsies, remember? I need to take a look. Suss out the ground.'

  'I'll give you the guided tour,' said Chas. 'We'll take your motor. It looks like a drug dealer's car, so it'll be well at home up there. How long's it been since you saw the place?'

  'Years.'

  'You won't recognise it.'

  Mark had been familiar with the Ashworthy estate on Brixton Hill. It was an immediate post-war project, although he wasn't sure if it had been built on bomb sites or whether it was part of the great slum clearance that had taken place in the late 1940s. Homes fit for heroes being the intention. No huge high rises there, the tallest buildings being perhaps ten stories, like large matchboxes laid out on their sides, almost Stalinist in their brick and window regularities. There were low rise blocks too, and maisonettes, and even studio-type flats for single people. Utopia in south London had been the architects' aim and, for a while at least, it had been. Mark always imagined the planners of the Ashworthy to be out of some post-war black and white British film. Good looking boys back from the conflict, full of liberal feelings, dressed in baggy flannels and pullovers, smoking pipes and untipped cigarettes over their drawing boards, still using military slang. He'd had friends from school who'd lived on the Ashworthy, and often he'd visited the place to while away the school holidays, playing music, smoking dope, and hanging round the open areas looking for girls. It had been all right then, he remembered. But as he and Chas cruised the winding streets in the Range Rover, he realised it had changed for the worse.

  Homes fit for heroes had turned into homes fit for crack whores. The Community Centre, once the hub of the estate, where residents' committee used to meet, had been burnt out. Graffiti scarred what smoke-stained walls remained. Next door was an off-licence, its windows and door covered with metal sheeting and its entire stock seeming to consist of strong canned lagers, cheap cigarettes and cut price vodka. What a career move to get to manage that dump, thought Mark as they cruised slowly by. 'Shithouse,' grumbled Chas who was driving. 'Filthy fucking shithouse.'

  The tarmac on the roads was cracked and weeds sprouted through the gaps. The whole place was seedy, dirty and depressing. Black sacks of garbage spilled out smaller supermarket bags that had been torn by dogs or cats or rats, and evil-smelling rubbish tumbled into the gutters, propelled by a sharp wind that blew across the muddy spaces where once grass had been religiously shaved by council workers. No one cut the grass any more and what was left of it sprouted in unhealthy clumps, dotted with faeces - both animal and human. 'Christ,' said Mark. 'I wouldn't fancy wandering round here after dark.'

  'Let's hope our motor doesn't break down then,' said Chas. 'It wouldn't last the night up here without being picked clean and burnt out.'

  'You're so cheerful, Chas,' said Mark. 'Is that what keeps you going?'

  'Something like that,' replied Chas, but he laughed as he said it. 'Sorry, mate. But things seem to be going from bad to worse.'

  'Since I got back, you mean?' said Mark.

  'No.' Chas shook his mighty head. 'It's been going pear-shaped since John was diagnosed with the big C.' He stopped the car and pointed to one of the smaller blocks. 'Moses lives in number five with his mum.

  Slag's been on the game since the old king died. Seen more pricks than a secondhand dartboard.'

  Mark smiled at the old joke and reflected that the old firm wasn't suited to the modern world. 'Beretta lives behind us in that tall block. Top floor. He's got some white trash slapper sucking his dick every night after she's sucked on the crack-pipe. And young Karl is in the maisonettes on Brixton Hill. Handy for the chip shop and the pub. Life's good for these fuckers, ain't it?'

  'It's about to change, Chas, I can promise you that,' said Mark. 'Drive around a bit more. And then let's go and have a pint.'

  They settled in the Telegraph pub on the Hill. A huge old boozer that had gone through so many style changes over the years, it was a wonder it still retained its original name. Mark bought two pints of lager and they sat in a corner away from the boisterous, mixed race crowd around the pool table.

 
; 'This place has changed,' said Mark.

  'Changed,' said Chas. 'I'll say it's fucking changed. Used to be a nice old pub, but it's gone downhill.'

  "What hasn't, in your opinion?' asked Mark.

  'Don't be funny. You think things have got better?'

  'Some things. Technology. Would you still like cars with no heaters and wind-up gramophones and having to use a payphone to get in touch?'

  'We managed,' said Chas. 'And, for your information, I never had a wind-up gramophone.'

  'Dansette, was it?' asked Mark with a grin.

  'Yeah. It was, as it goes, and I had to work all summer holidays in the grocers to get it.'

  It had been a magic summer for Chas. Nineteen fifty nine, and he had been fourteen. He'd been in long trousers a couple of years and loved the sound of the music he listened to every night on Radio Luxembourg and the

  American Forces Network, under the covers in the bedroom in the attic of his parents' house in Streatham Vale. Boy, he loved that music. The record that changed his life was Rockin' Through The Rye by Bill Haley and The Comets. He'd heard it on Two Way Family Favourites, a request show on the old Light Programme, whilst eating his Sunday lunch - or dinner as they called it then -three years before. He'd practically felt his balls drop at the first notes and almost choked on a piece of hot roast potato as his father leapt to his feet to turn off 'that bloody jungle music' as he called it. Chas shared his old dad's racist views, but was somehow blinkered about black musicians and the white ones that aped them. He adored them from that moment and still did. Lonnie Donegan, Jerry Lee Lewis, Elvis, The Drifters, Coasters, Platters et al. He ate them up over the next few years, but his father wouldn't let him near the Bush radiogram where he stored his Ronnie Hilton, Mantovani, Alma Cogan and Ted Heath LPs. 'If you want to play that rubbish, get your own,' he'd said.

  So Chas hunted out boys of his own age who were equally besotted with rock 'n' roll, and spent hours around their houses listening to everyone from Tommy Steele - just OK - to Cliff Richard - awful - in the hope of the occasional Little Richard record floating to the top of the pile.

  As he sat in the pub with Mark, Chas yearned for those simpler days when he was an innocent and not yet the gangster he was to become. He'd broken his mother's heart when he'd first been sent away in the early 60s, even though she'd slowly come round to the way he ran his life later on. His father, of course, had long washed his hands of the long haired lout that his son had become. That's what he'd called him when he'd thrown Chas out of the house at age sixteen, with little more than the clothes he stood up in. His father had smashed up his record player and destroyed his precious vinyl that day and, although he could forgive him for the disownment, the records were another matter. They'd never spoken again. Not even at his mother's funeral. When his father died a few years later, Chas didn't even bother to attend his cremation. Burnt before he got to hell, was his opinion. And good riddance.