Guns Of Brixton

by Mark Timlin

  That was what kept him going and he thought the good times would never end. There was still the problem of his mother and Bobby Thomas. But he tried to ignore that as much as possible. Every night was a party and every day was grafting, but he had a beautiful woman, a wardrobe full of clothes, money in the bank, and his BMW parked out front for all to admire.

  Life was sweet, but it was about to turn sour.

  The boys were ambitious in their villainy. Andy Styles was a renowned car thief and, with help from Dev at the breaker's yard and the garage he ran in Heme Hill, he was ringing motors like a trooper. The rest were flogging drugs the length and breadth of south London. By then, John Jenner had moved out of that market, not really understanding the changing tastes and styles of the younger generation, so Mark and his boys had taken over. Jenner meanwhile was huge in the protection racket, taking money from what seemed like most of the pubs, clubs and restaurants from Greenwich to Twickenham. Later, of course, he went back into dope, but for the moment he was happy to see Mark doing well, as long as there was a cut in it for him. It was all working out nicely. But of course, there was always someone ready to put his oar in and spoil a sweet operation.

  At that time, the particular someone was a young black man called Neville Lloyd. Neville lived at various addresses from the Elephant and Castle through Camberwell, all the way down to South Norwood. The boy was a bit of a beast with women, and had girlfriends stashed away all over the place. Most had children by him, all boys. Rumour was, he wanted to start a football team. He revelled in his reputation as a 'babyfather'. And, despite the fact that his women knew there were others in the frame, they were desperately loyal to Neville, running errands, taking messages and letting him stay with them whenever he felt the need. Another rumour was that he had identical wardrobes in all the girls' flats so that it didn't matter where he was on any given night, because he could discard one designer suit and leave in top nick the next morning. Aside from his sexual prowess, Neville liked to think of himself as a bit of a style king.

  He also had a chain of boys on bicycles and motor scooters running around the estates and up and down to pubs and clubs, delivering all sorts with huge bricks of mobile phones stuck up their jumpers, ready to take orders and collect from one of Neville's safe houses where the drugs were stashed.

  Mark had no argument when Neville was flogging weed. As far as he was concerned, weed was the black man's natural stock in trade. And if he moved a little smack or cocaine on the side to his regulars, no problems. But suddenly, as club culture took off in a big way, the demand shifted to ecstasy. E's were the next big thing, and at anything up to £25 a hit, were extremely lucrative. The Old Bill really didn't know what was going on. All these kids stoned out of their minds on bottled water didn't make any sense to them. But it made sense to Mark. Perfect sense. And when he linked up with a couple of geeky college students from Sussex called Paul and Dennis, who were producing thousands of the pretty little pills in all the colours of the rainbow and decorating them with cutout logos of comic characters, they knew their time had come.

  Business was booming. Until, that is, the day Elvis came in with a handful of their pills and a black eye. Dennis was in tow, looking like he'd lost a quid and found a twopenny piece.

  'What's the problem?' asked Mark.

  'These fucking well are,' said Elvis, throwing a handful of pills on to Mark's desk. 'They're fucking rubbish.'

  'What?' said Mark. 'Show.'

  The pills looked OK to him, but Dennis shook his head. 'Not ours,' he said.

  'What?' said Mark again. 'What do you mean?'

  'We got one analysed,' said Dennis. 'Mostly chalk with a tiny bit of speed.'

  'And you made these?'

  'Do me a favour, Mark,' said Dennis. 'We wouldn't let rubbish like this out of the door.'

  'So?' said Mark.

  'So someone's bootlegging our product,' said Elvis. 'And there's more than a few pissed-off punters out there. Two of them caught up with me

  last night and I got this. He stuck his face over Mark's desk and pointed to his swollen eye.

  'Shit,' said Mark.

  'Shit's right,' said Elvis. 'I had a right ruck. They wanted to rip my head off. Lucky Tubbs was with me.'

  Mark sat back and looked at Dennis. 'There's no chance that Paul's been at it?'

  'Christ no,' said Dennis. 'Paul's even more of a perfectionist than me. He just wants to love up the whole world.'

  'Yeah,' agreed Mark. 'But they've got our logo on them. Our guarantee of purity and value.'

  Dennis looked a little hinky.

  'What?' said Mark.

  'I think the bloke who makes our pill stampers might have gone native.'

  'How d'you mean?' said Mark.

  'Well, he's an old mate from uni. You know we more or less make these by hand?'

  Mark nodded.

  'I mean we can do thousands, but we ain't Glaxo Wellcome.'

  'Yeah…?'

  Dennis wasn't happy. 'I think the bloke who made our stamper dies made one for someone else and put our little logo in it.'

  'Fuck,' said Mark. 'So someone just produces any old shit and people think they're buying off us?'

  Dennis nodded. 'Or someone we've supplied.'

  'But they could put anything in them.'

  Dennis nodded.

  'Poison, all sorts.' Mark knew all about drugs cut with strychnine, scouring powder and even ground glass. 'Christ, people could be dying out there and it's down to us.'

  'Well, not on these,' said Dennis. 'Like I said, it's mainly chalk, a little baby laxative and some amphetamine.' 'But you don't know what else is going on.'

  'No,' said Dennis.

  'Who is it?' Mark said to Elvis.

  'No idea, mate.'

  'Well, you'd better find out. All of us had better get on the case. I don't want no fucker saying I killed anyone. At least, not unless I meant to.'

  Elvis nodded.

  Finding out who was behind it wasn't hard. The boys went to all the haunts where drugs were freely available; but instead of selling they were buying. Pretty soon they started to turn up more of the bootlegged E's, all of them bought from Neville's runners.

  'Bastard,' said Mark late one night at Tubbs' flat, where the boys had gathered.

  'Well, he's not really doing much damage,' said Dennis.

  Paul nodded.

  'Except to our reputation,' said Dizzy. 'No one's bleedin' buying at the moment. This stuff's so duff we have to give the bloody things away to prove they're good and that just wastes our time and makes no profit.'

  The rest nodded.

  'So we have a word with Neville,' said Mark.

  'He needs more than a word,' said Tubbs. 'Black fucker.'

  'But no one can ever catch up with him,' said Andy, lifting his nose out of a manual for the latest Volkswagen Golf. 'He's got more homes than Barretts.'

  'We'll catch up with him,' said Mark. 'I'll make a couple of calls.'

  Which he did. Posing as a punter looking for a couple of thousand tabs of E.

  It took a couple of days, but eventually he connected with one of Neville's lieutenants and made his bid.

  'Perfect,' he said to the boys when they met in the Four Feathers. 'Greedy fuckers can't wait to meet me. Promised me pure E for a fiver a tab.' 'Bloody cheek,' said Paul. 'Our stuffs worth twice that.'

  'So I jumped at the offer,' said Mark.

  'Where and when?' asked Elvis.

  'Saturday night there's a rave on up Waterloo way. You know, in those old arches under the railway? They want to make a meet.'

  'Will Neville be there?' asked Dizzy.

  'Oh, for sure,' said Mark. 'I'm supposed to turn up with ten grand in readies.'

  'And he believed you?' asked Dennis.

  'Course he did. I told him I'd been buying off us big time. But I heard that he'd starting supplying the same merchandise for half the price.'

  'Didn't he wonder about you?' asked Andy.

&nbs
p; 'No. Why should he?'

  'But he knows you,' pressed Andy.

  'Yeah,' said Mark. 'But he doesn't know Paul and Dennis. They go in and meet the boy and we're right behind them.'

  Paul looked at Dennis and Dennis looked at Paul, and neither of them looked happy. 'You know we're scientists, not gangsters,' said Paul.

  'You don't have to do anything,' explained Mark. 'Just be there and get a sight of the merchandise. He'll be at the bar, he said. There's a door at the back. Go outside. Tell him you don't want to flash the cash where everyone's watching.'

  Mark knew the layout of the place well, having done regular business there.

  'Then we go after them mob-handed?' said Dizzy.

  'Spot on,' said Mark. 'That bastard needs teaching a lesson.'

  Saturday night came and the boys met in the same boozer. They looked as if ready to party in jeans or combat trousers, desert boots and loose sweat tops and T-shirts. They stayed in the pub until past closing time then trooped out to their cars.

  At that time Suzuki jeeps were all the rage. Andy could unlock and start one as if by magic, and the boys were making a little extra spending money by ringing a couple a week in Dev's garage. That week Andy had stolen two, resprayed them, changed the VIN number on the engine and replaced the registration. They were both soft tops, one now red, the other white. Dizzy was driving the red one, Andy its white twin, and they let the tops down before driving off. It was still a bit early for the rave to really get going so they took a diversion down the Kings Road to see what was happening down there. They stopped at a coffee shop and soon had a crowd of admiring young women collected around their motors. Dizzy was rolling spliff in the back of the red car and Mark was snorting coke with Tubbs and anyone else who was interested in the front of the other. Everyone was kicking back and happy, but Mark was keeping an eye on the clock and at one-thirty he went round reminding the boys that there was work to be done. 'Shit,' said Dizzy. 'I was just getting off with that bird in the blue dress.'

  'Get her phone number,' said Mark. 'We've got heads to break.'

  That cheered Dizzy up no end, and a minute later he was ready to go, the young woman's telephone number written in red lipstick on his belly.

  'That'll wear off,' said Mark as he got into the car next to Andy.

  'Let the boy have his fun,' Andy said. 'You know what he's like.'

  They set off again, running the cars over the river on Battersea Bridge and heading east across the top of south London in convoy. Dizzy was off his nut and kept nudging Andy's Suzuki with the bumper of his motor, and Mark, who was trying to snort coke off the dash, kept spilling the powder on to the carpet. 'Fucking bastard,' he said as Dizzy drew level with them just past Vauxhall Cross and then tried to run them on to the pavement. 'He'll have us nicked.'

  'Who the fuck cares?' said Andy.

  'You will if Old Bill takes a look at the gear we've got in the back.'

  In a roll of carpet stuffed into the luggage compartment at the back of their car were four baseball bats, a couple of tyre irons from the garage and Dizzy's sawn-off shotgun. And Mark was carrying a small.38 five - shot Colt revolver he'd borrowed off John Jenner tucked into his boot. Jenner hadn't asked him why he needed a shooter, just given him the usual advice: 'If you use it, lose it.'

  'No, mate,' screamed Andy above the slipstream and the music booming out of the sound system. 'We're minted. Magic. Old Bill can't even see us. We're invisible.'

  'Have you had too much coke?' yelled Mark in reply. But he knew what Andy meant. They were untouchable. The boys were out for revenge and no one could stop them.

  So on they raced, bumping and tailgating each other, cutting off other drivers, jumping red lights and going the wrong way around roundabouts until they reached the mean streets of Waterloo.

  Before the rave scene took off, those streets would have been deserted at that time.of a Saturday night/ Sunday morning. Previously, all the action had been in the west end, various spots of north London and down the Old Kent Road. But then entrepreneurs discovered that they could make lots of money by leasing or squatting railway arches and playing Acid House music at ear-splitting levels - the bass could be turned up so high it made the dancers' ribs vibrate inside their bodies - and tiny bottles of water that cost pennies in any cash and carry store could be sold for fortunes.

  Of course, the emergency exits and toilet facilities were almost non-existent, there was always danger from falling masonry and unsafe staircases, and taps were always turned off, which meant that kids who couldn't afford the expensive bottled water dropped from dehydration. Oh yeah, and if you thought about bringing your own refreshment, there were always plenty of bouncers at the door to confiscate it. The raves were advertised by flyer, word of mouth and mentions on pirate radio, sometimes nothing more than a mobile number to call. The venues were cheap or free, and the entrance fee was enough to ensure that the organisers always drove the latest motors and wore the most fashionable clothes. Then there was the drug franchise. And that's where Mark and the boys had been given pretty much free rein until Neville had stuck his beak into the action.

  Not that they minded competition. After all, there was plenty to go round. But like John Jenner before him, Mark Farrow treated south London as his own. He didn't care what went on north of the river. Whoever wanted it was welcome; to Mark it was another country. But south of Old Father Thames was his - a massive cash cow that was there to be milked by him and his mates alone. And Neville was taking the piss. It wasn't on, and Mark was determined to make an example of him. How much of an example none of them was going to realise until it was too late.

  Eventually they found a couple of parking spaces and dumped the cars. They didn't bother putting up.the tops as they didn't intend being around for long, and Andy had fitted a couple of devices that made the cars almost impossible to drive away unless you were… well, Andy.

  They gathered around the back of the white car and Mark handed out the weapons. 'You two go in first and find Neville,' he said to Paul and Dennis. 'I'll be right behind you. The rest of you follow on.' He gave Paul a briefcase full of newspaper cut to the size of fifty pound notes, with the real thing top and bottom which would convince Neville it was ten grand if he wasn't allowed to examine it. 'Don't let him get too close to this,' he said. 'Tease him until you're outside.'

  Again Paul didn't look happy about the deception, but wisely stayed silent. Mark was bopping from his cocaine intake and the boy knew he'd brook no argument. 'Don't leave us with him too long, will you?' Paul said.

  'Trust me,' said Mark, grinding his teeth. 'I'm a fucking doctor.'

  'What about the bouncers?' asked Tubbs.

  'Depends who's on and if we know them.'

  'We'll know 'em.' Tubbs again.

  'Chances are,' said Mark.

  'So.'

  'So we ask them to take a break and give them a few quid.'

  'What happens if they're not keen?' asked Dizzy.

  'You've got your shooter. Convince them that discretion is the better part of valour.'

  'I can do that,' said Dizzy, slipping the gun inside his combat pants and down one leg.

  'You only do that to impress the girls,' said Mark.

  'No. I can do that without,' replied Dizzy. 'Remember the bird in the blue dress just now?' And he. lifted his shirt to show the red smears on his skin.

  'And she thought you were just pleased to see her.'

  'That's the truth. And I intend to see her again.'

  'Come on then,' said Mark. 'Let's do it. And let's do it properly.'

  The bouncers, two black guys and one white, were easy. They all knew Mark and the boys and let him, Paul and Dennis go to the front of the short queue. 'The rest of my lads are behind me,' Mark said as he slipped each a score.

  'No worries,' said the head man.

  'And I wouldn't worry too much if you hear a bit of a do in a minute. There's someone inside who's been taking the piss.'

  'Never seen a t
hing;' said the security man as he let them through.

  The brick railway arches, three in all, were black with years of accumulated muck and were connected by a series of short tunnels. The main entrance was through a small door let into larger double doors that were chained shut. Once inside, the noise hit Mark like a hammer. The bass beat at Mark's chest as he looked through the mixture of strobe lights and a fog of dry ice that made visibility all but impossible. Perfect, he thought as he moved around the edge of a floor that was filled to capacity with dancers in various stages of undress, all moving spastically in the heat they generated. It must've been close to a hundred degrees inside and sooty water dripped from the ceiling on to the crowd below. That night the DJ was known as Phil The Lodger for no reason Mark could fathom, and he was perched on a small stage made of scaffolding in one corner of the largest arch, with music relayed through to the others by a series of speakers the size of small cars.

  In the smallest of the arches where the volume of the music was marginally lower, a bar had been set up and sweaty individuals doled out overpriced water, beer and soft drinks. That was where Mark had arranged to meet Neville and do the deal.

  Mark stood in the shadows and scoped out the bar. Christ, but the music was heavy. Mark enjoyed House music when he was stoned, but he actually preferred the Jazz and RB that John Jenner had collected in the 60s and 70s.

  Mark spotted Neville straight away. He was wearing a leather suit with a huge gold chain around his neck and enough rings to stock a jeweller's shop. He was leaning on the jump like he owned the place, flanked by a couple of heavy-looking black guys acting as security for him and for the metal attache case that stood at his feet.

  Wanker, thought Mark as he grabbed Dennis by the elbow and pointed out the tall black man. 'Go,' he said.

  Dennis and Paul both shrugged and moved into the bar area. Mark hung back until he saw them speak to Neville, a short conversation ensued. And then all five men walked behind the bar and out through a small door in the back wall. Mark smiled to himself and moved in the same direction, body swerving through the crowd, followed by the rest of his boys.