Guns Of Brixton

by Mark Timlin

  When he'd been hiding in the rubbish chute a couple of days earlier, he'd noticed that the opening on the first floor was big enough for a man to slide down. Now he ran down the corridor and pushed himself out through the gap, his legs dangling, and breathed in the first fresh air in what seemed like hours. It didn't matter that this was 'fresh' air fouled by the stink of the inhabitants' garbage. All was quiet at the back of the flats, the commotion of cops and civilians exclusively at the front. Mark took another deep breath and jumped down to the ground below, landing awkwardly, the shock shooting up to the wound he could feel was still bleeding into his clothes. But how badly he was hurt he had no idea.

  He limped off over the scrubby grass towards the edge of the estate. Behind him he heard a shout, which only made him run faster, although the pain of the wound in his back made him feel weak and dizzy.

  If I can get to the road, he thought, I'll be all right. Just the road. Dear God, let me make it to the road.

  By this time sirens were coming from all directions and Mark knew that he was close to capture and a life sentence. Not fucking likely, he thought. I'm not going inside, not with Jimmy Hunter due out any time now. I want that bastard, outside, for myself.

  Mark jumped over the low wall of the estate before he realised he was still carrying his gun. Not something to be seen with, he reckoned, and straight away saw a skip outside a terraced house being done up by some optimist, convinced that Brixton was going to be the 'new Notting Hill'. He stuffed it and his balaclava deep into the building Waste that littered the skip. And blessing the fact that his dark clothes would disguise any blood stains, he straightened his shoulders with an effort, and walked confidently along the pavement. Just then a squad car came screaming round the corner, seeming to slow at the sight of him, then picked up speed, blues flashing and two-tone sirens yelping, heading back the way he'd come.

  Mark breathed a real sigh of relief, even though it hurt, turned the corner, and headed for John Jenner's house.

  It wasn't much of a walk, but Mark had to stay in the shadows, ducking down behind parked motors whenever a police car showed, which was often, and by the time he got there, he was weak and dizzy from loss of blood. He rang the bell by the front gate, and after what seemed an eternity, Chas buzzed him in.

  'Christ, what happened?' asked the big man once they'd arrived in the kitchen, Mark sinking into a chair.

  'Gone to shit,' said Mark. 'Get me a drink will you? Something strong.'

  'You look like death,' said Chas, doing as he was asked, and pouring Mark a large brandy from a bottle of Remy on the counter.

  'Not me,' replied Mark. 'Tubbs, Eddie. All the spades. She stabbed me.'

  'Who?'

  'Beretta's bird. Get Uncle John.'

  Chas rushed out and reappeared a moment later with John Jenner. 'Oh my God, Mark,' he said. 'What's happened to you?'

  'I've been stabbed. Uncle, I'm sorry, it all went…'

  'Never mind about all that now,' said Jenner. 'Let me see.'

  Mark slumped forward in the chair and the older man looked at his back. 'Hospital,' he said. 'Chas get an ambulance…'

  'No,' said Mark. 'You fix me up.'

  'This is serious,' said Jenner.

  'No,' repeated Mark. 'If it'd hit anything vital, I'd be dead.'

  'You look like you almost are,' said Chas.

  'I'll be all right. I just need patching up.'

  'Martine,' said Jenner. 'She's upstairs. She'll do it. She knows some first aid. Get her, Chas.' 'Not Martine,' protested Mark.

  'Yes, Martine,' insisted Jenner. 'Go on, Chas.'

  Once again the big man left the room. In a few minutes he arrived back with Martine in tow. 'What the hell?' she said, seeing Mark's parchment- white face and the blood that was now beginning to drip on to the floor. 'What have you done?'

  'You should see the other fellah,' said Mark with a humourless grin. 'Can you step the bleeding?'

  'Let's see,' said Martine. 'Take off your top.'

  With difficulty and some help from her, Mark managed to strip down to his bare skin. The blood had started to clot, but pulling away his shirt and T-shirt started it off again. Meanwhile Chas had found a box of medical supplies, including bandages and tape. 'Haven't needed this for ages,' he said. 'But we're always prepared.'

  'Right, you two,' said Martine to Chas and Jenner. 'Out.'

  Reluctantly the two men left the room and Martine said: 'I've got you all to myself again,' she said. 'And half-naked too.'

  'But not capable,' said Mark.

  'Don't you believe it,' she replied. 'I can make the dead dance.'

  'I'm not dead yet.'

  She reversed the kitchen chair and made Mark sit facing the back and examined the wound. 'You should get this seen to properly,' she said. 'It's deep and there's some fabric been pushed inside. It could get infected.'

  'I'll survive. Just patch me up so's I can go and speak to Uncle John. And I'm afraid he's not going to like what I've got to tell him.'

  'Not a bad bod,' she said, ignoring him. 'A bit scarred up. This isn't the first time you've been in the wars, is it?'

  'I've had my share.'

  'I never saw it properly the last time, in the dark.' She ran her hand down his spine and said: 'And I could've been all yours. Instead of that cross-eyed bitch who always fucks you up.'

  'Martine,' said Mark. 'Just do it, will you?'

  'Sure.' She busied herself cleaning up the wound and got hold of the bottle of brandy. 'This might sting,' she said and splashed the spirit into the cut.

  'Fucking hell!' Mark yelled, almost passing out from the shock. 'Careful.'

  'Don't be such a baby.' And then, much more gently than Mark expected, she taped the wound together with butterfly strips of tape and bandaged his shoulder, running the fabric under his armpit. 'That should do,' she said finally. 'Not Casualty exactly, but it's the best I can manage with what I've got.' She handed him a bottle of pills. 'These are painkillers. A bit past their sell-by date, but they might help.'

  Mark undid the bottle and swallowed a couple of pills, washed down with brandy. 'Thanks,' he said. 'I'd better find some clean clothes.'

  'I'll go,' said Martine, gathering up his bloodstained garments. 'And I'll get Chas to burn these.'

  'Thanks again,' said Mark.

  'You know, we could've been magic,' said Martine as she left the room. 'But it's your loss, you moron. You'll regret it, I promise.'

  Maybe it is my loss, thought Mark, as he sipped more brandy from the bottle. And maybe I will regret it, but that's life.

  When Martine returned with a shirt and sweater and helped Mark put them on, he said: 'I've got to give Uncle John the bad news now,' and got to his feet.

  'He'll get over it.'

  'I hope so.'

  'And you take care, darlin',' she said and jumped up and kissed him full on the mouth.

  'You'll have me over,' he said, grabbing the chair for support.

  'That's always been my plan. Anyway, I'm off upstairs. I don't want to be there if Dad goes into one.'

  'Nor do I,' replied Mark. 'But I'm afraid he might.'

  She looked at him one more time. 'When will I see you?' she asked.

  He shook his head. 'I don't know.'

  'Nothing new there then,' she said and left him alone.

  Painfully he left the room after her and went up to find John Jenner and Chas. They were sitting together in the living room in silence as he entered and sat gingerly in one soft armchair.

  'So what happened?' asked Jenner.

  'It all went wrong,' said Mark and briefly filled them in on the events of the night.

  'You lost the money and the drugs,' said Jenner when he'd finished.

  'And Eddie and Tubbs,' said Mark.

  'But you killed the spades.'

  Mark nodded. 'And the two women.'

  'So five dead niggers,' said Jenner. 'No loss.'

  'Six if you count Tubbs,' said Mark.

  'You know I d
idn't mean that.'

  'So what if you did. But I just left them. There was nothing I could do.' Mark felt like crying but knew it was just a waste of time and tears both.

  'Those things happen,' said Jenner.

  'But not to me. And I left the two motors and weapons and my DNA on the knife in the flat. It's fucked, Uncle John.'

  'One of those things.'

  'No,' said Mark. 'I've got a really bad feeling. I'm going to split.'

  'In your condition?'

  'I can manage.'

  'Where are you going to go?' asked Chas.

  'I'll find somewhere. You've got my mobile number. We can keep in touch. I don't know what I'm going to do.'

  'I'd try and convince you to stay…' said Jenner.

  'Don't,' interrupted Mark. 'I'll get my stuff and I'll go.'

  Jenner nodded and Mark left the room, went upstairs and packed a few things in his bag. His back was killing him, but he knew he had to go and go that night. He closed his bedroom door behind him and went back downstairs. Chas was waiting in the hall. 'You don't have to do this, you know,' he said.

  'Yes I do,' said Mark and went back to say goodbye to Jenner. 'I'm off now, Uncle,' he said.

  'Be careful,' said Jenner.

  'You too. This isn't going to go away.'

  'What the hell,' said Jenner. 'What can they do? Give me cancer?' He stood and embraced the younger man, being careful not to touch his wound, and then, both with tears in their eyes, they kissed once and Mark went out to his car and drove away.

  Chapter 27

  Mark spent the night in the Range Rover in a back street in East Dulwich. It wasn't the first time that he'd slept in a car in his life, and he doubted that it would be the last. It had been too late to find a hotel or BB without causing unwelcome interest, and that was the last thing he wanted to do. He hardly closed his eyes all night, he just lay curled up in the back, with the radio tuned to a local news station. Reports of the killings in Brixton filled the bulletins, but shootings were so prevalent in London those days that, by morning, it was the second item after something about a pop star's birthday party at a hotel in Park Lane.

  But Mark knew that the cops wouldn't lose interest so quickly. He drove to an all-night supermarket, purchased some toiletries and used their gents for a wash and brush up, then breakfasted at the diner attached to the store. He wasn't hungry, but he knew he had to eat. His wound was hot and sore, but if it hurt too much, he'd munch painkillers until the pain subsided. But what next?

  After eating, he drove up to Crystal Palace and booked into one of the very same hotels he and Linda had enjoyed afternoons of passion in, all those years before. It had been refurbished since and he hardly recognised the place, but it still brought back memories. Some good, some bad. Once inside his room, he drew the curtains, took more pills and fell into bed. He slept for hours and it was only the ringing of his mobile that eventually woke him. It was Chas. 'Bad news, son,' he said. 'They came for your uncle this morning and he had a bit of a turn. He's in hospital.'

  'Oh, Jesus,' said Mark. 'What happened?'

  'A stroke. He's in intensive care in King's.'

  What more can go wrong? thought Mark. 'I'll go and see him.'

  'I wouldn't if I were you. Your name was mentioned.'

  'Shit.'

  'Shit's right. And what happened last night is all over the telly and the papers. You're famous again.'

  'Oh Christ, Chas. Can we meet?'

  'Sure. Course. There's a pub near the hospital. O'Neill's. It used to be the Station. It's on the bridge over the railway at Denmark Hill.'

  'I'll find it.'

  'Are you up to it? How do you feel?'

  'Like I've been hit by a bus, but I'll manage. How's Martine taken it?'

  'Not well. She blames you.'

  'She blames me for the war in the Middle East. But we'll worry about her later. When?'

  'I'm at the hospital now. Outside, having a bit of a walk. I can see the pub from here.'

  'I'll be there within an hour. Wait for me.'

  'I've got nothing else to do.'

  'See you then.' He killed the phone.

  In the bathroom he looked at his face in the mirror. He was pale and drawn and looked ten years older than he had just a few days previously. But who could blame him? Old friends had died. He'd killed some people and had been injured. He turned and craned his neck to look at his bandage. There was a dark stain visible through the white material, but no blood had seeped all the way through. Maybe while I'm near the hospital, I can get it checked, he thought. Or maybe not.

  He left his few things at the hotel and motored down to Denmark Hill, found the pub and parked in a back street. When he pushed through the doors into the almost deserted saloon bar, he saw Chas sitting at a corner table', nursing a beer. 'Want a refill?' he asked once he'd walked over.

  'No,' said Chas. 'Don't even want this one, really.'

  'Fair enough. But I need a livener. You woke me up.' Mark went to the bar and ordered a Beck's with a brandy chaser and took the glasses over and joined Chas who was staring gloomily out of the window. 'What happened exactly?' asked Mark once he was seated.

  'Cops came just after five and rousted the house. They wanted John for questioning about the shooting, and they wanted to find out where you were. That fucking Hunter's son was there, the little shit. And they brought Customs with them. Something about Ali and Tommo importing duty frees from the Continent. And them seeing your motor parked up outside with French plates. They put two and two together and got seven, as usual.'

  'Is that how they knew about me, the motor?'

  'Dunno. They never said. But apparently Interpol or whatever it's now called want to talk to you about some killings in Germany.'

  'Yeah. They would.'

  Chas nodded. He'd heard worse in his life.

  'So what happened to Uncle John?'

  'They took him up Streatham nick, stuck him in an interview room and he just keeled over. Course, they thought he was trying it on, but eventually they called an ambulance and the paramedics brought him to the cardiac unit here. Best in London, supposed to be.'

  'And?'

  'And he's not good, Mark. Not good at all. They did some tests and the cancer's spreading fast. He's riddled with the shit. Liver, kidneys, lungs. The lot.'

  'What are his chances?'

  Chas shook his head. 'Poor. You'd better be prepared for the worst.'

  'And Martine's with him.'

  'Been there all day.'

  'Any Old Bill about?'

  Chas shook his head again. 'They put a copper on the door at first, but they tugged him off a couple of hours ago. John ain't going nowhere, mate.'

  'That bad?'

  Another nod and Mark blew out a sigh and downed his brandy in one. 'What about Customs?' 'Dunno. They sloped off sharpish when there was no sign of your motor.'

  'It's all gone to shit, Chas.'

  'I know. So what are you going to do?'

  'Not go to Germany is top of my list. But I'm going to have to leave the country, and I want to see Uncle John first. Do you think I can get in?'

  'Don't see why not. Security's not up to much and, like I said, the Bill's gone walkabout.'

  'Did they charge him?'

  'No. Just helping with enquiries. They only had to look at him to see he wasn't wandering the streets the other night killing folks.'

  'And Martine blames me?'

  Yet another nod.

  'Bloody hell,' said Mark. 'I don't want her starting a scene in there. Drawing more attention to us. Can't you do something?'

  'I'll go over and suggest she come home and get cleaned up, maybe sleep for a bit.'

  'Do you reckon she will?'

  'She's taken it hard, Mark. She loves the old man.'

  'I know she does. So do I.'

  'So do we all.'

  Now it was Mark's turn to nod. 'Give me a few minutes and I'll see what I can do,' said Chas and, leaving his glass, he wa
lked out of the pub.

  Mark sat where he was until his phone rang.

  'It's me,' said Chas.

  'Yeah.'

  'I'm dragging her back home to get changed and have something to eat. We'll be gone for a bit so you can get in. She's in the loo… No, she's coming. See ya.' And he cut the connection.

  Mark gave them a few minutes before he finished his drink and went over to the hospital. ICU was on the third floor and he took the lift, keeping an eye open for anyone who looked like a copper. Once there, he found a nurse and inquired about John Jenner.

  'Are you family?' she asked.

  'Nephew,' he said. 'Can I see him?'

  'Let me look,' she replied. Then: 'I'm afraid it's not good.'

  'I heard,' he said. 'That's why I came.'

  'He's been sleeping a lot,' she said. 'I'll speak to the doctor.'

  She vanished in a swish of starch, and Mark stood by the enquiries desk trying hard to look like he belonged.

  'You can go in and see him now,' said the nurse. 'But don't be too long, and don't let him get excited. He's awake but very woozy from the drugs we've administered.'

  'I won't be long,' said Mark. She nodded and she led him into the private room. John Jenner lay very still and there was an oxygen mask over his face. His skin was the same colour as his pillow, tubes and wires were attached to every inch of skin, and machines bleeped and whirred beside him. Mark knew deep inside that his uncle would probably never leave the hospital. He pulled up one of the two chairs in the corner and sat by the bed. Jenner turned his head and reached up and pulled the mask off his nose and mouth. 'Mark,' he said. 'You shouldn't have come.'

  Mark ignored his comment and said, 'Uncle John. How are you feeling?'

  'Not too clever. How do I look?'

  'Honestly?'

  'Of course.'

  'Not too clever.'

  'Fair enough.' He looked round. 'So this is what it all comes to,' he said. 'If I'd known all those years ago I don't think I'd've bothered.'

  'Yes you would.'

  'I don't know so much, son. I mean, is this all there is? The sum total.'