Guns Of Brixton

by Mark Timlin

  'No,' said Mark. 'You'll need it.'

  'He would've given it to you himself if he was here,' said Chas. 'He wanted you to have all the proceeds. And there's plenty left for her. You'd be surprised the bits and pieces of money he had stashed away. And then there's the house.'

  'But what about you, Chas?'

  'I'll be all right. She wants me to stay on. And John set up a nice little pension fund for me years ago. Who'd've thought it, eh? Gangsters with pension funds.'

  They both smiled at the thought and Mark said, 'So this is it. You won't see me at the funeral, though I'll be around.'

  'And then?'

  'And then, who knows? I'll worry about that when the time comes.'

  He left his old friend and stashed the money and drugs into the compartment in the Range Rover that had held the streetsweeper. There it lay next to Mark's other weapons. He spent another lonely night in another lonely hotel, this time in Penge. By then, the wound in his back was healing nicely. Martine must've done a better job than either of them had thought. He'd peeled back the bandage and the lips of the cut were clean and knitting together well. I bet she wishes she'd stabbed me herself now, he thought. But that's life.

  And he knew he couldn't show his face at the funeral, even if he had been welcome. Too many of the mourners would have been plainclothes coppers. Instead, he stood under the shelter of a tree, collar up and a recently acquired trilby low over his eyes, as he watched Chas helped Martine from the lead car behind the hearse and support her into the church, and afterwards did the same at the rain-soaked cemetery. He watched as Jenner's black-draped coffin was lowered slowly into the ground and as the priest spoke words he couldn't hear. And he saw Martine throw a single white rose into the grave before going back to the car with Chas.

  When everyone, apart from the gravediggers, had left, he walked down the path through the deluge and said his own final farewell to the man who had taken him into his home, all those years ago. By then he didn't care if a whole platoon of armed police arrived and took him in. It might even have been a relief.

  But no one showed and, with just a raise of his hand, he turned away and back to his car.

  He drove to Croydon, parked outside Linda's house, noticed that her four-wheel drive was sitting outside, and rang the front door bell.

  Linda opened the door herself and her eyes widened when she saw who it was. 'What the hell are you doing here?' she asked. 'Don't you know how dangerous it is? Half the police in London are looking for you.'

  'Only half. Well, you can't have everything. I came to see you.'

  'Well, you've seen me. Now you can go.'

  'Don't be like that, Linda,' he said.

  'What do you mean "like that"? You run out on me and I don't hear from you for ten days, then my brother lets it slip that you're a wanted man, and now you just turn up as if nothing had happened. And looking like hell, I might add.'

  'John died.'

  'I know that. I read the papers. The funeral's today, isn't it?'

  'It's just over. Listen, can I come in?'

  'No,' she said, blocking the doorway with her body.

  'Fair enough,' he said. 'I'll say what I came to say out here.'

  'Which is?'

  'I've got to leave the country. It's too hot for me here.' She shrugged. 'That's what you always do when things get too hot for you, isn't it? Leave.'

  'Yeah,' he agreed. 'But this time it's different.' 'How?'

  'I want you to come with me.' 'Me?'

  Another nod.

  'What about the children?'

  'Bring them.'

  'You are joking.'

  'No. We could be a family.'

  'More like the authorities are looking for a man on his own, not one with a woman and two kids in tow.' 'That's unfair, Linda.'

  'Nothing's unfair when it comes to you, Mark.' 'Listen, I know I've been a bastard, but I'm so…' 'Don't say sorry,' she interrupted. 'Just bloody don't. And your girlfriend phoned.' 'Who?'

  'Who else? Martine, of course.'

  'What the hell did she want?'

  'To tell me you two had slept together.'

  'And you believed her?'

  'Why shouldn't I?'

  'Because it's not true. I've never slept with her in my life.' 'Then why did she tell me you had?'

  'Use your loaf, Linda. To split us up once and for all. She blames me

  for her father's death. She tried it on one night and I slung her out. You've heard about "a woman scorned"?'

  'I've been that woman.'

  'I know. But it's not true. What do I have to do to make you believe me?'

  'We're past all that. I don't care anymore.'

  'Are you sure?'

  'I've never been more sure of anything in my life.'

  'So you won't come?'

  'Just leave all this?' She gestured back inside.

  'A house in Croydon? When I met you that was the worst case scenario. You didn't want to end up like your parents, and now you have.'

  'It's a bit different, Mark.'

  'I don't see it.'

  'Well, it is. And you just want me to leave everything and go abroad. Go where abroad, exactly?'

  'Not Spain. Too many villains. Portugal maybe. South of France.'

  'And what do we do for money?'

  'I've got some. You must have loads. You could sell the house. It's worth a bloody fortune.'

  'You're having a laugh, aren't you, Mark? You expect me sell everything to bankroll our life together?'

  'Until I get myself straight.'

  'Which means until you get involved in some other bloody villainy and end up going away.'

  'I haven't gone away yet.'

  'But you will. And I'll be left living in one room with two children.'

  'I don't think it'll come down to one room, Linda,' he said. 'I think we can do better than that for ourselves.'

  'We'll never know, because I'm not coming.'

  'If you can't come now, you could follow me later,' he said with one last try.

  'No, Mark. And if you don't go now I'm going to tell Sean you're here. He's up in his flat.'

  He laughed then. 'Running to big brother, eh? Grassing me up. I don't think so. Not after all we've been to each other,' he said and shook his head. 'OK, Linda. Fair enough. But don't say I didn't ask this time.'

  'I won't,' she said. 'Goodbye, Mark.'

  'Goodbye,' he replied, turned on his heel and crunched across the wet drive and back into the Range Rover, not caring if Sean saw him or not. He sat for a moment, deep in thought. He'd only loved five women in his life and none of them were here for him now. His mum and Hazel were dead, Lan was God knows where, and Linda and Martine, for different reasons, didn't want to know him. That's the way it goes, he thought, switching on the engine, pointing the nose of Range Rover south towards the sea and what lay beyond. He put his foot down.

  'But I'll be back,' he said aloud. 'Count on it.'

  But if he could have seen through the walls into Linda's house - where she stood in the hallway, head bowed, one hand on the bannister rail for support - he would have seen the tears running unchecked down her face at the thought of losing him… again.

  Chapter 28

  On the morning that Jimmy Hunter was released from Brixton Prison, there was no welcoming committee. No bells and whistles. No streamers, balloons and bunting hanging from the trees. Not even that old staple of a million films and TV shows, the best mate waiting in a flash car with a bottle of champagne, cigars, a change of clothes and two horny tarts up for anything. Jimmy didn't have a best mate. Or any mate, for that matter.

  He walked down the long road from the prison gate to Brixton Hill in the early morning light. Under one arm was a brown paper parcel, and in his pocket, £27.86. He walked alone. Other prisoners had been released that sunny, spring morning, but he left them to it as they met with friends and loved ones. He was soon standing alone on the corner, watching the rush hour traffic moving towards central
London.

  And that traffic. It hadn't been like this the last time he'd driven through London as a free man. Even the buses had changed - apart from the occasional, ancient Routemaster. Oh yes, he remembered them all right, and the part the traditional London double-decker had played in his downfall. Now, most buses seemed to be big, smog-spewing driver-only vehicles with their doors shut tight. He waited for a break in the traffic, crossed over and cut through the back streets, away from the crowded main road. If truth be told, although he would never have admitted it, the busy thoroughfares scared him slightly, used as he was to being alone for most of the day in his cell. Being a local boy, he'd known those streets like the back of his hand, and he remembered them well, although they had changed too. Instead of the rooming houses, crumbling bedsits and drug dealer's cribs that were once there, they'd been smartened up. Gentrified, was the word he recalled from countless newspaper articles he'd re whilst inside.

  Jimmy had kept up. To do otherwise would have been to ossify, and he'd had no intention of doing that. So he'd spent as much time as possible in the library devouring the daily papers. Not the tabloids, but the broadsheets that he'd never had the time for before. He knew what had been happening in society whilst he'd been away, and that scared him too - though once again, he'd never own up to it. So he shook his head as he walked, puffing on a tailor-made cigarette bought with what seemed like a terrifyingly large chunk of his available cash from the first newsagent he'd come to.

  Eventually he sat on the wall of a council estate and took stock. He'd served his sentence in full, but as a convicted murderer he was still on licence. Fat chance! He had with him the address of a hostel and the time of an appointment with a parole officer at an office in Streatham. Bugger that, he thought. He was in the wind and meant to stay there. He was free. He smiled, though he felt as if his face would crack, finished the cigarette down to the filter and tossed it into the gutter, along with the paper with the addresses, torn into tiny pieces.

  I wonder if I could get nicked for littering? he thought and laughed out loud. So loud, in fact, that several passersby looked at him sideways.

  He started to pick up his parcel, then stopped to think again. He looked. around until he saw a skip outside a house, strode over and tossed his bundle inside. There was nothing of meaning or value to him in it. Just a reminder of twenty wasted years.

  So Jimmy Hunter, alone now with just what he stood up in, was ready to take on the world. And the first thing he needed was a bloody good drink and somebody to share it with. And for that he'd need some cash and he knew exactly where to get it… or, at least, he hoped he did.

  Even before that he needed a bite to eat. He'd forgone the delicacies of a prison breakfast before he was released, just taking a mug of dishwater tea. A couple of streets away he found a dingy cafe. At least greasies hadn't changed, he thought as he entered. He ordered a full English with double egg and a mug of tea and took a seat in a quiet corner.

  The food tasted like ambrosia after what he'd been eating for two decades. He scoffed the lot, lit another cigarette and sat back satisfied. This is the life, he thought, and his stomach clenched more from regret at what he'd wasted than from the gourmet breakfast, which, once again, seemed to be ten times more expensive than he remembered.

  He left the cafe and caught sight of himself in the window as he passed. The suit he was wearing, the same one that he'd bought for the trial, with its wide lapels and slight flare to the trousers, looked ridiculous compared with the sharp fashions the Brixton men were wearing that morning. It's gotta go, he thought. Got to get some new threads. With this thought in mind he caught a bus for the City where he hoped an old friend still had his business.

  Gerry Goldstein, another old mod, wasn't so much a friend as an accomplice in various nefarious goings on before Jimmy had been captured for the last time. He ran a diamond import/export company in Hatton Garden and was as known for his early hours as much as he was for his expertise in the jewellery business. Not to mention other endeavours that netted him sums that neither his accountant nor the Inland Revenue were aware of.

  Jimmy hopped from bus to bus to get to the centre of town. There was no rush and he wanted to get a taste of London as it now was. It was amazing what had changed and what had remained the same, and, as he sat on the top deck of each vehicle, he was stunned at some of the things he saw. Of course, he'd seen photographs of the way London had expanded upwards and outwards over the years, but no photo could do justice to the shiny new buildings that passed in front of his eyes as he made the journey.

  The City in particular was like nothing he remembered. The new bars and restaurants, the way pubs had strange new names. And the birds. Christ, he thought, as he sat next to beautiful, fragrant young women on their way to work, they're gorgeous. In fact, several times he had to pull his jacket over his lap to hide the erection that had arrived unbidden.

  Eventually he reached High Holborn and disembarked. The old Daily

  Mirror Building had gone, and whatever had been opposite it had been replaced by a brand new skyscraper. The red brick of the Prudential building still stood at the side of Leather Lane and he turned into it and on towards Hatton Garden.

  Goldstein's shop was one of the things that hadn't changed, and Jimmy smiled inwardly as he saw its familiar facade. I hope the fucker isn't brown bread, he thought as he approached. Inside a dim light burned, but there was a CLOSED sign on the glass door.

  Jimmy rapped hard on the glass with his knuckles. Nothing. Then again and, from the twilight at the back of the shop, a rotund figure emerged. Jimmy peered in. Could this rather overweight gentleman be the. same Gerry Goldstein who'd danced the night away to the sounds of Tamla Motown in clubs from Kensington to Kensal Rise all those years ago? But the sharp eyes that peered back were the same. The figure tapped his watch as if to say 'Too early, come back later', but Jimmy shook his head.

  Impatiently the figure pointed at the sign showing the hours of business were from nine to three on that particular day of the week.

  Jimmy shook his head again and the figure pointed again. This time to the entry phone next to the door. Jimmy nodded and pushed the button. The figure moved away and a moment later a voice that could have been anyone's emerged from the speaker. 'We're closed,' it said. 'Come back after nine.'

  'Is that you, Gerry?' said Jimmy.

  'Yes.'

  'Christ, but you've changed.'

  'Who's this?' demanded the voice, and even the poor reception couldn't disguise the suspicion in it.

  'Jimmy Hunter. Remember me?'

  The voice was silent for a long time before saying: 'Jimmy? I don't believe it.'

  'Believe it. Now open up, mate, you've got something that belongs to me.'

  Goldstein approached the door and Jimmy heard the sound of multiple locks and chains being undone before it swung inwards and Goldstein beckoned him in. 'Christ, Jimmy, I wouldn't have known you.'

  'Or me you,' said Jimmy as the door closed behind him and the gloom deepened.

  There were no handshakes or hugs. No questions about where he'd been or what he'd been doing. Gerry knew precisely where he'd been because he had been sitting in court at the Bailey when Jimmy had been sentenced. Jimmy had caught his eye before being taken down and a small nod had passed between the two of them.

  But that had been twenty years before, and things and people changed. Not just the appearances of two men now firmly in middle age, but other things too. Loyalty, for instance. 'Why didn't you let me know you were coming out?' asked Goldstein.

  'Couldn't you work it out for yourself?'

  'I suppose so. But time flies, and…'

  'And out of sight, out of mind. Right?' said Jimmy.

  'I'm sorry, Jimmy,' said Goldstein. 'But we always said we'd have no communication. I just thought that as your time came to an end…'

  'Have you still got it?' asked Jimmy. He didn't need small talk from Gerry, just what he was owed. 'What do you think?' Ger
ry replied. 'Come through, the kettle's on.'

  They went through the shop into Gerry's office at the back, which itself seemed the same to Jimmy as the last time he'd dropped by. Only the computer and other electronic gadgetry on the desk beside the tiny, filthy barred window was new. Jimmy looked at the bars and didn't like what he saw. It reminded him too much of his recent accommodation. No more bars, he thought. Only those that serve booze. He smiled at the thought and Gerry asked, 'Something funny?'

  'No. I'm just glad you're still here.'

  'They've tried to move me a thousand times,' replied the jeweller. 'But I've got a firm lease.'

  'I'm pleased to hear it. I've been moved a few times myself.'

  'So I heard. How are you anyway?'

  'Older, wiser, poorer. But then I hope you can help me with that.'

  Goldstein smiled like an old granpappy about to produce a present for his favourite offspring. 'Maybe I can,' he said.

  'I hope there's no maybe about it.'

  'Of course not. But you understand I've had some expenses.'

  Jimmy looked round the dingy office. 'Expenses. Like what, you old skinflint?'

  'Careful now, Jimmy.'

  'Don't careful me. Tell me what you've got.'

  'Everything you left me and more. This is not some cheap film Jimmy, where I've had it off with your loot and you kill me. Besides, you're on candid camera.'

  Jimmy looked up into the corner where a baleful red light, like Satan's eye, glowed.

  'CCTV,' said Goldstein. 'A marvel of the modern age.'

  'I've seen it before,' said Jimmy. 'They have them in prison you know.'

  'Of course. But let's get down to business, shall we? Take a seat, Jimmy.'

  Jimmy did as was suggested whilst Goldstein, whistling gently between his teeth, made tea and presented the cup, together with a plateful of digestive biscuits. 'I've eaten,' said Jimmy.

  'Just politeness,' said Goldstein. 'It's rare I see anyone from the good old days.'

  'Me neither,' said Jimmy. 'But I intend to rectify that soon.'

  'And not make their lives any brighter, I'll be bound,' said Goldstein.