Guns Of Brixton

by Mark Timlin

  'I reckon it's been a while since you had a woman.' 'You're a clever little fucker, ain't you? But don't get too clever for your own good.'

  The boy ignored the implied threat. 'Been away?' he asked, and instead of giving him a cuff for his cheek, Jimmy nodded. 'A long time?' 'Too long.'

  'Thought so. You're kind of pale.'

  'I'll give you pale, arsehole. Don't get smart with me or you'll be sorry.' 'I'll get you sorted, don't worry,' said the boy, not missing a beat. 'But it'll cost ya.' 'I've got dough,' growled Jimmy.

  'You could've fooled me. It's been a long time since anyone gave me a quid as a tip.'

  'Don't worry, you're making up for it now,' said Jimmy. 'So when do you want this bird?' asked the boy. 'Tonight. Are you working?'

  'Never stop,' said the boy. 'Got me old mum to keep.' Somehow the boy reminded Jimmy of himself at the same age. 'How long you want her for?' 'All night.'

  'Two fifty plus my commish.' 'Fucking Ada,' said Jimmy.

  'But the bird I've got in mind is worth it. A lovely girl. Natural blonde and doesn't give a monkeys what she does.' 'Sounds all right.'

  'A gram of coke would help, of course,' said the boy.

  'I bet. How much?'

  'Fifty for the best, plus my commish.'

  'How much are you making out of all this then?' asked Jimmy. 'Fifty nicker will cover my trouble.' 'On top of the tenner?'

  'What tenner?'

  Jimmy smiled again and counted out five more notes. 'Now you vanish on me and I'll find you, and your old mum won't recognise you.'

  'Do I look like that sort of bloke?' asked the boy with such a degree of indignation that Jimmy laughed out loud.

  'No,' he said. 'I trust you. Thousands wouldn't. I'm off out today but I want her in my room by seven thirty tonight. And a couple of bottles of champagne on ice. Right?'

  'Right,' said the boy. 'I tell you what, I'll get the bubbly in from outside. Half the price of what you'd pay here.'

  'Plus your commish,' said Jimmy.

  'Bloody right.'

  Jimmy hung around the area for the rest of the day. Just clocking events and trying not to think too much about what he was going to do once he returned to south London.

  At seven thirty he was in his room, out on the balcony with a glass of cold white wine. A minute later, there was a knock on the door. He opened it to find a tall, good looking blonde in a trenchcoat waiting outside. 'Mr Hunter?' she asked.

  'That's right,' he said. 'But call me Jimmy. Come in.'

  She entered, bringing with her an aroma of something expensive. He breathed it in and enjoyed the fact that it was perfume meant to entice him and no one else. He helped her out of her coat and hung it up. Underneath, she was wearing a simple black dress and dark nylons, all the better to show off her spectacular, curvy figure and long legs. 'I'm Jane,' she said. 'And I'm all yours.'

  'That's great,' said Jimmy, almost stammering. Christ, he was feeling nervous. Not like the great Jimmy Hunter at all. 'Drink?' he asked.

  'Please. But first, if you're happy with what you see, can we get the horrid money part out of the way first. Then we can relax.'

  Jimmy smiled. He was beginning to like Jane. 'Sure,' he said.

  'Two fifty. Right?'

  'Perfect.' He counted out the money from his fast shrinking supply and dropped it on the dresser. She picked it up - didn't count it again, he was glad to see - and popped it into her purse. Probably right next to the can of mace, he thought.

  'How long does that last?' he asked.

  'Until you come.'

  'Is that all?'

  She made a moue with her mouth.

  'Suppose I want you to stay all night?'

  'Then that's extra.'

  'How much?'

  'A oner.'

  What the hell, thought Jimmy. You don't get out of jail every day of the week. Or in fact, of two decades. So with a grin he counted out five more twenty pound notes. 'There you go,' he said. She put it with the rest in her bag.

  'Until the morning then, unless I wear you out first.' She smiled.

  'You might do that,' he said. 'It's been a while.'

  'You've been away?' she said.

  Was it that obvious to everyone? he thought, but then, maybe the bell boy had given her the SP.

  'Yes.'

  'Well, don't worry, I'll break you back in gently. Now did you say something about a drink?'

  'Champagne,' he said. True to his promise the boy had arranged for two bottles of bubbly and they nestled in a huge ice-filled silver bucket on the dresser.

  'My favourite. Oh and I brought this.' She went back to her bag and brought out a small envelope. 'Terry gave it to me to give to you.'

  Terry must be the boy, thought Jimmy as he cracked open the wrap and found a quantity of white powder. 'Do you?' he asked.

  'Does the Pope wear a dress?'

  'Yes,' replied Jimmy. 'But he doesn't fill it like you.'

  'Compliments,' she said. 'I think we're going to get along just fine, Jimmy. You're a real gentleman.' 'I try to be.' He opened the champagne whilst she cut out four generous lines of coke on the coffee table with her credit card.

  'After you,' she said. 'It's your beak.'

  Jimmy hadn't tasted cocaine as good as that for years. The stuff inside had been cut to the quick, but this stuff was primo, as he discovered when he took a snort. 'Jesus Christ,' he said. 'That's good.'

  Jane followed his example and snarfed up her two lines quicker than it takes to tell. 'Fabulous,' she said. 'Is there any music?'

  Jimmy found an FM station on the radio that played cocktail Jazz and slid the volume control to low, then said: 'I thought we'd have some dinner, if you fancy it.'

  'You're treating me like a queen, Jimmy,' she said. 'I'd love some, but we'd better lay off the coke or I'll lose my appetite. But not, of course, for sex. It's my favourite pastime.'

  Jimmy grinned and gave her the room service menu.

  They ordered steaks and salads each, with a bottle of red wine. And while they were waiting, they finished the first bottle of champagne. 'This is like a proper date,' said Jane, as she sipped her drink.

  'Do you mind?'

  'Not at all. It makes a nice change from some of my punters. They're coming in their pants before I'm in the room.'

  'You learn patience where I've been,' said Jimmy.

  'Well, I'm glad there's no rush,' said Jane.

  'Waiting makes it more fun,' said Jimmy, and she agreed.

  The food came about thirty minutes later and they ate at the table overlooking the square. The sun had set and the lights and music were low and Jimmy could almost forget the previous twenty years, in the company of a such beautiful young woman.

  When the dishes were empty and the trolley pushed out into the corridor, Jimmy put out the DO NOT DISTURB sign and Jane cut out more cocaine. In the haze of drugs and alcohol Jimmy forgot his previous nervousness and couldn't wait to fuck her.

  It was better than he'd ever expected. She slid out of her dress and was wearing hooker's underwear. Brief, black and shiny with suspenders holding up her nylons. It was a convict's wet dream, and she did anything he wanted, plus some things he'd never tried before, even though she insisted he wear a condom. The hours flew by, but eventually they both fell into an exhausted sleep. As they were screwing, Jane noticed the scars from the bullet wounds he'd sustained that fateful morning in Brixton. 'Looks like you've been in the wars, Jimmy,' she said.

  'A bit.'

  She touched the one on his stomach and he flinched. 'Don't be afraid,' she said. 'I won't hurt you,' and she kissed it gently.

  It was a strange feeling for Jimmy. In all his time inside, no one but the doctors had touched those scars. 'I'm not afraid,' he replied. 'It's just bad memories.'

  'Tell me about them sometime,' she said. 'But now, fuck me again.' Which he did.

  Dawn was breaking when Jane shook him awake. 'Sorry, Jimmy, time to go,' she said. 'Unless you want to pay double.'


  Jimmy shook his head. The night had been everything he'd wanted, but it was time for business again. 'You were great,' he said. 'Can we do it again sometime?'

  'If you've got the money, I've got the time,' she said and gave him her card. 'Not everyone gets one of these,' she said. 'Only special customers.'

  'Do you mind a bit of a journey?' he asked.

  'Not in the least,' said Jane. 'Call me anytime.' And she kissed him, grabbed her coat and she was gone, leaving him in bed feeling as if he were twenty years old again.

  That morning Jimmy bought a suitcase and packed it carefully with his clothes. It was time to start sorting out his life, and the first call was on Gerry Goldstein to get the rest of his cash. Jimmy settled his bill at the hotel and left his bag, ready to pick up later. It was a cool morning and he wore his new overcoat for the walk from Russell Square to Hatton Garden. Lights were on in Goldstein's shop and he rang the bell. When the disembodied voice answered, he identified himself and the door clicked open. Goldstein got up from his seat as Jimmy entered the office.

  'James,' he said, feeling the cashmere. 'Nice nanny.'

  'It'll do. Have you got my money?'

  'Of course.' He pulled a thick envelope from his pocket and gave it to Jimmy. Jimmy sat and checked the notes inside. Ten grand to the penny. 'Good,' he said.

  'What are your plans?' asked Goldstein after he'd taken his seat again.

  'That could depend on you, Gerry,' replied Jimmy.

  'How so?'

  'You used to set up jobs. Is there anything happening?'

  'With all due respect, Jimmy, aren't you a bit old to be going back into business?'

  'Never you mind about that. Is there anything in the wind or what?'

  'Jimmy,' said Goldstein settling back and making a steeple of his fingers. 'Times have changed. I'm sure you've noticed. Since the advent of this thing…' he touched the monitor of his computer, '…most blagging is done electronically. It's so much easier and harder to detect. Going over the pavement has gone out of fashion.'

  'Don't lecture me, Gerry,' said Hunter. 'We did get newspapers in prison. All I want is to do a blag, get some cash and straighten my life out. I've got things to do, people to look up. But I need more than a miserable ten grand. Now I don't want to get heavy with you. At least you gave me some of my money back.'

  Goldstein made conciliatory noises.

  'Don't fuck with me, Gerry,' Jimmy Hunter went on. 'I know you ripped me off but I'll let that go for now. What I want you to do is keep your ear to the ground. I can still hold a gun, so when you hear of someone putting a firm together put my name forward. Otherwise…' Jimmy didn't finish the sentence but Gerry Goldstein got the message.

  'OK, Jimmy, I'll see what I can do.'

  'Fine. You've got a mobile phone?'

  'Of course.'

  'Give me the number and I'll keep in touch.' 'Very well, but I don't get around like I used to.'

  'Then start again.'

  'OK, Jimmy,' and Goldstein jotted a number on the back of one of his business cards.

  Jimmy took it and carefully placed it in his pocket. Then he rose and left the shop, walked back to the hotel, picked up his case and hailed a cab outside. 'Brixton,' he told the cabbie. 'Just by the Town Hall.'

  When Jimmy Hunter had gone, for the second time that week, Gerry Goldstein called the number he'd memorised. Once more it took half a dozen rings to be answered. 'He's been and gone,' said the jeweller. 'Took the rest of his dough.'

  'And?'

  'You were right. He's looking for work.'

  'Terrific. You know what to do now, don't you?'

  'Yes.'

  'Then do it. I'll be around soon to look at the tapes you've made. Keep them safe.'

  'I will.'

  'Of course you will, Gerry. Now just get on with your life and everything will be fine.'

  'I hope so.'

  'Make sure of it.'

  And without a farewell, the phone clicked off in Goldstein's ear.

  Chapter 29

  Jimmy Hunter received a call on a new mobile he'd bought two days later. He'd only given the number to Gerry Goldstein.

  He was drinking a pint in the pub on the corner of the street where he'd recently rented a flat. When the cab had dropped him off in Brixton, he'd found a backstreet accommodation agency run by a very attractive black woman, who'd fixed him up with a one-bedroom conversion over a carpet shop just behind Brixton Hill, close to the old windmill and with a view of the prison walls. That appealed to his sense of humour. Jimmy and the woman had got on well, especially once she'd felt the material of his cashmere overcoat when she'd hung it on the rack in her office. She'd driven him to the flat in her Ford Fiesta, and he'd moved in there and then. He'd paid the deposit, security fee and one month's rent in advance, in cash. Jimmy noticed that she'd also admired his money roll, and he wondered if maybe he should give her a ring and ask her out on a date. The amount he'd forked out would've probably bought the whole building when he was a boy.

  The call came about noon. The day was stretched out before him like a new roll of off-white, harsh, prison-issue toilet paper. 'Hunter?' said a voice he didn't recognise.

  'Who wants to know?'

  'Don't be aggressive, Mr Hunter,' said the voice. 'I understand you're looking for work.'

  'What kind of work?'

  'And obtuse as well. Never mind, I'm sure we'll end up the best of friends.'

  'Who are you?'

  'Just call me Bob. Gerry Goldstein gave me your number.'

  'Yeah?'

  'Yes. He said we should meet.'

  'Why?'

  'There you go again. You've been in prison too long, Mr Hunter. You've got to learn to trust people.'

  'Is that so?'

  'Indeed it is. Now, it seems to me that you're far too old for the kind of work you want, but as it's you, we're prepared to make an exception.

  'Who's we?' interrupted Hunter.

  'All in good time. As I was saying, I don't know if you are aware of the way things are. Times have changed. It's rough out here in the world these days, Mr Hunter. Maybe too rough for a gentleman of your advancing years.'

  'I'll manage. I always have.'

  'Fair enough. But I must show you the kind of people you're liable to get involved with.'

  'Go on then.'

  'Right. I'm off on a bit of a jaunt tonight. Do you fancy accompanying me?'

  'What kind of jaunt?'

  'Oh, don't let's spoil the surprise. Where are you?'

  'South London.'

  'A big place. Can you get to the Isle of Dogs?'

  'Suppose so.'

  'There's a pub in Sugar Street, just off Manchester Road. It's called The Sad And Lonely Hunter. You won't forget that name in a hurry, will you?'

  'If you're taking the…'

  'Don't, Mr Hunter. Don't let my attitude get in the way of profit, and I won't let yours. Be at the pub by ten tonight. We're all off to Essex for a jolly.'

  'No joke.'

  'Not at all.'

  'How will I know you?'

  'That's better. You won't need to. I'll know you. Or someone else will. You're quite famous, in your own way.'

  Hunter was silent for a moment. 'All right,' he said. 'I'll be there.'

  'And don't worry, transport will be arranged to get you home.'

  Just as well, thought Jimmy as he killed the connection. He was without wheels and, by the state of the driving he'd noticed on his travels around London, he'd need a lot more practice before he wanted to get behind the wheel again.

  He arrived early at the street where the pub was located. It had been a convoluted journey involving bus, tube, Docklands Light Railway and another bus. It was a bloody nuisance. If he'd known, he'd've invested in a cab, but by the time he got there it was too late to worry about things like that. And the new Docklands was a revelation. He used to come to the Island in the 60s when it was a working river and one attraction was the drag acts that played the
boozers. Then the quaysides were busy, with cargo constantly being lifted on and off boats; now the cranes were only used as decoration or for building new offices and flats for the people who worked in the offices. He hated to admit it, but the man calling himself Bob on the phone had been right. Times had changed, and he felt like he'd been left behind.

  The pub he was looking for was at the far end of Sugar Street, close by the river. A mist lay lightly on the water and turned the lights to puffs of fluorescence. As Jimmy watched, a pleasure boat appeared silently through the fog. It appeared to float above the river, fairy lights gleaming along the cabin and, for a moment Jimmy imagined it was the spirit of the doomed Marchioness, moving in and out with the tides, its crew of ghostly revellers still looking for justice after all this time. But then the wind direction changed and he heard Dancing Queen by Abba bouncing across its wake, and he knew that it was real. Jesus, he thought, what's wrong with me? He turned his attention back to the Sad And Lonely Hunter public house. It looked as if it had seen better days, with peeling paint and a neon sign in the window for a beer that had gone out of production years before. But outside was parked maybe a quarter of a million quid's worth, maybe more, of fancy four-wheel drive machines that, to judge from their sparkling paintwork, had never been further off road than Tesco's car park.

  Jimmy stood in the shadows and lit a cigarette, hiding the light by turning his back, and surveyed the scene.

  Another monster truck was just parking up and four boisterous, well heeled punters tumbled out and hit the bar.

  Jimmy couldn't understand what was going on and felt a nag of disquiet. But he needed money and, as ten o'clock approached, he headed for the pub and pushed open the door marked 'Saloon Bar'.

  A crash of music and voices greeted him as he entered. It was hot in the bar, an unseasonable open fire burned merrily, the stereo pumped out dance music at top volume. And it was packed. Heaving with a mostly male clientele, all looking like they could afford to drink in establishments far better than this. Jimmy stood silently in the doorway. He still wasn't used to crowds, or noise - this place was full of both - and he felt like turning around and leaving.

  Suddenly, a man appeared in front of him. He was tall, well built, in an expensive, hip-length suede jacket, about forty, with green eyes and a goatee beard. 'Jimmy, isn't it?' he said above the racket.