Guns Of Brixton

by Mark Timlin

  Jimmy Hunter nodded. He felt like this was some kind of trap and he was the victim.

  'Bob,' said the man, not shaking hands. 'We're in the corner. Come and join us. Drink?'

  'A beer,' shouted Jimmy as he followed the man to the bar where a bottle of Beck's appeared as if by magic and was pressed into Jimmy's hand.

  They walked to the table, where another man sat. Younger, shorter, stockier. And hard, like Bob was hard.

  'Jimmy Hunter,' said Bob as they sat. 'Tony. Tony Green.'

  The younger man nodded.

  Jimmy looked round the room. It was stifling and he eased out of the new leather jacket he'd bought that afternoon in one of the new, trendy menswear shops that had sprung up in Brixton. Five ton it had cost him but it looked and felt the business.

  'Don't worry,' said Bob. 'We'll be off soon.'

  'Where are we going?' asked Jimmy. He didn't like the idea of just going off to Essex - he knew there were too many bodies buried there in unmarked graves and under motorway extensions. He'd also heard a whisper that, for an unspecified sum, the furnace door at the old Ford factory in Dagenham could be left open for a quick and clean cremation, no questions asked.

  'Don't worry,' said Bob again. 'You won't come to any harm with us. You spoke to Gerry?'

  Jimmy Hunter nodded. He'd been on the phone to the jeweller as soon as he'd spoken to Bob earlier. Goldstein had assured him that he was to be trusted, even if he was a little flaky in his approach.

  'That's all right then. Chill out, Jimmy. Drink your beer. They're starting to leave.'

  The pub was emptying and outside the sound of powerful motors being revved was easy to hear. 'We don't all go at once,' explained Bob. 'And we don't go in convoy. Everyone goes more or less a different way. We don't want to attract too much attention.'

  'Where we going then?' asked Jimmy.

  'Just wait,' said Bob. 'You won't be disappointed.'

  Jimmy looked at Tony Green, who just raised his eyebrows.

  'What about this job then?' said Jimmy. 'I'm boracic.' He wasn't, but with jackets costing a monkey, he soon would be.

  'Not quite, according to Mr G,' said Bob. 'Although I don't blame you for keeping your light under a bushel. And don't worry, we're not after stealing your stash.'

  'It would hardly be worth it,' said Jimmy and he took a suck on the bottle of beer.

  'Tony,' said Bob.

  Tony nodded, and Bob said, 'Come on then, Jimmy. Time to go.'

  They left their drinks and went outside, where Bob opened up a big

  Dodge Ram truck and they climbed aboard, Tony taking the driver's seat, Bob next to him, and Jimmy sitting in the back. Tony switched on the ignition and the dashboard lit up like a NASA control panel. The engine started with a distinctive V8 rumble and they moved away from the kerb. For such a workmanlike vehicle, the interior of the truck was pure luxury and Jimmy sank back into the leather upholstery as Bob switched on the music system and from all around him came the sound of vintage Rolling Stones.

  They headed east, picking up the A13 at Poplar, then the All, until they joined the A12 at Ilford and drove, in silence except for the music, towards the east coast. Although Bob had said they didn't want to attract attention, Tony never let the big truck drop below the speed limit, flashing his brights at anyone in the way and it seemed like no time at all before they hit the Colchester ring road and moved into wild and woolly Essex badlands. Bob saw Jimmy's discomfort as Tony put on the full beams to light the darkness outside. 'Nearly there, and nothing much happens until the witching hour.'

  Jimmy watched as the hedges rushed by the sides of the truck, the roads turned to lanes and became progressively narrower until twigs scraped the paintwork. Suddenly they turned through high gates and stopped as a guard came out of his hut and shone a torch into the cab. He nodded them through and they headed up a drive that opened into a circle, inside of which sat a huge barn illuminated by spotlights. All the four by fours that had been parked up outside the pub, plus a selection of other luxury cars, were standing empty, and a trail of men plus a few women were heading towards the barn.

  'What is it?' asked Jimmy. 'Cock fighting?'

  'Better than that,' replied Bob.

  'Dog fights, bare knuckle? What?'

  'Or all of the above,' said Bob. 'You're getting very warm.'

  They exited the truck and headed towards the barn. Inside its cavernous interior, rough bleachers had been built of untreated pine around a huge sawdust-covered ring, walled with more pine to the height of an average man's shoulders. The whole place smelled of rotten meat and disinfectant, cheap perfume and testosterone. A massive PA system had been set up and was thundering out a drum and bass anthem that set Jimmy's teeth on edge.

  Jimmy had witnessed all of those scenes he'd mentioned. Cocks that fought to the death, dogs that did the same, and men, stripped to the waist who went at each other with bare fists until only one was left standing. But even he wasn't quite ready for what he about to see that evening.

  'Somebody owes me money,' said Tony Green, and he vanished into the crowd of people waiting to take their seats and treating themselves to drinks from cans and hip flasks as they queued. Those already seated were snarfing up various powders that could have been speed or coke or smack or almost anything that would get them high.

  'So, Jimmy,' said Bob, taking him to one side. 'These are the sort of people you'll be mixing with if you come in with us. The new rich. The new movers and shakers who'll do anything for pleasure. Scum, most of them with too much money and not enough brains. The geezers are morons and the women are whores. They make me want to fucking puke.'

  Jimmy shrugged. 'I don't care as long as there's money to be made.'

  'Oh, there's that,' said Bob. 'But at what price?'

  There was obviously plenty of money inside the barn as bookmakers were screaming odds and punters were almost throwing cash at them in the excitement of what was about to happen.

  Jimmy and Bob took seats up in the gods and, as the lights above the spectators dimmed, spotlights beamed into the ring, bleaching it almost white.

  The music ground to a halt and a booming male voice introduced himself as the master of ceremonies for the evening, and wished everyone in the building the luck they deserved. At that, Bob cracked a bitter little smile.

  'And now,' said the MC, 'for the first event of the night, let's all put our hands together for a visitor from up north where the nights are long and the skirts are short, an old favourite down here at the barn. The one and very only, Mr Clubb.'

  A gap appeared in the wall around the ring as a door opened and a huge man, stripped to the waist wearing tights and wrestling boots entered the ring. Around his waist was a bodybuilder's belt which included a codpiece to cover his privates, and his arms were protected by thick leather tied with laces. Around his bald head was a tartan bandanna. The crowd roared its approval at his entrance and he bowed from the waist, then raised both fists like prize fighters used to do in old photos as if to say 'Come on, if you think you're hard enough'. What Jimmy had first taken for fat coating his torso, gleaming with oil, now appeared as thick slabs of muscle, and every visible inch of his hide seemed to be covered in tattoos and scars. He struck more poses and reminded Jimmy of prisoners he'd met inside: gym freaks gone mental on steroids.

  The crowd settled down as the man swaggered around the ring, the spotlights making shadows dance all around him. Then a huge bull terrier appeared from out of the shadows, straining on its leash.

  Christ thought Jimmy. Man versus dog. He'd heard about this kind of fighting in jail, but never thought he'd witness it first hand.

  If Jimmy had thought the man was scarred, the dog was worse. Its head had been so badly cut that his skull was clearly visible through the short hairs on its scalp, its ears were mere shreds of gristle, its back and flanks had been so cut and ripped, stitched and stapled that it resembled some hound from hell. And if he was the owner of a doggie soul then that too w
ould have been scarred, Jimmy thought, for the dog had obviously been driven into a permanent fury. He - by the size of the bollocks hanging low between his legs, it was obvious the dog was male - growled and spat at the crowd and at Clubb, and at his minder, and as far as Jimmy could tell, at himself. He was thirty odd pounds of pure hatred, ready to kill the first thing he could get hold of. But it never barked and Jimmy just knew that someone had operated on the dog's throat to prevent it doing so.

  Jimmy felt a strange affinity with the brute. Around his neck was a thick leather collar, covered in spikes, which looked as if they had been sharpened to points; they sparkled under the lights, as if tipped with diamonds. His legs were protected by laced leather, rather like that on

  Clubb's arms, and the same went for his docked tail - though whether it had been docked or bitten off in some previous battle Jimmy didn't know. But more frightening were the metal spurs attached to the back of its legs, and the huge silver fangs that somehow had been attached to its jaws. This was a genuinely scary sight, and even Jimmy, tough as he was, could hardly suppress a shudder.

  The dog was pulling so hard on the choke chain that kept him in check, that his owner was almost pulled into the ring after him.

  The voice of the MC continued: 'And tonight, Mr Clubb is taking on an old favourite of ours, the wonderful Bullseye from Colchester, killer of over twenty dogs. Give him a great big hand, or should it be a great big paw?'

  Applause burst from every corner, the betting was getting more frenetic, and Bob was jiggling in his seat from excitement. Christ knew what chemicals he'd been ingesting whilst Jimmy wasn't looking.

  'Right, ladies and gentlemen,' continued the MC. 'Tonight we are privileged to witness - by public demand - a battle to the death between man and beast. No holds barred. Let the contest commence.'

  Bullseye's handler slipped the leash and the dog leapt forward, climbing up Clubb's torso, heading straight for his throat, using the spurs for grip, baring those terrible metal fangs and ripping flesh as he went.

  It was almost over before it began, but Clubb punched the dog hard on the snout and the animal flew backwards, hit the wall, crashed to the ground in a spray of sawdust, rolled and came back at the man., Clubb's body was doused in blood and sweat which only added to the odour inside the room as the dog bit into his thigh through his tights, ripped off a chunk of flesh and material, shook it from side to side, drops of blood spraying like rubies. Clubb winced with pain but managed a vicious kick to the dog's side with his good foot, before limping to the side of the ring.

  The cheers turned to boos as the dog circled the man, keeping him pinned to the wall.

  'Come on, you cunt!' screamed Bob. 'We came to see a fight not a fucking dance.'

  Jimmy sat and watched as Clubb tore off his headband and wrapped it round his injured thigh. The dog, knowing the first blood was down to him, backed off slightly, growling even louder, pink foam pouring from his mouth.

  Christ, thought Jimmy. Maybe the sodding dog will kill this geezer. And it almost happened like that. Bullseye, game animal that he was, leapt again, this time fastening his jaws on Mr Clubb's left breast, biting clean through his nipple. The man screamed, the crowd echoed his cries and the dog landed on all fours and swallowed the chunk of flesh whole. Clubb : held on to his chest, his face a mask of pain and for a moment it did look like the fight was over and the dog the winner. But it was not to be. Clubb moved forward and Jimmy saw that from somewhere he'd produced a set of brass knuckledusters, which he slid on to his right hand. He wasn't the only one to see, the place erupted with noise and Jimmy couldn't work out if Clubb was breaking the 'Queensberry Rules' of man versus dog, or if the audience was giving him their backing.

  The dog leapt again, but Clubb was too quick and landed a mighty roundhouse punch with the knuckles to its jaw, which dislocated with an audible crack. Clubb was on it in a second, grabbing it by one back leg, and using its own weight to swing it round and bounce it off the wall. Then he picked it up by its tail and collar and smashed it down, back first, over his uninjured knee. If the sound from Bullseye's jaw dislocating had been loud, the sound of its spine breaking silenced the crowd. The dog was bent almost in half across Chubb's thigh, shit flying from its anus and vomit shooting from its mouth, soaking the sawdust. And from its mouth too came a high-pitched scream that froze Jimmy's blood almost solid. Its bark might've been removed, but nothing could silence that death sound, the last noise it would ever make.

  Clubb lifted the dog high above his head, faeces and puke dripping down on to his body, and threw it clear across the ring, where it lay twitching until it was still. But the spectacle wasn't over yet. The man advanced towards the terrier, picked him up and stuck his hand down its throat. With a great growl, he tore out the dog's lungs and walked around

  the ring, exhibiting them to anyone with the stomach to watch, blood and mucus comingling on the pale flesh. Finally, he dropped them at his feet and kicked the mess across the ground, before throwing Bullseye's body against the wall of the ring where the animal lay dead.

  The crowd was going mad. People who'd backed Clubb were screaming for their winnings, and the bookies were screaming about the legality - or otherwise - of the brass knucks. Jimmy could see it all going off big style when the dog's minder, obviously miffed at his pet's demise, appeared, carrying a huge wooden stave he'd found somewhere. Clubb was so busy taking his victor's bows that he didn't see what was happening until the stave smashed him around the back of the head so hard that it split in two. Clubb went cross eyed and hit the ground, where he lay next to Bullseye. Its owner then took the hound in his arms ignoring the blood and filth that coated its hide and gently held it close. Jimmy couldn't believe his eyes. Then Bob grabbed him by the arm and shouted in his ear: 'Ain't love grand? He probably used to fuck old Bullseye up the arse. Come on, we've seen enough. There's someone wants to see you.'

  'Who?' said Jimmy as Bob dragged him back towards the doors.

  'Questions, always questions, Jimmy. Be patient.'

  They climbed down from the bleachers and made their way to the front door of the barn. Bob indicated for Jimmy to take a paved track through a small copse until a huge house came into sight. 'Blimey,' said Jimmy. 'You're full of surprises. What's all this about?'

  'Used to belong to some rock star,' explained Bob. 'Forgotten now. He overspent his drug budget and it passed into the hands of the present owner.'

  'Who is?' asked Jimmy.

  'You'll see,' said Bob, and they went up to the front door, and Bob tugged on an old-fashioned bellpull. It was answered by a heavyset young bloke in a black suit and white shirt. Judging by the bulge under his left arm, Jimmy figured he'd never been to butler's school, or else he'd have got a better tailor.

  'Hello, Andy,' said Bob. 'We're expected.'

  Andy nodded and allowed them in, walking in front of them to a huge set of double doors, which he knocked on and, after a slight pause, pulled open. Bob gestured for Jimmy to enter, which he did.

  Jimmy stopped dead in his tracks. 'Blimey,' he said to the man sitting in a deep leather armchair. 'Danny Butler, is that really you?'

  Chapter 30

  Jimmy couldn't believe his eyes. Bob left, closing the door behind him, I leaving Jimmy alone with his host. Daniel Butler, the fixer for the aborted raid on the bank in Brixton over twenty years earlier, sat in an expansive leather armchair, his feet resting on a leather stool, an antique coffee table at his side, sitting on which was a balloon glass of brandy, a decanter, and an ashtray in which burned a huge cigar. He had a smile on his face as big as a half moon.

  'Christ,' said Jimmy. 'Your man said it would be a surprise, but I didn't expect this.'

  Although Butler had aged, put on weight and his hair had turned white, Jimmy would have known him anywhere. 'Danny, I don't believe this,' he said, still stunned.

  'Believe it,' said Butler, pulling himself to his feet and extending a hand that twinkled with diamonds. 'Believe it.'

&
nbsp; 'What the hell is all this then?' asked Jimmy when he'd let go of Butler's mitt and his host had waved him to a matching chair, lifted the decanter and made a quizzical face.

  Jimmy nodded a reply and Butler poured a large measure into a second glass. Jimmy took the glass, inhaled the fumes and smiled. He smiled again when he sipped the heady spirit. 'Good stuff,' he said.

  'Nothing but the best for me and mine. The wages of sin, my old friend,' Butler replied.

  'Not bad wages by the look of things,' said Jimmy. 'Better than the minimum anyway.'

  'Quite right. And how are you?'

  'I'm out. And I'm hungry.'

  'Oh, Jimmy,' said Butler.

  'Do you really want to get back into the life?'

  'I was never out of the life. Remember? I've just done a score as category A.'

  'It should never have happened,' said Butler. 'But I told you at the time it was risky taking on that bank. Remember? The out was always the weak part.'

  'I remember. But we were grassed. I remember that too.'

  'So you were.'

  Jimmy's eyes narrowed. 'Do you know who?'

  Butler smiled again. 'Of course,' he said.

  'Who?'

  'Does it matter, Jimmy? It was all a long time ago.'

  'Like yesterday to me. My life stopped that morning.'

  'So did a certain detective constable's.'

  'He was a traitor. He turned on his own.'

  'He didn't turn on John Jenner, although he knew enough to put him away for years.'

  'And Jenner knew all about him too.'

  'Thick as thieves, those two were.'

  'You can say that again. So who was it, Danny? Who blew the whistle on us?' Jimmy pressed.

  'Danny. It's been a long time since anyone's called me that. Nowadays it's Mr Butler or sir.'

  'Tell me,' said Jimmy.

  'What's the rush? You'll find out, for all the good it'll do you. Savour it. Treat it like that excellent brandy you're drinking.'