Guns Of Brixton

by Mark Timlin

  Once he'd pushed his way through the glass door of the trattoria, Jimmy saw that Butler was being seated by a skinny bloke in a black suit and white shirt, at a table set for four at the rear of the restaurant. A waiter approached him and Jimmy pointed to Butler's table and said: 'I'm meeting a friend.'

  Butler looked up as Jimmy approached. 'Punctual,' he said. 'That's good. I'm having a GT. Join me?'

  'Why not?' said Jimmy and Mr Skinny bowed and left them. Jimmy pulled back a chair and sat opposite Butler. 'Expecting company?' he asked.

  'No,' replied the white-haired man. 'I always get a big table in here. I like the room.'

  'Fair enough,' said Jimmy, taking out his cigarettes. 'Mind if I smoke?'

  'Course not. That's a good thing about Italians. They don't care if you smoke and eat at the same time. Very civilised. Not like some places these days, where they bring out the fans if you light up.'

  'I wouldn't know,' said Jimmy, putting flame to the tip of his cigarette. 'Like I said, I've been eating in for the last twenty years.'

  'But not any more,' said Butler, lowering his voice, although the opera playing softly on the music system and their distance from the other occupied tables in the restaurant would've made it impossible for anyone to eavesdrop. 'You did well, Jimmy.'

  'I didn't enjoy it. You never said that bitch would be armed. She almost shot me.'

  Butler laughed, then noticed the skinny bloke returning with their drinks and touched his lips with one finger.

  Once the glasses had been set in front of them, Skinny asked if they were ready to order, and Butler shook his head. 'I'll call you, Luigi,' he said. 'There's no rush.'

  'Of course,' said Skinny and left them alone.

  'Cheers,' said Butler raising his glass.

  'Cheers,' said Jimmy.

  'I'm sorry about that,' Butler continued. 'I didn't know she was carrying, otherwise I would've warned you.'

  'What kind of fucking woman does that?'

  'A dead one,' said Butler. 'My spies tell me the cops are baffled.'

  'And they'd know?'

  'That's what I pay them for.'

  'Good. Now, what have you got to tell me?'

  'Slow down, Jimmy,' said Butler. 'All in good time. Let's order. I told you about the veal, didn't I?'

  'Yeah. But not for me. I did a lot of reading when I was away. Books, magazines, newspapers. Anything I could get my hands on. It helped to pass the time. I know how veal calves are raised. Reminds me too much of being banged up.' He opened the huge leather-bound menu. 'I'll have minestrone and a steak.'

  'Please yourself.' Butler gestured for Skinny to come back, which he did, and took their order. Butler asked for a bottle of something Jimmy didn't recognise, but he let it go. He'd drink any old plonk. His taste buds had been destroyed by prison food.

  When the waiter - or whatever he was - had left them, Jimmy lit another cigarette and took a pull of his gin. 'My children,' he said.

  • 'Living in Croydon,' answered Butler. He took a piece of paper from inside his jacket and gave it to Jimmy. 'Linda and Sean's address.'

  Jimmy shook his head. So simple, he thought. 'And they're well?'

  'Apart from Linda being a widow and Sean being in the filth. Yes, they're fine.'

  'How old are my grandchildren?'

  Butler told him and Jimmy sighed. 'Just babies,' he said.

  'What are you going to do?' 'I don't know. Do they know about me?'

  'Of course they do. Why wouldn't they?'

  'I don't know what Marje told them. The last time I saw them they weren't much more than babies themselves.'

  'And then Marje divorced you.'

  'That's right.'

  'Didn't that piss you off?'

  'For a bit. Then I realised she'd done the right thing.'

  'You're very cool about it.'

  'It was a long time ago, Dan. And you learn to be philosophical in the shovel. That, or go mad. She did what she thought was right for herself and for them. And she was right. She was always skint. Always just about managing to scrape together to raise the fare to see me. Those bastards made it difficult for her. Always shifting me round the country from one place to another. It broke my heart to see them. In a way, I was relieved when she gave me the elbow. But I'd love to see my kids one more time. And my grandchildren…'

  'They're a gift from God.'

  'What about you?'

  'One son. He has three little ones. Two boys and a girl. He married a girl from Edinburgh he'd met at university. He does something in computers. They live in Bristol.'

  'See much of them?'

  'Yes. I make time for frequent visits.'

  'Does the boy know what you do?'

  'Not really. My wild years were over before he was born. And you know I never did time.'

  'You were lucky.'

  'I trusted the right people.'

  'And talking of that, Dan,' said Jimmy, as the starters were being served. 'I think there's something else you were going to tell me.'

  'Indeed I was,' said Butler as he spooned Parmesan over his soup. 'Remember Dave Nicholls?' 'Yeah, course.'

  Butler pulled a wry face.

  'Dave?' said Jimmy, his minestrone untouched. 'Never.'

  'It's a fact.'

  'You're kidding me.'

  'I've never been more serious in my life.'

  'And then he got run over. Fuck me. But why? He was a good lad. Staunch. And how do you know?'

  'Why? Because he was up for another blag. Billy Farrow had him in for a chat. All on the quiet, you understand. No PACE in those days. Anyway, Dave spilled the lot. Put you in the frame and expected to get off with a slap on the wrist. The banks were offering big rewards for information in those days, if you remember. So he was looking to have a nice little nest egg waiting when he got home.'

  'I don't believe it. Who told you all this?'

  'An ex copper. Well, he wasn't ex then. He was there. Ironically, it was him nicked Jack Dewhurst that day. Remember?'

  Jimmy didn't, but he nodded anyway.

  'This copper became a mate of your old friend, John Jenner. He made a few quid helping some of us out over the years. Sharman, his name was. A bad fucker. He spilled it over a drink a bit later. Thought it was funny. Poetic justice he called it, getting hammered by a Transit after using one so many times blagging.'

  'Fucking hilarious. I've been planning on finding the bastard who did it for the past twenty years, and he's brown bread all the time. Why didn't anyone ever tell me?'

  'Thought someone would've,' said Butler. 'But you were out of the loop. Anyway, you don't have to worry about it now.'

  Jimmy dipped his spoon into his soup. 'It's amazing what goes on,' he said around a mouthful.

  'Isn't it.'

  The meal continued peacefully. The food was good, the service was discreet. The restaurant was busy and noisy, but not noisy enough to intrude, just enough to ensure that the two men at the table for four retained their privacy.

  Both passed on dessert and ordered coffee and brandy. When it arrived, Butler sat back and lit a cigar. 'So there's just one other thing,' he said.

  'Yeah,' said Jimmy.

  'Yeah,' said Butler. 'I promised you some work, didn't I?'

  Jimmy nodded.

  'And I'm a man of my word. Like I said, Jimmy, you did well the other night. Very well. Better than I expected, to be honest.'

  Jimmy felt a light bulb come on over his head. 'You knew she was carrying, didn't you?' he said.

  Butler smiled.

  'Fuck you, Dan,' said Jimmy, but not loud enough to cause a commotion. 'Was it her?'

  Butler cocked his head.

  'It was, wasn't it? It wasn't him you wanted done, it was her.'

  This time Butler smiled. 'Very astute of you,' he said.

  'Why didn't you tell me?'

  Butler shrugged. 'It was a test and you passed. No hard feelings, I hope.'

  'She could've fucking killed me.'

  'B
ut she didn't. Are you interested in some work or not?'

  Jimmy nodded.

  'Right. No details now. That'll come later. But I'm putting a little firm together for a job. It's big, Jimmy. Very big. And I need men who are prepared to use violence. Maybe even kill. Are you one of those men?'

  'You know I am. But what's in it for me?'

  'A lot. I reckon the job could be worth well over twenty million.'

  'How much?

  'You heard, Jimmy.'

  'Christ.'

  'But of course a million isn't what it used to be. Inflation, you know.'

  'But even so. And my cut?'

  'I reckon it's a seven-man job. I take thirty per cent off the top, leaving… what? Say twelve or thirteen mill, perhaps more. Even split amongst the seven of you. Work it out for yourself.' 'A lot,' said Jimmy.

  'A new life, Jimmy. Somewhere far from here. How does that sound?'

  'It sounds good.'

  'So are you in?'

  'Do you need to ask?'

  'No. But from now on, Jimmy, if you're part of the team, you're in one hundred per cent.' 'No problem.'

  'Good. Well, I'll pay up and be gone. I'll be in touch when I need you.'

  'When's that likely to be?'

  Butler smiled. 'All in good time, Jimmy. Now Bob's waiting for me. I've got business in town this afternoon.' 'I'll be going then.'

  Butler nodded as he called for Skinny to bring the bill. 'You do that.' Jimmy got to his feet. 'OK, Dan,' he said. 'I'll be seeing you.' 'You will.'

  'And thanks for the lunch.'

  Later that evening, a mobile phone rang somewhere in Europe. 'Hello.'

  'It's me, Gerry,' said Gerry Goldstein.

  'Yeah.'

  'He's in.'

  'Is he?'

  'Yeah. He took the bait. Did a bit of business.' 'What kind of business?' 'You on the Internet?' 'I can be.'

  'Check out yesterday's London Evening Standard. Page three. With reference to New Addington.'

  'I'll do that.' 'So what next?'

  'Break out the champagne. I'm coming home.'

  Chapter 32

  Since John Jenner's death, things had not been so good at the house in Tulse Hill. Martine had quit her job to look after Jenner's money and property. In fact, there had been much more than he had admitted to Mark and Chas before he died. When Martine had gone through his papers, all sorts of investments in stocks and property had come to light. There were deeds to shops and houses in some of the more dilapidated parts of south, London and Martine set about converting them into cash, which she then reinvested. Or at least she said she did. But to Chas it seemed she spent most of her time out clubbing it, often inviting new friends home to keep the party going far into the night and through to the next morning. He suspected she was seriously into drugs, but when he as much as hinted that that was the case, she flew into terrible rages.

  Chas stayed on in his flat at the back of the house and Martine lived upstairs. But with John Jenner gone, the life seemed to have leeched out of the house and Chas knew it was only a matter of time before he went too. But where? He had no family or friends, and little money of his own. Just the pension John Jenner had set up for him, which wasn't performing too well. He'd dedicated his life to the family, and now he could only watch in dismay at what had happened to them.

  One bright Tuesday in May, everything changed.

  At around one in the afternoon, the telephone rang. Chas answered it in the kitchen. 'Hello.'

  'Hello. Chas?'

  'Yeah.'

  'It's me.'

  'Who?'

  'Me.'

  Chas suddenly recognised the voice. 'Mark?'

  'No names. You never know who's listening.'

  'Christ. Where have you been?'

  'Around.'

  'Where are you?'

  'On a boat.'

  'Where are you going?'

  'I'm coming home.'

  'Are you crazy? The police are still looking for you.'

  'Are they?'

  'Sure.'

  'Too bad. How's Martine?' 'Not so good.' 'Does she still blame me?' 'Yes.'

  'Listen. I don't want to talk for long. Can we meet?' 'Of course. Where and when?'

  'You remember the pub we went to one night after driving around that estate?' 'Yeah.'

  'Meet me there, day after tomorrow, at noon.'

  'I'll be there.'

  'And tell no one.'

  'Course not.'

  'See you then.'

  'See you.'

  And Mark hung up. Two days later, at precisely twelve o'clock, Chas entered the pub he and Mark had visited after looking for Beretta's flat. It was even more dingy than it had been that time, and just a few customers braved the gloorp. The place smelled of cigarettes, badly cooked food and despair. Not exactly the place you'd ask for a chilled Vichy water with a slice of lemon. He looked around but recognised nobody. He went to the bar and ordered a pint of bitter then sat down at a table. In one corner sat a man with a deep tan; his head was shaved almost to the bone, and he wore a beard and dark glasses despite the semi-darkness of the bar. As Chas looked at him, the man rose and walked over. 'Don't you say hello to old friends?' he said, taking the chair opposite.

  'Christ,' said Chas. 'Mark? Is that you?'

  'Sure is,' said Mark Farrow, taking off his shades to reveal a pair of dark brown eyes.

  "What have you done? I didn't recognise you. Your eyes…?'

  'Contacts,' replied Mark. 'Took me weeks to get used to them.'

  'And the beard. You look older…'

  'I feel bloody older,' said Mark, searching for a packet of cigarettes.

  'Where have you been?'

  'All over the place. Portugal mostly. Down by the sea. I rented a little place.'

  'So what are you doing back here?'

  'Jimmy Hunter's out.'

  'Mark. You should forget about him.'

  'I know. But I can't. He killed my father. If it hadn't been for that, my mother might still be alive. He fucked up my family. Then there was Linda. Him being who he was screwed that too. And I know… I probably would never have met her otherwise. But everywhere I go and everything I do leads back to that bastard. Remember that night in the scrap yard?'

  'With Bobby Thomas?'

  Mark nodded.

  'How can I forget?'

  'I did the right thing that night. But all I could think of as I killed Thomas was that I wished it was Hunter. And now he's on the out. Free and clear. Well, he won't be if I've got anything to do with it.'

  'I understand, son.'

  'Good. What are you doing?'

  'What can I do? I'm a fat old man. I sit and watch TV, cook, and sit around as Martine falls apart.' 'Will you help me?'

  'What can I do?'

  'Come on, Chas. You were one of the best enforcers in the business. You aren't that old and fat that you've forgotten that.'

  Chas shook his head. 'I miss him, Mark. John, I mean.'

  'Course you do. So do I. And Hazel, and you and Martine. I miss you all. My life's shit, Chas. I'm a wanted man wherever I go. I've been lucky so far, but my luck's bound to run out sooner or later. But first I want that fucker dead.'

  'So?'

  'So he's webbed up with Danny Butler. Remember him?'

  'Vicious bastard.'

  'Butler's putting together a little firm to do some sort of robbery. It's all on the QT at the moment, but I've got someone on the inside. Someone who owes me.'

  'And?'

  'And my inside man tells me Butler put together that job in Brixton where my dad got killed. So he was as much a part of it as Hunter. I intend to fuck up their little scheme and fuck up Butler and Hunter into the bargain.'

  'Christ, but you're taking a risk.'

  Mark shrugged. 'So what? I've got nothing going for me. I'm tired, Chas. I don't care what happens to me now. Everything I touch turns to shit.'

  Chas said nothing.

  'So will you help?' asked the younge
r man.

  'If I can.'

  'Good. Got a mobile?'

  Chas nodded again.

  'Gimme the number.'

  Chas did as he was asked and Mark drank up. 'I'm off now, but I'll be in touch.'

  'Take care.'

  'I will. I'm used to that. And remember, not a word to a soul.'

  Chas nodded and watched as Mark walked out of bar. Christ, what memories had come flooding back at seeing that young man. Billy Farrow, Susan, Thomas, Hazel, John Jenner and all the boys they'd ganged up with. Nearly all gone now.

  But mostly he thought of Hazel.

  He'd never admitted to anyone how much he'd loved her. Really loved her, in a romantic way. Chas had never had much to do with women before he met her, and truth to tell, hardly anything after. It hurt him to admit that he was a one woman man, and that woman had fallen in love with and married his best friend, who was also his boss. Bit of a sickener, he thought as he sat in front of his glass in a dismal pub in Brixton. But that was the truth. The impossible dream. Like the song. Just like the song, in fact. To love, pure and chaste, from afar. What a mug. But the day she'd blown into his life, invited round for tea by his sister Pam, was the day he'd fallen in love for the first and, as it turned out, the only time.

  The girls had been in school uniform. Blazers, white blouses with striped ties, gym slips and black stockings. But Pam and Hazel had adapted their uniforms to the latest fashions. The shirts were tight over their young breasts and their gym slips were so short that there was the occasional glimpse of white flesh above their stocking tops. Dressed like something out of a blue film, they were a dirty old man's dream. Or a dirty young one, for that matter. Pam's dark hair was tied in two pigtails, but Hazel's lush red mane cascaded down her back in Renaissance curls. The second Chas saw her, he was smitten, and when she smiled her crooked smile, he was hers for life.

  That day Chas's mum gave the girls a blocking for their appearance, obviously a regular thing, but they just giggled, and Hazel winked at Chas and he thought his luck was in. Hazel had appeared on the scene since Chas had done his time in borstal, and she was obviously fascinated that her mate's brother was a 'jailbird', as she called it. Chas would never have taken that from anyone else, but he would've crawled over broken glass to listen to her say it.