Guns Of Brixton

by Mark Timlin

  Mark nodded once more. He knew better than most.

  'John comes back to the pub and gives me the thumbs up and so I get me and Martin another drink and John goes off. So now I don't know what's happening, but I managed to put it together later from what him and Hazel tell me.

  'He goes up to the house where the paint's all peeling off the front and there's garbage strewn about outside. Now you've got to remember that him and Hazel are living together in this little flat in Streatham at the time. We've made some dough but it always seemed to vanish, so we're not loaded like maybe ten or fifteen years later, when we hit the big time. We're just monkeys really. A bit of dealing, some protection, nicking motors. We were young, Mark, and we wanted to have a good time. But this flat they've got, fair play to 'em. They kept it nice. Buying bits and pieces here and there, and Hazel always was house proud, nutty bird or no nutty bird. But this place is a tip. For all their money and education they treat it like shit. Dirty old furniture, posters and bits of hangings on the walls. No carpet, just painted floorboards, and apparently this don't make John's mood no better. And there's some crap Indian music on the stereo, Ravi Wanker or whatever. And what makes it even worse, is, when he steams in, Hazel's sitting on some hippie's lap with his tongue in her ear. Now they were always doing that. Copping off with someone just to make the other jealous. It was like a game, but woe betide anyone who got involved because they both had quick tempers and a predilection for violence. Good word that, "predilection". Got it in a crossword years ago.'

  Mark smiled. He loved these stories. He looked through the tinted glass of the truck and watched the sun go down over west London. Notting Hill, he thought. What he wouldn't have given to be there that summer of love afternoon with John Jenner and Hazel in full flow.

  'Now, like I said,' Chas went on. 'These fuckers were posh. All got the accents, know what I mean? And when John turns up, the bloke whose dad owns the house decides to call John "Cockney Boy". Bad mistake. Fellah starts putting on the old mockney. Thinks he's a bit of a comedian apparently. Telling John he'd been to Hackney and Dalston which of course cuts no ice as, being from south of the river, John couldn't care less. But he swallows all the old bollocks, because what he's really interested in is what these cunts are holding and how he's going to part them from it. So he makes enquiries, and these fuckers turn out to be the real deal. They've got LSD, hash, coke, smack, grass, uppers, downers, the whole nine yards. And plenty of it. It's like Boots the bleedin' chemist in that gaff, and of course, being connected - the right hon this and the right hon that - they think they're magic, like I said. Above the law. Which they probably were. But not our law.

  'So this geezer, the comic - little fat cunt with Lennon glasses and some kind of fucking Afro hairstyle - starts showing off. Mug, like I said. He don't know John from Adam. Just, like, "Joe sent me", on the dog and you're in. I think they learnt their lesson that day. So the geezer shows John the kit in a big trunk and John shows him a big wad of cash and everyone's getting on amazing. 'Specially this cunt with Hazel on his knee. Good looking boy he was too, 'cos you've got to remember, I turn up later and see the lot of them. Not as good looking as John, mind. He looked really well that day. Long, black hair. This big white shirt tucked into real tight jeans. John wouldn't wear flares, said they was only for hippies. And big biker boots. Looked like a fuckin' pirate, he did. And he's got a Colt.45 automatic that he bought off some black GI down the Flamingo under his shirt, and a huge hunting knife, with a blade as big as a butcher's cleaver, down his right boot. This knife, I tell you what, it scared the shit out of me. One side of the blade was like a saw, the other was sharp, and it had a wicked point. Anyway, apparently Hazel's wriggling about in this bloke's lap and John's shaking like a leaf with anger. The Afro bloke notices and makes some remark and John tells him he's got to get well, which makes some other fucker pull out a wrap of smack and the works and they start fixing up. Hot spoon, the whole bit. See, there was loads of people there.- Like I told you, this place is massive, and there's hippies in every room, like rats in a nest.

  'Anyway, John's waiting for me to make my call and he has to watch Hazel showing out, and eventually he can't stand any more and says "Pull your dress down love, I can see what you had for breakfast."

  '"I haven't had my breakfast," she pipes back, and this bloody hippie she's crawling all over says: "No? Well you can eat my sausage any time you like."

  'Which just makes things worse, and about then it starts to go pear-shaped. But before John can do anything, I make my phone call which sort of cools the situation off a bit, but not for long. Anyway, Afro answers, I give the code and he invites me up. I say I've got someone with me. And the geezer says, "The more the merrier." Twat. Well I'm round there in less time than it takes to tell, with old Martin. Me, I'm dressed up to the nines too. Granny Takes A Trip jacket. Pinstripe flares. Nice shirt. But poor old Martin. He never could get anything to fit, being the size he was. So he looks like a great big schoolboy in grey flannels and an old denim shirt he'd found somewhere. So of course these fucking hippies start taking the rise. And them always on about peace and love and all that shit. Pisstaking fuckers. J And some other bird's arrived on the scene too.

  Probably got woken up with all the excitement. Tasty she was too. Black hair, all done in them curls like in the old photos. She wearing this white dress and nothing underneath, You can see her bush when she walked. Black as ink.'

  'A natural brunette,' said Mark. '

  'Something like that. Blimey, Mark, it was like Sodom and Gomorrah: in there, what with this bloke with a needle in his arm and half-naked birds everywhere. Anyway, this other bird susses out that John's holding folding and fancies her chances. So she goes up and whispers something ! in his ear which none of the rest of us can hear, but you didn't have to have a great imagination to work it out. She was up for a shag with; Johnny and no mistake. Well, Hazel can dish it out but she's not too happy about getting it back, so she gets off this geezer's lap and walks right up i to the bird and smacks her one on the nose. Breaks it. You could hear the crack clear to the Bayswater road, I reckon. And so suddenly there's snot and claret all over the white dress and Hazel says: 'Leave him alone, bitch, j He's mine.'

  Course this causes a commotion as the hippies don't know what the : fuck's going on. John decides it's time to take charge of the situation and pulls out the Colt. Well, there's another little geezer in the room all curled up in the corner like the Dormouse in Alice In Wonderland. Little fair- haired bloke. Poofy. Know what I mean? Like he doesn't know what he is, a boy or a girl. But fuck me if he doesn't sit up and he's got a gun too. But it ain't real. This kid's been akip and thinks we're playing games. Cowboys and Indians or something. Must've been trippin'. You can tell this gun's a fake a mile off. A little kid's toy shooter. Cap gun. But John isn't amused at all. It's just one mistake after another they're making. Compounding their felonies, if you know what I mean. So John walks over to this kid, grabs the toy and slams him right in the gob with it. More claret, and I reckon that bloke will've been a regular customer at his dentist ever since, as he's spitting teeth all over the floor.

  'That's when the shit really hit the fan. Afro literally pisses himself. Oh yes. He's wearing these faded denims and suddenly there's a big stain in the crotch. Fucking little prick. So I grabs him by this bunch of hair and puts him on the floor and John turns to the hippie who had his tongue in Hazel's ear and he points the Colt at him. "What was that about a sausage?" he says and this geezer just about turns green. Anyway, I can see big trouble coming and, not wanting to leave any dead bodies about, I says to John, "Where's the gear?" and he tells me and I get Martin to grab hold of it and then to John, "Let's go then. We've got the loot," or something like that. And so he sort of hesitates and takes the knife out of his boot and puts it right by the hippie's eye and says, "You mess about with my bird again and I'll stick this right through your brain, understand?" And the hippie nods and John says, "I think an apology's in or
der," and of course, this geezer does as he's told and I'm going: "Come on, mate, let's split," because of all these fucking people about. John tugs the phone out of the wall and lobs it through the window, but unfortunately it's not open so there's breaking glass and all sorts going on and John, well, he just laughs and fires a couple of rounds into the ceiling just for badness. Hazel grabs the other tart by the hair and tells her she's lucky to still have any, as the last bird who tried it on with John, she shaved her head and she might just be back with an open razor. Martin's

  still standing there with this great big box that weighs a ton, and we split out the door and all into the motor and away. Just another day in the life, if you know what I mean.'

  'Fantastic,' said Mark.

  'Poor old Martin, he saved my life a few years later. He died for me and I was always a bit narky with him. You just never know, do you?'

  'No, you don't,' said Mark, and then he saw a black BMW come cruising down the street. 'Well, look who's here,' he said.

  As the car passed them, Mark jumped out of the Explorer and loped after it. Despite the warm, dry evening, he was wearing a light mackintosh, and gloves. In the mac pocket was a large, shapeless hat and his shades, which he put on as he went, plus a Glock.45 automatic loaded with hollow points and fitted with a short, home-made silencer that was probably only good for a couple of shots. But a couple of shots was all Mark intended using it for. He walked across the tarmac as Lee left the BMW. 'Hey, Toby,' he shouted as he went.

  'What you doing here?' asked Lee.

  'Change of plan,' said Mark.

  'What?'

  He took out the pistol and pointed it at Lee's head.

  'What the fuck's the matter?' said Lee.

  'Back to the car,' said Mark.

  'What? What's going on?' but he did as he was told.

  Mark used the spare keyfob to crack the boot. 'Inside.'

  'You're having a laugh, aincha?'

  'It's not funny, Toby.'

  'I don't get it.'

  'Wrong place, wrong time,' said Mark. 'It's nothing personal.'

  'I'm not…' said Lee, and Mark smacked him with the silencer. A red weal appeared, dripping blood, and Lee went down against the side of the car.

  'In the fucking boot,' said Mark.

  That time Lee crawled into the space illuminated by a tiny bulb.

  'Sorry, mate,' said Mark and fired twice, the explosions making puffing sounds like an asthmatic on his last legs. The bullets hit Lee in the head and chest and he was dead before Mark slammed the boot lid. He collected the two cartridge cases from the concrete floor and dropped them into his pocket, unscrewed the silencer and put that in too, to be disposed of later. He got behind the wheel, started the engine, and drove out of the carpark and followed Chas, driving the Ford to a cement depot in Newham. "Chas had the key to the front gate and they parked up close to a conveyor belt that led up to one of the massive cement mixers. Chas broke the lock on the conveyor belt's motor and started the machine, sounding like a 747 taking off.

  Mark opened the boot of the BMW and they pulled Lee's body out and manhandled it on to the belt. Mark went through his pockets, which were empty, apart from the envelope containing the seven hundred and fifty quid Chas had left in the glove compartment and another three grand, rolled up tight. 'I told him Lancaster Gate would win,' said Mark, slipping the cash into his pocket.

  With a crunch of gears, Chas manipulated the levers that started the belt moving, and Lee's body was transported fifty feet into the air, before dropping into the cement mixer with a plop. Chas turned off the belt and they left. The Beemer ended up at Leamouth in flames and Mark dropped Chas off in Tulse Hill before heading back to his hotel.

  Mark phoned Gerry again the next day. 'Locks like there's a vacancy,' he said.

  'Oh Christ.'

  'I want the job.'

  'This is insane.'

  'When will Lee be missed?' asked Mark.

  'There's a meet the day after tomorrow at Butler's place. We'll all be there.'

  'Perfect. So your job is to put me up as the new driver.'

  'They don't know you.'

  'But you do.'

  'If they find out…'

  'Then put yourself as far away as possible, Gerry. Take the family on holiday. I hear Florida's nice this time of year. But don't think about crossing me. Because I swear, if you do, I'll come back from the grave to get you. Or someone will. I've got friends. And anyway, you're in too deep to change your mind now.'

  'I know that.'

  'Then keep it in mind. I saved your life once before, Gerry. You and your women. Now you belong to me.'

  Gerry's stomach turned at the thought, but all he said was, 'OK, Mark, but you're taking one hell of a risk.'

  'I know. But I never was one for the quiet life.'

  Gerry Goldstein almost vomited before going into the meeting. Lee was immediately noticeable by his absence. 'Someone find him,' said Butler. 'And get the little git in here. It's too close to the big day for anyone to start playing silly buggers.' But of course, he was nowhere to be found. His car was neatly parked outside his flat, and no one at the Drover's Arms or the local betting shop had seen him since Saturday when he'd had a result on the horses. 'Won a bundle,' said the betting shop manager. 'Maybe he's gone on holiday.' Someone entered his flat without disturbing the dust. It was empty, and what food there was in the fridge was beginning to spoil. That was it. Lee had vanished and a replacement was needed.

  'I know someone,' offered Gerry Goldstein. 'A red hot driver.'

  'Who?' asked Butler.

  'A kid called Steve. Just back from the Continent and looking for work.'

  'I don't know him.'

  'He's good.'

  'Shit. That fucker Lee. Wins some money on a horse and vanishes. Typical. I never should've rowed him in in the first place. Gamblers. They're worse than junkies for doing a runner when you need them most. All right, Gerry. I'll take him on your say so. Make a meet between this Steve bloke and Bob. If Bob says he's OK, then we'll go with him.'

  The meeting was arranged in an empty car park deep in the bowels of the city of London, close to Goldstein's shop. Bob turned up with a Jaguar XJ. He tossed the keys to Mark and said, 'Impress me.'

  Mark got in behind the wheel and demonstrated every driving trick that Dev and Chas had taught him. He threw the powerful motor from one end of the concrete floor to the other, tyres screaming and smoking, as Bob held on to the passenger grab handle with white knuckled fingers. Mark demonstrated one-eighties and three-sixties, hand-brake turns, doughnuts, the lot. Ending up by using one-of the ramps to flip the car up on to two wheels and do a perfectly balanced circle of the garage with Bob's head only a foot or so above the floor, before dropping it back with a bang. 'What do you reckon?' he asked when Bob had regained his cool.

  'Where did you learn all that?' asked the ex-soldier.

  'Here and there.'

  'Gerry tells us you've done this sort of thing before.'

  'Once or twice.'

  'Don't give much away do you?'

  'This and that.'

  'All right, Steve. You're on. You'd better come in for a briefing tomorrow.' And he told Mark where and when.

  And so Mark" Farrow joined the team as the wheelman on the second motor.

  That night, Gerry Goldstein sat alone in the study of his detached house in Golders Green with only a bottle of Remy Martin for company. Rachel was in bed in the room where she slept alone, watching ER on TV, and their daughters were out spending his dough clubbing. Rachel's hair was in curlers and she'd covered her face with the latest miracle cream to keep it youthful. She'd already been cut and tucked three times in a private hospital in Kensington, which had set Gerry back the profit on his most recent foray into a life of crime. It just wasn't fair. And now Mark Farrow was intent on screwing up a most lucrative little earner. He could go to Daniel Butler and confess all. But where would that lead? Mark had made it very clear that if Gerry blew the
whistle, things would get very unpleasant indeed.

  Gerry poured another drink, slopping just a little on to the polished top of his desk. He looked at the drops pooled on the wood and contemplated a life without all the comforts he took for granted. Fuck them, he thought. Fuck Rachel and the girls, and fuck Danny Butler and Jimmy Hunter and fuck Mark Farrow. Fuck them all. I'll show them. And he opened the top desk drawer and took out a small revolver. He checked the load of six tiny bullets, pushed the cylinder home and cocked the hammer. Alone in his study, he drained his glass, then opened his mouth, inserted the barrel of the gun and pulled the trigger.

  Upstairs in her bedroom, Rachel Goldstein heard the shot, but only faintly. And as County Hospital in Chicago was under siege by gang- bangers looking to put one of their own out of his misery, with that handsome young Croatian doctor being held hostage in one of the emergency rooms, she assumed it was one of many gunshots on the soundtrack and ignored it.

  No one missed Gerry until the next morning.

  Chapter 36

  Mark Farrow waited until the Thursday before the bank holiday to put the next part of his plan into action. He wanted enough time for Sean Pierce to organise a police operation, but not enough time to check too deeply who was involved.

  He rang Streatham Police Station mid-morning from a callbox in Crystal Palace, and got put through to the CID office. A woman answered, 'CID, DC Webb speaking.'

  'Is Sean Pierce there please?' asked Mark.

  'Yeah. Who's speaking?'

  'Steve Sawyer. He doesn't know me.'

  'Concerning?'

  'I've got something for him.'

  The phone went down with a bang, he heard voices and then it was picked up again. 'DS Pierce,' said Sean.