Killing Satisfaction

by Jason De'Ath

  “I had to pass it on to another dealer.” she answered cautiously.

  “Was it valuable, though?”

  “Er, I think it might get ten pounds from the right buyer; but I’ll have to share that with my dealer-friend.”

  “Y’u couldn’t give us a couple o’ quid, could y’u? We can call it quits...”

  “Could you take thirty bob?” suggested Denise feeling a little pressured.

  “Yeah, okay.” Arthur agreed, conceding surprisingly easily.

  “Oh – great!” accorded Denise cheerfully and then disappeared into her bedroom to procure the money from one of a number of hidden money boxes. A few minutes after Denise had paid Arthur – who had gleefully counted up the coins – a feint knocking could be heard, which they immediately presumed to be Dickie having arrived to collect Arthur.

  “That sounds like me oppo.” remarked Arthur getting up.

  “I’ve never met Dickie; I’ll come down with you.” she insisted; Arthur wasn’t overly keen, but couldn’t justifiably refuse her. Dickie was still banging on the shop door when the two of them emerged from a door in the back room. Denise opened the door and greeted Dickie before Arthur could intervene.

  “Hello. Dickie, I assume?” she asked politely and offered her hand.

  “‘Ello. Denise, I assume? I’ve ‘eard a lot about y’u.” Dickie responded gruffly, briefly shaking her hand.

  “Right: we off then?” enquired Arthur forcing himself past Denise, who had partially blocked the doorway, and ushering Dickie away in a strangely covetous manner; he evidently didn’t want Denise and Dickie striking up any kind of potential association.

  In the car [a cherry-red 2-door Ford Consul Cortina GT], Arthur was a trifle nervous, still unsure whether Carol may have complained about him to her father; Dickie quickly sensed Arthur’s unease: “Wha’s up wiv you?” he quizzed.

  “Nufin’; nufin’. You alright?”

  “Yeaaah. Why wouldn’t I be?” snapped Dickie with a tone of suspicion.

  “Nufin’. You asked me, so...” Arthur explained rather unconvincingly; however, Dickie implicitly trusted Arthur, so did not pursue this line of enquiry.

  “So, that’s Denise, then.” stated Dickie moving on the conversation.

  “Oh, yeah. She’s a good mate.” noted Arthur with a hint of relief, on the assumption that Dickie must be ignorant of the liaison with Carol, or he would probably have started interrogating him.

  “A useful fence?” Dickie rhetorically concurred.

  “Yeah. Jus’ got some money for an ornament off ‘er, as it ‘appens.”

  “So, what were y’u up to las’ night?” asked Dickie innocently, though still managing to put a chill up Arthur’s spine.

  “Er, I stayed at Denise’s...”

  “Yeah...? My Carol went out las’ night; came back in a right crabby mood; bloody women.” complained Dickie in a discernibly abstract manner; but Arthur was still slightly concerned that Dickie might be casually fishing for a Freudian slip. “Couldn’t get a word out of ‘er, this mornin’. Usually, she’s goin’ ten t’the dozen about some ol’ shit or uver; can’t normally get a fuckin’ word in edge ways.” he continued to whinge, “S’pose, I should be grateful t’get some bleedin’ peace f’r a change... Eh?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, know what y’mean.” agreed Arthur with a laugh, and not without some relief. “So, who we meetin’ today?” he asked, feeling a degree more relaxed now.

  “What, the Dixon bruvvers? Yeah, Jack an’ ‘Arry. They’ve jus’ done a ten stretch for robbery wiv violence; they’re lookin’ t’do a post office job, or may be a security van. They’re gonna need a couple o’decent cars – tha’s where you come in.”

  “What, a Jag’ or somefink?”

  “Yeah, summit like that.”

  “When d’they need ‘em?”

  “Not yet...” Dickie broke off to abuse a cyclist: “Get out o’ the fuckin’ way, y’u fuckin’ wanker!” he hollered, while beeping his car’s horn – the cyclist subsequently ran into the kerb and fell off his bike onto the pavement, much to Dickie and Arthur’s amusement.

  “You were sayin’?” asked Arthur when they had exhausted their malicious roars of laughter.

  “Yeah... What was I sayin’?”

  “‘Bout these cars?”

  “Right, yeah. No, not yet. The job’s still in the plannin’ stage.”

  “I’ve been finkin’ ‘bout changin’ me direction – know what I mean?”

  “No, what?”

  “I wanna get int’somefink wiv more money in it; I’m fed up wiv goin’ out on the stick... I’m finkin’ of gettin’ a gun.” “A gun?” snapped Dickie with some alarm, “You sure y’u wanna get int’that side of fings?” “Yeaah – why not?” queried Arthur a little naively.

  “Cos y’u get anuver fuckin’ ten years jus’ f’r carryin’.” exclaimed Dickie.

  “Better not get caught then, eh? D’y’u know where I can get one?”

  “The bruvvers can probably ‘elp y’u out there. What sort o’ gun?”

  “Jus’ a small one – I don’ wanna a bleedin’ shotgun or nufin’!”

  “Right. Wha’s it for though?”

  “Dunno, yet.” answered Arthur somewhat indifferently.

  “Got it all worked out, then?” sneered Dickie, but the comment just passed Arthur by. Dickie’s main concern was that Arthur might be intending to branch out on his own, something that the protective Dickie was reluctant to encourage, and guns were just not his thing, having always relied on his fists. Arthur, now somewhat distracted, turned on the car radio and tuned it to Radio London – The Rolling Stones’ The Last Time was playing.

  “I like this one.” commented Arthur impersonally, prompting a blunt “You what?” from Dickie; “I said: I like this one – Rollin’ Stones.” Arthur elucidated.

  “Oh, right – Rollin’ Stones.” acknowledged Dickie, “I prefer the big bands, meself.” “What, jazz? Tha’s old ‘at, that is.” teased Arthur with a derisory snigger.

  “Proper music’s what y’u mean.” insisted Dickie.

  “I s’pose Lord Rockin’ham’s alright.” cited Arthur in an attempt to appease Dickie.

  “Lord fuckin’ Rockin’ham? That a’n’t big band. I’m talkin’ about Benny Goodman, Tommy Dorsey...” “Tommy Dorsey? ‘E’s dead!”

  “You’ll be fuckin’ dead in a minute.” joked Dickie.

  “Jazz is dead.” added Arthur defiantly.

  “Where d’y’u fink y’u bleedin’ rock’n’roll music comes from? It’s jus’ jazz wiv ‘lectric guitars.”

  “Yeah, I s’pose.” conceded Arthur, reluctant to continue this particular line of banter, “Rollin’ Stones are good, though.”

  “If y’u want a fuckin’ ‘eadache.” retorted Dickie scornfully.

  “Y’u gettin’ old and square, Dickie.”

  “Better than deaf.”

  “Y’u what?” responded Arthur mirthfully.

  “I said: it’s better than... Oh, funny. Cheeky bugger.” chided Dickie with a grin and they both laughed boisterously.

  Meanwhile, DJ Tony Windsor introduced the next record to play: The Clapping Song by Shirley Ellis, which did not go down any better with Dickie, who promptly turned the radio off.

  “Dickie!” complained Arthur, “Wha’d’y’u do that for?”

  “My car; my radio.” Dickie firmly informed Arthur, who then resorted to leering out of the car window in an effort to search out any young women who might be walking the streets as they passed along their way, wolf-whistling when he saw one that he particularly approved of.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  (22 May 1965)

  Saturday morning was a good time for Arthur to take advantage of Carol’s hairdressing skills; though still frosty, her mood had now thawed sufficiently for her to agree to dye his hair – for a price. Arthur sat on a chair in the middle of the Paris’ kitchen, a large towel wrapped around his upper body, while Carol begun the process of preparin
g his hair. Dickie was wandering around with a mug of tea, half-naked and displaying his impressive collection of tattoos, like some sort of demonstrator for the local parlour – as a child, Carol had often referred to her father as ‘Picture-Man’: to her he had been every bit the superhero, sporting a powerfully muscular physique; a physique that was now sadly starting to sag in places. Mary Paris was sitting by the window behind a small folding table, curlers in her hair, reading the Sun newspaper and smoking a Piccadilly cigarette, the ash having remained attached for a preposterous length of time – such that it was now drooping under the weight – while she had become engrossed in an article about a British girl murdered in the United States. The wireless was tuned to Radio Caroline: the popular Garry Kemp Show was on air. Carol normally liked to listen to the Sound of 65 programme at mid-day, which was effectively a showcase for the UK Top 50 singles chart, but had put the radio on early to accompany her hair dyeing activities. However, Mike Allen’s Saturday morning section was about to interrupt the schedule for about 45 minutes.

  “Oh, it’s Mike Allen – I a’n’t keen on ‘im. Turn it off will y’u dad?” directed Carol: Dickie was more than happy to comply; Arthur was disgruntled, but prudent enough not to complain, particularly as Carol had started combing the black dye into his hair.

  “Give us the race pages.” said Dickie demandingly as he sat at the kitchen table, pen readied for the Saturday ritual of selecting the four horses for his weekly sixpence each-way Yankee. Mary dutifully handed them over, the ash from her cigarette dropping onto her lap as she did.

  “So, what d’y’u reckon for number one this week?” Arthur asked Carol tentatively: she had hardly said a word to him for the last couple of weeks or so.

  “I dunno... Beatles?” she answered curtly.

  “Noh – that’s on its’ way down.” Arthur asserted irritably. “I dunno... Marianne Faithfull?” “Noh.” asserted Arthur again.

  “Well, I like that one.” she affirmed.

  “Yeah, okay, but it a’n’t gonna make number one – is it?” contested Arthur.

  “Okay; Dave Berry?” she suggested with a little smirk.

  “What? Dave Berry?” queried Arthur, somewhat confused as his latest single had been on its way down the chart for a while and never got higher than number 5.

  “Yeah, ‘Little Fings’... They’ve been goin’ up a bit lately.” she quipped making a thinly veiled reference to Dave Berry’s single Little Things. The joke took a while to sink in, but when it did, Arthur abruptly looked up at Carol with an expression of bemusement combined with concern. The comment ruffled his feathers for a moment.

  “What about Sandie Shaw’s new one?” proffered Arthur, once he had regained his composure.

  “Long Live Love? – not a hope.” she stated dismissively – but she wasn’t referring to the song, but rather she was giving Arthur a covert message.

  “What about the ‘Clappin’ Song’?” offered Arthur, who was still not quite getting the gist of Carol’s satirical sentiments and consequently played gormlessly into her abusive verbal game.

  “Yeaaah, I reckon clap might be on its way up.” she dryly concurred. This was pushing the limits of subtle innuendo, causing a slight momentary questioning to pass across her father’s mind. Meanwhile, Arthur wasn’t quite sure whether this was an intended put down or not, so pressed on with this nascent glimmer of a conversation.

  “It’s a bit of a novelty, that one, though, a’n’t it?” he eventually decided, mainly to contradict Carol’s probably [in his mind] implied insult.

  “It certainly is.” she remarked and nearly choked on her own laughter.

  At this point Dickie started to get a tad perturbed: “What the fuck are you on about, girl?” he blurted, spitting tea back into his cup.

  “Don’t worry about it dad: y’ur too old t’get the ‘ang of hip gassin’.” she answered sarcastically.

  “I a’n’t that fuckin’ old.” complained Dickie and returned to studying the form, a tiny bit affronted.

  “Yeah, what are y’u on about?” challenged Arthur, now becoming increasingly aware of (and dismayed by) Carol’s surreptitious taunts.

  “Nothin’. We’re talkin’ about the hit parade a’n’t we?” she cheekily purported.

  “Right...” agreed Arthur, now thoroughly bewildered.

  “What about Cliff?” Carol cunningly proposed, making reference to Cliff Richard’s latest single; while Arthur considered this, she added with calculated emphasis: “You know: ‘The Minute You’re Gone’.”

  Arthur gave her another bemused look: “No. I don’t think that’s likely.” he stated rather coldly.

  “Right: that’s it. Give it ‘alf ‘our, then wash it.” she instructed him indifferently, then putting the comb in the sink, she threw the remaining dye product into the bin, washed her hands and silently marched away to her bedroom, where she promptly locked the door.

  “Am I missin’ somefin’ ‘ere?” enquired Dickie suspiciously.

  “What?” replied Arthur, feigning ignorance. Dickie eyed him with dubiety for a second, but wasn’t sufficiently perceptive to the situation to pursue the matter.

  By the time Arthur was ready to accompany Dickie for his Saturday lunchtime drink down The Red Bull, it was nearly half past twelve:

  “Come on Arfur.” complained Dickie – the first race of his Yankee was due to start at 1.15 PM – “I’ll be too bleedin’ late for the bookies at this rate.” Dickie’s bookmaker was only about a hundred yards from The Red Bull, so they actually had ample time.

  “I’m comin’, I’m comin’.” replied Arthur as he quickly slipped on his suit jacket, “It a’n’t that far, anyway.” he cited, feeling unduly pressured to leave before he had completed his personal grooming. As they passed Carol’s room, Arthur knocked on the door and optimistically called: “Do y’u wanna come down the pub, Carol?”

  Following a distinctly pregnant pause, Carol responded with: “Nah...I’m goin’ out wiv me boyfriend at two”, which was untrue and purely intended to dissuade Arthur from any further pestering.

  “I didn’t know Carol ‘ad a new boyfriend.” queried Arthur as he and Dickie walked down the concrete stairwell.

  “She ‘as a dif’rent boyfriend more often than I change me bleedin’ socks.” alleged Dickie.

  After a few seconds pause and some intense contemplation, Arthur countered with a gleeful smirk: “What – never?” “You’re a funny boy; a funny boy.” scoffed Dickie while giving Arthur a paternal pat on the back.

  When they arrived at The Red Bull, it was fairly busy and typically rowdy; Dickie was a regular and new more or less everyone on a first name basis – strangers were not generally welcome without a regular for a chaperone. “What y’u ‘avin’, y’ur usual?” asked Dickie as they squeezed into a gap along the bar.

  “Yeah: shandy – cheers.” Arthur concurred.

  Dickie caught the barman’s eye: “‘Ello Dickie. Usual?” Dickie indicated to the affirmative with a slight nod of the head, before saying: “And ‘alf a shandy for the boy, George.” The barman gave him a perplexed look, saying sarcastically: “Ill is ‘e?” Dickie grinned, responding with: “‘E’s a bit of a light-weight.” “Wha’s that?” quizzed Arthur, slightly offended.

  “They’re used to real men in ‘ere, boy.” mocked Dickie and slapped him on the back to reassure him.

  “Yeah, well, I don’ drink do I?” said Arthur defensively.

  “Ah, it’s Arfur, ‘n’it?” asked the barman with vague recognition; Arthur nodded in acknowledgement, “Look it this way,” the barman continued, “most of these geezers‘ll be dead before they’re sixty.” and placed Dickie’s pint of mild on the bar in front of them.

  “Fanks mate.” said Dickie, referring ironically to the comment.

  The barman made Arthur’s shandy, which ended up being more like a bitter-tops: “There y’u go, son – live long.” he said with a wry smile.

  “Cheers.” replied Arthur, still a little
affronted. Dickie slapped the exact money into the hand off the barman and said tauntingly: “Get y’u’self one.”

  Arthur sipped his “shandy” and was not overly impressed, it being stronger than he liked. Dickie surveyed the faces in the busy pub, before turning back to Arthur and saying: “Don’t let that bovver y’u, son. George is a fuckin’ diamond; we go back twen’y years... ‘Ere, there’s a bloke over in the corner y’u might know from nick.”

  Arthur took a quick peek at a group of three men: one looked to be in his early thirties and was chatting to the other two, who appeared a bit older. None of them rang any bells with Arthur. Dickie called to the younger one: “Hey! Joe... Joe – come and join us.” Immediately recognising Dickie, Joe broke of his conversation with the other two men and after quickly shaking hands with each of them, strode over to join Dickie and Arthur. Joe briefly gave Dickie a manly embrace, saying:

  “‘Ow are y’u, me old mucker.”

  “Good. This is Arfur.” introduced Dickie, and then addressing Arthur, said: “This is Joe. We met in Strangeways a few years ago.”

  Shaking hands with Joe, Arthur enquired: “‘Ave we met?” “Don’t fink so, mate.” Joe replied studying Arthur’s face.

  “Joe’s done a few blags wiv the Dixon bruvvers.” explained Dickie, which produced some admiration in Arthur. “Y’u ju’s got out?” Dickie asked Joe.

  “Yeah, ‘bout a week ago. Eight-monf stretch.”

  “Arfur ‘ere’s a good mate o’ mine; good wheels-man.” said Dickie informatively.

  “Good one.” noted Joe.

  “So, got anyfin’ on the burner, or jus’ chancin’ y’u arm?” enquired Dickie, always on the lookout for a potential new criminal associate to broker for.

  “Dunno, yet. But between us, there might be a big’on’ on the cards.” said Joe in a secretive manner, adding: “I can’t say no more.”

  This revelation tantalised Arthur: “If y’u need a driver, I might be int’rested.” “Bear y’u in mind, mate; bear y’u in mind.” Joe assured.

  “What were y’u in for?” enquired Arthur, already sensing an affinity with Joe.