Killing Satisfaction

by Jason De'Ath

  “Are these people dangerous?” Ewan asked cautiously.

  “Dangerous? No. Well, I don’t think Arthur is...I wouldn’t want to mess with his friend, though.” Ewan looked worried. “I think you’re safe as long as you don’t cross them.” she reassured him; he didn’t look entirely convinced. “Honestly, they’re salt of the earth types; rough diamonds. They’re not malicious.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “I’ve known Arthur quite a while: I couldn’t imagine him hurting someone...except in self-defence.”

  Ewan Williams was certainly no wimp; in fact, he was quite a well-built man, who had played rugby in his youth. But, walking into that snooker club in Soho, he had never felt so scared in all of his life. The people who frequented this establishment gave the distinct impression that they would cut your throat if you so much as looked at them wrong. He fully expected to cross paths with a Kray twin or ‘Mad Frankie Fraser’, or some other nefarious villain, at any moment. However, Dickie Paris wasn’t quite in that league, though he had brushed shoulders with plenty of them over the years.

  Ewan gingerly approached the bar, glancing into the large open hall filled with billiard tables, each illuminated by its own overhanging light. It was a bizarre atmosphere: gloomy and smoke filled, curiously quiet, with the occasional echo of a rasping voice, boisterous laugh or the clank of balls, the air thick with beer fumes. The barman – smartly dressed and impeccably groomed – eyed him like a snake hypnotically locks onto its prey; he was dapper, yet threatening.

  “Yes?” the barman asked sharply.

  “Um, I’m looking for a friend of an acquaintance...Dickie Paris – do you know if he’s here?” “Dickie...? Who are you?”

  “Er, a friend of Arthur Jameson.” Ewan proffered uncertainly; the barman gave him a long hard stare while drying a glass with a white cloth.

  “Arthur, eh...? Are you a member?”

  “Well, no.” Ewan admitted somewhat self-evidently.

  “Stay there.” the barman instructed sternly, before opening the bar access gate; he gestured with his finger to emphasize that Ewan should stay put, before walking casually into the hall and over to a table in a far corner. He more or less disappeared in the smoggy conditions for what was only a minute or so, but felt like hours for Ewan, who felt incredibly vulnerable standing there, eyes gouging into the back of his head from a group of men at a table opposite the bar. He was considerably relieved when the barman returned.

  “He says to go over.” The barman pointed in the direction of the table in the corner.

  Ewan walked, as coolly as he could, through the maze of tables, careful to avoid contact with anyone or anything, eventually glimpsing a large brutal looking man sitting at a small table with another man – who was decidedly shifty looking.

  “Er, Dickie Paris?” he enquired nervously.

  “Yeah. You a friend of Arfur’s then, are y’u?” Dickie asked mistrustfully.

  “Well, more a friend of friend, to be honest.” he explained with an appeasing smile; it wasn’t returned.

  “So, what can I do for y’u?” Dickie lit a cigarette.

  “Er, well, I may have a little job for you.”

  “Job? What sort o’ job?”

  “Well, it er, requires some explaining...There’s a good earner in it.” Ewan solicited.

  “Right...Well, in that case, y’u’d better sit down.” offered Dickie, gesturing with his head for Ewan to take the empty chair in front of the table. Ewan sat down, Dickie to one side, the roguish man to the other. “So, ‘ow d’y’u know Arfur?” “Like I say, I’m a friend of a friend...It was Denise Deneo that put me on to you.” he was forced to admit.

  “Ah, Denise. We ‘ave met.” acknowledged Dickie, much to Ewan’s relief; this also seemed to placate the other man, who had been listening attentively and scrutinizing Ewan with hostility up to that point; the whole situation appeared to relax at that moment. “So, what’s this all about?”

  “Well, I have a problem with my brother-in-law...He’s having an affair and I want it to stop.”

  “And ‘ow exactly do y’u think I can ‘elp – this a’n’t a fuckin’ marriage wotsit bureau.” mocked Dickie, which caused some amusement to the other man.

  “No, it’s beyond that sort of help, anyway. Something more drastic is needed.”

  “Drastic, eh? Sounds like y’u need a vet.” Dickie continued to mock much to the other man’s hilarity. Ewan smiled in recognition of the joke: “No, no, nothing like that. I just want him scared off.” “Can’t y’u sort it y’urself, mate?” Dickie queried with mystification.

  “No. It has to be someone unknown to him – a stranger...I don’t want my sister to know I had anything to do with it.”

  “Ah, I see what’y’u mean.” Dickie finally grasped the problem, “So, what d’y’u want done, exactly?”

  “I just want him humiliated in front of this girl...I want their little relationship marred, so it comes to an end.” “Right...So, y’u wan’ ‘im roughed-up, like?”

  “No, no. No violence. I just want him threatened...I was thinking maybe a mugging or something.”

  “Rob ‘im...?” Dickie considered this proposition, “I think that could be arranged.” he declared with a sly smirk to his associate, who nodded enthusiastically.

  “How much would you want?” Ewan asked hesitantly, “A couple of hundred?” he suggested optimistically.

  “Two ‘undred nicker?” Dickie pondered this, and sensing there was more to be got, made a proposition: “‘Ow about five ‘undred...? An’ we keep anyfin’ we nick off ‘em.”

  “Five hundred...Okay, I think I can raise that.”

  “Sure you can...We need ‘alf up front; ‘alf when it’s done.”

  Ewan was unsure whether he could trust this man with £250, but the lion’s cage had been opened now and there seemed no safe way back: “Okay...I’ll get the money as soon as I can.”

  “We’ll need a dossier.” Dickie informed him insightfully, though this apparent cognizance with the necessities of the situation was based more on Hollywood movies than on experience. “Dossier?” Ewan hadn’t thought it out that far.

  “Yeah. Photo’s; information...We need to know where to find this geezer – and when ‘e’s wiv this girl. We’ll ‘ave to case ‘im out – y’u know?”

  The apparent display of expertise by Dickie had certainly made Ewan feel more confident about the whole arrangement: “Okay – I’ll put some stuff together...Shall I meet you here when I’ve got it?”

  “No...We can meet at me local boozer...An’ bring the ‘alf monkey.” Ewan stare at Dickie, completely gone out. “The money.” Dickie explained with a smirk...

  Ewan decided to pay his sister another visit before returning home that evening; he arrived at her house at eight o’clock, immediately noticing that Gregg’s car was not on the drive. Anne answered the door with smudged mascara all over her face and was visibly disappointed to see that it was Ewan.

  “Christ – look at the state of you.” he deplored; he hated seeing his sister in this state. “I see the bastard’s not back yet.”

  “Don’t start.” Anne pleaded.

  “Why do you put up with this shit?” “I love him...You wouldn’t understand.” “No, I wouldn’t.” Ewan bitterly agreed.

  “Where are the kids?”

  “In bed – where do you think?”

  “They haven’t seen you like this, have they?” “No.” she protested weakly.

  “So, had another row, have you?”

  “Yes...He’s probably with her now.” Anne curled up foetal-like on the sofa.

  “That’s not your fault, Anne. You can’t keep going on like this, you know. It’ll affect the kids eventually. It’s not good for them, seeing their parents fighting.” Anne had heard it all before and knew he was right, but she continued to defy common-sense. “So, when did this latest argument blow-up?”

  “It’s just a continuation from last night and thi
s morning.”

  “When did he go out?”

  “About an hour ago.”

  Ewan sat down on the sofa next to his huddled-up sister and caressed her head. “Maybe he’ll come to his senses one of these days...” he consoled her, “I could sabotage his car – that would limit his activities.”

  “How would he get to work?”

  “He could use his legs.” Ewan stated with exasperation; Anne giggled. “Well, I’m glad you found that funny...Come on, cheer up.” He started to tickle her.

  “Get off, get off!” she squealed with delight; suddenly they were children again and all the tribulations of adulthood were momentarily forgotten.

  Gregg Mason wasn’t in fact with Vera Fable, but had dropped into the local Conservative Club for a stiff drink, instead. Perversely, he was quite upset; he did not relish falling out with his wife, and in his own peculiar way, loved her dearly. Strange though it might seem to most “normal” folk, his affairs were merely a need for sexual excitement and in his mind did not detract from his loyalty to his wife. Vera was more a friend to have fun with than any kind of emotional shackle. He would never choose her, or in fact any other woman, over his beloved wife, Anne. Little could he have known what the dire consequences of his frivolous dalliances would ultimately be.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  (30 July 1965)

  As the bus pulled up at the stop in Euston Road, Arthur jumped off and ran into the station. He had suffered something of a mental aberration that morning and initially gone to Paddington; now he was severely pressed for time, just managing to miss the 10.45 train and now having to wait for the 11.50 train to Liverpool. He had two gold watches burning a hole in his pocket; wanting a good price, he had made a contact in Liverpool through his old prison friend, Des Naismith. The watches were red hot in London, so few local fences would touch them, and those that would were offering poultry remuneration. This Liverpool contact was willing to pay 15% of the retail value, which was about a £100 for each of the watches, so it was well worth the trouble. He wandered around the station for about three-quarters of an hour waiting for the next train; the station was relatively quiet at this time of day on a Friday. Eventually, he bought a paper and a bottle of Coca-Cola; his reading ability was fairly limited, but The Sun, being one of the easier papers to read, made it possible for him to get the gist of most of the articles.

  It was a blessed relief when the train finally arrived. He threw the newspaper in a waste bin and walked towards the back of the train, where he found an empty carriage. An elderly woman had the audacity to take a seat in Arthur’s carriage before the train pulled out: she fell asleep about ten minutes into the journey, giving Arthur the opportunity to rifle through her handbag: there wasn’t much in it and on locating her purse, he found she was pretty much “boracic”, so didn’t have the heart to take her last few shillings. The rest of the journey he whiled away his time staring out of the window in a trance, firstly, dreaming about winning the football pools – which he didn’t even do – and then recalling the events of the previous morning, when he had met up with Joe Hebdon, who might prove to be his ticket to a more tangible form of windfall...

  The Jack of Clubs cafe on Kilburn High Road was not a place for the feint hearted, having quite a reputation for trouble, mainly from its principally Mod patronage and the rockers who occasionally came looking for a quarrel, and generally found it in good measure. It was somewhat quieter during the morning and both Arthur and Joe, being sharp dressers, certainly did not look out of place in that particular environment. Arthur had arrived first and occupied a suitably quiet corner table; Joe arrived several minutes after Arthur had sat down with a strong expresso coffee.

  “Ah, Arfur, buddy – jus’ get one o ’those meself.” exclaimed Joe on entering the cafe and spotting Arthur. He greeted the girl on the counter with a cheeky wink and sleazy grin: “Alright darlin’? [The girl smiled politely] I’ll ‘ave an expresso.”

  Joe sat down opposite Arthur and slurped on his coffee. “So, ‘ow’s it goin’.”

  “Alright, yeah: got some nice little earners lined-up.” Arthur boasted with an element of bravado – he was keen to impress Joe.

  “Nice... Bet they a’n’t worff ‘undred grand, though.” scoffed Joe cryptically.

  “What? An ‘undred grand!” blurted Arthur astounded.

  “Shhh, keep it down.” warned Joe, his eyes full of reproach.

  “Sorry...That much, eh?”

  “Yeah. Should be close on ‘alf a mill’; so, we should see a good ‘undred large ones – each.”

  “Shit. This really is a big job, then?”

  “Oh yeah. The Dixon’s wanna retire on this.”

  “So, ‘ow soon is this likely to come off?”

  “Sometime next year. Lot o’ plannin’ involved; timin’ is everyfin’... We need to get someone on the inside, first.” “So, where is this job?”

  “Can’t say too much at the mo’... Souff London – tha’s all I can say. We need a good safe blower; do y’u know anyone?” “No one on the outside.” Arthur had to admit.

  “I fink Dennis Watkinson is due out in March...They don’t call ‘im Dynamite Den’ for nuffin’.” Joe laughed.

  “Can’t say I’ve met ‘im.” admitted Arthur.

  “Currently finishing a sentence in Dartmoor... So, w’a’s these jobs you’ got lined-up?” Arthur was slightly embarrassed: “Oh, nuffin’ much: just a few ton, ‘ere an’ there.” Joe nodded appreciatively: “What’y’u up to later?”

  “Oh, I got this date tonight. Tasty piece she is. Met ‘er down the Essoldo...” Arthur explained, referring to the cinema a short distance up the street, (on The Parade, which branched off from the Kilburn High Road).

  “Ah, yeah...The one up the road.” acknowledged Joe.

  “Yeah. I’m takin’ ‘er there tonight...Nice legs.”

  “What you goin’ t’see?” asked Joe lighting a cigarette; he offered one to Arthur, who gestured with his hand to the negative.

  “Er, Mister Moses...Robert Mitchum... Oh, and Carroll Baker – very nice.” imparted Arthur approvingly.

  Joe smiled and nodded: “Oh, I nearly forgot.” he said reaching into an inside pocket and producing a small tin, which had previously contained mints and was well used, adding: “There’s ‘alf a dozen in there for y’u. Don’t take them all at once.” he joked. Arthur prised the lid open a crack to see what he presumed were Benzedrine tablets.

  The conversation subsequently lapsed into discussions about football and then the musical merits of The Who versus The Rolling Stones, until two girls in their late teens entered the cafe. Their attentions were immediately steered in the direction of the young women.

  “What d’y’u reckon?” asked Joe rather non-specifically.

  “The brunette’s very tasteful... The blonde one’s a bit chubby, but I wouldn’t say no.”

  Joe indicated with his thumb for them to move in on the girls – an endeavour that Arthur needed little encouragement for. They then spent the next hour chatting them up, after buying them a coffee. Joe seemed to be onto something with the Brunette, but Arthur’s luck did not appear to be in, so he eventually left Joe to it...

  The train pulled into Lime Street Station at 2.35 PM. Arthur checked his watch and cursed; he was feeling the pressure of time like a lead weight upon his shoulders. The contact had told him to meet at 38 Stanley Street, which was fairly close to the station, but Arthur – who rarely wrote things down – misremembered it as 38 Stanley Road, which was in a completely different part of Liverpool. Consequently, when he started asking directions, there was an immediate conflict of comprehension: Arthur was convinced the address was near the station, but everyone he asked, either didn’t know it or directed him to Kirkdale or Bootle – or Huyton, which even he knew couldn’t be right. What made it worse was that most people were not aware of Stanley Street, or at least were not aware that it was called Stanley Street, so that option just didn’t get raised. After
about 45 minutes of wandering around the general area and asking umpteen different people for help, he finally took the advice of one particular woman and waited for a bus that went to Stanley Road in Kirkdale/Bootle.

  Arthur decided to get off at the first stop in Stanley Road after crossing the railway bridge, as he had no idea whereabouts number 38 would be located, nor even what sort of property it was. This still left him a fair walk before he reached the sweetshop. Instinctively he knew this couldn’t be right, but was at a loss as to what else to do; so, with no time remaining to explore any other possibility, he entered the sweetshop. This of course turned out to be a fruitless effort, and although the woman in the shop tried to be helpful, directing him to other possible ‘Stanleys’, he was none the wiser on leaving the shop. He rather aimlessly wandered further along the street until he came across a cinema – The Rialto. On approaching the doorman, he discovered that he was a Geordie, which was an accent he wasn’t really familiar with. Communication with this character proved to be less than convivial, nor particularly coherent, however, Arthur did manage to ascertain that there was a bus station just up the road a way, which rang a bell with him, because the previous month he had caught a bus to Rhyl from a station in Bootle, (following that trip to Liverpool). He was supposed to be meeting Dickie back in London later that day, but by this time, there was no chance of getting back to Lime Street in time to catch a train that would return him to London early enough. In something of a dilemma, he started walking in the direction of the bus station at the shopping centre in Washington Parade.

  Dickie was reading the paper in the kitchen, while Mary cooked his dinner: fried eggs, sausages and fried slice. Mary gave the frying pan a sharp shake, before taking a drag from her cigarette.

  “Where y’u goin’ tonight Dick?” she casually enquired, aware that he was up to something.

  “Eh...? Nowhere special, why?”