The Wolves of London

by Mark Morris

  Benny Magee was such a man. If you met him with no prior knowledge of who he was you’d think he was amiable, open-minded, softly spoken. And yet he’d been involved in some terrible things, and had spent as much of his adult life in prison as out of it. There’d been a lot of respect for him in Pentonville; people treated him with deference, even though he wasn’t the sort of bloke to throw his weight about and assert his authority. The first time I met him I was sitting cross-legged on the bunk in my cell, trying to concentrate on the psychology textbook in my lap. I had one finger stuck in my ear and my lips were moving in an attempt to block out the racket going on around me and get the words on the page to stick in my head.

  That’s one thing about prisons that they never focus on in movies and TV dramas. They never mention the noise. Morning, noon and night there’s an unceasing barrage of people shouting to each other, yelling abuse, crying, screaming for attention, banging the hell out of the walls and doors of their cells. It never stops. It goes on and on. The first time I was exposed to it I was terrified, I thought there was something kicking off, but after a while I realised that this was what it was like all the time, and that if I didn’t want it to crush me it was something I would have to get used to.

  I only became aware that someone had stepped through the open door of my cell when a shadow fell across the page of the book. Immediately my head snapped up, my heart thumping. I knew there were plenty of screws around, but I knew too that sometimes they could be purposely distracted, or even persuaded to turn a blind eye.

  When I saw Benny standing over me, my stomach clenched and the muscles in my shoulders went rigid. Until now I hadn’t crossed his path, though I’d seen him around and knew of him by reputation. The stories that other inmates had told me about him were toe-curling. It was said that he’d once nailed an informant to a wooden floor before removing his fingers and toes with bolt cutters; that he’d dealt with a business rival by hammering a tent peg through his eye and into his brain; that he’d punished an ex-girlfriend’s lover by tying him up, fastening electrodes to his testicles, throwing him into a bath of cold water, and then electrocuting him until he passed out, slipped beneath the water and drowned.

  What made these stories even more horrifying – and oddly more feasible – was the fact that Benny wasn’t much to look at. By that I mean he was unassuming – slight, with fine, sandy hair and a narrow, forgettable face. I’d have put him in his late thirties, which meant that he was about twice my age. Perhaps the one concession to his criminality was the fact that he had a small scar bisecting the left side of his upper lip. However, he could just as easily have got that from falling off his bike when he was a kid.

  I felt an urge to scramble to my feet and stand to attention, but I thought that might be construed as squaring up to him, so I stayed where I was, cowering and submissive.

  Benny wasn’t alone. Standing behind him was a big man, running to fat but still formidable, with a black moustache and hands like the clawed scoops on a digger.

  Bending at the waist, Benny leaned towards me until our foreheads were almost touching. He smelled fresh and faintly scented, of shower gel and deodorant, perhaps some kind of hair product. When he parted his lips to speak, my balls shrivelled and crawled into my belly, like a pair of snails retreating into their shells. I expected some blood-curdling threat to tickle my ears. But then I noticed that Benny’s pale blue eyes were not trained on me, but trying to make out the title of my book.

  ‘What you reading?’ he asked.

  Not quite trusting myself to speak, I held up the book.

  ‘Psychology of Behaviour,’ he said, and pulled a mildly impressed face. Straightening up, he turned to the man standing behind him. ‘See this, Michael? Here’s a boy who’s using his time wisely. There ought to be more of his sort in here, don’t you think?’

  The moustached man grunted in what I took to be assent. I couldn’t, though, work out whether Benny was taking the piss. Part of me was still convinced I was about to be punished for daring to try to rise above my station.

  Turning back to me, Benny asked, ‘What’s your name, son?’

  ‘Alex,’ I said, but the word came out as little more than a dry, crackly wheeze. I cleared my throat and tried again. ‘Alex Locke.’

  Benny nodded sagely, as if I’d posited a workable solution to a difficult problem. ‘How long have you been in this shithole, Alex?’

  ‘Nearly a month,’ I said.

  ‘And what are you going to do when you get out?’

  Still wary, I said, ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Just reading that for the hell of it, are you?’ Benny said, nodding at the book.

  ‘Oh… no. I’m doing some A levels. Psychology, maths and English. If I pass them I might do a degree.’

  ‘A laudable ambition.’ Benny looked at me. His eyes made me think of glaciers reflecting the pure, piercing blue of an Arctic sky. I tried not to shiver. ‘Do you know what laudable means, Alex?’

  I did, or thought I did, but his eyes were freezing my brain, rendering me incapable of thought.

  ‘Good?’ I said lamely.

  ‘More or less. It means commendable. Worthy of admiration.’ He paused for a split second, and then asked mildly, ‘Do you know who I am?’

  My mouth was suddenly so dry I couldn’t swallow. I nodded and managed to tear my lips apart to whisper, ‘Yes.’

  Benny smiled. ‘Then you’ll know it’s too late for me. I’ve gone too far down the road to damnation to turn back now.’ He placed a hand on my shoulder and gave it a little squeeze. I imagined that hand wielding a hammer, banging nails into a rival’s flesh, or a tent peg into an opponent’s eye.

  ‘But not you,’ he said. ‘There’s still time for you to mend your ways. Do me a favour, Alex. Don’t fuck it up.’

  ‘I won’t,’ I whispered.

  ‘I hope not. I’ll be watching out for you. While you’re in here I’ll be your guardian angel. Anything you want, just ask. Okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ I said.

  ‘Good lad.’ He turned abruptly and nodded at Michael, who preceded him out of the door. At the threshold Benny turned back. ‘Oh, and Alex?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Don’t be afraid.’

  I was never sure whether he meant of him, of anyone else in the prison, or of life in general, and I never asked. All I know is that from that day onwards I was under Benny’s protection. I’m not saying that prison life was a breeze because of that – by its very nature it was a depressing, repetitive, soul-crushing experience – but after Benny’s visit I got the very real sense that my fellow inmates had changed their attitudes towards me.

  The first month I’d been there I’d felt like a gazelle around which a pack of lions was constantly prowling. However, apart from a few threatening comments – which were ten a penny in prison and rarely the prelude to anything more serious; violence, when it came, tended to be swift, brutal and unexpected – I’d managed to avoid any kind of confrontation. I’d felt, though, as if I was being assessed, mulled over, considered for future action. As a result, I was constantly on edge and had tried to keep myself to myself as much as possible, which was one of the reasons why I’d buried myself in study. Maybe my fears were all in my head, but I didn’t think so. And even if they were, Benny’s intervention helped a lot, because after he’d spoken to me I felt much easier in my mind. The belligerent stares I’d been getting (or imagined I’d been getting) before, and the muttered conversations I’d noticed among various cliques of prisoners whenever I’d walked past seemed all at once to melt away. People might not have been friendlier towards me, but they were definitely less hostile. I didn’t make many friends in prison, but that suited me fine, because it meant I could get on with my studies without fear of interruption or distraction.

  It might sound like a cliché, but prison was the making of me. In fact, you could go even further back than that, and say that if Chris hadn’t suggested to Ray that he bring me in on the
job he was planning, I might well have ended up pissing my life away on some shitty estate. But because I was in on the job I got caught. And because I got caught I ended up in prison. And because I was in prison, and had time on my hands, I started reading books. And it was through that that I started my studies, and got a degree, and ended up teaching psychology…

  Cause and effect. A long chain of linked circumstances. Everyone’s lives are like that, I suppose, full of ‘what if’s and ‘if only’s. Some people think it’s fate or destiny, some think it’s just a random series of events. Whatever your beliefs, the fact is we’re all given a choice of multiple paths to follow, and the ones we choose to take are what determines who we are, what we become.

  That might not be very profound, but it’s true all the same. Looking back, I sometimes wonder what might have happened if I’d not made certain decisions at certain times. Knowing what I know now, all I see is the equivalent of a jumper unravelling, at first stitch by stitch and then more and more rapidly, or perhaps more accurately a wave engulfing all before it, which starts with the ripples caused by a single dropped pebble into an otherwise calm lake.

  But I’m jumping ahead of myself, and it’s important not to do that. I have to tell this story as I lived it, as it happened to me, and resist the urge to interject based on where I am now, and on what I know.

  So. Benny Magee. The phone call. The next fork in the road. The next decision on whether to turn right or left.

  It went like this:

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Benny?’

  ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘I don’t know if you remember me, Benny, but… it’s Alex. Alex Locke.’

  ‘Alex Locke.’ He repeated my name with no inflection, and therefore no apparent recognition, whatsoever. I was about to start the tortuous job of reminding him of our association, whilst again wondering if, by ringing him, I’d done the wrong thing, when he spoke again, a note of incredulity creeping into his voice.

  ‘Fuck me. Alex Locke. The kid from Pentonville. What was it again? Psychology of Behaviour?’

  ‘That’s right,’ I said, not sure whether to feel flattered or alarmed that he’d remembered.

  ‘So tell me this, Alex,’ he said mildly. ‘Did you fuck it up?’

  Even though I was tense, I couldn’t help but smile. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. So where’s life taken you?’

  I hesitated, feeling like one of the little pigs reluctant to open the door in case the big bad wolf should enter. I felt like this even though I knew that eventually, if he was going to provide me with the help I needed, I’d have to tell Benny more than I was comfortable with. ‘I’m a psychology lecturer.’

  ‘Good for you.’

  ‘So what are you up to these days?’

  I blurted out the question to stem the ones he was asking me, but as soon as the words left my mouth I clenched my teeth and screwed up my face as if I’d bitten down on a sour lemon. What a dickhead! What was I thinking of, asking him that?

  Luckily, though, Benny gave a dry chuckle.

  ‘Perhaps I’d better not answer that, on account of the fact that I might incriminate myself.’

  He laughed harder, and I laughed along with him, just two old lags sharing a joke.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘what do you want from me, Alex? Because touched as I am to hear your voice, I take it you’re not ringing to reminisce about the old days?’

  ‘Not really,’ I said. ‘Sorry. I need your advice.’

  ‘About what?’

  I hesitated. ‘My daughter’s in a bit of bother through no fault of her own, and I’m… well, I’m out of my depth, to be honest. I’m not quite sure how to handle things. I was hoping you might be able to help.’

  I realised how flimsy that sounded. But I couldn’t tell Benny what I really wanted – which was for him to scare the shit out of the thug who was threatening Candice. I had to let Benny come up with that suggestion himself. But how to manoeuvre him into that position? Benny wasn’t stupid; in fact, he was sharper than the weapons he had reputedly used to silence his enemies. I was beginning to wish I’d thought this through a bit more – or better yet, come up with a different plan. For all Benny’s pleasant manner, I couldn’t help but feel that I had let the big bad wolf in after all, and was now holding on to its tail in the hope that it wouldn’t unsheathe its claws and turn on me.

  ‘You must be desperate,’ he said, ‘to call me.’

  ‘I’m desperate to help my daughter,’ I replied carefully.

  ‘Is that so?’

  I imagined his narrow face, shrewd and calculating, the coldness emanating from his ice-blue eyes, and I had to fight the urge to slam the receiver down.

  A couple of seconds’ silence stretched between us, and then I said, ‘Look, Benny, maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. You don’t want to be burdened with my stupid little problems. I mean, why would you? You’re a busy man.’

  I clammed up, aware that I was starting to let my tongue run away with me. How old would Benny be now? Fifty? Maybe he’d retired; maybe he’d mellowed with age.

  ‘Have you forgotten what I told you?’ he said.

  He had this knack of wrong-footing you, of making you feel as if he knew more than he was letting on. It was unsettling, and annoying too, because you knew he was being manipulative, and yet that didn’t stop you wanting to please him, to keep up with his way of thinking and not let him down. I suppose some of that was based on fear – you were scared of him becoming angry, because you knew what he was capable of – but not all. Benny might be outwardly unassuming, but he was also oddly charismatic. He had what is commonly termed a magnetic personality.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I said, cursing myself for sounding dumb.

  ‘In Pentonville. I said I’d look out for you, Alex. And I will. I’m a man who keeps his promises.’

  Loath as I was to contradict him, I found myself saying, ‘We’re not in Pentonville now.’

  ‘Matter of opinion. Life’s just a bigger prison with better scenery.’

  I didn’t know what to say to that. Before I could think of anything, Benny added, ‘Besides, when you sign up with me, Alex, you sign up for ever. It’s a life sentence, son.’

  He laughed suddenly, a gravelly bark.

  ‘I’m joking. But seriously, Alex, I think we should meet up, talk about this. I can tell from your voice that you’re at your wits’ end – besides which, it would be a tonic to see your ugly mug again.’

  Suddenly I wanted to backtrack, think of an excuse not to meet him, but I knew he’d see right through me if I hesitated. So instead I heard myself saying, ‘That’d be great. Thanks, Benny. I really appreciate it.’

  We arranged to meet in a pub called The Hair of the Dog just off Barking Road, near the West Ham football ground at 5.30 that afternoon. The campus where I taught was in East London, just north of the river, so it wasn’t much more than a short northwards hop for me. I drifted distractedly through my day’s teaching like someone with a doctor’s appointment he wasn’t looking forward to, and was out of the building and hurrying towards the local DLR station at Beckton Park as soon as my last lecture of the day was over. I could have hung around a bit, taken more time to answer the questions of the half-dozen or so students who always lingered after lectures as if they didn’t have a million and one more interesting things to do, or even retreated to my tutorial room to catch up on a bit of marking. But I was restless, anxious to arrive at the rendezvous and stake out my territory before Benny arrived.

  The Hair of the Dog was a corner pub on a busy road, its frontage decorated with hanging baskets as big as baby’s cribs. The expanse of wall beneath the windows was faced up with shiny ceramic tiles, which looked as though the building was protected by a chitinous, cockroach-brown exoskeleton. The old-fashioned, swinging pub sign depicted a wolfish, grinning dog wearing a bowler hat and holding a tankard of frothing ale in its strangely human-like paw. The pub was the co
rnerstone of a row of businesses which included a noodle bar, a dry cleaner’s and a hypnotherapy centre.

  Stepping inside the pub, I was immediately assailed by that old-school and wholly comforting odour of stale cigar smoke (ingrained in the walls and still redolent), ancient cologne and the hopsy, earthy fumes of beer and whisky. The décor was old-school too – battered red leather and chipped mahogany tables. The central bar was shaped like a squared-off tug boat, which had clearly been designed in order to serve all four corners of the vast room which it bisected. The carpet was the colour of raw beef and the ceiling was still stained an acrid yellow-brown from the days when the place had been a smoker’s paradise.

  At this time of day there were only a couple of dozen people occupying the myriad tables, which made the place look empty. I crossed to the bar, aware of the click of pool balls from an adjoining room and the burbles and bleeps, like robotic indigestion, from the unattended fruit machine. As a young man I’d spent many a drunken night in pubs like this, but now I felt incongruous, a middle-class pretender trying to fit in with the workers. Stupid, I know. This was London, after all. The great melting pot. My eyes scanned the bottles arranged on the shelf behind a young guy in a green polo shirt who was waiting patiently to serve me. I pondered a moment, then ordered a large glass of Chilean Merlot.

  I’ve always loved that moment just before you start drinking when the barman sets your first full glass down in front of you. Today, though, my stomach was so jittery with nerves that even the gentle chink of the glass on the bar and the cherry red shimmer of light on the deep velvety surface of the wine failed to calm me. As soon as I’d paid him I all but snatched at the glass and gulped down my first mouthful. It was smooth, but it burned a little when it reached the bile in my stomach. I took another gulp, then another, and within a minute the glass was half-empty. I stopped myself from taking a fourth gulp and placed my hands on the bar. It wouldn’t do to be half-cut when Benny appeared. I needed to keep a clear head.