R.I.P Robbie Silva

by Tony Black

  'Make it strong, mind ...' I told the waitress. 'I want to be able to stand my spoon up in it!' I'd missed this kind of patter inside. Funny that, how the day-to-day things get away from you. That's what the pound's all about though, dehumanising you. Depriving you of the simple acts of civility that make us people. I never got unsettled by it though; some radges inside will go crazy. Can't stand the confinement. Then you get the ones who've done fifteen years and they're more at home in a cell than they were on the outside. It's a funny thing, but y'know, no two cons are the same. Me, I can take it or leave it. It's a hazard of the job. But I'll tell you this, there does come a time in every robber's life when he starts to wonder when the Big Payer's going to come up.

  It's a dream of course; stuff of legend. You get a group of cons together and they'll always be spraffing about the Big Payer. Not some five or ten grand counter jump, I'm talking about the hundreds of thousands, the millions. It was beyond my league. I was a raid man, working small firms. I'd never been asked to make the move upstairs. Well, until now that is.

  Long Dong Silva's offer was, like the Londoner said, a tasty one. I knew it. Was understood.

  My bacon roll and coffee arrived.

  The waitress stood over the table, waiting for me to part with some poppy. I dug my hand in my pocket, there was a five-spot and some coin. I didn't need to look in the other pocket; I knew what was there. Silva's number.

  I handed over the last of my cash and smiled.

  Thing about Silva was, I didn't trust him.

  I didn't like the look of him, flat out. There was something about him that said there was more going on behind the eyes than he would ever let on.

  When you do a job, front the counter, you can tell straight off who the ones that will give you grief are. There's the lot that will empty till and take it in their stride. And then there's the ones that will try and give you a bag full of receipts or cheques – not out of some misguided sense of duty to the bank but because they get something out of fucking with people.

  Silva was a past master of fucking with people. It shone out of him.

  There was no doubt I had to go back to work, and soon. I couldn't rely on Jasper to keep me for ever. Sure, I could grab some work on my own but there was an offer from a decent firm on the table and I was seriously conflicted. I might not get another chance at the Big One.

  I slurped the last of my coffee, took out my mobi and dialled Silva's number.

  He answered on the third ring.

  'Hello.' His London accent rattled me but I put it out my mind.

  'It's Jed Collins.'

  A pause on the line. I sensed his grin stretching out over those goldie teeth. 'Hello, my old son. Had a little think about my offer have we?'

  He was lapping me up. I played him. 'Depends?'

  He barked, 'Oh yeah ... and on what?'

  I let him hang for a moment or two, replied, 'It depends on any number of things ... whether I like the look of the job, whether I like the team and whether I like my share.'

  Silva laughed down the line. 'Let me tell you, mate, you'll be fucking cock-a-hoop ... Now, when can we meet?'

  * * * *

  I took a donner down Lothian Road and queued outside the ATM of the Royal Bank's big set-up. They seemed to be doing a roaring trade. Made me think. This lot, the bankers, had made a nice raid on the country's finances – took us all to the fucking cleaners. The sums were eye watering. Fuck me drunk, these bastards made the Brink's-Mat bullion job's £26-million take look like chicken feed. If I had the marbles I'd be on the other side of the counter. That's where the real robbery gets done.

  My account was down to low double figures; depressing really, for a man my age. But that was the facts. I pulled a couple of Jimmy Denners out and headed up the road to a drinker I knew well.

  The Drum was full of the usual Edinburgh crew you get in the middle of the day: barflies. A few bluenoses supping on that Hun piss McEwan's and a stack of dole-moles on the scrounge for whatever they could get. I took a stool at the bar; the barman had his back to me polishing a glass. I coughed into my hand and he turned around.

  'All right, Jed ... when did you get sprung?' he said.

  Broonie was a good bloke, carried a paunch like a darts player now but hadn't changed much at all otherwise. 'Not long ago. How's tricks?'

  Broonie slapped my shoulder, smiled his widest. 'Well, welcome back mate, welcome back!' His pub was referred to in the press recently as a ''hive of villainy''. I read that on the inside and it made me feel homesick. Still, looking around here, save a few schemie hoisters trying to flog some hot Hearts tops, there was little hard-core in evidence.

  I tapped the bar. 'How about a pint of the black then?'

  'No worries.' Broonie turned to the pumps, got to work on a creamy-headed Guinness for me. 'So, eh, what's the score then, Jed? ... You turning square-peg on us now or what?'

  I scratched the side of my head, had a craving for a tab – this new smoking ban was a kick in the balls, made the pubs look pretty ordinary without the pall of Regal and Embassy. 'Well, you just never know.'

  'Fuck off, mate. You can't kid a kidder!' Broonie laid down the pint in front of me. The creamy head glistened under the lights, thought it winked at me.

  'Cheers, pal.' I downed a good belt. Leaned over the bar a bit, put my conspiratorial coupon on. Broonie took the hint, wised I was about to talk. 'Look, I need the run-down on a new player in town ... well, I say new, he's new to me.'

  'Oh, aye.' Broonie turned his bar-towel over his shoulder, folded his arms.

  'London geezer,' I put a bit of tone on the last word, paused then continued. 'Called Robbie Silva.'

  Broonie leaned back, smoothed the edges of his mozzer, then whet his lips with a quick flash of grey tongue. 'Long Dong Silva ... Christ, what do you want to know?'

  There was a rustle of shell suit at my back. I turned round to see a schemie with a filthy Burberry cap on holding up a Hearts top. 'Fancy a shirt, big man?'

  I looked him up and down. There was a Mars Bar running from his mouth to his ear, a jagged and ruthless one that looked like a glassing. I raised my pint, pointed to the scar, said, 'You want a matching number on the other side?'

  He didn't know how to take me, looked at Broonie – who dipped his head – then the schemie burst into a toothless grin. 'Aw, a fucking Hibee, eh? ... Sorry, pal, no offence, like.'

  I turned away and heard him rustling off to try his luck elsewhere.

  Broonie was back on his elbows, nodding towards the bar. 'Why you asking about Silva?'

  I played it cool. 'Got my reasons.'

  'Jed, you're a fucking blagger ... and Silva's about as far from that racket as it gets.'

  I sighed. 'You know how it works, mate.'

  Broonie shook his head, brushed the edges of his 'tache down again. He looked at me nervously. I noticed his eyes were ringed in red. 'If someone's put a bit of work up to Silva, you have to ask yourself, then why would he come to you? ... You're fuck all to him!'

  I knew this. But I also knew Silva had an inside track on my abilities. I'd been going over things in my head, never a good idea, but I thought I had it figured out. 'Thing is Broonie, I did some business with a relative of his and—'

  He cut in. 'Not that fucking cock-rag son of his ... Jesus Christ.' He pointed to the schemie in the Burberry cap. 'Fucking Barnie wouldn't work with him!'

  I flagged him down, 'No. Someone else.'

  'Well that only leaves the daughter ... unless you're busy with his old lady.'

  I edged Broonie away from this line of chat, said, 'Does it fucking matter, who?'

  A shrug, more head-shakes. Broonie took a deep breath and turned away. He moved towards the optics and raised a glass to a bottle of Johnnie Walker, poured himself a large one. When he returned his cheeks were beginning to colour. 'What do you want to know?'

  I put down my pint, pressed my palms together. 'Can he be trusted?'

  'Of course he can't be fucki
ng trusted. He's a top-drawer player, Jed. He's no blagger and you'll get no help from him on that kind of score.'

  I kept my eyes on Broonie. 'That's not what I'm asking ... what I need to know is, if he has a job of work, can he be trusted?'

  Broonie raised his wee goldie, drained the last of it. He grimaced, turned down the corners of his mouth. There was a glistening line of moisture on his lower lip when he spoke. 'All I can tell you is that Silva has shot up the ranks. If you're asking, is he of a level that would get a good bit of work put up – not some fag-coupon raid – then, aye. He's that level.'

  I leaned back, said, 'You sure about that?'

  Broonie nodded. 'Aye, I'm sure. If you'd asked me a year ago, before Big Andy and The Brothers went down, I'd have thought twice. But things change fast in this town and Silva's got the numbers and contacts.'

  I got out my seat. Headed for the door.

  'Jed,' called Broonie. 'Watch yourself, pal.'

  I didn't need telling twice.

  * * * *

  As I headed back down Lothian Road I had the words of an old lag, a real Daddy of the Wing, ringing in my ears. He'd told me one time, after a discussion about the jobs he'd taken on in his day, that ''if you have your doubts, leave it out''. I thought at the time it sounded like good advice. But I'd never been very good at taking advice, or listening to my conscience; I knew if I had, then Jody would still be around.

  I was crossing at the lights, just across from the Filmhouse Cinema, when my mobi started to ring.

  I answered.

  'Hello, Jed.'

  I recognised the voice at once, but played up. 'Who's this?'

  'I think you know who it is.' The old confidence was back; it was quite a difference to just a few days ago.

  'Okay, well, if that's you Gail, then I want to know how you got this number.' I put a bit of a scare in my voice, but I didn't think it would do any damage to her. She sounded like she knew she had me in the palm of her hand. Kinda wished she had.

  'You called Daddy ... I took your number from his phone.'

  I didn't like the sound of that – Silva didn't look like the kind of man who'd let his daughter rifle through his gear. For a second, I felt a seed of doubt grow in my mind. Was she playing me? Was Silva?

  Holy fuck.

  My mind ran.

  Had the whole raid on the fat Jambo been a plant – a fucking ruse to test me out? It was paranoia but something had put the thought there.

  'Jed, you there?'

  'Yeah ... yeah. I'm here.'

  Gail giggled on the other end of the line.

  'What's going on there?'

  'Not getting all possessive on me, are you?'

  'Give me a fucking break.'

  She seemed to take a second or two to digest that remark, then, 'I want to see you.'

  'Oh, aye.'

  'Soon. Like, now ...'

  I scratched my chin; there was a three-day growth there. 'Not likely, love.'

  She arked up. 'And why not?'

  'Because, to be fucking honest with you, I still haven't got over the last time we got together.'

  She laughed out loud; I had to hold the mobi away. This girl was some piece of work.

  'Not going soft on me, are you?'

  'Not a chance.'

  'Can't handle a bit of ... action?'

  Action I could handle; Gail's idea of action, however, was another question. 'Let me think about it.'

  She didn't like my response, but, fair fucks to her, the spoilt brat kept her cool. 'Okay-dokey, I'll give you a buzz later.'

  'Yeah, you do that.'

  'Oh, I will.'

  I let the line die, pocketed my mobi and continued back to Jasper's pad.

  * * * *

  When I got back to the flat, it was empty.

  I was glad to have the joint to myself. My head was numb with thinking things through. I was never very good at using my brain – I was always better at getting the kinds of things done that didn't require thought – physical stuff.

  I knew who I was, knew my limitations. I also knew that at some point I was going to have to make a decision about Silva. I was either going to take his offer and go back to work, or I was going to have to look for an alternative.

  I shrugged my shoulders. There was an ache setting up shop in my neck. I felt the tension mounting, gripping the tip of my spine and sending tingling pins and needles out to my flanks. Something had to give; another day of this and I'd be a fucking wreck.

  I walked through to the kitchen and took out a tin of Stella, sparked up a tab. As the thick white smoke stretched towards the yellowed ceiling I stared out the window towards the city. Edinburgh was my home, always had been. Not always this part of it, but then the places I had been in the past I didn't want to return to.

  I looked out at the tumble of tenements, the drying areas and the back greens. This town was the same wherever you went; this is how people lived. My people.

  A young lad, no more than five or six, came running through the close bouncing a football. He was laughing and smiling to himself; a young girl about the same age came running behind him. The pair of them made me think of me and my sister at that age. For the first time in a long time I felt myself remembering a time in my childhood when we were happy; when Jody was happy.

  And then my heart froze.

  I looked away.

  I walked through to the living-room and sat down.

  In the armchair I shotgunned the can of Stella. The tab in my hand had burnt down to the filter tip before I remembered it was there. A long fossilised head of ash dropped onto the arm of the chair. I didn't even bother to rub at it.

  I was miles away.

  It was three days after my seventeenth birthday when Jody told me what he had done to her. I didn't believe her at first, thought it was a joke, a sick joke. Then she started to cry, her eyes blinking fast to wash out the tears as she told me he had done it for years. I couldn't take it in. I just couldn't.

  'Before Mum ... died?'

  She nodded.

  'Did she know?'

  'No!' said Jody.

  'But how, how didn't she know?'

  'Because I never told her.' She was trembling. Her eyes growing redder and redder. I wanted to hug her, to tell her it would be all right, but she looked so distant. Not just distant from me, but from everyone. I knew if I held her she would be stiff, cold. I understood then she had cut herself off from the world, from people.

  I waited for Jody to leave the room and then I started to punch the sofa. I punched and hit out until I was sweating and my knuckles red, the skin cracked and near to bleeding. And then I slumped against the wall and slid to the ground.

  I remember the crying; I remember hating myself for crying but the hatred was nothing compared to what I felt for him.

  It had been light outside when I fell against the wall and wept, but it was dark when my father came home. I watched him staggering up the close. He flicked a cigarette into the gutter and I watched the amber sparks fly. It was as if they ignited something inside me; my heart pounded loudly in my chest.

  When his key turned in the lock I felt my whole body tense. There was a sharp spike prodding at my stomach. I thought I would be sick, but I held it in and walked to the fireplace.

  The door to the living-room was mottled glass and as he turned the light on I saw him framed in the hallway. He was mumbling, drunk. I couldn't hear what he said, but it didn't matter. I was already way beyond words with him; nothing he could say would change what he had done.

  When my father walked into the room I stepped towards him, the poker from the fireside was raised above my head. I let him get inside the door, turn on the light, and face me. For a moment or two he didn't seem to register anything unusual, it was just me, Jed, his son. But then his features changed and he looked up at the poker. I waited for him to say something, to explain, but he said nothing; he merely lowered his head and I brought the poker down.

  I brought the poke
r down again and again. On his body and legs. I moved up and down his full length as he crawled before me, slithered away like a snake. I lost count of the number of times I struck him. He was already bloody and broken when Jody came rushing in.

  'Jed!' she yelled. 'Oh, Jed. Jed ...'

  She knelt down beside my father and touched his brow, and then she ran to the phone to call an ambulance.

  I sat and watched the ambulance men work around my father but I didn't move from the chair. At some stage one of them must have called the police because in little or no time there were two uniformed officers standing over me.

  I was remanded. A primitive fucking boot camp for bad boys. On my second month inside they told me my father had taken the easy road out, killed himself. My sister had been taken into care. On the third month they told me Jody had been moved to stay with a foster family in another town.

  Jody never called or visited me. At first this made me angry; I wanted her to be glad that I had finished off her abuser. But I know now she never saw it that way.

  * * * *

  I wasn't sure about this. You get a feeling for a job, call it what you like, superstition or whatever. I'd been in firms with blokes who had walked out because a black cat had crossed in front of the car on the way to a jump. There was one blagger, another fucking Londoner called Mad Mikey, who'd parked his motor down at Leith Docks and came back to see it covered in seagull shit, looked like a plasterer's radio, and that was it for him. Bird shit, at some stage, he'd decided was bad luck and he was Harry the Toff back to the King's Road calling the job ''a write-off'' and claiming we were in for ''a fucking mugging''.

  I stood on the edge of the kerb; it was getting dark now. The street light fizzed, painting an orange glow on the road and the shop fronts. People were whizzing about, heading home after a few quick scoops in the howff. I wondered what it must be like to be a square-peg; to do an honest day's work for an honest day's pay. Nah, wasn't in me. Knew I wasn't wired-up right for that kind of patter.

  The 26 bus showed, fucking old Jambo-coloured one, Jesus, what was that all about? I waited for it to hoy up close to the stop and then I got on and paid the Ted driver whose greasy-old quiff looked like it was about to drip on the wheel. The road out to Porty was chokka with cars and Joe Baxis, horns blowing all over the place. The days of going on the rob in this type of traffic were long gone. Not even with a fucking Suzuki.