by Kolton Lee
Dunstan sat quiet. He knew that much at least. Alan stood up, clasping his letter-opener dagger, and walked to the back of the office, pacing behind Dunstan. Dunstan didn’t move a muscle.
‘When you jungle bunnies were slicing each other up over your fooking chump change, me an’ Paul came in and taught you lot how to organise things properly. The white man’s discipline! Bring some foocking order to that madness out on the street! We made some real fooking money! For everyone! So don’t fooking come in here talking about ‘diss’-respect! You fooking monkey! You respect me!’
Dunstan turned in his seat. ‘No, Alan, I didn’t mean …’
‘Shut it!’ Alansat on the edge of his desk again. Opposite another black man. He fiddled with the letter opener while Dunstan looked at him. And then Alan suddenly smiled.
‘Sorry for that outburst. That was a joke. Have you got the money?’
Looking as though he didn’t get the joke, Dunstan slid his briefcase on to the desk and clicked it open. It contained stacks of cash, neatly fastened with elastic bands. Alan smiled more broadly.
‘I like you, Dunstan. But you’re still a boy. Don’t, don’t get above yourself, man. Do you know what I mean?’ Alan was attempting a parody of Dunstan’s street vernacular. ‘Me and Paul, we started this business, Dunstan, we do what we want.’ Alan turned to Nina looking smug.
Nina thought that if the point of this meeting was for Alan to demonstrate that he was a man still in charge of his own destiny, it had only partially succeeded. Noting the look on Dunstan’s face, the set of his jaw, Nina couldn’t help feeling that somehow matters would not be allowed to rest here.
9.
Dunstan bounced out of ‘Poxy’s’, as he and his crew disrespectfully referred to Alan’s nightclub. He stepped high with the confidence to which he was accustomed. If Dunstan was honest he’d been shaken by the strangled scream and the sight of the tall brother who’d clearly taken some licks. But his own meeting with Alan had forced that from his mind. ‘Fuck all of you wogs and niggers!’ Dunstan looked up and down Brewer Street trying to remember where he’d parked the Jeep. He was so angry he’d forgotten!
‘What a fucking raaaas! White Alan! ‘Bout ’im a play meee! Dunstan Cuthbert Winston Churchill!’ In his rage, Dunstan was actually talking to himself. His lips moved as he peered short-sightedly back and forth. His mother had told him time and time again to have his eyes tested. But Dunstan had thought, with good reason, that the crew he hung with would not appreciate with the same fear and respect Dunstan Cuthbert Winston Churchill in glasses.
He spotted his rag-top, black Wrangler Sahara Jeep and high-stepped towards it.. As he neared the car that he had paid a little under twenty thousand pounds cash for, his pace slowed and his afro reasserted its former glory. He aimed his security fob at the Jeep and lights flashed, accompanied by three shrill blasts. He pressed another button on the fob to open the doors. Normally the locks would release with a seductive thunk! Not this time. Dunstan pressed the fob a number of times but they didn’t open. Fuck it. He high stepped around the car and jammed the key into the lock. Only he missed the lock and scraped the key along the pristine paint work. Underneath the black was silver.
Dunstan was now apoplectic with fury.
‘I’m gonna fucking kill somebody, guy! I am! I’m gonna fucking kill somebody!’
At his second, more careful attempt, Dunstan opened the door and climbed into the driver’s seat. Climbed, because after buying the Jeep from a dealer in Camden he had immediately discarded the prosaic sixteen-inch Icon Alloys it came with and installed a much larger, chunkier and altogether more masculine set of wheels. The Jeep was now jacked so high off the ground a small child would have needed a grappling iron to climb in.
Dunstan slipped the key in the lock and turned on the ignition. The area around the car, within a radius of fifty metres, was immediately blasted with the music and lyrics of the New York rapper, Ol’ Dirty Bastard.
OH BABY! OH BABY, I’LL EAT THE SHIT FROM RIGHT OUT OF YOUR ASS …!
Dunstan reached into the inside of his jacket and pulled out his mobile. It was a gold-plated, diamond-encrusted Nokia, the 8850. He had had it imported especially, from Saudi Arabia. Dunstan liked to bling. The mobile retailed at a cool ten thousand pounds and for the kudos it gave Dunstan it was worth every penny. He flipped it open and pressed a button to speed-dial. After four rings the telephone at the other end was answered.
‘Ade?’ Dunstan had to raise his voice because the music in his Jeep was so loud.
‘Who dis?’
‘Ade?’
‘Hello?’
‘Ade!’ Dunstan was now shouting into the mobile.
I DON’T HAVE NO TROUBLE WITH YOU FUCKING ME
BUT I HAVE A LITTLE PROBLEM WITH YOU NOT FUCKING ME …
‘I can’t hear you!’ It didn’t occur to Dunstan to turn the music down. He pressed an index finger into his free ear. Ol’ Dirty Bastard was cut out, at least for Dunstan.
‘Ade, you fuck, is that you?!’ Dunstan was now screaming into the telephone.
‘It’s Jan. Who’s this?’
‘Where’s Ade?’
‘Who is this?’
‘Don’t fuck with me, Jan, where’s Ade?’
‘What? I can’t hear you? Where are you?’
Dunstan glared at the mobile telephone and nearly hurled it through the windscreen. He pressed it to his ear and screamed into it again.
‘Where – the fuck! – is Ade?!’
Knock, knock. A man was knocking the front window on the passenger side, trying to attract his attention. Dunstan ignored him.
‘Yeah?’ Ade’s voice was deep and rich.
‘It’s me. I’ll be back at my yard in half an ’our. Fuckin’ be there.’ Dunstan flipped shut the mobile. He lowered the window the man was knocking at.
‘What the fuck do you …?!’ Recognising the man looking into the Jeep, Dunstan cut short his question and turned the music down.
‘Wha Gwan, D?’ The voice was hoarse.
‘Wha Gwan. Wassup?’ Dunstan put an arm out of the window and the two touched fists.
‘I’m looking for a shebeen. Run by a Grove man, called Blackie. You know him?’
Dunstan pretended to think for a nanosecond then shook his head. ‘Nah, never heard of him. Gotta go, man gotta go.’ Squinting into the rear view mirror, Dunstan dropped the clutch and grabbed the gear stick, slipping it into first. Wha Gwan’s hand slapped the bonnet of the car with a resounding thunk.
‘I said! I’m looking for a brer called Blackie! Do-you-know-him, blood?’
Dunstan scowled at Wha Gwan through the open window but this time he paused before he spoke.
‘No. I told you, I don’t know him. Sorry, mate, I’m in a real hurry.’ Dunstan made sure to keep his voice even and respectful. After a moment Wha Gwan withdrew his hand. Dunstan nodded, lifted the clutch and the Jeep pulled out into the middle of the street.
… BABY YOU KNOW I’M A TAKE CARE OF YOU
COZ YOU SAY YOU GOT MY BABY AND I KNOW IT AIN’T TRUE …
The lyrics of Ol’ Dirty Bastard filled the car again. What nobody realised at that point was that although they were indeed profane and violent, they were nothing to the mayhem that was gradually being unleashed.
***
Wha Gwan stared at the disappearing Jeep with its blaring music. He waited until it had turned out of sight before he shifted his gaze. He shifted it to the doorway Dunstan had emerged from. A nightclub called Roxy’s. He looked at it for a moment and then turned away, walking on down the street.
10.
Gavin stood on the landing outside Alan’s office. He took a couple of deep breaths and a moment to collect his thoughts. Alan had ordered him to go down into the bar, fix him a large, dry Martini and bring it back. As though he were a manservant. But this wasn’t why Gavin was hesitating.
There were things about this business, Alan’s business, that Gavin knew, but chose not to concern hi
mself with. Like the small fact that they were involved with major crime. And in the business of major crime there is often violence. To be fair to Gavin, he had been unaware of this in the early days. By the time he had any real sense of what he was involved with, it was too late. Gavin had become used to the large cheques. They paid for the new marble bathroom suite that his home had cried out for; the rather fine kitchen recommended by a chap at the Conran store in Marylebone High street. Unfortunately however, Gavin found violence, real street violence, ugly and brutal. Uncivilised. He himself had had some training in the ancient martial art of Ju-Jitsu but that, thought Gavin, was a different kind of violence. That was civilised. Given the full extent of Alan’s business interests, he knew discipline had to be maintained. But Gavin preferred to believe that it wasn’t the violence itself that maintained discipline, but the threat of it. So Gavin told himself the lie that Alan was a businessman and he was merely Alan’s business manager.
In any event, the fact that Alan now displayed his ugly form of discipline openly and without shame appalled Gavin. Although Dunstan was young, Gavin did not believe he should have been treated in quite the dismissive fashion that Alan had just displayed. Firstly, Dunstan was right about Paul. Paul had been snorting cocaine for years and was now a stumbling, shambling degenerate. Secondly, Dunstan had a personal kudos and clout on the street that was valuable. And since Paul garnered zero respect amongst the ‘staff’ who ran Alan’s various businesses for him, Dunstan’s services down on the street were varied and necessary. Certainly he could be replaced, but the smart way to do that was in a manner and at a time of their – Gavin and Alan’s – choosing. Calling the young Negro a ‘nigger’ to his face was not helpful. From Gavin’s knowledge of Dunstan, this could well lead to trouble.
Then there was Hilary James. James had certainly needed to be taught a lesson but Gavin was certain that the threat of a simple beating in a back alley would have sufficed.
No. These latest outbursts of Alan’s were uncharacteristic and Gavin wasn’t sure what was causing them. Whatever it was, Gavin was worried. He knew he needed to act. An idea had occurred to him, but it had only just occurred and he was still thinking it through. It involved Nina.
Gavin stepped away from the office door and skipped quickly down the stairs. He often skipped up and down stairs because he had less and less time to go to the gym these days. The exercise was good for him.
Gavin entered the club and there, sitting in front of the bar, was the very person he needed to see. She was sipping a coffee and smoking. She looked up quickly, startled as he entered, and her momentary look of fright told Gavin all he needed to know.
‘Smoking. Again.’ He said it with a smile, to put her at her ease. She didn’t smile back.
‘My timing’s way off. This is no time to go through withdrawal.’ Nina sipped her coffee.
‘I thought you were having lunch with your friend Maxine?’ Gavin spoke with care. The germ of the idea that was growing in Gavin’s mind. It needed careful nurturing.
‘Alan’s flipped, Gavin!’ She looked at him with worried eyes.
‘He’s certainly not behaving with his usual … discretion …’
‘Discretion?! Did you see what he did to that man’s ear?!’ Nina ran a manicured hand through her long, dark hair. ‘Why?! I don’t understand?’
‘Are the two of you … getting on okay?’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Nina snapped.
‘I’m not saying you’re anything to do with this,’ Gavin said hurriedly. ‘I’m just trying to work out where Alan’s head might be.’
‘It’s disappearing up his arse!’
‘So what do you think we should do about it?’
‘What can we do? All I know is I’ve got to get out of this situation. Soon!’ She gulped down the rest of her coffee.
‘Either that … or we take over. Me and you.’
Nina stared at him. ‘Are you crazy?!’ She now spoke in a low hiss. ‘Did you miss what just happened?’
Gavin looked around the club. They were definitely alone. He leant down on the bar, his face close to Nina’s.
‘Remove Alan and this operation could be so … good. You know the Negro that Alan cut? The one upstairs?’
‘We’re not in the nineteenth century, Gavin, he’s a black man.’
‘Whatever. I’m thinking there’s a way to get him into this that can solve all our problems.’
In the silence that followed, both tried to work out if the person opposite was to be trusted.
11.
Hpulled the Merc into the carpark bordering his block of flats. As he turned the engine off H sighed with relief. He had been driving with one hand while the other pressed a pair of sweaty shorts to his throbbing, mutilated ear. Fuck, it hurt! But H put the pain to one side as he sat and thought. From the car he idly watched a group of removal men loading a nearby van with furniture.
Now what? H took a deep breath. He needed to find £15,000 in seven days! Impossible. But the meeting with Akers convinced him that he had to do the impossible because the alternative was unimaginable. H was not a man to allow himself to be pushed around but, Jesus Christ, Akers was a fucking psycho! There was a time to fight back and there was a time to know better. He racked his brains. He still had nearly five grand from his win at Blackie’s last night. Beverley probably had about two thousand saved in her account. That was seven. He only needed to find eight fucking grand in seven days! Neither of H’s parents were alive and, for a second, he thought about asking Beverley’s mother. The idea swiftly left his head.
Who the hell did he know that had eight grand, five grand or even two grand? The sad fact was, H didn’t know those kinds of people. In fact Beverley was probably the only person H knew with a bank account …
H remembered when he and Beverley had met at Compendium, a nightclub in Islington,. H and his man Blue had been chilling at one side of the club, near the bar, checking out the talent. It was a Friday night, they both had money in their pockets, were looking a bit tasty and were seeking fun for the weekend. They were foot-loose and fancy-free and the club was bubbling with women; they were feeling good. Blue, a tall and bony mixed-race brother with a mountain of dreadlocks piled high on his head, nudged him in the ribs and said ‘Oiya!’ Three attractive women had entered their field of vision. The women, one of whom was white, had come from one of the other two dance floors in the club to jiggy to some R’n’B.
The three women all looked to be in their early twenties, dressed in their finest, and equally keen to have some fun. As they approached, H could see Blue coming alive. His sleepy eyes belied a keen sense of timing where women were concerned. Tracking the movement of the women across the dance floor, he spoke out of the side of his mouth.
‘Punany approaching; one o’clock … two o’clock … three o’clock.’
Picking up and then following Blue’s coordinates H was able to track their progress. The women found a spot they were happy with amongst other dancing bodies and began to dance.
‘What d’you reckon?’
‘Yeah, man, let’s cherps it.’ Blue was like a wolf, licking his lips with anticipation.
‘Which one d’you fancy?’
‘Which one don’t I fancy! Come on, man, you’re wasting time!’ Blue stepped forward, easing his way unhurriedly through the dancing bodies, homing in on the prey.
As Blue reached the women he began bobbing his shoulders and nodding his head in perfect time with the music. H came up quickly behind him, also falling effortlessly in with the beat.
Blue began casually chatting to the women. H joined in. They soon discovered that the three women were teachers at a secondary school in West London. They were at the club celebrating a birthday. As the night progressed it soon became clear that Blue was going to end the evening with the white woman. That left the birthday girl and Beverley for H. He had his eye on Beverley but it wasn’t clear until the very last slowie whom H would chose. He was sitt
ing between the two women when’Allright’ came on. D’Angelo. Perfect. There was a pause in the conversation; both H and the women knew this was crunch time, a decision had to be made. H looked at Beverley, she looked at him. And with Saffron, the birthday girl watching, the two of them, without a word, stepped out on to the dance floor. They had been together ever since.
As H sat in his Mercedes holding his damaged ear, he smile ddespite the pain, as he remembered some of the fun he and Beverley had had together. Especially in the early years. Things weren’t too clever at the moment, that was for damn sure, but it had to improve in the future. Didn’t it?
He finally climbed out of his car. Approaching this building he could see the activity with the removal men was still going on. Three of them were now manoeuvring an old, brown, threadbare sofa through the doors. Hang on a minute! H squinted as he looked at the threadbare sofa. That was his fucking sofa! He quickened his step, breaking into a jog. Jesus Christ, what was going on here? Still keeping one hand pressed to his ear and holding his kit bag with the other, H fairly ran towards the workmen now humping his sofa – his sofa! – into the back of the removal van.
By the time he arrived the sofa was almost in. H looked into the back of the van. Alongside his sofa was the wardrobe from his bedroom, the big chest of drawers, the bed, the television, two armchairs and the kitchen table.
‘Oi, mate, what are you doing?! What’s going on?!’
The workmen finished struggling with the sofa. One of them, standing up inside the van looked down at H with irritation.
‘What’s it look like we’re doing?’
H felt panic rising in his stomach as he rushed into the tower block.
Out of the lift, into the corridor, round the corner and there was his front door, wide open. H paused. He could hear someone dragging something heavy across the floor. H strode inside.
Beverley was busily dragging the washing machine out of the kitchen and into the living room. Cyrus was sitting on the floor happily playing with his Gameboy. They both looked up as H entered. Beverley wore a frantic, guilty look.
