The Face (Harry Tyler Book 1)

by Garry Bushell

  “Yeah, I s’pose …”

  “I like that Caroline,” said Doreen.

  “No!” exclaimed Lesley.

  “What old Medusa chops?” said Ron. “Leave it out, Dor.”

  “I feel sorry for her,” Doreen said defensively. “She said she needed to be ’eld last night.”

  Slobberin’ Ron laughed. “I’d hold her all right, under bath water for about three hours.”

  “You’re a pig, Ron Sullivan,” said Doreen, walking out.

  Harry grinned. “Pork scratching, Ron?”

  Slobberin’ Ron furrowed his brow. “Wouldn’t that be cannibalism?”

  The two men laughed.

  “You’re wicked to her, Ron.”

  “Never mind,” he replied. “Worse things happen at sea.”

  Harry leaned over the bar and gripped Ron’s forearm. “Listen, Ron,” he said. “Can I have a quick word while it’s quiet?”

  Lesley moved down the bar. “Fire away, son,” said Ron.

  “You be interested in a case of Johnny Walker at three sovs a bottle?”

  Ron looked at him blankly.

  “Pukka Johnny Walker,” Harry went on. “The real deal, nothing snide … I can get me hands on plenty.”

  “Whoa!” said Ron. “You’re knocking on an open door, H. How much you got?”

  “Lorry-load.”

  “Three quid a bottle? That’s a done deal, my son.”

  “Nice one.”

  “How soon can you deliver?”

  “Three hours?”

  “The money will be waiting. We’ll break one open to taste?”

  “Goes without saying.”

  The two men shook.

  “Oi, Les,” Harry shouted. “I’m holding folding. Fancy helping me celebrate tonight?”

  “What have you got in mind?”

  “Knife and fork, somewhere nice?”

  “OK, as long as it’s not an Indian.”

  “Would I insult my favourite girl by taking her to the local curry khazi? I was thinking of this Chinese I know, off the manor.”

  “I can be ready by eight.”

  “Make it ’alf seven and I’ll throw in a bottle of Asti.”

  “You know how to spoil a girl.”

  “As it happens, darling, I do.”

  Harry winked and left. Slobberin’ Ron watched him go and said, “That is one diamond geezer.”

  “Yeah,” said Lesley. “But I ain’t gonna sleep with him tonight.”

  “Course you ain’t.”

  Home for Johnny Too was a three-bedroom detached Victorian house in Bermondsey. He’d got up late and stuck on a Sopranos video while Sandra rustled him up an HP The Full Monty tinned meal on three toast.

  She brought it in to him on a tray with a mug of sweet tea. Johnny was going through the morning post. He was poring over a letter from an estate agent as she came in.

  “Look at this place, Sands,” Johnny said excitedly. “Electric gates, swimming pool, a Jacuzzi, two acres of grounds, a sauna, a five-a-side fuckin’ football pitch. It’s a gaff of a gaff.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Chislehurst, just past the Bull.”

  “I’ve told you, Johnny Baker, I am not moving to Chislehurst.”

  “But look at this place, treacle. It’s a dream house.”

  “But it’s not local, John.”

  “It’s half an hour away.”

  “More like an hour and a half in the rush hour.”

  “Come on, doll. People like us deserve somewhere decent. Nice people live out there, bank managers, businessmen. What has Bermondsey and Rotherhithe got that Chislehurst hasn’t? ’Cept for a dawn chorus of fuckin’ car alarms going off.”

  “It’s got my friends, it’s got my mum.”

  “‘It’s got my mum’,” he mimicked. “This place has got a granny annex, we can take the old cunt with us.”

  “Don’t you talk about my mother like that. I am not moving to fucking Kent.”

  “Well, fuck you, Sandra. Fuck you fucking sideways.”

  He flung the tray up in the air. The tea went over the floor, the Full Monty splattered the settee. “Johnny!”

  “Fuck you.”

  He stormed upstairs and got dressed. “Where you going?”

  “Out.”

  “Where?”

  “Business.”

  “You said you were spending the day with me and the kids.”

  “Yeah, well maybe there ain’t nothing here I want to spend time with, all right?”

  “JOHNNY!”

  The front door slammed. Right on cue, the kids started to scream.

  An hour and a half later, Johnny Too was studying the property details again, although now he was flat on his back in Geraldine’s bed with her at his side basking in a post-coital glow.

  “That is a lovely house, John,” she said. “Isn’t it just?”

  “Can you afford it?”

  “Don’t insult me, darling. I’ve just put an offer in. One and a half mill.”

  Geraldine smiled. “A bloke like you should have a place that reflects how well he’s done for himself.”

  “That’s exactly right.”

  “I mean, you’ve made a success of yourself. Why not enjoy the proceeds? I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with the people you grew up with, but you must feel sometimes they’re holding you back.”

  “I’ll say.”

  She kissed him lightly on the forehead. “You’re a workingclass hero, Johnny.”

  “Working is stronging it a bit, darlin’.”

  “You know what I mean.” She reached down and grabbed his cock. “How’s Mr Happy?”

  “Oh,” he said, pushing her on her back. “He’s perking up.”

  Harry Tyler and Lesley Gore had just finished their meal at Good Friends Chinese restaurant in Sidcup, Kent.

  “You want blandy, Harry?” asked Tin, the manager.

  “Just a small one, Tinny. What do you want, Les?”

  “Can I have an Irish coffee?”

  “Yes, one Ilish coffee.” Tin barked out an order in Cantonese. “Mind if I join you?”

  “Normally I would love your company, Tinny,” said Harry. “But I’m doing a bit of business tonight.” He winked broadly and held Lesley’s hand.

  “No worries,” said Tin, giggling. “You need to talk about oil ligs, I know.”

  “Harry,” said Lesley. “You should have let him sit down, he’s just bought us a drink.”

  “Oh, he’s all right. Tin knows the score. We go back a long way.”

  “What was all that about oil rigs?”

  “It’s what he thinks I do.”

  “You piss-taker.”

  “Did I tell you his full name is Tin Hung?” he asked. “I know his brother Well.”

  Harry, paused for the joke to sink in. Lesley laughed and whacked his shoulder.

  “You,” she said. “I like it ’ere. Good value, innit? All you can eat for £13.95.”

  Harry lent forward and whispered in her ear, “Well I hope you’ve left your knickers off cos I’m Hank Marvin.”

  Lesley nearly choked on her wine. “You cheeky fucker,” she said.

  “Yeah, but you like me don’tcha?”

  Lesley smiled and said nothing. She’d had a great evening. He was so different from the normal blokes she went out with. He made her laugh and treated her with something close to respect. Harry Tyler liked her, too, because she had a sense of humour and laughed at his jokes. Harry had lavished all his charm on her, partly because having a girlfriend in the Ned Kelly gave him a reason to be so far off his manor so often, and partly because he was a dirty bastard who loved shagging. Lesley on the other hand was flattered by his attention, impressed by his car and his cavalier approach to spending. He didn’t know or seem to care about her history and always had a nice few quid about him. It was inevitable that they would end up in bed together that night.

  It was only after they had made love, in the mission
ary position, on her settee that Harry even gave a thought to Kara and Courtney-Rose. He didn’t feel guilty but it did cross his mind that he should put a call in. The idea didn’t linger long. His wife understood, she always did. Kara knew that when he was deep undercover that was when it was her duty not to worry, or care, pester him with the problems of bringing up a kid and running a home. The money was always in the joint account, calls came regularly from an unknown DI reassuring her that “Harry is fine, he sends his love, he’ll ring when it’s safe …”

  He wondered whether Kara suspected that when he was deep undercover he was also deep under Lesley’s or Elaine’s or Marina’s covers. And if she did, did she care? Did she deserve to be cheated on like this? The truth was, no one deserved it.

  “Penny for ’em,” said Lesley.

  “Sorry, doll, I was miles away.”

  “Want to come to bed?”

  “I would like that very much.”

  They lay together naked, squashed together in her single bed. Harry massaged her lower back tenderly. They kissed, then touched, stroked and licked. Harry moved to mount her. She stopped him. “Not like that again,” said Lesley. “That’s boring. Take me from behind this time.”

  “Oh, OK,” said Harry, slightly surprised.

  They made love four more times that night in as many positions.

  It was 10.30 am when Harry got back to his own flat. Cocksure, and cock sore, he was feeling pleased with himself as he slipped the key into the lock, only to hear a husky woman’s voice say, “Hello, stranger!” with just a soupçon of suspicion. Uh-oh, thought Harry. ’Er next door.

  “I waited up for you,” said Elaine. “I thought you were coming home last night.”

  “Oh, sorry, doll, had a bit of business then I got webbed up in a poker game. You know how it is.”

  “As long as you’ve not got yourself another woman, cos this pussy needs feeding.”

  “Don’t be daft. How could I sleep with anyone else after you? I’m not sixteen any more.”

  “Good, cos pussy is hungry, and I mean she’s starving.”

  Elaine walked from her front door to his. She was wearing a dressing gown that she let slip open. She had nothing on underneath. Pushing Harry through his front door, Elaine kissed his neck and rubbed his cock. Somehow it responded.

  Here we go again, thought Harry, when his mobile rang. Peter Miller’s number flashed.

  “Yo, Pete.”

  “All right, H, just giving you a quick ring to see if you remembered about the lunchtime strippers down the Ned today? They got three brand new girls.”

  “You’re joking. Is he hurt bad?”

  “Eh?”

  “Don’t worry about it, I’ll be right there.”

  Harry hung up and looked grimly at Elaine. “Sorry, darling, My mate’s in a spot of bother.”

  “Can’t it wait?”

  “No, this is serious ag. I’ve gotta fly. Make it up to you tonight?”

  “You better.”

  He kissed her, and squeezed her right breast. “You know I will.” Harry flicked her piercing.

  “I got clamped in Soho yesterday,” he said.

  “Did yer?”

  “Yeah, thirty-five quid a nipple.”

  “You daft sod.”

  Harry grinned and walked back down to his car.

  Harry Tyler could hardly make himself heard above the throng. He had never seen the Ned Kelly so packed. The UB40 boys were in spending a week’s thieving money and talking about how Millwall would “defn’ly” reach the play-offs this year, and how in four years they’d be in the Champions’ League, and how Charlton were sure to be relegated again, just like last time. Harry managed to wave to Lesley as he finally reached Peter Miller at the bar. Unusually, Miller insisted on getting a round in from a cheerful black barmaid called Sonia.

  “What was all that about?” Pete asked.

  “What?”

  “On the phone.”

  “Oh, that …” Harry tapped his nose. “Woman trouble.”

  “Not …” Pete nodded in Lesley’s direction. “Nah, the other one, but keep it schtum.”

  Pete gave him a one-of-the-boys slap. “You dirty dog.”

  Harry noticed Miller’s eyes were unusually bleary. “You all right, Pete? You look like you just tried to take yer contact lenses out ten minutes after you already had done.”

  “No, just had a late one playing cards. I’m well flush.”

  Harry looked around discreetly. The queue to the Taylor brothers’ travelling pharmacy counter was as long as the line in the bogs snorting their wares. Over in the corner, the Baker boys were ruling the roost. They had a little firm of “real people” wrapped round them. Heavy-looking fuckers.

  “So what’s the coup?” Harry asked eventually.

  “I told you, three new birds, all highly recommended,” Peter shouted. “Wanna get nearer the action?”

  Harry nodded and Miller led him towards the small stage. As they moved, Harry noticed four faces roll in, well dressed and well happy. They looked like they’d had a touch, a big touch. They made straight for the Bakers. Pyro Joey was off his stool first, throwing open his huge bear arms to greet them. Big smiles, big hugs. Now Johnny Too was on his feet, shaking hands and laughing. Harry hoped the covert camera outside was getting all this. It was like roll-call day for villains.

  The doors flew open again and in strolled Stevie Adams and his five brothers. These were a South London family, no relation to the North London crime clan.

  “Steve Adams,” Miller whispered hoarsely. “Brother Derek got out the boob this morning. This is gonna be one fuck of a Friday.”

  The middle brother, Peter, went straight over to Greg Saunders and put down two £50 notes for two grams of Charlie. The atmosphere in the pub was more like a Saturday night in Ibiza than a lunchtime in South London. DJ Sal cranked up the music. His name was Salih, but everyone called him Sal or Sally. As he was a raving iron, Sally suited him best. He was deep in conversation with Steve Baker. “Those two boys must really love this drum and bass shit,” observed Peter.

  Harry noted the obsessive way Steve was tidying his hair in the wall mirror. Uncle Joey had “sorted” his £30 hairstyle by way of a friendly greeting and he didn’t look too happy about it.

  A big lump in a dinner jacket walked on to the stage and motioned for Sal to turn down the music so he could introduce the girls.

  “Look,” shouted Gary McCourt. “They’ve sent their cunt out first.”

  The big man flushed, but didn’t answer back. He knew where he was.

  “Can you hear me at the back?” he said hesitantly.

  “Yes,” shouted Johnny Too. “But I don’t mind changing places with someone who can’t.”

  The whole bar roared at that one, even the wannabe compère. A standard heckler-squashing one-liner shot through his mind, but he decided against using it. These blokes wouldn’t be up for a battle of wits. Say the wrong thing and they’d just stab you.

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” he said, finally. “Let’s hear it for the ladies.”

  All three women came out of the small dressing room and on to the stage. Their routine was to dance one number together, clothed, and then take turns for the serious stripping. Whoever wasn’t performing would go through the crowd with a pint pot collecting notes and coins. If the audience were generous and there was no sniff of a police presence, they would usually pick a man out, lead him on stage, undress him and felate him. For exceptionally good audiences they would close the show with a three-way mutual masturbation playlet, using mini vibrators and girl-on-girl urination. Today would go down in Ned Kelly folklore as Pissing Sister Friday.

  As the first stripper, Antonella, got to work, the second, a black beauty from Ghana who called herself Princess Monique, was working her way round the crowd with her pint pot. Most of the punters seemed to be slipping in 30p and some lip, but over by the Bakers notes were already coming out.

  Dougie The Dog was in
his element. Chomping on a meat pie, he slung 50p in Monique’s pot and leered, “I’ll make it a quid when I’ve seen your gash, bet you’ve got a cunning stunt to show us.”

  The words came out with tasteful pieces of half-eaten pie. Somehow Monique kept her smile in place and moved on.

  Antonella performed mechanically. She looked like she was daydreaming about doing her ironing, thought Harry. As she finished, Sally was on the mike asking for a big round of applause for “AN-TON-E-LLA”. The crowd erupted. The stripper smiled for the first time that day. Dougie stood forward and shouted “Who hit you between the legs with an axe?”

  When she glared at him, he said, “Nah, you’re all right, luv. You don’t sweat much for a pig.” Then Doug collapsed in hysterics.

  Dark-haired Miranda followed Antonella on to the stage. Dancing to Shabba’s “Mr Loverman”, she performed a neat, sexually charged routine which culminated with her lying on her back with her legs akimbo, her panties stretched between her two big toes until disaster struck, the elastic went and the pink lace pants shot through the air and landed in Peter Miller’s face. Miller, who had moved as close to the real faces as he could, picked them up off the floor and sniffed them to huge cheers all round.

  “Take ’em home and have a shuffle with ’em,” shouted Gary McCourt. But Dougie The Dog had other ideas. He grabbed them to wear over his head, then noticed the small skid-mark at the rear. “Fucking hell,” said Dougie. “She’s shit herself. She must have heard about the size of my dick.”

  This had Johnny Too, Pyro Joe and their company crying into their beer. Dougie took a sniff, pulled a face and threw them back on to the stage. Unperturbed, Miranda slipped them back on and came out with her jug. Harry Tyler immediately shot off towards the gents.

  “Don’t worry, you tight sod,” shouted Johnny Too. “We’ll put in for you.”

  As Miranda reached the Bakers, she held out her pint glass and smiled. With precision timing, Harry appeared alongside her and said, “Here y’go, darling, something for yer pot.” He reached into his jacket and produced a toilet roll which he squeezed up and wedged in the glass. The Baker clan erupted, Derek Adams looked like he was going to piss himself with laughter. Even Miranda smiled. The only person who didn’t look impressed was Dougie The Dog.