by AJ Adams
“Oh, poor love!”
We had a weep, I was turning into a regular watering pot, and then we had a cup of tea.
“It was my fault,” Delicia said. “Mr Whedon said to go with him because Uncle Bobby got early release.”
Forget Grunter beating him. I’d do it myself. I’d rip him apart. “Is that so, love?”
“Mr Whedon said Aunt Millie had asked him to get me.”
He’d be screaming for mercy. “I see.”
“When we got there, I got scared,” Delicia said softly. “I said I wanted to go, but only at first because the Twittertons kept slapping me.”
Hospital wasn’t punishment enough. “They’re bad people, darling.”
“I shouldn’t have gone, but I thought he was Uncle Bobby’s friend!” Delicia wailed. “Nats, I know it was all my fault!”
Millie was up instantly. “Remember what we told you, love.”
“It’s them not me.” Delicia recited it, but she was looking at me as if I were judge and jury.
“Delicia, you’re a good person. It’s just them being spiteful.”
Thank God for knowing her best words. Spiteful was a known quantity, the word we used for the cats at school who picked on her when Bobby went inside.
Delicia was still tense. “What if Mr Whedon or the Twittertons tell everyone at school?”
I looked into Delicia’s frightened eyes. There she was, little more than a baby, terrified that the men who’d abused her would tell. I knew the consequences, too. Delicia would be terrorised at school, outcast forever.
There’s no justice, not in this world. All we have is vengeance.
It was at that point that I decided to kill Sooty and the Twittertons. I wouldn’t allow any of them to hurt her again. The fuckers would be six foot under by midnight. They’d never hurt this little girl or have a chance to get to another one.
I hid my rage, smiled and spoke reassuringly, “I’ll speak to them.”
Delicia heaved a sigh of relief. “Thanks, Nats. They’ll listen to you.”
“My darling, don’t worry. I’ll fix it. They won’t talk, and they won’t come round here again. You won’t ever have to see them again, love. Promise.”
“You’ll warn them off?”
Out of the mouth of babes. “That’s exactly what I’ll do.”
Millie was looking worried. “Nats, don’t do anything daft.”
“Of course not.” But I didn’t mean it. My rage was volcanic. I’d been far too soft, thinking a beating was enough. I’d wipe out the lot, and I’d do it that night.
It was just past five when I walked into the Black Horse, but the pub was full. I soon learned why.
“They thought Sooty was lying low but all the time he was in his own garage, in the boot of his own car!” Roger was holding forth at the bar, a large G&T in his hand. “All I say is: thanks to whoever did it!”
Of course, everyone looked at me.
“Was it you, Frosty?”
Some smart arse was definitely getting his happy head on. I resisted the impulse to snarl and smiled. “I wish! Is it true? Sooty got his, then?” I calculated there were thirty people in the place, all our regulars and some extras. “I think this calls for chicken poppers all round.”
They’re cheap, those poppers, because I eke them out with potato. I load them with salt and chilli, so they pay for themselves as everyone instantly rushes to buy another round of drinks.
“Frosty is celebrating!”
“I don’t blame her! I’d buy the shooter a pint!”
The punters were happy, but I’m not sure what I was thinking. I don’t think I was going over anything in particular except, “One down, two to go,” while I cooked up batches of poppers.
The red dress wasn’t exactly right for slaving over a hot stove, but I didn’t care. Sooty had gotten his rightful desserts, and that made me feel good. For a moment I wondered if Quique and his people had done it.
I dismissed it fairly quickly. Quique hadn’t killed the Twittertons, well not on purpose, because he hadn’t wanted to set off a gang war, and I didn’t see why he might have gone after Sooty. No, the slimy shit must have crossed dozens of villains, and it was just my good luck that one of them had finally bumped him off. It was a pity they hadn’t done it before he got to Delicia.
That got me teary-eyed straight away, so it was lucky I was in the kitchen. By the time the poppers were done, a dozen more punters had come in. It stayed busy all night, and by the time we closed, I’d forgotten about Quique’s promise.
“Nats,” Dwayne was looking round the kitchen door, “there’s a bloke who says he’s here to walk you home.”
Quique’s bodyguard was slight, black-haired, dark-eyed and intense. “The boss sent me.” He made it sound like a grievous act. “I’m to walk you home.”
I saw the telltale bulge of a gun under his jacket. “Thanks.”
His name was Rovero, “like the dog” he growled, and he stomped along like a thin Rottweiler, watching every shadow.
He walked me right to my door, made me open it and then stood at attention. "Who did the paint job?"
"Vandals."
"No way. There's no paint on the stairs or the doors on the two levels below. This is personal, directed at you."
I just stared at him. "I never thought of that!"
"Think it over, and tell me who it is. I'll fix it."
Quique had definitely given me a guard dog. "Thanks."
“What time do you start tomorrow?”
“At ten.”
“Don’t open the door unless it’s me.”
“Gracias, Rovero!”
I got a flashing grin, and then he walked off. I was out of the red dress and into black trousers, a dark top and a woolly hat, scarf and black woolly gloves before you could say, “Blow the buggers away.” My little .22 was loaded and sitting snugly in my hand. I switched off all my lights and slipped out.
I walked to Aylesbury Estate at a fast clip. It was dark, cold and miserable. Typical London weather. I didn’t care, because rage on Delicia’s behalf was keeping me warm. The chill also meant people weren’t hanging around outside.
The Twittertons, or at least the surviving ones, had been discharged and taken home by ambulance. According to the pub, the district nurse would visit every day, and social services would pop by, too. Well, I was about to save them the bother.
Getting the Twittertons out was easy. I walked up, opened the letterbox and yelled, “Hey, anyone home? We’ve got some great Leb, enough for both of you but can you bring cider? Or whiskey?”
There was a shout from inside. “What? Where?”
“6B!”
You see, flat 6B was home to Stone Cold, one of the Peckham Knaves’ major dealers. It was just down the corridor, so the Twittertons could hobble over, and as parties there were commonplace, they’d not be suspicious.
The trap set, I walked back into the shadows and waited. Like I had planned, the Twittertons came out on crutches. With the light behind them, I couldn’t miss. Two small pops, and they were down. Two pops more, just to be certain, and then I was walking away.
Maybe I should have said something, like “for Delicia” or “hasta la vista” but I didn’t even think of it. All I knew is that they were gone, and the world was a better place.
It had been quiet when I walked up, but as I left, cherry tops were roaring up the road, sirens going, lights blazing. They lit me briefly but didn’t stop. From the way they were moving, there was something going down on the estate. It was nothing new, and I knew they hadn’t cottoned on to my doings yet. They couldn’t have, so I wasn’t worried.
I went home, dumping my little gun and the gloves in the river on the way. A hot shower and then bed, wearing the silky jammies. That night I slept the sweet slumber of angels. It probably means I have no conscience and will go to hell. That’s okay. At least I sent the Twittertons there first.
I was bounced out of bed at seven in the morning by Bacon
-breath and Razor-cut. I was still half asleep, so what they got was a cranky, “What the fuck do you want?”
“You’re to come to the station to help with our enquiries.”
I was yawning my head off. “What enquiries?”
“Murder,” crew cut said.
That opened my eyes. The events of the night before flooded back to mind, lifting the fog. I kept it properly casual, though. “I murder pork pies, mate. But that’s my limit.”
“The gov says you’re to come,” Bacon-breath insisted.
“We can arrest you if you refuse,” Razor-cut threatened.
“Did I refuse?” I was magnificently nasty. “I’m going to get dressed. You two can bloody well wait outside.”
I held up tough all the way to the station. Secretly, though, I was nervous at first, convinced they had something on me. Yet I had worn gloves and had not been inside the Twittertons’. I couldn’t have left any evidence.
When we got to plod central it cheered me up that Smith wasn’t around. It couldn’t be serious if he wasn’t pitching up.
“Where were you three days ago?” Bacon-breath asked.
That took me aback. “I’ve no idea!”
And I didn’t. You try it, and you’ll see how difficult it is.
“I was probably at the pub.”
“At nine in the morning?”
“Oh, I’m usually still asleep at that time.”
“You said you wanted to kill Sooty. We have witnesses.”
“Oh?”
We sat and looked at each other, but now I wasn’t worried, because Sooty’s demise had nothing to do with me.
Razor-cut was lounging behind me, but I spotted his shadow moving towards me so I was ready for him yelling, “What the hell do you think you’re playing at?”
Some people are upset when you scream at them, but I’d had Frank and the family yelling at me for years, so it was water off a duck’s back.
“You’re going to jail! Murder gets you life!”
You know, when I got done for those cigarettes, I was terrified. Back then I had a clear conscience, but I felt bad. I had also been totally gullible. They talked me into pleading guilty by threatening me with improbably long sentences if I maintained my innocence.
This time I had committed murder (okay, not the one they thought but still!), but I wasn’t the slightest bit concerned. Everything they said was clearly lies, and as I wasn’t fussed, I sat there as they screamed and shouted, cajoled and sympathised.
What did take me aback were the crime scene photos they threw at me. Sooty looking dead just made me feel good. I could now assure Delicia he was out of the picture. But then there were others.
“Is that Stone Cold, the dealer?”
It was. With several of his mates. Then they threw down more photos.
“Slinky Steve, Rap Rags, Skippy Adams.”
Bacon-breath and Razor-cut went on and on, but the roll call meant little to me. I’d seen some of the faces, and I knew they were villains, but that was it.
They had the Twittertons in the pack, too. I must have smiled, because they were on me faster than Weight Watchers on ephedrine.
“You wanted revenge. We heard what went down!”
I took a chance. “And what was that?”
“Delicia!” Bacon-breath was triumphant and not at all concerned about the role he hadn’t played.
“Delicia what?”
“Playing trains with the Twittertons!”
I did not belt him. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
And then they were stumped. They hadn’t taken down my statement when I’d asked for their help, Millie had not made a report, and thanks to Quique and Terry, there were no selfies or other evidence. The buggers had fucked themselves. It was glorious.
“Come on, Frosty! Tell us what you know! We’ll go easy on you!” That was Razor-cut’s idea of soft soap.
“You want to know what’s going on?” I asked them. “You’ve got a turf war going on, that’s what!”
As I said it, I wondered if the Zetas were involved after all. Maybe buying the property meant they were moving in and clearing house. There weren’t any signature beheadings or crucifixions, but it did look awfully efficient.
I remembered Quique casually taking down the three Twittertons. Yes, this could be his work. I decided I would be on the same side. I didn’t want him pissed off at me.
So while Bacon-breath threatened, “You’re going down!” and Razor-cut screamed, “Talk, bitch,” I acted like a mafia boss and said not one word. John Gotti had nothing on me. I didn’t even spring my Grunter alibi. I just sat there like a rock, knowing they’d not grind me down.
It wasn’t bravery. I knew the plods had squat, and they couldn’t touch me, not with the entire cop shop being more wired for sound and vision than a One Direction concert, so I had nothing to fear.
However, by eleven o’clock I was fed up. “Am I under arrest? No? Then bye-bye!”
I was sensible and took a taxi. From the sound of things, there was a quiet little war going on, and I didn’t want to be a casualty. Instead of going to the pub, I went by Millie’s.
“What’s going on?” she was whispering, her eyes snapping with curiosity. “Everybody’s telling stories about gangland killings.”
“The Twittertons are dead.”
Millie crossed herself in fright. “Oh Nats, you didn’t!”
I lied like a rug. “Of course not!”
She wanted to believe me, so she nodded. “Right, of course not.”
“Millie, someone knocked off more than thirty people. I’m all for payback, but I have my limits.”
Millie hesitated and then sighed and nodded. “Yes, I’m being stupid. But Nats, you were so angry! I couldn’t sleep all night for worrying.”
How well she knew me. I gave her a hug. “I was hopping, but thankfully someone else took out the rubbish. Come on, Millie. Let’s tell Delicia. Maybe it will make her feel safer.”
It did, but Delicia burst into tears, which upset Millie. I didn’t worry because these were tears of relief.
“Are they really gone? Honest?”
“Yes, love. There’s no coming back where they’ve gone to.”
“Thank you, Nats.” Delicia was hugging me. “I don’t think you’re bad!”
Millie was looking guilty and mouthing, “Frank and Roger.” I didn’t care what those bozos thought of me. I was just glad it was over.
Except of course that it wasn’t.
The pub was bouncing again, full to the brim with punters, all of whom stared at me as if I were a giraffe.
Rovero was there, grumpy as hell. “I told you not to leave the flat!”
“I was safe in the cop shop,” I told him, and then he was on the phone muttering in Spanish. “Tell the boss I kept my trap shut.”
I half expected a “Hey, bruja” at some point in the evening, but Quique stayed away. The lawyer, however, turned up.
“Ms Truelove, I have some papers for you. Sign here, here and here.”
I was properly suspicious. “Hello, dark eyes. Never guessed you were a brief!”
Yes, it was James Cortez, thug, getaway driver and now in a suit, carrying a slim leather case and bringing out stamps, seals and fountain pens.
He winked at me. “You can steal more with a briefcase than a gun.”
“Unless you rob the mint. Let me read these.”
They were in perfect order, so I signed. Not a moment too soon, either, because we had a visit from the licensing people.
“We’re closing you down,” the bloke announced. “It’s illegal to operate without a licence.”
“My dear chap,” James sounded a perfect upper-class fruit. “A word with you?”
He drove the licensing man off and then dealt with customs and excise, who came rolling in after just as neatly. We never have that much trouble, so I guessed the plods were hassling us through red tape. It would have been disastrous if I hadn’t had the
Zetas in, so I was feeling good about my decision.
Frank, predictably, was not. “What the hell were you thinking?”
“I was thinking let’s keep the place open, and let’s make some money.”
“Are you crazy? There’s all sorts of rumours going round!”
“Well, Bobby getting in with Peckham Knaves was a washout, so I went with the new people.”
“Can’t you see what they are? They’re poison!”
“Whereas Sooty and his mates were ever so good to us.” I was fed up. “If you don’t like the way I run the place, leave.”
Frank stayed, sulked and got rat-arsed. So did the rest of the neighbourhood. I was kept busier than the proverbial bee, serving and cooking more than fifty dinners, and it wasn’t till closing time that I got to eat my own supper.
Rovero walked me home, and at four in the morning I got woken up by the plods. “Serving a minor,” they said. “Giving a seventeen-year-old brandy.” The two who came to the door were fresh-faced youngsters, but they’d been sent by Smith.
“Rubbish,” I told them. “I didn’t serve anyone brandy last night!” But it was no good. I was dragged out, in cuffs, and it took me till lunchtime to get out.
“Mistaken identity,” they said. The word sorry wasn’t mentioned.
This time Rovero was waiting for me. “Do you need help?”
“No thanks.” Idiot me, I thought it was over. “I can handle it.”
Another bouncing night in the pub meant takings were sky high, but it also cleared out the freezer. I rolled into bed at two, got up at eight to go to the market and was arrested by Bacon-breath and Razor-cut, just after securing a particularly good side of British beef.
“Suspicion of conspiring to commit murder,” Razor-cut said.
“You boasted in the pub about wanting to kill Sooty,” Bacon-breath said smugly.
I lost my temper. “What the fuck!” I yelled. “This is too much!”
“Resisting arrest,” Bacon-breath said happily.
By the time they got me to the station, I’d cooled down and got my brain working again. This was pure harassment, and if I dealt with it properly, I’d be out in hours. I’d run the Zeta rig and be helpful.
“Tell me what you have,” I said, sugar sweet, to Bacon-breath. “I want to straighten this out.”
