by Ian Patrick
He’s smoking and the smoke swirls around him like a cloak as he nears. I wind the window enough to hear. He looks up and stubs the cigarette out on the footplate.
“You’ll be looking for me?”
The thick Irish accent is a good start as is his skinny gaunt look and furtive eyes.
“I don’t know. Who are you looking for?”
“Well now, there’s a thing. A fella called Charlie Brown says he’s sent his blanket over in a lorry for me. I think that’ll be you. Now back it up and follow me.”
I wind my window up as he scuttles back to his car. He leads me back to a mobile home and caravan storage park. It’s not a gypsy site, it’s used by anyone who needs caravan storing. The metal gates open and I follow him in. We move down to the far corner farthest away from the road and park up. I get out and lock it up. He’s still in his car. He eventually gets out and comes over. “The keys?” I hand them over.
“I’ll call Zara tell her it will be ready tomorrow night. Now, do you need a lift anywheres?”
“No, thanks.”
“Suit yourself there fella. I wouldn’t want to be out this late with nowhere to go. Them days are long over.”
I’m already walking off. I know where I’m going and the hotel is only a short walk away.
15
“Shut the fuckin’ door, I can’t hear myself think. Sit, darn son, take the weight off. Brandy?”
The club’s noise is drowned out as the door to the gym is closed. I take a seat as requested. Lenny is a skinny guy, ex-boxing champion with the ears and face to show. He’s now in his early sixties. You wouldn’t mess with him though. He pours me a glass and I wait to hear what he has to say. Big H didn’t want me hanging around doing nothing so he lined me up some other business before the main event. This is good for me, as I won’t be caught up with DCI Winter and her mob whilst they chase a taxi all over London and learn about Ron’s favourite cafes and his addiction to Costa Chai Lattes.
Lenny was no pro boxer on the main circuit. He was one of the best street fighters and underground boxers of his generation. His idea of fun would be the last man standing after a ten-man fight and still shouting for more. I was looking at some of his pictures adorning his meagre office wall. He was a powerhouse for a man his size and you could see he had a vacant stare that would be enough to make a man think twice before stepping out from the crowd against him.
I’d only experienced that once. When I first joined the police, boxing was still a mandatory requirement. You couldn’t police London if you couldn’t take a punch or know what it felt like to be in a fight with no backup. I was okay. I’d done milling in the army and I could take a hit and dish it out. But I would never forget the fella they paired me up with who hadn’t. He was around thirteen stone, fit but not a fighter. Never taken a punch in his life let alone fight. We got paired on weight and I could see the others in the same weight range breathe a sigh of relief when they hadn’t been paired with me.
I had no choice. The instructors were putting on our gloves and head guards after our hour’s tuition, I’d made my mind up he was going down and it would be quick. No way I was letting him get a lucky punch in that would rock me. As we entered the ring the instructors gave us a brief talk about remembering the lesson and to keep it clean. I chose to blank that out. The instructor stepped out and we were told to go to our corners. The instructor then shouted, “FIGHT.” I was out of my corner before he had left the ropes. A right jab to the head followed by a left and a right to the stomach ensured he went to the mat. The bout was stopped and he agreed to go on. He had a resilience in him and he wasn’t about to give up easily.
The shout came again and out he came, quicker this time. I watched his gloves up round his face. He didn’t want another hammering about the head. He stepped forward and I landed the right on his chin. He staggered and I went in for the kill. The red mist came down and I let fly with fists as he fell. I continued when he was on the floor with feet and hands. The instructors were both in and grabbed me, lifting me off my feet, and as they turned me away I could see him on his back, arms out wide. He’d had enough.
Boxing stopped after that bout. I was hauled in front of the commander for recruit training and admonished. Thankfully he was ex-army and saw through it. That and the other guy didn’t want me fired. I bought the fella drinks all night in the recruits’ bar and we partied. He accepted my background and that I couldn’t let him hit me. Army pride for an unbeaten record still remained. He went onto better things in the job. I’m where I am. Now, I’m here in a boxing club in East London waiting for Lenny the Lent to tell me his dilemma for me to resolve. Since his move to Christianity he no longer engages in illegal activity but sees using others to do his work as a necessary evil.
“You box son?”
“I did years ago, not anymore, I’ve slowed down but can still swing a punch when needed.”
“Good to hear. I loved it back in the day. Happy memories. So Zara says you’re the man I need to resolve my issue. I hope that’s correct as you can answer to her and her boss if it ain’t.”
He sips his brandy and nods at the closed door.
“I’ve good lads out there. Some of ’em fucking brutal but getting down to training and staying clean so I don’t want to use them or damage my club’s reputation. Some little fucker is trying to do me damage though and they need sorting out.”
He’s on his feet now and stands in front of a photo of him with blood streaming down his face from cuts above his eyes and lips and a gap where a tooth once was. His right hand is raised above his head by an old fella in a camel hair coat and trilby.
“See that? That was my retirement fight. Alexandra Palace. Not the main place. On the grassland over the road. Just me and Joe Malone. Biggest meanest gypsy fighter ever to be on the circuit. The money was good and in safe hands on both sides so we all knew the winner would get their cut. It was a warm July evening. Birds were singing, life was good. I was fit as fuck at that time. Never beaten. I had my doubts on this one though, my opponent was big but I was quick and many a man had fallen to my fists. The idea was we’d wait until evening then go to the grassland. Punters had been in the boozers all day and come from all over the country for this one.”
He pauses and takes another sip. His mind is in that field.
“It gets to witching hour and they start to drift down. A couple of coppers are sat down on a bench having a smoke. We ignore them. Before they know it two hundred are on the land ready for the off. We knew it would be quick, these fights always are. I’ll give the cops their due. They knew they could do nothing and knew there weren’t enough of ’em. So they took a couple of fella’s jackets put them on over their blue coats and had a bet and watched. It was over before the blue lights and sirens stopped. You’ll never stop the public phoning in. I downed him with one combination. He’d got me good though. Battered me about the head and stomach. The crowd were screaming, it was great. He gets dragged off by a mob whilst the coppers drop the coats, stick their radio batteries back in and start moving us off. I’d been moved into the crowd and was taken away for treatment by a private doctor. That was it for me. I’d beaten him. Made good money and wanted no more. That was ninety-one and I’ve never looked back.”
He looks happy as a pig in shit until his mind drifts back to why I’m sitting here.
“I need you to sort out an issue I have. It’s to do with me mother. She lives in a lovely block in Hackney. Has done for as long as I’ve been on this earth. The place has changed though and so have the residents. A group of Vietnamese have started a grow house in the flat below hers. I don’t need to tell you the vermin that come and go and the problems it’s causing her health. The heat troubles her breathing, see, and she’s asthmatic. If I do anything she’ll cop it, as they’ll take it out on her. I need it shutting down and fast. She’s over at mine but she’s ninety-two and as much as I love her she’s getting right on my tits. Here’s the address. Make it permanent. Zara s
ays her boss will sort it out with you. I like him, he’s got a social conscience.”
I take the address. I have a respect for the elderly and I’ve time to kill.
“Leave it with me. I can’t promise no one else will move in after but I’ll do my best.”
“Good. That’s all I can ask. The caretaker doesn’t give a shit and I’ve heard he’s on the take from the Vietnamese to turn a blind eye. I’ve nothing against them coming over here and making decent food but not this kind. They’re bang out of order and have it coming to them.”
He finishes his drink and pours another. It’s only 1100 hours.
I get up and he nods. He isn’t going to show me out. I walk back through the gym. The smell of sweat and breath the prominent scents. Leather punch bags being pounded and skipping ropes fizzing through the stale air. No one looks at me. All engrossed in their own worlds with no concern about anyone else. I turn up the collar on my coat and leave. I stand in the doorway first and observe where I am. Both ends of the trading estate, where the club is situated, are clear of foot and vehicle traffic. I cannot be too careful now. Winter has turned up the gas and has no reliance on cold weather handouts.
I’m conscious of time. I grab a bus and head east towards Southview Estate and Birkbeck Block where Lennie’s mother resides. I get to the estate outline and alight. The vision is one I’ve come to know from many estates all over London. Poverty and social exclusion feed the need for revolution. The estate has become its own society over the years and from the various lookouts on verandas it appears that business is good.
Bins are overflowing where the rubbish chute can’t cope. A rat disappears from sight as it burrows into the top of Mount Shitmore. The stench of fetid waste matter is overpowering. Nappies litter the ground providing solace for flies. The eyes from above are tracking me loosely. I’m dressed in a tracksuit that’s seen better days and the coat is well worn. I’ve decided this should get me in. I also know whoever is running the grow house will either be coming down off last night or starting up again if they’re up. I don’t have time to wait until the evening. I find the block where Mrs Lenny lives. You can see how this would have been lovely in its day. All the blocks are built in a square with a small garden area in the centre and parking for cars. The balconies surround the inner square that overlooks the gardens and parking areas. It reminds me of the inner court of a castle, but absent of fair maidens.
The main block door is a buzzer system but ‘trades’ works. I hear the lock release on pressing the button and enter. The lift is out and I take the climb to the fifth floor slowly. Edging along the wall for a better view as I ascend. I’ve reached the fifth floor. I realise how high I have climbed and have no wish to look over the balcony below. Above me are another ten floors to the roof. Flat 52 is signposted with a cannabis leaf graffitied underneath. I’m guessing I’ve found the right one. No one is outside the door as I look down the run of concrete that leads me towards the entrance to 52.
The lookouts must be on a break or change over as they’ve disappeared. They were not for flat 52. I have no plan as to how this will go. After many years raiding them as uniform and on plain clothes drug squads, I’ve learnt to expect the unexpected. Systems have become more sophisticated for alerting the occupants to outsiders especially if the cannabis factory is established. Sentries, cameras and CCTV are becoming the norm. From across the quadrant loud heavy bass music thumps through the brickwork. Shouts echo around the block reverberating inside the concrete chamber. It’s now or never. I approach the door.
The windows are covered over with plyboard giving the impression it’s uninhabited. A sound of voices leaks through the door as I press my ear to the wood. It’s a new doorframe and door. It’s been raided before and had the door and frame smashed off. The sounds I can here are female and a male. Both sound slurred and are arguing, over what I don’t know. I bang on the door. No response and the voices stop momentarily. I bang again.
“Fuck off.”
Well I now know the male is still conscious. I bang again with my fist shaking the door in the frame and I hear the internal slide chain rattle. I hear feet approaching from the inside. One set only.
“Who the fuck is it?”
“Yo. Open up. The caretaker sent me.”
“Well he can go fuck himself, I’m busy.”
“He said something about new locks.”
I wait. The voice is clearly thinking. His frazzled drug-addled brain trying to work out if he’s asked for them or needs them.
Bolts are racked open and the door opens on the chain. A pair of bloodshot eyes peer round and a yellow-coloured gaunt face focuses as daylight hits the retinas.
“I don’t see no tool bag and I ain’t ever seen you before.”
“It’s too bait to send someone local. For fuck’s sake let me in, I need to measure up then go get them.”
The chain slides off and the door opens enough for me to gain entry. I slip on a pair of gloves. Precautionary. The smell is worse than outside. I’m not referring to the smell of weed; I’m referring to the smell of urine and faeces. I’m also certain it’s not a pet. The walls in the small hallway are damp from humidity. The humidity, I’m surmising, is from the heat and water from the hydroponics system set up in one of the rooms to grow the cannabis. From the heat emanating throughout the hall I’m confident the harvest hasn’t happened.
I move forward and skinny man puts a hand on my chest. He’s topless and covered in black and grey faded tattoo work. No real thought as to design just whatever he could afford as he went along. His shaved head is sweating from the heat and there’s a sheen across his upper body. I look at his hand that’s on my chest, cigarette stained fingers contrast with the darkness of unwashed grime and soil. His fingernails barely register. He’s cut for a man, I guess, in his mid-thirties. Cut from gear not from exercise. A twitch in his right eye tells me he’s wired and not for baiting. The CZ-75 Star pistol pointed at my face also confirms this.
I’d faced this weapon before in the army at a similar range until a sniper rectified my situation. My face and body armour took the spray of brain matter but I felt the need to learn some more about the weapon and now I realise why. The thing about this pistol is its capability of holding one in the chamber whilst being capable of single and double-action firing. This one was live and not fake. It could also use a clean. Like I said, you learn to expect the unexpected – but I hadn’t expected this.
“Hey. You don’t need that, just let me do what I’ve got to do and I’ll be gone.”
His hand remains as his head throws back in a gurgled laugh. He spits phlegm on the wall and focuses back on me.
“You don’t remember me do you Sky? I was a bit more with it when we last met, you know, I had a suit and hair and more teeth. Now we meet again and I’m the one in the driving seat.”
My mind is trawling the memory cabinets shouting orders at the file workers to shift their arse and find me the memory I need before it becomes part of the wallpaper. Then it appears. The man I’m facing I last sat alongside en route to a buy bust of ten kilos of heroin, five years ago. I was driving. He was the courier of the goods. Tom Barnes, street name of Treacle. My memory wasn’t happy with staying at that revelation.
“Turn left.”
“This left?”
“This left. Keep going until you get to the coachworks yard at the end. They should be there in ten. I need to make sure we’re alone”
“I haven’t seen anyone following. All looks good to me.”
“I pay you to drive so shut the fuck up and drive. When we get there you say nothing. Just stay with the car until I return. Same drill as before.”
“Got it. The gate’s open, should I drive in?”
“Yeah. Drive in and park up near the Jeep over there but swing this round so we’re facing out. I want out of here fast once I’ve got the cash.”
“Sure. No problem. I’ll park it right here.”
“This’ll do. It all
looks good to me. You’re alright you, Sky. You don’t get flustered or nothin’, just do the job you’re asked to do. This all goes well, I’ll throw another grand your way and you can keep the car.”
“I’ve always dreamed of owning a clocked Volvo XC90.”
“Cheeky bastard. Lights up ahead. Keep yours on until they come in and keep the engine running. Looking good… Yep… That’s them. Right they’re out. Pop the trunk and wait till I’m out.”
“Sweet. See you in five.”
This isn’t looking good for me anymore. His eye’s still twitching. A sense of urgency is crossing his pallid face. He’s not in the mood for bullshit or bluffing.
“Fuck me, Treacle, I thought you was dead? ’Course I remember you, now. What the fuck happened five years ago? You walked off, I was desperate for a piss and as I got behind an old Transit the place lit up. The filth were shouting and screaming and running around all over the place. I ducked my nut and held out till the morning when they all fucked off.”
His eyes tell me he’s listening as he’s looking into mine as I speak but he’s not buying it.
“You think I’m going to take that, you dirty grass. You called ’em on to the plot didn’t ya? Well now we’re back again, you and me and I’m thinking who’s coming through my door next. Strip and do it slowly.”
Standard procedure for a gatekeeper of a grow house who suspects the locksmith to be wired for sound. Of course I’m reluctant to rent my clothing even though the heat is oppressive. I have no intention of leaving here naked but do need a plan and fast.
