What a Country

by Paul Kirby

  The four men chatted for some time, which was absolute torture for Terry as he couldn’t stand either of the Durleys. But finally he managed to raise the subject of using Bart’s boat for a fishing trip on the coast in the next few days as the weather was due to be nice and warm. He mentioned his two friends Dell and Richards fancied it too. When he heard that, Dick’s face lit up and he looked at Bart and made little nodding gestures to him. The problem was that unsurprisingly Bart didn’t actually own a boat, but he knew a man who did. Bart had to think fast.

  “Well, it’s being serviced at the moment and I’m not sure when it’ll be ready to take out,” Bart said nervously.

  “Why don’t you ring up and find out, son?” said Dick in an overexcited squeaky voice. Dick knew the fella who had the boat would let him use it if he wasn’t using it himself. “Okay, leave it with me. I’ll give the boatyard a ring,” said Bart.

  “Ring ‘em now, son. I’m sure someone will still be there. It’s not six o’clock yet,” said Dick a little desperately. Bart went outside and called his mate, who said, “Yeah, sure, the kids are back at school now, so you can use it any day next week if you like.”

  Bart came back inside and announced the boat was ready. What day next week would they like to go? Terry turned toward Dell and Richards and called out, “What day ya fancy going fishing next week, boys? Bart’s gonna take us out.”

  “Ah, nice one, Bart, that’s very kind of you mate,” agreed Richards.

  “I don’t mind. Whatever day suits you really, but I’d rather go earlier in the week. It should be quieter then,” Dell said, speaking his first real words to any of the Durleys.

  Mickey chipped in as arranged. “Bill likes a bit of sea fishing, don’t ya, Bill?”

  “Oh yeah, I love sea fishing,” answered a tipsy Bill Winters.

  “Well, why don’t you go with these boys next week? I’m sure you’ll be welcome.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’d love to, if they won’t mind.”

  “‘Course not, Bill. You come along, mate, you’re more than welcome,” replied Dell gleefully.

  Tuesday was the agreed day the following week and as today was Thursday, the boys had a few days to prepare for the demise of Bill Winters.

  “That was easier than I thought,” said Dell to Richards.

  “Yeah, and me,” Richards said in a hushed tone.

  “Better go and have a drink with ‘em, shouldn’t we, Baz?” suggested Dell.

  “I don’t wanna drink with that smarmy little prick or his old man,” replied Richards in his normal unsmiling manner.

  “Nah, you’re right. I’ll send over a couple of pints and be done with it. Anyway, we gotta spend all day with the twat on Tuesday. At least Big Burt’ll be pleased when we tell him,” said Dell.

  “Yeah, but we ain’t got shot of the Irish cunt yet,” replied Richards.

  “Nah, but he’s as good as gone now, son,” said Dell, a wry smile on his face.

  When Big Burt eventually turned up in the pub after what was a very traumatic day for him, the stress clearly showing on his face and in his mannerism, he ordered himself two pints. He quickly downed the first like it was a glass of water and then offered the other two a drink as he joined them, leaving Terry to keep the Durleys happy. Dell leaned in toward Burt and quietly said, “All sorted for Tuesday, Burt.”

  “Really?” asked Burt. “Thank God for that. It’s been worrying me all day. Good boys, good boys,” Burt said in utter relief. “By the way, Joey, I loved the way you explained the rule four scenario, sheer class my son.”

  “Easy, Burt, I’ve had enough practice haven’t I?” said Dell with a cheeky grin.

  “You certainly have, Joe, you’re a good boy,” Burt said as he started to gulp down his second pint in as many minutes. The weight of the world seemed to lift from Burt’s shoulders as he said quietly across the little round table they were sitting at, “Accidentally. Don’t forget.”

  “Don’t worry, Burt. I’ve already worked it out, but I’m keeping it to myself for the time being. We’ll be fine,” Dell reassured Burt and Barry. Ice Cold wasn’t worried in the slightest. He just wanted to get the job done and to collect his share as always.

  Burt continued in a whisper, “I don’t need to know the details. Just let me know when it’s over and we’ll have a square up.” He was just happy to get out of this situation at a fraction of the cost and knew only too well he could 100 percent rely on the Flowery firm to take care of business. No more was said about it, and they all carried on trying their best to act normal.

  Eventually Terry rejoined the other three and said in a whisper, “What a pair of slimy cunts. That was fucking painful talking to them all that time. Thanks for the support!”

  “Yeah, I bet,” laughed Dell. They all had another round of drinks before going their own ways, having agreed to meet the next day.

  Albert went home to his wife a lot happier now than he had been earlier, and he was careful not to say or do anything that would suggest he’d had anything other than a usual day at the office.

  Bill stayed in the pub celebrating his good fortune with a couple of the regulars, happy with his arrangement with Big Burt and looking forward to a nice day’s fishing. Poor old Bill. He had taken a liberty with the wrong people and now he was going to pay the ultimate price.

  Equally pleased with their afternoon’s work were the Durleys, as they thought they’d gotten their foot in the door with the Flowery firm. Although Dick wasn’t going, he said he did fancy a day out to the coast, as he would probably pull some young birds. A strange comment for a man in his mid-sixties, Terry Funnel thought. Luckily, he didn’t have sea legs, otherwise he’d have really thrown a spanner in the works. So, at the close of play, everyone thought they’d had a good day, or at least it seemed that way.

  Chapter 9

  The Sopranos’ Café, as it was known to one or two of the locals in this part of West London, was the venue for the next morning’s meet. Joey and Barry were the first of the gang through the door, and were greeted by Mario, the owner, who was very pleased to see them. Mario was Italian, born in England, and had taken over the café from his father, Mario Senior. He looked the archetypal Italian café owner with his dark, swept-back hair, small moustache and large striped blue-and-white butcher’s apron. He shouted out orders to his staff in a strong, theatrical Italian accent.

  The café was strangely enough called Mario’s, but for the clientele who frequented the place, it was nicknamed “The Sopranos” after the TV series of the same name about an Italian mafia family. Every type of villain you could imagine used Mario’s. It was like a breakfast safe house for all the rogues on the west side of London, and the Flowery firm members were regulars, of course.

  Mario hadn’t seen Dell for a few years obviously, as he knew he’d been away to “college” again. With his usual warm smile and handshake, Dell was welcomed back with a big hug from his favourite café owner. As he looked around, he noticed a few familiar faces already tucking into their morning’s refreshments and just about everyone greeted Dell with the respect he’d earned over the years. If anyone in there that morning didn’t know him personally, they’d certainly heard of him. It was like he’d never been away and he was loving it.

  “Just the two of you today, Joe?” asked Mario politely.

  “Well, not sure, Mario. Terry’ll be here soon, but I’m not sure if Albert is coming.”

  “Okay, no worries. I’ll get your teas for you. Find a table and I’ll bring them over.”

  They sat at a big table at the front of the café by the window. The pair of them always liked to be able to see who was coming in and who was outside, walking up and down the High Street, coming into the café, or just hanging about. They liked to keep an eye on things.

  Terry joined them within five minutes. Mario told them to order what they liked, this one was on t
he house. Dell couldn’t wait. He hadn’t had a decent fry-up for years, and he went for the works—bubble and squeak, egg, fried bread, tinned tomatoes, mushroom, and double sausage.

  “Been looking forward to this for bleedin’ ages,” said Dell, rubbing his hands together excitedly. “The last one I had was in here before I went away. All I had in the shovel was porridge.” The others laughed as Big Burt turned up.

  “Just like old times, eh boys?” said Burt as he pulled up a chair.

  “Yeah, good innit? Anyway, how are you feeling today, Burt? Gotta be better than yesterday, surely?” inquired Dell.

  “Yes, thank you, Joey boy, it’s just that young Durley twat that worries me,” he said.

  “Don’t you worry about him, mate, Tel done the business last night. Anyway, he’ll end up in the same hole as the paddy if he lets us down,” Dell assured Burt.

  “Yeah, talking of them Durleys,” chipped in Tel, “I reckon the old man’s a fucking nonce. You should have heard some of the things he was coming out with last night. That was painful, I tell you.”

  “Well, it wouldn’t surprise me if they both were. I won’t have fuck all to do with either of ‘em,” replied Burt in his grisly old tone.

  “Well, don’t worry, ‘cause after Tuesday, you won’t have to. They’ll be surplus to requirements,” Dell reminded them.

  “I hope so,” said Burt, “and it’s no wonder his old woman has a thing for taxi drivers.”

  “Who’s old woman?” asked Dell.

  “Dick Durley’s old woman, Rita. She left him years ago when Bart was about ten and ran off with one. She came back when she got bored about six months later and Dick welcomed her with open arms, as he could not cope with Bart on his own. But ever since, she’s had a thing about ‘em,” said Burt.

  “How the hell do you know that?” asked Dell again.

  “It’s common knowledge, Joe. Whenever Bart gets on the dust with my brother, he keeps going on about it.”

  “Ooh, and the taxi fella dropped her back to Dick? That’s not ‘fare,’” Dell said, laughing and looking at the others, but none of them seemed to get the joke.

  “Not ‘fare.’ ‘Fare?’ Get it? Taxi fare?” Dell was wasting his time. Even when it was explained, no one found it funny.

  The boys scoffed down their breakfasts and ordered up four more teas to wash them down before they went about their day. Looking out of the café window, sipping his tea, Dell spotted a couple walking along the street. The man was dressed in Eastern robes and the woman appeared to be white European, dressed in clothing Muslim women would normally wear. “Look at that cunt,” said Dell, pointing at the man in the robes and funny hat. “He looks like Ali bloody Baba. All he needs is a pair of them slippers with the curled-up toes,” he laughed.

  “Yeah, I bet he doesn’t use taxis. He’s probably got a flying carpet,” said Terry and they all laughed together.

  “Yeah, but the worst thing is, the bird with him looks like one of ours,” Burt pointed out.

  “What is the world coming to? This country’s had it,” added Ice Cold.

  “You wanna see it in the shovel then. You don’t know if you’re in Bagdad or behind the Berlin Wall,” said Dell.

  “Probably suicide bombers,” said Terry.

  “Probably,” agreed Dell as he gulped down his mug of tea. They’d just seen The Ayatollah and Cairo for the very first time.

  “Well, I’ve gotta get down to the shop,” announced Burt, getting up to pay for breakfast for everyone.

  “Don’t worry, Albert, it’s on me today, mate,’ said Mario, waving him away.

  “Well, that’s very kind of you, Mario. Thank you very much.”

  “Cheers, Mario, that was bloody lovely,” said Dell, patting his rather full stomach. “Worth waiting for that was,” he said with a belch. The other two thanked Mario as they all made for the pavement. Burt went one way and the other three stood for a minute discussing the Swedish move and what they needed to do to get it moving. They then walked in the opposite direction to Burt, and after that very jovial breakfast, they knew they had to get down to some serious work.

  The Ayatollah and Cairo were on their way to the Islamic Centre, probably to pray or to look for prey, one or the other. Either way, they were totally unaware their movements were being monitored and the monitors had more than likely seen the boys pointing and laughing in their direction. But the truth was, these were very dangerous people indeed and a big threat to the British way of life; change was blowing in the wind.

  The chill wind that blew through the spine of West London was felt by neither the Flowery firm nor The Ayatollah’s terror cell as both parties carried on as normal. Joey Dell had thought the appearance of The Ayatollah amusing, but in truth, hundreds of men in England’s capital dressed like him. His appearance was no longer uncommon, but to many, it was certainly unacceptable.

  The Ayatollah still hadn’t found a suitable target, but he had time as the fundraising scheme had only just begun and he had set no time limit. A rogue car ploughing into pedestrians didn’t appeal to him—too few casualties. And anyway that was old hat and could be carried out by any nutcase, and there were plenty of those about. In his opinion, London was in need of a new kind of terror attack, and he was intent on providing it. Comrades take heed, the Messiah was active. The Western world beware.

  The Flowery firm had to get the logistics of the move to Sweden sorted. They needed funds to keep their firm solvent. Did the Swedes have the money ready? Was the cocaine they needed available when they needed it? And was the driver available when they needed him? All these questions had to be answered that day. When a question was asked, these boys expected it to be answered and dealt with ASAP.

  Sven, the Swede, was ready when they were but could do with his delivery sooner rather than later. The drugs were there, so that just left the driver. Terry rang him and asked him to come over to the pub that evening. They didn’t like to discuss this sort of business over the phone, preferring to do it face to face.

  When David Lightfoot turned up in the pub, Gerry Funnel knew a Swedish run was on the cards. He always became jealous and resented David since he had replaced him as the Swedish driver. Gerry had loved doing that job. He loved the adventure and getting away for a few days. He also loved the money. He always looked at it as a paid holiday and the easiest five grand he’d ever earn. He wouldn’t have looked at it that way if he’d been caught, of course.

  All those years in a foreign prison was a worrying thought that also caused David a lot of anxiety as the time drew closer to leave England for an uncertain journey to Northern Europe. But he also liked the wages of sin and once the drop-off was completed, he didn’t even have to worry about bringing the cash back with him, as that was paid into a betting account set up for the Swedes at Big Burt’s. Large sums of money were placed on non-runners who had been messaged over to Sweden that day and then money bet on them, so it looked like Burt was taking massive bets from them. Then the money taken for those said bets would be withdrawn and realised in cash. It was a simple way of only risking your investment and liberty on a one-way trip instead of a round trip.

  Only out of prison for five minutes, Dell was already as busy as ever. Money was coming in from all directions, and he’d gotten the plan for Bill’s extinction firmly worked out in his head. He had no doubt whatsoever that it would go down as an accident and none of them would be prosecuted—well, all except possibly Bart. But he didn’t count anyway.

  The weekend came and went and now on Monday morning, the day before the big fishing trip, another meet was arranged over breakfast down at the Sopranos’ Café. This time, no Mickey and no Burt, as they didn’t need to know what Dell had in mind and how the hit would be carried out. Once they had finished breakfast, the trio sat around the table with their heads down, talking very quietly about the day’s fishing that lay ahead and what ro
le each man would play. It was a simple plan that was a no-brainer after Mickey had let on that Bill couldn’t swim. All three were happy with the plan and all agreed that it would look like an accident all day long.

  As they sat back finishing their teas, Dell spotted that couple again, walking past the café. “Look, it’s Ali Baba again,” he said motioning toward the window.

  “Cunts!” said Richards matter-of-factly.

  The two were still out walking London’s streets looking for their target. Although they’d seen various possibilities, they still hadn’t found a target they were completely happy with. The Ayatollah wanted a 9/11 type attack, but he knew he was a million miles away from something like that. But still he was determined to cause shock and horror in a type of incident that would reverberate through the hearts and souls of the British people.

  It was the big night before the last ride for Bill and the boys were in the pub in good spirits. They were calm and collected. A date with death was a date to keep as far as they were concerned. Also present was David Lightfoot. Money had to be earned, and nothing was going to deter them. Big Burt showed up a worried man. This needed to happen for him if for no one else; he had far too much to lose.

  Terry had the job once again of reeling the younger Durley in and finalising the arrangements for the following day. As no one else wanted to talk to Bart, he was left alone. An early meet was arranged for the morning outside the pub and two motors were going to take the five of them to the coast. Bart was too scared to pull out, and anyway his dad was far too excited at the prospect of being involved with Dell’s firm to let his boy pull out now. As they spoke, the elder Durley stood jangling the change in his trouser pockets in excitement, a habit he’d had for years and an annoying one at that. Bart was to pick up the unsuspecting Bill at six in the morning for the drive down to Poole Harbour. The others would follow in a separate vehicle.