Guns Of Brixton (14 page)

    'Shut
up, you prick,' said his friend. 'Be serious. I'm going to shoot that cunt
tonight, and fuck knows what'll happen then.'

    'Just
don't kill the bastard, that's all,' said Billy.

    'Fuck
off. I already told you. I'll shoot him in the leg. I just want to frighten the
cunt.'

    'Don't
forget he's got a gun himself.'

    'I
won't, stupid. But will he use it?'

    Billy
was suddenly terrified. He worshipped his friend and couldn't think what life
would be like without him. 'You'll be careful won't you? This ain't a film.'

    John
winked at him, but didn't know if he'd seen it in the light from the massive
mirrorball that hung from the ceiling. It turned slowly in the heat from the
dance floor. 'Don't you worry about me, son,' he said. 'I'm just going to give
the sod a fright. I'll teach him to nick our stuff.'

    'And
our money,' interjected Billy.

    'And
the dosh. Now go and get us something to drink while I take a wander. I'll meet
you back here in ten minutes, all right?'

    'All
right,' said Billy and began to fight his way through the scrum in front of the
bar.

    The
drinks of choice that night were gin and orange squash (no ice) for the females
and light ale for the blokes. Billy caught the eye of a tasty looking barmaid
dressed in a short skirt and a pink fluffy jumper that showed off her best assets
to the max, and yelled for two lights over the hubbub of Billy Preston on the
sound system. She produced them and he gave her a bunch of change and pushed
his way backwards out of the crowd. There was no sign of John, so he put his
bottle on the shelf that surrounded one of the doric columns that held up the
Royal's roof and found his cigarettes. He lit one up and checked out the
talent. John could look after himself.

    Meanwhile,
John Jenner had spotted Maurice in his usual spot, surrounded by his mates and
their girls eager to get smashed on Maurice's stash. He too pushed himself
through the throng and tapped Maurice on the shoulder. 'Blimey,' said the older
man. 'Fancy seeing you here, Johnny.'

    'Got
a minute, Maurice?'

    'For
you, anytime. No hard feelings about the other night I hope.'

    'Not
one. I just want to talk business.'

    'Spot
on, son. Come into my office,' and they both made their way into the gents. 'So
what's it to be?' asked Maurice when they were inside, alone except for a
solitary mod emptying his bladder into the urinal.

    'I
was thinking about a partnership,' said John. 'I've got a lot of gear.'

    'So I
heard. That place in Vauxhall wasn't it?'

    'Never
mind,' said John as the mod did up the zipper of his purple jeans and with a
grin to Maurice left the lavatory without washing his hands.

    'So?'
said Maurice.

    'You
done us up the other night,' said John.

    'Yeah.
Sorry about that. But you kids gotta learn.'

    'Maurice,
you're a cunt, and I don't like you,' said John pulling the pistol from under
his jacket. 'In fact I've come up here to tell you that if you stick your nose
in my business again I'm going to shoot it off.'

    'You're
kidding.'

    'No.
And you remember what I said about no hard feelings?'

    'Yeah.'

    'I
lied.'

    And
John pulled the trigger.

    The
explosion was the loudest sound he'd ever heard. He'd not had a chance to try
the pistol out and had just trusted the old man in the pawnshop. Trusted him
that the gun would work. Trusted that the bullet would fly, and fly it did.
Straight into Maurice's leg and out through the other side jetting a spout of
blood across the white tiled walls of the toilet, and the recoil from the
antique firearm almost took John's hand off at the wrist.

    'You
fucker!' screamed Maurice as his leg gave way and he fell to the floor. 'You
dirty little fucker!'

    'That's
the difference between you and me, Mo,' said John, his ears ringing from the
report. 'You just show your gun. I use mine. And if I ever, ever, see you again
anywhere where I'm doing business, I'll finish the job.'

    And
without another word, he spun on the Cuban heel of his Beatle boot, left the
toilet where outside Dave Clark and his band were just hitting their stride
through
Glad All Over
, and the beat of the bass drum had drowned out the
sound of the shot. He found Billy, and steered him through the crowd of dancing
fans, outside into Tottenham High Street and to Wally's waiting Minivan.

    'What
happened?' Billy asked as the small van sped through the streets towards the
river and south London beyond. 'What happened?'

    'I
shot the fucker, didn't I?' replied John proudly, although his hands were
shaking so much he could hardly light the cigarette from the packet Wally had
left on the dashboard. 'It was just like fucking
Shane.'

    'Fucking
hell,' said Billy. 'You're fucking mad, John.'

    'Not
half as mad as him.'

    'Did
you kill him?'

    'I
only shot him in the leg.'

    'That
could still kill him,' said Wally, who was also something, of a connoisseur of
American crime films and pulp fiction.

    'Do
me a favour,' said John. Then laughed. 'Fucking too bad if it does.'

    'Did
you get our money back?' asked Billy.

    Shit,
thought John. I forgot all about that.

    'No,'
he said after a minute. 'I said you'd pop round and collect it.'

    Mark
stayed in his flat for the rest of the afternoon, surrounded by the smell of
stale chip fat, his ancient record player and portable TV his only companions.
In fact, they'd been his only companions since he'd moved there a few weeks
previously. During those weeks no one but him had passed through the doorway.
But that was nothing new. For the past few years his life had been lived in a
succession of apartments of varying degrees of luxuriousness - or lack of it -
alone with no friends^ or lovers. This was probably the worst, but he'd needed
to conserve his financial resources as he waited for Jimmy Hunter's release.
The last Christmas had been the most miserable that he could remember, with a
frozen turkey dinner for one his only concession to the season. And on New
Year's Eve he'd gone to bed at ten with a bottle of brandy, a pack of
cigarettes and BBC Radio Essex for company.

    Twilight
came early that January day, and Mark thought back to the Christmases he'd
spent with John, Hazel, Martine and Chas down in south London. He'd been happy
then. Or at least as happy as he could ever remember being. Not that happiness
had ever been a big part of his existence; it had always seemed just out of
reach. Something that other people experienced, but which had always eluded
him, like that pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

    The Jenners'
house had always been warm and cosy, with a massive Christmas tree twinkling in
the living room, under which mysterious boxes kept appearing. Hazel had loved
wrapping parcels, making them bright and colourful with different papers and
ribbons. Almost too good to open, John Jenner had always remarked. Not that it
stopped Mark and Martine ripping them to shreds early on Christmas morning,
before the grownups were fully awake. Then Hazel would make breakfast before
getting down to the serious business of preparing the lunch. And what lunches
they were. Always enough to feed the five thousand, with some to spare.

    Mark
wondered what Christmas was like there without her now. There'd only been a
couple afterwards when he'd been around, and cheerless celebrations they had
been. No doubt these days Chas cooked a feast, but there would always be
memories and an empty chair at the dining table. Maybe two.

    Mark
found a bottle of cheap scotch in his cupboard and sat in the ratty armchair
drinking until it was almost too dark to see. It was Make Your Mind Up Time and
he knew it. He could go back to London and do what John wanted or he could
vanish again, this time for good. There was no middle way now that he and John
had made contact again. And John needed Mark's help, just as the older man had
given him so much help in the past. He had money enough to go and get somewhere
warm. But what would he do there?

    'Bugger,'
he said aloud at last. 'It's time to shit or get off the pot.' But he knew, as
he'd known since he had spoken to John, that there was really only one answer
he could give.

    When
the bottle was empty, and night completely covered Canvey Island, he pulled his
phone from out of his overcoat pocket, switched it on, saw there were no
messages, and selected John Jenner's number on the memory. The phone rang once,
twice, three times, before he heard John's voice say, 'Jenner.'

    'Uncle
John,' he said.

    'Hello,
Mark. How's tricks?'

    'Not
so dusty.' It was an old routine they'd used for years. 'You in tonight?'

    'Yeah.'

    'Then
tell Chas to break out the fatted calf, I'm coming home.'

    There
was a long silence.

    'Uncle
John, you there?'

    'I'm
here.'

    'Well?'

    'How
long you going to be?'

    'I've
just got to pack up here. There's not much. Bugger all in fact. I think I'll
leave most of it for the binmen.'

    'You're
sure?'

    'Course
I am. You knew you only had to ask.'

    'People
change. I wasn't sure at all.'

    'Whatever.
I'm on my way.'

    'I'll
leave a light in the window.'

    'I'll
call when I'm close. And one thing, Uncle John…'

    'What?'

    'Get
rid of that bloody Bros duvet.'

    'It's
as good as gone.'

    'I'll
see you later then.'

    'Look
forward to it.' They broke the connection.

    Mark shoved
his few clothes into a battered leather bag, then looked round the flat. Like
he'd said, there wasn't much. He flicked through his few albums, then shook his
head. Fresh start, he thought, and abandoned the lot: records, record player,
TV and the contents of the fridge and cupboards. He switched off the fire and
lights and, without looking back, took the front door key down to the chippie
and lodged it with the girl behind the counter. 'Tell the landlord I got an
offer I couldn't refuse,' he said to her. 'I'm paid up 'til the end of the
month and he can have what I've left for the inconvenience.'

    She
was a sweet thing, although not very bright, and she'd harboured certain
feelings for the handsome, sad looking man with the brilliant eyes who now and
then popped in for cod and chips and a pickled onion. 'Will we see you again?'
she asked as she dished out a fish cake to a waiting customer.

    "Fraid
not, love,' replied Mark, and he winked at her. 'Be good.' And he walked out into
the freezing night, opened the yard doors, aimed his remote at the Vogue, got
in, started it up and drove off in the direction of London, leaving them open
behind him.

    Bloody
hell, he thought. What am I getting into?

    It
was late by the time he got to London and the roads were slick with ice, making
driving dangerous, even for a 4WD, but he was in no hurry. He knew that as soon
as he walked through the door of the house in Tulse Hill, nothing would ever be
the same again for him or for its occupants.

    When
he reached the top of Jenner's street, he stopped, selected the number on his
mobile and the phone was answered in a second. 'Let down the drawbridge, Uncle
John,' he said. 'I'm just up the road.'

    'Flash
your lights at the front,' came the reply, which Mark did and the gate swung
open. The black Mercedes, or one similar, was still parked across the street,
its windows misted by the occupants' breath, but they made no move. Mark parked
his car, grabbed his bag and walked to the already open front door and went
inside. The gate closed behind him with a clang of metal on metal. Could be the
condemned cell, he thought briefly, but dismissed the thought as quickly as it
came.