Guns Of Brixton (18 page)

    'Martine's
gone to work and the boss is having a lie in.'

    'What
bloody time is it then?' asked Mark, having left his watch somewhere in his
room.

    'About
ten. I let you kip in.'

    'Thanks,'
said Mark as he accepted a mug of tea and felt better straight away at its hot sweetness.
'What now?'

    'How
do you mean?'

    'Well,
haven't we got to get the stuff out of the house?'

    'No
worries. It's all arranged.'

    'Is
it going to be picked up here?'

    'No.
You're going to drop it off.'

    'Oh
shit.'

    'No
worries. It's a piece of cake.'

    'I
seem to remember someone saying something similar about yesterday, and I ended
up almost totalling myself on the sodding motorway.'

    'But
you didn't, son, did you?' said Chas, dealing rashers on to buttered wholemeal.
'That's the point.'

    Upstairs,
John Jenner was waking up himself. He lay in a marriage bed that now, without
his wife and with only an old cat for company, seemed to him as big as an
aircraft carrier. Although it had been over ten years since she'd died, John
still thought of her every day, and often had conversations with her as if she
were still there, lying next to' him. He smiled at the thought of her, although
it was a bitter smile edged with tears. He'd tried to find another woman after
her death, but no one came

    close.
No one knew their private language or their shared jokes, and no one could ever
know what it had been like for John and Hazel, as together they'd built up a
successful criminal empire.

    His
thoughts then turned to Mark. He was so much like his father, yet so different.
Billy Farrow had let John down badly, leaving him to run the gang alone when
he'd joined the police. But at least he'd been enough of a good friend to leave
him alone once on the force. It must have given Billy sleepless nights to have
known so much about south London's premier gangster and yet never to have
nicked him. But then, John knew where the bodies were buried in Billy's past
and, for his part, had never said a word to anyone about that. They'd
maintained an uneasy truce until Billy had died.

    Jenner
reached for the syringe and amp of morphine on the bedside table and measured
out his morning dose. It was later than usual and the pain had woken him. Shit,
he thought, when will all this end? But of course he knew. It would end in the
graveyard, where everybody ended up eventually.

    Expertly,
he slid the needle into a vein and pushed down the plunger so that the warmth
of the drug replaced the cold of the cancer's bite and he lay back on his
pillow and let his mind run away with itself.

    Back
in the summer of 1965, John Jenner hadn't sent Billy to talk to Maurice Wright
in the hospital where he'd been admitted for his gunshot wound. He went
himself. In fact he went twice, because the first time the nurse on duty told
him that the police were still interviewing Mr Wright.

    'Fine,'
he said, giving her the bunch of flowers he was carrying. 'I'll call again.'

    'Any
message?' she asked.

    'Just
tell him a friend called,' he said with a grin and left.

    The
second time, Maurice was alone and John found the side ward where he was
sequestered without help. 'Maurice,' he said as he entered and closed the door
behind him. 'I see you got my flowers.'

    Maurice
Wright almost jumped out of bed at the sight of the man who'd shot him. 'For
Christ's sake,' he said. 'What are you doing here?'

    'Just
visiting a friend,' said Jenner, drawing up a chair to the side of the bed and
plucking a grape from the bowl of fruit on the locker next to it.

    'Don't
worry, I'm not armed. I come in peace.'

    'Piss
off.'

    'What
you going to do about it, Maurice? Is that a pistol in your jammies or are you
just pleased to see me?'

    'I'll
call a nurse.'

    'Blimey,
you've got me right terrified. If you'll just listen…'

    'You've
got nothing to say that I want to hear.'

    'On
the contrary, Maurice,' said John, leaning closer. He was beginning to realise
the power of words as well as the power of violence. 'You should listen to me
now and listen good. Otherwise the next time I might be taking flowers to your
funeral.'

    Maurice
visibly paled to the colour of his bed sheets. He'd learnt at least one thing
in the dancehall that night. Carrying a gun was one thing, using it was
another. Jenner had the bottle, he didn't. 'Go on then,' he whispered.

    'What's
the point of us fighting?' asked John. 'When we could work together.'

    'Doing
what?'

    'Anything.
You join my little firm and we can have Soho stitched up in a couple of weeks. Speed,
dope, anything and everything.'

    'And
who is your little firm?' asked Maurice. 'Jack fucking Spot and his boys?'

    'No,'
replied Vincent. 'Me, Billy and Wally.'

    Maurice
sniggered.

    'But
there's going to be more soon,' said John, himself realising that he was hardly
talking about an army. 'And you can be in on the ground floor.'

    'I
don't think so,' said Maurice. 'Nice as it is of you to ask.'

    'I'm
not asking, Maurice,' said John. 'I'm telling.'

    'I'll
think about it,' said the older man. 'I've got plenty of time.'

    'You
do that,' said John. 'And I'll be back.' He took another grape and popped it
into his mouth before standing to go. 'And make sure you make the right
decision. I'll see you later.'

    John
left the hospital and walked to the nearby tube station. Two things I need, he
thought as he waited for the train to come rumbling and clanking up to the
platform, a set of wheels and some good men.

    The
wheels were easy, he'd got some cash and he'd bumped into a young Irish bloke
called Dev at a party. Dev reckoned he could get him something tasty if he
wasn't too worried about the provenance. The men would be more difficult, but
John's head was full of ideas and later that day he sat with Billy in a cafe in
Streatham and shared some with his best friend.

    'We
need some more faces,' he said over a cup of tea and a sticky bun.

    'Such
as?' asked Billy.

    'I
was thinking of the Goon.'

    Billy
almost choked on his cream slice. 'The Goon. You're fucking joking, aren't you?
He's mental.'

    'That's
why I want him. We need some mentals.'

    'You're
bloody mental yourself,' said Billy. 'Shooting Maurice. It was all over the
papers.'

    'Good,
eh?' said John. 'That's what we need, a bit of public relations just like them
pop groups.'

    'And
a visit from the bloody coppers.'

    'Maurice
won't grass,' said John..

    'No,
he'll wait until he gets out and come looking for you with his gun.'

    'He
was shitting bricks, Billy my boy,' said John with possibly a little more
conviction than he felt. 'And that's why we need the Goon.'

    The
Goon's real name was Martin Forbes. He was in his mid- twenties, six four and
weighed in only just less than Wally's Minivan. He was permanently unemployed
and lived with his fifty-year-old mother in a prefab at the back of Brixton bus
garage. He wasn't the brightest button on the blazer, but what he lacked in
brains he more than made up with brawn and total fearlessness. Many had thought
it funny to mock his size and lack of brainpower and most had regretted it as
soon as the Goon had held them up by the throat until their eyes popped and
their blood vessels swelled almost to breaking point. 'Don't take the piss,' the
Goon would say. It was a foolish man who did it twice.

    'I'll
see him tomorrow,' said John. 'He'll be down the pie and mash shop at twelve.'

    The
Goon was pretty well known for his regular habits. Every Tuesday he went into
the local pie shop, had his fill of pie, mash and liquor, generally about three
portions, then took another portion in a basin with a spotted handkerchief on
top back to his mum's for her tea.

    The
next day, it being Tuesday, John entered the cafe at twelve- fifteen. He thought
it wise to let the Goon have his nourishment before springing his plan on him.
He took the Webley, just in case. Jenner bought a cup of tea. at the counter
and, after some banter with the serving staff, took it over to the
marble-topped table where the Goon was sitting alone. He plopped himself down
on the wooden bench rubbed smooth and shiny by generations of pie eaters'
bottoms, opposite the big man.

    'Hello,
Martin,' he said.

    The Goon
built a miniature wall of China out of mashed potato on the top of his fork,
dipped it delicately into the greenish gravy and swallowed the portion. 'Hello,
John.'

    'How's
it going?' asked Jenner.

    'Not
too bad.'

    'How's
Mum?'

    'Same.
Always moaning. Can't afford this, can't afford that.'

    'Not
working then, Martin.'

    'Nah.'

    'That's
good.'

    'Why?'
The Goon's face darkened.

    'Because
I've got a proposition for you.' 'You?'

    'Me,
Martin.'

    'Nobody
calls me Martin.'

    'They
will if you listen to what I have to say.'

    'Go
on then.'

    'I'm
offering you a job.'

    The
Goon rolled the idea round the inside of his head like a pinball in a machine.
'Don't work,' he said. 'I get the dole.'

    'What?
A fiver a week? That don't go very far, now does it? 'Specially, Martin, when
you're eating pies for three.' The Goon looked at him slitty-eyed.

    'You
taking the piss?'

    'No.'

    "Cos
if you are…' He made to rise from his seat and John nudged his knee with the
barrel of the revolver he'd slipped out from under his jacket. 'See that,' said
John. 'Now, Martin, don't get me wrong. I'm only showing you this to make you
listen.'

    'Blimey,'
said the Goon, peering under the table. 'Is it real?'

    'Course
it is.'

    'Just
like in the pictures.'

    'Better.
You want one?'

    'A
gun. Me?'

    'Sure.
Why not? Come and work for me and you can have one for every day of the week.'

    The
Goon sat back, ignoring his lunch, which John knew was a great leap, and ran
that idea around the inside of his head too. 'Blimey, what do I have to do?'

    'Look
after me and Billy and Wally. Watch our backs.'

    'What
will you be doing?' The Goon wasn't entirely stupid. Just a bit slow.

    John
grinned. 'Making money. Making lovely money.'

    'And
you won't call me the Goon?'

    'No
fucker will ever call you the Goon again, I promise.'

    'All
right, John,' Mid the Goon, watching a skin form on the liquor on the aide of
his plate. 'You're on.'

    And
so the Jenner gang became four.

    'You
awake, boss?' Chas's voice interrupted Jenner's reverie, and looking at the
clock, he realised he'd been lying half asleep, half awake for almost an hour.

    'Yes,'
he mumbled through gummy lips. 'Took my dose a bit late, that's all.'

    'Got
a nice cup of tea for you. And the papers.'

    'Thanks,
Chas,' said Jenner, pushing himself up. 'What would I do without you?'