Guns Of Brixton (3 page)

    Jimmy
ignored him and ran down the pavement between the buildings and the stalls on
the edge of the road. He shoved early shoppers and traders out of his way,
jumping over sacks of fruit and vegetables and boxes of cheap cosmetics and
clothes, the bag of money weighing him down on one side, his shotgun on the
other, clasped in his fist like an overgrown handgun.

    Billy
Farrow followed closely, feeling the sweat beginning to form on him, half from
the exertion of the chase, half from fear of what the desperate, armed man in
front of him might do if he was cornered. He knew Jimmy, probably better than
he should, and he was aware of what he was capable of.

    Then
Jimmy Hunter was trapped.

    As he
came out in Atlantic Road, a squad car skidded to a halt opposite the entrance
to Brixton rail station, blocking his escape. Jimmy swore and turned back just
as Billy Farrow came round the corner behind him. Jimmy lobbed the bag of money
at Farrow which caught him on the chest and sent him tumbling into the gutter,
dropping his weapon. Jimmy Hunter laughed and raised his shotgun to his
shoulder. Suddenly he recognised the policeman and hesitated. 'Christ. Billy
Farrow, is that you?'

    'Yeah
Jimmy, it's me,' replied Farrow.

    'Blue
eyes, you fucking traitor. We trusted you.'

    'Give
it up, Jimmy,' shouted Farrow from the ground. 'We know everything. We've got
the other car. There's no way out.'

    'Like
hell, copper,' said Jimmy, feeling his finger on the trigger. He knew it was
all up, but he was determined that he was never going to go back to prison,
where he'd spent so much of his life. 'Like hell I say.' He thought of his wife
and two children back at home and what they were doing at that moment and what
they'd be doing for the rest of their lives. Lives he would never see. So many
birthdays and Christmases and anniversaries and good and bad times that he
almost smiled as he tightened his finger further.

    He saw
Farrow put up one hand as if by doing so he could prevent the inevitable, and
as he looked down into the deep blue eyes that had got Billy Farrow his
nickname, almost without meaning to, Jimmy pulled the trigger and the hammer on
the gun started the short journey towards the rim of the cartridge. Just a
centimetre or two in distance, and a split second in time, but a split second
that would stretch for more than twenty years before its echoes and
reverberations would finally end.

    The
wind blows cold off the Thames at Gallions Reach in January.

    Straight
from Russia in the east, across Europe, the North Sea and the lowlands of
Norfolk, Suffolk and Essex. That particular January morning the river was
running high and fast, reflecting the leaden sky over Docklands, and the breeze
whipped little white horses on its surface.

    The
meeting was set for eleven. Sharp on the hour, a black left-hand- drive Range
Rover Vogue with French plates slid on to Barge House Road next to Royal Victoria
Gardens. The car sat, its motor idling to keep the heat going inside, until it
was joined a few minutes later by a navy blue Bentley Continental that drew up
to it, closely followed by a black Mercedes saloon. The Range Rover was grimy
from the road; the Bentley and the Mercedes were both highly polished, with
tinted windows that kept the identity of their occupants secret. The cars sat
together, faint white exhaust pumping from their tailpipes, until the front
passenger door of the Bentley swung wide, and a tall, balding man of about
sixty emerged. What remained of his white hair was cropped close to the skull.
He wore a navy blue overcoat with the dull sheen of cashmere, a navy scarf
loosely tied that showed a white shirt and dark tie, navy suit trousers and
highly polished black shoes. He closed the Bentley's door with a discreet
clunk, raised his hand to the Mercedes, indicating to whoever was inside that
they should remain there, and walked towards the Range Rover. As he did so, its
driver switched off his engine, opened his door and got out. He too wore an
overcoat, but of a cheaper material, black this time with a velvet collar
turned up against the cold, a long muffler, jeans and Chelsea boots with a
slight heel. His hair was thick, dark as the sky, although slightly peppered
with premature grey, and long over the ears. When he turned to look at the
limousine, his eyes were almost as dark blue as its paintwork. No one ever
forgot those eyes. As he approached he half raised his hand in greeting to the
Bentley's passenger, who reciprocated with a slight wave of his own.

    When
they were close, the balding man took off the black leather glove from his
right hand and they touched palms, then hugged each other without
embarrassment.

    'Uncle
John,' said the man in the black coat when they separated. He was in his early
thirties, but his face was lined, the skin tanned, a dusting of a day's worth
of dark beard covering his cheeks.

    'Mark.
It's been a long time. Too long. How've you been?'

    'Not
too bad. You?'

    'Not
great, I'm getting old, son.'

    'Aren't
we all.'

    'You,
you're just a baby,' said John Jenner. 'You still look like a bleedin' kid.'

    'Don't
you believe it,' said Mark and took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. He extracted
a cigarette from the packet and lit it with difficulty in the wind with a brass
Zippo. Before he put the cigarettes away John Jenner took the packet from his
hand and examined it. 'German?' he said.

    'Last
of the duty frees,' Mark explained.

    Jenner
looked at the Range Rover. 'French plates. You get around.'

    'I
do. But I'm back now.'

    'Where
you living?'

    'Here
and there. Nothing grand.'

    'Nice
car.'

    'Belonged
to someone I met,' said Mark.

    'And
he gave it to you.'

    'Didn't
have much choice.'

    'Like
that was it?'

    'You
know how it goes.'

    The
older man nodded. 'Let's walk,' he said.

    The
pair went down to the river's edge where the wind lifted the skirts of their
coats and flapped them around their legs. Jenner put his glove back on and Mark
sunk his bare hands deep into his overcoat pockets, cigarette in his mouth, and
turned his back to the water.

    'Who's
in the Mercedes?' asked Mark.

    'Some
blokes.'

    'What
kind of blokes?'

    'Just
a bit of security.'

    'And
you have to hire security now. What happened to the rest of your firm?'

    'Dead,
dying, retired, lost their bottle. Times change.'

    'They
do that.'

    'I'm
glad you called,' said Jenner.

    'I
heard you wanted to see me.'

    'Who
from?'

    Mark
shrugged. 'Word gets around, you know how it is. I try and keep up with things.
Lay a little money out and people keep me advised on what's happening.'

    'I've
got some problems.'

    'I
heard that too.'

    'You
hear a lot.'

    'Like
I say, I try and keep up with things.'

    'You
didn't keep up with us.'

    'Dev
always knew where I was if I was needed.'

    Jenner
shook his head more in sorrow than in anger. 'Bloody Dev. He Would. You two
always were as thick as thieves. He never said.'

    'I
asked him not to.'

    'He's
a law unto himself.'

    'That's
why I chose him to keep in touch with him. I knew he'd never let on.'

    'Bastard.'

    'You
know you don't mean that. He's a good bloke. Taught me a lot.'

    'Like
how to get hold of nice motors like that one,' said Jenner, Indicating the
Range Rover with a nod.

    'No
danger.'

    'Bloody
Dev,' said Jenner. 'I never knew.'

    'I
thought it was for the best, John,' said Mark. 'After all that happened.'

    Over
to the south towards Kent, black clouds gathered like an angry mob waiting to
do mischief and Jenner sunk his neck into his collar. 'Might get some snow
later,' he said.

    'Maybe.'

    'It's
bloody cold whatever. Dunno why I stay in this rotten country,' said Jenner.

    'So
go. What's stopping you? Spain's nice at this time of year, so they say.'

    'And
you'd know.'

    'You
said it. I get around.'

    'So
what brought you back, if not us?'

    'You
know. He'll be out soon won't he?'

    Jenner
nodded.

    'And
I'll be waiting, like I always said I would,' said Mark Farrow as he flipped
his cigarette end into the freezing water.

    They
were silent for a minute, and only the sound of the river washing up against
the pylons of the dock beneath their feet, and a distant police siren touched
their thoughts. 'So, Uncle John,' said Mark. 'What's it all about?'

    Jenner
reached inside his coat and fished out a long cigar, found a windproof gas
lighter in his pocket and took his time getting it lit to his satisfaction.

    'I
thought you gave up smoking years ago,' said Mark.

    Jenner
grinned through a mouthful of smoke that was whipped from his open mouth as he
spoke. 'I started again,' he said. 'What's the point of prolonging the agony?
You see, that's one of the problems I mentioned.'

    'Whaddya
mean?' asked Mark, and he frowned.

    'I'm
fucked, mate.'

    'Uncle
John?'

    'The
big C.'

    'You're
joking.' 'Wish I was. I'm rotten with it. Dev never told you that, did he?'

    'No.'

    "Cos
he doesn't know. Only me, Martine and Chas do. Apart from you now, and half the
bloody consultants in London by my reckoning.'

    'How
long have you known?' asked Mark.

    'A
while. Long enough.'

    Mark
touched his hand to his forehead, as if by doing so he could replay the
conversation a different way. 'But these days…'

    'No,'
said Jenner, cutting him off. 'The quack says it's inoperable.'

    'Second
opinion?'

    'This
is the fourth opinion as it goes. And I'm fed up with geezers I don't know fiddling
about with my private bits. And that fucking chemo screws you up, so I knocked
it on the head.'

    'Christ,
I'm sorry, John,' said Mark, and he touched the older man on his arm.

    The
clouds were getting closer and the first flurry of snow as Jenner had
prophesied hit the water and vanished as if it had never existed. 'Really
sorry.'

    'Don't
worry about it, Mark.'

    'How
can I not worry?'

    'There's
no point.'

    'But
still…'

    'Instead
of worrying about something you can't do anything about, do something for me.'

    'What?'

    'Later.
I'll tell you later.'

    'So
what's the prognosis, Uncle John?'

    'How
long have I got, you mean?'

    'Well,
I wouldn't exactly have put it like that.'

    'You
don't have to be squeamish, or dance around the subject Mark. A year maybe.
Maybe a bit longer. I'll never get my bus pass now.'

    'Christ.'

    'It's
all right, Mark. I've come to terms with it. Even joke about it. It's the
breaks. I've had longer than a lot of people I know. Better people too. Life's
not fair, but then no one ever said it was.'