Guns Of Brixton (35 page)

    'Where?'

    'The
Four Feathers in Stockwell,' replied Eddie. 'Our old hangout, remember?'

    'Sure,'
said Mark, walking around to keep warm-.

    'Only
it ain't the Four Feathers no more,' said Dawes. 'It's the Rat and fucking Parrot
now. Times change.'

    'They
do,' agreed Mark.

    'And
people,' said his old friend.

    'True.'

    'What
time?' asked Eddie. 'Though I don't know why I'm asking as I'm in there all
afternoon, every afternoon. In fact, I was just on my way there now. I was just
waiting for your call. Not that I really expected it, as you've been known to
let me down before.'

    Mark
ignored the jibe and the self pity in Eddie's voice. There was plenty of time
to sort that out later. 'Will you be there around four?' he asked.

    'If
the money holds out.'

    'Make
sure it does. I'll bring a live injection.' 'How come you're in the money?'

    'I'll
tell you later,' said Mark as he saw Linda's car coming down the drive.
'Someone's here.'

    'Wish
I could say the same,' said Dawes, and he dropped the phone down with a bang.

    Mark
waited as Linda parked her car and got out. She was wearing a long leather coat
and looked fabulous. He walked towards her and they embraced. 'Just like old
times,' he said.

    'But
I'm not getting my knickers off in the bushes if that's what you mean,' she
said. 'It's too chilly. Besides it'd ruin my coat.'

    'I
think we're both too old for that,' he said.

    'Speak
for yourself.'

    They
laughed, and arm in arm walked into the restaurant.

    The
place was quiet. They were offered a table by the window, where they ordered
bottles of wine and mineral water. The menu was pricey and the room was warm,
with white linen on the tables, and glasses and cutlery sparkled in the subdued
lighting.

    'Who
would ever have thought it?' said Mark as he looked around. 'A place like this
out here in the boonies.'

    'All
sorts of things have changed round here,' she replied.

    'So
I've noticed.'

    'Good.
You should.'

    'I
was thinking about you last night,' said Mark when the drinks had been brought
to the table, the wine tasted, announced satisfactory and poured.

    'And
me you, like I said.'

    'And?'

    'And
I've come to a decision.'

    He didn't
like the way the conversation was going. This is where she tells me she doesn't
want to see me anymore, he thought. 'And?' he asked.

    'Simple.
I will keep on seeing you, but…'

    He
cocked his head like a dog.

    '…But
I don't want you involved with my family. I don't want you seeing Luke or
Daisy, and I don't want Greta to know what we're up to.

    And I
especially don't want Sean to find out. I'll go out with you when I can, but
nowhere where I'm known. I'll sleep with you when we can at the flat or
wherever, but that's it. I don't want a boyfriend. I don't want a relationship.

    'You
just want a shag now and then, is that it?'

    'If
that's how you want to put it, yes.'

    'And
I have no say in the matter.'

    'Course
you do. You can take it or leave it, Mark.'

    He
took a sip of wine which now tasted like vinegar. 'So I'll just be your bit on
the side.'

    'If
you like.'

    'I
don't like.'

    She
shrugged. 'Please yourself. I made out for eight years without you, and I
daresay I can make out for a lot more. My family is what matters to me now. I
enjoyed the other afternoon more than you'll know. I miss having sex. I enjoyed
it with you years ago and I enjoyed it with Andy. But I made do without it
after he died… and I'll make do without it when you go away again.'

    She
gave Mark a long, cold look.

    'Who
says I'm going to go away again?' he said.

    She
smiled. 'Mark. One thing you taught me is that people like you always go away.'

    'But
I'm here now.'

    'Don't
get hissy. You pissed off once before and I expect you'll piss off again. I'm
not going to build my life around you for a second time only to be left high
and dry. So why don't we order?'

    .They
did as she said, but Mark wasn't interested in the food. When the waitress left
them alone he played with his glass and said: 'OK. You win. I'll play along.'

    'It's
not a case of winning or losing. It's simply a case of being pragmatic. I've
got a life and I don't intend to let you spoil it.'

    'I
don't want to spoil it, I want to make it better.'

    'Then
do what I ask.'

    There
was no answer to that that he could think of.

    The
rest of the meal passed pleasantly enough, but afterwards Mark couldn't
remember much about it. He ate little, but Linda tucked in mightily. Their
roles seemed to have reversed since his return.

    Afterwards
they sat in her car, as she ran the engine for the heater.

    'So?'
she asked.

    'So
what?' he asked back.

    'Are you
sure you want to carry on, now you've had more time to think?'

    'Play
it your way?'

    She
nodded.

    'You
know what I'm going to say,' he said.

    'No I
don't.'

    'Yes,
I'm sure.'

    'Good.'

    'So when
can I see you?' he asked, feeling like a little boy as he did so.

    'Call
me on the mobile tonight. I'll see what I can get organised for the weekend.
I'll get Greta or my other regular babysitter to look after Luke and Daisy on
Saturday evening. We could meet at the flat.'

    Mark
felt like he was about as important as the babysitter in her life. If she
couldn't get one then he was on the out.

    'OK,'
he said and opened the car door. 'I'll call you tonight.'

    'Give
me a kiss then,' she said.

    He
did, and she was careful not to muss her lipstick. Mark got out of the car and
went back to his own where he sat and watched her leave. Once upon a time he
could have had her for life but he'd messed up, and now she was getting her own
back, and there was nothing he could do about it except walk away - and that
was the last thing he wanted to do.

    He
looked at his watch and started his car. The hours had flown and it was time to
get to Stockwell to catch Eddie Dawes.

    He
intended to park in the same cul de sac close to the Four Feathers where he'd
parked in the old days. But when he turned the corner he didn't recognise the
old pub where he and his little crew used to plan their many exploits. Gone was
the miserable facade and in its place was a new name and a smart new frontage,
even hanging baskets just waiting for the spring to arrive so they could burst
into bloom.

    He
opened the door and walked across the polished floor to the bar. At that time
of day the place was almost empty, just a few drinkers sporadically dotted
around, sitting as far away from each other as they possibly could. The in
house music system was playing a Van Morrison album and the lunchtime specials
were chalked up on a blackboard. In the old days, the Christmas decorations
would still have been up mid January and the lunchtime 'specials' would have
been restricted to ham or cheese rolls, with or without pickle. Things had
certainly changed. Mark scoped the room for Eddie, and twice his gaze passed a
big man in dirty jeans and an anorak sitting on a stool and gazing at his own
reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Mark looked at his bearded face.
Somewhere lost in there was his old friend.

    'Eddie?'
he said, once he'd walked up to him.

    The
big man turned. 'Mark Farrow,' he replied. 'Christ, I'd recognise you
anywhere.'

    Which
was more than Mark could say about Eddie, and once again he realised how much
things had changed in his absence. Dizzy Dawes had been the sharpest dresser of
any of the boys but now his appearance was that of someone who didn't care what
he looked like. And he was half cut into the bargain. Shit, thought Mark, this
isn't going to work.

    He
sat at the next bar stool and nodded in the direction of Eddie's glass, which
just contained the dregs of a pint. 'Drink?' he asked.

    'That's
what I'm here for.'

    'Lager?'

    'Bitter.
And a chaser. Scotch. Bells.'

    Mark
ordered Eddie's drinks from the girl behind the jump and a pint of lager for
himself, although he really didn't want it. When the drinks were brought and
paid for he suggested they sit at one of the booths at the back of the pub.
They carried their drinks over and sat down.

    'So,
Mark?' said Eddie when he'd downed half his pint and wiped the foam from his
moustache. 'Tell me all about yourself.'

    'Not
much to tell.'

    'In
eight years? I don't believe you. I bet you've had some fun.'

    'That's
not how I'd describe it.'

    'So
how would you describe it then?'

    'Another
time, Eddie, eh?' said Mark. 'I'm looking to find the boys if I can. I need
them.'

    'And
when we needed you?'

    'I
was gone, I know. I'm not proud of what I did, but, that's in the past.'

    'The
past is all I've got.'

    'We
can change that.'

    'We,
white man?'

    Eddie's
favourite expression. And for the first time Mark felt that his old friend was
hiding somewhere inside the unwashed mess of a man sitting in front of him.

    'Got
any fags?' asked Eddie.

    Mark
pulled out his packet but there was only one left. He offered it to Eddie, who
said: 'Typical. You never had any bloody smokes. Hold on, I'll get some.' He
got to his feet, staggered, smiled self-consciously and hunted in his pockets
for change. He came up light and said: 'Got any dough, Mark? I'm temporarily embarrassed.
I was nursing that last pint waiting for you. Didn't you say something about a
live injection?'

    'Sure,'
said Mark. He pulled out a wad of cash and peeled off a tenner. Seeing Eddie's
eyes on the money, he said: 'How much do you need?'

    'That
lot wouldn't even start to cover it.'

    Mark
peeled off another forty quid, added it to the tenner and put it on the table.
'There you go, mate. And there's plenty more where that came from if you're
interested.'

    'Always
interested,' said Eddie and picked up the small pile of notes with dirty hands
tipped with bitten fingernails. 'Always interested:'

    He
went to the bar for change and Mark saw that he ordered a swift scotch whilst
he was there, downing it in one, before going to the cigarette machine. Mark
had seen some problem drinkers in his time and it looked like Eddie Dawes was
one of them. Just another little local difficulty to overcome, he thought as he
waited for Eddie to return.

    When
he sat down again, Mark said: 'So do you see any of the others these days?'

    'You
are out of touch,' replied Eddie through a mouthful of smoke.

    'Put
me back in touch then.'

    'OK.
Andy's dead.'

    'What?'

    'Dead.'

    'What
happened to him?'

    'Car crash,
about three years ago. You remember him and cars.'

    'Course.'
Andy had been a car thief extraordinaire. He'd even managed to steal a Maserati
Spyder worth about two hundred thousand pounds from the lockup belonging to a
main dealer. Exactly the same specs as the one driven by Don Johnston in
Miami Vice,
the TV series from which the boys got most of their fashion
ideas at the time. They'd enjoyed burning up London until he'd piled it into a
set of traffic lights in the Kings Road.