Guns Of Brixton (44 page)

    Dinner
was a great success. A simple smoked salmon terrine followed by noisettes of
lamb with new potatoes and mange tout with a light rosemary jus, then tart
tatine with cream.

    'You've
outdone yourself,' said Mark as he cleared his pudding plate.

    'I'm
glad you like it. Delia helped.'

    'Who's
Delia?' asked Mark mystified.

    'I
keep forgetting you've been away so long,' said Linda. 'She's a TV cook.'

    None
the wiser, Mark helped her stack the dishes in the sink before they returned to
the living room. This time Linda sat on the sofa next to him. She'd already
poured them a large brandy each. 'Coffee?' she asked.

    'Maybe
later. After.'

    'After
what?'

    He
put his brandy glass on the coffee table then took hers and put it next to his 'After
this,' he said, gathering her into his arms and kissing her.

    She
wriggled around in his arms, her skirt riding up her thighs and he put his hand
between her legs which she clamped tight. 'Gotcha,' she said. And then from
inside his jacket he heard his phone ring. 'Leave it,' whispered Linda. 'I
can't' 'You can.'

    The
phone chirped on and he removed his hand, stood up and recovered it from his
pocket. He checked the display, it said TUBBS and he pressed the receive
button. 'Shit,' said Linda.

    'Hello,'
said Mark. 'This better be important.'

    'I
got a call from Beretta,' said Tubbs above the sound of traffic.

    'He
wants a meet.'

    'When?'

    'Now.
As soon as possible. And he wants money.' 'How much?'

    'Ten
grand he said. He wants to do a deal.' 'Shit,' said Mark to himself. 'I'm
busy.'

    'He
said if not tonight, not ever,' said Tubbs. 'Come on, Mark, this is what we've
been waiting for. How busy can you be?'

    'Enough,'
said Mark, pulling a 'I'm sorry' face at Linda. 'Where's the meet?'

    'Outside
Brixton Town Hall. I've got to call him when I've got the dough.'

    'I'm
not with it,' said Mark. 'I'll have to go home and get it.'

    'How
soon?'

    'Where
are you?'

    'With
Eddie in Stockwell.'

    'Meet
me at John's place. You remember where it is don't you?' 'Sure I do. That big
old house in Tulse Hill.' 'That's the one. I'll be there in half an hour.'

    'Me
too.'

    'Wait
a minute. He's got security outside. They may not be too pleased to see you.'

    'Shoot
first and ask questions after?'

    'That's
about it. Park up the hill. I'll drive down and you can flash me.'

    'I
might get arrested.'

    'Fuck
off Tubbs, I'm not in the mood for your jokes. You know what I mean.'

    'Chill
man. Sure I do.'

    'So
look out for me. You know my motor.'

    'Yeah.'

    'See
ya,' said Mark and he clicked off the phone.

    'You're
going,' said Linda, her face pink with anger.

    'I've
got to.'

    'Always.
You always go.'

    'This
is important.'

    'And
this isn't.' The sweep of her hand took in the whole room and herself.

    'Of
course it is.'

    'But
not more important than a phone call.'

    'You
don't understand.'

    'I
understand only too well. I've made every effort for you, Mark. New knickers,
food. What more do you want?'

    'I'm
sorry.'

    'Always
sorry. Always disappearing. Always leaving people who care for you hanging out
to dry…'

    'It's
not like that,' he interrupted. 'There's something I have to do for John…'.

    'And
always John,' she spat. 'Bloody John Jenner. He's your god, isn't he? When John
calls, Mark goes running. You even left your mother for him.'

    The
remark nailed Mark's heart like the bolt from a crossbow. 'Don't say that,' he
said.

    'It's
true, Mark, and look what happened to her.'

    'Please,
Linda.'

    'No,'
she said, getting up from the couch. 'Go on, Mark, piss off. But just remember
what you're missing,' and she pulled her dress over her head revealing froths
of pink lace around her hips and breasts, showing off her figure so beautifully
that Mark's eyes goggled. 'And this was your last chance, I promise,' and she
threw the dress to the floor and slammed out of the room.

    Mark
put on his jacket and left. Standing on the landing he could hear her sobs
echoing through the building. 'Shit,' he whispered to himself, but instead of
going upstairs he went down and out into the cold street with what she'd said
about his mother ringing in his head. Mum, he thought. Jesus, Mum, I'm so
sorry.

    The
last time Mark Farrow had seen his mother alive was on April 9, 1989, a date
he'd never forget. It was also the first day he saw her dead. He was paying one
of his rare visits after she'd called him up on the phone the day before. She'd
sounded awful when they'd spoken. Things were going from bad to worse, she told
him. She was drunk. Nothing new there: by then she was drunk most of the time.
She begged him to come round, so he told her he'd be there the next day about
seven, as long as Bobby Thomas wasn't at home. He wouldn't be, she told him. He
hardly ever was these days, pubbing it mostly, or with some old slapper he'd
pulled in one of the boozers he went to.

    The
next evening, Mark drove to the house in East Dulwich where Thomas and his
mother rented their flat. Or at least his mother rented the flat and Thomas
stayed there, rent free. It was a dump, but it was all she could afford. The
top floor of a three-storey terraced house just off Lordship Lane, lined with
pizza and fried chicken and hamburger take-outs. Mark sent money and would've
sent more, but he knew it just got spent at the off licence and in betting
shops.

    Mark
was on his way to a restaurant up west, where some dodgy mates were throwing a
birthday party for another dodgy mate. Mark couldn't remember any of their
names now, but he could remember exactly what he was wearing. An Armani suit,
Hugo Boss shirt and tie combo, Calvin Klein underwear and shoes by Church. He
was a real little gentleman, as some old Dickensian character might have
remarked. Under those smart clothes beat a heart of solid stone, or so he
thought. But even stone can sometimes shatter when tapped from an unexpected
direction. And, as tough as Mark might think he was, he would never be the same
again after that dreadful night.

    The front,
party door was open when he arrived at the house. He shook his head and walked
up the six dusty flights of uncarpeted stairs that led to his mother's flat,
past bicycles, a roll of carpet and mail that had gathered and seemingly
multiplied with time, addressed to tenants old and new, present and departed.
The door to her flat was open too. It was still light outside, but dismal
indoors, and the bare bulb in the short hallway of the apartment glowed dimly.
Mark gently pushed open the door, as if he expected an ambush. 'Mum,' he
called, but all was quiet, except for the reverberation of reggae music from
somewhere nearby. 'Mum,' he called again, walking down the hall. 'You there?'

    Still
no answer. The kitchen was empty, so was the living room. Mark knocked on the
bedroom door. He hated the thought of his mother and Bobby Thomas sleeping in
there together, but when his knock went unheeded, he opened it and peeped
inside. Empty too. He wondered if she had gone out for cigarettes or booze and
forgotten he was coming. That left only the bathroom. The light was off and the
door was ajar, but Mark pushed it open anyway and reached for the switch.

    Afterwards,
he wondered if he'd realised in the split second between the connection being made
and the fluorescent fixture springing to life what he was about to find. He'd
never know, but as his eyes adjusted to the light he saw the terrible truth.
The bath was full of what looked at first sight like thin tomato juice and what
he could see of his mother's naked body lay in the mixture of blood and water,
her white skin streaked with gore. Her head was tilted back, her eyes shut, and
one arm hung over the edge of the porcelain, the wrist cut from palm to elbow
in one vertical line - there was no hesitation marks. Blood had dripped on to
the floor, making a sticky pool that had run over as far as the toilet bowl,
but now it was clotting and hung like red strings from her fingertips. Water
was still dribbling out of one of the taps, and the bath was almost full. His
mother appeared to be floating, the water lapping around her chin and mouth,
bubbling slightly when she breathed.

    She
was still breathing, that was all that Mark could think of. 'Mum,' he said, his
mouth so dry it hurt to speak. 'Oh Christ, Mum. What the hell have you done?'

    The
room seemed to contract: the walls and ceiling bearing down on him as if he was
in a coffin.

    He
knelt beside the bath, the blood soaking the knees of his trousers. He tried to
pull her upright and keep the water out of her nose and mouth. He wanted to get
her out of the bath but she was a dead weight and he could feel panic growing
inside him. Phone, he thought, he had to phone.

    He
left her and ran into the living room. Please God, don't let it be cut off, he
thought, then remembered that she'd called him the night before and felt
blessed relief when he heard a dialling tone when he picked up the receiver. He
dialled three nines with a shaking hand and said aloud, 'Come on, come on,' as
it rang. It seemed like hours, but they picked up on the fourth ring.

    'Emergency.
Which service do-'

    'Ambulance,'
he interrupted. 'An ambulance, quick.'

    'Your
number and address please, sir,' said the voice.

    Mark told
the operator, and added, 'It's my mother. She… she's cut her wrist.'

    'An
ambulance will be with you as soon as possible,' said the voice, but Mark had
already dropped the handset on to the floor and raced back to the bathroom.

    Nothing
much had changed. His mother was lying in the bath, still breathing - just -
and blood ran slowly from her wrist.

    Mark
grabbed a hand towel and wrapped it around the wound on her right arm, then
stuck his hand into the pink gruel in which she lay and pulled out her other
wrist. That too was cut and Mark hastily wrapped a towel around it, knotting it
tightly. He didn't know if he was doing the right thing or the wrong thing, but
at least he was doing something. Something to help.

    He
looked at his watch, its face stained with blood, and reckoned it was three
minutes since he'd called 999. Three minutes that might have been three years,
so slowly was time passing. 'Come on,' he said again, squeezing his mother in
his arms.

    And
then, just as he did hear the klaxon getting closer, she opened her eyes and
looked straight into his.

    'Blue
eyes,' she said. 'Such beautiful blue eyes… Mark, promise me you'll take care
of everything…' She stiffened, he heard a rattle in the back of her throat and
she closed her eyes for the last time. He felt her spirit leave with her last
exhalation of breath, and she died in his arms.

    'Mum,'
he cried, not believing what he saw. 'Mum! Don't go. Oh, Christ, why did you do
it?' He let her body drop and walked up and down the bathroom floor, trailing
blood and water in his wake.

    He
raised his arms and lowered, his head. 'Why?' he kept saying. 'Why? Why? Why?'
He wanted to cry but no tears came. He stamped and wailed and beat his arms on
his head, but still no tears came.

    The
ambulance men arrived, a minute or so late, thundering up the stairs, shouting
as they came. But they were too late.

    The
paramedics did their best to revive Susan Thomas, but to no avail. Mark went
with her in the ambulance, but it was hopeless, and they turned off their siren
for the trip to Kings College Hospital.

    An
hour later, Mark was sitting outside the Accident and Emergency department in
his damp, bloodstained clothes when John Jenner, Chas and Hazel arrived.