Guns Of Brixton (67 page)

    'You
remember the pub we went to one night after driving around that estate?'
'Yeah.'

    'Meet
me there, day after tomorrow, at noon.'

    'I'll
be there.'

    'And
tell no one.'

    'Course
not.'

    'See
you then.'

    'See
you.'

    And
Mark hung up. Two days later, at precisely twelve o'clock, Chas entered the pub
he and Mark had visited after looking for Beretta's flat. It was even more
dingy than it had been that time, and just a few customers braved the gloorp.
The place smelled of cigarettes, badly cooked food and despair. Not exactly the
place you'd ask for a chilled Vichy water with a slice of lemon. He looked
around but recognised nobody. He went to the bar and ordered a pint of bitter
then sat down at a table. In one corner sat a man with a deep tan; his head was
shaved almost to the bone, and he wore a beard and dark glasses despite the
semi-darkness of the bar. As Chas looked at him, the man rose and walked over.
'Don't you say hello to old friends?' he said, taking the chair opposite.

    'Christ,'
said Chas. 'Mark? Is that you?'

    'Sure
is,' said Mark Farrow, taking off his shades to reveal a pair of dark brown
eyes.

    "What
have you done? I didn't recognise you. Your eyes…?'

    'Contacts,'
replied Mark. 'Took me weeks to get used to them.'

    'And
the beard. You look older…'

    'I
feel bloody older,' said Mark, searching for a packet of cigarettes.

    'Where
have you been?'

    'All
over the place. Portugal mostly. Down by the sea. I rented a little place.'

    'So
what are you doing back here?'

    'Jimmy
Hunter's out.'

    'Mark.
You should forget about him.'

    'I
know. But I can't. He killed my father. If it hadn't been for that, my mother
might still be alive. He fucked up my family. Then there was Linda. Him being
who he was screwed that too. And I know… I probably would never have met her
otherwise. But everywhere I go and everything I do leads back to that bastard.
Remember that night in the scrap yard?'

    'With
Bobby Thomas?'

    Mark
nodded.

    'How
can I forget?'

    'I
did the right thing that night. But all I could think of as I killed Thomas was
that I wished it was Hunter. And now he's on the out. Free and clear. Well, he
won't be if I've got anything to do with it.'

    'I
understand, son.'

    'Good.
What are you doing?'

    'What
can I do? I'm a fat old man. I sit and watch TV, cook, and sit around as
Martine falls apart.' 'Will you help me?'

    'What
can I do?'

    'Come
on, Chas. You were one of the best enforcers in the business. You aren't that
old and fat that you've forgotten that.'

    Chas
shook his head. 'I miss him, Mark. John, I mean.'

    'Course
you do. So do I. And Hazel, and you and Martine. I miss you all. My life's
shit, Chas. I'm a wanted man wherever I go. I've been lucky so far, but my
luck's bound to run out sooner or later. But first I want that fucker dead.'

    'So?'

    'So
he's webbed up with Danny Butler. Remember him?'

    'Vicious
bastard.'

    'Butler's
putting together a little firm to do some sort of robbery. It's all on the QT
at the moment, but I've got someone on the inside. Someone who owes me.'

    'And?'

    'And
my inside man tells me Butler put together that job in Brixton where my dad got
killed. So he was as much a part of it as Hunter. I intend to fuck up their
little scheme and fuck up Butler and Hunter into the bargain.'

    'Christ,
but you're taking a risk.'

    Mark
shrugged. 'So what? I've got nothing going for me. I'm tired, Chas. I don't
care what happens to me now. Everything I touch turns to shit.'

    Chas
said nothing.

    'So
will you help?' asked the younger man.

    'If I
can.'

    'Good.
Got a mobile?'

    Chas
nodded again.

    'Gimme
the number.'

    Chas did
as he was asked and Mark drank up. 'I'm off now, but I'll be in touch.'

    'Take
care.'

    'I
will. I'm used to that. And remember, not a word to a soul.'

    Chas
nodded and watched as Mark walked out of bar. Christ, what memories had come
flooding back at seeing that young man. Billy Farrow, Susan, Thomas, Hazel,
John Jenner and all the boys they'd ganged up with. Nearly all gone now.

    But
mostly he thought of Hazel.

    He'd
never admitted to anyone how much he'd loved her. Really loved her, in a
romantic way. Chas had never had much to do with women before he met her, and
truth to tell, hardly anything after. It hurt him to admit that he was a one
woman man, and that woman had fallen in love with and married his best friend,
who was also his boss. Bit of a sickener, he thought as he sat in front of his
glass in a dismal pub in Brixton. But that was the truth. The impossible dream.
Like the song. Just like the song, in fact. To love, pure and chaste, from
afar. What a mug. But the day she'd blown into his life, invited round for tea
by his sister Pam, was the day he'd fallen in love for the first and, as it
turned out, the only time.

    The
girls had been in school uniform. Blazers, white blouses with striped ties, gym
slips and black stockings. But Pam and Hazel had adapted their uniforms to the
latest fashions. The shirts were tight over their young breasts and their gym
slips were so short that there was the occasional glimpse of white flesh above
their stocking tops. Dressed like something out of a blue film, they were a
dirty old man's dream. Or a dirty young one, for that matter. Pam's dark hair
was tied in two pigtails, but Hazel's lush red mane cascaded down her back in
Renaissance curls. The second Chas saw her, he was smitten, and when she smiled
her crooked smile, he was hers for life.

    That
day Chas's mum gave the girls a blocking for their appearance, obviously a
regular thing, but they just giggled, and Hazel winked at Chas and he thought
his luck was in. Hazel had appeared on the scene since Chas had done his time
in borstal, and she was obviously fascinated that her mate's brother was a
'jailbird', as she called it. Chas would never have taken that from anyone
else, but he would've crawled over broken glass to listen to her say it.

    She
was a regular visitor to the house and Chas somehow always managed to be around
when she was there. Eventually he plucked up courage to ask her to go with him
to the Bali Hai one evening for a drink. Of course, Pam had to come too, but
Chas didn't care. Just to be in Hazel's company for an evening was like a dream
come true.

    But
of course, his dreams were dashed when he saw the way she and John Jenner
looked at each other that first time. He knew he'd witnessed two people falling
in love.

    It
took Chas some time to stop resenting the pair of them and their obvious
happiness. But, almost despite himself, he was happy for her. So to stay close
and protect his one true love, he teamed up with Jenner, and soon found himself
practically loving the man too. Not in that way, of course. But as a friend,
and eventually as one of the family. And so he'd stayed. And now, another
adopted member of Chas's family needed help. And help he would get.

    Eventually
Chas left the pub and drove home. For the first time since Jenner's death, he
had a small smile on his face.

    Meanwhile,
Mark Farrow was making his plans. He sat in a room in a small hotel on the
southern outskirts of London and called Gerry Goldstein on the phone. 'I'm
back,' he said. 'I'm not sure if that's good news or bad.' 'Who for?' 'Pick a
number.' 'So what's happening?' 'Not on the phone.'

    'Fair
enough. We need a reunion, Gerry.' 'It seems to be a time for reunions.'
'Doesn't it just.' 'Not here.'

    'Fair
enough. Where?' asked Mark.

    'I'm
doing a bit of selling down in Hastings tomorrow. How about there?'

    'Seems
OK. I used to like going to Hastings. Where and when?'

    'I'll
be done by noon. There's a pub in the old town. The Jenny Lind. We could meet
there for a drink.'

    'Twelve
thirty suit you?'

    'That's
fine.'

    'I
might even buy you lunch, Gerry. For old time's sake.'

    'I
don't know if I'll have much of an appetite.'

    'I
will. The sea air always brings it out in me.'

    'Fine.
Whatever you say. I'll see you then.'

    'You
will.' And they both hung up.

    Mark
made the drive down to the coast in just under two hours. He didn't rush. He
didn't want anyone looking too closely at the paperwork on the Ford Explorer he
was driving. Or at his personal paperwork, which was in the name of Steve
Sawyer. He'd picked them up in Gibraltar, a month or so previously. The man
who'd sold him the job lot had guaranteed their authenticity, but Mark had
heard similar stories before and stuck to the speed limit all the way.

    He
left the truck in a municipal car park and strolled through the warm spring air
like a man without a trouble in the world. He found the pub just before twelve
and ordered a small lager, sat at a table with a view of the street outside and
lit a cigarette. The season was well under way, the town filling with holiday
makers, and he didn't expect any trouble. Not from the cops, anyway. Gerry
Goldstein might be a different matter…

    At
twelve thirty, on the dot, he saw the rotund jeweller puffing down the road
towards the pub. Mark smiled. He wanted him off balance. Goldstein pushed
through the door and stood inside, scoping the place.

    'It's
me, Gerry,' said Mark, getting up from his chair.

    'Christ,'
said Goldstein. 'What have you done to yourself?'

    'Funny
how everyone asks me that. A strict regime.'

    'And
your hair. A bit drastic, isn't it?'

    'I
thought shaved heads were all the rage. Want a drink?' 'Does a baby love the
tit?' 'I'll take that for a yes. What'll you have?' 'A large brandy.' 'You
driving, Gerry?'

    'I'll
worry about that, if you don't mind. I need one.' Mark fetched him a drink and
they sat together at the table. 'Successful morning?' asked Mark. 'So far.'

    'Good.
Let's hope it carries on that way. Cheers.'

    'Cheers,'
said Goldstein, sucking down half his drink. 'So what do you want this time?'

    'I
want to be in on the job that you and Butler are setting up.' 'Are you kidding
me?' 'I don't kid any more.' 'With Hunter?' 'Why not?'

    'Because
of who you are.'

    'He
wouldn't know me from a hole in the ground.' 'He might guess.'

    'Why?'
asked Mark removing his sunglasses. 'Jesus,' said Goldstein. 'What happened to
your eyes?' 'Just a couple of bits of plastic. Would you recognise me? You
didn't when you walked in. And nor did Chas.' 'He knows you're here?' 'Of
course.' 'And who else?'

    'That's
it. Chas won't talk. He's got the closest mouth in south London. It had to be
that way, working for John.' 'And he knows what you're up to?' 'Some.'

    'And
how do I get you in?'

    'Use
your loaf, Gerry. You're famed for it.'

    'I
don't like it.'

    'Think
of the alternative. I know all about you, Gerry. I know the people you've
stitched up. You know I do. And some of them are still around. Want me to make a
few calls?'

    'No,'
said Goldstein, sweat breaking out on his face. 'That wouldn't be a wise move.'

    'Not
for you maybe, but for me '