Authors: Mark Timlin
'I'm
sure you'll reconsider when you've had time to think,' was all he could say.
'I'm
sure I bloody Well won't. I fought the bloody Germans so's you could prance
around in that suit, son. Do you think you can scare me? A spell in the army
would do you lot a power of good. Why they stopped National Service I'll never
know.'
Christ,
thought John, he's just like my old man. Stupid git. But he left it, turned,
and with as much dignity as he could muster, went back to the table and
collected his coat. Without touching any more of their drinks, he and Billy
left.
'Told
you,' said Billy as they walked up to Streatham High Road and went into the
Golden Egg restaurant to get the taste of the beer out of their mouths. 'Bloody
told you, didn't I?'
'A
little local difficulty,' said John quoting something he's heard some politician
or other spouting on the TV a few days before. 'Martin, Wally and Chas'll see
to it.'
'How?'
'I
think it's about time those boys had a night out. A few drinks down the old
Beehive should do the trick.'
Billy
sucked at the straw in his coke. What had started out as a laugh was getting
out of hand. He was tired of all the ducking and diving it involved. A few
weeks earlier he'd seen a documentary on TV about young men joining the police,
and what a good career it was. He'd watched it with interest. It seemed like a
good, reasonably well-paid job, and it was on the right side of the law. Billy
was no fool. He could see this whole gangster business ending in tears, with
all of them in jail. He fancied a try at joining the police, but knew that John
would go mad if he told him. 'Whatever you say,' he said. 'But I don't want any
more trouble.'
'You
like the money though, don't you?' said John.
'I
don't care about the money,' replied Billy. 'You know if my mum finds out what
I've been doing it'll kill her.'
'Mummy's
boy,' said John.
Fuck
me, maybe that's just what I am, thought Billy as he looked miserably out at
the busy street. It was beginning to rain.
John
caught up with Martin in the pie shop the same lunchtime. 'How's it going,
son?' he asked as he took a seat and looked with disgust at the double portions
of everything with liquor that the big man was digging into with his fork and
spoon.
'Mustn't
grumble.'
'Good.
Got a job for you.'
'Yeah?'
'Yeah.
You up for it?'
'What?'
'What
I want you to do.'
'Suppose.'
'Good.'
And he explained in words of one syllable.
When
he'd finished, Martin swallowed some pie and asked with his mouth full: 'Can I
get my gun soon?'
'Soon,'
said John. 'Just be patient.'
The
next evening, Friday, around eight-thirty pm, Wally, Chas and Martin walked
into the Beehive, bought drinks and sat down. The pub wasn't much busier than
it had been the previous morning. An old boy in a raincoat and trilby sat at the
bar next to the cat who apparently hadn't moved in a day and a half. The barman
had been joined by a slatternly looking woman who might have been his wife or
might not. At the bar sat two men in their late twenties who'd missed the
Swinging Sixties and who still dressed in the remnants of the Teddy boy gear of
their youth. To Wally and Chas they looked like something out of the Middle
Ages. Martin didn't have much dress sense. In the far corner, an ancient woman
nursed a port and lemon which she sucked through a mouthful of gum with few
teeth.
'Could
do with some music in here,' said Wally.
'That
could be the next thing,' said Chas. 'Jukeboxes. Lots of money in jukeboxes.'
'Mm,'
replied Wally. 'Good idea. Have you told John?'
'First
things first. Let's get us a few pubs under our belts before we expand.'
'Yeah.'
'Let's
go then,' said Chas, picking up his pint jug and lobbing it at the few bottles
on optic behind the bar.
The
jug smashed a bottle of whiskey and went on to shatter the old fashioned mirror
behind it. 'Yeah!' screamed Chas, as he picked up the table and hurled it at
the man in the raincoat, who, agility belying his looks, ducked out of sight
behind the counter as the cat fled.
'Oi!'
shouted the publican, but by then the three boys were hurling chairs and tables
everywhere. The two bar staff retreated through a doorway, slamming it behind
them. Only the old girl with the port and lemon stayed still as Wally went
behind the bar, rung up the till and took the few pounds inside it. Martin
ripped a chair apart and demolished the glasses and bottles behind the counter.
The two teds looked at the size of him and slunk out by the front door. A
couple of faces peered in from the public and snug but didn't interfere. When the
saloon bar looked as if a war had been fought in it and stank of spilled
spirits, the trio fled, diving into Wally's van and losing themselves in the
back streets of Streatham. 'Fuckin' hell, but that was great,' said Wally as
they sped along. 'I could do that every night.'
'You
might have to,' said Chas. 'Now where we going?'
'Pictures,'
said Martin. 'John promised. There's a new Elvis on up at the Palace.'
'Jesus,'
said Chas. 'I tell you what, we'll give you the ticket money and drop you off.
I fancy a club. How about you, Wol?'
'I'm
up for it.'
So
that was what they did, giving Martin enough for a seat in the balcony and an
ice cream in the interval. Two, in fact.
The
next morning John and Billy turned up at the Beehive just as a uniformed
constable was leaving. 'This could be fun,' said John as they walked into the
remains of the saloon bar. Broken tables and chairs were piled up in one
corner, the optics were empty and tape had been stuck over the mirror. The
publican was mopping up the far side of the bar. 'We're closed,' he growled
without looking up.
'Blimey,'
said John. 'Had an accident?'
The
publican turned his head and John saw a light come on behind his eyes as he
recognised him. 'Oh, it's you,' he said.
'That's
right, it's us. Looks like you had a spot of bother. Now what did I say?'
The
publican didn't reply as John picked up the broken back of a chair, regarded it
and dropped it on to the floor again. 'I've got some mates who could help you
get straight like I told you,' he said.
'I
might've met them last night.'
'Don't
know what you're talking about,' said John with a straight face. 'Now, what
about that insurance we were talking about?'
'That's
down to the brewery.'
'No
it's not. It's down to you.'
'The
police have been here.'
'And
gone. Now that's where we come in. See, the cops have lots of places to look
after, but we give personal service. This would never have happened if you'd
listened the other day.'
'I'll…'
said the publicans.
'No,
mate,' said John. 'You won't. You'll pay us what we want and we'll take care of
everything for you. Won't we, Billy?'
Billy
nodded.
'How
much?'
'For
a special introductory period,' said John enjoying every moment. 'A mere tenner
a week. Blimey, it's bargain.'
'And
what do I get?'
'Protection
my friend. Protection from yobbos breaking up the place. We're just a phone
call away,' and John took out one of the cards he'd had specially printed. On
it was written 'SECURITY FORCE' in capital letters plus the number of the phone
he'd had installed at his new flat. 'Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a
week. What could be fairer?'
'I
don't know…'
'Come
on, son, cough up,' said John. 'You wouldn't want this to happen again, would
you?'
The
publican shook his head, no mention this time of the Germans or his part in
their downfall, which had in any case consisted of being in the catering corps
stationed at Aldershot for the duration.
'In
advance,' said John. The publican took out a battered wallet from his pocket
and counted out ten one pound notes.
'Cheers,'
said John pocketing the cash. 'And you must have mates in the trade.'
The
man nodded.
'Put
the word around, we're looking to expand.'
Once
outside, John Jenner put the money in his pocket and grinned at Billy.'Easy,'
he said. 'What did I tell you?'
'A
lousy tenner,' said Billy. 'Not much is it?'
'Look
around, son,' said John, encompassing the whole of Streatham with a sweep of
his arm. 'Today, the Beehive, tomorrow the world. This is just the start. Once
word gets around, we'll be laughing. Now come on,
I'll
buy you a Wimpy. We're in the money, son.'
'I
don't really know,' said Martine in answer to Mark's question. 'Long before my time.
I wasn't even born or thought of.' 'Exciting, though,' said Mark, finishing his
beer. 'Oh yes,' said Martine. 'You eaten?' Mark shook his head.
'There's
a decent Indian just round the corner. Fancy a curry?' 'I don't mind.'
'Your
enthusiasm is overwhelming.'
They
left the bar and walked the short distance to the restaurant Martine had
recommended. Once inside the warm, spice-scented room they were shown to a
table at the back and Martine asked for beer and popadoms. When they were alone,
Mark asked: 'Why did you show me those places tonight?'
'A
history lesson, like I said. Thought you might be interested in where it all
started, now you're taking over.' 'Who said I was?'
'It's
obvious. Dad always wanted you to be the boss when he stepped down.'
'Boss
of not much,' said Mark and watched as Martine lit a cigarette. 'A few old men
past their prime.' 'There's more to it than that.' 'Like what?'
'I'll
let Dad tell you that.'
'Thanks.'
'No
problem.'
The
waiter bought their drinks, the popadoms and the mixed pickles. They'd had time
to study the menu and they ordered their main courses.
Once
the waiter had left, Martine stubbed out her cigarette and dug in. 'I envy
you,' she said. 'Why?'
'Being
a bloke.'
'It's
not all it's cracked up to be.' 'So you say.'
'Martine,
I don't know what's annoying you, but if it's me, just say so.'
'Forget
it,' she said.
'OK.'
When
they'd finished the popadoms and the plates had been removed, Martine lit
another cigarette. 'Want to sleep with me tonight?' she asked through a
mouthful of smoke. 'What did you say?' said Mark. 'You heard.'
'Jesus,
Martine, but you're full of surprises.'
'Look
who my parents were,' she replied with a grin. 'Am I frightening you?' 'No.'
'Bet
I am. So?' 'So what?'
'Don't
piss about, Mark. Do you fancy it?' 'With your dad upstairs? No.' 'It'll be
more fun that way.' 'I said no.'
'Is
it because of Linda?' 'It's nothing to do with her.'
'Course
it is.' Mark could see she was beginning to get angry as the volume of her
voice rose. 'Why do you want to sleep with her again? She's had a couple of
kids, hasn't she? You fancy stretch marks, do you?' 'Keep your voice down,'
said Mark. 'Don't tell me what to do.'
The
other diners were beginning to notice their argument as Martine got even
louder. 'Just calm down,' said Mark.
'Bollocks
to calm down,' she shouted as the waiter arrived with a trolley loaded with
food which he began to set out on their table.