Authors: Mark Timlin
'What
did she tell you?' pressed Jenner. 'When you found her?'
'She
told me to take care of everything.'
'So
do it,' said Jenner. 'Do it for her.'
Mark
nodded and stepped outside to find that Chas had knocked Thomas off the chair.
He was lying on the ground squirming against his bonds like a slug in salt.
Mark
walked over to Thomas and turned him over with his foot. 'I remember everything
you did, Bobby,' he said quietly. 'I remember how you spoiled my mum's life.
And mine.'
'No,
Mark,' begged Thomas. 'We had some good times. Going to football. You remember…'
Mark
shook his head. 'We never had one good time, Bobby,' he said. 'From the day you
met her it was all crap. It all went to hell.'
'Please,
Mark…'
Mark
raised the pistol in his fist as if it weighed tons instead of pounds and said:
'How many rounds, Uncle?'
'Nine,'
came the reply.
Mark
smiled and pulled the trigger half back and Thomas crabbed across the concrete
as if he could somehow escape. 'You're not going anywhere, Bobby,' said Mark,
adding a slight pressure with his finger. The gun fired. The first bullet hit
Thomas in the thigh and he screamed. Then Mark pulled the trigger again, and
again, hitting the prone man in his torso and his groin, until finally he blew
half his head off and kept firing until the action blew back and the gun's
magazine was empty. But even then he kept trying to pull the trigger.
'Get
the car,' said Jenner to Chas. 'And start the crusher.'
'He's
going to leak all over the place,' moaned Chas.
'Then
get the fucking hose and sluice it down. Come on, Mark. I'll take you home.
Chas'll bring your motor.' Jenner gently extracted the gun from Mark's hand and
gave it to Chas. 'And make this disappear.'
Chas
nodded and walked from under the roof of the barn to where an ancient, once red
Vauxhall Viva was parked up. He got in, started the engine after a couple of
tries and drove it up next to the crusher.
'Time
for us to go,' said Jenner, leading the younger man to the Jaguar and helping
him into the passenger seat before getting in behind the wheel and driving back
to the gates.
The
last Mark saw of Bobby Thomas was Chas loading him into boot of the red Viva.
Mark
was opening the gates for his uncle's car when he heard crusher start up.
Sitting
in his car, looking up at Linda's living room window, still lit through drawn
curtains, Mark shook his head at his own stupidity as he thought back. Inside
that flat was heaven. The only heaven he'd ever known or wanted. And the chance
of a future with the one woman he'd ever really loved. But he'd turned his back
and walked out, possibly never to return. And for what? To get back to the
killing - and there'd already been too much of it in his life.
He
started the engine and drove off with just one backward look into his rearview
mirror at the tightly closed front door, wondering if he'd ever see her again.
He
drove the short distance to Tulse Hill and slowly drifted his car down the hill
towards John Jenner's house. He quickly saw the gleam of the reflected street
lights on the red cellulose of Tubbs's BMW and its lights flashed once briefly.
Mark
parked behind the Beemer and joined Tubbs in the front.
'What's
the story?' he asked.
'Beretta
called me an hour ago. He'd got ten grand's worth of coke and wants to do a
deal.'
'And
has to be tonight?'
'Right.'
Mark
shook his head wearily. 'Fucked up my evening, I can tell you.'
'Sorry
about that, but I thought you'd want to know.'
'Course
I do. Right, come on, let's go inside and get the cash. You going to be all
right doing this on your own?'
'Gonna
have to be, ain't I?' replied the black man.
'Where's
Eddie?' 'At home. I could've put him in the boot with his sawn-off, but he gets
claustrophobic. And they told me to come alone.'
'They
would. What do you reckon, Tubbs? Are they going to rip you off?'
'They
might try.'
'That's
what worries me. You're going in blind with a lot of money. These fuckers are
mental. They'll kill you soon as look at you.'
'Nice
thought. But they want money. And they've got all that dope to shift. What
they're not sticking up their own hooters. And believe me, they're doing plenty
of that. I reckon this is a try out. See if I can come up with the money sharpish
and if there's more where that came from.'
'I
hope you're right.'
'If
I'm not, I'm in trouble. You got a gun?'
'Several.'
'Good.
Handy?'
'With
the cash.'
'Thank
fuck for that.'
'You've
got to be so careful, Tubbs. How long is it since you used a firearm?'
'Not
since you pissed off. But you never forget.' He paused and Mark saw fear flash
in his eyes. 'Do you?'
'Like
riding a bike. But I hope you don't have to find out. We need to know where the
stuff is being kept. Who else is about. What security they've got and what
they're carrying themselves. It's bound to be heavy duty. These fucking Yardies
judge their manhood by the calibre of their weapons. They're toting fucking
Uzis around London, shooting anything that moves.'
'I
know. I read the papers. Now listen, are we going to do this or sit here all
night?'
'I
like your enthusiasm,' said Mark. 'Come on, we'll go in mine.' They left the
BMW, walked over to Mark's car and he drove the short distance to the gates of
the house. Mark opened them with the remote Chas had given him. The black
Mercedes was parked across the street still, and he could dimly see two shadowy
bodies inside.
'What's
all that in aid of?* asked Tubbs.
'The
fuckers you're going to make a buy off tonight and their mates.'
'Uncle
John was always good at making enemies.'
'You
can say that again.'
They
left the car and crunched across the drive to the front door, which Mark opened
with his key. From behind the living room door he could hear Michael Caine's
voice. 'Come and say hello,' he said, opening the door and pushing Tubbs
inside.
John
Jenner was alone watching
The Italian Job
on DVD. 'You still into this
old crap, John?' said the black man, looking at the screen. 'They don't get
away with it you know.'
'Christ,'
Jenner said when he saw Tubbs. 'The return of Django.' He killed the movie with
the remote.
'Hello,
John,' said Tubbs. 'Long time.'
'Christ,
but it is. Too long,' said Jenner. 'I'd get up Tubbs, but my legs are bad
tonight.'
'I
heard about your troubles,' said Tubbs who went over and shook the older man's
hand. 'I'm sorry.'
'That's
what life's all about,' said Jenner who pulled the big man closer for a clumsy
embrace. 'You look well. I can see you're eating regular.'
'Fried
chicken,' said Tubbs. 'Always been my problem. Now I cook it for a living.'
'But
not for much longer, I hear,' said Jenner. 'You're back in the world.'
'If I
can hack it.'
'That's
why we're here, Uncle,' said Mark. 'Tubbs is off to make a buy. We've come for
the money and a little something to keep him healthy.'
'Buying
back our own gear, it don't seem right.'
'It
wasn't really our gear, Uncle,' said Mark. 'We'd already been paid for it once.
It belonged to your mates at the cash and carry. If you want us to leave it…'
He didn't finish.
'No,'
Jenner almost shouted. 'No,' he said again more quietly. 'Sorry, boys. I'm
upset by the way things are going. So tell me all.'
Mark
quickly filled Jenner in on what had happened during the day and the older man
frowned. 'Dangerous,' he said. 'Bloody dangerous. They'll pop you for ten bob,
Tubbs, let alone ten grand.'
'That's
the chance I've got to take,' the big man said.
'You
going with him, Mark?'
'Not
in his car. He was told to go alone. Besides, they might know me, and even if
they don't, any white face is going to set them off. But I'll be close.'
'Good,'
said Jenner. 'When're you going?'
'Now.
As soon as Mark gives me the money,' said Tubbs.
'Go
on then, son,' Jenner said to Mark. 'I'll keep Tubbs company.'
Mark
left them, went down to the cellar where he made up a parcel of ten thousand
pounds in a plastic supermarket bag and picked out the Browning 9mm he'd
carried himself, checked the clip and took it all back upstairs. 'Here you go,
Tubbs. Now be careful. I'll be about but I don't want to crowd you.'
Tubbs
nodded, looked inside the bag and riffled the notes. 'All here?' he asked.
'Course.
And this bugger's loaded with hollow points,' replied Mark, handing him the
pistol.
Tubbs
dropped the magazine out of the Browning, checked that the chamber was clear,
replaced the clip and racked a round into the breech, weighing the gun in his
massive hand where it looked like a toy. 'Feels good,' he said. Then he took
out his phone, dialled a number and waited for an answer. It was picked up
quickly. 'It's me,' he said. 'I've got what you want.'
He
listened for a moment.
'About
twenty minutes. I'll be there,' he said, then killed the connection. 'It's on.'
'Then
let's go,' said Mark. 'Later, Uncle.'
'I
wish I was going with you. I'd show those spades what for. No offence, Tubbs.'
'None
taken, John.'
'I'll
wait up. We'll have a drink when you get back.'
'Sounds
like a plan,' said Mark, glad he'd said 'when' rather than 'if.
'He
looks bad,' said Tubbs, once they were outside.
'He
is,' was all Mark said.
He dropped
Tubbs off at the BMW and watched as he drove off before following. He knew
where Tubbs was going so he kept well back, the bright colour of his friend's
car being easy to spot even after dark. Tubbs drove up to Streatham High Road,
took a right down Brixton Hill, past the prison where Jimmy Hunter slept the
sleep of the unjust, and along to Brixton Town Hall, opposite where Mark's^
life and so many others had changed all those years before. But he thought of
none of this as he followed his old friend on what could turn out to be the
last drive of his life.
Back
at the house, John Jenner was dozing in front of the TV. He hoped the boys
would be all right. Mark was OK, but he didn't know about Tubbs. He'd been too
long out of the game. They needed an ally. If only his old friend Nick Sharman
was about. He was the kind of bloke they needed. Sharman. Bloody hell, what a
chancer.
Jenner
remembered the first time they'd met. It had been on the recommendation of
John's brief, when he'd been looking for an easy way out of a sticky situation.
In
those days, the early 80s, the pubs shut at three in the afternoon and the
landlord of the Three Dials in Kennington Lane called time on the dot and made
short shrift of the few remaining drinkers, so that by three- fifteen the bar
was empty except for John Jenner, Hazel, Chas and David Lawson, Jenner's
lawyer. On the face of it, Lawson was a pillar of the establishment, with his
handmade shoes and an office in St James's, but deep down he was as bent as they
come. A corrupt and evil man, he hid his dishonesty under suits from Savile Row
and shirts and ties from Jermyn Street. Jenner and Chas were wearing jeans and
leather jackets, and Hazel looked stunning in a black leather suit and black
nylons, her red hair coiled about her shoulders like electric snakes.