Authors: Mark Timlin
'OK,
OK, I'll do what I can.'
'I
think you'd better do more than that. I think you'd better row me in.' 'Oh,
Christ. If Butler finds out…' 'Then don't let him.'
'And
you know what Hunter did in New Addington?' 'You sure that was him?'
'It
was him, all right. Butler used it as a test. An initiation, if you like. See
if he still had the balls he used to have.' 'And he did.'
'He
certainly bloody did. Lunatic. And it cost Butler nothing.' 'Dirty deeds done
cheap.' 'If you like.'
'But
what about the torn he nicked? I bet he tries to sell them on to you.' 'Those
fucking watches. I wouldn't touch them with a barge pole. Well, not for a year
or so anyway.' 'You're priceless, Gerry.'
Goldstein
sat there fiddling with his glass as Mark smoked a cigarette. 'Fancy lunch?'
Mark asked at length, stubbing the butt out in the ashtray. 'There's a little
French restaurant over the road. Looks OK.' 'I'm not hungry. I'd better get
back to town.' 'Please yourself.'
Goldstein
drained his glass and got up to leave. 'I'll be in touch,' he said.
'The
sooner the better, Gerry.'
'As
soon as I've got something to say.'
'Fair
enough. Now, you take it easy. I wouldn't want to lose you. And you've still
got the tape of Hunter round your place?'
Goldstein
nodded.
'I'll
be round to see it soon. I want to know what he looks like these days.'
Goldstein
said nothing, just nodded and walked out into the sunshine.
Mark
sat in the pub for another few minutes, then finished his drink too and decided
to try the restaurant anyway. He was used to eating alone.
On
the other hand, Jimmy Hunter wasn't used to eating on his tod. He'd spent too
many meal times in the company of anything from a dozen to a hundred other
diners. But he was beginning to know what it was like. He was no chef and ate
out two or three times a day. Not French cuisine very often, but Brixton and
its environs now hosted scores of eateries. Everything from the McDonald's on
the site where his last attempt at armed robbery had gone so badly wrong, right
up to restaurants where he didn't really know which cutlery to use. In prison
it had been easy. A plastic knife, fork and spoon had covered every culinary
eventuality.
So
the waiting began. Butler had told him he'd be contacted when he was needed,
but meanwhile, time hung heavy.
He'd
kept the piece of paper that Butler had given him with Linda and Sean's address
on it. And the same day that Mark Farrow and Gerry Goldstein met in Hastings,
he plucked up courage to take a train down to Croydon. For, although Jimmy was
a hard man and had worried little about slaughtering the Smiths in New
Addington, just the thought of seeing his son and daughter, now grown up, and
the chance of getting a glimpse of his grandchildren, turned his bowels to
water.
It
was early afternoon when he stepped down from the train at East Croydon
station. The weather was fine and Jimmy was wearing his replacement leather
jacket and dark cotton trousers. He bought an early edition
Standard
from a vendor outside the station, and when he asked about the address, the man
told him which bus to catch, and where to get off. Ironically, the bus's final
destination was New Addington itself, which Jimmy took as an omen, but whether
good or bad, he wasn't sure.
The
journey took only a few minutes and Jimmy was the only passenger to alight at the
stop. He locked round and saw that the road he was searching for was just
opposite where he stood. He lit a cigarette with trembling fingers, crossed the
street and entered it. It was typical suburbia, tree lined and quiet in the
afternoon sun. The houses were large and set back behind gated walls with paved
or pebble-covered drives that cut through neat front gardens filled with spring
flowers. The perfect place to bring up children safely, he supposed.
Jimmy
contrasted it with the tiny house he'd bought in Stockwell, and where he'd
lived with Marje and the kids before his last arrest. He walked on slowly until
he came to the house he was searching for, with a four wheel drive truck parked
by the front door. He knew better than to stop. There were plenty of lace
curtains and blinds at the windows of the houses. He knew from bitter past
experience that, in areas such as this, prying eyes were always on the lookout
for suspicious characters. So he walked on until he came to the entrance to a
small park, empty at that hour in school time, where he sat on a bench, lit
another cigarette and looked at his paper without taking in a word written on
it.
He
knew he was mad to come. A waste of time. But he'd.been drawn there as surely
as if he'd been programmed. Which in a way he had been. He finished his
cigarette, dogged it out with the toe of his boot and wearily stood up. Go
home, he thought. Just go bloody home. So he retraced his footsteps, head down.
He passed the house on the other side just as the front door opened and,
Christ, it couldn't be… A woman, the spitting image of his late wife Marjorie
came out, carrying an infant in her arms. Jimmy just couldn't believe his eyes
and he stopped dead in his tracks, his heart beating like he was going for a coronary,
and his legs - as cheap novelists always put it - turning to jelly. It was
Marje, but it wasn't. It had to be Linda, and the little girl she was buckling
into the child seat in the back of the motor had to be Daisy. His
granddaughter.
Jimmy
forced himself to cross the road slowly, his eyes devouring the sight. Once
finished with Daisy, the woman climbed behind the wheel and started the engine.
Jimmy kept going and she let him cross in front of her as she stopped the
vehicle at the gates. She looked at him without recognition and he smiled and
waved a thank you, and she smiled back, and Jimmy almost died with happiness.
Linda's
truck moved into the street and stopped briefly at the end, before turning left
and vanishing from Jimmy's sight. She must be going to pick the boy up from
school, he thought, and he walked back to the main road, looking for the stop
for his bus back to East Croydon, as oblivious to the Ford Explorer that
followed Linda's car as the bearded driver of it was oblivious to him.
When
he'd finished his lunch, Mark Farrow had decided to return to Wandsworth via
Croydon. It wasn't much out of his way, and he had nothing else to do until
Gerry Goldstein came back to him. He'd let his Ford drift through the town
until it reached Linda's road. It was stupid, he knew, but when he saw her car
in the drive he stopped around the corner, in sight of the house, and smoked a
cigarette. I'll just wait a minute, he thought, as a middle-aged man in a
leather jacket crossed the road in front of him. He could have ploughed him
into the tarmac without scratching the paintwork, if only he'd known who it
was.
The
man approached Linda's house as she came out and Mark saw through eyes that
teared up as he recognised her, that she was just as beautiful as he
remembered, if slightly thinner. She put Daisy in the back of the vehicle and
drove out, allowing the middle-aged man to walk slowly in front of her and
acknowledge her with a wave before she drove off. Mark followed Linda, but knew
it was pointless, and he peeled off before she got to Luke's school, and headed
home.
Jimmy
headed home too, his brain reeling. He couldn't settle, his apartment feeling
as confined as any of the cells he'd lived in. So he decided we was going to
call up the tart, Jane, and see if she was up for a night out. The next day,
just before noon, he called the number on the card she'd given him. She took a
while to answer, and sounded disorientated when she did. 'Did I wake you?' he
asked.
'What
time is it?'
'Twelve.'
'Noon?'
'Yes.'
'Then
you did.'
'Sorry.'
'No
problem. Who am I speaking to?' 'Jimmy. From the Russell. Remember?' 'Jimmy. I
thought you'd lost my number.' 'No. I've been busy.' 'Too busy for me?'
'Just
trying to sort things out. You know how it is.' 'I do. So what can I do for
you?' 'I wondered if you fancy going out?' he said.
'Not
staying in?' She was waking up now and being coquettish. Jimmy liked that.
'Well,
later on, you know…' 'I do.'
'So
are you up for it?' 'Like a date?' 'Sort of.'
'But
not a freebie.' 'Of course not.' 'When?' 'Tonight.'
'You
are eager. Let me look in my book.'
She
was gone for a moment. 'Well,' she said when she came back. 'I could manage to
fit you in.' Then she laughed. 'If you know what I mean.' 'I know,' he replied.
'So what did you have in mind?' 'Dinner. Then maybe some music and back home.'
'Not my home.' 'I've got a place now.' 'Where?' 'Brixton.' 'I like Brixton.'
'Do you?'
'Yes.
I used to live there myself.'
'Where
do you live now?'
'Marble
Arch.'
'Posh.'
'I've
got a friend who helps out… But I shouldn't be telling you things like that.'
'Could
you get to Brixton?' asked Jimmy. 'I'll spring for a cab.'
'I've
got a car, Jimmy. Lots of girls drive these days.'
He
laughed. 'You're a cheeky cow.'
'Aren't
I just. But you love it.'
He
had to admit he did. 'What's your favourite food?'
'I
don't mind. As long as there's a tablecloth and they serve champagne. Just like
last time. Remember?'
'How
could I forget? Why do you think I called?'
'So
where should we meet?'
'You
know the Ritzy cinema?'
'Yes.'
'Outside
at eight. I'll book a table somewhere. How much?'
'For
the night. The same as last time. Is that a problem?'
'No.'
'So
eight it is.'
And
eight it was, as Jimmy stood outside the cinema close to the centre of Brixton,
kitty corner from the damn McDonald's, and he watched as the punters shuffled
in for the last shows of the evening. Then a shiny little dark-coloured car
skidded round from the main road, he saw a blonde head inside and the driver
tooted the horn. Jimmy smiled, feeling almost like a normal bloke meeting his
bird for food and sex. Of course he had to pay, but at least he knew what he
was getting at the end of the evening.
Jimmy
walked around to the passenger door and climbed into the tiny front seat.
Inside, the car smelled strongly of perfume. Jane grinned as she greeted him.
'Where to, Jimmy?' she asked.
'Acre
Lane,' he replied. 'Tablecloths and champagne a speciality of the house.'
She
leaned over and kissed him briefly on the cheek, before chucking the motor into
gear and taking off with a screech of rubber. 'Got any drugs, Jimmy?' she asked
as she joined the main road again.
'No.
Sorry.'
'I
thought everyone in Brixton was at it,' she said. 'Good job I have. I always
come prepared. But it's extra, I'm afraid.'
'No
problem.'
'You
must be doing well.'
'Not
too bad.'
'If
you pay me before we go inside, I'll be like your girlfriend, won't I?'
'That's
just what I was thinking.' Jimmy coughed up the dough, including an extra fifty
for the glassine packet of coke that Jane had hidden behind the passenger seat
sun visor. Jimmy tucked it away in his wallet, and she took his arm as they
entered the latest high class restaurant to try its luck on the mean streets of
south London. But not as mean as they used to be, thought Jimmy, as they sat
down.
The
meal cost him an arm and a leg, and included two bottles of bubbly at eighty
notes a throw, but with Butler's heist on the horizon, Jimmy couldn't have
cared less. 'Live for the day' had been his motto since he'd come out, and Jane
looked to be worth every penny in her scarlet mini dress, cut low front and
back and held up only by two spaghetti straps that proved to all and sundry
that not only wasn't she wearing a bra, but that she didn't need one.
When
they were on the cappuccino, brandy and cigarettes, Jane asked: 'Did you get a
flat or a house?'