Authors: Mark Timlin
Mark
nodded once more. He knew better than most.
'John
comes back to the pub and gives me the thumbs up and so I get me and Martin
another drink and John goes off. So now I don't know what's happening, but I managed
to put it together later from what him and Hazel tell me.
'He
goes up to the house where the paint's all peeling off the front and there's
garbage strewn about outside. Now you've got to remember that him and Hazel are
living together in this little flat in Streatham at the time. We've made some
dough but it always seemed to vanish, so we're not loaded like maybe ten or
fifteen years later, when we hit the big time. We're just monkeys really. A bit
of dealing, some protection, nicking motors. We were young, Mark, and we wanted
to have a good time. But this flat they've got, fair play to 'em. They kept it
nice. Buying bits and pieces here and there, and Hazel always was house proud,
nutty bird or no nutty bird. But this place is a tip. For all their money and
education they treat it like shit. Dirty old furniture, posters and bits of
hangings on the walls. No carpet, just painted floorboards, and apparently this
don't make John's mood no better. And there's some crap Indian music on the
stereo, Ravi Wanker or whatever. And what makes it even worse, is, when he
steams in, Hazel's sitting on some hippie's lap with his tongue in her ear. Now
they were always doing that. Copping off with someone just to make the other
jealous. It was like a game, but woe betide anyone who got involved because
they both had quick tempers and a predilection for violence. Good word that,
"predilection". Got it in a crossword years ago.'
Mark
smiled. He loved these stories. He looked through the tinted glass of the truck
and watched the sun go down over west London. Notting Hill, he thought. What he
wouldn't have given to be there that summer of love afternoon with John Jenner
and Hazel in full flow.
'Now,
like I said,' Chas went on. 'These fuckers were posh. All got the accents, know
what I mean? And when John turns up, the bloke whose dad owns the house decides
to call John "Cockney Boy". Bad mistake. Fellah starts putting on the
old mockney. Thinks he's a bit of a comedian apparently. Telling John he'd been
to Hackney and Dalston which of course cuts no ice as, being from south of the
river, John couldn't care less. But he swallows all the old bollocks, because
what he's really interested in is what these cunts are holding and how he's
going to part them from it. So he makes enquiries, and these fuckers turn out
to be the real deal. They've got LSD, hash, coke, smack, grass, uppers,
downers, the whole nine yards. And plenty of it. It's like Boots the bleedin'
chemist in that gaff, and of course, being connected - the right hon this and
the right hon that - they think they're magic, like I said. Above the law.
Which they probably were. But not our law.
'So
this geezer, the comic - little fat cunt with Lennon glasses and some kind of
fucking Afro hairstyle - starts showing off. Mug, like I said. He don't know
John from Adam. Just, like, "Joe sent me", on the dog and you're in.
I think they learnt their lesson that day. So the geezer shows John the kit in
a big trunk and John shows him a big wad of cash and everyone's getting on
amazing. 'Specially this cunt with Hazel on his knee. Good looking boy he was
too, 'cos you've got to remember, I turn up later and see the lot of them. Not
as good looking as John, mind. He looked really well that day. Long, black
hair. This big white shirt tucked into real tight jeans. John wouldn't wear
flares, said they was only for hippies. And big biker boots. Looked like a
fuckin' pirate, he did. And he's got a Colt.45 automatic that he bought off
some black GI down the Flamingo under his shirt, and a huge hunting knife, with
a blade as big as a butcher's cleaver, down his right boot. This knife, I tell
you what, it scared the shit out of me. One side of the blade was like a saw,
the other was sharp, and it had a wicked point. Anyway, apparently Hazel's
wriggling about in this bloke's lap and John's shaking like a leaf with anger.
The Afro bloke notices and makes some remark and John tells him he's got to get
well, which makes some other fucker pull out a wrap of smack and the works and
they start fixing up. Hot spoon, the whole bit. See, there was loads of people
there.- Like I told you, this place is massive, and there's hippies in every
room, like rats in a nest.
'Anyway,
John's waiting for me to make my call and he has to watch Hazel showing out,
and eventually he can't stand any more and says "Pull your dress down
love, I can see what you had for breakfast."
'"I
haven't had my breakfast," she pipes back, and this bloody hippie she's
crawling all over says: "No? Well you can eat my sausage any time you
like."
'Which
just makes things worse, and about then it starts to go pear-shaped. But before
John can do anything, I make my phone call which sort of cools the situation
off a bit, but not for long. Anyway, Afro answers, I give the code and he
invites me up. I say I've got someone with me. And the geezer says, "The
more the merrier." Twat. Well I'm round there in less time than it takes
to tell, with old Martin. Me, I'm dressed up to the nines too. Granny Takes A
Trip jacket. Pinstripe flares. Nice shirt. But poor old Martin. He never could
get anything to fit, being the size he was. So he looks like a great big
schoolboy in grey flannels and an old denim shirt he'd found somewhere. So of
course these fucking hippies start taking the rise. And them always on about
peace and love and all that shit. Pisstaking fuckers.
J
And some other
bird's arrived on the scene too.
Probably
got woken up with all the excitement. Tasty she was too. \ Black hair, all done
in them curls like in the old photos. She wearing this white dress and nothing
underneath, You can see her bush when she walked. Black as ink.'
'A
natural brunette,' said Mark. '
'Something
like that. Blimey, Mark, it was like Sodom and Gomorrah: in there, what with
this bloke with a needle in his arm and half-naked birds everywhere. Anyway,
this other bird susses out that John's holding folding and fancies her chances.
So she goes up and whispers something
!
in his ear which none of the
rest of us can hear, but you didn't have to have a great imagination to work it
out. She was up for a shag with; Johnny and no mistake. Well, Hazel can dish it
out but she's not too happy about getting it back, so she gets off this
geezer's lap and walks right up i to the bird and smacks her one on the nose.
Breaks it. You could hear the crack clear to the Bayswater road, I reckon. And
so suddenly there's snot and claret all over the white dress and Hazel says:
'Leave him alone, bitch, j He's mine.'
Course
this causes a commotion as the hippies don't know what the
:
fuck's
going on. John decides it's time to take charge of the situation and pulls out
the Colt. Well, there's another little
geezer in the room all curled up
in the corner like the Dormouse in
Alice In Wonderland.
Little
fair
-
haired bloke. Poofy. Know what I mean? Like he doesn't know what
he
is, a boy or a girl. But fuck me if he doesn't sit up and he's got a gun
too. But it ain't real. This kid's been akip and thinks we're playing games.
Cowboys and Indians or something. Must've been trippin'. You can tell this
gun's a fake a mile off. A little kid's toy shooter. Cap gun. But John isn't
amused at all. It's just one mistake after another they're making. Compounding
their felonies, if you know what I mean. So John walks over to this kid, grabs
the toy and slams him right in the gob with it. More claret, and I reckon that
bloke will've been a regular customer at his dentist ever since, as he's
spitting teeth all over the floor.
'That's
when the shit really hit the fan. Afro literally pisses himself. Oh yes. He's
wearing these faded denims and suddenly there's a big stain in the crotch.
Fucking little prick. So I grabs him by this bunch of hair and puts him on the
floor and John turns to the hippie who had his tongue in Hazel's ear and he
points the Colt at him. "What was that about a sausage?" he says and
this geezer just about turns green. Anyway, I can see big trouble coming and,
not wanting to leave any dead bodies about, I says to John, "Where's the
gear?" and he tells me and I get Martin to grab hold of it and then to
John, "Let's go then. We've got the loot," or something like that.
And so he sort of hesitates and takes the knife out of his boot and puts it
right by the hippie's eye and says, "You mess about with my bird again and
I'll stick this right through your brain, understand?" And the hippie nods
and John says, "I think an apology's in order," and of course, this
geezer does as he's told and I'm going: "Come on, mate, let's split,"
because of all these fucking people about. John tugs the phone out of the wall
and lobs it through the window, but unfortunately it's not open so there's
breaking glass and all sorts going on and John, well, he just laughs and fires
a couple of rounds into the ceiling just for badness. Hazel grabs the other
tart by the hair and tells her she's lucky to still have any, as the last bird
who tried it on with John, she shaved her head and she might just be back with
an open razor. Martin's
still
standing there with this great big box that weighs a ton, and we split out the
door and all into the motor and away. Just another day in the life, if you know
what I mean.'
'Fantastic,'
said Mark.
'Poor
old Martin, he saved my life a few years later. He died for me and I was always
a bit narky with him. You just never know, do you?'
'No,
you don't,' said Mark, and then he saw a black BMW come cruising down the
street. 'Well, look who's here,' he said.
As
the car passed them, Mark jumped out of the Explorer and loped after it.
Despite the warm, dry evening, he was wearing a light mackintosh, and gloves.
In the mac pocket was a large, shapeless hat and his shades, which he put on as
he went, plus a Glock.45 automatic loaded with hollow points and fitted with a
short, home-made silencer that was probably only good for a couple of shots.
But a couple of shots was all Mark intended using it for. He walked across the
tarmac as Lee left the BMW. 'Hey, Toby,' he shouted as he went.
'What
you doing here?' asked Lee.
'Change
of plan,' said Mark.
'What?'
He
took out the pistol and pointed it at Lee's head.
'What
the fuck's the matter?' said Lee.
'Back
to the car,' said Mark.
'What?
What's going on?' but he did as he was told.
Mark used
the spare keyfob to crack the boot. 'Inside.'
'You're
having a laugh, aincha?'
'It's
not funny, Toby.'
'I
don't get it.'
'Wrong
place, wrong time,' said Mark. 'It's nothing personal.'
'I'm
not…' said Lee, and Mark smacked him with the silencer. A red weal appeared,
dripping blood, and Lee went down against the side of the car.
'In
the fucking boot,' said Mark.
That
time Lee crawled into the space illuminated by a tiny bulb.
'Sorry,
mate,' said Mark and fired twice, the explosions making puffing sounds like an
asthmatic on his last legs. The bullets hit Lee in the head
and chest
and he was dead before Mark slammed the boot lid. He collected the two
cartridge cases from the concrete floor and dropped them into his pocket, unscrewed
the silencer and put that in too, to be disposed of later. He got behind the
wheel, started the engine, and drove out of the carpark and followed Chas,
driving the Ford to a cement depot in Newham. "Chas had the key to the
front gate and they parked up close to a conveyor belt that led up to one of
the massive cement mixers. Chas broke the lock on the conveyor belt's motor and
started the machine, sounding like a 747 taking off.
Mark
opened the boot of the BMW and they pulled Lee's body out and manhandled it on
to the belt. Mark went through his pockets, which were empty, apart from the
envelope containing the seven hundred and fifty quid Chas had left in the glove
compartment and another three grand, rolled up tight. 'I told him Lancaster Gate
would win,' said Mark, slipping the cash into his pocket.
With
a crunch of gears, Chas manipulated the levers that started the belt moving,
and Lee's body was transported fifty feet into the air, before dropping into the
cement mixer with a plop. Chas turned off the belt and they left. The Beemer
ended up at Leamouth in flames and Mark dropped Chas off in Tulse Hill before
heading back to his hotel.
Mark
phoned Gerry again the next day. 'Locks like there's a vacancy,' he said.
'Oh
Christ.'
'I
want the job.'
'This
is insane.'