Guns Of Brixton (26 page)

    'A
hot spot,' said Mark.

    'What?'

    'Nothing.'

    'Anyway.
We can meet there. I don't know why I'm doing this, Mark.'

    'When?'
he asked. 'Today?'

    'No,
not today. What do you expect me to do? Turn my life around just to suit you?
Oh, of course you do, I've always done it before, haven't I?'

    'Sorry.
Tomorrow?'

    'OK.
Tomorrow afternoon. I'll get the kids sorted. Greta can look after them.'

    Greta,
Mark imagined, was the blonde in the Fiat.

    'What's
the address?' he asked.

    She
told him. Then she finished her tea and got up. 'I'd better get the rest of my
shopping,' she said. 'Though God knows I've lost the mood.'

    'Sorry.'

    'You
keep saying that.'

    'Sorry.'

    She
shook her head and smiled for the first time. 'Goodbye, Mark,' she said. 'Don't
spy on me any more.'

    'OK.'

    'I'll
see you tomorrow.'

    'Tomorrow.
Goodbye, Linda; goodbye, Daisy.' The little girl looked him long and hard and
he swore she lifted her hand to wave.

    Mark
spent the rest of the morning driving the streets, just going nowhere, his
mobile phone switched off. He checked out the address in Balham that Linda had
given him. It was over a shoe shop next to a newsagents, with a green door that
you could easily miss if you didn't know it was there. He looked up at the
windows, blind against the day and imagined Linda and her husband eagerly
discussing the pros and cons of buying, decorating and then letting the place
out. They must have been innocents to keep getting turned over. Or at least
Andy must have been. Mark knew how he would've dealt with reneging tenants. Go
in and give them a bit of a surprise early one morning. Show them exactly what
the terms and conditions of the lease meant. He'd met landlords before who
would string your cat up or poison the goldfish just because the rent was a day
late.

    But
then, maybe it wouldn't be so bad to be innocent. Mark tried to remember what
that was like, but it was too far in his past to register. And maybe that was
what Linda had needed. An innocent to become involved with. A bloke who went to
work every day, came home clean, and whose idea of excitement was a Saturday
night bottle of wine, a video and a beautiful woman to take to bed after. And
he did get the girl, when all was said and done. At the same time Mark was
moving around Europe, doing jobs that were dangerous or stupid or both, working
with unreliable people, just to get money to live.

    At
this thought he started the car and headed towards Streatham. He parked up
behind the six-screen cinema and spent the afternoon trying to forget who he
was in the company of a Tinseltown hero who never had to deal with the
consequences of his actions.

    Mark
got home just as Martine arrived back from work.

    'Haven't
seen much of you lately, handsome,' she said.

    'I've
been about.'

    'I
bet you have. I hear you've been messing around that Linda again.'

    'Is
that right? Who told you?'

    She
just grinned and shook her head. 'Not a good idea, Mark,' she said. 'She was
never the right one for you.'

    'And
you'd know.'

    'Course
I would. I know you better than you think.'

    'Yeah.'

    'What
are you doing?' she asked.

    'When?'

    'Now.'

    'Nothing.'

    'Come
with me. I've got a couple of places to show you. We can have a drink.'

    He
shrugged. He wasn't doing anything, and it might take his mind off Linda. 'OK.
Where are we going?'

    'You'll
see. Come on, it's important. Historically important.'

    He
allowed himself to be led out to Martine's Mini Cooper. She started it up with
a roar and sped out on to the street, through the gates and past the inevitable
parked up Mercedes. She accelerated hard up the hill in the direction of
Streatham, then took a succession of narrow back streets, the blat of the car's
exhaust bouncing off the fronts of the houses. 'Are you going to slow down?'
asked Mark, one hand tight on the handle above the passenger door.

    'Sure.
When I'm dead,' she replied and put the little car into a four- wheel drift at
the next corner, making a white van coming in the same direction mount the
pavement to avoid them. 'Soft, fat fucker!' she screamed as-she took the next
corner on two wheels, sped down the white line, back on to the main road close
to Streatham bus station and pulled up.

    'Christ,'
said Mark, the memory of his recent adventures on four wheels still fresh. 'Who
taught you to drive like that?' 'Chas,' she said.

    'I
might've known. What are we looking at?'

    She
pointed at the building across the road. 'That's the old ice rink,' she said.

    'I do
know that.'

    'Do
you know that's where Dad met Chas and Hazel?'

    'What?
Skating?'

    She
shook her curls and laughed. 'No. Not Dad's speed at all. At the back there was
a place called the Bali Hai. Sort of dance hall, disco, meat market, all done
up like some Polynesian knocking shop. It was where all the likely lads and girls
used to go Friday and Saturday nights back then. Chas had been in borstal for
stealing cars. My dad and your dad were there one night scoping out the girls
when they bumped into Chas. Dad knew him a bit. When he found out he was
looking for a bit of villainy he asked him to join the gang. It was Chas who
suggested that they branched out.'

    'Doing
what?'

    'Have
patience.'

    'And
Hazel?'

    'That's
another funny story. I'll get Chas to tell you. Now, how about that drink?'

    'If
you say so.'

    She
started the engine and roared off, up by Streatham Common and back the way
they'd come, except she suddenly turned off up another side street, drove to
the top, pulled in outside a small bar and killed the engine. 'Come on,' she
said. 'I'm thirsty.'

    'Why
here?' asked Mark.

    'Come
inside and I'll show you.'

    They
got out of the motor and went into the bar. It was warm and quiet with an open
fire in one corner and some moody Blue Note compilation playing on the stereo.
There were a couple of other customers but no one paid attention as they took
stools at the counter. Martine ordered two beers from the boy behind the jump
and once they had them they went and sat by the fire.

    'So?'
said Mark, looking round. 'What's so special about this place?'

    'This
is where it started,' said Martine, taking a sip of her beer straight from the
neck.

    'What
did?'

    'Everything.
This was where Dad started his protection firm.'

    'Here?'

    'Yeah.
It used to be a pub, and it was the first one he got to pay up.'

    'I
thought it was drugs that got him started.'

    'It
was. But the pubs and restaurants paid the wages.'

    'Jesus.
How do you know?'

    'Dad
brought me here on my eighteenth. Showed me what could be done and then took me
and a load of my friends up to Soho for dinner.'

    'Amazing.
I wonder what it was like then.'

    The
first pub John Jenner chose to put Chas's masterplan into action was a
disreputable little boozer at the back of Streatham High Road, in a steep street
full of terraced houses with a few shops at the top. It was called the Beehive
and, like most pubs at that time, had a saloon bar, a public, a snug and a
bottle shop. So small was the building that the three bars and off- sales
seemed to be almost climbing on top of each other for space. The decoration
inside was post war green and brown, the carpet in the saloon had a pattern
that even an archaeologist would have had trouble finding, and the snug and
public's floors were bare wood without a trace of polish. There were open
fireplaces in each of the bars that glowed dimly with smokeless fuel.
Legislation had been brought in to put a stop to the smogs that had killed so
many Londoners over the previous century or so. It was a cheerless place,
flyblown and miserable, and when John and Billy entered one chilly autumn
morning just after the barman had opened the doors, it smelled of stale beer,
old cigarettes and lavatory cleaner.

    'Are
you sure about this?' asked Billy as they sat at a wobbly table on the corner
of the saloon bar. They had ordered two halves of bitter that tasted to both of
them like piss.

    'Sure
I'm sure. Chas did collections for a bloke down Croydon way last year. Pubs,
clubs, restaurants, the lot. They were coining it.'

    'And
Chas must be right,' said Billy. He was getting a bit pissed off with the most
recent recruit to the gang. John was giving too much credence to his ideas. But
the drugs were about all gone, and money was getting tight. John Jenner had
walked out on his job at the primers, rented a flat in Brixton Hill and bought
an old Pontiac convertible that was always breaking down, off a bloke called
Dev.

    Billy
still wasn't working and Wally was getting stroppy. And as for Martin, the
Goon… well, he was just Martin. And although he was good for putting the
frighteners on customers who were disinclined to pay their debts, he was
another drag on their finances, because John had insisted on giving him a
regular-weekly wage. He said it would be worth it in the end, and he was the
boss.

    'So
what happened?' asked Billy.

    'What?'
said John.

    'If
they were coining it, what happened?'

    'He
got nicked for breaking into cars, that's what happened. And got sent to
borstal.' Billy said nothing, just took another sip of his drink and looked at
the old cat sat on the bar, regarding him with rheumy eyes. 'Don't worry,' said
John. 'It'll all work out, you'll see.'

    'But
I do worry.'

    'Too
much, if you ask me.'

    'So
what do we do now?' asked Billy.

    'Watch.'
John got up from his seat and went over to the bar. 'Get much trouble in here?'
he asked the barman.

    'Do
me a favour,' said the man, resting for a moment from putting bottles of tonic
water on a shelf. 'Does it look like it?'

    'Could
be,' said John. 'See, I've got a proposition for you.'

    The
barman turned and leant on the counter. 'What? You a pop group? We've got no
music licence.'

    'No,
no, no,' said John, although it was an interesting idea that he put away for
later. 'See, we're a security firm.'

    'In
that get up?' said the barman. John was wearing a suit from Lord John in
Carnaby Street. A blue pinstripe, with a waisted, tight-sleeved jacket, a pale
blue pin through collar shirt, narrow black knitted tie and Chelsea boots. The
reefer coat he'd been wearing over it had been carefully removed and folded
neatly on to a seat when they'd first come in. That was another thing. Although
money was tight, John insisted that his boys, apart from Martin who could never
get anything to fit right, still dressed in the height of fashion.

    'What's
wrong with it?'

    The
barman shrugged. 'To each his own,' he said. He was wearing baggy flannels, a
collarless, once-white shirt and a cardigan that looked like he used it to mop
the gents.

    'Anyway,'
said John. 'What we do is, for a certain sum each week we make sure you don't
get any trouble.'

    The
barman laughed out loud. 'Sonny,' he said. 'Drink your drink and get yourself
and your mate out of here before I call the law.'

    John
thought for a moment. He knew that he'd meet resistance but hadn't considered
what to do when it arose. We'll burn those bridges when we come to them, he'd
always thought. Well, here was one.