Guns Of Brixton (57 page)

    'Which
means until you get involved in some other bloody villainy and end up going
away.'

    'I
haven't gone away yet.'

    'But
you will. And I'll be left living in one room with two children.'

    'I
don't think it'll come down to one room, Linda,' he said. 'I think we can do
better than that for ourselves.'

    'We'll
never know, because I'm not coming.'

    'If
you can't come now, you could follow me later,' he said with one last try.

    'No,
Mark. And if you don't go now I'm going to tell Sean you're here. He's up in
his flat.'

    He
laughed then. 'Running to big brother, eh? Grassing me up. I don't think so.
Not after all we've been to each other,' he said and shook his head. 'OK,
Linda. Fair enough. But don't say I didn't ask this time.'

    'I
won't,' she said. 'Goodbye, Mark.'

    'Goodbye,'
he replied, turned on his heel and crunched across the wet drive and back into
the Range Rover, not caring if Sean saw him or not. He sat for a moment, deep
in thought. He'd only loved five women in his life and none of them were here
for him now. His mum and Hazel were dead, Lan was God knows where, and Linda
and Martine, for different reasons, didn't want to know him. That's the way it
goes, he thought, switching on the engine, pointing the nose of Range Rover
south towards the sea and what lay beyond. He put his foot down.

    'But
I'll be back,' he said aloud. 'Count on it.'

    But
if he could have seen through the walls into Linda's house - where she stood in
the hallway, head bowed, one hand on the bannister rail for support - he would
have seen the tears running unchecked down her face at the thought of losing
him… again.

    On
the morning that Jimmy Hunter was released from Brixton Prison, there was no
welcoming committee. No bells and whistles. No streamers, balloons and bunting
hanging from the trees. Not even that old staple of a million films and TV
shows, the best mate waiting in a flash car with a bottle of champagne, cigars,
a change of clothes and two horny tarts up for anything. Jimmy didn't have a
best mate. Or any mate, for that matter.

    He walked
down the long road from the prison gate to Brixton Hill in the early morning
light. Under one arm was a brown paper parcel, and in his pocket, £27.86. He
walked alone. Other prisoners had been released that sunny, spring morning, but
he left them to it as they met with friends and loved ones. He was soon
standing alone on the corner, watching the rush hour traffic moving towards
central London.

    And
that traffic. It hadn't been like this the last time he'd driven through London
as a free man. Even the buses had changed - apart from the occasional, ancient
Routemaster. Oh yes, he remembered them all right, and the part the traditional
London double-decker had played in his downfall. Now, most buses seemed to be
big, smog-spewing driver-only vehicles with their doors shut tight. He waited
for a break in the traffic, crossed over and cut through the back streets, away
from the crowded main road. If truth be told, although he would never have
admitted it, the busy thoroughfares scared him slightly, used as he was to
being alone for most of the day in his cell. Being a local boy, he'd known
those streets like the back of his hand, and he remembered them well, although
they had changed too. Instead of the rooming houses, crumbling bedsits and drug
dealer's cribs that were once there, they'd been smartened up. Gentrified, was
the word he recalled from countless newspaper articles he'd re whilst inside.

    Jimmy
had kept up. To do otherwise would have been to ossify, and he'd had no
intention of doing that. So he'd spent as much time as possible in the library
devouring the daily papers. Not the tabloids, but the broadsheets that he'd
never had the time for before. He knew what had been happening in society
whilst he'd been away, and that scared him too - though once again, he'd never
own up to it. So he shook his head as he walked, puffing on a tailor-made
cigarette bought with what seemed like a terrifyingly large chunk of his
available cash from the first newsagent he'd come to.

    Eventually
he sat on the wall of a council estate and took stock. He'd served his sentence
in full, but as a convicted murderer he was still on licence. Fat chance! He
had with him the address of a hostel and the time of an appointment with a
parole officer at an office in Streatham. Bugger that, he thought. He was in
the wind and meant to stay there. He was free. He smiled, though he felt as if
his face would crack, finished the cigarette down to the filter and tossed it
into the gutter, along with the paper with the addresses, torn into tiny
pieces.

    I
wonder if I could get nicked for littering? he thought and laughed out loud. So
loud, in fact, that several passersby looked at him sideways.

    He
started to pick up his parcel, then stopped to think again. He looked. around until
he saw a skip outside a house, strode over and tossed his bundle inside. There
was nothing of meaning or value to him in it. Just a reminder of twenty wasted
years.

    So
Jimmy Hunter, alone now with just what he stood up in, was ready to take on the
world. And the first thing he needed was a bloody good drink and somebody to
share it with. And for that he'd need some cash and he knew exactly where to
get it… or, at least, he hoped he did.

    Even
before that he needed a bite to eat. He'd forgone the delicacies of a prison
breakfast before he was released, just taking a mug of dishwater tea. A couple
of streets away he found a dingy cafe. At least greasies hadn't changed, he
thought as he entered. He ordered a full English with double egg and a mug of
tea and took a seat in a quiet corner.

    The
food tasted like ambrosia after what he'd been eating for two decades. He
scoffed the lot, lit another cigarette and sat back satisfied. This is the
life, he thought, and his stomach clenched more from regret at what he'd wasted
than from the gourmet breakfast, which, once again, seemed to be ten times more
expensive than he remembered.

    He
left the cafe and caught sight of himself in the window as he passed. The suit
he was wearing, the same one that he'd bought for the trial, with its wide
lapels and slight flare to the trousers, looked ridiculous compared with the
sharp fashions the Brixton men were wearing that morning. It's gotta go, he
thought. Got to get some new threads. With this thought in mind he caught a bus
for the City where he hoped an old friend still had his business.

    Gerry
Goldstein, another old mod, wasn't so much a friend as an accomplice in various
nefarious goings on before Jimmy had been captured for the last time. He ran a
diamond import/export company in Hatton Garden and was as known for his early
hours as much as he was for his expertise in the jewellery business. Not to
mention other endeavours that netted him sums that neither his accountant nor
the Inland Revenue were aware of.

    Jimmy
hopped from bus to bus to get to the centre of town. There was no rush and he
wanted to get a taste of London as it now was. It was amazing what had changed
and what had remained the same, and, as he sat on the top deck of each vehicle,
he was stunned at some of the things he saw. Of course, he'd seen photographs
of the way London had expanded upwards and outwards over the years, but no
photo could do justice to the shiny new buildings that passed in front of his
eyes as he made the journey.

    The
City in particular was like nothing he remembered. The new bars and
restaurants, the way pubs had strange new names. And the birds. Christ, he
thought, as he sat next to beautiful, fragrant young women on their way to
work, they're gorgeous. In fact, several times he had to pull his jacket over
his lap to hide the erection that had arrived unbidden.

    Eventually
he reached High Holborn and disembarked. The old Daily

    Mirror
Building had gone, and whatever had been opposite it had been replaced by a
brand new skyscraper. The red brick of the Prudential building still stood at
the side of Leather Lane and he turned into it and on towards Hatton Garden.

    Goldstein's
shop was one of the things that hadn't changed, and Jimmy smiled inwardly as he
saw its familiar facade. I hope the fucker isn't brown bread, he thought as he
approached. Inside a dim light burned, but there was a CLOSED sign on the glass
door.

    Jimmy
rapped hard on the glass with his knuckles. Nothing. Then again and, from the
twilight at the back of the shop, a rotund figure emerged. Jimmy peered in.
Could this rather overweight gentleman be the. same Gerry Goldstein who'd
danced the night away to the sounds of Tamla Motown in clubs from Kensington to
Kensal Rise all those years ago? But the sharp eyes that peered back were the
same. The figure tapped his watch as if to say 'Too early, come back later',
but Jimmy shook his head.

    Impatiently
the figure pointed at the sign showing the hours of business were from nine to
three on that particular day of the week.

    Jimmy
shook his head again and the figure pointed again. This time to the entry phone
next to the door. Jimmy nodded and pushed the button. The figure moved away and
a moment later a voice that could have been anyone's emerged from the speaker.
'We're closed,' it said. 'Come back after nine.'

    'Is
that you, Gerry?' said Jimmy.

    'Yes.'

    'Christ,
but you've changed.'

    'Who's
this?' demanded the voice, and even the poor reception couldn't disguise the
suspicion in it.

    'Jimmy
Hunter. Remember me?'

    The
voice was silent for a long time before saying: 'Jimmy? I don't believe it.'

    'Believe
it. Now open up, mate, you've got something that belongs to me.'

    Goldstein
approached the door and Jimmy heard the sound of multiple locks and chains
being undone before it swung inwards and Goldstein beckoned him in. 'Christ,
Jimmy, I wouldn't have known you.'

    'Or
me you,' said Jimmy as the door closed behind him and the gloom deepened.

    There
were no handshakes or hugs. No questions about where he'd been or what he'd
been doing. Gerry knew precisely where he'd been because he had been sitting in
court at the Bailey when Jimmy had been sentenced. Jimmy had caught his eye before
being taken down and a small nod had passed between the two of them.

    But
that had been twenty years before, and things and people changed. Not just the
appearances of two men now firmly in middle age, but other things too. Loyalty,
for instance. 'Why didn't you let me know you were coming out?' asked
Goldstein.

    'Couldn't
you work it out for yourself?'

    'I
suppose so. But time flies, and…'

    'And
out of sight, out of mind. Right?' said Jimmy.

    'I'm
sorry, Jimmy,' said Goldstein. 'But we always said we'd have no communication.
I just thought that as your time came to an end…'

    'Have
you still got it?' asked Jimmy. He didn't need small talk from Gerry, just what
he was owed. 'What do you think?' Gerry replied. 'Come through, the kettle's
on.'

    They
went through the shop into Gerry's office at the back, which itself seemed the
same to Jimmy as the last time he'd dropped by. Only the computer and other
electronic gadgetry on the desk beside the tiny, filthy barred window was new.
Jimmy looked at the bars and didn't like what he saw. It reminded him too much
of his recent accommodation. No more bars, he thought. Only those that serve
booze. He smiled at the thought and Gerry asked, 'Something funny?'

    'No.
I'm just glad you're still here.'

    'They've
tried to move me a thousand times,' replied the jeweller. 'But I've got a firm
lease.'

    'I'm
pleased to hear it. I've been moved a few times myself.'

    'So I
heard. How are you anyway?'

    'Older,
wiser, poorer. But then I hope you can help me with that.'

    Goldstein
smiled like an old granpappy about to produce a present for his favourite
offspring. 'Maybe I can,' he said.

    'I
hope there's no maybe about it.'

    'Of
course not. But you understand I've had some expenses.'

    Jimmy
looked round the dingy office. 'Expenses. Like what, you old skinflint?'

    'Careful
now, Jimmy.'