The Faithless (12 page)

Joseph got into the back of his large black BMW. For protection he had a driver and two outriders, one of whom was his right-hand man, Linford Fargas, who had been his number two for over three years now and was the nearest he had to a real friend. The men were well versed in what they had to do this night, and were well armed.

‘Shall I go straight to the depot?’

Joseph nodded almost imperceptibly. ‘Is everything arranged?’

The driver nodded, even the back of his head had an arrogant look to it. Like him, the man was black, dreadlocked, and spoiling for a fight with the white boys. Joseph felt himself relax. He leant forward and pulled a large machete from under the driver’s seat; it would take off a hand or a foot easily, the perfect weapon for incapacitating the enemy. It could also take a man’s head off his shoulders if the blow was powerful enough. A machete was the weapon of choice for most of the Yardies except, in England, unlike Jamaica where it was classed as a work tool like a screwdriver or a pair of pliers, it was illegal to walk along the road with them.

‘You nervous, Joseph?’ asked Linford.

‘Not at all. I feel good about it all. This was needed, even I saw that.’

Linford nodded sagely.

‘Besides, I’m gonna take that fucker out.’

The driver then laughed heartily, saying loudly, ‘A-fucking-men to that! You take the fucker out, boss.’

That caused them to start laughing, but they were all aware it was a nervous laughter. It occurred to Joseph that his men were even more nervous than he was, and he knew he had no choice but to show a true hand to them tonight. Then maybe, just maybe, it might go some way to making them see him as one of them after all. The thought pleased him, and he was glad now
that this was happening; it might be just the thing he needed to ensure his place in this London black boy society. All of the men were well versed in the art of fighting, both with their fists and with weapons. And none of them were in the least frightened of guns – they’d been around them for the best part of their lives.

Joseph realised he had been worrying about nothing – in fact he could already taste his victory as he drove into his depot in Croydon. This was where he kept the majority of his arms, this was where he was safest, because only a few people knew he even owned it. That was another thing; he liked to keep his private dealings private, and that could only hold him in good stead at times like these. Only four people knew about this depot, and they were all in this car.

Linford jumped out and opened the gates, unlocking the huge padlock. Joseph looked around the yard and smiled grimly at its sameness. As they drove in, he saw Linford opening the door of the Portakabin that served as his offices. He had a good bottle of Irish whiskey in there, and he was going to pour himself a large glass before setting off for the festivities.

There was still two hours to the deadline, to the meeting with Jonny Parker that would determine the rest of his life. As he put his foot out of the car, it suddenly occurred to him that neither of his other men had moved, but it was only when he felt a boot shove him in the back and saw the dirt floor of the yard coming up to meet him that he realised something was amiss.

Then Jonny Parker was standing over him with a machete that made his own look like a penknife.

‘Sorry, Joe, but you didn’t honestly think I was going to negotiate, did you?’

The first blow took off the top of Joseph’s head; the other blows were entirely unnecessary, but the brutality of the attack was what made the statement for Jonny Parker. When word got out about Joseph’s demise, and get out it would, he would be
seen in a new and entirely different light, and that is exactly what this whole exercise was about.

Linford Fargas watched the events with a nonchalant air; he prided himself on always backing the winning pony. Truth be told, poor old Joseph had never had a chance. He wasn’t fish nor fowl. Now he was nothing.

Linford went inside the Portakabin and picked up his twenty grand – not bad for a night’s work. If Joseph had used his considerable loaf and paid out over the odds for his loyalty, he might have been in with a chance tonight.

Now, though, Jonny Parker was king of the hill, and there would be no one capable of stopping him for a good few years. It would take that long for a new little crew to grow and develop, but he had a hunch that Jonny P, as he was now known, would still be a match for them. Jonny had what they called back in Jamaica the devil’s want, and he wanted it all. Well, he was welcome to it, and the problems that came with it. Because this first hurdle might be over but he now had to deal with Kevin Bryant, never a man to cross lightly.

But time would tell; by tomorrow night one, or all of them, would be dead. That was Linford’s opinion anyway.

Kevin Bryant heard the news of his business partner’s untimely demise with his usual closed features. His expressionless face was his trademark in his world. He never looked angry, rarely looked pleased and had never in living memory laughed out loud at anything. Hence his nickname, Kevin ‘No Face’ Bryant. He liked the moniker, felt it put him above most of his contemporaries. His countenance, coupled with the fact he never spoke unless it was extremely necessary, only added to his criminal mystique.

His wife Sojin, a thirty-something living doll, told all and sundry that he was a different person at home with her and the kids, that he never stopped talking, but no one actually believed her, much to her chagrin. They thought Sojin was with him because of
who
he was; it never occurred to anyone that she might actually see a different side to him than everyone else. It grieved her that no one saw the ebullient, funny man she loved and adored, because adore him she did. From his size twelve feet, to his balding, endearingly ugly, head.

Kevin’s second-in-command, a tall, frighteningly skinny man called Bertie Warner, was trying desperately to gauge his boss’s reaction to the outrageous news that Joseph Makabele had been hacked to death by Jonny Parker and the Anthill Mob from Brixton.

‘Do you hear me, Kev? They fucking nutted him, he was
chopped up like a fucking Friday night fish! Do you not have any interest in what the fuck I am telling you?’

Shrugging disinterestedly, Kevin said quietly, ‘He’s dead then?’

‘Hello, earth to fucking Kevin! He is dead as a fucking dodo! For fuck’s sake,
Monty Python’s
parrot has more life in it than him! He’s a human fucking paper chase. Get onboard, for fuck’s sake!’

Sometimes Kevin’s attitude could be severely aggravating, and this was one of those times. Their main supplier was now scattered to all corners of the country, loaded into bin bags and dumped like a fucking treasure hunt for the Old Bill, and here was Kevin unconcerned and, to add insult to injury, not even remotely disgruntled about it.

‘He had our protection, Kev, we fucking owe him, and everyone else who thinks we are watching their fucking backs.’

Bertie was realising how this would look to outsiders; everyone, including that cunt Jonny P, knew that Makabele worked ostensibly for them – it was his ticket to the big time. That meant they had to be
seen
to be doing something about it – otherwise they could kiss goodbye to their stranglehold on South London, that much was a fucking definite.

Kevin shrugged nonchalantly once more. ‘And?’

It wasn’t a question, it wasn’t anything. It was annoying that’s what it was. ‘And! Fucking “and”? Is that all you’ve got to fucking say? We are fucking being mugged off like a pair of prize cunts, and all you can say is fucking
and
!’

But Kevin Bryant wasn’t listening to his friend any more; he was already planning his next step, and he knew better than anyone that he had to box very clever. If Jonny P had made it this far then he was armed and extremely dangerous. Obviously he was being protected, and he would have made sure that this little exercise was going to work out in his favour. Anger was a fruitless exercise – not that Bertie would see it that way, of
course. What was needed now was a long, hard, sensible
think,
and he wasn’t going to be able to do that with Bertie wittering on like a fucking old fishwife.

‘Bertie.’

‘What!’

‘Shut the fuck up.’

Bertie did as requested, but he was seething inside. If Jonny Parker was allowed a walk on this kind of calumny then the London they knew and loved would be his for the taking. This was a direct affront to them and everything they had achieved, and if Kevin didn’t strike quickly it would be their turn for the machetes next. Fucking machetes! What was wrong with a common or garden sawn-off? Were these people fucking animals or what? Bertie shook his head in utter disbelief at the skulduggery of some people.

Unlike Bertie, Kevin Bryant knew exactly why the man had been taken out with machetes. This was a statement as well as a killing. It was telling him and everyone else that Jonny P had the black vote of confidence. That meant Brixton, Tulse Hill, Norwood, et al, were happy to be on his payroll. He was carving up the city and, in fairness to him, he was doing it very well. Credit where credit was due, he had worked a fucking blinder, and Kevin Bryant admired a shrewd business head. So few Faces possessed one; most were daydreamers who never saw the big picture, were shocked and outraged when they were taken out by a more superior intelligence. Anyone could get a decent earn – it was keeping the fucker that took the time and the trouble. A good earn was like an unfaithful wife; you loved them, you fucked them, but you kept watch on them twenty-four seven. Otherwise they fucked you over in more ways than one.

But Kevin Bryant wasn’t finished yet; he still a few miles to go on his clock, and when he retaliated, he would retaliate big time. But it had to be perfect, it had to be well planned, it had
to be executed with the minimum of fuss and the maximum of aggravation. He could put on a show as well as the next man, and he was determined to do just that.

Jonny P was euphoric. He had taken out Joseph without any real resistance at all. But that was all well and good – now he had to either take out Bryant completely, or try to negotiate some friendly terms with him, whatever seemed the most viable option.

Personally, he felt it was best to take the man out. Kevin was a loose cannon. He was a hard fuck in his own way, and that was to be taken into consideration. No one
ever
knew what Kevin Bryant was thinking, so it was difficult to negotiate with him. No one played cards with him any more either, he had a legendary poker face. Years ago, Jonny had watched Kevin take a twenty-grand pot on a ten high. He had also been playing those cards with some very naughty boys, the very same bad boys they had both overtaken on their quest for the pavements of their youth.

It was important to run your own neighbourhood. It meant a loyalty that was almost guaranteed, providing, of course, you looked after your own, and they had both done just that. But, whereas Jonny was a likeable fellow, Kevin Bryant wasn’t. Respected, yes, but liked? That was a different kettle of fish altogether. No one approached Kevin, he wasn’t that kind of bloke, whereas Jonny was accosted wherever he went. He always made sure people had a few quid in their bins, and was known for paying for the endless rounds of drinks his hangers-on and supporters expected. He mediated between warring factions, and was known to give out rough justice to the less salubrious
of his neighbours – burglars, nonces, liars and the like. He was a hard taskmaster with his workforce, but paid them well, and they understood he would not, under any circumstances, tolerate bullying, thieving off him or their own and, most importantly of all, he would not countenance slackness in either word or deed. He paid well, and expected the best they could offer him, and he saw to it that he got just that.

But this latest deal he was going after was as audacious as it was dangerous. It could either bring him untold riches, and untold power, or it could mean he was on his last few hours on God’s good earth.

Jonny took a deep breath and exhaled slowly; he had read somewhere that it calmed the nerves and, despite appearances, he was actually as nervous as fuck. He looked up as his new best friend and confidant on this latest scam, Linford, walked into the small office quietly.

‘Any news?’

‘Not a fucking murmur anywhere on the pavements. News has got round, of course – you’re the hero of the hour. No one liked Joseph anyway. But nothing yet from Kevin Bryant and nothing from his mouthpiece Bertie.’

So they were scheming, and that was to be expected. Jonny nodded and sipped at his whiskey. They had paid off the best part of Bryant’s workforce, guaranteed them a bigger and better earn and, more to the point, they had put the fear of Christ up half of London with their antics this night. He had done all that could be done.

He could hear the riotous laughter coming from the pub he owned on the Mile End Road. He was surrounded by his best workmen and his most trusted friends. They were tooled up and ready for anything. All he could do now was wait, and he had a feeling on him that the wait was going to be a short one.

Kevin Bryant was a lot of things, but a mug wasn’t one of them.

Bertie was fast getting the raging hump.

Kevin was so laid back he might as well be in a fucking coma for all the good he was doing at this moment in time. Bertie’s old woman had made more noise in the sack and that was saying something. His Deirdre was a lovely girl, an exemplary mother, and an all-round decent bird, but she wasn’t exactly what you’d call a live-wire in the fuck department.