Two Faced (Harry Tyler Book 2) (4 page)

Ronnie’s appreciative audience roared. ‘He asked me once if he could borrow my new Merc. He had this seventeen-year-old bit of stray on the firm and wanted to give it Billy Big Potatoes. So he’s taken it out, wined it and dined it – I had to tell him what to order. Next day, he’s brought the motor back looking all forlorn. Topped up he’s ended up in the fields at the top of her road, in the back seat of my motor, and he’s thought, “I’ve gotta sniff it first,” so he gets down there and she had the littlest panties he’d ever chewed on. He only went and swallowed ’em! He had constipation for three days, and when he give her one he said her eyes went like Nookie Bear!’

Potman exploded.

‘He must have gone on top then,’ observed Noodles.

‘So how come he thinks he’s got AIDS?’ asked Harry.

‘He’s getting funny old dizzy spells and all the fellas in his local are winding him up saying it’s the first sign. ’Cos they know he’s covered in tattoos – he’s got a spider on his bell-end with a cobweb over his nuts, and on his arse he’s got a bulldog on each cheek with a snake disappearing down the old brass eye. So now they’re asking questions about how clean is the tattooist, is it dirty needles? Bottomless insists the fella is pukka and all the needles are sterilised. So they say if it ain’t a dirty needle it must be poofery, he’s obviously been lifting the shirt, and he gets the right hump about that. But they keep on and on about it until finally he says, “Hang on, I give the old lady one up the back every now and then, does that count?”’

Harry and Potman were crying with laughter, even Noodles was doubled up. Ronnie slumped back in his bed, beaming.

As the chuckles ebbed away, he looked at the Hell’s Angels anxiously.

‘Thanks for helping us the other day, lads. Did you get any repercussions?’

‘Nah,’ said Potman. ‘They didn’t know who we are. I don’t think Southall registers on the old North London radar.’

‘You never did tell me what your problem was.’

‘We are being burglarised,’ said Noodles, indignantly. ‘Us!’

‘We noticed a month ago that all the nice mag wheels from the scrap motors were going missing,’ said Potman. ‘Some cunt was having us over.’

‘So we had CCTV camera installised and started recording everything on a Betamax video in the hut,’ Noodles went on.

‘Days passed and nothing on film,’ said Potman.

‘Nix.’

‘So we decided we needed to hole up in the yard ourselves overnight, and we wanted a few more bodies as back-up, ’cos as you know it’s a big yard, not like your little toy-town hovel.’

‘Thanks, lads,’ said Ronnie sarcastically. ‘But surely you’ve got back-up over your way?’

‘Yeah,’ said Potman. ‘But we can’t turn to someone like the Marley brothers, ’cos odds-on they’re the stinking arse-wipes with the sticky fingers.’

‘The Marleys, I know it’s the Marleys,’ Noodles said grimly. ‘Of all the impertinosity.’

‘Well,’ said Ron. ‘I’d like to help you fellas, but as you can see I’m a little tied up.’

He paused. ‘Harry, on the other hand, could be just the job. Take the boy! I insist! He’s got fuck all else to do, and he won’t wanna work at Valley Metals with my brother Alf running the place while I’m in here. Miserable as a rat in a tar barrel, that bastard is.’

Potman looked at Harry. ‘What do you say, son?’

‘Why the fuck not?’

September, 1986. Potman was showing Harry Tyler around the scrapyard he ran with Noodles near Southall in Middlesex. It was similar to Valley Metals but on a much larger scale. There were mountains of scrap in all directions, old fridges, clapped-out washing machines and row after row of cars, yesterday’s dream chariots now a wretched detritus of road crashes and abandoned vehicles. There were twisted wrecks and rusting hulks with dented bonnets and shattered windscreens as far as Harry could see in every direction.

‘See what I mean?’ said Potman. ‘The place is too big for two people to cover.’

It had rained overnight but the sun was shining now, leaving little puddles of gasoline rainbows, littered with discarded dog-ends.

Harry looked up at the sun.

‘Quite an Indian summer,’ he said.

Potman grunted. ‘Well, there’s enough of ’em round here.’

The big man was dwarfed by two leaning towers of car tyres as bald as Duncan Goodhew.

‘Yahoo, it’s me.’ A girl’s voice rang out.

Harry looked over to see an attractive teenager dressed like a refugee from the Isle of Wight Festival: long floral dress, silver boots, huge hooped earrings, round John Lennon specs, an abundance of beads and wrists covered in cheap bracelets. She had a funny upturned nose and her freckled face peered out through a ruffled haystack of curling auburn hair.

‘Eggy.’ Potman grinned. ‘Say hello to Harry Tyler, he’s one of us. H, meet the company secretary.’

Harry went to peck her cheek and the girl kissed him full on the lips, slipping a tongue mischievously into his mouth. That surprised him.

Harry drew back and took a better look at her. Beneath the flower-child rags, Eggy was a fit bird. She had dancing doe eyes, a playful smile and two small, pert breasts with nipples that stood proudly to attention under her dress. She wore no bra.

Potman laughed. ‘Come on H, I’ll show you the rest.’

The rest I would like to see, Harry thought, but he kept that to himself as the big man gave him a guided tour of his empire. The Angels’ office was the shocker. It made Ronnie Clavin’s look organised. The carpet was filthy with spilt alcohol, blood, dog-ends and gear burns. Fungus was growing on the yellow walls. The bin had long overflowed. Dozens of empty beer bottles lay around it like corpses on a battlefield. The desk was lined with half-empty takeaway containers.

Harry tried to hide his revulsion.

‘If you think this is bad, son,’ Potman said solemnly, ‘don’t use the khazi.’

After work, Harry joined the Angels in their local, the Red House. He had expected to find a pub full of head-banging rockers with more dandruff than brain cells but it was one of those real ale places with a mixed if mainly masculine clientele. Only a jukebox packed with boisterous rock anthems betrayed a less orthodox presence. Harry skimmed through the titles: ‘Up Around The Bend’ – Creedence Clearwater Revival; ‘Radar Love’ – Golden Earring; ‘Sylvia’ – Focus; ‘Centerfold’ – J. Geils Band; ‘Crazy Train’ – Ozzy Osbourne; ‘Bomber’ – Motörhead; ‘The Joker’ – Steve Miller; ‘The Trooper’ – Iron Maiden; ‘Jump’ – Van Halen; ‘Born To Be Wild’ – Steppenwolf; ‘Smoke On The Water’ – Deep Purple; ‘Jailbreak’ and ‘The Boys Are Back In Town’ – Thin Lizzy; ‘In A Broken Dream’ – Python Lee Jackson; ‘Living After Midnight’– Judas Priest; ‘Wishing Well’– Free; ‘Wheels Of Steel’ – Saxon; ‘Voodoo Chile’ – Jimi Hendrix; ‘Tumbling Dice’ – The Rolling Stones; ‘Rock ’n’ Roll Outlaw’ – Rose Tattoo; ‘Paranoid’ – Black Sabbath; ‘Urban Guerrilla’– Hawkwind; ‘The Boston Tea Party’– Sensational Alex Harvey Band; about ten Elvis hits; and bang in the middle, sticking out like a porn star’s appendage, ‘Deck Of Cards’ by Wink Martindale.

It was ten years since punk but, aside from ‘Golden Brown’ by The Stranglers, the new wave had yet to gob and maul its way into this god-forsaken corner of Middlesex. The most recent song on there was ‘Kayleigh’ by Marillion.

‘Nothing tickle your fancy, Harry?’ Noodles asked.

‘I’m more Millican and Nesbitt, me, mate,’ he lied with a smile. ‘No, a bit of Paul Weller would have done. I’m not a rocker, mate. Don’t mind Lizzy, but some of their lyrics were a bit daft. I mean, “Tonight there’s gonna be a jailbreak, somewhere in this town”; thanks boys, I wonder where that could be. Possibly the JAIL?’

‘Don’t let Potman hear you say that.’

‘Eh?’

The big man loomed up behind him, half of a newspaper in his hand.

‘Sort the bog paper out in that khazi, Eric,’ he boomed at the old fella behind the bar. ‘I’ve just lost Jonathan King’s Bizarre column wiping me arse.’

‘Best use for it,’ muttered the barman.

Noodles smiled wanly. ‘Here, show Harry yer Phil Lynott,’ he said.

Potman rolled up his left sleeve to reveal a tattooed portrait of the Lizzy singer across his biceps.

‘Class,’ Harry said. He studied Potman’s arm for some terrible indication of adolescent foolishness, like ‘Bay City Rollers Forever’ but, apart from a baffling reference to Dumpy’s Rusty Nuts, all he could see was a menagerie of swallows, eagles, mad dogs, axe-wielding vikings and the like.

‘Now show him Adolf,’ said Noodles with a grin.

Ah, now this surely was a tattoo from the teenage regrets section of his collection.

‘Not in here,’ Potman grunted. There were two pints of Guinness and cider waiting for him and he downed the first in one gulp.

‘Here,’ he said. ‘According to the
Sun
…’

‘Scabs!’ shouted Noodles.

‘Bollocks, no, listen. According to this, after wearing their pants for a day, the French turn them inside out and put ’em back on. They wear them inside out.’

‘The dirty bastards,’ said Harry. ‘You mean, they don’t wear them for a week and then chuck ’em in the washing like we do?’

Potman grinned. ‘Where do you hide your money to keep it safe in a French hotel?’ he asked.

Harry knew the gag but played along.

‘Dunno.’

‘Under the soap.’

Harry smiled.

‘You’re from over East, aren’t you Harry?’ asked Noodles, who was quietly rolling a spliff. ‘Ian Dury country.’

‘Sure am.’

‘What did your father do to earn a crust?’

‘Docker.’

‘A good law-abiding citizen?’

‘No, mate, I said docker, not doctor.’

All three laughed.

‘This a private party?’ asked Eggy, who had materialised alongside them. ‘Get us some pop, Pops,’ she said to Noodles.

Harry tried not to react as Eggy sat beside him and shuffled up so close their hips could have been magnetised.

‘You shouldn’t read that paper,’ she scolded Potman.

‘Bollocks.’

‘I’ve been to Wapping.’

‘Hanging out with all the silly Lefties,’ the Angel grunted. ‘Save the whale, ban the bomb, hug a tree, up with poofs and Paks, down with the Union Jack … a bunch of soap-dodging, 2CV-driving layabouts. I’d roll over the lot of ’em in a Panzer.’

‘I can see why you’ve got a Hitler tattoo, mate,’ Harry grinned.

‘No, it’s not political,’ Potman began. ‘It’s just …’

‘Do you fancy coming to the pictures tonight, Harry?’ Eggy interrupted, pressing into him even tighter. ‘Instead of hanging out here with Southall’s answer to the Oxford Union?’

‘I’d love to, angel face, but we’ve got business here.’

‘Your loss.’

Eggy moved away sulkily and when Noodles came back with a vodka and orange she stood up, drained it and waved goodbye.

‘See you later?’ Harry said, trying not to sound too interested.

‘Maybe, maybe not. Depends if anything more exciting happens, like a traffic light failure or a blocked sewer in the High Street. Ciao.’

And with that she was gone.

‘She’s a handful, that girl.’ Potman smiled. ‘I told your Eileen she shouldn’t drop acid while she was pregnant.’

Noodles just scowled. ‘Ciao,’ he said. ‘Don’t you hate ciao?’

‘I could do with some,’ said Harry. ‘Fish and chips, gents, on me?’

‘Fuck off,’ growled Potman. ‘You’re helping us out so the grub is on us, and besides we’ve got proper traditional English restaurants round here. What will it be, H, Chinkie or the curry house?’

It was 11.30pm when they arrived back at the scrapyard. Not drunk, but buzzing nicely on a mix of adrenalin and alcohol. Noodles laid out a fine array of weaponry on his office table: baseball bats, pickaxe handles, machetes, Ninja throwing stars, survival knives and lengths of thick, strong chain.

‘Take whichever implement suits you best, my friend,’ he said.

Then the three holed up in different parts of the yard to wait for the thieves to strike. Harry sat stooped on the back seat of a doomed Cortina, a baseball bat in his hand. Minutes turned to hours and nothing happened until he heard the side door open to his left. He turned swiftly, his fist in a ball ready to strike. It was Eggy. She pressed a finger to his lips and tucked in beside him.

They chatted in whispers about everything and nothing. Periodically her left hand brushed the top of Harry’s thigh and he hardened. Eggy noticed, laughed and traced the outline of his erection through his jeans with her fingernail.

‘I just went and saw
9½ Weeks,’
she said. ‘I was so turned on in there you could hear me sloshing.’

‘You talk like a geezer.’

There was a note of disapproval in Harry’s voice.

‘Do I feel like a geezer?’ Eggy took his right hand and clamped it on her left breast.

‘Do you want to?’ he asked hopefully.

She smiled coquettishly.

‘You could get your red wings if you like.’

‘Eh?’

Eggy explained the delightful process by which an Angel earned his wings – by performing oral sex on a menstruating woman.

‘Do you mind if I don’t? Not this time at any rate …’

‘How about the Queen Mum?’

Harry looked puzzled. He knew most Cockney rhyming slang, but it took a moment for this disrespectful reference to his favourite Royal to register. He shook his head.

‘No, ta.’

‘I could toss you off if you like.’

‘That will do nicely.’

‘Mirror,’ she said, pouting into the rear-view as she unzipped his fly. ‘Signal …’ She released his erection from the constraints of his briefs and grasped the shaft. ‘Manoeuvre …’

Eric and Geoff Marley came climbing over the scrapyard fence as Harry came over his handkerchief. The brothers separated. Eric, the skinnier man, crouched forward with a torch in his hand and made his way softly towards the Angels’ hut, tools clanking inside his green combat jacket. He paused to admire four mag wheels left nearby to ‘bring the bees to the flowers’. Potman leaped out and slammed a helve straight into his stomach. He doubled up in pain. Then Noodles appeared, looking even more ratlike in the moonlight, and smashed a pole into the back of the terrified thief’s legs. As he went down, the man let out a scream of agony. Geoff Marley heard it and bolted.

‘Leave him,’ said Potman. ‘We’ve got this little prat.’

Harry Tyler was just zipping himself up when he heard the yell. He leaped out of the Cortina and sprinted over to the hut in time to watch the bulky Hell’s Angel pulling his prey across the yard by his hair. Noodles produced a pair of pliers from his army surplus coat. With Potman holding Eric down, Noodles stuck the pliers straight on to the ring finger of the thief’s right hand and closed them tight, crushing the bone. Eric Marley let out an even more tortured scream.

Harry realised then and there that they were going to kill Marley and made an instant decision. He needed to get over the fence and out of the yard so he could phone the Feds without either the Angels or Eggy seeing him. That way, they would assume that Geoff Marley had made the call and he wouldn’t blow his cover. He moved as quickly and quietly as he could. Any sense of diplomacy, any idea of mercy, was way ahead of him.

‘Right, you tosspot,’ Noodles sneered. ‘You are in a world of shit.’

‘Where’s our fucking gear?’ snarled Potman.

The colour had drained out of Eric Marley’s face.

‘What gear? I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Noddles drove a screwdriver straight through the palm of Marley’s left hand. There was a crunch of bone. His blood spurted out like juice from a squeezed lemon. Marley seemed to shrivel up like a salted slug.

Potman leaned forward and said quietly, ‘I’m going to ask you once more, and if I don’t get an answer I will run my blowtorch over your bollocks. Where is our fucking gear?’

A distinctive smell wafted up from the floor.

‘Have you shit yerself, you filthy bastard?’ Potman roared.

‘We can’t have people defecaterating in our yard,’ said Noodles.

‘Look,’ Eric Marley stuttered. ‘I’ll get it back for you, all of it.’

‘Who’s had it?’ said Noodles. ‘We want names.’

The guy spilled the lot. ‘It was Jack Ritchie, up at Wey Hill behind the Sun and Moon.’

‘Thank you,’ said Noodles, before hitting him in the face with a claw hammer. Marley passed out.

‘That Ritchie’s got some coming,’ said Potman. ‘What shall we do with this little prick?’

‘Only one thing for it,’ said Noodles. He turned towards the car shredder. Potman nodded in agreement. ‘Pizza to go,’ he said.

It took the two men just over four minutes to wrap chain around their victim, who was starting to regain consciousness.

‘What are you gonna do to me?’

‘Thanks for the info, chum,’ said Noodles. ‘But now it’s pizza time. You, my friend, could very well be a Hawaiian. I’ll see if I can dig out a tin of pineapples.’

‘What do you mean? What’s happening?’

Noodles pointed to Potman, who was walking up the yard.

‘My amigo is going to fetch his truck, then he will run you over six or seven times. Then I am going to put your miserable remains through the shredder. In the morning all that will be left of you, my friend, is a pint and a half of non-vintage claret on the ground. We’ll give you the last rites with a hose.’

‘Jesus Christ, no …’

‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, if you steal from Hell’s Angels, your arse will get bust.’

Potman turned the key in the ignition just as the police arrived.