Hearts of Stone (2 page)

3

T
he next day, lunchtime, I got tooled up and went to JJ's for a beer. He was looking a bit green around the gills when I arrived.

‘What's up?' I asked.

‘I've been thinking…' he said.

‘Don't,' I interrupted. ‘You'll give up everything enjoyable if you start that lark.'

It was quiet again, being midweek, and by 3.00 pm we were all alone in the bar, just the two of us. I sat where I'd been sitting the previous day, but angled round so that I could view the street through the big window. My mac was open, hanging down and hiding the Howdah.

It was raining again outside. A slow relentless drizzle like a mountain fog. At three-thirty by the Rolling Rock clock on the wall, the Blazer pulled up outside, its wipers beating a slow tick-tock across the windscreen.

‘Visitors,' I said.

JJ was polishing glasses again.

The same two geezers piled out of the motor and straight in through the door, put up the CLOSED sign and pulled down the blind. Just like before.

‘You still here,' said the black guy to me. ‘You're a glutton for punishment, ain't you?'

‘He's got no home to go to,' said the white guy.

‘Got our money?' said the black guy to JJ.

I slid my left hand inside my coat and pulled the pistol half out of its holster.

‘No,' replied JJ.

‘Cunt,' said the black guy through clenched teeth, and raised his pickaxe handle.

I hauled back the skirt of my coat, pulled the Howdah all the way out of its holster, and pointed it at the black guy's head one-handed. With the other hand I cocked the hammers and felt the two triggers move under my forefinger into firing position. The muzzle was steady, about a foot from his head.

‘Put it down,' I said. ‘Or you're history. There's a bullet in here will take your head right off. Believe me. Your life depends on it.'

The white guy dropped his bat right away, although I wasn't talking to him. The black guy thought about it, hesitated, then did the same.

‘Hands on the bar, both of you,' I said. They obliged.

‘Now empty your pockets, and don't fuck about. You first.' I pointed the gun at the white guy. He took out some cash, notes and change, house keys, a driving licence and a used tissue. ‘Is that all?' I asked.

He nodded.

‘Now you,' I said to the black guy. All he had was a small bundle of banknotes and the keys to the Chevrolet.

‘Count the money,' I said to JJ. He did as he was told. His hands were shaking, but not badly.

‘Thirty-eight pounds sixty,' he said. That wouldn't even buy one sleeve of a new Aquascutum.

I picked up the white guy's driving licence. ‘Yours?' I asked.

He nodded, too.

‘I'm keeping this,' I said. ‘You'll have to report it lost. Now I've got your address, so if anything happens here I'll be round with a few mates. Understood?'

He nodded again.

‘Stay where you are,' I said to them. To JJ: ‘Hold this.' I passed him over the pistol. ‘It's a shell, not shot. Aim for the chest. It'll make a hole big enough to drive your car through. And watch it: the fucker kicks like a mule. I'll be right back.' He looked even greener at that.

I bent down and picked up one of the axe handles. I opened the door and went outside to the Blazer. I smashed the windscreen, all the side windows, the back window, both rear-light clusters, the head and spot lights, and the wing mirrors, and snapped off the radio aerial.

A small crowd gathered at the bus stop to watch, but didn't interfere. The woman from the card shop next to JJ's popped her head out of the door. ‘Insurance job,' I said. ‘I'm the claims adjuster.' I slung the handle through the broken windscreen and went back into the bar and took the gun from JJ.

‘Now fuck off and don't come back,' I said to the two of them. ‘You've picked on the wrong people this time. Learn by your mistakes. If I see you round here again, you'll end up in casualty. You, or Mr Lasky. All right?'

Neither of them said anything.

‘
All right
?' I asked again.

They both nodded and left, and got into the wreck and drove off with the windscreen wipers wiping air.

And that's how I got the job of assistant manager at the Twist & Shout.

4

S
o that was that. I had a job. In a bar. Luxury.

It wasn't hard work. The days were split into early and late shifts. I alternated with JJ, who was restoring a pre-war Harley-Davidson in the lock-up at the back of the bar in his spare time. And, from the bits of oily engine and rusty frame spread around the concrete floor in there, he needed all the spare time he could get.

Early was ten-thirty in the morning to six-thirty in the evening. The bar opened at eleven-thirty, so the first hour was cleaning up after the night before, bottling up, preparing orders and taking in deliveries. Late was six-thirty in the evening until about one the following morning. The bar closed at eleven, except Sundays, just like a regular pub, but it was always murder getting the last of the Billy Bunters out, and then we washed up the glasses and had a final coffee and brandy before shooting off.

It suited me down to the ground. We never heard from the protection boys again, and there was rarely any trouble. The fighters in the area had a couple of pubs to go to where they hosed the blood off the walls every night at closing time, so they didn't bother us much. Besides, I think JJ had told a couple of people about the nasty little toy I'd brought in strapped to my leg that rainy September afternoon, and that helped keep the peace.

JJ's was OK. Friendly, you know. Plenty of people to talk to and newspapers and magazines to read. Good music on the Wurlitzer, good food, good booze, and lots of it. The rest of the bar staff were young good-looking women, which didn't hurt one bit, and some of the female clientele would knock your eye out. But apart from being polite, and occasionally getting into a bit of verbal, I mostly ignored them. The feeling was mutual.

The year ended with a three-week-long piss-up over Christmas and the New Year. I suppose I grinned as much as anyone, and wished the customers the compliments of the season, but I didn't enjoy the holidays one bit. I might even have gone a bit heavy at the Grand Marnier from time to time, when it all got too jolly to bear. But no one was counting. No one cared, to tell you the truth.

I could have had Judith down, I suppose. But to see her for a bit and then lose her again would have been worse than not seeing her at all. So I spoke to her on the phone and sent cards and parcels. She sent me two cards back. She pretended one was from my ex-wife, but I knew better, though I didn't say so. And she sent me a great baseball cap. It's all American up in Aberdeen apparently. It was a real quality one, with an adjustable leather strap at the back, and a picture of an oil rig embroidered on the front. I felt ridiculous wearing it outside, but I'd put it on sometimes when I was in the flat alone. Just so that I felt closer to her. Stupid, I know. I wore it when I ate my Christmas dinner by myself, with just the Queen on the box for company. Not one of my happiest meals. But I survived.

Christmas was followed by the kipper season over January and February, with no one spending much, but we did all right in the bar, even so.

Then winter began to soften into spring as the world turned, until one early morning in March it all came on top again. Just like it always does, sooner or later.

5

I
woke up with the beam of a 1000-candlepower torch in my eyes. It was a sudden awakening. The kind they like. The kind that the Nazis, fascists, the secret men have used since time began. Since our ancestors hid in caves and waited for those with the power of life and death to come for them with flaming brands held high against the dark. It was the kind of awakening that robs you of your manhood. Makes you like a child who wants his mother. Undignified. Scary.

I was naked under the sheet and the duvet. I sat up quickly, and was pushed back hard. I raised my arm to shade my eyes from the light, but someone knocked it away. Then a hand appeared. A hand holding a police warrant card, all neat in a leather folder. A big hand, with bitten-down nails and nicotine stains between the first and second fingers. Detective Inspector Chiltern, it read in the spill of the torch's light.

‘What do you want?' I said rustily.

‘Stay still and shut up,' said a voice. ‘Police. We want to talk.'

Police.
Why?
I thought. My conscience was clear. As clear as it was ever going to be.

‘What do you want?' I said again.

‘We want you. Get up and let's go. Don't mess about.'

‘I've got no clothes on,' I said stupidly.

My dirty shirt and jeans landed on the covers in front of me. I sat up and pulled on the shirt. It stank of the bar. I hate that. I swung my legs out of the bed and pulled on my blue jeans. No underwear. But I was glad of anything to cover me: to get back a vestige of dignity.

I stood up to button the fly. The clock on the table next to me said 3.59. Then it moved silently to 4.00. I'd been in bed less than two hours.

I found my shoes and slipped my bare feet into them. I stood there in the beam of the torch and peered beyond it. Into the blackness made even blacker by its light. ‘What's the big idea?' I demanded. I was beginning to feel a little braver with some clothes on.

The main light in the room was suddenly switched on, and the power of the beam diminished slightly. There were two average-looking blokes standing looking at me. The one by the light switch was six foot or so, with long greasy yellow hair going a bit thin at the front and pulled into a ponytail at the back. He was wearing a brown leather jacket, jeans and cowboy boots, and looked vaguely familiar. His mate with the torch was shorter, older, with thick brown hair and a week's growth of stubble. He was wearing a similar leather, jeans again, and bumper boots. He was the one with the nail-biting habit.

‘Got a warrant?' I said.

Ponytail shrugged. ‘Shit no,' he said. ‘I knew we forgot something in our enthusiasm to get here.'

‘Who are
you
?' I asked.

‘Brady. Detective Sergeant,' replied Ponytail.

‘No ID?' I said.

‘I must have forgotten that too.' He shrugged.

‘Take his word for it,' said Chiltern.

I had no choice.

‘What do you want?' I asked for the third time. Maybe, some day, one of them would answer me.

‘You,' said Chiltern. ‘Come on, let's go.'

‘Go where?' I said.

‘On a magical mystery tour,' said Brady. ‘We're off on the yellow brick road to see the Wizard of Oz.' He giggled and grinned a mad grin, and it occurred to me that there was something badly wrong with him.

‘I'm not going anywhere,' I said.

Chiltern sighed. ‘Why do people always say that?' he asked no one in particular. ‘Listen, Sharman, you're claimed. For the foreseeable future you're the property of the drug squad.'

I looked into Brady's eyes. They stared back as if from another planet. Just what I needed: a couple of undercover cops from the drug squad calling at 4 am. And at least one of them sampling the goods, from the look of him.

‘No,' I said.

‘Brady,' said Chiltern.

Brady pulled out a set of handcuffs. ‘It's this way or the friendly way,' he said. ‘Voice your choice.'

The two policemen were both tough-looking individuals. I was well out of condition. Too much booze and rich food. ‘All right,' I said. ‘But where are we going? I'd like to inform my solicitor.'

‘Solicitor. Listen to him,' said Brady. ‘You're out of the world, son.' He was at least ten years younger than me. ‘Incommunicado. Lost in space.
No
solicitor. You'll be asking for the number of the local Citizens Advice Bureau next. Now, come on and don't fuck about.'

So I went.

There was a Seven Series BMW parked outside the house, with its sidelights on. I was put in the back along with Brady. Chiltern sat in the front, next to the driver. He was another leather-jacketed character who looked like he worked out a lot.

‘Nice wheels,' I said.

‘They suffice,' said Chiltern.

‘Since when has the Met been laying on motors like this for the squad?' I had a horrible feeling I was being taken for a ride in more ways than one.

Chiltern picked up the thought. ‘Don't worry,' he said. ‘We're kosher. It's a perk of the job. Drive on, Ollie.'

The driver nodded and started the engine and put on the main beams. He indicated, glanced over his shoulder, and pulled the car into the deserted street.

We headed north through Herne Hill, Camberwell, and the Elephant. I thought that we were going to cross the river, but instead we turned towards Bermondsey. Then into the back streets around London Bridge. The BMW turned into a service road between two buildings, and the reflection of the headlights splashed painfully back into my eyes from a set of mirrored windows. The driver stopped the car in front of a metal door, then pushed a button on a box on top of the dash. The door rattled upward and we drove in.

No one had said a word during the journey. The only sound inside the car had been Joan Armatrading's greatest hits playing at a very low volume on the in-car CD. There was no police radio in the BMW.

The car bumped over the slight hump where the door joined the pavement, and through the entrance and up a ramp. Behind us the shutter rattled down again.

We were in what appeared to be half a warehouse and half a parking garage. There were boxes and cartons piled up the walls, and lots of cars, some covered with dust sheets or tarpaulins and some not. The ones not covered were very upmarket. Mercs, Porsches, more BMWs and even a Rolls-Royce.

‘Where the fuck are we?' I asked.

‘You'll see,' said Chiltern.

We drove up four storeys and stopped in the middle of an empty floor the size of a football pitch.

‘Out you get,' said Chiltern.

‘I don't like this,' I said.

‘Relax. No one's going to hurt you.'

‘Unless you ask for it,' added Brady, and giggled again. He was beginning to get on my nerves.

I did as I was told. Chiltern and Brady joined me on the concrete floor, and the BMW took off with a long squeal from its fat tyres.

‘Over there,' said Chiltern. In the far corner of the warehouse or whatever the hell it was, stood a Portakabin. It was dark and deep in the shadows so that I hadn't noticed it earlier.

We walked over towards it in a flying wedge, me in front. When we got close up, I saw that there was a chink of light under the door. The windows had been blocked off with black paper.

‘Inside,' said Chiltern.

I opened the door. It was warm inside the cabin. The heat came from a portable Calor-gas stove.

The furniture consisted of a table and four upright chairs, two old armchairs and a filing cabinet. On top of the cabinet was a microwave, an electric kettle, five or six mugs, spoons, and tea and coffee makings.

Sitting at the table, facing the door, was an old acquaintance of mine. Detective Inspector Endesleigh.

He was looking older than when I'd last seen him. Now I'd bet he could get served in a pub without being asked for ID.

His fair hair was longer than I remembered, and he too was dressed in the leather jacket uniform that the other two favoured.

‘Sharman,' he said. ‘Come in.'

‘It's you is it?' I said. ‘Why didn't you just call? I'd've come.'

He shrugged. ‘I use the phone as little as possible these days,' he said. ‘Dogs get sick.'

‘You're getting paranoid,' I said.

‘So would you if you'd lost two good men in as many weeks.'

‘Lost?' I queried. ‘You're getting careless aren't you?'

Chiltern pushed me from behind. Hard. ‘Shut it,' he said. ‘It's not funny.'

I looked round. ‘OK, OK,' I said. ‘Nothing personal.'

‘Lost as in dead,' said Endesleigh. ‘Sit down and have a cup of tea.'