Guns Of Brixton (40 page)

    'No
worries,' said the head man.

    'And
I wouldn't worry too much if you hear a bit of a do in a minute. There's
someone inside who's been taking the piss.'

    'Never
seen a thing;' said the security man as he let them through.

    The
brick railway arches, three in all, were black with years of accumulated muck
and were connected by a series of short tunnels. The main entrance was through
a small door let into larger double doors that were chained shut. Once inside,
the noise hit Mark like a hammer. The bass beat at Mark's chest as he looked
through the mixture of strobe lights and a fog of dry ice that made visibility
all but impossible. Perfect, he thought as he moved around the edge of a floor
that was filled to capacity with dancers in various stages of undress, all
moving spastically in the heat they generated. It must've been close to a
hundred degrees inside and sooty water dripped from the ceiling on to the crowd
below. That night the DJ was known as Phil The Lodger for no reason Mark could
fathom, and he was perched on a small stage made of scaffolding in one corner
of the largest arch, with music relayed through to the others by a series of
speakers the size of small cars.

    In
the smallest of the arches where the volume of the music was marginally lower,
a bar had been set up and sweaty individuals doled out overpriced water, beer
and soft drinks. That was where Mark had arranged to meet Neville and do the
deal.

    Mark
stood in the shadows and scoped out the bar. Christ, but the music was heavy.
Mark enjoyed House music when he was stoned, but he actually preferred the Jazz
and RB that John Jenner had collected in the 60s and 70s.

    Mark
spotted Neville straight away. He was wearing a leather suit with a huge gold
chain around his neck and enough rings to stock a jeweller's shop. He was
leaning on the jump like he owned the place, flanked by a couple of
heavy-looking black guys acting as security for him and for the metal attache
case that stood at his feet.

    Wanker,
thought Mark as he grabbed Dennis by the elbow and pointed out the tall black
man. 'Go,' he said.

    Dennis
and Paul both shrugged and moved into the bar area. Mark hung back until he saw
them speak to Neville, a short conversation ensued. And then all five men
walked behind the bar and out through a small door in the back wall. Mark
smiled to himself and moved in the same direction, body swerving through the
crowd, followed by the rest of his boys.

    Mark went
behind the bar and through the door that led into the yard where the organisers
and staff parked their vehicles. Outside, it was cool and quiet and Mark felt
the sweat begin to dry on his body. Neville and his minders were showing Paul
and Dennis the contents of the metal case, the bag of fake money lying on the
bonnet of a Ford Granada.

    'Neville!'
Mark yelled as he got close.

    Neville
turned and said: 'Hey man, what you doin' here?'

    'Is
that the gear?' Mark asked Paul, who threw the handful of pills he was holding
on to the ground and nodded.

    'Rubbish?'
asked Mark.

    'Well,
it ain't ours,' said Dennis. 'Though they're all tricked up with our logo.'

    'You're
having a laugh, aincha?' said Mark, who stuck his foot on to the bumper of the
Granada, tugged the little pistol out of its hiding place and stuck it into
Neville's face, just as the rest of the boys approached from the building in a
flying V pattern, weapons at the ready.

    'Whassa
matter, my man?' said Neville, seemingly little perturbed.

    'What's
the fucking matter, you cunt?' said Mark. 'The matter is you're selling duff
gear on our patch.'

    'No,
man,' protested Neville like butter wouldn't melt.

    'You're
taking the rise, Neville,' said Mark. 'Bootlegging our product and ruining our
good name.'

    'No,
man, just a bit of friendly competition.'

    One
of Neville's minders, freaked by the sight of Mark's pistol, decided to even
things up by bringing his own weapon into play and stuck his hand inside his
jacket. Tubbs hit him on the outside of his leg joint with the Louisville
Slugger he was carrying and the man dropped on to one knee, the pistol
clattering to the ground.

    'I'm
going to kill you, Neville,' said Mark, almost incandescent with fury that
Neville didn't seem scared.

    'No,
man. We meant no harm.'

    Just
then, one of the bar staff came out of the door carrying a crate of empties
which she dropped with a scream and Neville took off.

    He ran
across the yard and up a ramshackle metal staircase towards the top of the
viaduct where the railway ran. 'Shit,' said Mark, giving chase, closely
followed by Dizzy and Tubbs. The rest of the boys were left to sort out
Neville's two bodyguards, the barmaid, the case of pills, the gun and the
money.

    The
staircase was attached to the wall with long bolts that had long since
loosened, making it wobble and bang against the brickwork as Mark and the other
two chased Neville to the top. Old paint and rust showered down on them as they
clattered up.

    At
the top, Neville leapt over the lip of the wall and started to run in the
direction of London Bridge station, jumping from sleeper to sleeper. The line
was shadowy, with only the occasional bright white light from above giving
illumination. It was quiet up there, except for the heavy breathing of the
pursued and the pursuers. And then, in the distance, they all heard the heavy
cough of a diesel engine starting up.

    'Give
it up, Neville,' yelled Mark. 'You're done.'

    Neville
stopped and leant forward as he tried to regain his wind, and Mark and the two
others stopped too. 'You're fucked,' said Mark. 'Too much nooky.'

    'Fuck
you,' said Neville.

    In
the distance they heard the train's brakes being released and its headlights
came on.

    'Mark,'
said Neville. 'We can come to some arrangement. There's plenty out there for
everyone.'

    'Piss
off,' said Tubbs. 'We don't do business like that.'

    The
train had started and was coming closer, picking up speed as it headed towards
Waterloo East.

    Mark
raised his gun. He'd never really thought that he'd use it, but Neville
wouldn't listen to reason.

    The
train's headlamps picked out the four young men and their shadows lengthened
along the rails.

    'Don't
be silly,' said Neville. 'You ain't got the nerve.'

    Mark
squinted down the short barrel of the pistol and for the first time Neville
realised he was serious.

    'No,
Mark,' he said,

    'Go
on,' yelled Dizzy. 'Do the fucker.'

    The
sound of the engine was like a scream and the driver sounded the horn. Neville
looked around and realised he was directly in its path and he made as if to
jump out of the way, but slipped on the smooth metal of the rail and fell backwards.
The great engine, its brakes full on, making the metal screech and the viaduct
shake, cut across the young black man's body. Neville's scream merged with that
of the train, and Mark, Tubbs and Dizzy moved back against the brickwork.

    'Fucking
hell,' said Mark as they watched Neville's decapitated body being dragged over
the sleepers. 'Let's get the fuck out of here.'

    Even
before the train driver managed to bring the engine to a halt, dismount and run
back to Neville's body, the three boys had vanished down the side of the
viaduct and back to the yard.

    Although
it seemed to Mark as if years had passed since they had set off after Neville,
when they returned to the yard, everything looked the same as it had when they
had left. Andy, Dennis, Paul and Elvis were standing over Neville's mates,
holding their weapons - including the pistol the black man had dropped - with
the barmaid looking on.

    'Let's
go,' said Mark grabbing the case of pills and the bag of fake money. 'It's time
we weren't here.'

    'What's
up?' demanded Elvis. 'Why'd that train stop? What happened to it?'

    'It's
relatively undamaged,' said Mark. 'Which is more than be said for Neville. Now
let's get out of here before someone calls the cops. If they haven't already,'

    'Where's
Neville?' said one of the black men.

    'Gone
to a better place,' replied Mark. 'Which is exactly what we're going to do, and
I reckon you should too. He's brown bread up there.' And he hustled the boys
out of the yard via the back gate to their cars.

    Neville's
death made headlines for a few days locally and it took a lot of John Jenner's
money and more than enough favours to get the boys off the hook. The official
verdict was death by misadventure. A prank that went too far. Just a bunch of
young men having fun which went disastrously wrong. But the wounds between the
black and white gangsters never fully healed. Even now, Mark realised, what was
happening in south London might have its roots in that dreadful night.

    'We
done him good, didn't we?' said Eddie as he sipped his second beer.

    'He
slipped,' said Mark. 'It was his own stupid fault.'

    'Those
spades - sorry Tubbs - didn't reckon that,' said Eddie. 'They always said we
murdered him.'

    'Yeah.
And if my uncle hadn't given away most of his protection business in Brixton to
keep them sweet we might've ended up in jail or worse.'

    'Have
you done anything like it since?' Tubbs asked Mark.

    'Don't
ask,' he replied.

    'Was
that why you fucked off like you did?'

    'Long
story. I'll tell you sometime, but not now.'

    'Fair
enough. So when do we do it?'

    'Sooner
rather than later,' said Mark. 'I'll need to organise a motor and some cash for
you. Have you got a mobile?'

    'No problemo,'
said Tubbs. 'Plenty of those about. There's always kids in the caff trying to
sell them. I got this…' He pulled a smart new Nokia from inside his jacket.
'Ten quid, fully chipped.'

    'Give
me the number,' said Mark, and he wrote it down on the back of Eddie's empty
cigarette packet. 'Right,' he said. 'I'm off to get things together. You
coming, Eddie?'

    'No.
I think I'll stay here for a few with Tubbsy.'

    'Well,
don't get too pissed. And both of you, keep your mouths shut about this.'

    'Who's
to tell?' said Tubbs.

    'Fair
enough,' said Mark. 'But schtuum it, all right?'

    The
two men nodded and Mark made his leave, still wondering how it would all end.

    He
drove back to south London and found John Jenner rolling a spliff in his front
room. 'Leave that for a minute,' said Mark. 'I've got something we need to talk
about.'

    'Talk
away,' said Jenner, and Mark explained his plan.

    'That's
the best you could do?' said Jenner when he'd finished. 'A pair of losers like
them?'

    'They're
all right,' said Mark, defending his old mates, although he was inclined to
agree with Jenner. 'Trust me.'

    'That's
what the bloody doctors said to me when I went in for a check up,' replied
Jenner. 'And look what happened.'

    'Hardly
their fault, Uncle John,' said Mark.

    'Bloody
right,' said Jenner, wincing from pain. 'Now do you mind if I finish this?' he
indicated the half-rolled joint in the table in front of him. 'My insides are
killing me.'

    'Go
ahead,' said Mark. 'Just give me the keys to the safe. I need some dough.'

    'Don't
spend it all at once,' said Jenner, licking the glue on his Rizla. 'We might
need it.'

    What
for? thought Mark, Funeral expenses? But he said nothing.

    He
went down to the cellar and counted out forty grand from the bag of cash he
found there. Not that he intended to pay more than the minimum up front, but he
wanted money of his own around in case everything went up the pictures.