Guns Of Brixton (61 page)

    Hunter
was silent for a moment. 'All right,' he said. 'I'll be there.'

    'And
don't worry, transport will be arranged to get you home.'

    Just
as well, thought Jimmy as he killed the connection. He was without wheels and,
by the state of the driving he'd noticed on his travels around London, he'd
need a lot more practice before he wanted to get behind the wheel again.

    He
arrived early at the street where the pub was located. It had been a convoluted
journey involving bus, tube, Docklands Light Railway and another bus. It was a
bloody nuisance. If he'd known, he'd've invested in a cab, but by the time he
got there it was too late to worry about things like that. And the new
Docklands was a revelation. He used to come to the Island in the 60s when it
was a working river and one attraction was the drag acts that played the
boozers. Then the quaysides were busy, with cargo constantly being lifted on
and off boats; now the cranes were only used as decoration or for building new
offices and flats for the people who worked in the offices. He hated to admit
it, but the man calling himself Bob on the phone had been right. Times had
changed, and he felt like he'd been left behind.

    The
pub he was looking for was at the far end of Sugar Street, close by the river.
A mist lay lightly on the water and turned the lights to puffs of fluorescence.
As Jimmy watched, a pleasure boat appeared silently through the fog. It
appeared to float above the river, fairy lights gleaming along the cabin and,
for a moment Jimmy imagined it was the spirit of the doomed
Marchioness,
moving in and out with the tides, its crew of ghostly revellers still looking
for justice after all this time. But then the wind direction changed and he
heard
Dancing Queen
by Abba bouncing across its wake, and he knew that
it was real. Jesus, he thought, what's wrong with me? He turned his attention
back to the Sad And Lonely Hunter public house. It looked as if it had seen
better days, with peeling paint and a neon sign in the window for a beer that
had gone out of production years before. But outside was parked maybe a quarter
of a million quid
's
worth, maybe more, of fancy four-wheel drive machines
that, to judge from their sparkling paintwork, had never been further off road
than Tesco's car park.

    Jimmy
stood in the shadows and lit a cigarette, hiding the light by turning his back,
and surveyed the scene.

    Another
monster truck was just parking up and four boisterous, well heeled punters
tumbled out and hit the bar.

    Jimmy
couldn't understand what was going on and felt a nag of disquiet. But he needed
money and, as ten o'clock approached, he headed for the pub and pushed open the
door marked 'Saloon Bar'.

    A
crash of music and voices greeted him as he entered. It was hot in the bar, an
unseasonable open fire burned merrily, the stereo pumped out dance music at top
volume. And it was packed. Heaving with a mostly male clientele, all looking
like they could afford to drink in establishments far better than this. Jimmy
stood silently in the doorway. He still wasn't used to crowds, or noise - this
place was full of both - and he felt like turning around and leaving.

    Suddenly,
a man appeared in front of him. He was tall, well built, in an expensive,
hip-length suede jacket, about forty, with green eyes and a goatee beard.
'Jimmy, isn't it?' he said above the racket.

    Jimmy
Hunter nodded. He felt like this was some kind of trap and he was the victim.

    'Bob,'
said the man, not shaking hands. 'We're in the corner. Come and join us.
Drink?'

    'A
beer,' shouted Jimmy as he followed the man to the bar where a bottle of Beck's
appeared as if by magic and was pressed into Jimmy's hand.

    They
walked to the table, where another man sat. Younger, shorter, stockier. And
hard, like Bob was hard.

    'Jimmy
Hunter,' said Bob as they sat. 'Tony. Tony Green.'

    The
younger man nodded.

    Jimmy
looked round the room. It was stifling and he eased out of the new leather
jacket he'd bought that afternoon in one of the new, trendy menswear shops that
had sprung up in Brixton. Five ton it had cost him but it looked and felt the
business.

    'Don't
worry,' said Bob. 'We'll be off soon.'

    'Where
are we going?' asked Jimmy. He didn't like the idea of just going off to Essex
- he knew there were too many bodies buried there in unmarked graves and under
motorway extensions. He'd also heard a whisper that, for an unspecified sum,
the furnace door at the old Ford factory in Dagenham could be left open for a
quick and clean cremation, no questions asked.

    'Don't
worry,' said Bob again. 'You won't come to any harm with us. You spoke to Gerry?'

    Jimmy
Hunter nodded. He'd been on the phone to the jeweller as soon as he'd spoken to
Bob earlier. Goldstein had assured him that he was to be trusted, even if he
was a little flaky in his approach.

    'That's
all right then. Chill out, Jimmy. Drink your beer. They're starting to leave.'

    The
pub was emptying and outside the sound of powerful motors being revved was easy
to hear. 'We don't all go at once,' explained Bob. 'And we don't go in convoy. Everyone
goes more or less a different way. We don't want to attract too much
attention.'

    'Where
we going then?' asked Jimmy.

    'Just
wait,' said Bob. 'You won't be disappointed.'

    Jimmy
looked at Tony Green, who just raised his eyebrows.

    'What
about this job then?' said Jimmy. 'I'm boracic.' He wasn't, but with jackets
costing a monkey, he soon would be.

    'Not
quite, according to Mr G,' said Bob. 'Although I don't blame you for keeping
your light under a bushel. And don't worry, we're not after stealing your
stash.'

    'It
would hardly be worth it,' said Jimmy and he took a suck on the bottle of beer.

    'Tony,'
said Bob.

    Tony
nodded, and Bob said, 'Come on then, Jimmy. Time to go.'

    They
left their drinks and went outside, where Bob opened up a big

    Dodge
Ram truck and they climbed aboard, Tony taking the driver
's
seat, Bob
next to him, and Jimmy sitting in the back. Tony switched on the ignition and
the dashboard lit up like a NASA control panel. The engine started with a
distinctive V8 rumble and they moved away from the kerb. For such a workmanlike
vehicle, the interior of the truck was pure luxury and Jimmy sank back into the
leather upholstery as Bob switched on the music system and from all around him
came the sound of vintage Rolling Stones.

    They
headed east, picking up the A13 at Poplar, then the All, until they joined the
A12 at Ilford and drove, in silence except for the music, towards the east
coast. Although Bob had said they didn't want to attract attention, Tony never
let the big truck drop below the speed limit, flashing his brights at anyone in
the way and it seemed like no time at all before they hit the Colchester ring
road and moved into wild and woolly Essex badlands. Bob saw Jimmy's discomfort
as Tony put on the full beams to light the darkness outside. 'Nearly there, and
nothing much happens until the witching hour.'

    Jimmy
watched as the hedges rushed by the sides of the truck, the roads turned to
lanes and became progressively narrower until twigs scraped the paintwork.
Suddenly they turned through high gates and stopped as a guard came out of his
hut and shone a torch into the cab. He nodded them through and they headed up a
drive that opened into a circle, inside of which sat a huge barn illuminated by
spotlights. All the four by fours that had been parked up outside the pub, plus
a selection of other luxury cars, were standing empty, and a trail of men plus
a few women were heading towards the barn.

    'What
is it?' asked Jimmy. 'Cock fighting?'

    'Better
than that,' replied Bob.

    'Dog
fights, bare knuckle? What?'

    'Or
all of the above,' said Bob. 'You're getting very warm.'

    They
exited the truck and headed towards the barn. Inside its cavernous interior, rough
bleachers had been built of untreated pine around a huge sawdust-covered ring,
walled with more pine to the height of an average man's shoulders. The whole
place smelled of rotten meat and disinfectant, cheap perfume and testosterone.
A massive PA system had been set up and was thundering out a drum and bass
anthem that set Jimmy's teeth on edge.

    Jimmy
had witnessed all of those scenes he'd mentioned. Cocks that fought to the
death, dogs that did the same, and men, stripped to the waist who went at each
other with bare fists until only one was left standing. But even he wasn't
quite ready for what he about to see that evening.

    'Somebody
owes me money,' said Tony Green, and he vanished into the crowd of people
waiting to take their seats and treating themselves to drinks from cans and hip
flasks as they queued. Those already seated were snarfing up various powders
that could have been speed or coke or smack or almost anything that would get
them high.

    'So,
Jimmy,' said Bob, taking him to one side. 'These are the sort of people you'll
be mixing with if you come in with us. The new rich. The new movers and shakers
who'll do anything for pleasure. Scum, most of them with too much money and not
enough brains. The geezers are morons and the women are whores. They make me
want to fucking puke.'

    Jimmy
shrugged. 'I don't care as long as there's money to be made.'

    'Oh,
there's that,' said Bob. 'But at what price?'

    There
was obviously plenty of money inside the barn as bookmakers were screaming odds
and punters were almost throwing cash at them in the excitement of what was
about to happen.

    Jimmy
and Bob took seats up in the gods and, as the lights above the spectators
dimmed, spotlights beamed into the ring, bleaching it almost white.

    The
music ground to a halt and a booming male voice introduced himself as the
master of ceremonies for the evening, and wished everyone in the building the
luck they deserved. At that, Bob cracked a bitter little smile.

    'And
now,' said the MC, 'for the first event of the night, let's all put our hands
together for a visitor from up north where the nights are long and the skirts
are short, an old favourite down here at the barn. The one and very only, Mr
Clubb.'

    A gap
appeared in the wall around the ring as a door opened and a huge man, stripped
to the waist wearing tights and wrestling
boots
entered the ring.
Around his waist was a bodybuilder's belt which included a codpiece to cover
his privates, and his arms were protected by thick leather tied with laces.
Around his bald head was a tartan bandanna. The crowd roared its approval at
his entrance and he bowed from the waist, then raised both fists like prize
fighters used to do in old photos
as
if to say 'Come on, if you think
you're hard enough'. What Jimmy had first taken for fat coating his torso,
gleaming with oil, now appeared
as
thick slabs of muscle, and every
visible inch of his hide seemed to
be
covered in tattoos and
scars. He struck more poses and reminded Jimmy of prisoners he'd met inside:
gym freaks gone mental on steroids.

    The
crowd settled down as the man swaggered around the ring, the spotlights making
shadows dance all around him. Then a huge bull terrier appeared from out of the
shadows, straining on its leash.

    Christ
thought Jimmy. Man versus dog. He'd heard about this kind of fighting in jail,
but never thought he'd witness it first hand.

    If
Jimmy had thought the man was scarred, the dog was worse. Its head had been so
badly cut that his skull was clearly visible through the short hairs on its
scalp, its ears were mere shreds of gristle, its back and flanks had been so
cut and ripped, stitched and stapled that it resembled some hound from hell.
And if he was the owner of a doggie soul then that too would have been scarred,
Jimmy thought, for the dog had obviously been driven into a permanent fury. He
- by the size of the bollocks hanging low between his legs, it was obvious the
dog was male - growled and spat at the crowd and at Clubb, and at his minder,
and as far as Jimmy could tell, at himself. He was thirty odd pounds of pure
hatred, ready to kill the first thing he could get hold of. But it never barked
and Jimmy just knew that someone had operated on the dog's throat to prevent it
doing so.

    Jimmy
felt a strange affinity with the brute. Around his neck was a thick leather
collar, covered in spikes, which looked as if they had been sharpened to
points; they sparkled under the lights, as if tipped with diamonds. His legs
were protected by laced leather, rather like that on