Guns Of Brixton (62 page)

    Clubb's
arms, and the same went for his docked tail - though whether it had been docked
or bitten off in some previous battle Jimmy didn't know. But more frightening
were the metal spurs attached to the back of its legs, and the huge silver fangs
that somehow had been attached to its jaws. This was a genuinely scary sight,
and even Jimmy, tough as he was, could hardly suppress a shudder.

    The
dog was pulling so hard on the choke chain that kept him in check, that his
owner was almost pulled into the ring after him.

    The
voice of the MC continued: 'And tonight, Mr Clubb is taking on an old favourite
of ours, the wonderful Bullseye from Colchester, killer of over twenty dogs.
Give him a great big hand, or should it be a great big paw?'

    Applause
burst from every corner, the betting was getting more frenetic, and Bob was
jiggling in his seat from excitement. Christ knew what chemicals he'd been
ingesting whilst Jimmy wasn't looking.

    'Right,
ladies and gentlemen,' continued the MC. 'Tonight we are privileged to witness
- by public demand - a battle to the death between man and beast. No holds
barred. Let the contest commence.'

    Bullseye's
handler slipped the leash and the dog leapt forward, climbing up Clubb's torso,
heading straight for his throat, using the spurs for grip, baring those
terrible metal fangs and ripping flesh as he went.

    It
was almost over before it began, but Clubb punched the dog hard on the snout
and the animal flew backwards, hit the wall, crashed to the ground in a spray
of sawdust, rolled and came back at the man., Clubb's body was doused in blood
and sweat which only added to the odour inside the room as the dog bit into his
thigh through his tights, ripped off a chunk of flesh and material, shook it
from side to side, drops of blood spraying like rubies. Clubb winced with pain
but managed a vicious kick to the dog's side with his good foot, before limping
to the side of the ring.

    The
cheers turned to boos as the dog circled the man, keeping him pinned to the
wall.

    'Come
on, you cunt!' screamed Bob. 'We came to see a fight not a fucking dance.'

    Jimmy
sat and watched as Clubb tore off his headband and wrapped it round his injured
thigh. The dog, knowing the first blood was down to him, backed off slightly,
growling even louder, pink foam pouring from his mouth.

    Christ,
thought Jimmy. Maybe the sodding dog will kill this geezer. And it almost
happened like that. Bullseye, game animal that he was, leapt again, this time
fastening his jaws on Mr Clubb's left breast, biting clean through his nipple.
The man screamed, the crowd echoed his cries and the dog landed on all fours
and swallowed the chunk of flesh whole. Clubb
_:
held on to his
chest, his face a mask of pain and for a moment it did look like the fight was
over and the dog the winner. But it was not to be. Clubb moved forward and
Jimmy saw that from somewhere he'd produced a set of brass knuckledusters,
which he slid on to his right hand. He wasn't the only one to see, the place
erupted with noise and Jimmy couldn't work out if Clubb was breaking the
'Queensberry Rules' of man versus dog, or if the audience was giving him their
backing.

    The
dog leapt again, but Clubb was too quick and landed a mighty roundhouse punch
with the knuckles to its jaw, which dislocated with an audible crack. Clubb was
on it in a second, grabbing it by one back leg, and using its own weight to
swing it round and bounce it off the wall. Then he picked it up by its tail and
collar and smashed it down, back first, over his uninjured knee. If the sound
from Bullseye's jaw dislocating had been loud, the sound of its spine breaking
silenced the crowd. The dog was bent almost in half across Chubb's thigh, shit
flying from its anus and vomit shooting from its mouth, soaking the sawdust.
And from its mouth too came a high-pitched scream that froze Jimmy's blood
almost solid. Its bark might've been removed, but nothing could silence that
death sound, the last noise it would ever make.

    Clubb
lifted the dog high above his head, faeces and puke dripping down on to his
body, and threw it clear across the ring, where it lay twitching until it was
still. But the spectacle wasn't over yet. The man advanced towards the terrier,
picked him up and stuck his hand down its throat. With a great growl, he tore
out the dog's lungs and walked around

    the
ring, exhibiting them to anyone with the stomach to watch, blood and mucus
comingling on the pale flesh. Finally, he dropped them at his feet and kicked
the mess across the ground, before throwing Bullseye's body against the wall of
the ring where the animal lay dead.

    The
crowd was going mad. People who'd backed Clubb were screaming for their winnings,
and the bookies were screaming about the legality - or otherwise - of the brass
knucks. Jimmy could see it all going off big style when the dog's minder,
obviously miffed at his pet's demise, appeared, carrying a huge wooden stave
he'd found somewhere. Clubb was so busy taking his victor's bows that he didn't
see what was happening until the stave smashed him around the back of the head
so hard that it split in two. Clubb went cross eyed and hit the ground, where
he lay next to Bullseye. Its owner then took the hound in his arms ignoring the
blood and filth that coated its hide and gently held it close. Jimmy couldn't
believe his eyes. Then Bob grabbed him by the arm and shouted in his ear:
'Ain't love grand? He probably used to fuck old Bullseye up the arse. Come on,
we've seen enough. There's someone wants to see you.'

    'Who?'
said Jimmy as Bob dragged him back towards the doors.

    'Questions,
always questions, Jimmy. Be patient.'

    They
climbed down from the bleachers and made their way to the front door of the
barn. Bob indicated for Jimmy to take a paved track through a small copse until
a huge house came into sight. 'Blimey,' said Jimmy. 'You're full of surprises.
What's all this about?'

    'Used
to belong to some rock star,' explained Bob. 'Forgotten now. He overspent his
drug budget and it passed into the hands of the present owner.'

    'Who
is?' asked Jimmy.

    'You'll
see,' said Bob, and they went up to the front door, and Bob tugged on an
old-fashioned bellpull. It was answered by a heavyset young bloke in a black
suit and white shirt. Judging by the bulge under his left arm, Jimmy figured
he'd never been to butler's school, or else he'd have got a better tailor.

    'Hello,
Andy,' said Bob. 'We're expected.'

    Andy
nodded and allowed them in, walking in front of them to a huge set of double
doors, which he knocked on and, after a slight pause, pulled open. Bob gestured
for Jimmy to enter, which he did.

    Jimmy
stopped dead in his tracks. 'Blimey,' he said to the man sitting in a deep
leather armchair. 'Danny Butler, is that really you?'

    Jimmy
couldn't believe his eyes. Bob left, closing the door behind him, I leaving
Jimmy alone with his host. Daniel Butler, the fixer for the aborted raid on the
bank in Brixton over twenty years earlier, sat in an expansive leather
armchair, his feet resting on a leather stool, an antique coffee table at his
side, sitting on which was a balloon glass of brandy, a decanter, and an
ashtray in which burned a huge cigar. He had a smile on his face as big as a
half moon.

    'Christ,'
said Jimmy. 'Your man said it would be a surprise, but I didn't expect this.'

    Although
Butler had aged, put on weight and his hair had turned white, Jimmy would have
known him anywhere. 'Danny, I don't believe this,' he said, still stunned.

    'Believe
it,' said Butler, pulling himself to his feet and extending a hand that
twinkled with diamonds. 'Believe it.'

    'What
the hell is all this then?' asked Jimmy when he'd let go of Butler's mitt and
his host had waved him to a matching chair, lifted the decanter and made a
quizzical face.

    Jimmy
nodded a reply and Butler poured a large measure into a second glass. Jimmy
took the glass, inhaled the fumes and smiled. He smiled again when he sipped the
heady spirit. 'Good stuff,' he said.

    'Nothing
but the best for me and mine. The wages of sin, my old friend,' Butler replied.

    'Not
bad wages by the look of things,' said Jimmy. 'Better than the minimum anyway.'

    'Quite
right. And how are you?'

    'I'm
out. And I'm hungry.'

    'Oh,
Jimmy,' said Butler.

    'Do
you really want to get back into the life?'

    'I
was never out of the life. Remember? I've just done a score as category A.'

    'It
should never have happened,' said Butler. 'But I told you at the time it was
risky taking on that bank. Remember? The out was always the weak part.'

    'I
remember. But we were grassed. I remember that too.'

    'So
you were.'

    Jimmy's
eyes narrowed. 'Do you know who?'

    Butler
smiled again. 'Of course,' he said.

    'Who?'

    'Does
it matter, Jimmy? It was all a long time ago.'

    'Like
yesterday to me. My life stopped that morning.'

    'So
did a certain detective constable's.'

    'He
was a traitor. He turned on his own.'

    'He
didn't turn on John Jenner, although he knew enough to put him away for years.'

    'And
Jenner knew all about him too.'

    'Thick
as thieves, those two were.'

    'You
can say that again. So who was it, Danny? Who blew the whistle on us?' Jimmy
pressed.

    'Danny.
It's been a long time since anyone's called me that. Nowadays it's Mr Butler or
sir.'

    'Tell
me,' said Jimmy.

    'What's
the rush? You'll find out, for all the good it'll do you. Savour it. Treat it like
that excellent brandy you're drinking.'

    'I've
been savouring it for over twenty years.'

    'Brooding
on it, more like.'

    Jimmy
shrugged agreement.

    'Then
a little longer won't hurt, will it?' Jimmy didn't reply. 'Now Gerry
Goldstein's been putting it about that you want work,' said Butler.

    'Need
money more like. That shyster stitched me up.' 'That's not what he told me. He
says he gave you a fair return on your investment.'

    'Bollocks.'

    'He
could've said he'd lost the lot. Have you checked the stock market lately?'

    'No.
I cancelled my subscription to the
Financial Times
when I went inside.
Forget Gerry. Tell me about the grass.'

    'Just
another traitor, Jimmy. He was up for something very serious, and put you lot
in it.'

    'But
who?'

    'Like
I said, Jimmy, all in good time. Let's get down to business.'

    Jimmy
sighed, but knew there was no shifting Butler when he was being stubborn. All
in good time is right, he thought. 'OK. What's the job?'

    'Be
patient, Jimmy. But I can tell you it's big. And it'll be soon. But at the
moment it's on a need to know basis and…'

    '…
And I don't need to know?'

    'Not
at this moment. You've been away a long time. No one knows, including you, if
you've still got the old…'

    'Bottle,'
said Jimmy.

    'Precisely,'
said Butler. 'I think you should test yourself first on something small.'

    'Are
you taking the piss, Danny?'

    'When
it comes down to business, I never take the piss, Jimmy, you should know that.
Now how's the kids?'

    Sean
Pierce knew that Jimmy was out. He'd got the information even before Jimmy
himself was made aware of his release date. And on the morning that Jimmy
reappeared into the world, he'd been watching the front of Brixton Prison from
a doorway in flats across the road. Sean had made it his business to know what
Jimmy looked like after twenty years. Which was just as well, because he would
never have recognised the middle-aged man who walked out of prison as the young
father he remembered. He followed Jimmy as he hopped from bus to bus on his way
to Holborn, too busy gawping at the sights to realise he was being tailed. And
he'd stood outside Goldstein's as Jimmy had transacted some unknown business
there, then he'd trailed him again to the tailor's shop and even managed to
utter the immortal words 'Follow that cab' to a taxi driver after Jimmy had
taken a cab to the hotel in Russell Square,