Guns of Brixton Read online

  CAFFEINE NIGHTS PUBLISHING

  GUNS OF BRIXTON

  PAUL D. BRAZILL

  Fiction aimed at the heart

  and the head...

  Published by Caffeine Nights Publishing 2014

  Copyright © Paul D Brazill 2014

  Paul D Brazill has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998 to be identified as the author of this work.

  CONDITIONS OF SALE

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, scanning, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  This book has been sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Published in Great Britain by Caffeine Nights Publishing

  www.caffeine-nights.com

  www.caffeinenightsbooks.com

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978-1-907565-81-6

  Cover image by

  Marcin Drzewiecki

  Artworked by

  Mark (Wills) Williams

  Everything else by

  Default, Luck and Accident

  Guns of Brixton

  Paul D. Brazill

  For Daria and Dorian

  Acknowledgments

  Mam and Dad, Sandra, Sonia, Brian and Eric. All the nephews and nieces. Marty and Tim Cook. Phil Allen. Richard Sanderson. Peter Ord. Julian and Niki Bogajski. Kasia Martell. Nick Quantrill. Ian Ayris. Alan Griffiths. Kate Laity. Danny Bowman. Andy Rivers and Byker Books. Tony Black. Darren Sant. Darren and all at Caffeine Nights. The Clash. Maxim Jakubowski. Crime Factory Magazine

  Safe European Homes

  Guns Of Brixton

  Police & Thieves

  Bankrobber

  The Last Gang In Town

  Somebody Got Murdered

  SAFE EUROPEAN HOMES

  ONE

  Even before he’d switched on the lock-up’s strip light, Big Jim Lawson knew that he was bollock deep in the shit.

  He ran his fingers through his big ginger quiff and scratched his head with the barrel of his shotgun. The light buzzed and flickered to life, like Frankenstein’s monster in one of those old black and white films his gran used to love.

  When his eyes adjusted to the glare, Jim looked down at Half-Pint Harry Hebb’s brains, which he’d only recently splattered across the grubby concrete floor. The blood and gunk looked black in the piss-coloured light and reminded Big Jim of the inkblot tests that the headshrinkers used to give him when he was in borstal. A smile crawled like a slug over his flushed face. Happy days. That smile soon disappeared, however, when he noticed splatters of blood on his powder blue Teddy Boy drapes and, usually pristine, white shirt.

  ‘Oh, what the friggin’ fuck!’ he muttered to himself.

  He looked around the lock-up. It was cluttered with crates of corned beef and stacks of faded ’70s porn mags. A dirty, spider-web cracked mirror hung above a rusted metal sink. Big Jim’s shiny black Jaguar glistened in the grimy surroundings.

  He put down his sawn-off shotgun, took off his jacket, walked over to the sink and turned on one of the taps. It creaked and rattled before it eventually screamed and set free rusty brown water. He made a cup with his hands and splashed the dirty water over his sweating face. Muttering to himself, he put the jacket under the running tap and scrubbed it with a paper towel.

  ‘Tit wank!’ he said, as he saw that he was only making more of a mess of it. He opened the Jaguar boot and angrily threw the jacket inside.

  Big Jim looked at Half-Pint Harry and sighed. He took the corpse by the ankles and slowly dragged it across the floor towards the car, leaving a streak of blood.

  ‘What a palaver,’ he muttered.

  He stopped and looked up as the heavy wooden door creaked open.

  * * *

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’ said Richard Sanderson.

  He was soaked in crimson and a sharp, knife-edged pain sliced through the back of his neck. He twisted himself upright, looking around for a horse’s head.

  The bottle of red wine that he’d fallen asleep clutching like a Teddy Bear fell to the ground, spilling what remained of its contents across the fluffy white rug. He rubbed the back of his neck and stretched. He was feeling more than a little worse for wear – and kipping on the basement sofa hadn’t exactly helped his New Year’s Day hangover a great deal, either.

  He picked up his red Gretsch guitar and put it back in its case, then propped it against a box of old twelve inch singles. Televisions’ ‘Marquee Moon’ – in green vinyl – was out of its sleeve and he slipped it back in and then carefully put it back into the box. Alphabetically.

  He couldn’t remember playing the guitar at all. It wasn’t something he did that much, these days, but he could see blisters on his fingertips.

  Moving like an arthritic Robocop, Richard trudged up the stairs from his basement office to the living room. He went to the window and peeled back the blinds. Outside, the tree-lined suburban street was deserted.

  After a few minutes, Richard heard the squeak of wheels and saw Batty Betty pushing her shopping trolley full of broken dolls toward the graffiti stained Ford Granada where she lived. In the distance, a constellation of streetlamps and a galaxy of Christmas decorations trailed Chiswick High Road and faded towards Hammersmith. He walked upstairs and into the migraine bright bathroom and turned the shower on as hot as possible.

  TWO

  ‘What the friggin’ bollocks has been occurring?’ screamed Kenny Rogan, shivering and pulling up his fly. He was dressed head to toe in a cream Armani suit, which was a knock-off, but the suntan and gold skull and crossbones ring were as genuine as the shocked look on his face. He scratched his flaking head, which glowed under the harsh light. He was a big man and his body was muscular, although a beer gut had blossomed and bloomed a long time ago, along with a bulbous, boozer’s nose.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, James, have you gone and croaked him?’ he said. ‘You have, haven’t you? You’ve put the Kibosh on Half-Pint Harry. What the fuck did you go and do that for?’

  ‘Yeah, well, you see, I had a little accident... you see what happened was ...’

  ‘A little accident!’ said, Kenny pacing the room. ‘A little accident? This is not my idea of a little accident, James. I’ll tell you what a little accident is, shall I? A little accident is when you piss the bed after you’ve had a skinful. A little accident is when you come a cropper walking home from the boozer because it’s dark and you’re hammered and ...’

  ‘Yeah, but that was it, though, Ken,’ said Big Jim, as he picked up a grubby bottle of bleach from below the sink. ‘See, it was dark when I came in and I tripped on that.’ He pointed accusingly at a rusty toolbox that stood in the doorway. ‘And then the gun just sort of went off and ...’

  Kenny shook his head and held up an index finger. His skull and crossbones ring glinted.

  ‘Silencium!’ said Kenny.

  Big Jim clammed up and started sulking. He took off his shirt and started dripping bleach onto it.

  ‘I’ll tell you what isn’t a little accident, James, shall I? Blowing Half-Pint Harry’s bonce off isn’t a little accident, is it? It’s
a fucking catastrophe is what it is. A shit creek without a friggin’ boat, never mind a paddle, situation. Do you know who Harry is? Or WAS, should I say?’

  Jim shrugged. ‘Just some thick Northerner, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Ha! Just some friggin’ Northerner! Well no. Harry was not just some Northerner, was he? Harry was, in fact, the trusted factotum to one of the North East of England’s biggest villains, wasn’t he?’ said Kenny.

  He took a packet of full strength Marlboro and a box of Swan Vesta matches from his pocket. He struck the match on the lock-up’s ‘No Smoking’ sign and lit up. He inhaled deeply and started coughing.

  ‘Oh, shite,’ said Big Jim.

  ‘Oh, shite, exactly,’ said Kenny.

  ‘No, not that, THIS,’ said Big Jim, looking down at the stain on his shirt. ‘The bleach has only gone and turned the blood all green. Savile Row, that was. Classic cut too. Cost me a fortune, back in the day, it did.’

  Kenny shook his head.

  ‘I can’t Adam and friggin’ Eve it,’ said Kenny. ‘I pop into the boozer for five minutes to have a Gypsy’s kiss and then I walk bang into a scene from Carry On Croaking.’

  Big Jim opened up the car boot and threw his shirt in.

  ‘Still, I’ve only myself to blame, don’t I?’ said Kenny, his foot tapping on the concrete floor.

  ‘I should have known better but it was a moment of weakness, wasn’t it? I came back from a lovely holiday of a lifetime in balmy Lansagrotty and I was as chilled out as an Eskimo’s knob.’

  He puffed on his cigarette.

  ‘There I was putting up with the bollock freezing English weather; Jack Frost was nosing at me nips something rotten. Then I got a phone call. And, since it was from Mad Tony Cook I had no bleedin’ choice but to answer the call and do his friggin’ bidding, didn’t I? Even if it meant working on New Year’s Eve, well, I did what a man’s gotta do, didn’t I?’

  Big Jim started to strip.

  ‘So, Tony asked me to do a little job for him, nothing tricky but very pretty fucking important. Just meet up with a geezer and collect a briefcase. And who did I decide to take along on the job? Big Jim friggin’ Lawson, that’s who.’

  He crushed the cigarette packet and threw it in a wastepaper bin.

  ‘Big Jim, of course, is not exactly the sharpest knife in the toaster, is he? In fact, he’s about as much use as a condom in a convent, most of the time.’

  ‘Leave it out, Ken,’ said Big Jim, who was stood in his shiny red Elvis boxer shorts and black socks, a big toe poking through a hole in the front of one of them. He pulled a large black Adidas holdall from the back seat of the Jaguar.

  ‘And when I say useless, I also mean daft,’ said Kenny. ‘After all, this is only a man who was once in a pub quiz and when the question ‘What is the Biggest Loch in Scotland?’ came up, he answered ‘Chubb’. So, yes, I suppose it’s my own friggin’ fault, innit? I’ve only myself to blame.’

  Kenny threw the cigarette on the floor and stamped it out.

  ‘Yeah, but if I wanted to kill a bloke, I wouldn’t shoot him, would I Kenny? I’d use my Thin White Duke,’ said Big Jim, tapping the Bowie knife that was fastened to his instep.

  ‘I like to pride myself on my knife skills, Kenny. I learned it all from them Andy McNab books my old mum used to read in the old gifs’ home,’ said Big Jim.

  He pointed down at Half-Pint Harry’s mangled corpse.

  ‘You see, what you do is, you stab ’em under the ribcage, see? So the blade isn’t deflected by bone and then you puncture the heart and twist,’ he continued.

  Kenny nodded.

  ‘Yes, there’s an art to it, Jim. I see that,’ said Kenny, calming down. ‘But I doubt Mad Tony Cook is going appreciate that.’

  Big Jim picked up a scratched stainless steel briefcase and handed it to Kenny.

  ‘This is what Tony’s after, then?’ he said.

  ‘That’s the lady,’ said Kenny. ‘All that glitters is not gold, eh? Looks like it’s been knocked about a bit, mind you. A couple of bullet holes there.’

  He tried to open the briefcase but it was locked firm.

  ‘There’s a load of tools over there,’ said Big Jim. ‘In that friggin’ box.’

  ‘Best not,’ said Kenny. ‘If Mad Tony finds out about this friggin’ faux pas he’s going to do his nut. He’s been going on about getting this briefcase back for donkey’s years.’

  ‘What’s in it, then?’ said Big Jim.

  Kenny shrugged. ‘Something that threatens the security of our nation, apparently.’

  ‘So what are gonna do with him?’ Big Jim nodded toward Half -Pint Harry. ‘Take him to the scrapyard and let Anarchy Al sort him out?’

  ‘No way. Al’s too well in with the Cook family. Naw. We want to keep this on the QT. Well, for as long as we can. I know a place to get rid of him but it’ll mean going out into the countryside.’

  Big Jim grimaced.

  ‘Yeah, I know. Shit-stinking, cider-drinking Wicker Man territory it is, too. But Jed Bramble’s pigs will polish Half-Pint Harry off in no time.’

  ‘What about the other job?’ said Big Jim ‘Our job? The Brixton job. When are we gonna do that?’

  Kenny thought for a moment.

  ‘Yeah right, we’ll do our job first. Should be quick. In and out of Brixton like a fiddler’s elbow. And then we’ll go and see Jed the pig fucker.’

  ‘Give us hand then, will you, Ken?’ said Big Jim. He crouched over Half-Pint Harry’s body and took hold the corpse’s ankles again. Kenny grabbed Harry under the arms and nodded as Big Jim lifted the legs. Kenny wheezed as they lifted Half-Pint Harry’s body from the ground.

  ‘Shit, I’m so out of condition, I tell you, James,’ he said. ‘Hard to think that once upon a time I was a semi-professional footballer – a couple of trials for Queens Park Rangers, didn’t I? But, now I’m a full time barfly, I’m going to seed, aren’t I?’

  He stopped and caught his breath.

  ‘Old age, Kenny,’ said Jim. ‘Comes to us all. If we’re lucky, my old mum used to say.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ said Kenny. ‘I’ve even given up playing in The Blue Anchor’s Sunday league. And I get a hot flush when I bend down to fasten my shoe laces.’

  They chuckled as they waddled across the garage and dropped the body on a green sheet of tarpaulin.

  ‘Looks a mess, eh Kenny?’ said Big Jim.

  ‘Yep. Was no oil painting when he was alive, mind you. Would make a good Jackson Pollock now, though, eh?’ said Kenny. ‘Picasso, even.’

  ‘Jackson Bollocks, more like it,’ said Big Jim, with a grin a little wider than his vocabulary.

  ‘Very sharp, James,’ said Kenny. ‘You’ll be cutting yourself if you’re not too careful.’

  They rolled the body in the tarpaulin and picked it up. Kenny started to walk towards the Jaguar.

  ‘Now make sure he’s wrapped up properly. Blood can do all sorts of damage to the interior,’ said Jim

  Jim was a man who just didn’t like change. He was an ageing Teddy Boy whose car even had an old eight-track cartridge that exclusively played the two Eddys – Eddy Cochran and Duane Eddy. The car was his pride and joy. It was like he was attached to it by an umbilical cord.

  ‘Alright,’ said Kenny. ‘Anything for a quiet life.’

  He strained as he grabbed hold of the body and started singing ‘Y Viva Suspenders’, wishing he was back in Spain.

  THREE

  ‘The wine, Richard,’ said Camilla, without moving. His wife lay prone on the bed, wearing a black night-mask. Looking, he had to grudgingly admit, pretty damned glam.

  ‘You know, I thought only people in Doris Day films wore those masks until I met you,’ he said. She gave a slow, deep purr.

  Camilla was still a good looking woman, thought Richard. She was in her thirties with long blonde hair and a body kept in shape with Pilates – whatever that was – but her personality was getting more and more vinegary by the day. It was almost as if
she wanted to piss him off.

  ‘Remember to get the wine, Richard,’ said Camilla, effortlessly moving to a sitting position.

  Richard just grunted and sighed as he struggled to pull his trousers on and fell backwards onto the massive four poster bed.

  ‘Piss flaps!’ he said.

  Camilla tutted as he struggled into his white shirt and worn, black suit.

  ‘You’re wearing that, again?’ she said.

  ‘What’s wrong with my Tintin Quarantino look?’ he said, exaggerating his South London accent as he picked up a black tie.

  ‘Failed Blues Brother, more like it,’ said Camilla. Her accent, however, was as neutral as ever, with little trace of her North Yorkshire roots.

  Richard grunted again. Camilla took off the mask and glared at him.

  ‘And please don’t forget, the white and the red, Richard!’ she said, massaging her temples and breathing deeply.

  This grated on Richard almost as much as the sound of Camilla’s voice. She did it at the start of each day, saying that it helped her focus on the tasks ahead, as if White House level decisions awaited her. She leaned forward, propped herself up on her elbows and exhaled deeply.

  ‘But, whatever you do, don’t buy bloody Chardonnay. Everybody hates Chardonnay these days, you know? It’s so unfashionable,’ she continued. ‘Remember, okay?’

  He resisted the temptation to ask her how, pray tell, a human’s taste buds could be affected by the fickle whims of what was considered fashionable but he knew from experience that he’d be pissing in the wind.

  Camilla was on a planet far, far away from him these days. And all the better for it, he realised. Her voice was starting to sound like a squeaking gate or a leaky tap dripping throughout a sleepless night.