The Last Laugh Read online

  Brendan sat back and tapped his forehead.

  “Jesus, old Vic Napper, eh? Napper of the Yard. That sneaky bastard. More bent than a pipe cleaner, he was. I should have known he’d come out if it all squeaky clean. Made of Teflon, he is.”

  He leaned forward, licked his lips.

  “Want some company?”

  “Well, it wouldn’t hurt. Reinforcements always come in handy. Are you sure, though?” said Godard. “It’s going to be a bit risky.”

  “Yeah, why not. Otherwise I’ll just end up in the clink for beating the shit out of a plastic Paddy.”

  “I think I could get there before you, if he carries on like this much longer,” said Godard.

  As if on cue, the big American staggered backwards and smashed into their table. The table toppled over and their drinks crashed to the floor.

  The American lay on his back, laughing.

  “Top of the morning to you! It’s just the craic, lads. I…”

  Godard lurched forward but he was too slow. With one sharp, fast punch from Brendan, the loud American was unconscious.

  “I reckon this joint’s outstayed its welcome,” said Brendan. “Fancy pissing off somewhere else?”

  “Indeed I do,” said Godard.

  They helped the barman clear up the mess on the floor.

  “How are we getting to Alicante, then? I take it you still can’t drive,” said Brendan.

  “We can get a Renfe train. Not too pricey and I’m counting my pennies,” said Godard. “I reckon we should head off to doorstep our mutual friend on Monday morning, by the way. When he’s at his most vulnerable and sleeping off his weekend hangover.”

  “Which gives us a couple of days to get pissed, then,” said Brendan, picking up a black holdall.

  “Great minds drink alike,” said Godard, with a little more joviality than he felt.

  He knew that there were those that feared the dark and found comfort with the break of dawn, but for a long time now, Godard had dreaded daylight, preferring the comfort of the womb of night. A long dark winter ached onward and tall, concrete tower blocks blacked out the winter sky as he trudged through Warsaw’s snow-smothered streets towards what had become his usual watering hole. He pulled off his woollen hat as he entered Baba Jaga, and stamped the snow from his heavy boots. The bar was full and stiflingly hot, smelling of boiled hot dogs and rheumy-eyed old men wavering on the precipice of death.

  “Vodka?” said Elena, the wrinkly old crone that regularly scowled from behind the counter like one of the gargoyles that guarded the front of the Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris.

  Godard nodded, snatched up the shot glass as soon as it was poured, gulped down its contents and ordered another.

  He carried his drink over to a small, rickety table in a dimly-lit corner of the room. Took off his black overcoat and avoided the eyes of the other customers. He looked out of the window through the nicotine-stained lace curtains. An empty tram rattled down the street, narrowly missing a careering taxi. Horns honked. People shouted and screamed at each other or no one in particular. The beast inside Godard stirred but remained caged.

  A black BMW sharply pulled up onto the pavement in front of the bar. A bullet-headed thug in a black leather jacket stepped out, lit up a cigarette and stormed into Baba Jaga, slamming the door behind him. He loudly ordered a beer and went over to group of students sharing a beer at a table in the corner of the room. The thug barked at them in a language that Godard didn’t understand. They cowered.

  Godard felt the beast inside him growl.

  A few moments later the door opened and a beautiful young woman walked in. She was wearing a woollen hat and gloves. The thug turned and looked at her. Grinned, a gold tooth gleaming. She looked horrified and ran out of the bar, the thug stalking behind her. Through the window, Godard watched as he caught up to her, took her by the shoulder and spun her around so that she was facing him. He leaned close and yelled at her. She recoiled from his breath. They stood in the snow screaming at each other.

  Godard could feel the beast raging inside. He stormed out of the bar and into the street. Stood behind the thug. Carefully, took out his night stick and slammed him on the back of his bullet-head. The woman screamed and the thug staggered, turned. Godard slammed him in the face, bursting his nose open. Three faster blows and the thug was on his knees. Godard kneed him in the chin, grinning as he fell back into the snow.

  Godard walked up to the shocked young woman.

  “The police will be here soon. If you want to avoid them you’d better leave now,” he said, in English.

  She shrugged.

  “I had better go. But I feel too afraid to be alone,” she said in a thick foreign accent.

  She put a hand on Godard’s shoulder and gazed at him with beautiful blue eyes.

  “My name is Greta,” she said.

  He sighed.

  “Come with me,” he said.

  She clasped his hand and collapse into his arms.

  “The thing is,’ said Godard, kissing his bloody knuckles, “You don’t really have a lot of choices, do you?”

  He walked over to Vic Napper’s basement window and closed the blinds. The room turned black apart from specks of dust that floated in a shard of sunlight that sliced through a broken slat and spotlit a pool of blood at Napper’s feet.

  Blood trickled down Napper’s nose and was soaked up by the Chelsea football sock stuffed in his mouth. He twisted but the fishing wire cut further into his bleeding wrists and ankles. He squirmed with the pain.

  Godard had always thought that Napper’s ox-like frame belied his rat-like personality. He had always come across as an affable oaf. Until you got to know him and realised how Machiavellian he really was. He looked as meek as a kitten at the moment, though.

  “It’s only a matter of time, and you’ll crack, Vic,” said Godard. “You were never really a tough guy, anyway, were you? Bent coppers like you always had some big idiot to do their dirty work. Big idiots like me.”

  Godard’s heavy feet echoed off the concrete floor as he walked over to the corner of the room and switched on the strip lighting.

  Napper clamped his eyes shut as if he hoped it was all a horrible nightmare. Opened them again.

  “But now it’s time for you to take the consequences of the shitstorm that you and Damon brewed up,” said Godard.

  The swivel chair wobbled as Godard sat down. He was sweating like a pig. Dark semi-circles under his arms. He knocked back a can of Red Bull and kissed his bruised knuckles again.

  “You know, I’ve mellowed since I went underground, Vic,” said Godard. “I really have. I play golf. Drink green tea. Recycle. I even stopped smoking after almost half a century of sucking on them fowl cancer sticks. But if there’s one thing guaranteed to get my goat, guaranteed to wind me fucking up, it’s if someone pisses down my back and tries to tell me it’s raining.”

  Godard stood, stretched, yawned.

  “And that’s pretty much what you and daft Damon did, eh? For donkey’s years. But I’m not buying it now. A few minutes ago, I asked you to tell me where Damon is. It was a simple question that requires a simple answer. And then you tell me you don’t know where he is, and, well, I don’t believe you.”

  Godard walked over to a metal cupboard in the corner of the room. Unlocked it.

  “Ah, I see you’re a golfer too, eh?”

  He pulled a golf bag from the cupboard. It clattered over, spilling clubs across the floor.

  “Fuck,” said Godard. “Give us a hand, eh?”

  “Maybe a nine iron,” said Brendan, putting out a cigarette on the doorframe and walking over to Godard. “That should do the trick.”

  Brendan picked up the golf club and handed it to Godard.

  “There you go,” he said.

  Godard took a practice swing, gave Napper a wink.

  “So, just to summarize the situation, Vic. Because I know you’ve never been the sharpest knife in the toaster. In a moment Brendan’s goin
g to take that sweaty sock out of your mouth and you’re going to tell me where Damon is living, what name he’s using these days, that sort of thing. Anything else that may be useful to me. Where and when the wedding is going to be. If you don’t, well, I’m going to keep hitting you with this golf club until you actually do tell me, or you’re dead. Understand?”

  He tapped Napper on the shoulder with the golf club.

  Napper nodded.

  Godard turned to Brendan.

  “Go for it,” he said.

  Brendan pulled the sock from Napper’s mouth. Napper gasped, spluttered.

  “Give him a drink, Bren,” said Godard.

  Brendan opened a bottle of Amstel. Put it to Napper’s lips. He gulped it down.

  “Well?” said Godard.

  Napper narrowed his hate filled eyes.

  “Fuck you!” spat Napper. “I’m telling you nothing!”

  Godard frowned

  “It’s come to this, then,” he said and smashed the golf club into the side of Napper’s face. And once more for luck.

  “So, how long exactly is it since you were last on an aeroplane?” said Brendan. He picked up a bottle of Bombay Sapphire gin and put it in the shopping basket he was holding. They were shuffling around the crowded duty-free section of Madrid Barajas Airport. Their flight had been delayed and Godard had started to get twitchy.

  “Never been on one since I came to Spain. Not this century, then. And I never much liked it before,” said Godard. He glanced at his Rolex every few seconds.

  “Yeah, well there’s no need to panic. They don’t run on propellers and elastic bands these days.”

  “That’s as maybe, but once you’ve sorted your groceries, let’s get another drink in, eh? Better safe than sorry.”

  Brendan chuckled to himself as he paid for his shopping. This was a first, for sure. He’d never seen Godard afraid of anything.

  Godard was already ordering the drinks in the airport bar as he got there. Brendan shuffled onto a wobbly stool and put his carrier bag onto a wobblier table.

  Godard handed him a pint of Guinness. He had almost drunk his own.

  “You best be careful with that,” said Brendan. “There’s not toilets on these budget airlines.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Nah, I’m joking but it wouldn’t surprise me,” said Brendan. “I’ve heard a lot of negative things about this Cryan Air bunch. I hear they were going to have standing only areas and sell cheap tickets.”

  Godard patted the packet of cigarettes in his jacket pocket. Thought about sneaking outside for a quick smoke. Pushed the thought to the back of his mind. He’d stopped smoking almost fifteen years ago and it was something he’d been proud of. There was a time and place to start smoking again and this wasn’t it.

  “We could have come back the way Lesley said. Train from Alicante to Madrid. Train from Madrid to Paris. Then through the Channel tunnel to London,” said Godard. “Would have been a nice little run out, that.”

  “Yeah, but that takes ages. You said so yourself. This way, we’ll be back in Blighty in no time,” said Brendan. “It’ll actually take us longer to get from Stansted Airport to the centre of London. Since we’re keeping an eye on the pennies we’ll have to get the coach to Victoria Station and that journey drags. And sometimes those toilets don’t work. And they usually stink. And there are traffic jams all the way. And…”

  “What a green and pleasant land,” said Godard, heading back to the bar. “Can’t wait to get back home.”

  “Or we could just go straight to France. Get it over and done with,” said Brendan.

  “Is Doc still over there?”

  “Oh yes. He wouldn’t be seen dead back in England.”

  “You know Big Louis Luca?” said Brendan. He took a furtive sip from the bottle of gin that was stashed in his black holdall. Looked to see if anyone had seen him. “Remember him?”

  They were jammed into the back of the bus that took them from the airport to the centre of Toulouse. It was crowded and the toilet, as predicted, stank. They were stuck in a traffic jam halfway. Godard had gotten so drunk before the flight that he’d fallen asleep a few minutes after take-off and was now feeling more than somewhat rough.

  A fat, aging Teddy Boy sat in front of them, taking up both seats. He had a pitch-black quiff that must have been a wig and he stunk of old sweat. He had on a pair of massive bright pink headphones that were leaking Eddie Cochran songs which he mumbled along to like a Louisiana preacher speaking in tongues, hands waving frantically like windscreen wipers.

  “Luca? Isn’t he that big Cypriot that used to have the mini-cab firm in Chiswick?” said Godard. ‘Cypressa Cabs.’ He was trying his best to breathe through his mouth but it wasn’t helping a great deal. A wave of nausea washed over him.

  “That’s yer man,” said Brendan. He took a banana from his bag and sniffed it to take the edge off the smell of the rocker in front.

  “What about him? Didn’t he turn grass and end up at the bottom off the Thames, sleeping with the beer cans?” said Godard.

  “So they say but they say a lot of things, eh? Anyway, his youngest son, Andy, he’s a fireman over Hammersmith way. He’s engaged to our Moira’s girl, Claire.”

  “Is she the ginger one?”

  “They’re from Galway, Godard,” said Brendan “They’re all ginger. Anyway, apparently, last week there was a fire at an old people’s home in Munster. Andy and the rest of the firemen turned up and got it under control without any problems, got everyone out. Or so they thought. Turned out there were three old ladies locked in the basement.”

  “Oh, dear, what a calamity,” said Godard. He smirked.

  “No, it’s not really funny, Godard. Turned out the owners of the home had been abusing them. Punishing them for pissing the bed and the like by locking them in a cold, damp basement.”

  “Nasty stuff,” said Godard. “There are some rotten bastards out there.” He dug a hand in Brendan’s holdall and pulled out the gin bottle. Took a good gulp.

  “Indeed there are. It turned out that the fireman found out where the oldies were and tried to get to them but had no luck. It was too risky or something.”

  “So, what happened to them?”

  The coach started to move again.

  “Well, would you believe that a hairy-arsed biker turned up out of the blue, riding a shiny Harley Davidson. All long hair and leather and the like. Parked up his bike, calm as you like. Locked it up and jumped through the broken window. A few minutes later he’d pulled out the old girls. Not a mark on him either. When everyone was seeing to the old girls, making sure they were alright, he got back on his bike and drove off into the sunrise. Like something out of a film.”

  “What happened to the old women?”

  “Oh, died of smoke inhalation pretty soon after but that’s not the point.”

  “Well, what is the point?

  “The point is, it only goes to show that you can’t predict everything, Godard.”

  “So you’re saying we need a plan B if Napper lied to us about Damon?”

  Godard passed the gin bottle to Brendan.

  “More so if he’s really gone underground. We don’t have too many friendly contacts these days. Not that we can trust, anyway,” said Brendan. “If we had a shed load of money to dole out maybe but…”

  “We’ll, get him. Napper said he hasn’t even moved house, let alone changed his name. Arrogant bastard thinks he’s untouchable.”

  “That’s assuming Napper told us the truth. And if he didn’t, we can hardly go back and ask him, can we?”

  “Napper had it coming to him.”

  “Oh, for sure. Good riddance to bad rubbish and all that. But you did get a tad carried away, Godard. I’ve never seen you lose control like that before.”

  “It’s come to this,” said Godard. He drained the bottle of gin and closed his eyes.

  The Café des Artistes was a suitably arty joint close to the river. The hipster clientele wer
e a little annoying but the music—The Who—and the Belgian beer made up for it. Godard sipped his Westvleteren 12 from the bottle. Strong stuff.

  “First time in Toulouse?” said Brendan.

  “First time in France, apart from a disastrous weekend in Paris,” said Godard. “And Paris doesn’t count.”

  “I think everyone has a disastrous time in Paris,” said Brendan. “It’s certainly not my favourite city, that’s for sure. I was pickpocketed twice in one day the last time I was there. When did you go?”

  “In the dim and distant past. I was there with Greta,” said Godard. “We spent most of our time chasing the white night. The first day we arrived was a blur and we ended up in a café, early on in the morning and Greta freaked when a group of clowns came in. Turned out the joint was round the corner from a circus and a regular haunt for the entertainers.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Got her smashed on whisky and dragged her back to the hotel. Spent the rest of the day trying to track down a heroin dealer I used to know. Came close to getting arrested. A hell of a time.”

  A gaunt man wearing a straw trilby, black Ray Bans and a pristine white suit sat next to them. He placed a black walking cane with a skull and crossbones head across his lap.

  “Gents,” he rasped in a nicotine-tinged voice. “This is most certainly a blast from the past. Positively seismic.”

  “Good to see you too, Doc,” said Brendan. “What you drinking?”

  “Espresso,” said Doc. “And tell them to make it death black. You should know how I like it.”

  Brendan went to the bar and Doc took off his sunglasses. Narrow, red eyes glared at Godard.

  “You sure Damon’s here?” Doc said.

  “According to Napper.”

  “He could have been lying. He was always good at that.”

  “Let’s just say that the tone and delivery of his information had an air of veracity.”

  “Fair enough,” said Doc.

  Brendan sat back down and a waiter scuttled behind him, carrying an espresso.