To Fight For Page 3

  The mood in the pub changed slowly as the day got older. Some people drifted out, some drifted in and took up their places, as if it was all staged, an act. Maybe it was. Maybe nothing had changed after all, except me and Brenda and Browne. The more we drank, the more everything seemed different. I don’t know. Maybe nothing fucking changes.

  I remembered how, after we’d come out of the fights, she’d pushed herself into me, gripped my arm, shivered.

  ‘Are you cold?’ I’d said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing … it’s just … it hurts me, sometimes, that’s all.’

  ‘What hurts you?’

  ‘Everything. All of it. Life.’ She’d pulled on my arm. ‘But I have you.’

  A few days later, I’d taken her to the West End and we’d walked along, her slim hand in mine. We’d walked along like all the rest of them, like the evening-dress-and-dinner-jacket mob, like anyone else. We’d walked along and looked in the windows at the Swiss watches and old oil paintings and diamond rings. People had looked at us oddly but Brenda had been too wrapped up in the glamour of it all to notice.

  So, we’d walked along and tried to pretend everything was alright. Well, for a while, maybe, it was.

  Later, sitting in the Fox and Globe, it was getting too hard to pretend anything at all.

  Now, years later, as me and Browne sat slumped in our seats and waited for whatever was going to happen, I saw that he was thinking of something, remembering, and his eyes went soft and sad, and he lifted the glass to his mouth.

  I asked him what was on his mind.

  ‘Oh,’ he said, sniffling, ‘I was just remembering that time in the pub, you and her and me. That’s all.’

  I was beginning to understand what Browne meant about needing to drink – the need, as he’d told Brenda, to forget what he’d remembered, to remember what he’d forgotten.

  Now I wanted to tell Brenda that I knew too. But I couldn’t tell her. And thinking that brought me back, and I started to lose myself again, trapped between now and then, between rage and peace, and I wanted to stop understanding and just kill.

  FIVE

  My head was singing when Bobby Cole came over. He swam before my eyes and, for a moment, I thought he was Dunham come to kill me. I reached for my Makarov, but, of course, it wasn’t there.

  He’d been in before, the day after I’d killed Paget, but I didn’t remember that at the time. I was losing track, my mind slipping through the cracks between now and then and never. I didn’t want to let Cole know that, though, so I sat up and let Browne do the talking while I waited for my head to stop spinning. Cole took a seat opposite me and twiddled his thumbs.

  The trouble was, Cole had seen me go for my gun and he knew straight off that I was fucked up. He didn’t make a thing of it, though – not then, anyway. First, he made with the chit-chat. ‘How are you, Joe?’ ‘Take your time recovering, my son.’ Shit like that, all nice and friendly. I told him I was okay, everything was fine.

  We were in the lounge, and the light was dull, and Cole’s brown eyes looked black. After a while, he stood and started pacing, making fists out of his hands. He’d tried the concerned visitor act as much as he could and now his patience had gone. He went over to the window and stood with his back to me, staring out. His blocky frame was dark against the light.

  ‘We need to talk,’ he said to the window.

  ‘He’s in no fit state for this,’ Browne was saying.

  Cole turned.

  ‘He looks okay to me.’

  ‘Well, when you show me your medical doctorate, I’ll listen to what you say. Meantime—’

  ‘It’s okay,’ I said.

  Browne tightened his mouth, glared at me. Finally, he nodded.

  ‘They’re your men?’ I said to Cole. ‘Outside.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  They had to be his men, of course. It had taken me a while to figure it out. The fact that they hadn’t tried to kill or arrest me should’ve told me who they were. Christ, I was slow. Fuck knows what would’ve happened if they’d been Dunham’s out there. I probably wouldn’t have made it.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Protection. Don’t worry, I made sure they were low-key, just to keep the neighbours from calling the law.’

  ‘Protection,’ I repeated.

  ‘Thought you might need it.’

  That was bollocks.

  ‘Very kind of you,’ Browne said. I think he was being sarcastic.

  He had a point. The last thing Cole would ever bother to do would be to give someone like me protection. He might’ve felt he owed me, sure, but he was in the middle of a war with Dunham and he’d need all his men handy. Posting them to protect me? Never.

  And yet he was here again and his face was grey. Something was up.

  I told Browne to go get us a drink. He went unwillingly. When he was gone, Cole said, ‘I’m taking the men off.’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ I managed to say.

  ‘You don’t need them no more, do you? Dunham won’t come for you. He’s not bothered with grudges when he’s tryna take over the whole fucking city. Unless there’s a reason I should keep them on you?’

  ‘Is that what he’s doing?’ I said. ‘Trying to take it all?’

  He nodded. He’d turned back to the window. His shoulders were hunched, his fists clenched. There was sweat on the rolled fat around his collar. Everything was getting tight for him, even his shirt.

  ‘I’m hitting the cunt with everything I got,’ he told the window.

  ‘Are you winning?’

  He didn’t say anything to that. He didn’t need to. Pulling his men off told me plenty about who was winning.

  Anyway, I already knew Cole was in trouble. I’d called Ben Green who’d told me about the shootings in Hackney and Leyton.

  ‘He’s getting battered all over the place,’ Green had said.

  I’d stayed in touch with Green. He was a useful contact. He’d been a small-timer a few years back, and now was straight. But he’d known lots of people over the years and still heard about the stuff they kept out of the news.

  ‘There was an armed robbery on one of Cole’s taxi firms,’ Green had told me. ‘Police raids on his places. Dunham’s got clout, Joe. He’s got a lot of law in his pocket and they’re keeping his name out of it, blaming it on rival drugs gangs.’

  So, Dunham was keeping a low profile. He was living his fat life in his fat mansion and pretending to be legit. But everyone knew he was destroying the opposition.

  Cole wasn’t here for any of that. If he’d wanted to pull his men off, he could’ve done it easily enough without the act. And he sure as fuck wasn’t here to visit a sick friend.

  ‘Bother you, Joe? Me taking my men off?’ he said, turning to me.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You think I owe you? That it?’

  ‘I don’t think anything.’

  He came back and sat on Browne’s armchair, his elbows on his knees, his hands clenching each other.

  ‘Well, I made sure you were okay while you were down,’ he said. ‘I suppose I owed you that much.’ He scratched his nose. ‘Although you’ve plunged me into a fucking war so I don’t know what exactly I do owe you. Maybe I should just have you shot.’

  ‘Maybe you should.’

  He sat back in the armchair and fidgeted. He was about as good at subtlety as I was. I made it easy for him.

  ‘Why are you here?’

  He looked at me long and hard, the steel in his eyes shining like blades.

  He stopped fidgeting.

  ‘I want to know what the fuck’s going on,’ he said, his voice low, slow, deadly.

  He was scared. Cole was fucking scared. This war had shaken him; probably he was worried that things were getting out of hand, that he wasn’t going to survive, that he was losing control.

  ‘You know what’s going on,’ I said. ‘We hit Dunham, now he’s coming after us. He has to.’

  ‘Bo
llocks. We hit Dunham’s home, sure. I knew there’d be a comeuppance, that’s not what’s bothering me. What I want to know is why? Why was Dunham protecting Paget? Why am I in this fucking war? And don’t tell me it’s about reputation or revenge coz I won’t fucking believe it.’

  ‘You wanted Paget because he stole your drugs, your money, tried to take over your turf, sold you out to Dunham. We got him. What do you care why Dunham was protecting him?’

  ‘I have this awful feeling that I’m being taken for a mug, that there’s something else going on here that I can’t see. Don’t take me for a cunt, son.’

  I thought about things for a moment. Well, I tried to think. Two things I knew: Cole wasn’t stupid and the last thing I needed was another enemy.

  The door opened and Browne tottered in, a mug of tea in each hand. He put the mugs down on the coffee table and waited there, like he wanted a tip or something. Cole didn’t take his eyes off me.

  ‘There anything else?’ Browne said, eyeing Cole. ‘Shall I bake some scones?’

  He got like that sometimes, like a jilted bird or something. Still Cole didn’t look at him.

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘Fine. I’ll be in the kitchen getting hammered.’

  ‘Right.’

  Browne shuffled off.

  ‘Well?’ Cole said.

  I reached over for the tea, just to show that I could. It almost killed me. The pain tore through my side. Cole saw it but didn’t say anything. He didn’t care if I split right open in front of him. I took a gulp of the strong, sweet stuff and sat back. I could feel the sweat on my brow. If reaching for tea did that to me, how the hell was I going to go up against half of London? No, I didn’t need another fucking enemy.

  ‘You know what Paget did?’ I said.

  ‘He killed your bird.’

  Just like that. ‘Killed your bird.’ He made it sound like Paget had scratched my car.

  ‘Her name was Brenda,’ I said. ‘Remember that. Yeah. He killed her. Paget and Marriot made movies with kids. She got evidence and sent it to a vice copper called Glazer. He was bent, grassed her right back to Marriot. Then Marriot got Paget to slice her up.’

  ‘So you wanted Paget. I don’t blame you. But you haven’t answered my question. Why was Dunham protecting him?’

  ‘A film. Some bloke. I don’t know who he is but he’s important. Dunham wanted the DVD.’

  ‘What kind of film?’

  ‘The kind with children.’

  ‘So Dunham was going to blackmail the bloke in the film?’

  ‘My guess.’

  He thought about that for a bit.

  ‘Did Dunham get the DVD?’ he said. ‘A copy of it?’

  ‘No. Paget must’ve kept it back in order to get protection from Dunham. We got to Paget while he was at Dunham’s so he must’ve had it hidden still.’

  ‘Right. Makes sense. He would’ve had to keep it back for leverage.’

  Of course, I had a copy, the copy that Brenda had made and hidden in her flat. Was I going to tell Cole that? I couldn’t decide, couldn’t work out the pros and cons. If I told him, would he want the DVD too?

  Cole leaned forward and drank some of the tea. He screwed his face up and put the mug down.

  ‘Too much sugar,’ he said.

  ‘Your men,’ I said, ‘they were surveilling me? Trying to find out what was happening?’

  ‘Surveilling. That’s a big word. Yeah, they were fucking surveilling you. I wanted to see how important you were to Dunham, what he wanted, that kind of thing.’

  ‘You could’ve asked me.’

  ‘That’s what I’m doing now. Besides, I didn’t trust you, boy. I still don’t. So, I got some of my men posted around to watch what happened. Pretty interesting stuff too. What was all that shit a few days back? Monday?’

  ‘What shit?’

  ‘On the football pitch.’

  Football pitch? What was he talking about?

  ‘What football pitch?’

  ‘Boy, you hit the deck like you’d been shot. My men thought you had been. You were crawling along in the mud, your hands over your head. Went on for a few minutes like that. My men went over to you to see you were alright.’

  I didn’t know what he was on about. It sounded like that time, a hundred years before, when I’d been in the paras, diving for cover from mortar fire. I crawled in the mud that time. I remembered that alright.

  Cole leaned forward again and took the mug of tea and gulped it down. When he’d finished all that, he looked at me, his face grim, his jaw set. Finally, he nodded and stood.

  ‘Son, you are in some confused shit.’

  I had to agree with him.

  ‘What you gonna do?’ he said.

  ‘Find Glazer,’ I said. ‘Kill him.’

  SIX

  There was sun, for once, and a breeze that didn’t cut you to the bone. Maybe it was spring after all.

  I checked the road. It seemed quiet. I went through the gate then moved the recycling bin a foot across Browne’s path.

  I had to find Glazer, and I thought I might have an idea how to start that. But, since Cole had pulled his men off, there was something else we needed to sort out, Browne and me.

  I’d mended enough so that I could drive again. I walked up the road to Browne’s car and drove down to the hardware store. I just about managed that without killing anyone.

  I bought a hammer, four-inch nails, plywood boards and a load of other stuff. The bloke on the checkout smiled and said, ‘You expecting a war?’

  I said, ‘Yeah.’

  He didn’t smile after that.

  Next I went to get provisions: canned food, dried food, some first aid stuff and lots of bloody Scotch. Browne was more concerned about that than anything else. I also went to a bloke I knew in Romford and bought a couple of boxes of ammo for my Makarov, a flick knife with strap-on ankle holster. I wanted some flash-bangs, maybe a few grenades, but he couldn’t get those at short notice, and I couldn’t wait.

  When I got back, I climbed out of the car, walked slowly along the pavement and opened the gate. It was only when I was about to open the front door that I noticed the bin had moved. I stopped the key an inch from the keyhole and looked back. I’d told Browne to stay put, and the postman had already been and gone. Yet the bin had moved.

  I crept over the front lawn, around the side of the house and through the garden to the back door. I turned the doorknob slowly. The door opened. It should’ve been locked. I pulled my Makarov out and held it lightly in my hand and moved slowly inside.

  I heard a voice, low and slow. Then I heard Browne cry out in pain. There was a crash, the sound of smashing wood and a heavy fall. The whole house seemed to shift an inch.

  I crept up the stairs, keeping my weight to the edges of each step. When I got to the landing I could see into Browne’s bedroom, at the far end of the hallway. It was a mess; smashed furniture, the bed upside down, broken glass. I walked slowly that way.

  The man turned as I entered. He was massive, almost my height, with a bodybuilder’s shape, the wide shoulders, the bulging chest. His head was a lump of rock that sat right on his shoulders. There was no neck, as far as I could see. He outweighed me by a couple of stone, and all of that was muscle. He was one of those men whose arms wouldn’t hang straight down.

  He held Browne up in one hand. I brought the Makarov up to my waist, just enough for him to see it.

  I’d known him years before, in my old fight days. Back then they’d called him The Reaper. I don’t think he ever understood why. He was huge in those days. It had been like fighting a mountain. He was bigger now. He must’ve hit the irons and the steroids. He had a bashed-in face, cauliflower ears, a thick, drooping mouth and dumb, heavy-lidded eyes.

  He dropped Browne who stayed dropped. He stared at me a moment, then stared at my gun, then stared back at me.

  ‘I remember you,’ he said, as if he’d made some great discovery. ‘We fought.’

  He was
wrong about that. We hadn’t fought; he’d murdered me. I was old. He was younger, fitter, stronger, faster. He out-boxed me, out-moved me. And he out-hit me to hell. I got counted out in the middle of the fifth. I was still standing, but only because a boxing ring has ropes.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said.

  He stared at me a while longer, like someone had forgotten to restart his brain. His mouth hung open.

  ‘I won,’ he said when the words finally came to him.

  ‘Yeah.’

  He nodded, pleased with his thinking so far.

  ‘You were good.’

  ‘I was old.’

  He thought about that.

  ‘You were good for an old bloke.’

  ‘Yeah. For an old bloke.’

  Now that he’d used up all the words in his head, he moved towards me. I kept the gun on him, but I didn’t think it would be much use. He pushed past me and ducked through the doorway. The stairs creaked like they were at breaking point. The front door opened and slammed. The house moved again back to where it’d begun.

  I stuck the Makarov back in my jacket pocket and looked down at Browne. He was alive. He was conscious. That was about the best I could say for him. He lay with his eyes open and gazed up at the ceiling. He had a bloody mouth, a swelling eye, and he breathed with a rasping sound.

  ‘My God,’ he managed to say. ‘My God.’

  ‘Yeah. Are you hurt?’

  ‘Hurt? Look at me. I’m virtually dead.’

  ‘Anything broken?’

  He sighed and groaned, moving his hand to his stomach.

  ‘No, nothing broken. Everything agony, but nothing broken.’

  ‘He went easy on you.’

  ‘Call this going easy?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  He tried to sit up and fell back. I went over and started to hoist him up.

  ‘No, leave me.’

  I set him back on the ground.

  ‘What did he want?’ I said.

  ‘Just get me a bloody drink, will you?’

  I went and got him his drink. He managed to sit up for that. When he’d gulped the glass dry, he wiped the blood from his mouth, touched his eye.