Jeff intervened, said,
‘Whoa, let’s all settle down.’
I said to Jeff,
‘You’ll vouch for him.’
‘Guaranteed.’
I didn’t like it but it was too late to back out. We got organised and headed off. A transit van was the first leg.
I sat up front with Jeff, the boyos in the back. The punk was mouthing large but Bert and Mike just ignored him.
Jeff said,
‘The target is Newcastle-Under-Lyme. The motors are parked at Keele University.’
‘What’s the word?’
‘The bank is holding heavy. Maybe twelve thou.’
‘Nice.’
‘Let’s hope so.’
I settled back in my seat, let my mind free fall.
One night, having serviced the actress, I’d begun to tell her of the range of my reading. I dunno what prompted me to do so, but I was in full flight, listing the different fields I’d read.
When I was done, she said,
‘The books of a self taught man, a working man. We all know how they are,
distressing
egotistic
insistent
raw
striking and ultimately,
nauseating.’
‘You snooty bitch.’
She laughed, said,
‘Alas, don’t blame me, it was Virginia Woolf’s analysis of James Joyce. Are you familiar with Virginia?’
‘Take a wild guess.’
The van lurched and Jeff said,
‘We’re at Keele.’
We loaded the gear into the waiting car, got into cover-alls.
Bert would remain with the second car and Mike with the third.
It was vital each car be
manned
safe
primed.
The punk got behind the wheel. Jeff beside him and me in back.
As the punk ran through the gears, he said,
‘This is a piece of shit.’
Jeff said,
‘Shut your mouth and drive.’
He did.
Twenty minutes later, we rolled into Newcastle. My adrenalin was pumping. Jeff directed the punk to park about twenty yards from the back entrance.
We were out and moving, pulled on balaclavas as we hit the entrance. Some firms, they take down a bank, they believe in verbal terror. Go in roaring, screaming obscenities.
Put the fear of God into the citizen; I can see the merits.
But Jeff has his own method. He believes a demonstration is worth a thousand words.
So he shot the first customer we encountered.
Shot him in the knees. The guy went down. Jeff loaded his gauge with pellets. Without causing major damage,
they hurt like fuck
look the biz
and scare the bejaysus.
Two minutes, I had staff and customers herded. Jeff went through the bank like a virus, filled two black bags. Then we were outta there.
Running for the car, the great British tradition came into play. Yup, the ‘have-a-go’ spirit. A guy grabbed me from behind, clamped his arms round me. The punk was gunning the engine. I let my body go slack, then with one move, stamped my shoe down on the guy’s instep. He let a roar you’d have heard in Brixton. Mainly, he let me go. I spun round stuck the shooter in his face, shouted,
‘Yah stupid bastard, yah want to get killed, is that it?’
Jeff pulled me off, gritted,
‘Let’s go, c’mon.’
Already I could hear sirens. I backed off and ran to the car.
We tore outta there. Jeff said,
‘Jeez Mitch, I thought you were going to waste him.’
‘So did I.’
The punk was laughing like a hysteric, said,
‘You should ’ave you, should ’ave blown him away!’
If he wasn’t driving, I’d have given him a fist up the side of his head.
Got to Keele and switched cars. Then a more sedate pace to the third motor. Changed again and in jig time we were on the motorway, lost in a ton of traffic. Once we got to the van, I let out a long breath. Didn’t realise I’d been holding it.
In the back Mike, Bert and the punk were whooping it up, Jeff was driving and reached under his seat. Pulled out a fifth of Cutty Sark, handed it to me. I drank deep, let it burn. He glanced at me, a grin building. I said,
‘Piece of cake, eh?’
Back at Jeff’s, we began to party. I was drinking Bud and nipping at the Cutty. The punk was doing major damage to a bottle of gin. Jeff and Bert were doing the count.
Mike asked,
‘Another Bud, Mitch?’
‘Sure.’
I was sitting on a kitchen chair and Mike leant against the table, said,
‘You’ve a hard-on for that kid.’
‘He’s trouble.’
‘Well, he did okay today.’
‘See his arms, tracks.’
Mike gave a good look, said,
‘Doesn’t seem like he’s using now, his arms aren’t swollen.’
‘Preparation H.’
‘What?’
‘Takes down the swelling.’
Mike was truly surprised, said,
‘Jeez Mitch, how do you know that shit?’
‘ “New Hope For The Dead”.’
‘What?’
‘By Charles Willeford.’
‘You’ve lost me.’
‘Lost Charles Willeford too, he’s dead and more’s the Irish pity.’
Jeff raised his hand, said,
‘Yo, people, we’ve got a tally.’
We waited. Then,
‘Fifteen large.’
Loud yahoo-ing. After Jeff took expenses, we got two-seven each. The punk said,
‘Party on.’
After a time, the guys began to drift away. Jeff said,
‘Got a sec, Mitch?’
‘Sure.’
When they’d gone, he cracked a beer, said,
‘Ever heard of a guy named Kerrkovian?’
‘Naw.’
‘Tall, thin fucker, likes to dress in black. Got eyes like marbles, nothing alive there. I think he’s one of those Eastern European gangsters.’
‘Interesting as it is, Jeff, what’s it got to do with me?’
‘He’s been asking about you.’
‘Oh.’
‘Watch your back.’
‘Yeah. Thanks a lot, Jeff.’
‘You musta pissed someone off big time.’
‘I seem to have a talent for it.’
I headed for a florist. Ordered up a batch of roses, orchids, tulips. The florist said,
‘A mix like that, it’s gonna cost.’
‘Did you hear me bicker?’
‘No, but...’
Put them in the car boot and headed for Peckham.
Joe’s grave was well tended and a current copy of the Big Issue, wrapped in cellophane rested there. Made me sad.
A man was moving around the cemetery, tidying up. I went over to him, said,
‘Hey.’
‘Hey yourself.’
‘Did you take care of that grave over there?’
‘And what if I did?’
‘I just wanted to say thanks.’
I peeled off a few notes and he took them fast. Did wonders for his attitude, said,
‘A headstone would make all the difference.’
‘How would one arrange that?’
He took a flask out of his pocket, offered. I shook my head and he took a swig, said,
‘Keeps the chill off.’
‘I believe you.’
Put the flask away, said,
‘If you were to go to your regular stonemason, he’d charge you large. I could get it done for half that.’
I peeled off more notes, asked,
‘Would you?’
‘My pleasure. Want an inscription?’
I thought for a bit, said,
‘ “He was the issue”.’
‘That’s it?’
‘Yes.’
‘You don’t want a poem or anything? I’ve some hot verses in my shed.’