“Sure you don’t want me to turn you straight, Georgy Porgy?” she said, almost rubbing her breasts in George’s face.
She was only half joking. George was a good-looking lad. Tall, blond and half her age. And he was always immaculately dressed. He was a cut above the rough and tumble types she met in the Brixton Hill Arms. However, he was as camp as Christmas, unfortunately.
“Mmmm,” said George. “Well, maybe if I can flip you over and play your B-side!” he guffawed, loud and vulgar, as Lynne battered him with a feather duster.
4
Kenny and Big Jim sang “Summertime Blues” at the top of their voices.
Kenny held the steering wheel in his left hand and checked his make-up in the mirror. It was a good job he’d shaved that morning, he thought. The stubble still showed, though. He adjusted his curly blond wig as he pulled up at a pelican crossing and waited for a staggering smackhead to wobble across the road.
Kenny usually loved driving in London on a Bank Holiday; there was almost no traffic, leaving the city to the real Londoners. But today was New Year’s Day and it was like a zombie scene from Dawn of the Dead with the overspill from the night before’s parties wandering the streets.
As he raced down Walworth Road he swerved around the Elephant and Castle roundabout, narrowly missing a group of rat-boys being chased by a red-faced Santa Claus; he started to feel nostalgic.
“Remember the sixties, Jim?”
“Just about,” said Jim, opening up a can of Stella and handing one to Kenny who held the steering wheel with one hand as he opened it.
“August Bank Holiday Monday. Brighton Beach. Mods versus Rockers. Kicking ten bags of shit out of those little twats on hairdryers.”
“Happy days,” said Jim.
Kenny sipped his can of Stella, gazed at the fading bat-wing tattoos on his hands and remembered a drunken night at a Brighton tattoo parlour that then segued into the time he first met his wife, Deborah. Ex-wife now, of course.
Twenty-five years ago now. There’d been a lot of booze under the bridge since then, he thought.
“Grab a bunch of them,” said Kenny. He threw a well-stuffed wallet to Big Jim. Jim opened it up and pulled out a wad of cash. “More leaves than you’d see in a cabbage patch, eh?” said Kenny. “Help yourself. Half-Pint Harry doesn’t need them.”
“Won’t Uncle Frank want this?” said Jim, an edge in his voice.
“It’s a little bonus from Frank, James. He don’t give a toss as long as he gets that back,” said Kenny. He gestured over his shoulder towards the shining metallic briefcase.
“After we get rid of Half-Pint Harry and do this next little job we can head off down the Blue for a gargle, eh?”
Jim fiddled with his bra strap and adjusted his long blond wig.
“Great minds drink alike, Kenny,” he said.
5
Lynne wiped her nose and looked up as a black Jaguar pulled up outside the shop.
“No way! Customers at this time of the morning?” said Lynne, putting on an extra layer of make-up. “It’s New Year’s Day. We’re supposed to be shut.”
“Now, you know that Mrs Clarkeson says that we have a no closing policy. Tight twat, that she is,” said George.
“They’ll have to wait until we’ve finished the stock-taking,” said Lynne, indignantly.
The car door slammed and two tall, glittery blondes got out, wearing more gold than you’d find in Fort Knox or on Jimmy Savile.
“No! Russian Princess alert,” said George, perking up.
Russians usually spent a fortune and he worked on commission. The men — bullet heads with no necks — terrified him but the women usually seemed to take a shine to him.
“We’ve got to let them in, I’m off to Barcelona next weekend.”
Lynne just shrugged and finished off the cocaine.
“Time for some serious rimming,” said George.
Lynne grimaced.
“Metaphorically speaking, of course,” said George. He wiped the white powder from his nose, pressed the button to open the security door and painted on a smile as wide as the Grand Canyon.
“Morning, ladies,” he beamed. Then he saw the Glock and his jaw dropped so much you could have scraped carpet fluff from his bottom lip.
Lynne screamed as glass from the shattered cabinet showered her and pebble-dashed her face.
“Shut the fuck up,” said Kenny, pressing the gun against George’s left eye as Jim stuffed a big black bag with jewels.
6
“I’m as happy as a pig in shit,” said Kenny, swigging on his can of Stella and swerving the car around the corner into Druid Lane. He pulled off the wig and threw it on to the back seat.
“Let’s have a butcher’s at this,” said Jim, wiping the make-up from his face. He leaned into the back of the car and pulled the bag of jewels towards him. He opened the bag and took a swig of Stella.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” said Jim. The beer he’d spilt over his crotch was cold. He started rubbing at the wet patch.
“Looks like you’re enjoying that,” said Kenny.
“Sure you’re not shaking hands with the one-eyed milkman?” They both howled with laughter and then Kenny froze.
“Bollocks!” said Kenny, as a white Mercedes hurtled towards them.
Richard was feeling pretty smug. It had been an effort but he’d managed to find as many bottles of Chardonnay as his credit card would allow. He deliberated over stopping off for a swifty in one of the striptease pubs that were bound to be open, even on New Year’s Day. He felt bloody good.
He felt the urge for another nip from the hip flask. Resisting the temptation, he fumbled in the back of the Mercedes’ glove compartment for a CD.
“Shit,” said Richard. As he looked up, The Best of The Undertones in his hand, he saw a black Jaguar career toward him.
“It’s a one way...” Richard floored the pedal and swerved the car away. He bounced the Mercedes on to the pavement.
Kenny swerved and slammed into a wall between a kebab shop and a pound shop. The airbag deployed, punching him in the stomach.
Fuck, he was trapped. Taking a deep breath, he struggled in his trouser pocket for his Swiss army knife and punctured the airbag which deflated with a wheeze.
He struggled out of his seat, the radiator hissing like a snake as the steam escaped. The car alarm was wailing and Big Jim didn’t look too good at all.
Richard staggered out of his car and saw the Jag: a face was sliding down the passenger-door window like a snail leaving a trail of blood.
“Christ...” he said.
“Hey, you.”
He looked up and saw a bald transvestite stumble out of the mashed Jag carrying a big black bag, spilling necklaces and jewels, in one hand and a silver briefcase in the other.
Richard fumbled in his pocket for his phone and felt cold steel against his forehead.
“I’m taking your car,” said Kenny, who looked as dazed and confused as Robert Plant. “And you’re driving.”
Shit, Richard thought, as he heard the approaching sirens in the distance. Why not? Can’t be any worse than Caroline’s dinner party.
The Deadliest Tale of All
Peter Lovesey
He wrote “A Troubled Sleep”, stared at it for a time, sighed and struck it out.
“The Unsafe Sleep” didn’t last long either.
“In the Death Bed” was stronger, he decided. He left it to be considered later. A good title could make or break a story. He’d tried and rejected scores of them for this, the most ambitious of all his tales. “Night Horrors”? Possibly not.