said, ‘I like you Costis, you and yer shit-hole caff.’
Song for Guy
A handful of mourners at Tony Roberts’ funeral. The Chief Inspector, Brant, Falls, McDonald, and a wino who looked vaguely familiar, but Roberts couldn’t quite recall where from.
The vicar read, ‘Man is full of misery and has but a short time to live…
Brant nudged him, none too gently, said, ‘Jaysus, padre, something less depressing.’
The vicar said, ‘I say, do leave this to the proper authority. There are set rules and services.’
Brant gave him the look, asked, ‘Wanna be first in the hole?’
The padre looked for help but none was forthcoming, so he read an up tempo passage on light and salvation. Brant liked it fine.
A persistent drizzle was coming down, not an outright soaking but a steady wetting. As if it hadn’t the balls to just pour on bloody down. When the body had been lowered, Brant moved near to Roberts, asked, ‘All right, guv?’
‘What … oh yes … thanks … listen, I, ahm … don’t they usually have sandwiches for people after…?’
Brant smiled gently, a rare to rarest event, said, ‘I put a few quid behind the bar at The Roebuck, they do a lovely spread.’
‘Oh, do they?’
‘Well the owner’s a mick, knows about wakes. He’ll do us grand. I’ll leave you a moment, guv.’
Roberts turned, asked, ‘What will I say? I dunno what to say.’
‘Tell him goodbye, guv … oh … and that you’ll fix the fuck what done him … OK?’
Only Roberts and the wino remained. Then it came to him-the wino outside Tony’s door. The man said, ‘Sorry for your trouble, he was a gent he was. Gave me a few quid now and again.’
Roberts reached for his wallet and the man was horrified. ‘I didn’t come here for beggin’.’
‘I know, I appreciate that, but for a last one with … Tony … would you humour me?’
The wino was indignant but not stupid, took the cash, said, ‘So long’s you know I didn’t come cos o’ that.’
Roberts nodded, stood alone for a moment then whispered, ‘Goodbye Tony, I’ll fix the fuck what done you … OK, lad?’
Top dog
There’s a new boot on the market. Heavy, thick-soled, menacing and highly impressive, called
His real name was Tommy Nash but that was before. In the Scrubs, he’d drowned a guy in a toilet. Not an easy task. You have to truly want to kill somebody. Tommy did.
That evening in the recreation room, Johnny Logan won the Eurovision for the third time. The cons were allowed to watch. To be in the Eurovision three times is some awful sentence but to win it three times, that’s diabolical. One of the lifers said, ‘Hey Tommy, you know what?’
‘Yeah?’ Lots of hard in his answer fresh from the afternoon kill, he was bullet-proof.
‘You look like that guy-that winner.’
Tommy checked round, see if it was a piss-take. No. Lots of con heads nodding. Yeah, they could see it. Tommy heard the word WINNER. It sang to him.
Johnny Logan was tall, dark hair, and the face of a cherub. He sang like a tenor angel. Tommy was short with mousy hair and a baby face. But the fit was in.
Next day Tommy got a prison make-over. Had one of the cissies dye his hair black using polish and gel. Got it sleek and raven. After, he let the cissy go down and came quickly. A few minutes later he beat the cissy to pulp, shouting, ‘I hate fucking queers, man I just fucking hate ’em.’
On Tommy’s release he didn’t go back to north London. He headed south-east and became Tommy Logan, adopted a half-assed Irish accent and thought it passed for humour. To complete the transition, he got a heavy gold Claddagh ring and ordered bottles of Guinness in public. It worked for Daniel Day Lewis. His music of choice was Sinead O’Connor. He believed her to be openly psychotic. Her songs sang to him of
violence
pay-back
fuck you-all.
The current favourite was Troy, where her Dublin accent lashed full and lethal. Jaysus, he couldn’t get enough of it. To hear Tommy sing the chorus with Sinead was to understand Armageddon. When she grew her hair again, he was a tad disappointed. To complete his Irish accreditation, his weapon of choice was a hurley. The national sport in Ireland, apart from talking, is hurling. A cross between hockey and homicide.
A hurley is made from ash and about the length of a baseball bat. Twice as lethal as it’s much handier to swing. You get one in your hands, you want to swing like a lunatic.
Every year the All Ireland Final was broadcast to London and Tommy relished every murderous minute. He’d spotted a poster of the Mayo team at an Irish dance and had it away. The team looked like a hardened bunch. Tommy imagined getting them behind you in the yard at Wormwood Scrubs and shouting ‘Up yah, boy.’
Jeez, what a rush. During the televised final, regardless of who the teams actually were, Tommy would shout, ‘C’mon Mayo’.
While this would have been much appreciated in Mayo, it tended to confuse elsewhere. Tommy made his pile with crack cocaine. Got right into the very bases and wielded intimidation from the off. Knowing no limits, he grew into major league.
Bill Preston had been top of the south-east for a decade and when he took off, Tommy was next in line. His motto was:
And his lack of jail time proved it. On the climb up, Tommy learned about care, caution, planning, and the best solicitors.
Front everything.
Hide
Hide
Hide
Start a company daily and muddle your tracks. A high profile led to heat and Tommy was beginning to appreciate the value of stealth. His one major weakness was his temper. He hadn’t yet learned to control it. Tony Roberts was proof of that.
Wake up
The Roebuck had, as Brant predicted, laid on a ‘grand spread’. Mountains of sandwiches. Cocktail sausages, nicely burnt. Lashings of tea, soup and, of course, plenty of booze.
Roberts was holding a cup of tea; he hadn’t tasted it. Falls prepared a plate of food, brought it over. He shook his head, she urged, ‘They’re very good, sir, try one of those lads.’
‘No … thank you.’
