Читать книгу Mr Cleansheets - Adrian Deans - Страница 20

The van stopped outside my new digs just before dawn and immediately my back began to ache. I’d come 10,000 miles to do fucking removals work.

The driver’s window rolled down and a wiry-looking ginger looked out and said, “Eric?”

I nodded and the window rolled back up as I walked the long way round the truck to the passenger door. I climbed into a cabin reeking of cigarette smoke, with a floor littered with empty fag packets and old, take-away wrappers. Between the passenger and driver’s seats was a pile of old paperwork that would have taken a team of accountants a year to unravel, which said a great deal about how Mervyn ran his removals business.

The wiry ginger took off into the North London traffic, fumbled a fag into his mouth and lit it - one eye on the end of the fag and one on the road. Immediately the cabin was filled with acrid, choking smoke and I rolled the window down to breathe.

“Put that fahkin’ window up!” snapped the driver, but I just stared at him - giving him the old warning look I’d used my entire life to defuse inflammatory situations. He stopped at a traffic light, turned to berate me. And then caught my eye.

After a few seconds, the anger on his face turned into a grin.

“Awright, you can ‘ave it ‘alf open,” he said, but I continued to stare at a point on his chin. The grin grew broader.

“Ah, bollocks,” he said, winding down his own window. “It’s too nice a day ter fahkin’ argue.”

It was a nice day. Autumnal London had turned on a cracker - pale blue sky streaked with pink and gold fingers as the sun crept above the Hampstead horizon.

“Jaffa,” said the driver as the lights turned, and the truck lurched onwards.

“Eh?”

“Jaffa. That’s me name, mate.”

“Right. So where are we goin’, Jaffa?”

“Maida Vale. Rich cow sent her ‘usband packin’ so we gotta do the fahkin’ dirty work.”

I found myself rather liking Jaffa, despite him being an arrogant, confined-spaces smoker. Removalists tend to have either of two characteristic body shapes: thin and wiry (like me) or big, fat bastards. Jaffa was early twenties, neither short nor tall and not a scrap of fat on him. He also had the usual contempt for clients that comes standard with removalists everywhere.

“Wait ‘ll you see this place. Fahkin’ palace, mate. I was there last Friday ter do the packin’. How do people get so much fahkin’ money?”

“You had to pack money?”

Jaffa laughed.

“That’s more or less what it amounted to, but it was only ‘is stuff we was packin’. Yer should see all the shit they got. It’s like the British fahkin’ Museum, mate.”

We rattled along in companionable silence for a while, then Jaffa said, “One o’ the Malones, are ya?”

“No. Friend of the family.”

Jaffa gave me a sly wink.

“You know best, mate,” he said, with a chuckle and a small shake of his head.

“What are you fuckin’ on about?”

“Friend of the family?” he laughed. “I wouldn’t give removals work to a friend. I wouldn’t give it to a fahkin’ dog, mate.”

And, like all removalists, he had the characteristic contempt for his work and his employer.

“So yer not a Malone? Even though yer look like Danny and Mervyn’s arranged work for ya?”

“Not a Malone. A Judd - no relation.”

“Well, someone likes yer. Usual bloke, Dennis, was laid off so you could take his place.”

“Ah, fuck. I didn’t want that.”

Jaffa chuckled.

“Don’t worry about Dennis, mate. Lazy sod ‘d rather be indoors anyway … mixin’ up ‘is potions and fahkin’ about wiv computers. But Mervyn wouldn’t know that … roofless cunt that ‘e is.”

“Right. So how well do you know Mervyn?”

Jaffa flashed a look at me.

“Well enough,” he replied cautiously, and I smiled.

“Don’t worry, Jaffa. I’m not one of his spies.”

“Never said you were, mate! Still, can’t be too hasty when talkin’ about the boss. Dangerous man, but that’s no secret.”

“Dangerous?”

Jaffa glanced at me again, as he queued for the left turning lane.

“Well dangerous mate … to those whose interests are contrary to ‘is own.”

Jaffa eyed me again, tongue out as he edged the truck into a gap in the traffic which really wasn’t big enough, inspiring some angry tootling from the cut off driver behind.

“Yeah, get ter fahkin’ bollocks,” muttered Jaffa, then after a few moments he said, “Mervyn runs all sorts of businesses. I feature in two of his more legit enterprises.”

“And the less legit enterprises?”

“Well, I don’t know much about that. Except that I gather ‘e’s havin’ some difficulties maintainin’ ‘is territorial integrity.”

“Right. Does this involve the Blue Fury?”

“Them bastards?”

Jaffa shuddered.

“Evil buggers that lot. I ‘eard they was pushin’ their weight around outside their usual haunts. They’ve only ever been involved in foot-brawls in the past, cashies an’ all that bollocks. Word is they’re diversifyin’ into more mainstream activities. Word is they have a like… joint venture wiv one o’ the West End bosses. Could mean trouble for Mervyn.”

“Why’s that?”

Jaffa turned left at a sign pointing south-west to Maida Vale.

“What do yer know abaht the London arrangement, mate?”

“London arrangement? Nothing. I’ve been in the country three days.”

“Right. Aussie, aint ya? Well, norf o’ the river, London’s arranged into a bunch of territories: fiefdoms, as it were. The territories are mostly respected by the various bosses and they ‘elp each other out by stamping on any new gangs that might wanna start musclin’ in.”

“Does that happen much?”

“All the fahkin’ time, mate. Young kids in football gangs an’ the like wanting to graduate from ‘ouse breakin’ an’ ‘ole-in-the-wall muggin’.

They get ideas above their station and the big bosses come down like a ton ‘o bricks. Very nasty … can be.”

Jaffa pulled left again into a pleasant, tree-lined street with no traffic.

“‘Ere we are: Jennings Road, Maida Vale.”

“Nice place to live.”

“Yeah, cunts. Anyway, Mervyn’s word is law in the north-west from Ladbroke Grove to Barnet, but ‘e’s always ‘ad some trouble wiv ‘is neighbours to the south, which is where the Blue Fury come in. Chelsea boys.”

We pulled up outside a gorgeous Georgian double terrace.

“If the Blue Fury ‘ve done a deal wiv McNowt, it’ll change the whole balance - maybe fatally.”

* * *

Graeme McNowt stared up at the portrait of Hitler above his mantelpiece. As ever, he felt himself awed - humbled by the majesty, the quintessence of the Aryan pride and spirit. McNowt would have given anything to be alive during the 30s and 40s and one of Hitler’s inner circle - to help him, advise him, love him. For the thousandth time, McNowt agonised over the military mistakes that Hitler had made. The invasion of Russia. Madness! He must have been ill-ad-vised - betrayed by fools with no sense of history and proportion. He could have consolidated his gains in Eastern Europe and traded back control of France and Scandinavia to the Allies in exchange for a peaceful acceptance of a greater German republic in the east. He had all the lebensraum he needed and more, and the Reich would have lasted 1000 years! McNowt could have wept for the loss of the Aryan empire, and often did.

“Our time will come,” he muttered, and Vinnie Parsons glanced up at him.

“What was that, Guv?”

McNowt winced as Vinnie’s cockney invaded his Aryan reverie.

“I wasn’t speaking to you, Parsons.”

Vinnie hated it when McNowt went into one of his sulks over fahkin’ Hitler. Dealing with McNowt was scary enough at the best of times but after one of his Hitler sulks he was well bizarre. Vinnie found himself reflecting once again on how the BF had gotten involved with McNowt’s lot in the first place. Life was a lot simpler in the old days, just gettin’ into fights and sendin’ the young blokes out to bring in the cash. They still did that, obviously, but McNowt’s money was too much to ignore - even if the orders that came with it were irritating.

But it was the man himself that was most perplexing. Supposed to be some major crime boss, the man was a fahkin’ toff - wouldn’t last five seconds in a square go with any of the most junior recruits to the BF. But that was the reality of life, Vinnie conceded sadly to himself. Poncy toffs with heaps of cash could lord it over him and his ilk, and Vinnie was just smart enough to know that if he hadn’t accepted McNowt’s offer, there would soon have been another gang recruited into the BF’s territory with all the financial backing and muscle of McNowt’s West End connections. It hadn’t been so much an offer as an ultimatum. Still, life had been good until everything started going wrong in Aus-fahkin’-stralia. Once again his brain seared into incomprehensible fury at the memories - memories he still couldn’t bear to focus on - but they were always there, like a raging fire on the other side of a thin and flimsy wall.

“We made the papers I see,” said McNowt, distracting Vinnie from his anger. “And yet, I still don’t have the key.”

“Well, as it ‘appens, turns out it wasn’t Danny Malone on the plane after all. Looked like ‘im, but … at least we gave ‘im a proper slappin’. Teach ‘im to save penalties in the Cup semi,” said Vinnie.

Bones and Barry grinned proudly, but McNowt was in no mood to be complimentary.

“Do you have any idea what I am trying to accomplish here? Do you have any comprehension of what is at stake?” he asked quietly.

“Well, not really,” said Vinnie. “You ‘aven’t told us much. Somethin’ ‘bout deliverin’ a package. I was presumin’ some sort of drug deal.”

McNowt’s eyes went black and Vinnie knew he’d guessed wrong.

“Find the key, Parsons. Find it soon, or I’ll find someone who can.”