Joe was relaxing on his single bed in his small, but cheap, rented room, in Soho. He was thinking about Maria.
He had been reading the morning newspapers, which were now spread out on the bed, and was smoking a cigarette. He had been studying the newspapers every day since the jewellery theft two days before and was puzzled as to why there had been no mention of the theft in any of the newspapers or on the ‘wireless’ that he was listening to and that was now playing an old Vera Lynn number.
He was startled by a loud banging on his door.
“Who’s there?” he called.
He was immediately off the bed, stubbed out the cigarette and began pulling on his shoes. He had been waiting for this visit from the ‘Old Bill’.
“Joe Watts? Our guvnor wants a word with you!” the voice from the other side of the door yelled. “Now open the bleeding door!”
“Just a minute. I’ll put some clothes on,” he called back.
Joe was fully dressed but needed a few extra minutes to make good his escape. Swiftly he pulled on his jacket, grabbed the small suitcase from a chair near the window, scrambling through it and onto the cast iron fire escape that ran conveniently outside his window.
He was halfway down the rickety old construction when he heard a loud crash as his impatient visitors barged the door off its hinges. Joe was already on the ground and running along the narrow access lane that ran behind the house where he had a room when the thugs appeared at the window. They didn’t bother to give chase.
“You can run, Joe, but we’ll get you,” shouted one of the men from the open window. Joe stopped running when he was two streets away, confident that the hoodlums were not following him. He walked into a small café and sat down at a table which had an un-obscured view of the street. A buxom middle-aged waitress came to his table for his order.
“What’ll it be, handsome?” she asked.
“Just a coffee, luv,” Joe answered.
“Anything else? Bacon and egg sandwich?” the waitress persisted.
“No, that’s all,” Joe answered as he nervously scanned the street.
Who were those thugs? he thought. He was expecting the police but these were not the old bill. What’s going on? Why had there been no report of a jewellery theft? Why had the old bill not been around to Jackie Gee’s gaff? After all, the woman had eyeballed him! There was something funny going, but Joe couldn’t put his finger on it.
Two further cups of coffee later and Joe was still none the wiser. He decided to go and visit Jackie.
He set off for The Balaclava, Bethnal Green, the pub where Ellie worked. He didn’t know where she lived, even though he had had a brief relationship with her some years before and it was Joe who’d introduced Jackie to Ellie.
The bar was full when Joe arrived. Ellie was busy pulling pints but Joe managed to attract her attention.
“Can I have a word, Ellie?” Joe mouthed across the crowded bar.
“Five minutes,” she mouthed back and pointed to the entrance to the toilets. Joe nodded and headed towards the door that led to both the ladies and gents toilets. He used the gents while he was waiting, emptying his bladder of all the coffee he’d consumed. He was just leaving the gents as Ellie arrived.
“Hi, Joe, it’s been a while,” she said as she stretched up and gave him a peck on the cheek.
“It has Ellie, you look good!” Joe replied. “I’m looking for Jackie. I heard he might be at your place?”
“He is, Joe. Is something wrong? He doesn’t normally stay at my place for more than one night,” Ellie asked.
“No, Ellie, nothing’s wrong. I just need to talk to him.”
“You sure, Joe?” Ellie asked again.
“Yeah, it’s okay, Ellie. I just need to talk to him,” Joe repeated.
“Okay, Joe. My flat is just around the corner,” Ellie gave Joe her address. “It’s flat number seven,” she added.
“Thanks, Ellie. Don’t worry, everything is okay!” Joe tried to reassure her. Ellie didn’t look convinced.
Joe walked the short distance to the flat. It was part of a converted house; he climbed the stairs to the first floor, found number seven and knocked lightly on the door.
“Jackie, it’s Joe,” he whispered.
The door opened slowly and Jackie appeared.
“Been kind of expecting you, Joe!” Jackie said.
“What’s going on, Jackie?” Joe asked as he entered the small, one room flat.
“I don’t know, mate,” Jackie replied.
It was obvious that Jackie had also been studying the local newspapers – there were three or four laid out on the bed.
“Find anything?” Joe asked.
“No. Nothing, mate. I don’t understand why!”
“I just had a visit from a couple of goons, Jackie. Don’t know who, but they sure as hell weren’t the ‘Old Bill’,” Joe said.
“Not the ‘Old Bill’, Joe. You sure?” Jackie asked.
“Yeah, I’m sure, Jackie. You check the stones? They legit?” Joe answered.
“Oh yeah, they’re the real thing, no question,” Jackie answered.
“How much?” Joe asked.
“About a hundred grand, I reckon, maybe more,” Jackie replied.
“You’ve not fenced them yet then?” Joe inquired.
“No, they’re here,” Jackie said, pointing to the floorboards under the window. “I’ll wait till it quietens down.”
“You fancy a drink, Jackie?” Joe asked his friend.
“Yeah, why not! Let’s go down to Billy Donald’s place down Poplar,” Jackie replied.
They left Ellie’s little flat and hailed a cab. Neither of them noticed the two men sitting in the nondescript black Humber further along the street. The two friends told the driver to take them to the dockside pub, The Black Swan, owned by their friend.
They were greeted by Billy, who served them two dark ales, and they managed to find a table in the corner where they were able to talk in some privacy. They talked and drank throughout the whole evening, but were unable to come to any conclusion as to why the jewellery theft had not been reported, or why the old bill, if it was the old bill, were waiting outside Jackie’s gaff but didn’t follow them.
At eleven o’clock and ‘time’ had been called – time to leave; the two friends decided to get some air and walk along the river’s edge, where they continued their talk, before hailing a black cab. They had walked about fifty yards when they heard a shout from behind them.
“Jackie Gee?” the voice called.
They both turned together to see two men walking towards them: one a tall middle-aged man with a broad chest, wearing an expensive Crombie overcoat; the other was a smaller man with a wiry build, who was now reaching into a shoulder holster under his cheap raincoat.
“Run, Jackie,” Joe shouted.
They both turned and ran as fast as they could.
As they did so, they heard a gunshot. Joe instinctively ducked but continued to run. He had run another twenty yards before he realised Jackie was not behind him.
Joe stopped, ducked behind a building and looked back. His friend was lying on the edge of the dock. The bullet must have caught him in the back. Jackie looked up and saw Joe.
“Get up Jackie! Get up!” Joe pleaded.
Jackie shook his head and then rolled over the edge of the dock into the frigid waters of the River Thames. The two men came running over and stared into the black, murky water where Jackie’s body had disappeared.
“What the fuck were you thinking?” the older man of the two said to the younger man. “You’ve fucking killed him. Now we’ll never know where he’s stashed the fucking jewels,” he continued. “Now I’m well and truly fucked,” he screamed at the man.
Joe had seen enough. He quickly turned and disappeared into the darkness.
He must get away, he thought. Get out of London. But where? There was Jen, in Wales. But she had two kids now and he didn’t want to get her involved.
He began putting a plan together. Tomorrow he would try to find Maria. He had fallen head over heels in love, he couldn’t deny it, but how could he find her? The Adelphi. Tomorrow he would go to the theatre and try to speak to her. Before that, he would go to the lockup and take the Jaguar to somebody he knew who would take it off his hands – at the right price of course.
He didn’t sleep well that night, the evening’s events going continually through his mind, and he kept seeing his friend falling into the river, over and over again.
The following morning Joe took the Jaguar to Mick O’Brien, a likeable Irish rogue who ‘wheeled and dealed’ with motors. Joe asked him to give a price for his beloved Jaguar.
“Is it hot, Joe?” Mick asked.
“It’s not stolen, Mick, but… well, put it this way – I don’t think the old bill are looking for it,” Joe replied.
“Five hundred quid! That’s my best offer,” Mick stated.
“Fucking hell, Mick. It’s got to be worth seven hundred at least!” Joe pleaded.
“That’s the best I can do, Joe, take it or leave it,” Mick said.
“Okay, Mick, I’ll take it,” Joe replied, almost crying to see his Jag going for such a low price.
Without his own wheels now, Joe jumped on a bus that would take him to the Adelphi Theatre in The Strand. It was six o’clock when he arrived and he noticed that the evening show was at eight o’clock. He bought a ticket in the cheap seats and went outside to wait for Maria to arrive.
Joe was concealed in a dark entrance to a small shop almost directly opposite the theatre. The only visible sign that anybody was there was a small red glow from his ever-present Woodbine and the vapour wisp when Joe exhaled its coarse smoke.
Thirty minutes after six, a big American car pulled up outside the side entrance where Joe had noticed a stream of actors and actresses arriving and entering the theatre. It looked like a Chevrolet. Joe disliked these pretentious, oversize American cars, much preferring British made ones and there were none better, he thought than the Jaguar he had just ‘gifted’ to Mick O’Brien.
Joe saw Maria kiss the driver on the cheek before she exited the car from the front passenger door. The car drove off and Joe decided to rush across to Maria before she entered the theatre.
“Maria!” he called as he dived between two oncoming cars, whose drivers sounded their horns in anger.
Maria turned as Joe approached.
“Joe! What are you doing here? You shouldn’t be here!” she said, looking around at the people waiting for the main doors to open and the show to start.
“I’ve come to see you, Maria. I have a ticket – look.” Joe had taken the ticket from his pocket to show Maria.
“No, Joe! You can’t see the show. You must go!” Maria pleaded.
“What is it, Maria? What’s the problem? Why can’t I see the show?” Joe asked.
“Joe, I’ll meet you at The Buccaneer at midnight, okay? Now please! I must get ready for the show.” She had turned towards the stage door, but then returned to face Joe; she gave him a kiss on the lips. “I’ll see you later, Joe!” And she was gone into the theatre.
Joe decided he would see the show despite Maria pleading with him not to. His seat was in the middle of the row toward the back of the theatre and he slumped down in his seat so that she would not see him. As he waited for the show to start, he wondered who the guy was in the big American Chevrolet. He would ask Maria later; maybe it was her brother, he thought, suddenly realising how little he knew about her.
Joe soon recognised why he had never seen a show before on London’s West End; he was bored within no time and couldn’t wait for the performance to end. He did, however, think that Maria was superb and had the voice of an angel.
When the show ended and the applause was over, Joe made his way out of the theatre and hailed a cab to take him to the Buccaneer. The pub was full and the owner, Mitch Valentine, was at the bar surrounded by his cronies and hangers-on. Mitch saw Joe as he made his way to a free bar stool in the corner of the bar.
After ordering a pint of dark bitter, Joe was about to pay for it when Mitch Valentine appeared at his shoulder.
“That’s on the house, Gerry,” he said to the barman.
“Sure, Mr Valentine,” the obedient young bartender replied.
“Thanks a lot, Mr Valentine,” Joe said.
“My pleasure, Joe! Oh, and it’s Mitch to you, okay?”
“Er, sure Mitch,” Joe answered, as he took a long gulp of the bitter ale. He wasn’t sure exactly where this was going. He had used the Buccaneer on and off for about three years and had seen Mitch Valentine many times, but he had never spoken to Joe before or even acknowledged his existence. Now, suddenly, it was like they were good friends.
“I might have a job for you in a week or so. Is that alright, Joe?” Mitch Valentine asked.
“Sure, Mitch! What sort of job might that be, then?” Joe asked.
“Job involving a fast car, something like a Jag maybe!” Mitch added.
“No problem, Mitch! Just let me know when and where,” Joe said.
“Will do, Joe, will do!” Mitch Valentine said, as he turned to walk away, but then returned and spoke into his ear.
“Be careful of that broad, Joe. She’s dangerous,” he said, as he turned to another elderly customer, who was seeking his attention.
“Don’t you think you’ve had enough to drink, Colonel?” Joe heard ‘Mitch’ enquiring of the elderly gentlemen.
“Nonsense, Mr Valentine! I could drink any of these whippersnappers under the table, any time!” was the reply.
“I believe you could, Colonel. I believe you could, too!” Mitch Valentine tried to humour the old man, who was clearly the worse for wear.
As Mitch Valentine merged into the crowd, Gerry rang the bell for last orders. Joe ordered another beer from Gerry, which he paid for this time. He began to think about what Mitch had said to him. There was no chance of doing the driving job, the Jag being in the hands of that thieving little Irishman. Though it was possible he could get Mick O’Brien to loan him the car – at a price, of course!
Joe, however, had other ideas. He needed to get out of London and start a new life, possibly in Wales, near Jen and Gareth. First, though, he had to speak to Maria – she was very much part of his plans, but what did Mitch Valentine mean when he said she was ‘dangerous’? He took his time finishing the second beer, waiting till eleven thirty when most of the regulars left. Then he made his way down to the after-hours club in the basement.
Despite what Mitch had said, Joe was in good spirits. He was looking forward to a night at the small discrete hotel with the beautiful Maria, where he would ask her to come away with him. He didn’t know where he was going. Anywhere, as long as it was out of London and Maria was with him.
Joe knocked three times on the basement door, which was the recognised signal. Tom immediately opened the heavy door.
“Hi, Tom,” Joe said.
“Hey, Joe! Where’s your sidekick tonight?” Tom asked.
“Jackie? I don’t know. Haven’t seen him since that night in here, Tom,” Joe lied. An image of his friend disappearing into the dark, murky waters of the River Thames flashed across his mind.
Joe made his way to the bar where Andy was waiting. Joe was the only customer; the rest of the bar was completely empty.
“What’ll it be, Joe?” Andy asked.
“Beer, Andy, I’ll have a beer,” Joe answered,
“Not champagne, Joe?” Andy asked with a wry smile.
“Maybe later, Andy – In fact, put a bottle on ice,” Joe replied.
“Very good, Joe! So we are expecting company, aren’t we?” Andy asked as he handed Joe his pint of beer.
“Aye, we are Andy, any time soon,” Joe said as he looked at the large clock that hung behind the bar and showed eleven forty-five.
Andy took down a bottle of Moët & Chandon from the rack and placed it in a bucket which he had filled with ice, and which in turn he placed on the bar in front of Joe.
At three o’clock, the ice in the bucket had almost completely melted, the champagne bottle untouched. Maria had not shown up. Joe had changed from beer to scotch on the rocks at about two o’clock and was now extremely drunk. He stood up from the bar stool, very unsteady on his feet, paid Andy his bar bill and gave him a large tip and then staggered towards the door, where Tom rushed to support him after he had knocked over an empty table.
“Steady on, Joe! You want me to get you a cab?” Tom asked.
“I’m okay, Tom!” Joe slurred.
Tom opened the door and helped Joe up the steps and onto the pavement and then watched as he staggered along the street weaving from side to side and bouncing off parked cars.
That was the last time Joe was seen by Andy and Tom.