CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

As we're gettin nearer the Portacabin, I see a big fuck-off knuckle-dragger standin guard outside.

'All right, Brooksy?' Terry says, tryin to talk hard, but I can tell he’s fuckin terrified of this cunt. 'Tell the Governor I got Johnny Sissons with me.'

Brooksy gives Terry a look like he fuckin hates him. Sort of leerin, like he wants to rip his arms off here and now, throw him in the fuckin River, and wave to him as he drowns. But he don't. Not this time. Instead, he knocks on the Portacabin door. The door opens a crack, and Brooksy says a few words I can't hear.

Then out comes this bloke. Normal lookin. Mid-sixties. Suited up, but not like them Mafia types off the films, just a normal brown suit. He comes over to me and Terry, all friendly, arms out, like he's known me all his fuckin life.

'Johnny,' he says, ignorin Terry and clappin me on the top of me arms with his hands. His hands are massive. And he's got a smile like me Grandad, sort of like his eyes are smilin as much as his mouth. 'It's a pleasure to meet you, son.'

He puts his arm around me shoulders and leads me towards the Portacabin. Brooksy opens the door, and we go inside.

 

***

The Portacabin's just like a little office. Ronnie sits down behind a desk at one end. There's a couple of other blokes sittin at a table up the other end, smokin cigars and lookin proper fuckin scary. Terry sits down with em, but you can see he ain't comfortable. He's way out his depth with these bastards, and he knows they'd cut his throat soon as look at him.

'Get the boy a drink, George,' Ronnie says. Asks me if Scotch is all right.

I says it is.

He tells me to sit down and make meself at home.

George brings me drink over and lands it on the desk in front of me.

'Right,' Ronnie says, givin me that big friendly smile of his. 'I'll cut to the chase, son. Terrence here has told me all about you, and although the other lads reckon he is a Grade 'A' Mister fucking Wanker – and who knows, they might have a point – I like him. He's a good boy.'

As he's talkin to me, I can't help thinkin of me Grandad.

'The minute I saw you, John,' he says, 'I knew young Terrence hadn't let me down. It's in your eyes. I see that look in the best of em.'

Here he sort of stares off for a second, like he's rememberin or he's lost his track or something. Then he carries on like he ain't even realised he's done it.

'And I warrant you're no fucking idiot, neither, kid. Not like Brooksy out there. Has his uses, Brooksy, wouldn't be without the cunt, but he's somewhat limited, if you know what I mean. Good job and all, cos if he had half a brain, we'd all be propping up the bleeding flyover, wouldn't we lads?'

The other blokes laugh, sort of deep, like an animal would laugh. Terry joins in but he stands out a fuckin mile.

'Now, John,' Ronnie carries on, 'I don't know if young Terrence here has told you, but we've had a few problems of late.'

'He mentioned it,' I says.

Ronnie leans back in his chair and puts his hands behind his head.

'I've got a very delicate situation needs sorting, John,' he says. ‘Pains me to say it, John, fucking kills me, but I think we've got someone on the Firm doing the dirty on old Ronnie.'

I find that fuckin hard to believe. I mean, on the one hand, he seems a pretty reasonable sort of bloke and if everyone's gettin weighed out like Terry reckons, why the fuck would anyone wanna be skimmin off the top? And on the other hand, he's obviously a fuckin maniac. With a sword. Fuck me, whatever silly cunt's rippin him off really has gotta be some sort of fuckin idiot.

He says if I help him out there'll be no lookin back for me. And I reckon if I don't, lookin won't even be a fuckin option.

He leans forward towards me, like he's gonna tell me a secret.

'Son,' he says, lookin genuinely fuckin aggrieved. 'We've got a problem with Kenny.'

Shit.

'Kenny?'

Ronnie blows his cheeks out and shakes his head, and sits back again.

'Couldn't believe it myself, son, when I heard,' he says, and carries on his little performance. 'Breaks my bleeding heart. Don't know how he's doing it. Can't work it out for the life of me. I mean, he's thicker than Brooksy out there, and that takes some fucking doing, I can tell you, but I just can't work it out. Mind you, they say some of these mong sorts have got fucking genius in em, don't they, John?'

Sort of makes sense now, where Kenny’s been gettin all that money from.

Ronnie says how he's got 'a little interest' in the dogs, a 'business venture'. Walthamstow, Romford, Catford, all over the city. He's got patsies on each track layin down the cash and the likes of Kenny goes along at the end of the night and brings back his winnins.

'I mean,’ Ronnie says, 'you and me, John, we both know Kenny's soft as shit, don't we? But he's a big old bastard and those eyes of his, they fucking scare the shit out of me sometimes, so I know none of the patsies are gonna fuck with him. You know what I mean?'

I hear chairs movin behind me, footsteps, and the door opens and shuts. Ronnie don't take his eyes off me, so I don't dare fuckin turn round.

'A little dickie bird tells me,' Ronnie says, 'young Kenny's been flashing his cash, you know, handing it out to all and fucking sundry.'

He tells me that's nice of him. Really fuckin nice. But it's hurtin him. Says it's bad for business. Reckons there's only one place Kenny can be gettin the money from. And that's old Ronnie himself.

If Kenny's helpin other people out, you know, not just Mum, people who might otherwise be regular customers of Mr Ronald Swordfish here, I can see how it might be gettin up his arse.

'And what do you want me to do?' I says.

Ronnie puts on his proper sorry look.

'I know Kenny's a mate of yours,' he says, 'and, believe me, he's like a fucking son to me, like me own fucking boy. You know what I mean?'

He blows out his cheeks and shakes his head, like he genuinely can't fuckin believe someone's been nickin off him.

'I need you to bring him in, John, so we can have a chat. Just a chat. Will you do that for me, John?'

He could have Kenny down here in a fuckin heartbeat, I know that. He knows that. But he wants to know if I'm on the fuckin level. He's fuckin testin me. The bastard wants to know if I got what it takes. Wants to know if I'll shop me nearest and dearest on his fuckin say so. But it'd be like walkin Kenny to the fuckin gallows and puttin the rope round his head me fuckin self. Ain't no way I'm doin that. No fuckin way.

'And if I don't?' I says.

He sits up again, straight. And smiles like me Grandad.

 

***

Don't take me long to get lost comin back. This side of the Commercial Road's off me manor, and I ain't got a clue where I'm goin. Besides, me head’s spinnin and I can't think straight to save me fuckin life.

All I know is I gotta find Kenny. But when I gets down our street, his gaff's all dark like it always is.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I gotta think this one out.

I get home just as Mum's clearin up the tea stuff. Becky's at the sink in the kitchen givin me a filthy look.

'There's a plate of sandwiches in the fridge for you, love,' Mum says. 'And some crisps in the cupboard.'

I don't say nothing back. Ain't hungry no more. I go in the front room and sit myself in Dad's chair. Mum comes in, tea-towel in her hand ready to dry up.

She asks me if everything's all right, if there's anything I wanna talk about.

She's sayin it the way she used to when I was a kid, like she knows there's something up but wants me to tell her myself. I'm guessin Becky's told her I see Terry Wilkins.

I tell her I'm all right, just a bit tired.

She knows I'm lyin through me teeth.

She's says she's puttin the kettle on and to give her a shout if I want a cuppa.

I tell her thanks.

I need something a bleedin sight stronger than a fuckin cuppa to get through this.

Me brain's goin hundred miles a second, tryin to get a way out of the shit I'm in. The shit me and Kenny's both in. But the way I sees it, there's only one way this is endin.

I'm lookin out the window at Kenny's. And the light from the street lamp outside his house is on the flicker again.

Ronnie's leavin it twenty-four hours before he wants me to bring Kenny in. And I know it ain't cos of the kindness of his heart. He's givin me a chance to tip Kenny off. That's what it is. Like the bastard's wantin me to fuck up, so either way, he can have his fuckin bloodbath. Wants me down the boozer tomorrow night when Kenny comes in. Says there's gonna be a phone call, then wants me to follow Kenny down the wasteland. Make sure he gets there. That's all. Case there's any funny business, case I get any ideas, Ronnie says he'll have a couple of his lads down the boozer keepin an eye on proceedings.

Thinkin hard as I can, hard as I ever thought, but nothing's happenin.

But if I can find out where Kenny's stashin the dosh, have a strong old word with him, you know, put the frighteners on him, make sure he knocks his little scam on the head, then that's bound to fuckin sort it. Ronnie's happy cos he's back in pocket, I'm fuckin square with the psycho-fucker, Kenny gets a slap on the wrist, and it's happy families all round.

Fuckin sorted.

But I got this empty sort of feelin like I know I'm kiddin myself, but it's the best I can come up with under the circumstances. Becky comes in, givin me the same look she give Wilkins at the stall.

'Mum's asking if you want a cup of tea,’ she says, cold as fuckin anything.

'Tell Mum not to wait up,' I says, and I'm out the house in seconds.