Hackman

26

Jack wouldn’t be so easy to sneak up on, so I began to follow him... discreetly, carefully, religiously.

The thug duo went everywhere with him. In the evenings, once he was home, I went back to my hotel, watched TV.

As usual, repeats were the order of the day. Saw all the Godfather I and II. Even toyed with the idea of doing an Al Pacino. Meet Jack in a restaurant, have the gun stashed in the toilet.

Sure.

He’d probably seen the movie and stash my hands in the toilet. I thought of Reed all the time. The other deaths I’d blanked. Could go whole chunks of activity without them obtruding. But Reed just was. I saw some of him in every black face I saw.

In prison you can smell a riot coming. The days before, it turns very quiet.

Reed said:

‘Okay, here’s the deal — there’s three stages involved with heavy duty rioting...

1. The Riot proper

2. The Reclaiming

3. The Reprisals...

...What we do is, we stay in this cell, we don’t come out for nothin’ or nobody. You hear me now?’

I heard him then, I hear him now.

It was one of the very few times he’d spoken in my accent. That got my attention most. When the riot came it was like opening a back door to hell. Course all the righteous dudes, they went after the nonces, the sex-offenders on Rule 43.

Hung them from the landings. The papers don’t cover that.

Then they came for us with threats, bribes, hoses, and even fire. But Reed was a veteran and we came through.

After, he said:

‘Dee worst shee-hit bro’, dat be to die alone.’

I looked like I was going to let that happen. Put it on the rap-sheet of the damned. How could I have believed he’d leave London? A hundred times he’d said:

‘Brixton be dee blues — dee blues be mo hearts beat.’

Once, to pass an evening, Reed and I went to an A A meeting in the nick. Got you outcha cell for an hour. You get biscuits, tea and free tobacco.

What I remember is the guy saying, ‘When I’m uncertain, confused, dunno what to do, I up my meetings.’


So I upped my surveillance — it paid dividends.

Jack was down to one thug indoors. Each evening at seven, thug Number One accompanied him inside, Number Two drove off in the Audi.

I checked, rechecked to be certain this was the usual routine. It was.

Afternoons, I’d take an hour off, go roast on a sunbed. Brown to brownest. Now I resembled George Hamilton playing the part of a skinhead on the skids. The wire-rimmed glasses had an astounding effect. Made me appear intense and I was sure working on it.

Before, I’d hear someone say, ‘I’m working on my tan,’ I’d think, Nice work if you can get it.

I was getting close.

Them steroids make you want to kick ass... any ass. Kick, anyway.


Two-thirty in the morning.

They call it the dying time. I could go with that. Drove up there at a leisurely pace, I didn’t want to be pulled over then. Dulwich isn’t exactly where it’s happening at the best of occasions; that hour, it’s scarce-city.

Parked the car and was careful not to bang the doors. I was wearing a black tracksuit, black trainers. Jogged up to the house. I couldn’t see any sign of activity. Went round the back and forced a ground-floor window, using a suction pad so as to hold the broken glass intact. I saw that in a movie and, I can testify, it works. Then I was able to open the full window and climb on in.

Among the scenarios I’d considered for Jack was something from one of his favourite actor’s movies. For example, I’d toyed with French Connection II: pumping him full of heroin over a few days. Scratched that.

Stood rock-still in the kitchen as the sound of many voices carried.

‘Jesus!’ I said.

How wrong could I have got it... party night or what? Turned back to the window when the sound changed and I realised it was a video. Big breath of relief.

Tip-toed out and peeked in the living room. Jack was not only watching Bonnie and Clyde but talking back to the movie. Sounded like he knew it by heart. I reached in my waist-band for the Glock, but went for the Browning instead.

Two, three steps and wallop!

Jack slumped in the chair. I glanced at the screen, Gene was blinded and howling like a pig.

I said, ‘Figures.’

And let him howl.

Went in search of Thug Number One. He was snoring like a horse in the upstairs bedroom. Prodded him gently awake and said, ‘Don’t ever interrupt me,’ and coshed him with the Browning. I used the sheets as rope and packed his own socks into his mouth.

Bundled him into the closet, said, ‘Homophobic that!’

I was sweating freely and reckoned I’d time to take a shower. Did that and used a variety of deodorants to freshen up, muttering, ‘Some men can’t help acting on impulse.’

Yeah.

Didn’t re-dress but had a look round the house, enjoying the freedom being naked brings. Opened a door, hit the light, said:

‘Holy Shit!’

It was a shrine to Roz. Framed pictures everywhere, close to a hundred, I’d guess. Centrepiece was a life-sized portrait that took up most of the wall, with bracket lights for emphasis. Looked as if she was coming right at you. A spooky feeling.

I said:

‘You were a bad bitch then and you ain’t improved.’

Closed the door on her.

Time for Jacko.

When he came round, he was tied, naked, to a kitchen chair. I was still in the buff and lounging on the sofa. A gag prevented any screaming. I’m real intolerant of it. His eyes bulged.

I said:

‘I’ve got to hand it to you, fellah. Even unconscious, you’re a definite nine.’

Sounds came from the gag, his body contorted in ferocious effort.

Continued... ‘Yup, don’t be shy, we did exchange body fluids. You probably don’t remember when we met, one of the karaoke numbers was Hot Chocolate’s “It Started With A Kiss”. How’s that for irony, eh?

‘Oh yeah, I’ve just been tested and, alas, HIV positive — the middle-class disease. See those suckers on my neck, they’re sarcomas. But no doubt you’ll get to learn all this good shit for yerself. I’m going to split and...

‘What can I say? Keep it buttoned, guy.’

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