MECCA
From when I was twelve years old, all I wanted to do was go out with me mates and enjoy meself. I didn't fancy the confines of home, watching me Mum do the ironing whilst she waited for the old man to come back from work. I had a sister who was only nine at the time and she annoyed the living daylights out of me just by breathing back then! There was never anything on TV, and I got a bollocking when I turned me music up too loud. I was only twelve, but I thought that I was all grown up. No one understood me. I was just your typical kid. What did being at home have to offer? Excitement? The prospect of a larger social circle? The chance to do things that I shouldn't be doing? Would it help me meet new people? More importantly, would I meet girls whilst procrastinating at my parents abode? Not on your Nelly mate! So, meeting the lads down our local park with a packet of ten Marlboro Reds, a bottle of thunderbirds, some blue rizzla and a five draw of puff seemed exceedingly preferable at the time.
Out of our little gang there were two of us who always had fags and a bit of dough. Me and Matty. Matty was a tall, skinny kid I knew from school that liked the same music as me. He lived about fifteen minutes down the road. We both had money because we grafted for it. Not cos our parents spoiled us, but cos we wanted to get out there and earn it. We wanted to be independent. My main income at the time was provided by a morning paper round and Matty worked every Saturday, French Polishing with his Dad, so both he and I always had a few quid to splash about. See, I liked that in him, we were the two boys that when the lads met up were sure to receive an invite. Now, I know that it was because either he or I would be shelling out the snouts, sharing our spoils, or indulging in something that wasn't necessary legal, but as much as we were supplying everyone with what they wanted; handing out fags, paying for cans of coke or sharing our booze and class C drugs; we both had an advantage over the other lads. We could afford to do whatever we wanted to whenever we fancied it, and the other lads respected, or even envied that in us, but because of this, we were higher up in our view of the social classes, we were the "Flash Harry's" of the gang. I mean, it might not sound that much now, but I used to earn twelve to fifteen pounds a week delivering newspapers, and it paid for fags, booze and the occasional bit of hash; it was actually quite an extravagant lifestyle for a kid who was just twelve years old!
Now, I blame this extravagance on me old man. He was the kind of fella that everyone liked. He was a real, honest, family man that would do anything to ensure his wife and kids didn't go without. Before I was born he was working 3 different jobs a day. He'd start at 5am and come home at around 9pm, seven days a week. He wanted to make sure he provided for his family. I've great memories of my dad when I was a kid. My old man was a good looking fella, he was always dapper; he had the flash car, smart suits and when he was round his pals he would always command a certain air of respect from them. Not because he was viewed as a tough guy, he wasn't what I'd call menacing, although I know he could be a bit handy back then, it was because he was so lively, so noticeable. He could talk to anyone about anything and more than likely make them laugh in the process, which is always an admirable trait.
But when he went out, he was just like I was, or more-so how I wanted to be. He'd always ensure that the kitty was topped up and that everyone around him had a drink. So, that was how I tried to be. That was my role model. I was a bit like the old man in some ways, with a few quid in me pocket and an answer for everything; I was mini me, and me Dad was Doctor Evil. But my old man always grafted hard, and ninety nine percent of it was good, honest graft. I would hardly see him during the week, because by the time I woke up he'd already have gone to work, and he always came home way after I'd been sent to bed. Luckily, back then it was only six days a week, but still fifty two weeks a year. I only ever get to spend time with him on a weekend, or on the annual family holiday, but I remember those times with great fondness. Wanting to be like my Dad was always a good thing in my eyes, and it often had its perks.
You may have gathered that at a fairly young age I wanted to earn money, and I realised that if someone wanted something that you could get, they'd happily pay for it. My old man had a news stall in the West End for most of his life; he took it over when his Dad passed away. Right slap on top of Carnaby Street in Central London it was. Around this time I started to think of ways that I could make extra money. I used to do things like cut all the Page 3 pictures out of the newspapers before me old man sent them back to the wholesalers and stick the cuttings into a scrapbook, then I'd sell them as saucy mags to the kids in school. It earned me a few quid. Sometimes I used to get me hands on a copy of Hustler or Razzle that had been knackered in the rain so Dad couldn't send it back, but I'd still find some pervy prepubescent schoolboy that would be more than happy to part with his lunch money for it!
I remember when me Dad let me in on our first "deal". Don't get me wrong, my old man was never into selling the things I did, nor did he condone doing the kinda things I've done, but it's best said that he was never a man to look a gift horse in the mouth. Being in the middle of London's most prominent shopping area, and slap on top of Great Portland Street, which is where most of the clothing wholesalers used to be, sometimes he'd come into ownership of a few boxes of clobber. Things like designer suits, women's underwear, tracksuits, bomber jackets, shoes, shirts... All that kinda malarky. There was one fella me old man used to know that worked for a clothing company that were sponsoring the British Olympic team at the time. He used to get hold of the old shellsuit style tracksuits, and the old man gave me a few samples to show my pals, their parents and their older brothers or sisters so that I could earn a few quid for meself.
Now, you've gotta imagine it; it was the 1980's, fluorescent colours were in fashion, and so were shellsuit tracksuits, so I was onto a right winner here! They were definitely fluorescent; I mean we're talking Miami Vice meets Vikki Pollard from Little Britain! You'd never lose anyone wearing one of these things, cos they stood out more than a Somalian cleaning his teeth right in the middle of a Stamford Hill Synagogue, trying to sing Ha-Va bleedin' Nigila! I was well chuffed. I was about fourteen, I knew everybody and anybody, and believe me, at the prices I was selling these at, everybody and anybody was gonna buy these shellsuits as far as I was concerned! I sold shitloads of 'em and made a nice little mint out of it n'all! But I didn't sell as many as me Dad did...
Every year at Easter, me Mum & Dad used to take my sister and me to a holiday camp up in Great Yarmouth for a weekend break where they'd meet up with old friends; families of the fellas the old man used to play football with. We'd all have a beano in this gaffe for the long weekend, say goodbye and then return to normality come the Monday afternoon. Half way up there, as was the norm, we'd all meet up in this crappy little chef service stop, have a bit of grub and then crack on. It was almost like a fucking tradition. Anyway, this same year, we set off in the morning prepared for the journey ahead. It was a long old drive from London back then, so arriving at the service station was quite a welcoming relief. There we all were, Mum, Dad & me kitted out in "fashionable" shellsuits, thinking we looked the bee's knees. Let's just say we looked "Glowing". Because we'd turned up a bit later than normal, everyone else was already in the queue to buy a spot of lunch.
We've bowled into this service station to meet all the other families and there they all were; every single one of them dressed from tip to toe in these fucking fluorescent shellsuits! We looked like a Latvian gymnastics team queuing up for a bacon bleedin' sandwich! You should have seen us; our clothes were that bright we looked like the lighting on a runway at Gatwick Airport, waiting for Boeing 737 to land on a nightflight from Majorca! The old man had only gone and sold these bloody tracksuits to everybody he knew! A chip off the old block some might say...
Throughout my life, I'd have to say that I'd at least try anything once, so long as I'd benifit from it, and I've had plenty of opportunities put my way. Now, I know I'm jumping the gun a bit, but to give you an idea of how fucked up some of the things are that I've done, I want to tell you about a rather unsavoury little episode I was involved in.
I was about 23, fresh out of the nick, and at that point I only really had one method of earning quick money, and it wasn't in any way something you'd call honest. By this time I'd met a few faces, put my own face about enough to let people know that I was always up for earning a few bob, and had gotten into enough "discrepancies" for those around me to know that I could handle meself. I was in a posh bar in Richmond just by the river, having a drink with a rather well known face and a few of his cronies. It was summertime and the sun was beating down, so we decided to go and sit in the corner of the garden that faced the Thames. Not only was it a great place to appreciate both the view and the weather, but it was also out of the way of prying eyes and ears.
This "face" was a big fella, always suited, always looking smart. As usual he was accompanied by a rather daunting entourage that all made Mike Tyson look like a big, poofy, pink fairy. Six foot four and thickset, his hands were like bunches of bananas, his forearms as big as the top of my legs, with a shaved head and a scar from just above his left ear that carved a deep, thick line which ended at the very bottom of his chin. His cheeks were like great slabs of solid marble and his nose was squashed, not dissimilar to that of a boxer. Knowing what I knew, he woulda made a very good boxer, but I think he realised that his talents could be put to use elsewhere, and that they would earn him more money too. His eyes were pure evil. They were cold, grey and very intimidating; I didn't know one person that could stare into his eyes and keep their cool for very long. Not exactly what I'd call an oil painting, but he had the devil in him, a right cocky glint of invincibility would occupy his eyes every time he smiled. Some women found this quite attractive, or so he told me. Personally, I think he was kidding himself. The real reason women found him attractive was because he was abso-fucking-lutely cakeaboo. He flashed his kybosh and his coke around in front of anyone he knew he'd benefit from giving it to, and was probably one of the most feared faces in London back then. That was the icing on this evil cake. Not the type of bloke you'd really want to take home to meet your parents. Today, his cocky glint was hidden behind a pair of black Armani sunglasses.
"We all know what the apple is," He said in a deep, curt, South London accent. "So this job should be a breeze. If you lot don't pull this off, I might as well go to London Zoo and nick meself a load of chimpanzees, because even a bunch of fucking monkeys couldn't pull a wrong'un on this!" And as far as I was concerned, this big lump of intimidating naughtiness was absolutely right, the job was full proof. Sweet...
All we had to do was fly by on a bike, grab a case, swap it for a dummy case in a planted motor that was literally parked 100 metres around the corner from the hoist, and then continue the chase so that the real McCoy could be transported back to the firm later on without any heat.
As far as I was concerned all I had to do was drive for twenty minutes and I earned ten large. So it's on; I'm plotted up just round the corner in the motor and the fella riding pillion was to snatch the case, fuck off on the bike, I'd swap the bag with the one I had in the motor, and then I'd take it back to the boys later. We were each instructed to make one call at a certain time, depending on our role to a number that was specified last minute, but other than that, no contact between us until the meet later. If one of us were to get a pull or get nicked, the old bill would have had to work a damn sight harder to find out who else was in on the job. So, I arranged to plot up round some brasses flat I knew until later that evening. The case would then be hidden in a rather large sports bag. I thought I'd have a little bit of fun with this rather accommodating woman in order to make time go a little quicker, then run the bag back to the meet and get paid.
Like I said... Sweet...
About as sweet as chewing on a fucking lemon...
Sweet? Was it Fucking Bollocks! I was working with the occupants of a sunshine bus, and not one of them was the driver! These lads had a joint IQ of about 12.... And that was between 5 of the mugs.
Getting back to it... I'm plotted up, and this motor pulled in and parked behind me. I moved forward a bit, just in case it was a stitch up and the motor was full of Rozzers. But you'd think that the prick of a pillion rider woulda seen the difference between a white Ford Mondeo and a green Land Rover wouldn't you? Well, this Muppet didn't, he slung the bag into the Land Rover's open window instead of mine, then all of a sudden the Land Rover just shot off... With our fucking Case! I was just sitting there in total disbelief. That Prick! I needed to get that bag back! I stuck the motor in gear and shot off behind the Land Rover. I couldn't believe that the two fellas on the bike just shot off without checking the driver and getting the dummy case! Fucking Two Bobs Worth!
The guy in the Land Rover was ragging the arse outta his motor, no doubt he'd seen what we'd done and thought "Fuck this... I'll have it!" and just tried to do a runner. I caught him up in traffic about 4 miles further into the city, dragged the cheeky git outta the motor, ensuring that the case was still in there and of course that it was the right one, then just drove the fucking Land Rover round to see the little bit of fluff I had waiting for me instead of driving the Mondeo.
When I arrived at the meet later, the two fellas on the bike still hadn't arrived...
So it was just me, the "Face", we'll call him Tom for now, his little entourage and a fella called Mikey T. Mikey was a big half caste fella - half Jamaican and half Pikey, but 100 percent nasty, dark, hard bastard.
"So what the fuck happened, you soppy little cunt?" Tom was not a happy bunny. "Where are the rest of the Monkeys? I aint heard nothing from no cunt since you left!" The lads were supposed to have called in once they'd swapped bags, but they didn't swap the bags, so they couldn't really make that call could they? I thought about Tom's reaction "That ungrateful wanker!" Something I felt was just, although I'd never have said it out loud.
"Look Tom," I said, trying to ease the situation. "I know I was supposed to call in on the mobile when I made the swap too, but I was a bit too busy chasing the wanker in the Land Rover who'd half-inched our fucking bag!" I know I shoulda called, but I'd left the phone in the Mondeo. I proceeded to explain what'd happened and that we had the case anyway, we were just two down. Tom cheered up, well... just a little bit, until the penny dropped... Those two little shits had tried to stitch us up! Tom and Mikey went mental! Anyone that was stupid enough to try a stitch up on those two had a fucking death wish. Now they wanted blood, and they were gonna get it.
Within an hour the word was out that we were looking for these two fellas, and within the next 30 minutes we'd received about 10 phone calls all with information on where these boys would be. We were on our way to the Elephant and Castle very shortly after we'd got the calls; Tom was going mental calling everyone cunts and driving slightly faster than usual, we were doing about 80mph in 30 zones instead of just good old 60mph, Mikey was loading a piece and naming each shell as slid them into the extended clip. "Ankle... Kneecap... Dick... Chest... Shoulder... Head..." A fella called Ginger had met up with us and joined us in the motor as well, you'll learn more about Ginger later. He was one of the big boys' personal security; a fella that was known as "Salubrious". Salubrious wasn't the nicest of fellas, but if you were deemed as alright, then he could be a right laugh. And if he ever turned up on your doorstep with Ginger on tow, you'd know that you'd be in trouble if you didn't do as you were asked. So having Ginger there was a great comfort. I thought that if they started pulling out shooters, I could hide behind the big Ginger lump and not get shot; he weighed in at about 19 stone, was wider than the Great Wall of China and looked more menacing than Dennis and Gnasher on steroids. But despite his looks, Ginger was the nicest, most humbling and unassuming person I'd ever met in that line of business. I sat there, in the back, wondering what these fellas were gonna do. I didn't think they were just gonna give these two lads Chinese wrist burns then tell their Mum and Dad's that they'd been naughty boys, but I was really hoping I wasn't about to witness a re-enactment of the St. Valentines Day Massacre.
One of the things I've learnt in life is what you want aint always what you get... There were about ten of us in two motors; four of us were in Tom's Merc and the Chrysler People Carrier was filled with the muscle. When we arrived at our destination, we pulled up outside a right dump of a boozer full of unsavoury looking characters. I'm looking at Tom & Mikey, who are screaming blue murder at everyone and everything, thinking that we were gonna go in there all guns blazing, I really didn't fancy that, but all of a sudden, Ginger walks up to Tom, says a few words, Tom calms down, looks at Ginger, lights a cigarette, and Ginger just fucks off into the Boozer on his Jack Jones without a tool. Was this geezer mentalist? This was a right naughty boozer, and I couldn't really see him taking on every cunt in there on his own! Two minutes later he walked back out the boozer with our two little Evil Kinevils by the scruff of the neck, and a great big smile plastered across his face. It always tickled me, but Ginger had two types of faces; the one you saw when he was out with the lads or caring for those that were close to him, and one that would scare the bejesus out of you when he was doing a bit of work. Need I say that the latter was somewhat chilling.
He ushered them into the back of the People Carrier, shut the door and got back into Toms Merc. "Right Boss, back to yours then?" Ginger said, laughing. "Yeah, fucking right Ginger. Do me a favour, make a call and invite Salubrious to our little gathering will you? I know how much he enjoys these little sessions. Anyway, how'd you pull that off in the Boozer without any agro?" Tom asked.
"I just told 'em they were coming with me Boss. They didn't argue." Ginger just sat there quietly for the rest of the journey with a little grin on his moosh, whilst Tom & Mikey joked about what they were going to do with our two captives.
We arrived back at one of Toms Warehouses only to find Salubrious pacing the floor outside. "What time do you call this? I've already been here for half an hour." Salubrious said jokingly "Time is Money!" One of his favourite sayings. Thing was, with the types of dealings Salubrious and Ginger were into, every day that money was owed would be another day they were in business. "So what you got for me then?" asked Salubrious "Another little persuasion session" Said Tom. "I know how much you like to make 'em sing." Me, being the smart cunt, turned to Salubrious, looked him in the eye, then piped up and said "Yeah, if you didn't end up being a villain pal, I always thought you'd have been a bit of a Stock Aitken and Waterman!"
How was I to know that Salubrious didn't like Rick Fucking Astley?
"Shut up you fucking knob jockey." Salubrious replied angrily, "You got something to prove?" He always liked to see how far he could push people before they snapped. He enjoyed the intimidation that was aroused purely by his reputation. Normally, he didn't have to say much once people realised exactly who he was.
Salubrious wasn't exactly called salubrious because he was a nice fella. In fact, he was the complete opposite. A right vicious, sadistic, arrogant bastard who couldn't give a monkeys about the concerns of others, he was always out to look after number one. A bit of a loose cannon. Rather more "Insalubrious" than a gentleman of good character, of which the word "Salubrious" actually implies. He got stuck with the name after Ginger started working with him. That was Ginger's sense of sarcastic humour kicking in. Ginger was quite an ambitious fella, he was someone who always wanted to better his command of english diction, as he'd grown up with dyslexia.
"If you reckon you're a big boy, seeing as you're here, we can play some big boys games together!" Shouted Salubrious, with a voice that mocked me. What the fuck had I done now!?!?! Me and my big mouth. I didn't like the sound of what he was getting at, but I wasn't going to let him think I was intimidated by him. "Well, when you're ready sunshine!" was my immediate reaction. "What do you wanna play? Fucking Monopoly?" Sometimes I'm really, REALLY, stupid. Nothing much more was said between the two of us, and Tom got his Gorillas to drag the two rather beaten looking captives into the warehouse. "How'd they end up looking so battered already Boss?" Ginger asked Tom. "Vinny must have been going over those speed bump thingies a bit fast son." Replied Tom. Salubrious looked at me and said "Well, at least they've warmed the subjects up a bit boy, we'll see how big your Jacobs are in a bit." He gave a wry smile.
About an hour later, Salubrious came into the room I was in with Vinny and walked me into the main warehouse. Whilst Salubrious walked slowly alongside me, we made a little light conversation. "Sometimes Son," He said, "People find themselves in situations they can't handle. A bit like these two..." He pointed toward the two pricks we'd hunted down. They were roped to the racking, their feet about six inches from the floor and their wrists had been tied together. They both looked downtrodden, beaten... Broken. For the last hour they'd been left suspended, and at the mercy of Tom's twisted little entourage. Their upper bodies were exposed, badly bruised and covered in small lacerations that had slowly created tiny pools of claret beneath each of them. The Gorillas had obviously been using them as either a punch bag or a knife sharpener. Salubrious looked over at me and said "Go on then boy, give 'em a going over." I looked at the two and thought "Well, if all he wants me to do is give them a beating, then I'm fucking laughing." I was fully aware of what Salubrious would normally get up to in these little situations. I walked up to the prick that was pillion, gave him a work over for about three or four minutes, dropped a few kicks into him, then took a breather. It's not that fucking easy to keep up a continual barrage of punches and kicks for four minutes y'know!
I kept going and heard a loud crack when I kicked the fella in the chest. He looked fucked. Salubrious laughed out loud. "Is that the best you've got boy? You got a long way to go before you're in the same league as me!" With that, I got my breath back and jumped in on a second wind. I picked up a lump of four by two and started laying into the other fella hanging helplessly in front of me. He started screaming, and the more he did so, the harder I hit him. I wasn't going to let these fellas think I was a pussy, they were proper firmed up. Then Mikey stepped in and told me to calm down. He wanted them to be able to speak when we questioned them.
Two of Tom's soldiers took them down off of the meat hooks, still tied at the wrists and ankles and then rested their almost lifeless carcasses onto the floor. Salubrious grabbed one of them around the throat, then he lifted his soon-to-be victim off of the ground and slammed him onto a strategically placed chair. The fella looked dazed, like he didn't want to stay conscious. If he knew what was coming, I'm sure he would have wished he'd just passed out there and then. Salubrious secured him by grabbing his wrists and taping them to the arms of the chair and then finally, he took off the fella's shoes and socks.
"Well then boy, you've shown me that you want to play, or at least attempted to have a go. Now I'm going to show you what happens to people who try to fuck over the firm!" He picked up a pair of long nosed pliers from the table beside the chair, then grabbed the fella by the hand and proceeded to force one of the pincers under his victim's thumbnail. He then clamped the pliers together tightly, and swiftly yanked out this poor fella's thumbnail. He let out a great howl, of which was shortly followed by a steady stream of blood that began to flow from his thumb. He proceeded to work through the next five digits like it was second nature; pinch, pull, howl, blood... pinch, pull, howl, blood... Six fingers later, Salubrious looked at me and said "Well then sunshine... You been watching? You wouldn't want to look a complete cunt in front of all of us now, would you?" "Shut the fuck up and hand over those pliers you amateur." I said, grinning "And Anyways, if I was a big enough cunt, I'd slip over your head and fuck some sense into you!" Normally, in any other situation, that type of talk wouldn't have been tolerated by our friend Salubrious, it would have had to have been addressed. But, like I said earlier, I was lucky. The meet was fuelled with testosterone and the type of work we were getting up to wasn't exactly what you'd call mundane, so in this situation, and ONLY this one I'm sure, my choice of vocabulary was thus tolerated. Salubrious passed me over the pliers. I was absolutely shitting myself. He was covered in claret, and he looked more at home torturing this poor soul than he did running half the doors in the South East of England.
The words "Show No Fear" kept whizzing around my head. The only words of advice that my old man offered me just before I went inside for the first time. I took hold of the pliers, then grabbed the fella by the hair and pulled his head back so that I could see his reaction. It was all a front, I was crapping myself! I never thought that this would've been listed on my career options when I was at school talking to Mr Vernon about my forte's. Being honest, I was about to bottle it. I really didn't want to hurt this fella, and although he'd tried to knock us, I didn't think that he deserved this. But I had to do it, or I would have been laughed at by some of the top faces in London. I'd have never lived it down. What with me wanting to be Charlie Big Potatoes, I figured that if I did it once, I wouldn't have to do it again to prove myself to the firm, and hopefully I'd get a bit of a reputation. So there was no going back. I forced the pincer under this fellas finger nail, clamped down with the pliers, then gritted my teeth and started to pull... It was weird, I could feel the nail moving under the skin; I could see the look in the fella's eyes and hear him in physical pain, but it was like it wasn't happening, like it wasn't really me that was doing it. It was like an actor falling into a role. I yanked the fingernail out and a spurt of claret hit me. I looked around and everyone seemed to be cheering me on. I started to realise that what I was doing, as wrong as I knew that it was, was actually giving these people around me reason to admire me, or at least admire my front. And front was all it was. I was only doing it to save face. I proceeded to move through another few fingernails, teasing slightly, making him scream even louder. The louder he screamed, the more my peers urged me on. Even Salubrious was getting into the swing of things, he was laughing at my jokes whilst I tortured this poor fella. Then, just to show that I was no mug, I continued my new job role by endeavouring to pull all of his toenails out too, but I couldn't get underneath either of his little toes, so I thought it comical, or more to the point, I thought it may have been seen as comical to smash his little toes with a hammer instead. Sometimes I can go a little over the top. Still, going over the top this time round got me my Mecca, Ten Large; as well as giving me a new aspiration; I wanted to earn the respect of my new peers.