"Signal Red" - читать интересную книгу автора (Ryan Robert)

Two

Holland 's Gym, Elephant and Castle, South London, September 1962

Charlie Wilson counted the repetitions as he crunched his biceps with the twenty-pound dumbbells. He'd been doing the same routine for six months now, and although he wasn't yet Steve Reeves, he could see the difference in his physique. It was harder, leaner. Old Man Levy had been forced to let out the chest of his latest suit jacket, and allow more material in the sleeves so Charlie could flex his arms. Now, when he walked into the Mayflower or Donovan's, he could feel the dip in the volume of the conversation as the mugs looked him over. He'd always had a reputation, usually backed up with blades or a revolver. Now he didn't feel he needed anything other than his bare hands to make his point. He was even fitter than when he'd fought bare-knuckle with the pikeys in Barnet, and he'd been bloody hard to put down then.

Lately, he had built a fitness room in the shed at home in Clapham. His wife Pat joked he must be training for the

Tokyo Olympics. He was training, that was true, but not for any athletics. With a new house, three kids and a wife, never mind the cars, clubs and the clothes to support, he needed more money than ever. That's what he was in training for.

Although he had the home gym, it did him good to get out from under Pat's feet during the day and he liked Danny Holland's place. Danny had the best equipment, some of it Jack LaLanne from the States, as well as the standard punchbags and speedballs of boxing. Charlie relished the satisfying smack of leather on leather when they were used by a pro, loved the smell of liniment and sweat that was missing from his domestic set-up. But when he put down the dumbbells and wiped his face, all was quiet. There were no grunts, groans or thrown punches because there were no other clients. Danny had booked him an hour clear, all to himself.

He heard the thud of footfall on the stairs. The heavier tread would be Ray Cauli, so-called because of the pair of misshapen ears bracketing his head that testified to a long but not very illustrious boxing career, sometimes in the ring but mostly in the field at the gash fights at Epsom and Epping Forest. The softer sound would be Derek, the lad Ray was 'escorting' to the meeting.

Charlie stood up off the bench, put his foot on it, retied his Lonsdales and fetched himself a glass of water from the sink. At their meeting at the Lambeth Walk pub, Bruce had given him a free hand on this. It was Charlie who had brought the job to Bruce, but, as always, it was Bruce who had taken it and shaped it from crude concept to a workable plan. When, over pints of bitter, Charlie had told Bruce about Derek, however, he had deferred to him. 'Do what you think is appropriate,' Bruce had said. Just do it when I am not around was the second, unspoken part of the sentence.

The two men entered the second-floor gym puffing and wheezing. Derek had on a shiny Levy Tonik mohair suit and Cecil Gee Italian suede shoes. They all did now. The first bit of money in their pockets, they copied the boss and went to Levy in Whitechapel for their first taste of Dormeuil. That was why, on Bruce's advice, Charlie had decided to take his custom from Levy to Dougie Millings on Old Compton Street, Soho. Dougie dressed pop stars like Billy Fury and Wee Willie Harris, making silly stage outfits, but he could also produce the genuine article. And Charlie wasn't going to shout about who made his stuff this time. Let them find their own bleedin' tailors.

'Charlie,' Derek squeaked when he had his breath back, nerves taking his voice up the octaves. 'Ray here said you wanted to see me.'

Charlie rose to his full height. He had on a black Everlast vest and shorts. When he crossed his arms, he knew the biceps bulged impressively. He crossed his arms.

'Nice to see you suited and booted. I approve. But a bit out of condition, aren't you, Derek? Too many Woodbines?'

'No, I'm all right, Charlie. Straight up.' Derek had just turned twenty, making him a decade younger than Charlie, and he still had the pipe-cleaner thinness of a teenager. He was from that generation who were lucky enough to have just missed National Service. Or unlucky. Charlie had met some who claimed they had learned all they ever needed to know about thieving in the Army.

Charlie slapped the wooden bench. 'Stamina, that's what you need. Lie down here. No, no, serious. Don't worry, you won't mess up your whistle. Here, let me take the jacket. Nice shirt. Turnbull and Asser? Oh, Woodall's. Nice, that is. 'Ere, lie down.'

He threw the jacket across the room and it landed in a heap near the entrance.

Ray Cauli stood and watched impassively as Charlie laid the youngster prone on the padded wooden bench. Derek had begun sweating, moisture glistening on his upper lip. 'What 'ave I done, Charlie?'

'Nothing. Yet. But we'll sort you out. Ray, give us a hand, will you? Pass me that barbell and the weights.' He looked back down at a parchment-pale Derek. 'We'll work the chest first.'

Between them Ray and Charlie made a pyramid of the various weights that could be slid onto the steel shaft of the barbell.

'What's on it now?' Charlie asked himself. 'Sixty pounds. There you are. Take it. Go on, my son, take it. Arms straight. There we are. How's that feel?'

Derek grunted.

'I'll loosen your tie for you. There. How's that?'

'Fine.'

'Good. Now bend the arms and push it up again. Go on, like that. Let's do ten.' A tremor ran through Derek's arms as he lowered the bar to his chest then straightened them again. They all knew it wasn't the weight that was causing the shaking. 'Come on, nine to go.'

Charlie stood back and appraised him, as if he were a genuine protege. 'Three, two… one. Easy? OK, let's put a few more pounds on. Keep the arms locked.' He nodded to Ray and they selected a forty-pound disc each and slid it onto the stock. Derek let out something between a groan and a squeal.

'Ten.'

'I can't, Charlie-' 'TEN!'

As Derek struggled with the raises, his eyes screwed shut, Charlie leaned in close and bent at the waist. 'You know what I hate most in this life, Derek?'

'No, Charlie.'

'Yes, you do. Think. Seven to go.'

'Coppers?'

Charlie jutted out his lower lip in approval. 'Not a bad guess. Bent coppers, that is. How can you respect a man who'll turn a blind eye for a fiver or a tenner? Why are they better than us?' He paused, as if thinking what tortures should befall such people. 'But no, that's not what I hate most. Not coppers, bent or otherwise. Three… two… one more, you can do it, me old china. Right, keep it up. I said keep it UR Arms straight, you fuckin' cunt.'

Derek's arms wobbled even more at this last spittle-rich outburst, but he managed to lock the elbows, although the barbell began to swing in an arc, like an inverted pendulum.

'No, Derek, what I hate most in this world is a grass.'

Charlie could tell from the whimper that escaped Derek's mouth, and the fact that he now had the complexion of a maggot, that he was going to piss himself or worse any minute. Turkish Delight, all over his nice new Bowl of Fruit.

'Charlie, I ain't-'

'Even worse than greasy coppers.' He indicated to Ray and they loaded up another disc each and slotted them onto the shaft. It was nudging two hundred pounds now. Charlie could have taken it; the lad couldn't. 'Grasses are scum. Wouldn't you say so?'

There were stains spreading under the arms of the Woodall's shirt, so big and dark that Charlie doubted you'd ever get the stink of fear from it. The barbell was clattering as the unsecured weights banged against each other.

'Yes, Charlie, you're right but I ain't no grass.'

Charlie stared down at him. Derek had forced himself to open his eyes so he could plead with them.

Charlie silently counted to ten. 'No, Derek. You're no grass. 'Cause grasses are Judases. They should be drowned at birth. If I thought you were a grass, I would have just wrung your fuckin' neck, here and now, and have done with it.'

The relief at hearing this was so great that Derek's poor, tortured muscles gave out. Charlie caught the barbell just before it cracked into the lad's sternum. He held onto it and rolled it over the chest until it rested against Derek's throat. 'What you are, you sack of shit, is a loudmouth.'

Derek's windpipe was being crushed so he couldn't really reply. He did manage to shake his head a fraction of an inch either way.

'Oh yes you are, Derek. A fuckin' big cakehole on legs – isn't he, Ray? Ray just nodded, Derek. I could get Sid the Coalman to put a hundredweight of nutty slack down that black hole of a gob and there'd still be room for me to reach in and pull your lungs out.'

Charlie lifted the barbell slightly, easing the pressure. When Derek spoke, the voice was raw, sandpapered. 'I swear I ain't said anything out of turn.'

'Oh no? Look, I know what it's like. You walk in an' they know you're with me, so you get served first, before the mugs. You get an extra on the house. You get the girls too, don't you? Works wonders. Well, maybe not in your case, you skinny little fucker. But even you would get a half-hour with the Gobble Twins, once they knew you were my boy. I accept that. We all start as privates, don't we? And we take whatever perks we can. I mean, what does Bruce say? We're in it for the three Cs: cars, cunt and cash, but not always in that order. But you, Derek, had to go one further. You tell people you don't just know Charlie Wilson, do a bit of work for him on the fruit at Covent Garden or Spitalfields now and then, but more than that, you know what Charlie is up to. Can't say too much, eh? Nod and wink. But it involves an airport.''

Charlie let the full weight of the barbell fall onto the throat, holding it there for a second while Derek struggled to push it away. The cold-sick colour of his face darkened as his oxygen supply plummeted. He coughed when Charlie finally lifted the steel away from his bruised flesh.

'Now, Charlie is doing a bank, OK? Well, not OK but not a disaster. A Post Office. Fine as far as it goes. I mean, nobody knows which Post Office, do they? But how many London airports are there, Derek? I mean real airports that handle gold and money and freight?'

Derek replied in a tremulous voice. 'One.'

'ONE! Fuckin' right. One. That narrows it down for any grasses earwiggin', doesn't it? One. Take the money or open the box, Derek?'

Derek's pupils darted left and right nervously. He didn't know what to say.

'What's that? Box thirteen, you say? Let's see what's in Box thirteen. Oh dear. The booby prize.' Charlie changed his tone, letting some more menace creep into it as he lifted the barbell off Derek. 'You are going to fuck off out of my sight. And I mean out of it. No more suits from my tailors. No more suck-offs from the Gobble Twins. If I walk into a boozer and you're there, you walk out. You don't even finish your drink. Understand?'

'Yes, Charlie-'

'Mr Wilson!' he barked.

'Yes, Mr Wilson.'

'And if, after a year, I haven't seen your face or heard your name, then maybe we'll think again. Won't we?'

'Yes, Mr Wilson.'

'Get him out of here, Ray. I'm going to do some punchbag work.'

Ray yanked Derek to his feet. The youth made to say something, but Ray clipped him smartly around the back of his head. Charlie was busy tying on the gloves, no longer even aware that Derek was in the room. It was over. And as Ray would tell Derek later, he'd got off very lightly indeed. The Guv'nor must be going soft.