Graveborne

Chapter 10

Scrapper sat in the dingy flat on the fifteenth floor of a tower block in one of the less salubrious parts of Brixton.

Outside, he could hear the noise coming from the evening rush hour, as every second driver apparently thought using their horns was just what was needed to get the congestion moving along.

Beside him on the torn leather sofa sat Phil, anxiously rubbing his hands together.

Scrapper gave his friend a gentle slap on the arm, and mouthed the words, “Calm down,” to him.

He knew that Phil was uncomfortable about this meeting. But he was Scrapper’s right hand, so he had to be there.

Scrapper himself was so excited, he was fit to burst.

This was finally his chance at the big time. His name had been bandied around town as a reliable delivery man, and finally, last night, he had received a call from one of the biggest families in south London. The Bixby family virtually ran the area, and nothing went down without their knowledge.

The police could not touch them, although it was not from want of trying. But everyone knew that, if you grassed up a Bixby, the next funeral you went to was your own.

They had connections all over the country and their outfit was, by far, the largest suppliers of drugs in the entire south.

There were even rumours that they were thinking of a takeover bid that would give them the run of the home counties as well.

Now that was real ambition, and Scrapper could see himself slotting right in with the rest of the gang.

The problem had always been that he did not have any major connections in the game.

All his life he had strived to be part of something spectacular in the criminal underworld, but no one ever took him seriously enough. Being a nine-stone string-bean with acne did not exactly exude menace, but Scrapper had worked hard to earn himself a reputation as a hard man.

He had tried bodybuilding down at their local youth centre but, within a couple of weeks, he grew tired of some of the bigger blokes laughing at him behind his back because of the modest weights he was using.

He considered taking steroids, as some of the users told him he could create a killer body in a couple of months. But he had seen documentaries about some of the side effects of those, and they were not pretty.

Worst of all, they could give you erectile problems and that would do nothing to enhance his reputation.

So he looked for other ways to command respect.

He shaved his head. He would have liked a beard but, alas for him, his facial hair never reached an adequate consistency to look like anything other than peach-fuzz.

He had several tattoos, most of which depicted skulls and bleeding daggers, with a couple of naked women thrown in for good measure.

Scrapper had been in and out of young offender institutions, but he knew that, among the fraternity he wanted to be part of, only prison counted. At one point, he made up his mind that he would commit a criminal act serious enough to earn him a couple of years inside.

Not too long. But long enough to make his mark.

The crime had to be something dangerous. He read the papers and scanned the news channels to see what sort of crimes he could commit to garner the desired effect.

He decided on robbery.

But it had to be armed robbery.

Scrapper was hardly going to walk into prison with his head held high for mugging some old lady so he came up with a plan to rob a newsagent, using a knife.

A gun would be better, but he had no idea how to get hold of one.

He stole a large carving knife from his mother’s kitchen and set out on his grown-up criminal career.

His plan was to hold the staff up at knife-point, empty the till, grab some fags, and make sure it was all caught on camera.

If one of the owners decided to be a hero, Scrapper even had a plan to stab them. Not anywhere fatal, perhaps in the arm, or the shoulder. Just enough to ensure he got a proper sentence when he was up before the beak.

But the first three shops he went into, he discovered that he did not have what it took to carry out such a crime.

On each occasion he marched in with his knife tucked inside his jeans, gripping the handle in anticipation for the moment he would pounce.

But every time the shop keeper asked him what he wanted, he froze, and ended up buying a pack of chewing gum, all of which he later discarded because he hated the stuff.

Scrapper had smoked pot since he was in secondary school, so he knew some of the local suppliers quite well. After his debacle with the abortive hold-ups, he decided to spread the word around that he wanted to become more than just a good customer.

He knew they were always looking for distributors and couriers, so it seemed to him another viable avenue for breaking into the business.

It took a while for any of them to trust him enough, but eventually he received his first call.

It was an easy job. He just had to pick up a small package from a flat in Battersea and take it across the river and deliver it to a bloke in Pimlico.

The operation went like clockwork, although Scrapper must have lost 10 pounds in sweat on the journey.

He was well paid and, most importantly, he did not ask any questions.

Scrapper had no idea what was in the package, and he did not care. For all he knew, it might have been a dummy run to see if he could be trusted.

A week went by before he received his next job. This was a slightly bigger consignment, which, he was told, would look too suspicious to carry on public transport, so he needed a vehicle.

Trouble was, Scrapper could not drive, which was why he enlisted the help of his old mate Phil. They made a good team, which meant Phil just doing whatever Scrapper said without question.

The pair of them carried on working together after that. The size and frequency of the jobs increased, which to Scrapper meant he was gaining a solid reputation that would eventually lead to his introduction to the big time.

Finally, his time had come.

Len Bixby was not a senior member of the gang. He was in fact a distant cousin of the family who was trusted with odds and ends here and there. But he was still a Bixby, and that was what mattered to Scrapper.

Across from them, seated in two unmatched armchairs, were Len’s girlfriend, Amber, and another girl who had been introduced to them as Lucy.

Both girls were made up for a night on the town, complete with leather mini-skirts and fishnet stockings.

Scrapper had decided not to invite Sara to the meeting. He liked to have her around because she was stunning and sounded posh. But she had an annoying habit of saying stupid things in company, making him look like an i***t as a result.

And that was the last thing he wanted in such distinguished company.

Anyway, he was happy enough checking out Amber’s friend, especially as every time she smiled at Phil, he looked away, embarrassed.

Len returned from the kitchen carrying five opened bottles of beer.

He handed them around before taking the arm of Amber’s chair.

“Cheers,” he said, holding up his bottle.

Everyone raised theirs in salute before they drank.

The beer was ice cold, and played havoc with Scrapper’s sensitive teeth, but he supressed the urge to wince, and glugged back a couple of good swallows.

“Now to business,” said Len. “I’ve got a bloke in the sticks who I’ve been supplying for about a year, and now ’e wants to branch out a bit, set up his own crew.”

Scrapper shook his head. “Can’t ’ave that,” he announced confidently. “Is that the job? You want us to go an’ take care of ’im?”

Phil turned to his mate, his brows knitted.

What the hell was Scrapper talking about?

They did not know how to “take care” of someone, as he put it. He was beginning to feel that this meeting was a bad idea. Phil was happy enough staying with Scrapper for the time being. But collecting and delivering weed was one thing. Sorting blokes out was another kettle of fish altogether.

Len shook his head. “What? No, nothin’ like that,” he replied, obviously surprised by Scrapper’s question. “’e’s lookin’ to expand, that’s all. I’ll still be ’is supplier, that’s the deal, only now he wants more gear to get things movin’”

“Right.” Scrapper nodded knowingly.

“So, what I need,” continued Len, “is a couple of reliable blokes ’oo can courier the stuff for me, no questions asked.”

Scrapper finished another swallow of beer and released a loud belch.

Phil noticed Lucy wrinkle her nose, and Amber just shook her head in disbelief.

“Well, we’re definitely your men,” offered Scrapper, slapping Phil on the shoulder.

Len nodded. “Yea, I ’eard you did a job for a mate of mine in Vauxhall the other day. That was good work.”

Scrapper held out his arms. “I’m a businessman,” he exclaimed, much to the amusement of the two girls. “My word is my bond, an’ I never let me business associates down.”

Len nodded. “I’m glad to hear it,” he replied.

Reaching under the cushion of the armchair, Len pulled out a handgun.

He held it towards Scrapper, by its barrel.

Scrapper handed his bottle to Phil, almost dropping it in his haste to jump out of his seat and grab the gun.

He had never seen, much less held, a real gun before.

Scrapper could not contain his excitement.

He hefted the weapon from one hand to the other, feeling the authority of the weight. Then he turned it over in his hand, pretending he was looking for something, before giving up. Next, he looked down the sights, pointing the gun towards the window behind Lucy’s head.

“Careful,” Len cautioned. “It’s loaded.”

Scrapper carefully placed the gun on its side, on the arm of the sofa.

“You ever used one of ’em before?” asked Len.

Scrapper was loath to tell the truth, but he did not wish to create a bad impression by being caught out in a lie.

“Not as such,” he answered, “A mate of mine’s old man ’ad a couple ’e used to bring out now an’ again, but ’e never let us fire them.”

Len nodded.

Phil raised his eyes to heaven.

“Well, if all goes to plan, you shouldn’t need one for this job, I just wanted to know ’ow you were fixed in case the need arose in the future.”

Scrapper nodded.

He reached over to retrieve his beer from Phil.

As he moved, he nudged the gun by accident. Before he had a chance to react, the weapon fell off the arm and landed on the wooden floor with a loud thud.

Scrapper leaned towards Phil, covering his head with his hands, preparing for the report as the gun went off.

But it never did.

Once he realised all was safe, Scraper sat back up and straightened himself, desperately trying to appear as if he had not been ruffled by the weapon falling.

Len stood up and walked over to pick up the gun.

He held it in front of Scrapper. “Good job you left the safety on, ain’t it?”

Len walked back to his chair.

The women burst out laughing at Scrapper’s antics.

Scrapper joined in the laughter in an attempt to make the whole incident seem like a joke when, in reality, he knew he was the butt of it.

He grabbed back his beer and took another long swig to calm himself down.

Once they had all finished their drinks, Len stood up. “Right then, lads, I’ll be in touch soon, now if you’ll excuse us, me and the ladies are off out for the night.”

Scrapper and Phil stood up.

Scrapper offered Len his hand, but Len ignored the gesture and placed his arm around his shoulders instead. “You won’t let me down when I call, will yer?” he whispered in Scrapper’s ear.

There was an edge of menace to his voice that made Scrapper tremble involuntarily.

Scrapper tried to turn to look back at Len, but their heads were to close together, and Len kept a tight hold of his shoulder, preventing him from moving back.

“No… not at all. You can rely on me,” Scrapper stuttered.”

“Good.” Len led them to the front door.

Phil turned and smiled at the girls. “Nice to have met you,” he said.

The two women stood up in unison and walked towards Phil.

“My friend here was wondering if you could talk,” said Amber, glancing over at Lucy.

Lucy sidled up to Phil and linked her arm through his. “Fancy joining us up west?” she asked. “I get awfully lonely watching these two make out all the time.”

Phil was taken aback. He could feel his cheeks redden.

Before he had a chance to answer, Scrapper called to him from the open front door.

Phil carefully slid his arm out of Lucy’s and apologised.

As he walked towards the front door, he nodded at Len, then kept his head low.

Once outside, Scrapper slapped Phil on the back. “We’re in, son – told yer so.”

Phil shrugged him off. “What was all that bollocks with the gun?” he demanded.

“What?” replied Scrapper, clearly shocked by his mate’s question.

“What d’yer mean, what? That crap that bloke was talkin’ about us needin’ a gun in the future. Understand this – I ain’t now, or ever, havin’ anything to do with guns. Is that clear?”

Scrapper looked over his shoulder to make sure their argument could not be heard.

“Keep yer bleedin’ voice down, will yer?” he urged. “I told yer this was the big time, right? So it stands to reason we may ’ave to be tooled up some day.”

“Tooled up!” Phil mimicked. “Will you just listen to yerself? This ain’t a fuckin’ game of cowboys and Indians. That was a real gun that bloke ’ad, the type that kills people.”

As they reached the lift lobby, two women with prams stepped out of the lift.

Phil kept the swing door open for them to pass through.

Once they were gone, the men stepped into the lift.

Scrapper hit the ground button. “Look, Phil, I ain’t talkin’ about killin’ anyone, either, but if Len reckons we need to be armed for a job, we’d be daft not to listen.”

Phil stared back at him. “Let me make this clear, the day that Len bloke, or anyone else, says we need a gun, I’m off the job, an’ I’m serious.”

Scrapper held his hands out. “Okay, okay, no sweat, bruv. Everythin’s gonna be fine – just trust me.”

Phil was far from convinced, but he decided to let it drop for now.

Somehow, he had a nasty feeling that they had just made a deal they would one day regret.