A Way Of Life - An Introduction - Part 3

JOHN - THE HEAVY MOB – PART II

1988


‘Get a bloody move on you two!’ Sharon’s shrill made its way up the stairs and into the eardrums of her belovedly spoiled children. Alison, six and Alex who was a boisterous ten years of old sat in their separate bedrooms and cocked little blond heads at the sound of Sharon’s voice ‘Did you hear me you two?’ knowing better than to push that particular tone the children made their way down a white glossed spiral staircase and entered the spacious kitchen. A breakfast bar had been well prepared, Frosties, fresh orange juice, strawberry conserve, warm toast, lemon curd and ice cold silver top were on offer. It was nearly eight and where the fuck was John? For the children’s sake Sharon thought this rather than said it aloud. The kids tucked into breakfast. Alex smashed into a milk bottles foil and poured until the thick cream gave way and soaked his bowl of Frosties. Alison smothered lemon curd all over a piece of limp toast, giving a helping hand Sharon aided breakfast by putting back a half rinsed bottle of milk and tried to recover a buttery knife from infesting a jar of lemon curd ‘Don’t do that Ali! Give it here’ Ten minutes later all traces of breakfast had vanished. Lemon curd had been wiped away from little cheeks and Alex had polished off his bowl of sugary goodness and milk no longer dripped from his chin. Sharon looked at her beautiful children, they were ready for school. Grabbing the keys to her dark green V8 Range Rover, Sharon herded the kids out and into the comfort of leather seats, seatbelts were secured and the school run could begin. Upstairs from the comfort of a thick duck filled 18 Tog duvet John listened for the all clear as his wife and two kids slammed the front door. Two beeps, some revs and a purr of V8 and the Smith family vehicle softly crushed 10mm shingle as it exited the gated entrance into the early morning traffic. All alone, John groaned at the hint of a bright sun, its rays outlined the bedrooms long heavy beige velvet curtains. Green neon digits said it was 8.46 am. It was going to be another roaster. A cool shower, some toast and two cups of coffee and it was business as usual, apart from a banging headache.

It was a good job he didn’t have to endure the peril of Sharon yet. Getting home about 7.30ish he had somehow managed to get his bulk unnoticed into his king-sized bed and escaped a cutting earful, in minutes he was faking a good kip and almost verging on subconscious, the house was suddenly awake the next thirty or so noisy minutes kept him faking. He loved Sharon to bits but this morning he could without it. Enjoying the tranquillity, a third cup of coffee was prepared. Sucking on a Dunhill Cabinetta, his headache slowly relented and was replaced by coughing. John was forty five, three stone over his ideal weight, drank heavily and didn’t even know how to spell salad. Looking at the tip of his half smoked cigar, all blame lied firmly within those gray embers. Apart from the coughing and profuse sweating at any exertion on his part he felt fit as a fiddle and was in complete denial. Stubbing out his third cigar to the sound of Sharon’s crunching return he quickly flicked the kettle into life. A nice cup of coffee would mellow her out a bit. Quickly stirring in three heaped sugars, he almost had his peace offering ready as Sharon made her presence felt, shouting up the stairs she inquired ‘John? You up yet you lazy bastard?’ Yes he was indeed up, but right now wished he wasn’t ‘I’m in the kitchen love’ Sharon’s Gucci handbag made its way into the kitchen, she threw her keys on the black and white Italian marble worktop and asked ‘…and where the fuck were you last night? You fucking ruined it John…’ trying to defend himself, John made a sheepish offering ‘I hardly ruined it babe, c’mon I’m not that important, look I’ve made you a nice cup of coffee love’ Sharon declined his weak attempt of peace ‘Never mind love and fuck the coffee, pour me a gin. Your out of order John, everyone was waiting! What you smiling for? It ain’t fucking funny!’ A tumbler of gin was given ‘I’m not babe honest’. Noticing the sharpness of her eyes soften he went for the kill ‘I’m sorry sexy (Sharon loved it when he called her that) don’t be mad at me baby, I had some business with a few of the lads, you know how they get babe’ Finishing off her gin in one gulp, Sharon placed the glass down ‘You bloody better be John. The kids and mum were asking for you and I missed you’ Now feeling slightly guiltier John suggested a top up. Accepting another stiff gin, Sharon continued over John’s excuses ‘The fucking lads, what about my mum hey? You owe me big time mate’ Conceding and accepting his sentence ‘Ok sexy!’ They both burst out laughing ‘You’re a fucking sod you know that’ A big cheesy grin asked ‘How were the kid’s babe?’ That smile of his had won her heart everyday for the past twenty something years ‘They are kid’s, they’ll be alright. A present or two might help them forget that their father wasn’t at nannies seventy fifth birthday party!’

It took a quick knee trembler over a high backed kitchen chair to finally put paid to his wife’s wrath. Once the smitten pair were showered and refreshed, Sharon cooked a lunch salad much to the disgust of her husband. ‘What’s this shit babe? Got anything with some taste?’ knowing this response was inevitable ‘Just bloody eat it, you know what the doctor said’ John knew full well what the good Dr Patel had said ‘Do you mean what he said before or after he stuck his finger up my ass? Or could it have been after the hospital zapped me for a tenth time?’ Completely rehearsed, Sharon gave her usual response ‘Eat the poxy salad and stop moaning will ya! This is what Dr Patel said you gotta have, so that’s what your gonna have. You can have a bit of Salad Cream on the side’ Hardly jumping for joy, John squeezed more cream than he had salad and made a fat side bursting brown breaded sandwich as he always did and as always his lunch didn’t really taste that bad as he took a cheek smearing bite. That aside it certainly did not compete with a KFC Bargain bucket and he could have easily murdered a steaming bean boat.

It was about two thirty before John managed to kiss his wife on her plump cheek after she requested ‘…and don’t be out all night again John, that will be the forth time this week!’ John had arranged to meet Raymondo and his brother down the Albert for a few jars and a little chat with Jason and Charlie Emmings ‘Might be a late one sexy, see how it goes babe’ before any rebuttal on Sharon’s part, a cascade of twenty pound notes landed in her lap and silenced her for at least one day. Cooing, she asked ‘What’s that for?’ John wanted to say guilt, but settled for ‘Nothing, can’t a man treat his lady. Treat yourself and get take out for the kids. See you later babe. I’m taking the Range Rover’ Grabbing his keys before Sharon tore his clothes off again he escaped into the comfort of luxurious leather and made his way three miles to the Albert, leaving his greedy wife counting lots of score notes.





RAYMONDO - THE HEAVY MOB – PART I

1987


Two long skinny legs ran as fast as they could and almost tripped several times on uneven pavements. Ray had been running for about fifty seconds at full pelt and his chest began to burn. Little Charlie Emmings began to overtake him and shifted ever onward. Two minutes or so later the emergency was almost over or at least it would be once they were both in the comfort of his vehicle and leaving the immediate area. Things had not quite panned out as expected. How the fuck had he let himself faint on a job and then on top of that, having to be saved by a little pipsqueak? A post mortem was due certainly, but self preservation took precedence. Making it to his car in one piece and twenty eight minutes of careful silent driving later, Ray and Charlie were safely secured in Ray’s one bedroom flat. Dissection of the night’s events began. ‘Fuckin’ hell Ray! What happened back there? In no mood for a fifteen year old boys quizzical mind Ray laid some authority down ‘Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?’ Unwrapping himself from his robbing outfit, Ray tossed his black puffer jacket, black gloves and a Burberry scarf onto a cream leather three seater settee ‘Fuck all happened back there, you hear me’ Charlie had heard perfectly well ‘Ok mate, no probs’ Grabbing two beers from the kitchen, Ray pulled out a lump of puff and suggested they forget about this evening and ‘Lets get bombed shall we?’ It was not quite two thousand quid and the lumps of puff Charlie had been promised and expected but free drugs and booze should never be sniffed at ‘Whatever you say mate, where’s the skins?’

Once Ray felt his standing in the community would not be affected by this game young fucker before him, he relaxed and allowed a few jibes and some ridicule of his earlier performance. A few hours of kip later and he dropped Charlie off on Clapham Road. As Charlie exited Ray’s Granada, he was offered a buddle of twenty pound notes, his eager hand grabbed for the money and Ray held the wad tightly recommending ‘Remember what we said Charle, nothing happened because the geezer wasn’t in right?’ Eyeing the notes and wanting to get away, Charlie agreed ‘Yes mate I remember’ Ray released his grip on the money and Charlie disappeared in his rear view mirror, watching Charlie’s little frame get ever smaller, Ray indicated right and filtered into the busy lunchtime traffic and made his way home. Homemade double eggs, crispy chips, beans and tea settled his stomach slightly.

It had been almost three hours after he had dropped Charlie off. Restless and nervous, Ray had plonked on the sofa and had vaguely watched McVicar and was halfway through Quadrophenia when the phone rang. It was John, he wanted to know the outcome and when would Ray be dropping off his two grand. Without giving the game away, Ray made small talk and skirted the issues. Agreeing to meet John and the lads at the office later, Ray replaced the handset. Switching off Jimmy and his dead smashed scooter he sat in silence for a while. What would he say ‘Sorry John I fainted!’ or ‘Charlie saved us from a nicking or worse’ or ‘The geezer weren’t in John’ According to his conditional agreement with Charlie the guy was not in at the time of their arrival, hopefully that would stick and John and Paul would be none the wiser and probe no further into his deceit. Fuck it anyway, it was only a poxy mission that had gone awry, it wasn’t the first time and no doubt it would not be the last, fuck John and Paul. If it came on top he would give Charlie a slap and if his brother gave it the big’un he would get a slap to. Ejecting Quadrophenia from a JVC Video Recorder, thoughts raced as Ray tried to forget the previous few hours by playing Giorgio Moroders’ ‘Together In Electric dreams’ He had a couple of hours to kill before he had to face the music. Dancing around to the track, Ray threw away spent cans, emptied and washed dirty ashtrays, wiped the kitchen worktops down and sorted clean sparkling pots and pans. Swapping ‘Electric Dreams’ for the sounds of ‘La Bamba’ by Los Lobos Ray did his best to replicate his best Salsa moves has he moved to the bathroom and drew a lukewarm bath, adding a generous dollop of Radox he made sure the temperature was adequate and not too hot. The last thing he wanted to do was fucking faint again.