before they even arrived at Valley Metals, and that Mickey Riordan’s body had washed up on the Kent coast down by Whitstable a fortnight after Ronnie had been admitted to hospital.
September 5, 1986. Harry was sitting by Ronnie’s hospital bedside eating his grapes. Clavin seemed to have aged ten years. He looked weary. His face seemed heavier. Saggy.
Harry tried asking what had occurred in Islington, but Ronnie just grunted, ‘You don’t fuck with Buck,’ and changed the subject. Ronnie was plastered up but in good spirits. ‘This ain’t a bad old place,’ he observed as a redheaded nurse leaned across him to straighten his pillow.
Harry took in her full figure, slim waiste and long legs. Her heavy breasts pressed against the constraints of her uniform. ‘Will he live, nurse?’ he asked.
‘I think rigor mortis is setting in,’ moaned Ronnie.
‘Any chance of a blanket bath?’ Harry went on. ‘Not for him, for me. I’m free any time you get off work.’
‘Now you stop that, it’s so … Seventies,’ the nurse snapped in a County Antrim accent. But Harry noticed she was blushing.
‘Only pulling your leg,’ he said. ‘Bernadette, was it?’
‘No it was not, nor was it Colleen. I’m a Lucy but I’m only telling you that to stop you working through the whole book of Christian names for Ulster women.’
‘No surrender, would that be?’
‘You’d better believe it.’ She walked off to the next bed, but threw Harry a sly glance, which he caught. He smiled back and made her blush again.
When the nurse was out of sight, Harry grabbed hold of Ronnie’s medical notes and made a great show of studying them, shaking his head and tutting.
‘What do they say?’
‘Put it this way, mate, I wouldn’t bother buying any Christmas presents.’
‘Spanner.’
‘No, seriously, you’re going to be fine but if they leave you to go the distance there might be complications with the baby.’
‘Better put us down for a Caesarian then.’
‘What’s the score with Potman and Noodles, Ron?’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘It ain’t everyone who wanders round packing a .45, even in South London.’
‘Funny enough I thought they’d be here by now. I got a message they was coming up today. Here, do you think I could light up in here?’
‘Better not, mate.’
Ronnie belched and nodded.
‘They’re in the scrap, obviously, but they’re proper ’eavy. They’ve got a yard over West with a car shredder that could turn a Sherman tank into a pile of iron filings in five minutes flat. Just the place to lose a body, know what I mean? If you’re in the hurting game and you’ve got a stiff to get shot of, you just call up the Potman and say the magic words “Pizza to go” and that’s it as good as done. Goodnight, Vienna.’
‘How much?’
‘Couldn’t tell ya.’
Harry stroked his chin.
‘Brings new meaning to “pizza toppings”, don’t it?’
‘Yeah. Ha, ha. You wicked bastard.’
‘And then you’re proper garlic bread …’
‘Here, speak of the devil …’
Heavy footsteps made Harry turn. It was Potman, with the smaller Noodles, a sourpuss in army surplus, in tow.
‘Well you’re still alive, then,’ the big Angel observed after hands had been shaken and hellos exchanged.
‘Barely, son, barely.’
‘Nice hospital,’ said the frowning Noodles.
‘Well, on the surface,’ Ronnie moaned. ‘But they keep running out of bog paper. When it happened the other day I used the khazi on the floor below, but it got a bit silly with me on sticks, so I calls over this staff nurse – a right sour-faced old trout – and I says, “’Scuse me, love, there ain’t been no toilet paper in the bog since Tuesday.” She looks down her nose at me and says, “Haven’t you got a tongue in your head?” “Yes,” I says. “But I ain’t got a neck like a giraffe.”’
Potman roared. ‘You must be feeling better, son,’ he said.
‘It’s the people here that cheer me up,’
September 5, 1986. Harry was sitting by Ronnie’s hospital bedside eating his grapes. Clavin seemed to have aged ten years. He looked weary. His face seemed heavier. Saggy.
Harry tried asking what had occurred in Islington, but Ronnie just grunted, ‘You don’t fuck with Buck,’ and changed the subject. Ronnie was plastered up but in good spirits. ‘This ain’t a bad old place,’ he observed as a redheaded nurse leaned across him to straighten his pillow.
Harry took in her full figure, slim waiste and long legs. Her heavy breasts pressed against the constraints of her uniform. ‘Will he live, nurse?’ he asked.
‘I think rigor mortis is setting in,’ moaned Ronnie.
‘Any chance of a blanket bath?’ Harry went on. ‘Not for him, for me. I’m free any time you get off work.’
‘Now you stop that, it’s so … Seventies,’ the nurse snapped in a County Antrim accent. But Harry noticed she was blushing.
‘Only pulling your leg,’ he said. ‘Bernadette, was it?’
‘No it was not, nor was it Colleen. I’m a Lucy but I’m only telling you that to stop you working through the whole book of Christian names for Ulster women.’
‘No surrender, would that be?’
‘You’d better believe it.’ She walked off to the next bed, but threw Harry a sly glance, which he caught. He smiled back and made her blush again.
When the nurse was out of sight, Harry grabbed hold of Ronnie’s medical notes and made a great show of studying them, shaking his head and tutting.
‘What do they say?’
‘Put it this way, mate, I wouldn’t bother buying any Christmas presents.’
‘Spanner.’
‘No, seriously, you’re going to be fine but if they leave you to go the distance there might be complications with the baby.’
‘Better put us down for a Caesarian then.’
‘What’s the score with Potman and Noodles, Ron?’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘It ain’t everyone who wanders round packing a .45, even in South London.’
‘Funny enough I thought they’d be here by now. I got a message they was coming up today. Here, do you think I could light up in here?’
‘Better not, mate.’
Ronnie belched and nodded.
‘They’re in the scrap, obviously, but they’re proper ’eavy. They’ve got a yard over West with a car shredder that could turn a Sherman tank into a pile of iron filings in five minutes flat. Just the place to lose a body, know what I mean? If you’re in the hurting game and you’ve got a stiff to get shot of, you just call up the Potman and say the magic words “Pizza to go” and that’s it as good as done. Goodnight, Vienna.’
‘How much?’
‘Couldn’t tell ya.’
Harry stroked his chin.
‘Brings new meaning to “pizza toppings”, don’t it?’
‘Yeah. Ha, ha. You wicked bastard.’
‘And then you’re proper garlic bread …’
‘Here, speak of the devil …’
Heavy footsteps made Harry turn. It was Potman, with the smaller Noodles, a sourpuss in army surplus, in tow.
‘Well you’re still alive, then,’ the big Angel observed after hands had been shaken and hellos exchanged.
‘Barely, son, barely.’
‘Nice hospital,’ said the frowning Noodles.
‘Well, on the surface,’ Ronnie moaned. ‘But they keep running out of bog paper. When it happened the other day I used the khazi on the floor below, but it got a bit silly with me on sticks, so I calls over this staff nurse – a right sour-faced old trout – and I says, “’Scuse me, love, there ain’t been no toilet paper in the bog since Tuesday.” She looks down her nose at me and says, “Haven’t you got a tongue in your head?” “Yes,” I says. “But I ain’t got a neck like a giraffe.”’
Potman roared. ‘You must be feeling better, son,’ he said.
‘It’s the people here that cheer me up,’
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