Free Guns Of Brixton by Mark Timlin Page A

Mark.
        'You'd
better not.' But she did as she was told, took off her coat, hung it outside
the kitchen door and came back for a plate of toast and scrambled eggs. When
she was finished Chas said, 'Let me run you up to town.'
        'No,
Chas, you're all right. The roads'll be terrible. I'll get a bus to Brixton and
go by tube.'
        'You're
quite the democrat these days, aren't you?' said Mark. 'Seems to me I remember
you having to get driven everywhere when you were a kid.'
        'I told
you last night, times and people change. I work for my living and I enjoy every
minute of it.'
        'Selling
cheap schmutter at inflated prices,' said Chas.
        'The
clothes at the shop are the best, Chas, and you know it. Stop ganging up on me,
the pair of you.'
        'OK,
miss,' said Chas and gave her a hug as she got up to go. 'But call me if you
need anything.'
        'I
will,' she said, kissed him hard on the cheek, wiggled her fingers at Mark just
like she had done the previous night and left the room. A minute later they
heard the front door slam and peace descended on the house.
        'She's…
er, quite a girl,' said Mark.
        'They
broke the mould. Only one like her was Hazel,' said Chas.
        'Yeah.'
        'You
want some breakfast yourself now?'
        'Yeah.
Watching her eat's given me an appetite.'
        'Full
English?'
        'Sounds
good.'
        Chas
got out the frying pan and prepared eggs, bacon, mushrooms and fried bread
which Mark wolfed down. When he was finished and the china and cutlery was in
the dishwasher, Chas said, 'So what have you been up to all this time?'
        'What
a question,' said Mark. 'It's been eight years.'
        'I
know, I've been here all that time and watched the boss wishing you were too.'
        'Come
on, Chas. I had to go.'
        'I
know. But where?'
        'Didn't
Dev tell you?'
        'I
heard you kept in touch. Little Irish git never let on.'
        'I
told him not to. I'd've known.'
        'I
know you would've,' said Chas. 'We'd've been out for a visit.'
        'I
moved around.'
        'Where
to?'
        'All
over Europe.'
        'How
come?'
        'I
fell in with this bloke.'
        'What
bloke?'
        Mark
knew he'd have to tell at least some of the story, so he lit up a cigarette,
took an ashtray from the stack on one of the units and began. 'When I left
London I went down to the coast. Got on the ferry… You know, walk on, walk off,
and went to France. I had my passport, but they, hardly bothered with it. Then
I-caught a train to Paris. Hung out for a few days and got a job.'
        'What
kind of job?' asked Chas.
        'In a
bar. Started out cleaning up, washing up. You know the sort of thing. Casual.
Then one night one of the barman didn't come in and I filled in for him.'
        'You
speak French now?'
         'Un peu.'
        'Do
what?'
        'A
bit.' Mark held up his forefinger and thumb a half inch apart. 'It wasn't hard.
Most of the people spoke English, though they don't let on until they get to
know you. I made mistakes, but I learned. I was young and I think the bloke who
owned the place fancied me.' He saw the old fashioned look on Chas's face. 'But
don't worry, Chas, he didn't do anything about it. He had hot and cold running
geezers up in his flat. He didn't need me.'
        'Where
did you live?'
        'Got
a room with one of the chefs. Mental. He was always out of his head on some
designer drug or another. But when the tips started coming in I rented a room
off of a customer who had a little house up in Montmartre. Fucking beautiful it
was. High ceilings, roof terrace and just down the way from the bar. Life was
good. Then I met someone.'
        'A
bird?'
        'No.
Another bloke. Old boy. Name of Cam. Mr Cam everyone called him. I never knew
what his other name was, or if that was his first or last. He could've been
sixty, could've been eighty. And he wasn't gay.