Free Guns Of Brixton by Mark Timlin Page B

He wasn't much of anything.
Just a nice old bloke as far as I was concerned.'
        'So
what happened?'
        'He
used to come in the bar every night and sometimes lunchtime. Tiny bloke. Only
about five foot tall. And… Well I never worked out what he was 'til he told me.
I knew he was from the far east, but I had no idea where. Then one night we was
rabbiting. He spoke English better than you and me, and he let on. Vietnamese
he was. From the south. Pissed off when the Americans left. He'd been up to
something dodgy, I found out later. Buying black market stuff from the Yanks.
Petrol, weapons, anything. Anyway, he'd been to a French school when they were
trying to occupy the country before the Americans came, and was as good at
French as he was at English, so he moved to Paris and set up in business.'
        'What
kind of business?'
        'Monkey
business. But at first he told me he was importing works of art. He looked the
part too. White hair, smart suits, and spats would you believe. Anyway we got
friendly. He loved the steak and chips in the bar and he was a good tipper. So
one night I was locking up the place. Yeah, I got to be trusted enough to have
the keys, and the old boy had been in, and when I came round into the alley at
the back of the place to dump off some rubbish, there he was along with four
other Asian blokes. But big blokes. And they're jabbering away at each other
and I can see it's all about to go off. Now, I've been a good boy all the time
I've been in Paris. Kept my nose clean. But I'm not- going to have all this. I
could've just pissed off but instead I get involved. The old boy tells me to
leave it, but I don't. You know me.'
        Chas
nodded.
        'And
one of these other blokes gives me a shove and I shove back and away we go.
Blimey, I've never seen anything like it. The old boy's like bloody Jackie
Chan. Bish, bosh, he's off and we do for them.' Mark laughed at the memory. 'At
least he does three and a half of them and I do half of one, and I'm on the
floor covered in blood with my jacket all torn, and the old boy's standing
there and his suit ain't even creased. So he picks me up and takes me round the
corner to this little club I know nothing about, and he says, 'No cops,' and I
say back that it would never occur to me to call them, and he gives me a funny
little look but don't say nothing. And this club's full of Vietnamese too, and
they start on at him because apparently they don't want any round eyes there.
That's what they call us - round eyes. But he's as good as gold. He starts on
at them in Vietnamese and must explain what happens, because after a minute
they're all over me like a rash. Anyway the barman gives me a large brandy and
then Mr Cam whizzes me upstairs to his flat.
        'It
turns out he owns the whole gaff, see. And there's this beautiful Vietnamese
girl there. His granddaughter I find out later. Her name's Lan. So she cleans
me up and takes my jacket to mend where it's torn. Anyway, to cut a long story
short, when I'm patched up, he calls me a cab and sends me home. The next day
I'm as stiff as a board and call in sick. It's not a problem. But in the
afternoon when I'm sitting in front of the telly trying to make head or tail of
some old American film dubbed into French there's a knock at the door and it's
him. He's bought me a big bag of fruit and a bottle of some Vietnamese rice
wine and we sit down for chat.
        'He
tells me that the blokes who gave him a hard time are North Vietnamese
gangsters trying to muscle in on his club which was why he wouldn't call the
cops. And he's grateful for my intervention as he calls it. I tell him I'm sure
he didn't need it the way he could handle himself, but. he's still full of
thanks and tells me if I need a doctor he'll cough for the bill. I tell him I'm
fine, I've had worse, and end up telling him the story of why I left England.
Not all of it mind. And suddenly he asks if I've ever killed anyone. Well,