switched then. Go to ground, Joe. If Paget’s after you, you’re in trouble.’
6
Bowker was one of the old sort who’d worked in London in the seventies when the law was as bent as the thieves and you only had to fall out of your car with a sawn-off to net fifty grand. He’d done a couple of long stretches in Wandsworth and the Scrubs, and when they’d finally kicked him out he found that his time had gone, his profession had changed and nobody gave a fuck what he’d done twenty years ago. I hadn’t seen him for years, but I remembered him.
I found him in the Connaught Arms club, a snooker place on the Holloway Road. It was an old haunt of mine. I’d last been there about six years before, when I’d worked nearby.
It was members only and I had a bit of trouble getting in, until I fed the bloke on the counter a fifty. He was happy then. Giving him money meant I wasn’t law. That was all he cared about. That and the fifty notes.
Upstairs was a large open room, dim and dusty, with a long bar down one side, a handful of tables with mixed chairs and stools, and a dozen or so shabby snooker tables filling the middle of the floor. It was late, but this place had never shut as far as I knew. They served alcohol until the early hours and, because of the bloke downstairs in reception, they had a heads-up on any law, so they let their punters smoke if they wanted to. Smoking wasn’t all that went on there. At one of the tables a group of young black men were smoking spliffs, chatting and texting on their mobiles. Yardie-connected, probably. Small-time, though. During the days, the club ran a book. They had a few TVs behind the bar and punters would sit and drink and blow their money on long shots at Goodwood or Haydock Park or wherever, and always it was the gambling, not the winning or the chance to win, but the gambling itself that they sucked up and fed on, because that told them they were still alive.
Bowker was a gambler, which was how I happened to know him. It was his gambling that got him in stir. He’d become desperate a few times too many. He was one of those people who always won small and lost big. That’s why King had suggested him, I suppose. He’d spill anything for anyone if you dangled a score in front of his face. Everyone knew he was a grass but for some reason nobody cared, though they made damned sure they didn’t talk business around him.
I saw him in the far corner, leaning over a table, cue in one hand, fag in the other. I walked towards him. He was a small man and his three-piece suit was a couple of sizes too big. He seemed to have shrunk since I’d last seen him. Something was killing him: the fags, the booze, the constant losing. He still tried to keep the Teddy-boy quiff he’d had as a young man, but his hair was too thin, and the black sheen it had was too black and just made his face look older and paler.
He lined up the blue with a corner pocket. He put the fag in his mouth, leaned over, cued up and smacked the cue ball. The blue missed the pocket by half a foot and bounced into the reds, scattering them everywhere. He dragged on the fag, coughed a lung up and walked around to line up another shot. He didn’t seem to mind that he’d missed.
He didn’t see me until I was at the table. When he did see me he didn’t react, and I thought that was strange. I should’ve realized.
‘Joe,’ he said. ‘Been a while.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Game?’
‘No.’
He bent over as far as he could and hit the cue ball into a pack of reds. One of the reds went in the centre pocket.
‘You shouldn’t be here,’ he said, moving around the table and aiming along the cue at a long black. ‘People are looking for you.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’
I watched the cue. It was shaking. I remembered when I’d played poker with him. He would have been good, if it hadn’t been for the shakes he got. He missed the black and stood up. He drew on his cigarette and let the smoke out in a sigh.
6
Bowker was one of the old sort who’d worked in London in the seventies when the law was as bent as the thieves and you only had to fall out of your car with a sawn-off to net fifty grand. He’d done a couple of long stretches in Wandsworth and the Scrubs, and when they’d finally kicked him out he found that his time had gone, his profession had changed and nobody gave a fuck what he’d done twenty years ago. I hadn’t seen him for years, but I remembered him.
I found him in the Connaught Arms club, a snooker place on the Holloway Road. It was an old haunt of mine. I’d last been there about six years before, when I’d worked nearby.
It was members only and I had a bit of trouble getting in, until I fed the bloke on the counter a fifty. He was happy then. Giving him money meant I wasn’t law. That was all he cared about. That and the fifty notes.
Upstairs was a large open room, dim and dusty, with a long bar down one side, a handful of tables with mixed chairs and stools, and a dozen or so shabby snooker tables filling the middle of the floor. It was late, but this place had never shut as far as I knew. They served alcohol until the early hours and, because of the bloke downstairs in reception, they had a heads-up on any law, so they let their punters smoke if they wanted to. Smoking wasn’t all that went on there. At one of the tables a group of young black men were smoking spliffs, chatting and texting on their mobiles. Yardie-connected, probably. Small-time, though. During the days, the club ran a book. They had a few TVs behind the bar and punters would sit and drink and blow their money on long shots at Goodwood or Haydock Park or wherever, and always it was the gambling, not the winning or the chance to win, but the gambling itself that they sucked up and fed on, because that told them they were still alive.
Bowker was a gambler, which was how I happened to know him. It was his gambling that got him in stir. He’d become desperate a few times too many. He was one of those people who always won small and lost big. That’s why King had suggested him, I suppose. He’d spill anything for anyone if you dangled a score in front of his face. Everyone knew he was a grass but for some reason nobody cared, though they made damned sure they didn’t talk business around him.
I saw him in the far corner, leaning over a table, cue in one hand, fag in the other. I walked towards him. He was a small man and his three-piece suit was a couple of sizes too big. He seemed to have shrunk since I’d last seen him. Something was killing him: the fags, the booze, the constant losing. He still tried to keep the Teddy-boy quiff he’d had as a young man, but his hair was too thin, and the black sheen it had was too black and just made his face look older and paler.
He lined up the blue with a corner pocket. He put the fag in his mouth, leaned over, cued up and smacked the cue ball. The blue missed the pocket by half a foot and bounced into the reds, scattering them everywhere. He dragged on the fag, coughed a lung up and walked around to line up another shot. He didn’t seem to mind that he’d missed.
He didn’t see me until I was at the table. When he did see me he didn’t react, and I thought that was strange. I should’ve realized.
‘Joe,’ he said. ‘Been a while.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Game?’
‘No.’
He bent over as far as he could and hit the cue ball into a pack of reds. One of the reds went in the centre pocket.
‘You shouldn’t be here,’ he said, moving around the table and aiming along the cue at a long black. ‘People are looking for you.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’
I watched the cue. It was shaking. I remembered when I’d played poker with him. He would have been good, if it hadn’t been for the shakes he got. He missed the black and stood up. He drew on his cigarette and let the smoke out in a sigh.
Similar Books
