THE WEEKEND 4 - Saturday 'Soho'
By Albert-W
- 436 reads
THE WEEKEND
4
Saturday - Soho
Greg’s mother had a soft spot for Ken. It was the devilish twinkle in his eye that blinded most to his darker side. She knew he only had occasional money for rent when he came to stay at Greg’s place after his own mother had kicked him out, and she agreed that he could do some work on the house in return for his keep, plus the odd pack of cigarettes.
The current job in hand, in the week leading up to that weekend, was concreting over the front garden and building a wall to replace the rotted fence. As he was prone to do, Ken set about the task in a burst of hyperactivity, working all hours of the day and night to get it finished. He could go for up to thirty-six hours at a stretch without sleep, employing an array of lamps to floodlight the site during darkness.
The money for materials was to be the cash bonus, he’d decided, which meant that the first few nights were spent acquiring several hundred bricks, numerous bags of cement, and small mountains of sand and aggregate along with most of the tools needed for the job. Everything was laboriously barrowed the half-mile or so from the building site whose operators didn’t seem to notice their losses.
Greg was dragged along under protest on several of these midnight missions and dreaded every minute of it, breaking into cold sweats as they dived into alleyways to avoid patrolling police Velocettes and escape astonished passers-by. With the need to do his early morning paper round, then get to school, he couldn’t keep up with all this, so turned in early on the final night and woke in the morning to find the garden deserted, no sign of Ken in or outside the house, a barrow missing as well – and there was no way he’d be out on the pilfer in broad daylight.
He showed up after breakfast, grinning all over his cheeky face, his blonde curly hair matted with perspiration and cement dust. “Been down the nick,” he explained. “Two rozzers hauled me in at about four this morning. They wanted to know where I got one of the barrows. Off a bloke in a pub I told them. Why do you want to know? ‘Cos it’s got Lewisham Borough Council stamped across the bottom of it,’ they said.” He was fined five pounds for receiving.
Finishing the job on the same Friday night when Greg went to the flicks with Ronnie and Alan, Ken was now in funds and decided that he would go ‘up West’ on the Saturday and blow some of the take. The Horse wasn’t particularly interested in it and there was no sign of big-eared Alan, but Greg went along.
The first place Ken wanted to go to was the Soho pub where his army mate had blown a man’s brains out. He was fascinated to be in the place, almost down on his hands and knees checking for bloodstains.
Neither of them had ever seen a strip show, but they were determined to be baptised and fell into some place in an alley off Rupert Street. The women were all slappers, most with no tits to speak of. The two sporting larger ones also had huge sagging backsides to match. Greg wished that Ronnie had come along, certain he would have risen to the occasion, detonating one of his Horse belches whilst mouthing some obscenity at an appropriate moment to accompany the gyrating arse on the stage.
Then Ken announced that he felt randy. He asked a doorman if any of the girls did a turn for a few bob. The man said not, but produced a card bearing the address of a ‘club’ in Wardour Street – The Black Owl. Greg didn’t like the place and began to feel uneasy. It wasn’t just the even rougher women there that made him uncomfortable: it was the two enormous goons in monkey suits who were keeping an eye on the proceedings, staring unpleasantly at the customers.
The two ‘allotted’ women told the boys that money could only change hands for legitimate purposes; like the membership fee - ten pounds each. Whiskeys, of which they both seemed to need three shots apiece to get them in the mood, lightened the funds of a further five quid a shot. Ken was playing Mr. Big - peeling off the notes like there was no tomorrow.
“Oh what a pity love,” one sympathised when she took the last of the cash from his hand. “If only you had just one more tenner, that would have been it. We can’t get the hotel room now. What a shame.”
Ken grabbed his jacket and produced two fivers. “Well now we can,” he slapped the money in her hand. “Let’s get on with it.”
They waited while the women got their coats, and Greg noticed how they had hurried words with one of the slobs by the door.
“Gonna be a mind-blower this,” Ken said, following the creatures out into the street. “Where’s this hotel?” he asked. “Oi!” he shouted when the women flew into the next door along, which immediately slammed shut in his face. “Fucking clip joint!” He ran back into the next-door club to see the two tarts already there, settling themselves back in. The goons blocked his way, and even Ken wasn’t going to argue with them, a great relief to Greg, as was the abandonment of the whole unsavoury exercise.
They took the train home with nothing in their pockets except the return tickets.
“Night’s still young,” said Ken, as they walked back up the hill from Catford Bridge. “Let’s see what’s happening on the corner.”
The Deptford Mob was a gang of louts Greg had heard tales of and seriously wanted to avoid. They would cruise around South London in their ex-army truck looking for trouble. The Lewisham Wimpy Bar had been a recent casualty when one of their number believed himself shortchanged by some Greek waiter. Before the bloke had time to explain his ignorance of British currency and put things to rights, the truck mounted the pavement and reversed through the plate glass window. If they had no particular axe to grind, they’d just stop anywhere they could find some innocent kids to bash. Tonight they spotted Ken and Greg.
Greg didn’t realise what was going on until the truck came to a halt and the troops began to pour out all around him, kicks going into his shins before he had time to think. And when he did think he came to the conclusion that he was about to be beaten to a pulp; and would have been had their leader not decided to stretch his legs and get out of the cab.
“’Ang about!” he commanded. The attack ceased immediately and the gaggle parted to allow the fat slob access through the middle where he came face to face with Ken. Now, Greg was certain, there definitely would be trouble. Ken would surely take a pop at the bloke and be the cause of their deaths. He had almost closed his eyes in resignation when...
“Bugger me! Kenny you old bastard. How the fuck are you?”
“What ho Sylvano you old wanker,” Ken grinned. “You still owe me thirty-bob.”
“Ken’s a mate,” Sylvano announced to his henchmen. “He’s all right. He’d knock Bow Bells out of the lot of you if he felt like it. We was at Weybridge together and he took the boxing title off me. He’s the only bloke who could have done it. By the way Ken,” he lowered his voice, “who’s your mate? I mean, he is a mate is he?”
Knowing Ken’s warped sense of humour Greg thought it would be like him to say no just for the hell of it. Instead, he made a ludicrous claim: “Yeah, that’s black belt Greg. He’s a Judo champion.”
This impressed the leader. “Come with us,” he invited. “We’re having a sort-out with the Chaplain boys tonight. We could do with some skilled muscle.”
Greg had heard of the Chaplain Brothers’ gang as well; and wasn’t sure who were supposed to be worse: them or this lot. All he could do was look pleadingly at his pal and hope he’d be let off the hook. He was. “Greg’s got a bird to shag,” Ken lied. “We don’t stand in the way of that, do we Sylve. But I’m game.”
Sylvano agreed with the unwritten thug’s code. “Lucky sod,” he gave Greg the thumbs-up. “Give it one for me.”
“I will,” Greg smiled feebly, then watched the troops climb into the lorry, taking their places in an orderly regimented fashion, Ken sitting right at the back waving goodbye through the canvas flap, his face a picture of ecstatic anticipation, completely in his element.
* * *
© Albert Woods (2014)
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