Trotsky's
Reed walked down the steep concrete
stairs his black shiny Bass-Weejuns clip-clopping softly, a sound
that he enjoyed, the hard leather bottoms of his crisp penny loafers
on concrete, like the sizzle of streaky bacon on a Saturday morning
or the crack of the first can of lager on a Friday night after work.
These where the kinds of sounds that reminded him of his youth, his
days of over confident swagger and presence among his peers the
sounds that trickled over his ear lobes like Champagne over his first
Sixth Form girlfriends pert breasts. The sound rang through his ears
and brought a smile to his face, this in turn brought him to take off
his black suede gloves as he slowly descended the stairs and feel the
cold steel of his Smith and Wesson model 10 snub nose that snuggled
in his navy Duffle coat pocket and rest his left hand on the hard
wood handle.
The door to Trotsky’s was open, it
was a Tuesday night so no security. The bar had the air of a New York
cocktail lounge, dark oak walls, a long bar,with the suitable chrome
tall bar stools, chalk board drinks menu, numerous randomly scattered
tables with low black leather chairs around each. Trotsky was strewn
with the 'young generation' of artists, writers, musicians and those
of their ilk chatting themselves up to the nearest clone that would
listen, Reed recognised them all, some personally some as the same
low level scum who brushed past him everyday, they worked yes, but
they worked for fame trotting out the kind of modernist shit that
Reed once dreamed of doing before the accident.
The bar was shuffling with little lean
bargirls Reed swore he had slept with at least two of them or at
least had wanked to the thought of having done so. One of the girls,
a buxom red head - bottle or natural he could not attain with the dim
after Eight lighting, looked over to him. Reed was hunched which
didn't compliment his dapper appearance on the scene, well pressed
grey flannel slacks ran down to his ankles where his bright red socks
caught her eye, then straight up she raised her glance as he tapped
his foot to the vintage Southern bbq-soul the battered cd player by
the coffee machine was blurting out. She took in his slight frame
and followed the Six foot line of his body up past the pristine
Duffle coat and to his face slim, hard, no sign of stubble, a
slightly jewish nose but not all there, dark eyes, the darkest eyes,
and a healthy head of gelled brown hair - an English brown mousy if
you like turned Mediterranean by the hair product and swept to the
side not unlike some 1940's footballers barnet of choice, not shaved
and as neat as a soldiers and too much hollywood gable neither but
somewhere in between if you like. Reed looked up from his hunch and
caught her eye. He smiled at her and swept aside the stray hair, that
had dropped out of place in part from his cramped demeanour, to the
side of his forehead with his right hand.
The left Bass-Weejun continued to tap
on the floor, Reed looked away from the pale rose tinted red head and
found the fella he was looking for. Reed moved as if to go towards
him but the acquaintance a shorter man than reed with a smarmy grin
and a ruffled black crop moved towards him , he wasn't a man of great
likability in his look, neither was Reed but this guy moved as if the
floor was his cock and everyone moved with its motion, their dancing
feet, their roaring laughter and their pleasant interactions all
massaging his alcohol dampened, green tiled erection, Farrow as his
closest liked to refer to him as, shuffled his way through Trotsky’s
lively crowd knocking people clumsily with the drunken sway of his
manner, “Reed” he shouted. A few of the faceless numbers turned
towards the call. Reed started to recognise more of the faces and
gripped the Snub Nose tighter in his pocket slowly moving the trigger
finger into position, Farrow was now with in Three metres of Reed.
Reed looked over at the bar and smiled at the redhead again- oh he
wished he had just come for a drink and could smoother her with
metaphors, questions and eye contact, take her home, let her under
his covers, “Reed mate...”. Reed looked back at Farrow and in
time with the turn of his head pulled out the gun and shot as his
eyes reached his. The left side of Farrows forehead exploded and a
cascade of blood and flesh dropped in tangent with his pint of Lager
and at least four other cocktails of various descriptions from
several sides of the room, Farrow fell the to ground.
The sound of the gunshot that pierced
Reeds eardrums so suddenly was soon overcome by the rank sharp
screams that now rang around Trotsky, Reed turned away from them
quicker than the bullet carnage he had just created and walked
towards the door. Everyone scrambled to the aid of Farrow, and with
everyone thinking that at least someone else would stop him leaving,
no one did.
Reed closed the clear glass door behind
him, he turned to catch a glimpse of the red-haired beauty, she
downed a shot of Tequila. Reed walked up the stairs in his brown
shiny Bass-Weejuns and let the sound penetrate his thoughts once
again, he was leaving his mums house, the taste of toothpaste and
lager on his breath and the smell of Tommy on his neck, Town was his
oyster, the streets awash with girls, he reached the top of the
stairs, looked up and down the strip of bars, clubs and restaurants
and saw his lift arriving. On to the next.
The car pulled up a shiny black MG
Roadster not many left nowadays, Jimmy opened the door from the
inside, it only opened from the inside and let Reed in. Jimmy turned
the key in the ignition and off they drove down Old Turner street.
Reed looked straight ahead and scratched the back of his head slowly
and for what seemed like a couple of minutes. “Who you done tonight
then mate?”
asked Jimmy, Reed carried on looking
straight ahead stopped his scratching and answered wearily “sorry
mate what? I weren’t listening.” “Who you done?” “ah no one
you know, just an old bother”
“fair enough” Jimmy replied and
carried on driving. The pair stayed silent until they got to the Safe
house. They called it the safe house but it wasn’t really safe the
Police knew where go after any 'bother'.
Chapter 2
Ken
To get to the safe house Reed and Jimmy
had to go around the back of the brightly lit 24 hour smoothie bar
whereby in the car park and besides the numerous recycling bins in
which property’s were now required by law to have four, glass,
plastic, cardboard and food waste was the black door, number 17
buzzer B. Jimmy pressed the buzzer “hello” the black box
uttered. “ken” Jimmy replied and the door opened. They strolled
up the narrow stair case to Flat B, Reedy smelt the warming waft of
nicotine floating into his nostrils, since cigarettes were banned in
the square mile and most parts of the divided Britain it was always a
pleasure to know he was out of the overindulgent squalor of the
centre of the city and back east when he could breath in fresh
cigarette smoke again. They entered the door, and Reedy hung up his
coat and walked over to the red leather sofa by the window the
scratched wooden flooring creaking underfoot, the room was circled
with plush leather sofas with a knee high dark oak table in the
centre. The walls were adorned with several framed photos of the safe
houses saviour the last Mayor of London Ken Livingstone, since the
city was divided into five, east, west, north, south and the square
mile, London was now divided thusly between 4 mayors, the square mile
was police governed. During the 'dividing' Ken was imprisoned for his
strong stance against the change and the safe house was actually
funded by and previously owned by ken.
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