Florida Snow

By Tim Nicolls

Drugs and prostitution are his trade.

Violence is his pleasure.

From Brighton to London to the coca fields of Bolivia, a brutal and compelling novel of one man's rise to power and the nemesis that pursued him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tim Nicolls
• Release date: May 6, 2015

Book preview

Part One

Chapter 1

Summer 1964

These were the best days ever. There was myself, Tel and Hobby, with not a care in the world - happy as pigs in shit. We’d known each other since we were nippers; having lived on the same street in a run-down area in the arse-end of London, with parents who’d thought we were from another planet.

In 1964 I was 25. The other two were a year or so younger.

All three of us had motorbikes. Initially, we’d passed our driving tests so we could buy an old banger for a few quid - but fuck that! It had always been bikes for us. We loved the bloody things back then. No crap like crash helmets or any of that shit; just jump astride and piss off. We’d worked our arses off at every building site in the East End to get those bikes. In those days, it was easy to get work on a site - cash paid, no names, no pack drill and no tax.

So that summer we decided to get a few quid together and bike it down to Brighton, stir up some shit with the Mods, have a few laughs and piss it up for a few weeks.

Within a couple of days we were well settled. I’d got a job for a few hours a day helping out in a pub. Tel, that’s short for Terry, for those who give a shit, worked the deck chairs on the pier. Hobby, whose nickname came from the fact he’d hobbled a bit following a bout of polio as a kid, fixed himself up cleaning cars for some funeral service or another.

We kipped in a room we’d rented for three quid a week, overlooking the seafront - all very nice and cosy. Pissed most nights; tossed off by tarts under the pier for half a crown; a few good kicking’s to some pricks who gave us grief - we were living the life of Riley.

Then came this night.

It was two or three weeks later. We were starting to talk about going back to the smoke as Tel was missing some bird he had been showing out to down Peckham way. She was married with a kid of around two, but Tel didn’t give a fuck. He reckoned his chances and if her husband got leery, so much the worse for him. What’s the odd broken leg amongst friends?

That night we were happily getting trashed at some random pub when Tel remembered there was some show on at the end of the pier. We took a stroll down the pier towards this piss poor little bar in a building at the end. Inside, on a stage in the corner, was some dick telling jokes. A bunch of tables were scattered about in front of the stage with punters sitting around them. The game was … you went to the bar, got your drinks, grabbed a table and watched the show. The catch, of course, was that the booze was double the price here than anywhere else.

Hobby got us a couple of pints each to keep us going, and he was not quiet about it - banging into a few tables on the way for a bit of fun, arguing about the price, getting everyone well and truly pissed off. We were starting to get a lot of fucked off looks from the other punters. Back and forth he went, between the bar and the table, carrying two pints at a time and always managing to spill a bit on a punter or two. It was getting fucking hilarious. I put my feet on the table; Tel stood up and called out to the bloke attempting to tell jokes on the stage and asked him to speak up. All the while cupping his hand around the ear that had a gold earring, as if he was hard of hearing. The pansy behind the bar looked as though his worst nightmare had come true. A few people started to leave. The clown telling the jokes disappeared and on came a bloke in evening tails. He gave us a filthy look and introduced an Angela something and asked the audience to please give her a chance. The place was around half full by now. So on came this bird - she must have been around seventeen or eighteen - trim little figure, nice legs, auburn hair.

She was wearing one of those dresses - about knee high, that spread out with a frilly type petticoat underneath and she started singing this song. I couldn’t remember what it was. She started out a bit timid but got into it quick just as Tel called out asking her to get her tits out. Now everyone was getting pissed off. Some fucker told us to shut up, Hobby told him to fuck off back. It looked like it was all going to kick off. But this kid on stage just kept on singing. Strange thing was, she was looking straight at us and singing every word like she was telling us to get stuffed - letting us know we were not going to beat her. I told the other two to lay off. One thing I respected was guts and I could see this kid had it in shitloads. She finished her song and turned to leave the stage, giving us a look down her nose like we were fucking dogs turds. Bloody turned me on that look. The guy in evening tails came back on and, by way of finishing, told a couple of gags, and said I hope you have enjoyed the show; put your hands together and please show your appreciation to the cast. Out onto the stage they trooped, about ten of them. You never saw such a moth-eaten bunch of fuckers. All except her. She stood out like a diamond in a pile of shit. Looking straight ahead, beautiful smile, lovely white teeth, little upturned nose, legs to die for, the whole bleeding package. There I was, sitting looking at her like I was dying of thirst and she was a fucking tap. Following a bit of applause the cast started to move off stage and people started to leave; most of them giving us a dirty look on the way out.

So there was just the three of us left, finishing our pints. We talked a bit and then Tel and Hobby got up to leave. I said I needed a piss and would see them outside.

After they’d gone, I went up to the bar and asked the ponce behind it if he knew who the singing bird was and what the score was. He looked a bit pissed off but told me her name was Angela White and that she was with a touring group that went around the Country every summer. They usually came down to Brighton for three weeks and then moved on. He thought she was a new addition though, as he’d never seen her before. How long are they around for? I asked. They’ve only been here a few days, so a coupIe of weeks or more I’d say. Every night? I pressed further. Yep, just not Sundays. Bar boy had been useful so I thought I’d get the ducks in a row, said sorry about the evening - too much to drink - and bunged him a quid. He could hardly believe it, it was probably more than what he got for a twelve-hour shift! But I’d learnt young the time it saved to grease the right palms.

That night I stayed awake for fucking hours. Couldn’t sleep for thinking about her.

The next morning Tel said he wanted to go back to the smoke. Hobby asked me what I wanted to do and I told him that I was going to stay on for a bit. The last thing I needed then was Hobby under my feet, so I told Hobby to go back with Tel and that I’d see them in a couple of days. He gave me a bit of a look but shrugged his shoulders and said, OK!

A couple of hours later and they were gone.

That evening I went to the pier early and asked the tosser behind the bar for a pint, grabbed a table near the back and waited. Following a bit of music, out bounced the clown in his evening dress. I’ll say this for him, he knew his business. There must have been at least 60 to 70 punters there and he treated them all like they were his long lost family. A few jokes; then he asked a couple of old ducks whether they were married, blew his nose like he was about to cry when they said they were; he sang a song and then moved onto introducing the next act. She was on third. She looked so fucking beautiful she made my balls ache. She was wearing the same type of dress as the night before, but a different colour. Blue it was, with a large band round the waist, low-cut but still modest with the same flared skirt. I’ll never forget the way she looked that night, never. The show went on for about two hours. She was on twice. They fucking loved her; she got more applause than all the rest put together. When the show was over, I cut out and waited outside.

Half an hour later a group of people started coming out of a door just down the pier, laughing and joshing as they walked towards me. She was in the middle of them, smiling at something someone had said to her. Next to her was the bloke who’d opened the show. I went up to them and stood in front of her. They all stopped and looked at me. I was wearing a t-shirt and jeans with my leather jacket, my usual gear, all I had really. My hair was greased back and suddenly, I felt like a piece of shit.

She was wearing a nice short skirt, little blouse, a jacket, and flat shoes that brought her up to my shoulders. A little voice in my head kept screaming - fuck it, just go for it you prick. So I said, Can I buy you a drink? A couple of them started tittering; the clown next to her had more balls than you’d give him credit for. He made a move to brush me aside but she just put an arm out and stopped him. She looked at me with those eyes of hers, cool as ice, as if she was judging me somehow. A couple of seconds later she nodded her head slightly. We always go for a drink after the show. You can join us if you like. Just like that, no asking the others, no if’s or maybe’s, they just accepted her decision like she owned them.

They walked on, with me tailing slightly behind until we came to a little pub up the road from the pier. Nice little place, very cosy. Going in, they all headed straight to the bar and started to order their drinks - all paying separately. What would you like to drink? I asked her. We all pay for our own, she’d replied. I wondered if she was taking the piss. Fuck that, I said, but real quiet and close to her ear so the others couldn’t hear. What do you want to drink? She gave me that look again, as if she was judging me. OK she finally said, I’d like a Pepsi.

We had arrived at the pub around ten fifteen so I reckoned this lot would piss off around eleven and I’d have her to myself. So I went to the bar and got a pint for myself and her Pepsi. When I turned around, she was sitting tight between two of the blokes from the show. She saw my face and gave me this little smile, got up and came towards me, pulling up a stool next to me at the bar. She asked me my name, I told her and said, I already know yours because I asked. She smiled at me. She had those eyes, kind of light blue that seemed to look deep into you, like she could read you in some way. They turned me on like a fucking street lamp those eyes. She spoke softly, had a nice accent, bit upmarket but not too posh or put on. She told me she lived with her parents in Streatham and had been to acting school before joining this lot, who she called the ‘Troupe’.

Normally I would have thought, who gives a fuck, let’s get back to my place and get those knickers down. But no, not with this one. She had something about her that I couldn’t explain - a kind of calm that made you feel both protective and protected - like nothing would phase her and everyone around her would be OK. Bleeding odd feeling, but good. We talked for a bit … she asked where I came from … usual crap like that.

Half an hour later the others got up and started getting ready to leave. She also stood up. Why not stay for another? I’ll make sure you get back all right, I said. She said she couldn’t. I have to go with the others. I must have looked pissed off because she just looked at me with that look of hers, like a fucking judge about to hand down a sentence, then put her hand on my knee. We always come here after the show, she said. See you tomorrow at the same time. Not a question, just a fact.

Sure enough, the next night I was there, waiting for them. Some of them even smiled at me as they arrived. She came in with them but sat with me at the bar. She had dressed up a bit, I could tell. Nice dress and matching jacket, hair done up, high-heel shoes, and a hint of perfume. She looked a million dollars. But later, when they left, she went with them.

We followed the same pattern for the next three nights. Funny thing was, I just accepted it. I looked forward to seeing her, I liked talking to her, I liked the way she laughed, but most of all, I liked the way she seemed to like me. I wasn’t going to screw it all up by charging at the gate.

On Saturday night I’d forgotten they didn’t perform on Sunday’s. So I’ll see you tomorrow? I questioned as she got up to leave. We won’t be here, we take Sunday’s off, she replied. Seeing my face, she’d laughed. Tell you what, she continued, we could spend the day together. I’ll meet you at the pier entrance at 11o’clock. There she went again, not a perhaps or maybe, just like she knew I’d do whatever she wanted.

The next day I was at the pier well before eleven. She turned up bang on time looking bloody amazing wearing a pair of tight jeans that stopped just below her calves, a little sweater with her midriff showing and pink flat shoes. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail. I could see blokes staring at her from a hundred yards away.

We decided to spend a few hours on the pier. One of the guys Tel worked with on the deck chairs managed to get us free rides on the dodgem cars. She laughed while I rammed every other punter in sight. Later we played on some of the slot machines and then thought we’d have a go on the ghost train. We got on the train and the kid working it gave our carriage a shove - we rolled forward into the dark. I had my arm round her shoulder and she leant her head against me. We careered round a couple of bends and through a white sheet painted like a ghost and suddenly we were kissing. She clung on to me, our tongues were in each others mouths like it was the last breath we’d ever want to take. I had put my hand under her sweater, her nipples were as hard as iron. Grabbing her hand, I put it on my crotch and held on to her. I thought I was going to fucking die with need. Suddenly we were coming out of the tunnel and we pulled apart. We got off the train and we looked at one another like we’d just met. I took her hand and started walking down the pier. We didn’t speak, not a single word. We continued down the seafront to my place and went upstairs. Still holding her hand tight we went into my room. She moved toward my bed, sat and just looked up at me. As I went to close the curtains, I heard her say my name softly. I turned towards her and she whispered, I’m a virgin.

I looked down into her eyes and in that moment, I knew this needed to be good. I had to do right by her; it was not just sex. It was like she was something I had to live up to; somehow she had weakened me, yet made me stronger. It was a strange, unreal feeling, one I’d never felt before or since.

The following two weeks were like a Hollywood B movie. She rehearsed in the mornings till midday and I’d changed my shift at the pub I worked at - working from eight in the morning till midday - cleaning all the shit from the night before. I never fucking believed there were so many glasses to wash and shit to sort out before opening up for business. I’d worked so efficiently, the landlord thought I was the answer to all his dreams.

Everyday for those two weeks, Angie and I would meet just after midday at the pier. We would sometimes take the bike up to the downs, walk for hours or just sit and have a meal and a drink on the seafront, make love, then meet up with the cast after the show – they knew what was going on and left us alone to just sit and talk. Every so often, she would ask what I wanted to do with my life. I don’t know, there’s enough time to decide, I almost always replied and she would give me this queer little look - like something was worrying her - and then look away quickly. It was always the same response.

Before we knew it, it was only a day or two before they had to leave Brighton for Bristol as they were booked to perform there. I had offered to go with her for a week or so to see her settle in. Alternatively, I’d told her she could just pack it in and come back to the smoke with me; we’d be fine I’d told her. She had just smiled at that and said she wanted to see the whole tour through - she said it was the right path to take; it wouldn’t be right to let them down. She used words like that the all the time - you had to take the right path, do the right thing. Bollocks like that - it was the only thing about her that annoyed me slightly.

Just before they left, she’d given me her parents’ phone number and I told her the name of the local pub where I usually hung out with Tel and Hobby most nights – she could always find me from there. I went to the station to see her off and asked her to stay, again. Predictably, she’d just smiled. Taking both my hands in hers, she looked me straight in the eyes like she always had. I want you to promise me something, she said if you ever need me, you make sure you come and find me. Then picking up her little suitcase she started walking up the platform with the others, looking back once with a kind of sad look on her face, gave a little wave and she was gone.

I thought we’d meet again soon. But we didn’t.

Twenty-five years were to pass before we met again - in a life or death situation neither of us would have imagined possible as we parted that day at Brighton station.

Chapter 2

I left Brighton that same evening. There was nothing to stay for really. I didn’t tell the pub that I was leaving - I was all paid up - let them clear up the shit in the morning themselves.

Just before I left, I’d called Hobby’s house and told his old man to tell him and Tel to meet me in the local later. I got back around nine o’clock and went straight to the pub where I immediately spotted Hobby head to head at a table in the corner, in quiet conversation with a black bloke, who looked like he was carved out of solid rock. He was built like a shit house door, but dressed real expensive - nice mohair suit in blue, quiet striped shirt with a white collar, dark knitted tie and suede loafers. His hands were like sides of ham with gold rings that must have been made for him. Hobby looked up, saw me and waved me over.

Hobby told the black guy my name. He didn’t say anything, just stared at me like he was summing me up. It was fucking disconcerting. I said I needed a drink. Well go and get one then, he said. And don’t be too long, I haven’t got all night. Like he was giving me some kind of order. He had a voice like stones in a cement mixer but with an upper class accent - a bit put on, like he’d taken lessons on how to talk nice. Fuck you, I thought, and strolled good and slow to the bar, taking my time.

When I finally got back and sat down with my drink, this clown leaned forward, so close that his head was nearly touching mine. Your friend Hobby and I have had the opportunity to have a little chat, he said. No doubt he will convey the details on to you. He sounded like a posh vicar. I nearly laughed out loud. He looked at Hobby who just nodded, looking as though he was going to shit himself.

We can only hope, for both your sakes, that you listen carefully and make the correct choice. If you do, a parcel will be delivered to you here every Friday at noon precisely, with a payment for your services. You will be instructed where to distribute the contents over the following week. Your friend here has accepted my money on your behalf, which has been given to you in good faith. If you now decide you do not wish to take employment with us, the consequences would be more than uncomfortable. In the first instance a few of my employees would pay you a visit with some medical instruments and spend the day with you. Every second of that day will feel like an eternity. It would be difficult to imagine, even in your worst nightmares, the use to which they would put those instruments, or the pain you will be subjected to. When I think you are sufficiently recovered from that ordeal I will have you bled. He looks at both of us with a look of disgust on his face. "You will now get proper haircuts, buy yourselves decent clothes and look as though you actually belong to the human race. You will be here precisely at noon on Friday. If you are so much as a minute late, I will presume you have turned down our offer of employment and you will suffer the consequences I