Gang Lords of London

By T J Jackson

The iron fist of William Harold Archer has kept the lid on London's gang violence for more than thirty years. Now he is dead and his sons are about to blow that lid off - with explosive consequences.

• Language: English
• Publisher: T J Jackson
• Release date: Jul 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781943842605

T J Jackson

T J Jackson is a graduate of Her Majesty's Higher Educational Facilities and is certainly not a keen Rotarian.

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Gang Lords of London

T J Jackson

"There’s no such thing as society,

just people and their enemies."

- William Harold Archer

Chapter 1

The dead are fucked.

The dead can’t command respect. The dead can’t show respect.

Pete and Paul’s Old Man had always told them that. Now their Old Man was dead.

Oh shit.

That little tosser Talwar — he’s a haemorrhoid on a slug’s arse. Paul had sent him to get fresh flowers. Now Talwar was late. Paul paced the gravel drive, looking down towards the road.

It’s his signing-on day, Paulie — Paul’s son — excused. Ten o clock. He signs on for his brother in the nick — for his pension.

"I’ll fucking nail the little turd-suck to something! I’ll send his fucking address to the fucking BNP!"

Paul gripped the handles of his curved nose persuasive pliers in his jacket pocket and squeezed them hard, relieved to find that he had remembered to transfer them from his working suit. He wouldn’t be needing them in the next few hours but was glad to be able to work out the stress and tension on them.

The sound of clicking heels from the hallway and then scrunching on the gravel drive brought yet more grief with the sight of his daughter. Nadine was dressed in a black miniskirt, footless fishnets with high heeled sandals and a leather jacket over a t-shirt that exposed a navel ring — all topped off with red blow-job-for-hire lipstick.

"I told you to wear something fucking respectful!" Paul yelled at her.

It’s black innit? she replied.

Jesus! Where’s your mother?

Having a shit.

Paul heard a flush and within a few seconds Veronica Archer was in the hall. Then she set eyes on her daughter. She rushed out onto the drive with her hand extended, ready to smack. You little tart! What do you think you’re playing at! Get back in there and put on something else — anything else!

Piss off you old slag!

Get back in there now you little slut! her mother insisted.

There isn’t time, Paul said — Wipe off her lipstick and give her a long coat — a black one.

I don’t want to wear a fucking coat.

You’ll fucking wear one whether you fucking want to or not. And don’t talk to your mother like that either.

Why not? You fucking do, and Nadine stomped back to the house.

Paul crushed the pliers in his vice like hands again. Now he really wanted to stick them up someone’s nose — rip all the shit out of them.

Where’s Talwar? Veronica asked.

On his way to his own funeral.

He isn’t here?

At that moment Talwar’s red Ferrari sped around the corner and scattered the gravel in the drive. Sorry boss — got held up.

Talwar carelessly flung the flowers at Paulie who just about caught them with an outstretched hand. Paul gave Talwar a heavy scowl and said, It’s time to get moving.

Nadine emerged from the house swathed in a long black overcoat. I look like a bloody prat.

Paul yelled at her, You're going to your grandad’s funeral, not a nightclub — try to show some respect.

I don’t want to go to Uncle Pete’s afterwards — all he does is talk about boring history.

Your Uncle Pete is a very intelligent man — he could of gone to university if he’d had the chance. You’re going so shut it. Now get in the Subaru.

I wanna go in the Lotus.

We’re all going in the Subaru.

You can come with me darling, Talwar said, and winked at her.

Fuck it! I’ll go in the fucking Subaru.

During the short journey from Hook Heath to Woking Crematorium it was the steering wheel rather than the pliers that suffered from Paul’s frustrations. He kept looking in the mirror to see Talwar following behind. He had never realised until this day just how irritating he found Talwar. It wasn’t just the race thing, though that was part of it. There was a greasy self-confidence about the geezer that suggested ambition. Talwar had been brought in by the Old Man because he had contacts and influence with the up-and-comings — the immigrant gangs making good in the inner-city. Paul’s dad had treated Talwar like some sort of surrogate son, despite his skin. Paul had hated it and had made up his mind to get rid of Talwar as soon as possible — like booting a cuckoo out of the nest. Talwar did not play any part in Paul’s future plans.

He drove through the gates of the crem’ where Jimmy Tools Martin — one of the Cognoscenti, — the Old Man’s firm — had reserved a space for him. He left the car for Jimmy to park and went to shake a few hands and accept condolences, check out who had come and who was out of line. There were a lot there, mostly men, all in expensive suits that fitted well and were new. Pete was already there and acting as master of ceremonies. We begin in five minutes, he said, coming up to Paul.

Good. Let’s get it over and done with. I hate this sort of thing.

It’s a good place to have it, Pete said. Did you know that this is the oldest crematorium in England — it was the very first. It was built before cremation was even legal. Forward thinking you see, back in those days. We had an Empire when this was built. Britain ruled the waves. We had something to be proud of…

I am proud, Paul said. I’m proud of who we are, what we’ve accomplished — what we accomplished with Dad, god bless him. and he looked about him, once more checking out who had come.

Yes, they were all here, all of them come to pay their respects. The Cognoscenti of course — Tools, Larry the Lam, Merv’ Swanee Shenton, Eddie Scawlock, Tony Scarfiotti. Then there were the Turks from Reading, the Green Lanes Gangs, the Bangla Boys from Brick Lane, the Crash-and-Carry mob, the Clapham mob — and the Afros of course — the Dancing Bandit and the Sunshine Boyz, the Azbo Kingz, the DNR… hovering at the edge, like birds of prey, were the new boys in town — the Russians and The Bulgar with his enforcer, Stanyos.

Pete continued, It's built in the neo-gothic style you see — tradition. There’s tradition in these bricks. I wanna be cremated here too.

Don’t get morbid, Paul said.

Nah! You gotta plan ahead — for the future.

I already have, Paul retorted. I hope you chose a good chaplain for this...

Yep. Told him to give us a bit of a sermon too. Dad liked a sermon. Bit of moral rectitude — that’s the stuff! Never hurt anyone! Doest unto them before they do it unto you, eh?

The doors to the crematorium were opened by an usher.

Oops, we're off, Pete said.

The mourners filed into the building whilst Pete and Paul, Billie and Tools prepared to bear the coffin. With everyone in place it was time to begin — everyone that is, except for Talwar. He came rushing past the hearse just as they were drawing the coffin out.

Sorry guv, Talwar called out to Paul. Had to find somewhere to put the car. Didn’t wanna leave it just anywhere — not a motor like that. He rushed ahead into the chapel.

The mourners all stood as the coffin was borne in. There was respectful silence as the bearers walked forwards, slowly and solemnly, with the Old Man on their shoulders. But as they began to lower the coffin onto the dais someone’s mobile went off with a jolly ring-tone. Paul wished he could grab his pliers but managed to jerk his head around to glare at the owner. Typical! One of the chocolate logs! One of the Sunshine Boyz! The guy looked like he was shitting molten lava and was desperately trying to turn the phone off but he fumbled it and dropped it. It was still going off as he searched for it all around the floor. Finally he silenced it. The vicar was at the lectern now, ready to welcome the congregation.

The bearers sat down but Paul twitched and fidgeted in the pews. He wished he could calm down and show more respect but now he was too wound up for that. The mobile phone business had been the final twisting of his cord. He looked at his brother who seemed deep in contemplation, as if transfixed by the proceedings, no doubt thinking about his old Dad…

The Old Man had been hard — fucking hard; on outsiders, even his own kin. That was how he had pulled himself up and out of the East End karzey where he had grown up. His wife, Pete and Paul’s mum, had never really liked the move out to Surrey — she was taken away from her friends and what had been her life. She was ten years dead, just about, and now her husband had died peacefully in his own bed. Surprising when you considered the life he had led, the violence he had dealt to others. He had survived literally by making sure that others didn’t, by being harder than they were, by making himself useful to other hard geezers and then by branching out for himself, eliminating those who were weaker.

The vicar told them all, We are here today to give our thanks for the life of William Harold Archer. When I asked William’s family what he did for a living, they described him to me as ‘a sort of odd job man who helped people out.’ When we think about it, Jesus, too, in his time upon the Earth, was a sort of odd job man who helped people out. It is in fact our Christian duty, as the parable of the Good Samaritan reminds us, to help others whatever the burden to ourselves…

A few minutes later they were outside again. Paul looked for the mobile owner but he had legged it — probably all the way back to Jamaica, Paul thought. He wanted to spit but it didn’t seem right, not while they were laying flowers for his Dad. Pete was still quiet. These things hit him hard, they always had, but he kept them inside him. He was gentle, sensitive like that. Sometimes it would all build up and he would use that anger to put someone straight. Paul had seen it happen — he had liked it, approved of it. He knew how useful it was. Pete was the calm one, usually, but people who really knew him took care around him.

It was just a select group that was invited back to Pete's place afterwards — the family, the Cognoscenti, and Talwar of course.

Pete’s place was smart and it reflected his interests. All the pictures on the walls were of stirring military victories or victorious leaders like Wellington or Nelson. He even had one of Napoleon, and Caesar too, and another geezer in a toga — Trojan or something. Pete knew all about that sort of thing — the Romans and Greeks and stuff.

Away from the morbidity of the crem’ Pete had chirped up and was showing off his paintings. That was the Great Age — when a bloke with vision could get things done… he told Tools, who looked uncomfortable in a black suit but was still managing to consume salmon sandwiches from a plate.

Stephanie Archer always prepared a good spread for the family dos and all the guys appreciated it. There were some real luxury items — the Archers weren’t paupers. They had caviar at a funeral. Pete was the real cook though — he enjoyed it. As well as history he knew all the cuts of meat from every sort of animal — including deer and some wild stuff like antelope and gazelle. And he could cook it too.

Come and look at this, he said to Paul and Tools, and they followed him into the kitchen. I just got these, and he pulled out a set of knives, new and still boxed. These are special — same as the ones used by Ainsley Harriott off the telly — you know, Ready, Steady, Cook.

Haven’t you already got enough knives? Paul objected, and pulled a drawer that he already knew was chocker with very sharp kitchen knives.

I like knives. You know that, Pete picked up one of the new ones and demonstrated it on a cucumber, deftly reducing it into transparent slices within seconds. I tell you, these were expensive.

They’ll cost someone an arm and a leg, Tools joked.

Fucking right, Paul said.

Pete rebuked them, These are for kitchen use only. That’s strict. And people are off the menu.

Kinda geezers we see — I wouldn’t eat ‘em anyway, Paul joked.

Too right, Tools agreed.

Don’t even go there, Pete said. It’s disgusting. You can’t eat people. Killing ‘em — I don’t say I approve entirely but sometimes it’s necessary. War is war. Eating ‘em — that’s for the chocolates.

Where’s Willy boy then?" Paul asked. He had been wondering all morning why his nephew was AWOL.

He’s at uni' — you know that, Pete said, as if surprised that Paul had asked.

I thought he’d be here.

We didn’t think it was worth bringing him back home just for this — disturbing his studies and all that.

It’s the Old Man…

Yeah, but you know, Billy’s got his own life up there — all his mates. Didn’t want him to interrupt anything.

How’s he doing up there then? He alright?

Oh yeah! Great! Settled in well. He’s tipped for a Damien, brainy sod.

Damien?

Damien Hirst — first.

First?

The best mate, the absolute best. Top score.

Ah…

Suddenly shouting came from the other room and Paul heard Nadine’s voice. He fucking touched me! He had his paw up my skirt…

Paul rushed into the room to see that Nadine was pointing at Talwar. Talwar was sneering at her and said, As if you don’t fucking like it. I know what you get up to...

No I don’t fucking like it from you you turd! You can keep your fucking hands to yourself.

I know what you get up to you fucking slut!

RIGHT YOU PAKI BASTARD! Paul shouted, jerking the pliers from his pocket and lunging at Talwar. He grabbed Talwar’s forehead and stuck the prongs of the pliers one up each nostril, crushing the septum of Talwar’s nose as he rammed his head down onto the table.

Talwar shouted in agony and Stephanie yelled, The caviar! Mind the caviar!

Paul pulled Talwar off the table and shoved him into a chair. Blood was now jetting from his nose. Paul jammed the pliers into Talwar’s mouth, found a tooth and yanked it out.

You’ve got blood over the prawn vol-au-vents! Can't you take it outside!? Stephanie screamed, frantically pulling at Paul’s shoulders.

I’ll fucking take him outside, Paul shouted, pulling Talwar up and frog-marching him to the front door. He shoved Talwar out of it and kicked him up the arse, propelling him onto the drive.

If I ever see you again I’ll fucking kill you, he shouted at him.

From a safe distance Talwar shouted back, "I’ll get you Archer! I’ll get that slut of yours! I’ll stick a bottle in her cunt and smash it then I’ll make you lick up the blood before I make you rape her and then I’ll blow your fucking brains out!"

Then Talwar ran but Paul just stood there. There would be time to get Talwar, there would be time. And the mobile user too.

Chapter 2

The Reading mob had a problem.

They had been moving chino through France and over the channel in beer cans — twenty or so at a time, pierced in the bottom and emptied, refilled with the drugs and then repackaged into the middle of pallets of twenty four. These were then loaded into cars making sure to keep the whole load well within the customs quotas for personal use. For beer, that is, of course.

Well now, Yildiz, one of the mules, had got just a little bit greedy hadn’t he? Shit-for-brains had only gone and loaded up with an entire carful of other stuff — booze, fags and all that shit to sell on for himself. The customs had impounded the lot — car, booze, fags, altogether with x tinnies of supermodel’s delight. They also had all of Yildiz's details. Shithead had only been using his own car. Needless to say, Yildiz was now a bit of a liability — if he hadn’t been one right from the start. The Reading lot needed the prob' sorted pronto.

It was a street in Southall on an average English day, cloud cover, a threat of rain, occasional chink of a milk bottle knocked by a passing cat. You know the kind of place. People keep themselves to themselves and know when to keep it shut.

Pete sat in the van, keeping an eye on the street whilst Paul did a reccy. Paul came back to the driver’s side of the van to report.

He’s in there alone.

Sure?

Sure as ever.

Pete snorted and got out, felt in his pockets to make sure —again — that he had brought the right equipment, and then they both set off for the front door of the house and rang the bell.

Yildiz answered after a short pause, Who are you?

Friends of Mansur’s. Come for a little chat.

Yildiz invited them in with a lazy tip of his head. Once inside Pete shut the door and Paul suddenly hugged Yildiz, turning him around so that his head got in the way of Pete's cosh. Yildiz fell unconscious. Paul got a plastic bag out of his pocket and put it over Yildiz’ head. Then he produced a strong, thick elastic band, stretched it and pulled it over the bag so that it clamped it tightly around Yildiz’ neck. Both Pete and Paul knew from experience that Yildiz would be dead within minutes. It was how the Old Man had liked to do things; clean and simple, no mess, no fuss — tidy, the way the customers liked it.

Pete went into the kitchen and looked around, saw a large upright freezer and opened the door. There was not much stuff in the drawers, which he started pulling out, dumping them on one side. He yelled out to Paul, In here. Freezer.

Paul came in as Pete was unplugging it from the wall. They both manhandled it back to where Yildiz was suffocating and proceeded to stuff him into it.

The Reading mob didn’t want a corpse making things untidy. Bodies meant questions, whereas a missing body was simply a missing person — a mere statistic rather than a murder case. Like Jimmy Hoffa, an enigma wrapped in a mystery wrapped in several thousand tons of quick-setting concrete. Clean up after you — don’t let other people do your cleaning up. Again, it was the way that the Old Man had liked it. He had always been keen to avoid the mistakes the train robbers had made, the mistakes a lot of his contemporaries had made. The Old Man had learnt. He had known that unless you cleaned up for yourself it was other people that did the final cleaning up — maybe even the cops, and the less there was for them to find the better.

Pete opened the front door and they carried the corpse laden freezer out into the street. By this time one of the neighbours had come out and was staring at them over the fence. As Pete lowered the lift on the back of the van Paul called out to her, Got any old appliances you want getting rid of love? Fridges, cookers, washing machines, cooker hoods? By this time the woman had turned her back on the patter and gone inside — suit yourself. Paul shrugged.

Pete pressed the button on the lift and Yildiz's freezer was hoisted upwards. They pushed it into the van and secured it.

I could have happily brought that nosy old cow along with us, Paul said as he drove back to the yard.

Why?

Dunno. Just felt like it. You remember there was a time we would have at least thought about it — in case she noticed something.

There's no chance she noticed anything useful. You know that. We both know. And if she did she knows better than to tell it.

"I know. It’s just… FUCK IT! I need some excitement!"

What for?

I just do. I am fucking bored shitless.

It’s the Old Man dying — just popping off like that. It’s bereavement — what the psychs call repressed grief.

What do fucking psychs know?

A lot. Billie was telling me…

Oh FUCK IT!

Paul pressed down hard on the accelerator.

Whoa! Whoa! Pete yelled. What are you doing! We got a corpse in the fucking back — what’s the matter with you?!

I don’t fucking care.

They’re red! Red! Pete yelled as they went through the traffic lights.

STOP! Pete yelled. Finally Paul pulled the van over in a side road and sat at the wheel.

What if we had an accident? Pete asked calmly. How we gonna explain him in the back?

Say he got in there by himself — hitchhiker.

With a plastic bag on his head?

Takes all sorts, Paul shrugged.

I’m gonna drive — unless you’re calmed down. Are you calm?

I’m calm.

You’d better be. You’d better be dead calm — all the rest of the way.

Paul started the van again.

Back at the yard they left Paulie to move the freezer into the shed whilst they went for coffee in the office.

I always get the dull bit, Paulie joked.

You gotta have bottle for the real jobs, Paul replied testily.

Once they were alone in the office Pete said, He’s got the bottle. Why you always putting the lad down?

I’m afraid he will screw up. Get nicked.

We never got nicked. Besides, you learn by your mistakes.

You don’t learn nothing in nick. All you learn is how to lose from other losers. That’s why people in nick go back to nick.

I think the lad has bottle.

So why don’t you let your Billie out with us then? Nah, 'cos your Billie’s different isn’t he? Special. He’s an intellectual, off at university. He doesn’t need to get his hands dirty. It’s good enough for my Paulie but not good enough for your Billie.

Don’t start that again.

All I am saying…

I know what you’re saying and what I’m saying is that your Paulie could do something. You should give him more of a chance… Pete paused for a second. I still wish you hadn’t got rid of Talwar…

"Enough about that fucking Paki’."

"He was useful. He had bottle. Anyway…."

He paused again. Time we relaxed. Golf?

Golf. Paul agreed.

Paul struck the ball hard with the wood sending it straight down the fairway.

Beautiful shot! Pete exclaimed.

It just gets better, Paul said. They collected their trolleys and headed off down the fairway, talking and laughing. Their regular golf gave them time to think together, to discuss in private. They owned the course, so why not?

Pete was soon bunkered whilst Paul was on the green in the next stroke. Paul laughed as the sand flew up from Pete’s direction. For once, it was Pete who was in the bad mood. Fuck the thing

You try too hard, Paul said. Gentle grip. Eye on the ball. Relax!

I hate this game, I swear I do. It’s a bloody terrible game.

I dunno! It has its moments, Paul laughed, potting his ball for a birdie.

They moved on to the next hole with Paul well under par — and Pete well over. At the next hole Paul gave his brother some tips — which helped — and then teed off himself. As they walked down the fairway Paul spoke again, I’ve been thinking,

Dangerous.

Not at all. Been thinking about expansion — expanding the business.

Into what?

Reading for starters. Gunvar and his bunch just aren’t on top of things.

"They pay us on time.