entirely unnecessary, but the brutality of the attack was what made the statement for Jonny Parker. When word got out about Joseph’s demise, and get out it would, he would beseen in a new and entirely different light, and that is exactly what this whole exercise was about.
Linford Fargas watched the events with a nonchalant air; he prided himself on always backing the winning pony. Truth be told, poor old Joseph had never had a chance. He wasn’t fish nor fowl. Now he was nothing.
Linford went inside the Portakabin and picked up his twenty grand – not bad for a night’s work. If Joseph had used his considerable loaf and paid out over the odds for his loyalty, he might have been in with a chance tonight.
Now, though, Jonny Parker was king of the hill, and there would be no one capable of stopping him for a good few years. It would take that long for a new little crew to grow and develop, but he had a hunch that Jonny P, as he was now known, would still be a match for them. Jonny had what they called back in Jamaica the devil’s want, and he wanted it all. Well, he was welcome to it, and the problems that came with it. Because this first hurdle might be over but he now had to deal with Kevin Bryant, never a man to cross lightly.
But time would tell; by tomorrow night one, or all of them, would be dead. That was Linford’s opinion anyway.
Kevin Bryant heard the news of his business partner’s untimely demise with his usual closed features. His expressionless face was his trademark in his world. He never looked angry, rarely looked pleased and had never in living memory laughed out loud at anything. Hence his nickname, Kevin ‘No Face’ Bryant. He liked the moniker, felt it put him above most of his contemporaries. His countenance, coupled with the fact he never spoke unless it was extremely necessary, only added to his criminal mystique.
His wife Sojin, a thirty-something living doll, told all and sundry that he was a different person at home with her and the kids, that he never stopped talking, but no one actually believed her, much to her chagrin. They thought Sojin was with him because of
who
he was; it never occurred to anyone that she might actually see a different side to him than everyone else. It grieved her that no one saw the ebullient, funny man she loved and adored, because adore him she did. From his size twelve feet, to his balding, endearingly ugly, head.
Kevin’s second-in-command, a tall, frighteningly skinny man called Bertie Warner, was trying desperately to gauge his boss’s reaction to the outrageous news that Joseph Makabele had been hacked to death by Jonny Parker and the Anthill Mob from Brixton.
‘Do you hear me, Kev? They fucking nutted him, he waschopped up like a fucking Friday night fish! Do you not have any interest in what the fuck I am telling you?’
Shrugging disinterestedly, Kevin said quietly, ‘He’s dead then?’
‘Hello, earth to fucking Kevin! He is dead as a fucking dodo! For fuck’s sake,
Monty Python’s
parrot has more life in it than him! He’s a human fucking paper chase. Get onboard, for fuck’s sake!’
Sometimes Kevin’s attitude could be severely aggravating, and this was one of those times. Their main supplier was now scattered to all corners of the country, loaded into bin bags and dumped like a fucking treasure hunt for the Old Bill, and here was Kevin unconcerned and, to add insult to injury, not even remotely disgruntled about it.
‘He had our protection, Kev, we fucking owe him, and everyone else who thinks we are watching their fucking backs.’
Bertie was realising how this would look to outsiders; everyone, including that cunt Jonny P, knew that Makabele worked ostensibly for them – it was his ticket to the big time. That meant they had to be
seen
to be doing something about it – otherwise they could kiss goodbye to their stranglehold on South London, that much was a fucking definite.
Kevin shrugged nonchalantly once more.
Linford Fargas watched the events with a nonchalant air; he prided himself on always backing the winning pony. Truth be told, poor old Joseph had never had a chance. He wasn’t fish nor fowl. Now he was nothing.
Linford went inside the Portakabin and picked up his twenty grand – not bad for a night’s work. If Joseph had used his considerable loaf and paid out over the odds for his loyalty, he might have been in with a chance tonight.
Now, though, Jonny Parker was king of the hill, and there would be no one capable of stopping him for a good few years. It would take that long for a new little crew to grow and develop, but he had a hunch that Jonny P, as he was now known, would still be a match for them. Jonny had what they called back in Jamaica the devil’s want, and he wanted it all. Well, he was welcome to it, and the problems that came with it. Because this first hurdle might be over but he now had to deal with Kevin Bryant, never a man to cross lightly.
But time would tell; by tomorrow night one, or all of them, would be dead. That was Linford’s opinion anyway.
Kevin Bryant heard the news of his business partner’s untimely demise with his usual closed features. His expressionless face was his trademark in his world. He never looked angry, rarely looked pleased and had never in living memory laughed out loud at anything. Hence his nickname, Kevin ‘No Face’ Bryant. He liked the moniker, felt it put him above most of his contemporaries. His countenance, coupled with the fact he never spoke unless it was extremely necessary, only added to his criminal mystique.
His wife Sojin, a thirty-something living doll, told all and sundry that he was a different person at home with her and the kids, that he never stopped talking, but no one actually believed her, much to her chagrin. They thought Sojin was with him because of
who
he was; it never occurred to anyone that she might actually see a different side to him than everyone else. It grieved her that no one saw the ebullient, funny man she loved and adored, because adore him she did. From his size twelve feet, to his balding, endearingly ugly, head.
Kevin’s second-in-command, a tall, frighteningly skinny man called Bertie Warner, was trying desperately to gauge his boss’s reaction to the outrageous news that Joseph Makabele had been hacked to death by Jonny Parker and the Anthill Mob from Brixton.
‘Do you hear me, Kev? They fucking nutted him, he waschopped up like a fucking Friday night fish! Do you not have any interest in what the fuck I am telling you?’
Shrugging disinterestedly, Kevin said quietly, ‘He’s dead then?’
‘Hello, earth to fucking Kevin! He is dead as a fucking dodo! For fuck’s sake,
Monty Python’s
parrot has more life in it than him! He’s a human fucking paper chase. Get onboard, for fuck’s sake!’
Sometimes Kevin’s attitude could be severely aggravating, and this was one of those times. Their main supplier was now scattered to all corners of the country, loaded into bin bags and dumped like a fucking treasure hunt for the Old Bill, and here was Kevin unconcerned and, to add insult to injury, not even remotely disgruntled about it.
‘He had our protection, Kev, we fucking owe him, and everyone else who thinks we are watching their fucking backs.’
Bertie was realising how this would look to outsiders; everyone, including that cunt Jonny P, knew that Makabele worked ostensibly for them – it was his ticket to the big time. That meant they had to be
seen
to be doing something about it – otherwise they could kiss goodbye to their stranglehold on South London, that much was a fucking definite.
Kevin shrugged nonchalantly once more.
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