Part Two
The driver of the blue Mercedes saw him turn the corner and got out of the car to meet him.
“Hello, lover boy,” he said. “You got a little present for us then have you?”
“Piss off, cretin,” Eamon snapped. “Just get me there and get it over with.”
Eamon opened the passenger door and got in.
“Oh dear,” the driver said with a sadistic gin on his face. “Has he given you the push then?”
“Mind your own fucking business, arsehole,” Eamon snapped as they drove away.
The driver was the messenger, chauffeur and general dogsbody for Bulmer. He was about forty years old, moustached, weathered skin and always wore an oversized Crombie coat no matter what the weather. Eamon detested him and all he stood for. He was the sort of man you would not trust if he was your son and you had to leave him in the same room as a young child for a few minutes.
He detested all of them and regretted the day he had ever got involved in their sordid and pathetic world.
He lit a cigarette. He was beginning to feel nervous as they got closer to their destination. It wasn’t long before they turned into Whitechapel High Road and pulled up on the double yellow lines outside the Gala Tandoori Restaurant opposite the hospital. They both got out of the car and Jacky, the chauffeur, walked ahead of Eamon into the restaurant. Just inside the door was another marked “private”. Jacky punched the intercom twice and the door opened.
Ensuring that the door was fully closed, Jacky and he walked up the staircase to the top where there was yet another door. This led into a large, bright room overlooking the High Road.
It was not the first time that Eamon had been there.
On one side of the room was a large Victorian marble fireplace with brightly coloured tiles. In the centre was a white leather sofa with matching armchairs and in front of this an extremely kitsch and tacky smoked glass coffee table supported by three tiny porcelain elephants. Eamon thought Bulmer must have bought it on Brick Lane from a blind dealer. On one wall was a magnificent oak sideboard with drinks trays on its polished top and some of the most beautiful crystal decanters he’d seen. By the window was the familiar oak desk, and sitting at it was Bulmer.
Bulmer had come a long way since his days in Crawley when he was merely a small-time crook and money lender with enormous ambitions. Eamon was still not sure what he was into and really did not want to know. He was still in the loan business despite everything but this time with more contacts and bigger “contracts”, as he referred to them. People, mainly small businesses in the area, borrowed from him when they were desperate or needed protection and he got “nasty” if they didn’t comply with the terms and conditions.
Nasty was the word that Bulmer used quite liberally but Eamon was never entirely sure what was meant by it. It just became a term he thought he knew but never wanted to go into detail. He just knew he didn’t want to see the “nasty side” of Bulmer, who didn’t frighten Eamon but simply angered him.
Even then Eamon still had a fondness for Bulmer – an almost paternal view. And though he made various threats, Eamon often thought that his bark might have been worse than his bite. It had never been put to the test but it was there.
In the short time he’d been back in his “manor”, as he referred to it, he’d managed to buy a number of properties locally and was taking advantage of the boom in property prices. A shrewd investor maybe and most of it was legal. He had a couple of pubs and restaurants, three hotels and a block of run-down flats. How he acquired them initially, Eamon didn’t want to know but he had seen a number of his so-called “staff” who were all ex-military and must have shared just one inferior brain between them.
In some ways, Eamon quite admired Bulmer. He was without a doubt a hard worker and a little too ambitious but there was something in his manner that was likeable. He didn’t suffer fools gladly even though he had a number of them working for him. That was where the admiration stopped. His hair was now receding even more and very grey around the edges. He was now wearing more expensive suits and he dressed well. The gold Rolex did not look like an imitation. To Eamon it was all just bling but it went with the image or the aura Bulmer was trying to project. The “manor” or territory that Bulmer controlled had originally been the carnage grounds of the Kray twins so, in a way, Bulmer was to be admired.
“Ah, Eamon, there you are. Come on in and make yourself comfortable.”
He beckoned Eamon to the sofa and seemed genuinely happy to see him. Again Eamon found himself wondering whether or not to like him or just to laugh at him.
Bulmer sat on one of the armchairs.
“You look very well, son,” Bulmer said as he looked Eamon up and down. “You know I can still find a part for you in my art ventures. People who buy those videos are just begging, no, gagging for a star like you. The offer’s still open, you know, though bear in mind, lad, you’re not getting younger.”
Eamon sat opposite and did not reply.
“And how are things going with you in France?” he asked as he took a file from the small cabinet underneath the coffee table. It had Eamon’s name on it and was full of documents, the balance sheet of the loan, the contract and a couple of magazines.
Eamon wondered why Bulmer was so interested in recouping the money he had lent him. After all, he didn’t need the money and it was such a small amount. Besides, one of his staff would be able to deal with the administration. But Bulmer genuinely did like Eamon. It wasn’t that he was gay but he genuinely saw great potential in Eamon.
“It’s none of your sodding business how things are going in France,” Eamon said as he pulled an envelope from the top pocket of his jacket.
“There it is. That’s £500 and I’ve only got two more payments to make.”
“Thanks, son. I can always rely on you to meet your obligation, the financial ones that is.” Bulmer laughed. “Now, let’s have a look at the file,” he added.
Eamon watched him slip on his glasses and peruse the documents in the folder.
“Yes, yes, you’re quite right. Just two more instalments and your debt is all cleared up with interest as well.”
The initial debt had increased with interest but Bulmer in many ways was quite fair when it came to lending and doing favours and he only requested payments every five or six months. Eamon was not sure if he treated all his punters in that manner but realised that it was in Bulmer’s interest to keep many of his clients hanging on because they could often be useful for other things. But Eamon had also noticed that when he had done any odd jobs for Bulmer he was always very grateful and would say, “Thanks for that, matey. I won’t forget it.”
And it was true – he never did.
But then the admiration stopped as Bulmer pulled out one of the magazines and sighed as he flicked through it.
“Are you sure you’re not interested in doing any more of this work? There’s big money to be made in videos if you just put your mind to it. I know and you know that I can’t force you to do it or you’ll never get it up and that won’t do, not for my discerning punters anyway. Go on, give it a go, son. What have you got to lose?”
Bulmer smiled and, as usual, he meant it.
“Don’t make me laugh,” Eamon snapped.
Eamon no longer felt nervous in Bulmer’s presence. He probably did like him more than he thought and knew that most people would not have got away with some of the things he said.
“Such a pity, son. A boy like you could do all right. Certainly a lot better than you’re doing in that job on France. I reckon with your skills the way they are now and your education, you’d make a good director and financial whiz kid in the industry. Those people who run clubs and strip joints in Soho and the seedier parts of New York all must have started doing the sort of thing you were doing in the magazines.” Bulmer looked quite serious. “You should reconsider Eamon. This could be the start of a very lucrative and extravagant future. Now let me see ... an academic pension
or a private sector pension? Uhm, I think I know which one I’d choose.” Bulmer left the remark in the air.
He closed the magazine and placed it in the file with the others then removed his glasses. He stood up and put his hands in his pockets as he walked over to the window and lit another Marlboro.
“You know what, son?” he started and turned back to Eamon. “I do like you. I think of you sometimes as the son I’ll probably never have. And I’m gonna write off the balance you owe me as I don’t want to see you struggling. God knows, it’s difficult enough for teachers these days and I’ll be the first to say that you lot don’t get paid for the marvellous job you do.” He Smiled. “You know, if I had my way, I’d double your salaries.”
This was quite unexpected and confusing.
Eamon was not as puzzled as he perhaps should have been. But worried.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Exactly what I said, son. I’m gonna wipe the slate clean. I know, I know. I shouldn’t. After all, I am supposed to be a businessman, and a very good one, mind you. But I like you and I think you know that, so from now on, the debt’s finished.”
Eamon was now very worried.
This was not the man he knew and he had heard stories that if he didn’t get his payments, he’d send one of the nutcases he employed on a “visit”.
He was up to something. Even though Eamon went from liking to positively detesting the man he still didn’t know what he was capable of.
“You mean that you are going to forget the rest of the money I apparently owe and I’m not going to have anything to do with you ever again?”
“Well, I didn’t actually say that but, yes, I’m gonna clear that balance ... though in return, there’s a little favour I’d like you to do for me, that is, if you don’t mind.”
“Look, you can forget about any more magazines or videos. I never wanted to be involved in that in the first place.”
“No, son. It’s not that,” he began and walked back to the sofa and sat down. “There’s plenty of young men and women I can find for that. In the world we live in these days, there’s plenty that like nothing more than lying on their backs or bellies and getting paid for it. No, no ... it’s time I branched out more. Jacky ... get me and Eamon here a scotch.”
Eamon had not realised that his minder was still in the room by the door. Jacky walked over to the drinks trays.
“Ambition is a powerful thing, you know. It drives you on and on so you always want more. Nature of the beast, I suppose. But I’ve decided to branch out even more. Oh sure, I do all right here with the premises and the ‘art’ business. But I need to broaden my horizons. I’m gonna open up a little business network in Paris.”
Eamon’s jaw fell open. His mind was racing.
“Well, we’re all one big family now in Europe,” he continued, “and the barriers are all down. The government goes to great lengths to tell us all to look further afield than just these shores.”
Eamon wasn’t really sure whether or not to laugh or just ignore this little man with ambitions higher than his status in life. He certainly had dreams and aspirations and in his little world that most of us brushed past he was becoming a big shot. His motivation and determination were certainly admirable.
“Now, I’ve actually got a couple of contacts there. Imagine that, eh?” He smiled. “Little old me from Canning Town. Who’d have thought in a million years that I would have dealings with men, and powerful men in Paris? How times change.”
He drew on his Marlboro.
“And that, my son, is where you come into it,” he said to Eamon.
Jacky handed them their drinks.
“Now, hang on,” Eamon began. “If you think that I am going to work for you in Paris or anywhere, then you need to think again.”
“No, no, no. I wouldn’t dream of it. Well, I know for a fact that’s probably all I could do. No son. Oh, I know you love your job and don’t have the time to help the likes of me, though thanks for putting the idea in my mind.”
“Then what are you talking about?” he asked hesitantly.
“Well, let’s put it like this. When you go back to France in a few weeks’ time, I’m gonna have one of my associates meet you at the airport. He knows what you look like; I’ve already forwarded a photo, one of your better shots. And you merely have to hand him the package I’ll be preparing for you.”
“A package containing what?” he asked, rather innocently.
“Well, basically a few papers and a little concoction to make some people’s lives just that little more bearable.”
“Concoction?” and then he realised. “You mean drugs. Christ that’s what you mean. Cocaine?”
“Well, something like that. It only has a number at the moment – a new type of recreational drug to give it it’s full title. There’s something a little special about this though. It’s still in the prototype stage and comes all the way from Argentina.” He smiled at Eamon and looked like a small child with a new toy. “Who’d of thought that, then, eh? Me doing business with the Argies? Blimey how the world picks itself up and just moves on. That’s right, son. See I told you that you were a bright boy.” He leaned forward and looked directly into Eamon’s face, something he rarely did. “In return for me writing off your bill, all you have to do is be my courier for one trip. I have to be honest, it wasn’t exactly my idea or my way of doing things. But my counterpart in Paris wants it done this way and as I am joining his world then I have agreed. I would have just got Jacky here to bring it over – probably would have blown it but … there you go.”
Bulmer drew on his Marlboro before continuing.
“You see, son, this is right on the frontier of a new type of deal. If this all goes to plan then we can forget couriers and mules and even plantations from now on. You see, what this is all about is merely passing on a recipe. A recipe for – what shall we call it? – ingredients, I think is best. Yeah, these ingredients are reasonably readily available in most parts of the world. Well, to pharmacists anyway. And they will be the market for future supplies. You see, son, everybody wants to get rich quick and this new type of – what is it? – concoction is good for everyone concerned, even the user, because it’s sort of harmless. Well, that’s the theory. Anyway, my son, I wanna piece of the action here and you will help me make my mark.”
Eamon was angry and stood up.
“Now look,” he demanded, “I’ve taken just about as much of this as I can from you. There’s no way that you are going to involve me again in your dirty work.”
Eamon turned and walked toward the doorway, which was being blocked by Jacky.
“Oh, Eamon. What is the matter with you? It’s not as if it’s the first time you’ve delivered stuff for me.”
It took a few confused moments for that comment to sink in.
“What?”
Bulmer laughed.
“Christ, son, you really are not a man of the world, are you? You did many a trip for me in Crawley and hundreds, if not thousands, of people were very grateful. Now come on … do I look like a dodgy hi-fi dealer? But I think you will help me, sunshine, and I’m going to show you why.”
Eamon paced up and down the room.
“Jesus Christ, you really are a fucking mad man,” he started. “You want me to carry drugs for you yet there must be hundreds of people in that seedy, backstreet world you live in who would do the job without blinking an eye. Why do you want me to do it? Why do you need me to get involved?”
“Well, it’s obvious, Eamon, my boy. Firstly, you speak the lingo, secondly, you look respectable, thirdly, nobody will be following you and, finally, and fourthly, I want to do you a favour. Get you on the success ladder. You don’t want to put all your eggs in one basket, you know. These days you have to be multi-talented and flexible.”
Eamon shouted at him. “What the hell are you talking about? There isn’t a chance in hell that I am going to get involved in your sordid little scheme.”
Bu
lmer drew on yet another fag.
“Oh, I think you will help me, sonny, when you see this.”
Bulmer went over to his desk and from the bottom of a tray he pulled out what appeared to be a pile of photographs and admired them.
Eamon was angry.
“So publish the rest of them, you sad bastard,” he shouted. “I don’t care who sees them. Oh, and don’t forget a copy for my parents. I really don’t give a toss anymore.”
Bulmer laughed loudly.
“Oh, no, no, old son, these are not more of you. Christ, no, I’ve already bled that lot dry. No, these are much better. Look at this one, for example,” as he held one up. “Such a lovely little girl. And that’s her father in the background, isn’t it?”
Eamon could see the photo from where he was standing and was horrified. It was a picture of him walking on the heath with Annette, Sally and Nick. His jaw fell open again as he looked over the others that Bulmer handed him. There was another of Sally walking along the street with Imogen and another of Nick and Sally leaving the supermarket.
Eamon sat down.
“You see, son,” Bulmer continued, “I think you will help me because you don’t want their lives to be miserable.” He picked up a photo of Sally and leaned closer to Eamon.
“What a lovely face she has. Let’s hope she keeps it.”
Eamon jumped on top of Bulmer and pushed his fist toward his face but Jacky had already anticipated this. He grabbed Eamon’s arm and hit him on the side of the chin so hard that Eamon was knocked across the floor.
Bulmer stood over him.
“I do hate violence. Sometimes it can be so messy,” he said. “But now and then it’s necessary and we often have to hurt the ones we love to get what we need. Fact of life, sunshine.”
He kicked Eamon in the side of his cheek and there was a taste of blood in his mouth.
“You bastard,” Eamon shouted from the floor. “I always knew you were sick and twisted but this really tops the lot. I’m going to the police.”
“You could, son. Of course you could,” Bulmer casually replied. “But what would you say and what proof of anything do you have? All they would see is the file and the magazines. Oh, yes, that would go down very well especially you, a teacher. And as for me, well, all I am is a money lender and even if I did have to leave in a hurry, all my boys have strict instructions that all my debts are to be collected in any way they can. You see, the portfolio gets sold to them and they do what is needed. So you see, old son,” Bulmer walked over to Eamon, “you can either offer me your assistance ... or not. The choice, as they say, is up to you.”
Eamon stood and stared at Bulmer, who handed him the glass of scotch.
“Anyway, Eamon, you think about for a while and I’ll be in touch over the next few days.”
He hesitated and looked closely at Eamon, who saw the face of a concerned parent looking closely at him.
“Listen, son, I’ve done well with the businesses I run and, yeah, I’ve made a few bob along the way and put something aside for me old age. But you know what?” He sat on the corner of the desk. “There’s so much going on out there and, you know, the more you have the more you want. These streets were once run by the Krays, you know. Sadistic bastards they were but they had something I strive for. And that’s ambition. Okay, the violence that came with them is not my cup of tea. But let me make something clear. I will get what I want in any way I can and if some of the ways to get there don’t sit too comfortably with me, then I’ll just harden myself. If violence is what it takes then so be it. And don’t you ever forget that.”
Bulmer sipped his scotch and Eamon saw in his eyes that all he was saying now he truly meant.
“All I want to do is have a small part of the market out there. Every day I see people as thick as shit raking in millions from so-called illegal activities. And you know what? I can do it better than most of them because I have a little more of what they think they have, and that’s talent. And you, Eamon, are going to help me make it because I know that you have little choice and you won’t let me down. We all want to get bigger and better things in life – all I’m doing is what any entrepreneur wants and that’s to grow. Now the way I see it is that I’ve been given a great opportunity here to get in with the big boys in Europe. The outfit you’ll be delivering to has been at the top for years and I want a piece of it. Don’t screw it up for me or I’ll fuck your life up so much you’ll be gagging for me to pull the trigger.”
He walked over to the window and looked out.
“The outfit in Paris is the big time for me. This drug may or may not be the next big thing but the indications suggest that it is. Thousands of drugs come up every day and most are carried around the world by mules. This one is called Angel Mist and sounds promising. The Paris network knows that they are always being watched and the officials are probably aware of some of their schemes. So they want to be careful and they know how to be. I’m the one here that’s being tested, you know. Not you or London but me, and I want to show them just how professional I can be. It’s not really your future that concerns me. I’m the one who’s going places. You’re just along for the ride.”
He turned to Eamon.
“This is all about me sunshine and not a fucking little scab like you. You screw my future up and yours is over. Now piss off out of here and think about it.”
He turned back to the window.
“Jacky,” he shouted. “Get him out of here.”