Patrick stared down at him in amazement and, pushing him on to his back, he placed the chair leg on a nearby desk. Then he lit himself a cigarette with a calmness that belied his real feelings.
Looking at the two men with him, he said quietly, 'Out of his nut or what?'
The bigger of the two men shrugged. 'That ketamine will do it every time, mate; sends them off their shopping trolleys.'
Patrick nodded sagely and went out into the empty bar.
He took the drink offered him by Leonard who had slipped back into the club a few minutes before and he gulped at the whisky, enjoying the burn as it went down into his belly. The fire of it was giving him the jolt he needed.
Leonard replenished his glass immediately and then he poured out two lemonades for the others. He knew that, unless Patrick said otherwise, soft drinks were all that would be allowed to them.
They sipped their drinks and chatted amongst themselves in the carnage of the trashed club as if nothing was amiss.
'Is the juke box still working?'
Pat knew that Leonard would have taken stock of everything that would need replacing in nanoseconds; he had done it enough times before and when he nodded, he said happily, 'Stick on "Hotel California" will you? I fucking love that record.'
Leonard did as he was asked and then he set about cleaning up the place as best he could, joining in with the ribald conversation at the bar and explaining to any punters who came knocking that the place would be closed for a few days on account of it being redecorated.
No one questioned that this place was redecorated four or five times a year on average. Thanks to long opening hours, excessive alcohol consumption, betting, women, football and occasionally religion, all these were things that seemed to make men capable of murder.
It was still early evening and so Leonard was hopeful of getting an early night for a change. As he always said, one man's loss was another man's gain. He hoped his old woman had partaken of her weekly bath and hair wash, he was in the mood for a quick flash and a bacon sandwich.
Cain was conveniently forgotten. He had been ironed out, straightened and sorted.
Chapter Fifteen
Jasper Jessup was a tall, angular man who hailed from the Caribbean, though where exactly no one seemed to know, least of all him.
He was a user. He used everyone he came into contact with but he did it with such aplomb and such good humour that it was hard to take too much offence. People just dropped away from him and he was very good-natured about it, so people forgot his bad points and hailed him if they saw him around.
However, he was in the know with what was left of the Williams family and this was mainly because he could always be relied on to ferret out half-decent grass or a banger girl, aka someone who was up for it with anybody, anywhere, anytime; for a price of course. More importantly, he could also find out what was happening on the pavements of south London.
He had his phoney Jamaican accent off to a tee and his tall, thin body had a certain elegance that, combined with his dreads, gave him the air of a proud man, of a trustworthy man. This had stood him in good stead for many years, plus, as an added bonus, he had a certain panache about him; a scruffiness that suited his rangy body and put people off their guard. On certain days, he took it upon himself to wear the Rasta colours and, like a walking flag of Ethiopia, he would wander around Brixton market like a king. He would hail everyone he saw while toking on a large twist, his gold teeth glinting in the sunlight. He was well known there; he was part of the local colour. The younger men, especially, were drawn to him with his tales of urban strife and the battle of the black man. Of course, once they realised that he talked bollocks, borrowed money off them too often and smoked their weed faster than they could procure it, he was dropped as they gravitated towards the other males in their community, the proper role models. It was a natural progression, a rite of passage for the teens he attracted, who imagined that being seen with an older man like Jasper would be seen as a measure of their own burgeoning manhood. Until, of course, they saw him for the predator he really was.
They actually learned valuable lessons from him though: that ponces came in all shapes and sizes and, also, that their mothers were usually right in their opinions of the people they suddenly wanted to spend their time with. He had ruffled more than a few maternal feathers over the years and he retreated when the time was right because he was too shrewd to ever push his luck too far. The lads just faded away and when he saw them around, he grinned and laughed with them, always the picture of friendly affability.
And such was Jasper's easiness that they didn't hold him using them against him. He was just Jasper and he was all right; good for a story and a laugh in the Beehive on a Friday night. He was a local character and people tolerated him even though he was like a cancer in the community; he wised up the police when he had to and again his easiness, his smoothness, was why no one had ever questioned the fact that he had never once had a tug. He'd never even been held on a Sus, which was remarkable because the Sus law was designed so the police could pull you in just because they thought you looked suspicious. It was a bonus for the filth as they had a perfect excuse to run in anyone they liked, just for the hell of it. A young man could be standing at a bus stop waiting for a bus, and he could legally be arrested, searched, and charged with basically anything that happened to pop into the overactive imaginations of the arresting officers.
A good hiding was often on the cards as well; it was the police equivalent of in for a penny, in for a pound. From the West Midlands Crime Squad to the Met, the police had almost complete autonomy over anyone they took a shine to. As every person in the know was aware, for every person fitted up for a crime, even if they were a known criminal who had broken the law on numerous occasions and could not be held to account because the police had no evidence, once they were fitted up it meant the real perpetrator of the crime was still at large.
Sus was a law that had been passed with full knowledge of how it could, and most certainly would be abused by a large majority of the police force. People like Jasper actually needed the Sus law to survive. All he had to do was hint at someone's involvement in a crime and the law guaranteed they were pulled in without any kind of evidence whatsoever. Jasper actually had a razor-sharp brain, which he tried to hide with his foolishness and his stupid talk. But he had been responsible for a lot of arrests and he was a predator of the worst kind, whether it was impressionable young girls or the grown men he used to fill his wallet. People were relaxed around him because he acted far more stoned than he actually was a lot of the time. People were easy around him and talked about things that were best kept private. Jasper listened and he learned a lot about everything; he found this useful in his everyday dealings with the world.
Spider had once pointed out to him that he was a professional Rasta and so the Bob Marley hat and the crooked smile Jasper wore had never fooled him. To Spider, Jasper was the kind of black man that gave the rest of them a bad name. He was a poster boy Rasta and his own authenticity was what had alerted Spider to the fact he was a fake. Spider was the one man Jasper was wary of because he saw him for what he really was and this bothered him.
Jasper had no regular income, legal or otherwise; he lived off his considerable wits and it was his knack of finding opportunities that had led him to the Williams brothers and his latest earner.