Pseudonyms
Fat
Bob Wardell stepped off the bus in Plumstead High Street and headed
for his council flat on the Polthorne Estate. It had been a good
night. He’d taken Courtney for almost a grand in the first hour and
apart from a couple of dodgy hands, he’d kept the luck and cleaned
up.
He put the Marks and Spencer carrier bag around his wrist and
pushed his hands into his coat pockets as he walked; a spring in his
step and a tuneless happy whistle on his lips. The shadows of the
Polthorne Estate moved slowly; weighing up the old geezer who was
coming towards them.
‘Don’t even think about it, you fuckin’
mugs.’
They knew the voice and scattered as quickly as they had
gathered. Fat Bob walked past the darkened stairwell and growled.
The
old man unlocked his door and snarled at the two bull mastiffs,
sending them running to their basket in the kitchen. He cackled to
himself once more before feeding the tropical fish and flopping out
on the sofa. He took the Marks and Spencer carrier bag from around
his wrist and emptied the contents on the coffee table. He’d won at
least three grand tonight.
He
loosed off a bad fart, sipped on his night cap and thought about what
needed doing. He needed to do right by Sean. Neither of his daughters
would have anything to do with him these days, and he’d not seen
them or their mother since Trisha got wed.
Sean had been a bolt from
the blue. He could just about remember his mother; a red haired Irish
pikey who had started working on the bar at The Dolphin. She was a
cute little thing and a night down the York Hall to watch Alan
Minter had ended with him getting his end away in Victoria Park.
She’d given him the spiel about being up the duff, but he’d been
young then and didn’t give a fuck. There was no way he had been
going to get saddled with a ‘tin lid’ to some fuckin’ Mick
pikey bird.
It wasn’t long after that he’d got a five for
receiving so that sorted it out. By the time he’d got his jam, she
was long gone and that was the end of that. However, once the old
mare had drunk herself to death in County Cork, the lad had come
looking for him and he was glad he had. He was a chip off the old
block, that boy.
Fat
Bob sipped his Captain Morgan and continued to muse as he counted his
winnings. Dropping him in with Tommy had been a double edged sword in
some ways. He’d made up the bollocks about Sean having a bit of
grief for bashing up his Mrs, simply to cajole Tommy into giving him
a job over the river. He needed to see if the lad had what it took
before he started introducing him around too much on this manor.
Fuck
me; the cunt gets a two for GBH before you can say Mad Frankie
Fraser. Fat Bob Wardell finished his count up and held out the wad in
front of him. Three thousand, two hundred and twenty quid. He threw
it skyward, toked on his Monte Christo, and smiled to himself as it
fluttered down around him. It was almost time to make his move.
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