Jules Rimet Still Gleaming

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The Sweeney
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Favorite Bond Movie: OHMSS, GF, LTK, CR, FRWL
Favorite Movies: Bullitt, The Long Good Friday, The Towering Inferno, Jaws, Rocky, Superman the Movie, McVicar, Goodfellas, Get Carter, Three Days of the Condor, Butch & Sundance, The Sting, All the Presidents Men
Location: Underneath a Mango Tree....

Jules Rimet Still Gleaming

Post by The Sweeney »

A gangster novel that I've started writing...not Bond as such, but in the style of Fleming (hopefully).

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Chapter One
THE BANYAN TREE

THE ROCK OF Gibraltar soared majestically above the small British colony below, its impressive white jagged outline contrasting dramatically against the deep blue sky. Main Street, which cut through the heart of the small city centre at the base of the rock, stretched out narrowly from Casemates Square to the Cable Car Base Station, its architecture reminiscent of colonial designs from the Caribbean, with pastel buildings and casement windows. Main Street closely resembled many of the pedestrianised streets that occupied the UK cities. Here you would find everything that belonged on the standard British high-street – Natwest bank, Marks & Spencer’s, Woolworths (now obviously closed), Mothercare, British Home Stores, red pillar boxes. Road vehicles all possessed UK style registration number plates, with a single letter `G’ followed by a series of numbers (similar to Jersey’s system, except `G’ would be replace with `J’ in Jersey). Crime was relatively low in Gibraltar, yet you were more likely to find regular British uniformed police casually walking the streets on the beat here, than you would in many of the major crime-ridden cities in the UK. For tourists, a visit to Gibraltar was usually a one day affair, a brief stop-off while on holiday in Marbella. It would usually involve the customary cable car ride up to the tip of the Rock, witnessing the playful but occasionally vicious Barbary apes (which were not to be fed), then down for a visit to St. Michael’s Cave or the Great Siege Tunnels, followed by afternoon scones and cream teas at the colonial Rock Hotel. If there was still time before the inevitable bus journey back across the inconvenient Spanish border, then a seafood dinner at either Casemates Square or one of the more fashionable restaurants on Queensway Quay.

It was nearly 5:00pm and Main Street was now slowly becoming deserted, as many of the shops had closed for the mid-afternoon siesta. But Casemates Square was still relatively busy. Many people were sat outside the various bars and cafes, drinking, eating and enjoying the last rays of the sun. One bar in particular, The Banyan Street, had its doors closed and the tables and chairs were stacked away in a corner. The board outside stated in white handwritten chalk that the bar would be open again at 7:30pm for England v Germany.

Matthew Smith impatiently watched the last of the customers finishing their drinks. It was nearly 5.00pm, and the bar was supposed to be closing early this afternoon at 4:30pm, due to the World Cup match which would be kicking off later that evening. Smith was longing for a Whopper burger with cheese from Burger King opposite the bar on the Square, followed by a nice afternoon siesta in his apartment before his shift started again later. Not much chance of that now. Smith fumbled below the bar to turn off the CD that was playing rather loudly. It was Don Henley’s brilliant `The Boys of Summer’, and he was reluctant to stop the song mid-way through, but at least it was an obvious indication to the customers that the bar was indeed closing.

`Come on guys, drink up. I’m supposed to shut this place up at half four,’ Smith shouted out across the bar. `The boss may be back any time now.’
The couple who sat in the corner suddenly both reached for their glasses and began drinking hurriedly. Smith smiled to himself. The mere suggestion of his boss returning early had the desired effect. It should have surprised Smith that his boss could cause such an immediate reaction among these three strangers he had never seen before in the bar, but it didn’t. His boss was a well-known figure among the locals in Gibraltar, a celebrity almost, and word obviously filtered down, even to these visitors, probably from over the border. Smith watched the couple stand up and leave, then walked over to the door and bolted it shut. Thank Christ for that! He let out a blessed sigh of a relief and looked back at the room. What a mess. It would take a good 40 minutes at least to get this place cleaned up before he could get away.

Matthew Smith was born and raised from a modestly wealthy family on the Wirral, near Liverpool, and had moved to Gibraltar only seven months ago. Seeing as his boss was such a football fanatic, maybe that’s why he had hired Smith to work at The Banyan Tree, coming from a city famous for its football team. Two topics of discussion were guaranteed to be raised by locals who came in to the bar when they heard Smith’s Scouse accent – Liverpool Football Club, and The Beatles. Thankfully, Smith was a fan of both subjects, otherwise he would have been bored of the endless conversations by now.

The Banyan Tree was like any standard bar you would expect to see in Gibraltar. Slightly narrow, compact (like everything was in Gibraltar, due to its size), wooden furniture throughout, and with the typical array of British beer pumps lit up on display across the bar – Tetley, Newcastle Brown (usually in bottles, but here on draught), Guinness, Carling and the customary San Miguel. There were four wooden pillars in the room, and each held a framed picture. One was a horizontally framed photo of the England victory in 1966, a splurge of red tops and beaming faces, with Bobby Moore the central figure raised up on the shoulders of the other players, his right arm aloft, proudly holding the Jules Rimet World Cup trophy. The second was another horizontally framed England football picture, this time a dejected Bobby Moore, longer hair and sideburns, leaving the pitch in Leon from Mexico 70, when England crashed out of the tournament against West Germany in the Quarter Finals. The third was the former Hull City manager, Phil Brown at Wembley, celebrating the victory against Bristol City, and the fourth was not football related at all. It was a vertical poster advertising the second series of the BBC TV time-travel cop show `Life on Mars’, displaying the characters Gene Hunt and Sam Tyler with the infamous bronze Ford Cortina behind, and above them a slogan, in retro 70’s typeface - `Back in the Nick of Time’, accompanied by mock fold-up pull-out-magazine creases, and a blue and black spinning globe with `BBC in Colour’, obviously reproduced from the time the programme was set – 1973.

For the third time that day, Smith again reflected that all four of these pictures somehow summed up his boss’s persona, the man called Adam Grant. The 1966 poster showed his Patriotic nature. The Mexico 70 picture related to the gloomy, pessimistic side Adam Grant could occasionally reveal, particularly if the topic of the continuing failure of the England football team was brought up in conversation, or more significantly, the subject of Grant’s short-lived football career. It apparently came to an abrupt end while playing for Hull City when he was 17, with a severe knee injury caused by a miss-timed tackle during a football practise session. Adam Grant was originally from Hull (the broad accent was a giveaway) so there was no real surprises to see Hull City’s biggest ever victory on display in the bar, and with a manager who shared a similar show-off style to Adam Grant. And finally, the fourth poster, portraying TV character Gene Hunt (played by Philip Glenister), somehow epitomized the attitude of the man. The resemblance was uncanny. Adam Grant looked very much like a cross between a 1970’s Robert Redford and Gene Hunt. Medium length blonde hair, long sideburns, a muscular, athletic build but with a slight paunch around the waist (probably brought on by too much drinking, Smith reflected) and a general retro 70’s throwback in the style and way he dressed. If Adam Grant wasn’t wearing tight-fitting shirts with long collars, and tailor-made suits with flared trousers, he would be wearing wide-bottom jeans and the coolest pair of retro Adidas TRX blue and lemon yellow trainers, reproduced from 1976 and worn by Roger Daltrey in the film McVicar, (Smith knew this because Adam Grant told people often enough!) He was in his mid-to-late thirties, about 6 feet tall, blonde and suntanned. In summary, a good-looking Bas***d that could get any girl he wanted.

And yet there was something else - a hidden inner toughness, an edge, a gangster-like quality which effortlessly oozed from the man. Excluding the extrovert blonde 1970’s appearance, maybe the attitude of Adam Grant was more in tune with a TV character like `Dirty Den Watts’ from `EastEnders’, or more fittingly, wide-boy gangster Marcus Tandy from the failed early 90’s TV Spanish soap `Eldorado’. Adam Grant certainly appeared to own as many shops, bars and restaurants in Gibraltar as Marcus Tandy had done in the Spanish TV soap. And people in general were either wary of Adam Grant, or were lusting after him, usually young female locals or Spanish housewives, Smith reflected enviously (although Smith was only 18 years of age, he had seen both these TV characters in episode repeats on UK Gold a few years back, as he was an avid soap fan). Smith knew little else about Adam Grant’s background, other than he was an ex-footballer from Hull that could have turned professional, had a brief spell at boxing once his footballing career came to an end, was a black belt in Karate (not sure which dan he had reached), was seen with many different women, drove a flash Jaguar XKR, was rumoured to be working for English gangsters back in London, and more disturbingly, had supposedly killed a man back in the UK. These last two pieces of gossip was something that Smith didn’t really want to acknowledge, or think about. In Smith’s eyes, Adam Grant was an iconic figure, a hero almost, someone whom Smith certainly admired and looked up to. Smith gave an involuntary shrug of the shoulders and then, as always, quickly put these last two rumours to the back of his mind and set about clearing up the empty glasses littered among the tables. He was longing for that Whopper with cheese. Maybe he would go for a double.

By 8:30pm England had kicked off and the bar was heaving. Matthew Smith and two young Spanish bar-maids were struggling to serve the overcrowded drunken throng that was becoming increasingly vociferous.

`Where’s the boss?’ one of the girls shouted over the deafening noise at Smith, while simultaneously pouring several pints in a stressed manner.
`I thought he would be here to help out on a night like this?’

`I dunno!’ Smith yelled back truthfully. `Not sure where he is. It’s not like him to miss an England match though. His game of golf probably went on a bit longer.’

With that, a fight suddenly broke out. Several pint glasses were flung into the air, lager and beer raining down among the animated crowd. There were crashes of glass and loud thuds as tables toppled over in a wild frenzy, several men falling to the floor in a mass brawl, kicking and punching ferociously. Women started screaming and desperately tried to move away from the scene, pushing and shoving the crowd towards the bar. The two bar maids looked on nervously. `Go on Matt!’ one of them called out. `Do something. Quickly!’

Smith reached for the Sky TV remote and turned off the large screen showing the game. He ignored the yells of protest, and instead wondered what he would do to try and stop this. Christ, where was the boss when he needed him? Smith ran round the bar to the cannibalistic flaying fists and feet, blood now splattered among the men on the floor. Smith caught the collar of one of the men and pulled him up to his feet. As he did that, a large fist suddenly struck him in the face from somewhere. Smith fell back against the bar, his heart racing.

And then several of the men quickly scrambled up on their feet and made off to the doorway, pushing it open and running out. With that the pandemonium suddenly ceased. Three men stood proudly back up, wiping away the blood and began shouting at the top of their voices. `Waheyyy! That fackin’ showed them!’ screamed one of the men, raising his hands in the air. He had a shaved head, a thuggish face and a large, obese tattooed stomach, now offensively on display after his England shirt had been torn from his body.

The second man had short-cropped dark hair, looked slightly slimmer than the first man, and had blood streaming down the left side of his cheek. He then turned and yelled out at the blank screen above their heads. `Where the fack has the telly gone. Oi! Barman, put the fackin’ game back on! Now!’

The third man, who was slightly stockier and smaller than the other two, with a shaved head and a painted cross of St. George across his face, joined in. `Yeah mate! Do it now, or else!’

Smith hoped that someone would come to his rescue, but the crowd were escaping as quickly as they could from the bar in droves. He stood up and walked quickly back round the bar for safety. `Sorry lads. The game is off. Now you’ll all have to leave before I call the police,’ he tried to sound determined and confident, even though he was shaking inside like a leaf.
The three men fell about in laughter. `Is that so, mate?’ said the first one menacingly. He then came forward and grabbed Smith by the collar of his T-shirt, pulling him up towards the round, terrifying face. Smith nervously glanced down and saw the bottle in the man’s hand. The bottom had been smashed away, and now it protruded like a weapon from the man’s hand, jagged and glistening in the bar-light. The man’s arm was slowly drawing back, ready to strike.

`If you children don’t play nicely with my staff, I’ll have to teach you some manners.’

The man suddenly loosened his grip at the sound of the voice and turned towards the door. Smith’s heart lifted as he recognised it immediately.

Adam Grant stood casually at the open doorway, and walked in.
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The Sweeney
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Favorite Bond Movie: OHMSS, GF, LTK, CR, FRWL
Favorite Movies: Bullitt, The Long Good Friday, The Towering Inferno, Jaws, Rocky, Superman the Movie, McVicar, Goodfellas, Get Carter, Three Days of the Condor, Butch & Sundance, The Sting, All the Presidents Men
Location: Underneath a Mango Tree....

Re: Jules Rimet Still Gleaming

Post by The Sweeney »

Chapter Two
`DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?'

THE BAR WAS now very nearly empty. Many of the fans watching the game had abandoned the premises once the fight had started. Now with the sudden appearance of Adam Grant at the doorway, the remainder of the crowd were hastily making their way out. Trouble was beckoning, and it wasn’t wise to be associated with this scene any longer. It looked like this could turn ugly.

`What the fack `ave we got `ere then? Fackin’ John Travolta?’ the first man bellowed out with laughter. The other two men sniggered as all three were now glaring in disbelief at the blonde figure at the doorway.

Adam Grant was wearing a white linen suit, a pink shirt with the two top buttons casually undone, a beige leather belt and matching shoes. The impassive figure strolled in and leaned against the end of the bar, crossing his left leg over the right and putting his left hand nonchalantly into his pocket. `Okay boys. The fun is over. You’ve caught me in a good mood at the moment, so I’ll let you all walk out of here without giving you a slap. Now piss off.’ Grant’s words rolled lazily off his tongue, apparently at ease with the three men, maybe even slightly bored with the situation. Matthew Smith cheered inwardly at the way Grant was handling the three men. The other two bar maids who had been cowering for safety behind the bar now looked on with keen interest, excitement almost. They knew of Adam Grant’s reputation too, and they were relieved he had walked in when he did.

But the three thugs were gearing themselves up again, ready to kick off. The second man suddenly stopped laughing. `We ain’t going anywhere, old man. You want us to leave, you’re gonna have to make us!’

Grant appeared unruffled by the threat and shook his head slowly. `When will kids like you ever learn? I’ll give you one last chance. Get out, otherwise I’ll have to throw you out. Got it?’ Grant gestured with his head towards the open door.

`Looks like you’ll have to come and make us then, old man’ said the first man threateningly. `And there’s three of us.’ The other two were now poised, one of them reaching for a bottle.

Grant gave a disarming wolfish grin. `Yeah, I know. The odds are stacked against you. Why don’t you boys come back when there’s six of you. At least that way you stand a chance of taking me on.’

Now two of the men were visibly incensed by Grant’s over-confidence, this arrogant display of indifference towards the three of them. The first man looked like he was about to erupt. `Boy? No one calls me boy, you fucka!’

The second man joined in, sensing the mounting blood-lust of his friend. `You’ve been watching too many Clint Eastwood films, old man!’

`That doesn’t exactly go in your favour’, replied Grant shortly. This caused a momentary reaction from the audience behind the bar - a nervous laugh from Matthew Smith, and short giggles from the two bar-maids. They were beginning to enjoy the show now. Grant was about to teach these thugs a lesson.

The two of them stepped forward, both holding bottles in their hands. But the third man appeared a little uneasy. He wasn’t entirely sure of this blonde stranger, who was still nonchalantly leaning against the bar, looking completely relaxed and unconcerned at the two men approaching. Although Grant still appeared composed and disinterested, the eyes now glittered readily for battle.

The first man suddenly lunged forward with the broken bottle in his hand, aiming for Grant’s face. But within that split-second, Grant sprung to life, unleashed like a wild animal. He twisted sideways sharply, causing the man to stumble forward with the bottle, now harmlessly thrusting into mid-air. As he did so, Grant spun round and accurately whipped a couple of solid jabs into the man’s body. The man tried to turn and swing again with the bottle, before Grant lashed into the man’s groin with his shoe. The man let out a groan with a hiss as he doubled over in agony. Grant followed this up with a quick uppercut to the head. The man collapsed backwards and fell to the floor.

The second man was suddenly upon Grant, yelling out in fury. `You mother f**ker. I’m gonna fackin’ kill you!’ The man landed a couple of punches on the back of Grant’s head, and threw himself forward onto him. But before he knew what had happened, Grant crouched low, grabbed the man by the waist of his trousers, and flung him up and over. The figure involuntary dived headlong, crashing into a table stacked with pint glasses. The table capsized under the man’s weight, and Grant caught a glimpse of a pair of legs raised up clumsily into the air before disappearing over the other side in a heap of broken glasses and wooden tables. Grant spun round, ready for a sudden attack from the third man, but he needn’t have worried. The third man remained motionless where he stood, paralysed with fear at what he had just witnessed.
Grant gestured him to come forward. `Go and help your two mates up and get them out of here. If I see any of you in this bar again, I won’t play nicely with you next time. Understood?’

The man nodded nervously and slowly made his way over to the two wounded figures that were sprawled out on the floor, his feet crunching on broken glass as he did so. It took the thugs another ten minutes to get themselves together and leave, as they were both badly injured and needed urgent medical attention. Grant watched them from the bar without sympathy, more annoyed with the fact that he now had blood on his white Hugo Boss suit. He barked an order at Smith.

`Matt, do me a favour. Get me a gin and tonic. Plenty of ice. And put the England game back on will you. I haven’t driven all the way back from Marbella at 100mph just to stare at a blank screen in my own pub.’

* * * *

Adam Grant awoke next morning feeling like hell. His body was bombarded with a severe headache, dehydration and nausea. Why had he insisted on drinking so much last night after the game had finished? Grant slowly climbed out of bed and reached for the Anadin Extra tablets on the sideboard. He washed them down with a bottle of Evian water from the fridge, taking long gulps as the refreshing water poured down his throat. He then walked over to the curtains and pulled them open, preparing his eyes for the shock of dazzling sunlight outside. The clear blue sky above was almost the same deep blue colour as the sea below. If it wasn’t for the graduated shade of cyan which settled above the straight flat horizon, it would have been difficult to set them apart. Grant stood for a moment gazing out at the Strait of Gibraltar, then went into the bathroom and shaved, examining the sullen face that stared back at him in the mirror. The hazel brown eyes appeared depleted by the excessive amount of alcohol. The mop of blonde hair that normally parted tidily from the left was an unruly mess, like a thatch of straw. It looked even lighter against the long dark suntanned face. Grant then took an ice-cold shower. He stood under the water for a good 10 minutes, allowing the powerful shower to beat down directly onto his head and face, by which time this action, combined with the Anadin pain-killers, was slowly dissolving the headache. He dried, then dressed in a white `big pony’ Ralph Lauren polo t-shirt, a pair of beige linen shorts, slipped into his black and white Nike Comfort Slide sandals, put on his Tom Ford sunglasses (the same model Daniel Craig wore in the James Bond film, `Quantum of Solace’) and walked out of the apartment.

Grant took a stroll down into the Main Street, bought The Sun, Daily Express and The Mail newspapers and read the reports from last night’s game over an English cooked breakfast, half a pint of fresh orange juice and coffee. He had to tolerate the usual fawning from the waiters and passers-by that recognised him. Grant was becoming bored with this big-fish-in-a-small-pond routine now, having been living with it for the past year. It was tiring having to maintain this image constantly, and Grant was slightly uncomfortable with it. He was beginning to find Gibraltar too small and too claustrophobic. There were too many people here that recognised him. How long would it be before someone of significance identified him, someone on his tail from the UK? But as far as Grant knew, he was still relatively safe here. What happened back home in London was still an unsolved case, according to The Firm. But yesterday’s incident in the bar was the last thing Grant needed. It brought too much attention to him. Grant suspected the Gibraltar police already had their suspicions about him, and having to answer their probing questions late yesterday evening about the brawl was exhausting, to say the very least.

Grant shrugged his shoulders, drank the remainder of his coffee, paid the bill and left, trying to ignore the bootlicking `thank you very much, sir’ from the grovelling waiter on the way out. With the hangover now almost subsided after the cooked breakfast inside him, he felt better. Grant leisurely made his way back over to Atlantic Suites to collect his car. He glanced down at his Rolex Submariner watch. It was 9:35am, and he had a meeting at noon with Pizzey at the Rock Hotel. Grant wasn’t sure what it was about, having only received the message yesterday afternoon while playing golf in Marbella. It wasn’t very often he would get visitors coming to see him from London at such short notice.

Grant climbed in to the kyanite blue 5-litre V8 Jaguar XKR, sitting back luxuriously in the charcoal leather seats, and began his short journey across to The Rock Hotel. He turned up the stereo to listen to a superb Oasis B side from 1997 called `The Fame’, and thought about the meeting ahead with Pizzey. Grant had known him since they were both in their early twenties, when they first both joined The Firm. Grant had moved from Hull after his short-lived football career came to a premature end just before he turned twenty, and spent a couple of years in amateur boxing in London, before being recognised for his physical attributes by someone from The Firm. They offered him a decent salary, a place to live, a car, and a lifestyle which at the time, seemed very glamorous compared to the rough upbringing he had on the council estate streets of Bransholme in East Hull. Grant’s employment duties ranged from strong-arm protection, door-man at many of the various clubs owned by The Firm, debt collection and general odd-jobs wherever and whenever. It was during this spell when Grant first met Pizzey, and the two of them became fairly close friends.

Grant climbed up the steep embankment of Europa Road, feeling the V8 engine gently murmur in slight protest, and pulled into the car park opposite The Rock Hotel. He opened the boot of the car, took out his Adidas sports bag and made his way over to the bathrooms by the pool to change into his trunks. He then walked over to the poolside, picked up a couple of towels and draped them out on a lounger. A waiter came over and Grant ordered a diet Coke (too early for alcohol). He then applied some sun lotion, stretched out comfortably on the lounger and continued with his memories.

Within a few years of working for The Firm, Grant and Pizzey followed similar paths within the organisation. They both ended up running local bars in the East End. Grant’s pub was located on the Isle of Dogs, where he lived above the premises. Pizzey’s pub was a little further out in Ilford. They had come from fairly similar backgrounds too, Pizzey having been brought up in humble surroundings in Newcastle. Neither of them entirely trusted The Firm, having heard many nasty rumours on the grapevine over the years of how the corporation functioned, and how they dealt with certain individuals who ever dared to cross The Firm. But as long as Grant was left to run his pub the way he wanted to, with as little interference as possible, then he was relatively comfortable with his position. The Firm generally let him get on with his day-to-day business, and he very rarely involved them in any of his dealings. Occasionally Grant would ask for their help if desperately required, which, he admitted to himself, would often prove useful. Having The Firm’s shadowy presence looming over the premises meant very little trouble from anyone, including the law. Even the brewery more or less left him alone, which was unheard of according to many other landlords Grant socialised with. By the sounds of it, Pizzey had a similar cushy deal with his pub too.

The waiter came and brought his drink over. Grant took a few large mouthfuls. The heat from the sun was becoming intense. Grant decided to cool down in the pool. He dived headlong in to the water, then swam leisurely for six lengths and climbed back out, feeling much cooler and refreshed. His hangover had completely vanished now. Grant took another sup of his Coke then lay back. He checked the black dial of his watch. 11:25am. Pizzey would be here soon. His flight had probably already arrived by now. Grant smiled to himself and thought of the harassed dark-haired Geordie collecting his suitcase, probably moaning that it was taking too long to arrive on the carousel, then complaining about the lack of taxis outside the airport. Grant wondered what this unexpected visit was about. He had tried to read into Pizzey’s voice when they spoke on the phone, but the conversation was brief. `Hi Adam. I’m coming over to see you tomorrow. I should get in around 11ish. I’m booked at The Rock Hotel, and will be staying for a couple of days.’ Grant had asked him why he was coming, but the response was short. `The Firm have a proposition for you. I can’t tell you any more until I see you. See you tomorrow.’ And that had been it. Grant had been planning to stay the night in Marbella at a female companion’s apartment once the England game had finished, but receiving this call suddenly meant he had to drive back to Gibraltar last night. Anyway, to hell with it! Grant would find out soon enough. He settled back on the lounger and drifted back to the opened scrapbook of memories in his mind.

The head of The Firm (as far as Grant knew) was a man called Brett Colan. Grant had only ever seen him twice. The first incident was at club in the West End, when Grant was called upon to manage the doors at a party. Grant only caught a brief glimpse of the shadowy tall figure in the corner. The second time, Grant saw him up close and personal. It had been one afternoon in the pub just over a year ago, before Grant was sent to Gibraltar. Grant was manning the bar on a quiet shift when Brett Colan suddenly walked in. Grant recognised the figure immediately, made all the more obvious with the two bodyguards that accompanied him. Brett Colan was about 6 feet, 3 inches tall, with jet black hair, slicked immaculately back off the large forehead and shined with masses of hair-gel. The dark brown eyes were curious, watchful in a rather handsome but cruel tanned face. The lips were fat, and etched downwards into deep dimples at each corner, displaying a permanent look of displeasure to the world. The eyebrows were rather thick and bushy which met above a rather bulbous nose, appearing as though he was constantly frowning. The tailored black suit bulged at the chest and biceps, suggesting a powerful muscular frame. The white shirt underneath was crisply ironed, and a thin tie hung tidily from the collar, held in place by a gold crocodile tie-clip. The hands were large and hairy, and looked capable of inflicting damage even though they innocently lay flat resting on the bar top. Just being in his mere presence felt electrifying, terrifying almost, Grant reflected, and he could clearly see how this formidable looking human being would be at the head of such an organisation.

Grant kept his composure and pretended he didn’t know who it was that he was serving. `What can I get you, mate?’ he asked cheerfully.
The watchful eyes settled permanently on Grant in a fixed stare, and didn’t flicker away. The mouth attempted to smile, but the cold eyes told a different story. `Mate? Is that what you called me? Mate?’ The words rolled out precise and softly, in a low drawl.

`Yeah, you know. Mate, chief, guv’nor, squire. Whatever tickles your boat,’ Grant answered back confidently, determined not to be intimidated by the three menacing figures staring back at him. `What do you prefer to be called?’

`Do you know who I am?’ the eyes now started to show slight traces of impatience, irritation almost.

`No. Should I?’ asked Grant with a grin. He felt a bead of sweat trickle down his armpits, wondering if he had gone too far.

The brown eyes remained focused on Grant, and the strained smile suddenly dropped back into its sullen folds again. `The name’s Brett Colan, but to you it’s Mr. Colan, Sir or just plain God if you like.’ The bored voice sounded like it was an effort to barely utter the words, as though Grant was so insignificant he couldn’t really be bothered to speak to him.

Grant smiled defiantly back into the large face. `And my name’s Grant. Adam Grant. Now, what can I get you, Brett?’
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The Sweeney
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Joined: Mon Feb 12, 2007 2:21 pm
Favorite Bond Movie: OHMSS, GF, LTK, CR, FRWL
Favorite Movies: Bullitt, The Long Good Friday, The Towering Inferno, Jaws, Rocky, Superman the Movie, McVicar, Goodfellas, Get Carter, Three Days of the Condor, Butch & Sundance, The Sting, All the Presidents Men
Location: Underneath a Mango Tree....

Re: Jules Rimet Still Gleaming

Post by The Sweeney »

Chapter Three
BLACK AND DECKER

GRANT LAZILY WATCHED from behind his sunglasses a couple of sexy-looking blonde women in scantily-clad bikinis parade round the pool and jump into the water, their tanned smooth bodies glistening in the sun. Grant debated about diving back in too, just so he could strike up a conversation with them, but he decided against it. The heat had drained his energy for the time being. It was far too hot to start making any real effort charming a couple of females. Grant reached down for his drink and suddenly noticed he had a text message on his HTC HD2 mobile. It was from Pizzey. It said `Just arrived. See you soon.’ Grant slid the phone back under the bed in the shade. Grant turned his attention away from the giggly figures splashing in the water, and retreated back to his reminiscing.

For whatever reason, Brett Colan seemed impressed by the arrogant attitude Grant portrayed that afternoon. Grant was half expecting the head of The Firm to pull out a gun and shoot him there and then for his cocky behaviour. But when the attentive dark eyes, which continued staring into Grant’s skull for what felt like minutes, hours, suddenly crease up as Colan burst into laughter, Grant felt justifiably relieved. The large head went back in a loud guffaw. `I have to admire your balls, man. Go on, get yourself a drink on me. You’ve earned it. Not many people dare speak back to me these days.’ He looked shiftily at the two bodyguards who remained silent but glared in a mixture of disgust and anger at Grant. `Don’t you boys get any ideas though. I’m letting our friend off the hook here for his ignorance. He’s either incredibly brave, or incredibly dumb. Which is it, boy? Are you incredibly brave, or incredibly dumb?’

Grant gave a courteous smile back. `Both probably. And of course I know who you are. Apologies Mr. Colan for my rude behaviour. No disrespect meant. I just don’t like being leaned on, no matter who it is.’

Colan stopped laughing, but there was now a slight look of admiration in the face. `I’ll have to keep my eye on you, boy. Now, what are we all drinking?’

Brett Colan remained in the bar all afternoon that day, and slowly became more jovial the more he drank. He made idle conversation with Grant about football, discussing the various framed pictures around the bar (the same pictures Grant would take with him to his bar in Gibraltar). But every now and again, Grant would feel the dark eyes on him, watching him carefully, studying him. Grant of course pretended he didn’t notice, and busied himself tending to the bar, but he knew he was under scrutiny. Why the hell had he been so stupid to have spoken to Colan in such a disdainful manner? Grant kicked himself. But part of him also felt as though he had gained some respect from the big man. Grant was relieved when his girlfriend Angela turned up on the scene, because this diverted the attention quickly away from him. Colan then spent the rest of his time chatting to her, and Grant was surprised at how Colan could suddenly turn on the charm, and with apparent effortless ease. The cruel persona transformed to an amiable gentleman within seconds. When Brett Colan finally decided to leave, he kissed her gently on the cheek and graciously bowed out, declaring it had truly been a pleasure to meet her. Before he left, he gave one last look towards Grant. `Be seeing you, tough guy. Great gal you got there,’ and then with a curious smile that Grant didn’t quite understand, `Look after her.’ The two bodyguards sneered at him and the three men left.

The sight of Pizzey walking around the pool snapped Grant out of his thoughts. `Hey Pizz. You checked in yet?’ he called out.

Pizzey came over and sat on a lounger next to him. `Christ! The weather is a bit better over here than it is in the UK right now, I’ll say. Must be tough for you living out here.’

Grant laughed. `Well, it’s not all fun and games. How was the flight?’ he was pleased to see his old mate again after all this time. The short cropped dark hair was speckled with more grey than Grant had remembered seeing before, but the grey-blue eyes twinkled youthfully in the roguish face that now sported a neatly trimmed goatee beard.

The two of them chatted and caught up on old times before Grant suggested they have lunch somewhere. After mulling over the choices, the two of them decided to eat at the Barbary Bar in the hotel. They ordered ham and mustard sandwiches and San Miguel beers, and over lunch Grant quizzed Pizzey as to why he had flown over to see him.

`So, what’s the story, Pizz? What proposition have The Firm got for me this time?’

Pizzey paused to choose his words carefully. `Well before I begin, are you happy here? That’s the first thing I’ve been told to ask you.’

Grant thought for a moment then answered. `Relatively, I suppose.’

Pizzey looked down, slightly embarrassed by what he had to say next. `I know what happened with Angela back home is something you’ll probably never really get over.’

`Go on’ said Grant bluntly, trying to steer the conversation away from that painful subject. `Your point is?’

Pizzey shifted in his seat. `Well, do you have a new girlfriend out here, someone special perhaps?’

`I’ve got plenty of girlfriends out here, different one every night. And?’ Grant was showing irritation now, and he didn’t care. The conversation was getting personal very suddenly, and he wasn’t prepared to continue in the direction it was heading.

Pizzey tried to persevere. `Look, sorry Adam for asking you this. I’ve been instructed to find out if you are now a steady item with a bird out here, because that would depend on the new job offer.’

`Do you mean have I found a replacement for Angela here? Well the answer is no!’ Grant reached for his glass of lager and drank.

Pizzey smiled. `Sorry for asking, mate. I just needed to know, and couldn’t think of any easy way to ask you this. I don’t like doing this any more than you do, believe me. The Firm gave me this shitty job of coming out here and asking you this because I’m the one closest to you.’

Grant relaxed somewhat. `Ok, fair enough. So the answer is no. I’m not going steady with any bird out here.’

Pizzey weighed up how to propose the offer. `Right, good. So you are still single. Ok,’ he took a mouthful of beer and continued. `Well as you know, this move to Gibraltar was only temporary, while the heat died down in London.’

`And has the heat died down now?’ Grant asked.

`Well, yes. The whole thing was a bit ugly in the beginning. But this temporary location is no good for you anymore. Word is getting back that the police are on your tail here. It will only be a matter of time before they catch up with you.’

That figures, thought Grant, reflecting on yesterday evening’s events.

`So they have a new place in mind for you. How would you feel about India?’

`India?’ Grant looked puzzled. `Why there?’

`It’s as good a place as any. One billion plus population. You will blend in easily there. Here you stand out like a sore thumb. Small place, tiny population. And as this is still a British colony, the police can quite easily pull you in for questioning any time they wanted to.’

`Well, I quite like Indian food,’ Grant said truthfully.

Pizzey laughed. `There you go. You’ll fit in right at home there. And still nice hot weather, lucky git! It’ll be even hotter than this place. You’ll get the usual comforts offered by The Firm, obviously. Decent apartment, lifestyle, car, all that.’

`Whereabouts in India do they want to send me?’ asked Grant.

`New Delhi,’ replied Pizzey.

`And what’s the story this time? More bars and restaurants for me to oversee?’

`Actually no’, said Pizzey. `They said this trip is a bit different. You won’t be doing what you’ve been doing here in Gibraltar, and what you did back home,’ Pizzey looked round and lowered his voice, suddenly conscious of the conversation they were having. `It’s something to do with football, but they wouldn’t say what.’

`Football?’ Grant looked puzzled. `What the hell?’

`I know. I don’t understand myself. But they said it would be something right up your alley, that you would be the perfect man for the job. They wouldn’t give me any more details than that. I was only told to come out here and find out first of all if you would be interested in moving to India. After that....’ he left the unfinished sentence hanging in the air.

`So who is going to fill me in on the rest?’ asked Grant.

Pizzey avoided Grant’s quizzical stare. `Jazinski and Watson.’

Grant nodded thoughtfully. Those two bas***ds! Black & Decker! `That figures,’ he smiled grimly. Jazinski and Watson were a nasty double-act. A couple of thugs that enjoyed inflicting pain on others. Over the years Grant had heard many tales about the things these two did to people who crossed paths with The Firm. They were Brett Colan’s right-hand men, two guys that earned the dubious nickname `Black & Decker’, due to the use of electric power drills they supposedly tortured their victims with, either to the body or to the teeth. Grant had met them on a few occasions, and each time Grant felt sick to his stomach even talking to them.

`Ok, so when are they planning on coming over to see me?’ asked Grant, with minor reservations in his mind now.

`Next week. I have to report back and tell them you’re interested first. I’m not sure why they wouldn’t fill me in on the rest. It was on a need-to-know business only. I tried to probe for answers, but those two are not exactly the kind of guys you want to probe too much,’ Pizzey said with a half smile.

`No. They are the ones usually doing the probing,’ Grant responded, laughing. `Ok, tell the terrible duo I’m interested, but nothing more than that right now. I’ll need to know more first before I make my decision.’

`Right, will do,’ said Pizzey, keeping it to himself that this wasn’t really a decision for Grant to weigh up and make. The way it was told to Pizzey back home, this offer appeared non-negotiable. He didn’t want to think what the alternatives were had Grant refused it.

The two finished their lunch, paid the bill then left. Grant then spent the afternoon with Pizzey showing him the sights of Gibraltar. In the evening, the two of them sat in the corner of The Banyan Tree and drank while talking over old times they shared together. Pizzey tried to keep Angela out of the conversation, but eventually, after many drinks, Grant finally brought her up.

`After I left the UK, what happened?’ Grant asked, his words slurring slightly.

`Well, I had police round my place every other day asking questions, wanting to know where you had disappeared to, what my relationship was with you. Luckily The Firm managed to fend them off most of the time. The man you killed is still an unsolved mystery case. No one knows where he is. The body is still to be recovered. He is presumed missing, as are you. At least The Firm are good for something. Poor old Diggers was in a state of shock though when he came in and found you on top of that Bas***d. If he had turned up a few minutes earlier, maybe he could have prevented you doing what you did.’

`Nothing would have stopped me killing him,’ Grant said grimly.

`As for the two other men, they are now both banged up on several charges.’ Pizzey said, sensing the anger welling up inside Grant.

`Yes, I know they are. What were the charges?’ Grant asked.

`Well, rape and accomplices to man-slaughter obviously, for what they did to...’ Pizzey looked away uneasily from Grant’s hard stare and continued. `The Firm had a big part to play in getting them nicked, I’m sure. I’m guessing they tipped off the police about the other two men. No one knows for sure who it was that came in to try and rescue Angela, as the two men fled before you arrived. Their story what happened is rather vague. The only person in the frame, identified as the person who murdered her is Jason Ferguson. And he is someone who has been missing ever since,’ Pizzey looked around to make sure no one nearby was listening. `Along with you,’ he added.

Grant’s nostrils flared slightly at the very mention of his name. Pizzey noticed this and quickly tried to change the subject. But it was no good. Grant was now in a remorse state, and no longer wished to keep drinking, as he didn’t know how he would react to more alcohol. He decided to call it a night, and left Pizzey in the bar while Grant walked across Casemates Square back to his apartment.

The thought of Angela made his stomach suddenly turn again, as it always did. Even thinking about her was too painful. Grant tried to push the memory of her out of his mind, but he couldn’t quite shake away the recollection of that nightmare evening. He gritted his teeth and ground his fingernails into his palms as he imagined the bare white flesh, the obese sweaty figure clumsily on top of her, the two grinning ghoulish faces stood greedily watching, trousers around their ankles, awaiting their turn. If only Grant had turned up at Angela’s apartment ten minutes earlier. Maybe he could have saved her. Grant closed his eyes. The images were still all too vivid. Grant battering the front door down, seeing the bloody figure sprawled out on the floor, the lifeless eyes staring blankly at the ceiling, the obese, half-naked man on top of her, his hands around her throat. Grant’s right arm twitched in memory as he recalled the severe beating he dished out, the flashbacks whirring crazily through his brain. The two bystanders managed to escape as Grant charged into the room, but the man laid on top of her wasn’t so lucky. Grant tried to switch off the nightmare, but he could still see the ugly, sweaty panting face, now covered in blood as Grant pummelled ferociously down with his fists. The rest of what happened was a blur. Grant vaguely remembered the man’s screams for help, and Diggers pulling him off the battered body. `Leave it Adam! Christ, I think you’ve killed him!’ Two days later Grant was silently whisked out of the country by car, driven by a member of The Firm through France and into Spain, where he finally reached Gibraltar. Whatever happened to Angela he only really found out through snippets he read in the English newspapers in Gibraltar. She had suffered numerous injuries while being raped, and there wasn’t one particular cause of death. Jason Ferguson had probably died of severe head concussion, Grant concluded, but he never regretted it for a single second. If anything, he often wished he could go back and beat the animal some more, not entirely satisfied with the gruesome flashbacks in his head. Wherever the body now lay, Grant had no idea. All he knew was The Firm had taken care of it. The Firm took care of everything.

* * * *

It was one week later when Adam Grant sat in The Banyan Tree awaiting the arrival of Nicholas Jazinski and Glenn Watson. He poured himself another large measure of Gordon’s gin and tonic, added three cubes of ice, a slice of lemon, then swirled the glass round to break down the ice. He was alone in the bar. He had decided to give Matthew Smith and the two girls the day off. No point in them having to meet these two repulsive characters if he could help it. It was best that they met with as fewer faces as possible here in Gibraltar. Grant looked at the clock behind the bar. 1:45pm. Their plane would have landed by now, so they would be here soon enough. Grant let out a long sigh and stood up to relieve some of the tension that was mounting inside him.

Pizzey had left a few days earlier. They had spent the rest of the time together in a fairly relaxed manner. Sunbathed, played golf, drank, watched football. After that evening, the subject of Angela was not mentioned again. Neither was India. When Pizzey was finally leaving, Grant had dropped him at the airport. `So long Adam. Next time I see you, you’ll be wearing a turban, a red spot on your forehead and a moustache. Take care.’ Pizzey grinned, gave a final wave (the two of them never usually shook hands) and was gone. When Grant watched the figure he knew so well walk off into the airport, he suddenly felt lonely. Grant shrugged off the feeling and walked back to his car.

And now, a few days later Grant walked over slowly across the bar to the window and peered out at Casemates Square. It was still relatively busy out there. A few locals he recognised, a group of tourists that looked Scandinavian. Nothing much else to report. At least there was no sign of the old bill anywhere. He didn’t want them showing up now with Jazinski and Watson’s imminent arrival.

Grant sat back down on a bar stool and thought about this terrible pair. It was now legendary folklore among the shady underworld of the East End that these two men took great pleasure in torturing and killing their victims. Rumour has it they spent 36 hours on Alex Morris a few years back. The body was never recovered, but they had apparently drilled so many holes into his face and body after removing all his teeth with pliers, one-by-one. There were many ghastly tales like this, and Grant saw the greedy lust in the eyes of the two thugs that they were very much capable of performing such sickening acts. With these hideous thoughts running through his mind, Grant would try and keep this meeting as brief as possible.

He took a long pull at his gin and tonic, then as an afterthought walked over behind the bar and unlocked the safe under the staircase in the hallway. Grant reached in and pulled out the heavy metal case that concealed the Smith & Wesson double action revolver. He opened it up and took the gun out, weighing it in his hand thoughtfully. After a moment he decided to slide it in the waistband of his trousers. Grant used to practise weekly at the shooting range. Better to be safe than sorry.

The sudden loud banging at the door broke the tense silence in the bar. That would be them! Grant stood up and walked purposefully over to the wooden doors and unlocked them.
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Blowfeld
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Re: Jules Rimet Still Gleaming

Post by Blowfeld »

How many writers do we have in the forum? You, Kris, we could start a publishing house :) Wonderful Sweeney :cheers: You publish and I will be standing in line at the book shop :)
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Re: Jules Rimet Still Gleaming

Post by The Sweeney »

Blowfeld wrote:How many writers do we have in the forum? You, Kris, we could start a publishing house :) Wonderful Sweeney :cheers: You publish and I will be standing in line at the book shop :)
Cheers Blowfeld... :cheers:
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