Lucius the Club | Page 7

a great deal more mobile than myself. And I decided that, if I had the balls to do that, I probably had the balls to shoot someone who was trying to blackmail my mother.
After all, I reminded myself, I owed my mother my very life. Twice over. First, she didn't have an abortion when she found out that she was inconveniently pregnant. And second, when I was born, she could have got rid of me then.
In 1940 there was, in Soho, a hospital sister whom I will call Sister Smith. In the 1930s, times were very hard, and working-class families couldn't afford any passengers. And so when a child was born with severe deformities, or was obviously a Mongol, or hopelessly premature perhaps - in such a case, a quiet word would be had, and Sister Smith would be sent for. And Sister Smith would see to it that the deformed child would go quietly to sleep and would never wake up again.
When I was seventeen or so, a drunk woman in the French pub told me that, when I was born, the midwife suggested to Mama that it might be a good idea to let Sister Smith have a look at me. Mama gave that wretched woman the most fearful ear-bashing that had been heard for many a long year.
As I sat there, in the train from Sussex, that day in December 1960, I remembered all that. And I decided that I would look after my Mama, and protect her for the rest of her life - no matter what the cost.
And after that I did get a good night's sleep.
*
In my absence, Mama had done the ground work.
She'd heard from Billy Marwell, she said. And he wanted a thousand pounds. She'd told him she couldn't do it until next week.
In the meantime, she had discovered that, every Sunday night, Billy played poker with four friends, in the bar of the Girliebar Club. The club was closed on Sundays.
Once famous for its gorgeous strippers, but now long since forgotten, the Girliebar was on the top floor of a fivestorey building. It's now the office of a famous American film company. In 1960, one of the five poker players was a partner in the club, so he acted as host for the regular Sunday-night game.
The five men were all small-time criminals. They were chronic gamblers. And they were all alcoholics. During the period from about seven p.m. to midnight, they sat and drank and played poker. Each man bought a round of drinks. And a round consisted of a bottle of champagne and five double brandies. So by the end of the night, they were very well oiled indeed.
All this information Mama had gathered together in my absence.
'So we'll do it Sunday night,' she told me. 'In the bar.'
What's this 'we'? I thought. Which is interesting, because it shows how the mind picks on irrelevant details.
'The street door isn't locked,' Mama went on, 'because the bloke who runs the club can't be bothered going up and down to let them all in and then lock it again. And anyway all the internal doors are locked except the bar on the top floor. So you can get in OK, go up the stairs, and do it in the bar. By ten o'clock they'll all be three-quarters pissed, Lucius. Billy won't feel a thing.'
I sat down and thought about what she was proposing. Do it in the bar? With an audience of four other poker players?
'But there'll be witnesses,' I said. Rather foolishly.
Mama sat down beside me and held my hand. 'Darling, of course there'll be witnesses. That's the whole point.'
I must have looked as bemused as I felt.
'Don't you see? We're in the business of sending a message. And the message is, Don't fuck around with us, because we won't stand for it. So people have to know that it's you.'
The logic of this escaped me. 'But then the police will know.'
Mama gave a great peal of laughter. 'No they won't!' she said. 'You silly.'
'Why not?'
'Because the witnesses are all criminals, that's why. They're small-time crooks, Lucius. Fences, thieves, drug dealers, pornshop owners. They've all been inside. They know the ropes. And they're not informers. One they've seen you shoot a man, they'll know what to expect if they tell the police. But they will tell everyone else - all their underworld friends. That's the whole point.'
I really had to think about that for some time. And it wasn't easy for me to accept.
Mama gave me a hug, and kissed me. 'Don't worry,' she said. 'It will all work the way I tell you. And besides,' she added, almost as an afterthought, 'I shall get you an alibi.'
'How will you do that?'
'Never you mind,' she said. 'But just leave it to