Ben Bracken: Origins (Ben Bracken Books 1 - 5) (8 page)

When it comes to business, oddly, Ben found that the internet was less forthcoming. He knew of the pub, but that was pretty much it. Which of course, left the usual unofficial avenues of business the modern London gangster tends to busy himself with, namely drugs, arms and intimidation. But he didn’t have specifics.

Ben wasn’t here to pass judgement on those crimes, moreover he found himself traveling to London based on one solitary line in Masters Sr.’s address on the court steps. He had stood there with a long cream jacket perched on his shoulders (unable to look more like a 70’s New York mobster if he tried), and had been asked ‘Are you pleased to be acquitted of the charges?’. Masters had stared back into the female reporter’s face, then let his eyes lower lasciviously. It was stomach-churning to watch, as the bug-eyed old pervert took her in, his game of intimidation in full flow. When his eyes came back up, he smiled and drawled: ‘It didn’t take the jury long to realize that the true Prince of London is untouchable.’.

On hearing it on the television in his Travelodge hotel room in Monmouth, Ben had felt that grim revulsion rise. At that point in time, he had been fleeing a particularly nasty situation in North Wales - a situation he had been most happy to commit to the farthest point of his rear view mirror and leave there. The figurative bile had risen at this vile man on the screen, and Ben, in search of a purpose, suddenly had one.

On the baking streets of Afghanistan, Ben had left the best parts of himself. But he hadn’t done it so that scum like Terry Masters could run a bloody rule over the capital of the country. He hadn’t done it so that Terry Masters could boast about being teflon to the nation, despite the numerous crimes he is linked to. He hadn’t done it to come back to this once great nation and barely recognize it. Suddenly, Ben had an interest. If the law couldn’t touch Terry, then, as a fugitive of that same law, Ben surely could. Ben had rented a car and set off to the capital.

He had been waiting for a glimpse of Terry for 48 hours. Ben had managed to get hold of a copy of a book about London crime, which featured Terry on the odd occasion but alluded to him heavily in others. It was the author’s one and only book. God know’s where he is now. The book had said that Terry’s secrecy was paramount, and his movements always discreet - save for the occasional moment of brashness used primarily as a reminder, as if to say ‘I’m still here and you still can’t get near me’. It strikes Ben that that seems to be directed at both Terry’s competition and the authorities simultaneously. A goading... a gloating... For Ben, it rang like a ‘come and get me’ plea. And that’s just what he set out to do.

Ben has covered the pub in it’s entirety, and knew exactly the layout of the pub without ever having had to set foot inside. He’s been on the roof before dawn. He’s been in the alley at the back. He’s looked through the downstairs windows. And today, as soon as he has definitive proof that The Turn-Up is inside, he’s going inside for a quiet pint. Or at least it will start quiet. If he gets in there, and the numbers look alright, he intends to get his hands on that lowlife piece of gutter-waste and get a confession out of him. Ben checks the mic on the inside point of his right shirtsleeve cuff, right by the button - still there, still fairly unobtrusive. He checks the dictaphone in his jacket pocket, which is connected to the mic via his sleeve. Also perfect - batteries charged, levels checked. Argos had come up trumps. The idea is to press record, get in, and make conversation. He’ll pretend to be hammered if he has to get those words, or he’s also prepared to dish out a hammering if it means he gets those words on tape.

Ben’s role at present is not one he is comfortable with, but has accepted. He knows he has no place in this society. He knows that this society would never respect him. Service men don’t always occupy a high place in society post-army, let alone disgraced servicemen like Ben. However, despite himself, he can’t find himself to turn his back on this society. At times he hates this society with a flaming passion, and is outraged at how much he has given with so little in return. But he can’t not care for this society - he seemingly can never forgo it’s protection. He has no idea why, but he will bleed for this society. He will give everything for this society.

For Ben, it is a horrible marriage, but at least he has made peace with it. He believes that the problems in society comes from it’s influences and undercurrent. Case in point, the culture of fame and celebrity. And that has begot a sense of entitlement in society, that we all should seek the trappings of such a lavish lifestyle. Now people want to be somebody just because it appears that that’s what everyone aspires to. The desire for fame has never been so fierce. It sickens Ben. Seeing these girls who want to marry footballers, with no interest to careers. Seeing these lads get caught up wanting to be on reality tv, because it gets you famous. It’s hopeless, Ben thinks. He can think of hundreds of examples where society is being flushed down the bog in slow motion, each more garish and unsettling than the last.

Ben often sits and wonders why he feels he owes such a pitiful society his protection, and he wracks his brains solemnly. Then he remembers the badge, the name, the honour of his position (well, at the time) and the simple word: England. Dear England, with it’s history so rich and it’s democracy so febrile. Dear England, with it’s green hills and industry. Dear England, with it’s dear Queen. When Ben thinks like this, he chastises himself quickly for being so maudlin. The romance of England is long gone - all that remains is the broken-down shell of a once thriving empire, with a bickering government trying to steer a disenfranchised and disillusioned populous out of the cave of economic uncertainty and ever-growing debt. Some ideal to fight for that is.

Ben is quickly snapped out of his thoughts by man tottering along in his rear view mirror. The street is very quiet, but this man wearing a black jumper and cream khakis seems to fill it with his charismatic, jaunty walk. He ambles along at a fair rate, but looks very much like he is loving life. He might as well be singing ‘Oh What A Beautiful Morning’ as he goes, thinks Ben. Ben has a suspicion as to the man’s identity, and it’s a suspicion that is confirmed by a couple of small observations. The red-top rag under one arm... The sparkling earrings in the left ear only... The shock of unruly black hair (so black that only an obvious bludgeoning dye-job can be responsible for it)... It’s him alright. Terry ‘The Turn-Up’ Masters.

Ben can’t quite believe his luck, and checks his watch. 2pm. The pub has been open for a couple of hours this drizzly Friday afternoon, but Ben’s hunch had been correct and here he is. Ben had believed that if you owned a pub, Friday nights would be one you’d often spend at your place of work, through sheer force of habit. Ben was convinced that at some point today, the man himself would show. And, as if by some glorious magic, here he is. Early, but Ben had hoped as much. The earlier the better - less people in the pub, less things can go wrong. Ben has learnt through painful experience that the best way to ruin a plan is clog it with an unpredictable drunkard. And a pub? Well, that sure has the potential to up the quota of unpredictable drunkards.

Ben changes nothing about his behaviour - he doesn’t freeze, nor does he frantically spin round to get a clearer view of his target. Moreover, he carries on slumping (if that’s even possible) in his seat just as relaxed as before. He closes his eyes, as if struggling to stay awake. He doesn’t worry where Masters is going - there can only be one destination. The pub. As Masters nears the car, the whistling becomes audible to Ben - he can’t make out the tune, but as an aficionado of detail, he will likely never forget it. The Turn-Up strolls past, ambling care-free like he is on holiday. It infuriates Ben - every day must feel like a quaint getaway when you’ve got the whole city under your thumb and you’re as unimpeachable as the damn Queen.

Masters hops the curb, and wanders directly through the front door of the pub, with the swagger that only the landlord could bring. Immediately, Ben moves.

He opens the car door with no strict urgency, and locks it without any special attention. He starts for the pub, twirling the keys in his hand, just for a second - he hopes the overall behaviour will give the impression of a bloke who just really fancies an early pint on a wet Friday, and is very grateful for the opportunity. He decides, along with all else, that he quite fancies a pint himself, and that makes the charade of walking innocently into a pub all the easier to execute. A simple stroll to the front door along a quiet street (‘too quiet?’, Ben ponders, but doesn’t dwell on), and the front door is in sight. He does a quick mental prep session (namely whispering to himself ‘Don’t fuck up now...’) and enters.

2

Inside, the pub is just as he imagined. The shell of the pub is the archetypal, hulking, inner-city drinking public house, the shape of tradition festooned with the trappings of time and changing trends. Within that same shell, is a dark sticky-floored boozer, all spit, sawdust and too many plasma televisions, all blaring Sky Sports News at an intolerable volume. He approaches the bar, across a central wooden dance-floor that looks like, judging from the sickly mass of assorted drinks stains splattered right across it, it has seen a great deal of action. Nobody appears to be about at all, but he sticks to his role of ‘cheeky drinker who should really be in work’. As he gets to the bar, his senses kick in, pondering options and possibilities, confirming strategies and plans.

He feels there must be at least one weapon behind the bar, close to the cash register. Most fights break out over money. He spies the cash register at the far right hand side. Ben thinks that may well be too far right to protect the entirety of the bar, so he reasons there must be another one on the far left. After all, you don’t get to the highest branch of London’s gangster tree by being lazy when it comes to security, do you? Ben heads to that left hand side, with a plan in mind to establish where the firearms dwell. Exits are where he came in, and presumably through the kitchen. The bar itself is open plan, with seating areas sectioned off by wooden partition walls. No other exits. Ben convinces himself he won’t need one. MIght as well get started, he thinks. Make contact with a barman, get the ball rolling.

‘Hello?’ he shouts. ‘Anyone about?’

He gives the request that jovial lilt, that kind of vocal exuberance that doesn’t suggest anything other than ‘happy fellow’. He waits. A door clicks somewhere, as Ben’s eyes are drawn to the kitchen door to the left of the bar, and he waits with an expectance that he desperately tries to keep hidden from his face.

‘Just after a quick pint, but if you’re shut...’ he follows up. That should have set the bar staff’s expectations for the visitor before they even lay eyes on me, he thinks. The kitchen door suddenly swings open, and to Ben’s amazement, in walks Terry ‘The Turn-Up’ Masters. He looks unhurried and relaxed. Ben presses on with his task, even though it feels like he might drop his guts. He was not expecting alone time with Masters - at any point.

‘I saw the pub and wondered if I could get a quick pint? I should really be in work, but you know...’ Ben asks, while wondering if he laid it on a touch thick. Up close, Masters looks different - too much plastic surgery, which, away from the TV cameras and in the real world, looks extremely peculiar indeed. With that ludicrous thatch of jet black hair over a face full of improbably shiny and smooth angles, he looks like a part-melted Jim Henson creation. However he smiles with genuine warmth.

‘I know the feeling!’ Masters counters. ‘Of course, we are open. What can I get you?’

There is a vulnerability to Masters that seems to come from his appearance - deep down there are some insecurities that needed to be masked by that near-ridiculous surface. This vulnerability, this patter... Ben was prepared for a lot of things, but he certainly was not prepared for him being likable. So he keeps going.

‘Brilliant, thank you! Well, I’m a bit of a real ale man, so what can you recommend?’ Ben gestures to the T-bar and the pump-clips above. ‘You appear to have quite the selection!’

‘Most of this stuff is forced upon us by the brewery - you know how difficult the pub industry can be at times. Always trying to cut corners, and leveraging against landlords - you’d be forgiven for thinking that the brewery’s were trying to run the pubs out of business!’

Ben laughs genuinely, catching himself off guard, then chastises himself inside. ‘Jesus, Ben’ he thinks ‘Be careful.’ Masters continues.

‘Despite all the wishy-washy cat-piss we are sometimes forced to stock, I always manage to sneak one in that’s my own choice, which we do with one of our local suppliers by the barrel.’ With that, Masters takes a small glass from behind the bar and squeezes the pump handle on the end of the T-bar, pouring Ben a little taster, which he duly hands over. ‘Give this one a little try’.

Ben takes it, while Masters stares at him with hope and expectance, like he genuinely hopes that his own personal beer selection will impress the stranger. Ben smells it, and takes the small measure in one gulp.

‘That’s very good,’ Ben says. Masters smiles warmly, and begins filling a pint pot with that same ale. ‘You may have me here all day at this rate!’

‘You’re welcome anytime.’ Masters responds, and puts the pint on the bar. Ben thinks about the second firearm he was hoping to pinpoint, but is forced to acknowledge that Master’s hasn’t done anything at all to reveal it - if it’s even there, in fact.

‘What do I owe you?’ Ben asks.

‘My treat - it’s nice to meet a fellow ale drinker’ replies Masters.

At this point, Ben is left in no doubt how Masters is as respected as he is, and how he finds himself perched high as London’s crime kingpin. He is extremely charming, with a manner that commands both respect and loyalty. Ben feels more than a touch seduced, but he knows why that is - Masters reminds Ben of his father. The kindly, respectful, pub-dwelling charmer who goes by the name of Frederick Bracken. Ben hadn’t seen him in years, and his own reaction to Masters’ character surprises him in revealing just how much he misses his father - or indeed a father figure. Ben raises his glass.