A Kind of Hush Read Free Page B

hour later we were all sitting in the burger bar. There were eight of us. Mick, nineteen, he sort of looked after us all. Tony, half Italian, seventeen years old, the new boy. Pete and Den, seventeen-year-old twin brothers. Karl ‘Wiwa K’, which is why we called him Wivva, a seventeen-year-old skinhead. Weedy Si whose full name was Simon Gay, poor bastard. His name alone gave the poor sod one hell of a complex. He was just sixteen, on the run from a kids’ home in Sussex and in his socks was just four feet, eleven inches of pure dandelion flower with a really aggravating sniffing habit. Then there was  Alan. No one argued with Alan. He was big, built like a tank and had more tattoos on him for an eighteen-year-old than most fifty-year-olds. His only problem was that he was labelled as thick, ESN they called it, but having said that you couldn't wish for a better bloke with you in a rumble. He was unstoppable and never seemed to feel any pain. I once watched five Old Bill try to hold him down and he still got away.
    Finally there's me. My name's Stewart, though I prefer to be called Stu. I was seventeen last birthday and I've been with Mick and the gang for about four years now, ever since him, me, Pete and Den had shared a squat in Lewisham.
    The burger bar was run by a bloke named Max which is why, I suppose, it was called Max's. It was your typical greasy spoon, and because of where it was, just up the road from King's Cross Station, and the fact that it always seemed to be open, you could always find the place full of kids using the fruit and video machines. It was a hang out for toms, rent boys, drunks, local villains and dealers. And needless to say it was a regular stop on the Old Bill's visiting list.
    Max never bothered us, but then Max never bothered anyone. He was the deafest man on earth when he wanted to be and his mouth, like his pocket, was always shut tighter than a duck's arse. You could rely on Max, he never gave credit and he kept a meat cleaver on one side for those who tried to take it. He never listened to anyone's conversations and he never gave advice; we all knew where we stood with Max and we all appreciated him for that.
    The only thing that bugged me about him was his   accent, I could never place it, and he always smiled sweetly and winked knowingly but said nothing if anyone asked him where he came from. A story went around once that he was an ex-Gestapo man in hiding. But that would have made him nearly seventy and he didn't look that old, but then again those blokes were supposed to be ultra-healthy weren't they? Anyway, Wivva was convinced that the story was true and thought that he was the greatest thing since sliced bread.
    We always met at Max's when we worked King's Cross. We would leave there, do the job, and return there to share out the spoils and plan the next one.
    Mick emptied his jacket on to the table.
    'Shhhiiit! This bloke was loaded,' hissed Den, as he pulled a gold Amex card from a wallet. Also in the wallet was a wadge of fifties, a couple of twenties and a ten, one Visa card, a couple of small credit cards for a garage and store of some kind, some names and addresses on what looked like torn-out pages from a diary, and an identity card with the bloke's picture on it. Also on the table were two gold chains torn from his neck and an expensive-looking watch with a damaged strap, obviously done when it was snatched from the guy's arm.
    I picked up the ID card and saw that the man worked for some big computer company, then I flipped it back on the table. We never really cared who they were, just what they were.
    It was late, so we decided to call it a day. Mick split the cash, we got just over forty quid each from this one, that added to what we had made from two earlier jobs gave us about seventy quid each to go home with. Not bad for one night's work. Si took the cards, chains and watch, he had  an uncle who always gave him a good deal on stuff like that, that's why we let