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Tommy Gee
Tommy Gee
Tommy Gee
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Tommy Gee

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Tommy Gee's decision to spend a long weekend visiting his mother in King's Lynn, on England's east coast, leaves behind eight dead bodies and a suicide. Not that they were all Tommy's fault, but he seems to be a magnet for chaos and the unpredictable. Add to the mix, Tommy's sultry pickpocket sister and his gangly deranged half-brother, and you have the recipe for a frenzied few days. When two Romanian mafia bosses are stirred into the melting pot, along with a sexy bank employee with a cunning plan, things are likely to move from complicated to dangerous before you can turn the page.

But Tommy has never been one to worry too much about risks. Accompanied by Muffin, his chocolate-coloured Labrador whose only purpose in life is to find misplaced burgers or unwanted pork scratchings, Tommy Gee's long weekend finds him hanging upside-down in his burning car. Yet we shouldn't be surprised at that. He is, after all, a professional blaster.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherGraham Hamer
Release dateMar 7, 2019
ISBN9781386670469
Tommy Gee

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    Tommy Gee - Graham Hamer

    CHAPTER ONE

    Tommy Gee wished it would bloody well stop raining. He’d forced himself out of bed at stupid-o-clock and left his home in Crewe four hours earlier. Thanks to drivers who crawled slower than the average golf cart, with their wipers at double speed and one foot on the brake, he had only now arrived in King’s Lynn, 150 miles away. He’d hoped that travelling on a Saturday morning would make the trip easier, but the weather and weekend drivers seemed to have conspired against him. His head was aching and the squeak and thud of his van’s windshield wipers was like a cruel and unusual torture involving a fork, a chalkboard, and a troll with a hammer.

    He pulled off the A47 onto one of the main roads into the town. A few minutes later, he arrived at a large roundabout and opted for London Road, the main north-south road that went through King’s Lynn town centre. He passed under the 15th century Southgates, a Grade 1 scheduled ancient monument that spanned one side of the road. It was the only part of the entry to King’s Lynn that pleased him. Fifty metres later he was swallowed up by a mish-mash of dark brick buildings lining both sides of the road. Whatever fine town houses they had once been was long past. Now, the ground floors housed take-aways, betting offices, brake parts, hairdressers, off-licences, snack bars, and any other carbuncle you might imagine. Most had turned their upper floors into apartments for young couples or struggling students from the nearby College of West Anglia.

    Tommy was already depressed and he’d only been there thirty seconds. He felt this way every time he came back to visit his mother. Which wasn’t often. When he’d left King’s Lynn, ten years earlier, he’d always imagined he would never have to come back, but his mother was happy here, and Tommy was happy to see her. On the other hand, he kept his visits as short as possible. This trip would just be a long weekend. His mother was what some might call ‘a little eccentric’. Others said she was completely crazy. Tommy thought the world of her - but only in homeopathic doses.

    Along the verges, the grass was growing wild, and withered thistles sprouted out of the cracked pavements. It would have been nice to see some signs of life. Even a flasher in a plastic mac was preferable to this emptiness. But this was King’s Lynn where life had already ground to a halt for most of its 43,000 inhabitants. It was, in Tommy’s opinion, the only town in Britain that was suffering from rigor mortis prior to its death. His only surprise was that he saw no tumbleweed rolling down the empty streets.

    Tommy had always held the view that when he died, if he’d been badder than bad, he’d be sent to somewhere like King’s Lynn. At least in hellfire, you could scream and shout because you’re in pain. You’re feeling something, right? But this! To feel nothing but boredom for all eternity. This was Tommy’s nightmare. It was why he had taken to blowing things up for a living. Blasting added a bit of excitement to his life. Here, Tommy felt depressed in a way he never felt anywhere else. Like he’d eaten a small slice of bereavement.

    He hung a left onto Millfleet, then left again and round a series of tight bends through deserted narrow streets of terraced houses. Soon, he arrived on Carmelite Terrace, a row of cottages leading down towards the swollen River Ouse. He stopped outside the last cottage and eased himself out of the driver’s seat of his white panel van. His chocolate-coloured Labrador bounded out after him. Tommy knew that Muffin was bursting and wasn’t surprised to see her mark her new patch before proceeding to sniff the wheels of a nearby car and claim a bit more territory for herself.

    The blustery wind scattered leaves across the street and pavements, where they fled like frightened creatures before finally huddling together in the gutter. The bleak sky seemed to press down against the rooftops. Tommy made sure to lock his van. It wasn’t that the thieves in King’s Lynn were any more numerous or cunning than the thieves in Crewe. It was just that he had the tools of his trade locked away in the back and, when you were a blaster, you tried not to let scumbags get their hands on explosives and detonators. Inside, everything was triple-locked in a steel box bolted to the floor of the van. It was his mobile workshop. The van was fitted with an immobiliser which Tommy now armed.

    When he had phoned his mother ten minutes earlier to let her know he was almost there, she had told him that there had been flood warnings and everybody was watching the river levels. Tommy whistled Muffin and crossed the road. They hopped over a low brick wall together, and strolled across the empty patch of ground adjacent to the river. More sniff space for Muffin, who was sure that there were cats somewhere close. It was Muffin’s job to assess that situation and report back. She achieved it by rolling on her back in the dead winter grass and rubbing her nose into any earthy smell that caught her attention.

    Tommy peered over the wide concrete wall that held back the tidal river. There was an abnormally high tide, and a strong north wind pushed the water levels even higher. Never a good combination. On normal days, the river was about fifty or sixty metres wide at this point. But the water had swept over the low, flat banks on both sides and crept up the retaining walls and earthworks of the sea defences. The river was now nearer one hundred metres wide, and hovered close to the top of the defence barriers, spelling danger for the town. At least the rain had stopped for the moment, even if the wind hadn’t yet got the message that the game was over.

    High tides weren’t too unusual on the exposed east coast of England. When there was a particularly high spring tide with a following wind, water from the North Sea was trapped in The Wash, a fifteen mile by fifteen mile square-shaped inlet surrounded on three sides by flat fenlands. Added to that, a low pressure system was hanging over England like a shroud. That, too, increased the sea levels. So when the water had nowhere else to go, it had a habit of filling the Wash and spilling over the top. King’s Lynn and the Lincolnshire coast always caught the worst of it. From time to time, even the massive flood defences weren’t enough to stop Neptune from having his way.

    In 1953, a combination of wind, high tide, and low pressure led to a water level of more than five-and-a-half metres above mean sea level in some locations. The wind and waves overwhelmed the sea defences and caused extensive flooding. Though the Netherlands was worst hit, in England the floods killed more than 300 people, most of them in Lincolnshire and Norfolk. Since then, various agencies had poured vast amounts of money into strengthening and raising the sea defences, but sometimes, like today, the elements tested them right to their limits.

    Muffin caught up with Tommy as he strolled back to ring the bell on his mother’s door. She answered in seconds. Sweetheart, how gorgeous to see you. God you look scrummy. But your aura, darling boy. What can I say? Very, very dark and muddy.

    Hello Mum, can I come in or do you plan discussing my aura on the doorstep?

    Smiling, Sue backed off into the living room with Tommy following. Then Muffin bounded through the door uninvited. She collided with Tommy’s mother’s legs and rolled on her back waiting for a belly rub. Muffin never waited for a formal introduction when she thought belly rubs or food were on the menu. Sue crouched down and obliged. Oh, you gorgeous animal you, and what’s your name?

    Muffin hadn’t learnt to speak yet, so Tommy answered for her. Muffin, and she’s a pain in the arse.

    I’m sure she’s not, Tommy - are you Muffin? Sue looked up, Why Muffin?

    Because it’s what she eats. As a pup, I called her Toto, but soon discovered that she has a dark side, so changed her name.

    What dark side? Why Muffin?

    If I get myself a Big Mac or whatever from McDonalds, woe betide me if I don’t bring back a Sausage McMuffin with Egg for that crittur. She gets all huffy and refuses to speak to me for the rest of the day if I don’t. She’s quite partial to a hot fudge sundae too.

    Sue stood up straight and Muffin joined her. With nails clicking on the hardwood flooring, Muffin bounded round the room, sniffing and exploring every corner. Years before, Sue had bought the adjacent cottage and knocked the two into one, the room was twice the width than one might have imagined from outside.

    Tommy’s mother was an older version of himself with a full face, tiny crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes, and an almost imperceptible frown, even when she smiled. Now, she smiled at him with her wide grin, reminding him of a large six-year-old. She had square straight teeth, honest blue eyes, and a sprinkling of freckles across her un-made-up face. Tommy’s grandmother used to resemble his mother, but in the end gravity had taken its toll and her jowls had sagged towards her chin. That was before Alzheimer’s had seen her end her days in a nursing home.

    Tommy returned his mother’s smile, glad to be back in his old home. He slipped off his leather jacket and threw it on a nearby armchair. He was what the female of the species would call ‘tasty’. Medium height, fair short-cropped hair, deep brown eyes and a body that most guys could have, if only they would stop smoking and drinking beer long enough. Tommy had been selected as a football hopeful until a shattered knee curtailed his playing. Now he blew things up for a living, though he had also spent a couple of years in Pinewood Studios, learning how to be a stunt man. At 28, he was worldly wise and had no intention of ever settling into family life. It was much more fun doing his own thing.

    Tommy Gee had inherited his good looks from his mother. At 52, Sue posed a striking figure - good-looking beyond reason, and the object of many male fantasies. Yet two failed marriages now restricted her to temporary relationships. It was a self-inflicted limitation, because most guys found her ways a little too unconventional to do more than take a quick sip of the nectar and move on to more traditional relationships. Today, she had dressed in a tailored linen dress, the startling blue of a peacock’s breast, with dark green trim around the neck and down the front. Bohemian, she may have been, but scruffy, she was not. Never.

    She picked up Tommy’s coat and tossed it onto a different chair. Sue shook her hand as though she’d had an electric shock. Tommy, I have to tell you that as soon as my fingers touched this coat, I picked up a kind of vibe. It’s making me uneasy. She reached out to grab her son’s hand. You may be about to step into a precarious situation. Just promise me you’ll be careful.

    Tommy laughed. Reactions like this from his eccentric mother were quite normal. I’m always careful Mum. Now tell me why you moved my jacket.

    I’ve never cleansed the chair near the door of bad harbingers. I save it for people I want to get rid of. They can take the undesirable cross currents with them.

    Like the vicar?

    Like the damn vicar with his shiny, bald head like a bloody suppository, and his outstretched hand that he wants me to pour money into. He’s a permanent menace, that man. He could squeeze cash out of a cactus.

    Still Malcolm ‘Deep Pockets’ Cockburn, then?

    Who else? He claims he can’t afford to retire.

    And he still has that dreadful full-on whiney accent?

    I think it’s getting worse with age. People like ‘Deep Pockets’ should come with sub-titles. Mind you, he can pronounce the word ‘money’ in true Oxford English without a hint of an accent.

    Tommy chuckled. I wouldn’t mind betting he’s one of the richest men in King’s Lynn.

    I asked him for a receipt once and he just sniffed at me. He looked like he’d got his dignity stuck up his arse and couldn’t bend at the waist to pull it out again. But it didn’t stop him taking my money. If I see him coming up the street, I pretend to be out, but sometimes he catches me by surprise.

    The church hall still needs mending then?

    Sue grinned at him. The church hall always needs bloody mending. I think they should pay you to blow the place up – that festering church with it.

    That would be interesting, Tommy said. I’ve never done a church before. Lots of old factories, a few chimneys, hundreds of big trees, and a couple of farm septic tanks, but never a church.

    Septic tanks? That would leave a mess, wouldn’t it?

    Rich in vitamins and nutrients it seems. The farmers only call me in when the ‘matter’ is solid.

    Oh, Tommy, leave it out. You’ve only been in the house two minutes and you’re talking of poo already.

    Tommy smiled at her. Ten or twelve half-kilo sticks of emulsion-based explosive with a 26,000 feet per second det cord, and you can guarantee a fine shower of shit. It breaks up the solids into a fine mist of black sludge. He blew on his fingers, the way a magician does when he makes something disappear. You need to watch which way the wind is blowing though. If you get it right, it fertilizes the carrots in the next field at the same time. If you get it wrong, you’d be wise to take a disposable umbrella.

    His mother slapped him on the shoulder. Stop it Tommy. You’re only saying that because you know I like carrots.

    And quinoa and lentils. Give me a rare steak and a stack of fries any day.

    Sue Masters pulled at his sleeve. She didn’t share Tommy’s surname, having reverted back to her maiden name when Tommy’s father ran off with the woman from the chip shop. Come on through, she said. I put some coffee on the go when you rang.

    You’re drinking coffee, Mum?

    Not likely. I’m having a healthy infusion. I made the coffee just for you. If you insist on polluting your body, you might as well do it with pure Arabica.

    Well talking of drink— he dropped his overnight bag on the floor, unzipped it, and reached inside. Lifting out a bottle, he presented it to his mother.

    Oooh, nice. Single malt.

    Fifteen years old. The way you like them.

    Sue smiled and bopped at his arm again, but Tommy was too quick for her this time, and dodged the movement, laughing. Her eyes sparkled with clear blue fun.

    Hang on a moment, Tommy said. He stepped out of the door back to his van and returned a moment later with a tall display of flowers covered in a clear cellophane wrap, with a massive red bow holding it in place. There were at least a dozen red roses and half a dozen white. Seven or eight white lilies were surrounded by a dozen red and white anthuriums and white orchids subtly placed. Tommy knew his mother loved flowers.

    Oh my God, Tommy they’re bloody gorgeous. You lovely boy. But what made you spend so much?

    As if I need to say. Come on, Mum, just enjoy them.

    Sue fussed, finding a place for the display on a side table. She stood back with wide eyes and a glow on her cheeks. I’ll remove the cellophane later. Oh, Tommy, you are a love.

    Yes, I know. Can I have a coffee now?

    She led him through to the kitchen and they sat at the kitchen table with their respective mugs. Tommy’s coffee was so strong it could have walked right into his cup. He glanced at the see-through liquid in front of his mother. There were bits floating on the surface. Go on then, he said. What is it?

    A teaspoon of fennel seeds. A teaspoon of green anise seeds. A little fresh verbena and a little fresh mint. I’m working hard to keep my body limber. Sue closed her eyes and took a deep breath. And to find my inner peace. She kept her eyes shut and was silent a moment as if the inner peace had sneaked into the kitchen and lulled her to sleep. Then she snapped out of it and smiled. You should try it, darling. You might see an improvement with your energy. She whispered the last two words like Tommy had some kind of embarrassing health thing. But Tommy was well used to his mother’s strange ways. It helped to explain why he lived 150 miles away.

    CHAPTER TWO

    King’s Lynn was an old market town and there were two market squares; the Tuesday Market Place and the smaller Saturday Market Place. The oldest recorded instance of a market was held on the Saturday Market Place in 1104. But on 7 July 1529, Henry VIII granted a further charter to the town which permitted it to hold two markets each week. This was likely to be the origin of the Tuesday Market.

    From the medieval period both market places were marked out with rails. They had semi-permanent stalls or shops which the town leased out on a temporary basis to food retailers and other visiting traders. In the Saturday Market Place there were butchers' shambles crowded against the north side of St. Margaret's Church until the 19th century. And in the 15th century the street front opposite was known as Butchers' Row because of the concentration of butchers' shops there. But the Saturday Market Place was a small area, and the much bigger Tuesday Market Place soon became the place to be.

    At 100 metres wide by 150 metres long, for most of the year the Tuesday Market Place served as a town centre car park except, as one might well imagine, on Tuesdays, when market stalls took over the space. Once upon a time, the stallholders sold fresh fruit and vegetables and fish and meat and samphire from the local salt marshes, all from barrows with huge wheels. The Tuesday Market had substance, throbbing with life and vitality. Livelihoods were on display, and there was true competition between the loud, gregarious stallholders, each with a hundred stories to tell. Nowadays, metal tubing and plastic awnings had replaced the barrows. And you would be more likely to find Asians with turbans selling knock-off hand tools and cheap jeans from China, several years out of fashion, rather than local produce.

    However, for two weeks each year, starting on February 14, Valentines Day, the Tuesday Market Place pulsated with the sound of a traditional funfair - the first funfair in the Showmen’s calendar where new rides were tried for the first time and old favourites brought out from winter storage. All the usual fun of the fair, with gaudy coloured rides and side stalls, burgers, hot dogs, rock, humbugs and fudge from the mobile shops around the perimeter.

    The Tuesday Market Place had hosted a ‘Mart’ for hundreds of years. Over time, rock music replaced the Wurlitzer, diesel powered generators superseding steam, and white knuckle rides proved more of a crowd pleaser than traditional carousels. But, for the residents of King's Lynn and the surrounding area, the town's annual Mart was still as exciting as ever. After all, when you lived life in a vacuum of indifference, even rabbits making babies was considered to be quality entertainment.

    The smell of hot smoking sugar hovered over the market place, and the sound of loud music, screaming youngsters, and whirling machines filled the air. Grigore Petrescu and his right-hand man, Lucien, strode with purpose from one ride to another and from one side stall to the next. At each one, just like Reverend Malcolm ‘Deep Pockets’ Cockburn, they held out their hands and had them filled with wads of notes. As each stall-holder paid, Lucien slid the money into a pliable carrying case with a zip at the top but no handle. He kept it open and held it by one corner. Meanwhile, Petrescu updated his notebook.

    There was no attempt to make a secret of their activities. Everybody knew what was going on and turned a blind eye. It didn’t pay to challenge Grigore Petrescu, even if you were a hardened fairground owner with the force of the Showman’s Guild behind you. Somebody from the health and safety department might declare your ride unsafe and close it down at a moment’s notice. Or the council’s food hygiene inspectors would determine the preparation space for your confections as unhygienic and you’d lose your license. Somebody once dared to complain about Petrescu to the police, but they had suffered a most painful accident and promptly withdrawn their complaint.

    Confectionery stalls were one of the staples of the Mart and with so many flavours on offer, from fudge squares to big blocks of chocolate-covered sugar crunch, it was easy for the locals to satisfy their sweet tooth. The stallholders for sweets paid Petrescu £100 a week. The bumper cars gave an excuse for local yoof to crash into an enemy. Their pitches were bigger so cost £600 a week. Fight through three storeys of punching bags and moving stairs? £250 a week. The big XLR8 ride which soared a whopping 180 feet into the air: £650 a week. The stalls selling doughnuts, chips, burgers and German sausages had to find £275. Shooting down a stack to win yourself a cuddly toy. Cheap at £75.

    Petrescu was pulling over £15,000 every week from the showmen. And when the Mart moved on to its next stop at Wisbech, 15 miles away, his people there would make the same collections all over again. And after that in all the other towns it visited during the season. He liked to collect from the King’s Lynn Mart himself since it was the first one of the year, in case there were any new stall-holders who didn’t know the rules.

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