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  Then, things change for you: a touch. Young Randolph Churchill, son of Big Winston, rolls into the camp looking for likely lads for 62 Commando. You’re straight in there like a Yank desert rat up an Algiers whore. They like the look of you. And you’re in. There's a catch: you have to remain an orderly. An oi-duh-ly. Fuck. But you do all the drills, all the training, you’re top marks across the board, the most aggressive oi-duh-ly the Commandos ever had.

  And before too long, you’re in, you’re fully fledged, and it's on.

  You have no fear of death; if you die, a whole fucking bunch of their mob is going with you.

  ‘Where's your cap, orderly?’ An officer asks you.

  It's a good question. You’ve lost yours, and the famous Green Berets ain’t turned up yet.

  ‘You’ll have to wear this, Tanky.’

  The officer hands you an old Tank Corps hat.

  Tanky. Now you’re Tanky.

  *

  Challenor shuffles on towards the Geisha club. He grimaces, growls to himself.

  There are quacks after him, talking about him, doctors, you know, that lot -

  Psychiatrists.

  They’re giving it the Battle Fatigue, the Combat Stress Reaction. Brass at head office are worried about Challenor, want him examined, assessed.

  Course, he's got form, Challenor.

  His childhood was what you’d call peripatetic, he thinks now, you know, if you wanted to give it a positive spin, a gloss. His old man had to uproot the family time and again, what with the bailiffs and bookies and landlords and whatnot always calling, all hours. Late-night-run-for-it type of thing. Challenor and his sister, sleepy-eyed in the boot of the car, meagre possessions packed around them.

  It was only when Challenor's old man got a job at Leavesden Mental Hospital in Hertfordshire that they had any sort of stability. He was a nurse, which is a laugh, considering the little care he ever showed at home.

  ‘You’re a mistake, boy, you got that?’

  Was the kind of thing.

  Challenor got a job there too, which he admits smacks of a bit odd, but there was a characteristic bit of his own dodgy logic to it. The young bachelors, your single male nurses, got lodgings there to sweeten the deal.

  So it was a way out of home.

  It definitely smacks of a bit odd, Challenor knows this, when you consider the contempt with which Challenor holds his old man, this father in name alone who let himself succumb to drink, and who expressed his own brand of contempt, of fury, with his fists.

  Mean, sadistic, cruel, a tyrant - are a few words Challenor's used.

  Taking this job got Challenor away from those furies, those rages, those fists.

  He would aim low, Challenor's old man, no visible marks.

  He didn’t fancy giving young Harry a belting in public, so that was that.

  Not so much as following in his footsteps as getting out from under his shadow.

  Course, the institutional experience, the medical experience Challenor gathers there, is considered invaluable when he signs up.

  So he's not a soldier, frustratingly, but a medical orderly.

  Boy from Watford, a drinker and skirt chaser, in the Royal Army Medical Corps.

  Which doesn’t last long, of course.

  Don’t let Brass fob you off, Challenor thinks now. You’re Tanky, boy.

  What are you going to do about it, eh?

  Box it, that's what, shelve it, that's what I’ll do, Challenor thinks, what I’ve done every day, I’ll box it, I’ll shelve it.

  So he does.

  He ducks down the stairs of Wilf Gardiner's Geisha club.

  Here we go, he thinks. Here we go.

  *

  You’re boxed in tight on a submarine, hammock-bound, discussing the weight and the length and the depth of the pop of the explosives you’ve got stashed below you in an odd-looking tin fish. Submarine's name: Safari. You’re on fucking safari, old chum. First mission: Marigold-2SAS to connect with an agent nearby on the Sardinian coast and take a prisoner. What you do with that prisoner is what you’re looking forward to: interrogation to ascertain German strength in Sardinia pre-launch of Operation Husky, the Allied invasion of Sicily.

  You’re in, lad. It is all on.

  But it's high summer and the daylight hours are long, so you and yours are submerged for very, very long periods. And the air is close, and there ain’t much of it, and you’re struggling a little, and the smell, the smell, it's, you know the word, pungent, an acrid, fetid stink, but you can’t complain, oh no sir, Tanky cant complain. And your new mate Ronald ‘Bob’ Young has been awfully quiet for some time, and you know the lad don’t like confined spaces, so you comfort yourself with being a staunch companion. You comfort yourself by comforting him. You like Bob; you trained together. Now it's end of May ‘43, and here you are.

  It's a long five days you do, down there. You think of slave ships. You think of wombs. You think of coffins and graves, buried alive. You think of Doris.

  You try not to think.

  And then you arrive for Marigold part deux. The senior 2SAS lieutenant types have done their bit, dropping off a notebook or some other posh-gentleman spy palaver in some cloak and dagger business, and now it's your turn. The Safari surfaces and periscopes about for quite some time. Bob is happier. Neither of you is really much happier. Waiting, you begin to realise, is worse than combat. Why? You, and Bob, and the rest of your mob, ain’t scared of death, no sir, you’re all scared of disfigurement, of some disabling injury that fucks you back to Blighty on a stretcher, half-life, half lived and fucked royally in the name of the King. No, you’re not worried about death. But this waiting while the Navy checks on your landing spot —

  Deathly slow.

  You’re on the top of the Safari and you’re foot-pumping the dinghies. Foot-pumping the buggers! Well, apparently, the compressed air bottles that’d fill ‘em in moments are emergencies only. Fair dos. But Christ on a bike, the air feels, the air feels good up here!

  ‘Gulp that down, Tanky!’ Bob says, grinning, his face red, his ears red, his mouth in and out as his foot goes up and down.

  ‘Gulp on, mate.’ You smile. ‘Gulp on!’

  And the pair of you gulp to fuck, you do.

  Then you’re in the dinghies and the current's against you, and the landing spot is all submerged rocks, and the lot of you are realising that fuck, you’re in blow-up kids’ boats to take on the German army somewhere close to Italy, and the submarine has orders to bugger off if you’re not back in time, and you ghost into a beach cove that was absolutely not on the menu, but there ain’t nothing you can hear, and you’ve not said a word for two hours or so, just followed who's leading, and then you’re on the shingle shore, and how the fuck do you approach quiet like, in boots on a shingle shore?

  We going to have to paddle back to Algiers then?

  What are you going to do about that, my son?

  And then, all the worry about boots on shale, and there's a clatter of steel on stone, rifles dropped, and then all hell let loose, and machine guns and small arms fire is coming at you like a rush of light in the pitch dark, and then the cunts light a flare, and you’re down hard but really you know you’re a duck in a barrel and how the fuck do you get out of this one?

  But you know what? You ain’t scared. The bullets are flying well above. They’re mob-handed, but they don’t know where the fuck you are.

  And that's the SAS in a fucking phrase, my old darling —

  You know; they don’t.

  Wait for the order —

  Head down, and —

  Wait.

  *

  Challenor orders a brown ale and waits for old Wilf.

  King Oliva, he thinks.

  Oliva's been around for some time, protection racketeer, and Challenor knows all about him. Course he does. Everyone does. King Oliva -

  Press hero.

  The Daily Sketch, 30 June 1959.

  Here he is, Challenor thinks, rememb
ering the piece.

  All of him in an interview.

  He's read the piece. He knows the piece.

  King Oliva. Wallflower. Mug. Show-off -

  He's certainly something.

  JOSEPH FRANCIS OLIVA, aged 19, of 6 Ratcliffe Buildings, Bourne Estate, Clerkenwell, N. says:

  I was shot in the chest as I stood in the doorway of Carlo's Restaurant, Theobalds Road, Holborn, last night.

  I am a Roman Catholic, educated at St Peter's Italian School in Clerkenwell Road, leaving at 15. Since then I have had four convictions - one at 15 for stealing a car; another at 16 for stealing a motor cycle; three years borstal reduced to six months on appeal for breaking and entering at 18, at 17 I was fined for causing grievous bodily harm.

  I was used to be a fish porter but I have not worked for two years.

  My father is a docker and I have two brothers, aged 22 and 29. The eldest one is married.

  In the shooting last night I got about 16 lead shots in my chest. My mates picked them out with a knife.

  This is what happened. Ten of us were drinking tea when a black Austin pulled up outside the cafe. A man stuck a single barrel shotgun through the window when I went out to see them. When I was two yards from the car, the man fired. The car raced off before I could get at the man. I am not disclosing his name to anyone, not even the police. I know who he is and I am out to get him myself. I will settle this my way.

  I went to the Homeopathic Hospital. They gave me an injection but I insisted on leaving. My mates had washed the wounds and picked out the 16 shots. Perhaps there are one or two still in but this doesn’t worry me.

  The reason for the shooting is because I am the leader of a gang 400 strong. They call me King Oliva.

  The shooting is in retaliation for a fight which took place in a dice speiler in a Camden Town club three weeks ago. It was a revenge attack because six of us cleaned up all the money, about £80. We just did it to show I was the “Guvnor”. The money has gone on a car — a big Buick car, big enough to hold a lot of us.

  I am going to be boss of the nightclubs — and run the nightclubs around the West End. I have got to shift one or two big gang leaders to do it. But I have got a man behind me financing me. I already work for him. We have got to have cars to get around in and “clobber” (clothes) to look the part.

  We already get a nice little living from the East End clubs and some in the West End. And we look after about 12 clubs. We see no one takes liberties with the juke boxes and we make sure there is no trouble in the clubs. The club owners pay us for this and we give the money to the “Governer”. He is a London businessman who owns property and lives in a big house on the outskirts of town.

  I command about 400 people. I can get them all at just 24 hours’ notice just by fifteen to twenty phone calls to individual top men in each gang. Then I am the Guvnor of them all. They are different gangs from all North and South London but mostly in the Theobalds Road area.

  All the 400 do not get paid. They do it for the kicks. They are all teenagers. They worship me -King Oliva.

  We last called the 400 up six months ago for a big fight at the Memorial Hall, Camden Town. But the other side backed out.

  I have two Lieutenants. I split equally with them. I am drawing about £30 a week at the moment.

  We do not value our lives because without money we are nothing.

  I am not worried about jail. If you do these things you have to expect “bird”. It is one of those things. I am not afraid of prison or afraid of anything or anybody. When I am dead, that's it.

  I am going to be boss because there are rich pickings. All a fellow needs is guts and backing - and I’ve got both. We are going to live good with cars, and fine clothes. A big showdown for power is coming and when it does come it will be a bloody battle.

  I used to fight for fun but now I’m going to the top for money. Girls? I go out with a few but I don’t go steady. I’ve not time for them in my business.

  (Signed) JOSEPH OLIVA

  Challenor considers:

  We do not value our lives because without money we are nothing.

  It ricochets -

  What are you going to do about it?

  Business.

  My business. Challenor knows business all right. Challenor knows life. Challenor knows value. He's been there, at the business end. Life-wise.

  He knows, all right. When I am dead, that's it. Challenor understands -

  He's never been afraid of death.

  *

  You wait. Your head down. Your mate Bob next to you. The beach cutting up, opening up around you both. You sit tight. You sit tight, and you wait for your orders.

  ‘When we next get home,’ Bob says, ‘I’m asking Mary to marry me. Honest woman and whatnot.’

  You laugh. ‘You soppy bugger, ‘you say ‘You’re only saying that now we’re being shot at.’

  Bob smiles. ‘Either way,’ he says.

  You laugh again. You’re not afraid of death. You’re not afraid. And you wait. The onslaught seems to fade. You’re going to get out of this, you think. This bit, anyway. And you think of Doris, she's what pops in, first thought, first sign of relief.

  Doris.

  Honest woman and whatnot.

  You can do that.

  Bob can, you can.

  *

  ‘So why am I here, Wilf?’ Challenor asks.

  Challenor nurses his brown ale. Not really drinking it, not really, but not not drinking it.

  The Geisha is known for its brown ale, after all, so you might as well, you know, have one, the one, just the one. It is known for it, its brown ale, after all.

  ‘Updates, Harry, updates,’ Gardiner says. ‘Progress, or change, or both.’ He looks around the club, quiet in the post-lunch slump, the girls listless, nap-ready. ‘Stuff you should know about, Harry, that's why you’re here.’

  Challenor doesn’t like Gardiner. Nobody likes Gardiner, in fact.

  Radio's on. The news. Something about a riot in Birmingham. Darkies having a pop at the local constabulary, Challenor thinks. Sounds tasty. Don’t blame them, to be fair. Give them credit, eh? It does them credit, after all, what with what goes on.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘You enjoying your brown ale, Harry?’

  ‘I’m not here for the brown ale, Wilf.’

  Gardiner nods and looks at Challenor in a way that makes Challenor feel that he, Challenor, has just made a very profound comment, of sorts. Like he's worked out some fiendishly difficult thing, had an insight, maybe, or an epiphany, even. Like he's really understood the Geisha club, and its purpose, or his purpose for being there.

  What a muppet this Gardiner is, Challenor thinks.

  ‘What I mean is, Harry,’ Gardiner says, ‘is that I want you to come upstairs with me, out the back. I want to show you something.’ He gestures at the bottle of beer. ‘But I certainly do not want to interrupt your enjoyment of our famous brown ale.’ He smiles. ‘It is, after all, what we’re famous for. You know what I mean?’

  Challenor groans, and smiles. He mutters, ‘Christ.’

  Challenor picks up the bottle and empties it down his throat. It is good, after all, this brown ale. Really thirst-quenching, as they, you know, as they say.

  Radio's playing Roses are Red. Doris likes this one. Bobby Vinton, Polack crooner. Yeah, sugar is sweet, all right, Challenor thinks. Not as sweet as you though, old son.

  Challenor smiles. ‘Lead on, Wilf, lead on. I’m all yours.’

  They walk down a filthy basement corridor. Challenor knows this corridor will take them up into a cramped garage behind Old Compton and Greek. They climb the staircase at the back of the club, at the end of the filthy corridor, beyond the office, behind the door that says ‘Staff Only’ on it, just right of where the girls get ready to do their bit. Not so much a dressing room as a dressing down. Challenor sees the way the wallpaper is curled and tatty, peeling, the wear in the carpet, the balding carpet.

  ‘Where's the glamo
ur, eh, Wilf? Where's the glamour of a night out in Soho gone, eh?’ Challenor says.

  Gardiner snorts. ‘Change, Harry,’ he says, ‘all change round here.’ He stops and jerks his thumb at the street. ‘All about the long hairs and the shagging now, Harry. Rhythm and blues, my old son. You heard it?’

  Challenor shakes his head.

  ‘Had a band on at the Marquee a couple of weeks ago,’ Gardiner says, ‘playing rhythm and blues. Their first gig. Moody buggers, they were. The singer looks like a bird. Rolling Stones, I believe they’re called.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ Challenor says.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ Gardiner says. ‘You should have seen the tarts. They were pissing themselves. A whole mob of teenage tarts pissing themselves.’

  Gardiner gestures to a door that leads out into an alley, and then to a tiny parking space. ‘Yep,’ he says, ‘rhythm and blues. It's the future, Harry. Darkie Yank music played by grumpy white boys.’ Gardiner opens the door and steps through. ‘Pissing themselves, they were, the tarts.’

  Challenor follows.

  ‘It's the future, Harry. You mark my words. The future.’

  Challenor marks his words and keeps an eye. The alley stinks of piss. There’ll be a car at the end of it, he thinks, and they amble towards where it’d be parked.

  ‘My Spanish mate Fat Juan took me,’ Gardiner says, chuckling. ‘Pissing themselves, they were.’ He shakes his head. ‘Old Fat Juan thought he’d died and gone to heaven.’

  Fat Juan is neither fat nor Spanish. He's a rake-thin Colombian drug smuggler with a libido to match. A serious eye for - what he likes to call in his Latin tongue - the putas. Oh yes, he likes a bird, does Fat Juan. And he's not particular. Never let a day go by without Juan, is the joke, they say, back home, you know, translated. A regular down Walker's Court and upstairs on Peter Street. Challenor likes Fat Juan even less than he likes Old Wilf Gardiner.

  They call him Fat Juan ‘cos that's what he's got, they say, the women of the night, the putas: a fat one. Fat Juan and his fat one -

  Challenor's skin crawls -

  Poor slags, he thinks, and not for the first time.

  What are you going to do about it?

  What are you -

  Challenor stops. He eyeballs Gardiner. ‘He out, is he?’ he asks. ‘Fat Juan?’