Bangers 'n' mash.

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Original Writing Piece

Chapter I: Free at Last

S

trange things go through your mind when you’re in prison. Especially when you’re well into your sixth year in the place. I still remember the day I first entered my cell back in 1997. I remember thinking; ‘Six years’ll fly by…this’ll be a doddle!’ – How Pete Tong can you get? The six years I was in that urine-soaked hellhole seemed like two Ice Ages…and the people you met in there were hardly people to look up to – except when you were splattered across the floor in a bath of your own blood, all because you owe them money on Monopoly.

        Oh, I know what’s going through your head right now – what was I doing in nick anyway? Well, allow me to introduce myself…James Cashton, known to friends and enemies as Jimmy Cash – cash by name, cash by nature. I can’t get enough of the old bangers ‘n’ mash. Not for spending though, for the reputation. See, I’m from Soho, and it doesn’t take an Albert Einstein to know that that is London’s crime hot-spot…and being the sort of man I am, I wasn’t prepared to just blend-in with the crowd – I wanted to make some noise, cause a fuss, stir things up and making a few bob in the process never did any harm either. That’s why I orchestrated the great London bank robbery of November ’96. Just me and four other geezers – Jon, Jamahl, Rizzo and Pete. Those were the days. You know, those blokes were the greatest mates I ever had, and, being a firm believer in keeping in touch, as soon as I was to be let out, I had a little reunion in mind. If you get my drift.

        Anyway, back in early 2003, the prison gates opened, and I walked out a free man with the world at my feet, so I figured it was about time I got the ball rolling on my little plan. Only thing was, that was easier said than done, Soho had changed a lot over the past six years and finding the four lads was gonna be a lot like trying to find a fart in a Jacuzzi. Didn’t phase me though, I was determined to find them, and attend to some unfinished business.

        The same day I paid a little visit to Bobby Carter, my North London contact. If anyone knew where the infamous four were, it’d be him.

“Carter…” I remember saying in a sly tone. He slowly cranked his neck to look at me.

“Jimmy…Jimmy Cash?! It ain’t is it?”

“It is, mate.”

Bobby shot up from his chair, wrapped his arms around me and tugged as hard as he could. I always wondered if he was a bit Stoke-on-Trent.

“Jesus, Jim! Where’ve you been all this time?”

I paused, looked away, and slowly replied. “Banged up. Remember the great bank robbery of ’96?”

Bobby stared blankly. “The fat geezers in the chicken suits?!”

“No, not that one…” I replied, in disbelief. “…the other great bank robbery of ’96! I was there, me and four other guys. I was the only one to get sent down though.”

“Jim, Jim, Jim…” he began, in a tone of anger and disappointment. “What are you doing robbing banks, sunshine?”

“They don’t call me Jimmy Cash for nothing, Bobby!” I reminded him. “Money is reputation. Reputation is respect. Respect is crucial. Now, if you’re done acting like my mother, I got a little proposition for you…”

“Go on…” he replied, intrigued.

“Well, I won’t bore you with all the details, so in simple layman’s terms, me and the four guys I told you about are robbing the bank again, so…” I was interrupted by Bobby’s irritating squeaky voice.

“Are you stark-raving, son? You’ve already been sent down once! You wanna go there again?!”

I just ignored him. “Before I was so rudely interrupted…me and four other gentlemen are going to point a big metal thing with bullets in at the people in the bank, get the money, and be on our way. So, what I need I need from you is the whereabouts of these four.”

        I handed him a piece of paper with their names on; Jonathan Collins, Jamahl Sinclair, Frank Ristoc and Peter Smalls – Jon, Jamahl, Rizzo and Pete. He grabbed it, took a glance, and then placed it in his shirt pocket.

“Sure, sure…” he responded. “Free of charge.”

“Well, I expected no different, Bobby!” With that, I walked out of his dank warehouse, with my trademark grin cemented on my face.

Chapter II: Motivation

I couldn’t sleep that night. Life in the old boom and mizzen helped you survive on little sleep. I just sat, back to the wall, smoking a fag and thinking, anxiously. My first free night in over six years and all I could do was worry. I reached over to my bedside cabinet and gazed at the flicking digital alarm clock; 00:59. I took one last smoke, stubbed it out, and crawled into bed. I lied there for hours, eyes wide open, thinking back to ’96 – I began to grow more worried. Was I having second thoughts? Me – Jimmy Cash? The rozzers would have a field day over that, I’m sure! Maybe I had just been too caught up in the excitement of my first glimpse of the outside world for more than half-a-decade, that I became immune from all logical thinking. Whatever it was it worried me for hours, until I eventually drifted off.

        I woke up early the next morning, as I tried desperately to rekindle my flame of criminal desire. I sat on my hard hotel bed watching early morning cartoons on the black and white telly, struggling to remember what it was that drove my ambition back in ’96. I decided to take a walk through Soho. Doing so, I realized not much had changed since I last was here. It was a Saturday, and as I remembered from before, bald fat hooligans in Chelsea and Arsenal shirts crammed the local betting shops placing wagers on the afternoon’s fixtures. This may surprise you, but I wasn’t a gambling man back then. Sure, I was a bloodthirsty criminal with a motivated hatred for the filth, and nothing but money on the noggin, but gambling dosh like that just seemed…well, stupid. I kept on walking. I was surprised at what I saw next; two black teens robbing an old lady in the distance…in broad daylight! Amateurs! They grabbed her leather purse, pushed her down, and begun hurtling towards me, barging past people in the way. They got to me…and I couldn’t resist it. I stuck out my foot, and tripped one of the little rug rats up.

“What the hell you doing, bro?!” he screamed as he partner ran off with the purse.

“Sorry, mate!” I replied, laughing. “Couldn’t resist poking fun at an amateur!”

“Hey!” he back-chatted. “I ain’t no amateur! What would you know any…” He paused, took a good look at my face, and began laughing. My laugh turned into an angry frown.

“What’s funny?”

“Well, you calling me an amateur is like the pot calling the kettle black, bud!” I was confused. “You’re James Cashton! I remember my brother talking about you. Talk about washed up…you couldn’t even pull off a simple bank heist!” he began giggling, irritatingly. “You’re pathetic!”

With that, he ran off. It was strange, but I felt like thanking the little brat. I had my motivation, I had a point to prove, and I was going to prove it, come hell or high water. My mission was to turn the bad name of James Cashton, back into the good name of Jimmy Cash. That bank was as good as robbed.

Chapter III: Jamahl, the Weed-Smoking Yardie

Later that day I revisited my good mate Bobby. It didn’t look as if he has good news to tell me.

“What’s happening, Bob?”

“Well…” he began “…I’ve got good news and bad. Which do you want first?”

“The bad” I responded.

“I found three of your men, but I’m pretty convinced they’re out of the crime business, Jim. Collins has found religion and become a priest, Smalls works for a major software company on a fat contract, Sinclair seems to have disappeared from the face of the earth, and…” he began a long pause “…Ristoc has become a popular children’s entertainer…Rizzo the Clown down at the local Circus.”

        I rolled my eyes and slapped my forehead in response to this, just as soon as I had found my motivation, I was beginning to lose it. “What’s the good news?” I asked, not really caring.

“Well…I – I found them…” he replied, smiling weakly. My fuse grew short.

“You really are a first-class, gold-plated wally, aren’t you?!” I roared.

“Hey, don’t take this out on me!” he screamed back, quickly rising from his chair. “It ain’t my fault all your little ‘buddies’ lost their flare!”

I calmed down, and responded in a more civil tone. “No, no. You’re right. I’m sorry…” I grabbed the printed documents from Bobby’s desk, placed them in my bag, and began walking off. “I’m gonna find these muppets…” I started “…and they will rob this bank with me. You just see if they don’t!” Bobby shook his head as I closed the warehouse doors behind me.

        It was a whole week before I, personally, took any action. I had contacts running all over London confirming Bobby’s theories. He was right. My ‘fearless four’ had reduced themselves to the lowest of the low. What muppets. This was proving more challenging than I expected…but I was determined to regain my place on London’s Crime Ladder – no matter what. I decided to pay my friends a little visit. First stop – Jamahl. Bobby couldn’t find him, but I could. See, six years may seem like a long time, but deep down, people don’t change much in a period so short. If Jamahl were anywhere – it’d be with the Jamaican Yardies. I wasn’t looking forward to my encounter with the Jamaicans at all – I couldn’t stand Yardie scum. All of them pot-smoking, jungle music listening, criminal wannabes. Hopefully Jamahl hadn’t become too much like them in the years I’d been gone.

         Bobby gave me a lift to the Yardie Gaff – a awful concoction of bricks and water that stood out like a 300lb cross-dresser rolling down a hill due to it’s pure vulgar appearance. I dreaded what the inside was like. I slowly began to walk towards the front ‘door’, but Bobby called me back.

“Listen, Jim, you be careful!” he warned. “These Yardies are more than just crazed, pot-headed loons. They’ve become known to be very dangerous in the time you’ve been gone. Just watch your step!”

“Hey…don’t worry!” I reassured him. “This ain’t just any Tom, Dick or Harry you’re talking to…this is Jimmy Cash!” With that, I began a gentle walk towards the house.

“That’s what I’m afraid of…” Bobby whispered under his breath.

        I ventured onto the front step, and tapped gently on the battered wooden door. It broke off it’s hinges and fell into the house, causing a huge ball of dust to rise from the floor. “Lovely…” I thought, sarcastically. At this point at could hear the trade mark Yardie music blaring from several speakers all over the house. Awful stuff. I began to thing my ears might begin to bleed. The smell wasn’t much better either – the walls were covered by the rancid smell of old marijuana smoke. I held my breath as well as I could when continuing through the house.

“Yo, mon! What ya be doin’?!” The deep Jamaican voice startled me. I turned around slowly and saw a member of the repulsive gang I despised. I took one deep breath, and tried my hardest to give a civilised response with smacking the geezer.

“I’m looking for someone!” I replied, eyes frowning.

“Who that be then, mon?”

“Jamahl Sinclair…about 6’1”, bald, little black goatee. Wears Hawaiian shirts…” The Yardie stopped by description.

“Search the white trash!” He ordered somebody in the other room. Two big, bulky Jamaicans walked out. “Ya never know what dese scum bring wit dem!”

        The two began feeling me every which way but loose. I’d never been so scared in all my life. Caressed by two fat Yardies – this was going to haunt me for some time.

“He clean!” They shouted.

“Good…you wanted to see Jamahl? Follow me, mon!” He took me on a journey I didn’t soon forget – marijuana plants, dead bodies, and a never-ending hall of stoned Caribbeans. “Welcome to hell!” I remember whispering under my breath. Jamahl was on the top floor surrounded by a whole forest of Harry – stone out of his head, no doubt, performing some sort of weird dance to the Jungle Rock playing in the background.

“Jamahl?!” I cried, shocked. “What in god’s name are you doing, son?!” He removed the spliff from his lips and replied.

“Who hell you, mon?!”

“It’s me…Jimmy – from the great bank robbery of ’96!” I answered, hoping to jog his goldfish-like memory.

“The one wit big fat men in chicken suits?” My patience began to grow thin.

“No…” I groaned “…the other great bank robbery of ’96! You and me were there, Jamahl! Now, I want us to do it again, only successfully this time!” He gazed blankly at me.

“Listen mon, me so high me can’t remember back to the beginning of dis conversation, let alone ’96!” he slurred. “Meet me tonight at midnight, me head be clear by den, Jammy. Me be in Peckham, at the train station, me got some people to ‘talk’ to. We talk then, ya?” I nodded my head up and down, and began to leave. I stopped at the door.

“Jammy…” Jamahl shouted “’Ere, take a spliff…and relaaaaaaax, mon!” I took it without thought, and shoved it in my jean pocket. I looked at my former counterpart.

“Jamahl…my name’s Jimmy, not Jammy. Jimmy Cash…mon!”

        Soon after, I left the Yardie pad. Bobby was outside waiting in his battered up transit van.

“Good news?” Bobby enquired, weakly.

“No good…his head’s mashed on weed. I’ll have to get through to him tomorrow.” I paused for a brief period. “It ain’t gonna be easy prying him away for the Yardie scum…but I’m up to it!”

“You’ll have to be!” Bobby laughed. “By the sounds of what’s happened to the other three, you’re gonna need to be up to a lot more than that if you want a full reunion, mate!” I just shook my head, sighed, and stepped into the van – there was still a lot of work to be done.

Chapter IV: Meet Pete

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Now, six years is not an extremely long time, at least to those not banged up. So I’d expected things to be no different when I got out of prison than when I got in. I was Pete Tong again. Before I got sent down, these little boxes called computers were just starting up, and were about as rare as a polar bear in sunglasses. When I got out, however, they were all over the place, taking over – and all because I was away for half-a-dozen years I feel like I’m on a different planet just because I ...

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