Blaggers Read online

  Title Page

  BLAGGERS

  Echo Freer

  Publisher Information

  This edition published in 2014 by

  Acorn Books

  www.acornbooks.co.uk

  Converted and distributed by

  Andrews UK Limited

  www.andrewsuk.com

  Copyright © 2003, 2014 Echo Freer

  The right of Echo Freer to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to offer huge amounts of gratitude to the following people for all their help and support in the researching and writing of Blaggers: Robert Baron, of Krypto Securities in Leytonstone, for his patience in the face of my ignorance. Paul, of Apollo Video in Wanstead, for his knowledge of crime films. Jason, at the Lakeside Diner, for allowing me to use his identity and for proofreading the manuscript. Frank Charles, for being in the right place at the right time. And Magic Mo for her proofreading and enthusiasm. I would also like to thank my children, Imogen, Verien and Jacob, whose love and support have helped me to realise my dream.

  Dedication

  For Maya

  and Saffron

  A.A.P. xx

  Glossary of Rhyming Slang

  Abergavenny penny

  blister sister

  boat race face

  bubble and squeak Greek

  cash and carry marry

  china plate (also old china) mate

  chopsticks six

  Christmas Eve believe

  cream crackered knackered

  Dicky Bird word

  fridge freezer geezer

  giraffe laugh

  Gregory Peck cheque

  half inched pinched (stolen)

  Jimmy Riddle piddle (pee)

  Khyber Pass arse

  loaf of bread head

  mince pies eyes

  Mystic Megs legs

  north and south mouth

  pen and ink stink

  pony twenty-five pounds

  pork pies (also porkies) lies

  raspberry tarts farts

  Robin Hood good

  Ruby Murray (also Ruby) curry

  sausage and mash cash

  Scooby Doo clue

  sunny south mouth

  syrup of figs wig

  trouble and strife wife

  Blag

  Blag:

  1 n. pretentious but empty talk; nonsense (from French: blague).

  2 vb. to bluff; to pretend to be something one is not or to know about something that one does not.

  3 n. (slang, esp. East London) a robbery.

  One

  Eight years earlier

  ‘For Gawd’s sake, Alan! Why don’t you just drop dead?’

  Mercedes watched her father walk from the room and enter the downstairs cloakroom without responding to his wife’s outburst. Ten seconds later she heard a crash as he obligingly did as her mother had asked.

  The procession made its way towards the City of London Cemetery with seven-year-old Mercedes sitting in the first car, next to her mother. Her brothers were sitting opposite on two pull-down dickey-seats. Mercedes peered between their heads to the glass carriage in front of the car and beyond that to the four black horses that pulled it. She liked the way the black ostrich-feather plumes bounced as they walked. She drew her eyes back to the glass carriage and the flower arrangements that covered it. They were in every shape imaginable: boxing gloves, snooker tables, footballs, even an enormous Rolls Royce made entirely of yellow carnations. Her brothers had chosen that one. Mercedes had been allowed to choose her own arrangement and it said ‘Daddy’ in yellow and orange chrysanthemums. Nanny Molly had taken her to the florist to choose and Mercedes thought it looked beautiful.

  When they’d been delivered that morning, however, her mother, Laverne Bent, had been less than enthusiastic. ‘It’s a funeral, not The Moscow flamin’ State Circus!’ she’d said, running round the house, frantically blowing on her nails to dry the polish. ‘For Gawd’s sake, Moll, couldn’t you ’ave picked something a bit more subtle? West ’Am colours or something?’

  ‘It’s what the gel wanted, Laverne. She knows ’er own mind,’ Molly Bent had replied tartly.

  ‘Too bleedin’ right! Takes after ’er flamin’ father,’ Laverne had tossed back at her mother-in-law. ‘Come on, babes.’ She’d given Mercedes a push in the direction of the first car in the cortège - gently, taking care not to smudge her nails. Then, just to make sure that Molly knew who was ruling the roost now, she’d added, ‘You can go with Sylvie and ’Orace in the second car - all right?’

  Mercedes wished Nanny Molly had been allowed to come with her in the first car; she was getting bored. She’d never known a car to go so slowly. She didn’t really understand what was happening today but she didn’t like it. Daddy had gone away in the past but he’d always come home. Today though, people were acting as though that wasn’t going to happen.

  ‘Mummy?’ she asked as the hearse trundled past the open space of Wanstead Flats.

  ‘Yeah, babes?’

  ‘What’s a long stretch?’

  Mercedes noticed her brothers exchanging anxious looks and her mother seemed to bristle at the question. She had the distinct impression that she’d said something wrong.

  ‘What d’you mean, babes?’ her mother asked.

  ‘Well, last week I heard Daddy talking to somebody on the phone.’

  Laverne began tweaking her daughter’s fringe in an agitated way. ‘Oh, yeah - what d’e say?’

  ‘He said,’ Mercedes cocked her head on one side, as she recalled the conversation. ‘ “You’d better keep your sunny shut, mate, or I’ll tuck you up good and proper and make sure you go away for a long stretch.” ’

  ‘Did he now?’ Laverne gave a nervous laugh.

  ‘And when I asked Nanny Molly if Daddy had gone away for a long stretch, she said, “I wish he had because at least then he’d be coming home.” ’

  ‘Well, don’t you worry about it.’ Laverne ruffled her daughter’s hair.

  Mercedes hated it when grown-ups did that. Especially today when Nanny Molly had taken ages tying it up into a ponytail with a black velvet ribbon. And now Mummy had messed it all up. And she hadn’t even answered her question! Mercedes sat back and folded her arms, crossly.

  Laverne turned her attention to her son. ‘Francis, straighten your tie.’

  ‘Yeah, Francis,’ his brother mimicked. No one called Frankie, Francis - ever.

  ‘Yeah, Charles!’ Frankie retorted, knowing that his brother, Chubby, hated his real name too.

  ‘Pack it in!’ Laverne leaned across and swiped both of the seventeen-year-olds across the side of the head.

  ‘You two is supposed to be running things now, so bleedin’ well act like it.’

  The twins grinned at each other an
d Frankie straightened his tie.

  The horse-drawn hearse turned into the forecourt of the cemetery and Mercedes saw that a crowd had gathered on the pavements. Her mother gave a regal wave.

  ‘Leave it out, Mum! You ain’t the bleedin’ Queen,’ Frankie laughed.

  A man in a long overcoat got out of a shiny black car. He was flanked by two other men and a girl who was probably a similar age to Mercedes. She had cropped brown hair and a face that looked as though she’d walked into a brick wall. Mercedes hadn’t seen anyone else her age that morning, so she smiled at her from the car. The girl stared back then pulled out a large flat tongue and went cross-eyed.

  ‘ ’Ere,’ Chubby pointed to the group. ‘Ain’t that Old Man Spinks?’

  ‘Too right it is! Bleedin’ cheek! I’ll ’ave ’im for this,’ Frankie said.

  ‘I’ve told you two - pack it in. You ain’t ’avin’ no one - not today any’ow. There’ll be a lot of eyes on us today.’ Laverne had waited a long time for her moment in the spotlight and she didn’t want anyone spoiling it, least of all her own flesh and blood.

  Her mother had told her there’d be a party after the funeral, but, back home, Mercedes thought it was the most boring party ever. For a start all the flowers had gone and secondly, everyone was wearing black. She wandered outside to where her brothers were talking to Auntie Sylvie’s husband. Horace Jackman was an enormous man with a shaved head. He had a gold crucifix dangling from one ear and a cigar the size of a rolling pin between his fingers. Mercedes never felt comfortable around Uncle Horace. He was the sort of person she imagined would lurk under bridges ready to waylay lost billy-goats and then eat them for breakfast. She sidled behind a bush to wait until her brothers had finished talking to him.

  ‘So what’s your take on it, Uncle ’Orace?’ Frankie asked. ‘I thought Dad ’ad everything sorted. It weren’t like ’im to get stressed out.’

  ‘You can drop the “uncle” now you’re running things. You gotta be on top of things from the off. And you gotta be seen to be on top of things. It ain’t gonna win you no votes of confidence calling people uncle. Your dad didn’t get where ’e is today...’ Remembering exactly where Alan Bent was today, their uncle stopped. ‘What I mean to say is, your dad didn’t get where he got... What I’m trying to say is...’

  ‘I think we know what you’re saying, Uncle ’Orace,’ Chubby chipped in.

  ‘ ’Orace!’ the older man barked. ‘I’m tellin’ ya, forget the uncle!’

  Mercedes winced when he spoke but was too petrified to move.

  ‘OK, ’Orace,’ Chubby quaked.

  ‘ ’E ’ad to earn ’is respect. Now you two is lucky in some ways ‘cos you can build on what Al created but you ain’t doing yourselves no favours by acting all poncey and calling me uncle. Comprendez?’

  ‘Yeah, comprendez, ’Orace,’ Frankie grinned.

  ‘Comprendez, Uncle ’Orace. I mean, Uncle... I mean, ’Orace,’ Chubby spluttered.

  ‘So, ’Orace,’ Frankie continued, cockily. ‘You reckon Old Man Spinks is behind this?’

  The giant put his cigar to his mouth and pulled on it as though he was giving the suggestion a lot of thought. ‘Got to be. All the aggro since Spinks tried to move in on your dad’s manor.’ He patted his chest. ‘Not good for the old ticker.’ He pulled on his cigar again. ‘I knew there’d be trouble soon as we heard he was moving over the water from Deptford.’

  The three nodded, then Horace pulled two more cigars from his top pocket and handed one to each of his nephews. Frankie ran his nose along the length of it, as he had seen his father do so many times, then bit off the end and spat it towards the shrubbery.

  Mercedes stifled a grunt of disgust as the soggy piece of tobacco hit her in the eye. Yuck! She wiped it away and wished for the thousandth time that Daddy would come back and make everything better again. Just then she heard Chubby coughing and spluttering.

  ‘Ugh! How can you smoke these things? They’re disgustin’. I’m going to be sick! I’m going to be...’ And, just when Mercedes was thinking that the day couldn’t get any worse, it did and he was! All over her shiny new patent leather shoes.

  She ran into the kitchen to find her mother but she was deep in conversation with Auntie Sylvie, the two of them leaning against the wall.

  Her mum sighed. ‘ ’E’d promised he was going to retire an’ all, Sylv. ’E said ’e’d got one last blag planned and then ’e’d pack it in. I told ’im to drop dead but I didn’t mean ’im to take me literally! I mean talk about Sod’s Law - eighteen years of marriage and ’e waits till now to do what I ask. Typical!’

  ‘And in the bog an’ all!’ Auntie Sylvie shook her head sadly. ‘I never thought your Al would get caught wiv ’is trousers down!’

  Mercedes, with an eye full of soggy cigar and shoes full of Chubby’s half-digested vol au vents, went to find comfort from her grandmother. But Nanny Molly was sprawled on the white leather sofa with a bottle of gin in one hand, singing something that vaguely resembled ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’.

  Seven-year-old Mercedes went to her bedroom and decided that her family were about as dependable as a snowman in summer.

  Two

  The present day

  ‘This doesn’t make sense!’ Mercedes sat on her desk and stared at the ledger in front of her. She couldn’t understand it; there was a shortfall of ten pounds for that night’s sweepstake. She drummed her fingers on the open book impatiently, taking care not to smudge the nail polish Fern Simmonds had just finished applying. She just hoped there wasn’t a thief on the loose.

  Her best friend, Jenny Logan, sat next to her. Jenny had the top three buttons of her blouse unfastened and was pushing sheets of toilet paper into her bra with meticulous attention to the even distribution between cups; she didn’t want to end up lopsided. Last September Mercedes had given her odds of a hundred to one that she couldn’t pull Connor the computer technician before the end of the year and she had just four weeks left. Jenny knew it smacked of desperation but an Andrex breast enhancement seemed the only solution.

  Behind them En Min Lui was writing furiously to finish the Science homework she was forging for Fern. Poor little Fern had been orphaned when she was ten years old. She now lived with an ancient aunt in a flat overlooking the flyover and was hanging on to her place at the Daphne Pincher Academy for Young Ladies by the skin of her teeth. Fern was under-sized, under-achieving and now it seemed, her parents had been under-insured. Her fees had not been paid for the last two terms and Miss Pincher was only allowing her to stay by virtue of the excellent improvement in her work since Christmas - that and the dribs and drabs of money which mysteriously arrived in her name from time to time.

  Suddenly a pristine twenty pound note was waved before Mercedes’ eyes. The fingers holding the money looked like half-eaten sausages; fat, pink and chewed down to the nail bed. Oh great! This was all she needed. There was only one person who could be on the end of digits as disgusting as those: Harley Spinks. Harley Spinks was the original psycho; the girl who put the nut in nutter. And she was about as welcome in Mercedes’ form room as fleas in a veterinary surgery.

  Mercedes looked up. ‘For me? How kind,’ she said, sarcastically.

  ‘I want to know what you’re offering on the House Tennis Cup.’ Harley’s voice had all the charm of a chainsaw on metal.

  ‘You know I don’t handle sporting events, Harley.’ Mercedes pretended to be checking her nails.

  Harley Spinks leaned closer and dropped her voice to a threatening whisper. ‘Really? Only a little bird told me you were about to change all that.’

  A hush descended on the classroom. Jenny paused with half a loo roll hanging out of her bra. Fern - who had moved on to Perdita Mottson’s nails - stopped, allowing the brush to teeter mid-air until a blob of glimmering gold nail varnish plopped on to the desk. The poker game in
the corner was halted; the last two players clutched their cards to their chests and eyed each other suspiciously. The room was eerily quiet; the atmosphere, electric. Mercedes reckoned the odds on hearing a feather fall would’ve been about even.

  ‘Well, I can only think it must have been a lyre bird,’ she said, nonchalantly. ‘Because I’ll give you three to one on that whoever told you was telling porkies.’

  A nervous titter went round the room like a Mexican wave, then died out.

  ‘On the contrary, it was a very wise little bird who knew what was good for her - if you know what I mean.’ Harley Spinks was the daughter of Harry Spinks: wheeler, dealer, entrepreneur and all round dubious businessman, currently on remand in one of Her Majesty’s less salubrious establishments and who, Mercedes seemed to recall, was in some way responsible for her own father’s heart attack. Harley had skin like bubble wrap and breath that could have been used in chemical warfare. She wasn’t just spoiled, she was putrid. If money could buy it, Harley had it - gold plated, ten times over! Including tennis lessons from a former Wimbledon player since the age of six. Mercedes prided herself that she, too, could drive a pretty mean forehand but she was nothing compared to Harley. If she had been taking bets on the tennis tournament, Harley would have been odds on favourite to win.

  ‘I do realise that this is a difficult concept for you to grasp,’ Mercedes said. ‘But, let me put it another way - bog off!’ She snapped shut the ledger.

  Mercedes would give any girl (above Year 7, of course - she didn’t agree with gambling for the under elevens) reasonable odds on whether or not it would rain next week, or whether Mr Duckworth would peg it before he announced his resignation. (Mr Duckworth, the Music teacher, was about a hundred and ten and Mercedes had long since ceased taking bets on whether or not he was going to retire - taking candy from a baby was no fun; she liked her punters to have a sporting chance.) She’d even been known to work out the odds on how many sneezes their form teacher, Miss Godby- Withers would clock up between assembly and break. But she would not, under any circumstances, take bets on school sporting fixtures. She’d had her fingers burned that way once before.