Freddie Shep Stole my Radio

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{\*\cs20 \additive \sbasedon10 page number;}}{\info{\title My
Radio}{\author Antony Davies}{\doccomm For David Thomas Trust
Competition}{\operator Antony
Davies}{\creatim\yr2001\mo8\dy11\hr18\min21}{\revtim\yr2001\mo9\dy8\hr20\min47}
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\b\fs36\ul\lang2057\langfe1033\cgrid\langnp2057\langfenp1033 {\fs28
Freddie Shep Stole My Radio
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{\fs22 It was a simple question: who stole my radio? I don\rquote
t know why it took so long for Jules Shepherd to admit it was his son,
but I was a little tired by the time he did. The oily, brown-dripping
lockup under the railway-bridge
in which I found him leaves my concern as I step out to the alleyway
and rejoin the yellow-hazed darkness. I need to find Freddie Shep
before he hocks my radio to some filthy bargain-hunter on his market
stall tomorrow. Just turning up there would be fu
tile; too many places to run and hide. Too many people for what I have
in mind.
\par }\pard\plain \s15\ql
\fi284\li0\ri0\sl480\slmult1\widctlpar\faauto\adjustright\rin0\lin0\itap0
\fs22\lang2057\langfe1033\cgrid\langnp2057\langfenp1033 {The Sawdust
Snooker Hall is my first port of call.
\par No, I tell the receptionist, I\rquote m not a member. She looks me
up and down and then at the butt of my Browning 9mm poking from my
leather trousers. It\rquote s an old gun, I say, but I think it still
works. I\rquote
m looking for Freddie Shep, I tell her.
\par }\pard\plain \ql
\fi284\li0\ri0\sl480\slmult1\widctlpar\faauto\adjustright\rin0\lin0\itap0
\fs20\lang2057\langfe1033\cgrid\langnp2057\langfenp1033 {\fs22 She says
he isn\rquote
t here, so I invite myself to look around anyway. The Sawdust Snooker
Hall doesn\rquote t have any sawdust in it, but I can i
magine it coating the floor, with a silver spittoon in every corner.
There are only two out of the eight tables being misused. I eye one of
the cowboys and he asks me what a man is doing in a place for decent
folk.
\par I ask him why a redneck would have a cockney accent. I say that
South London isn\rquote t the usual haunt for cowboys, though Soho
accommodates kinky shit like this. The Village People are turning in
their graves, I add; the fucking guys aren\rquote
t even dead yet.
\par The swing of the cue arches over me as I duck, then punch the guy
in the ribs and pull my gun on his approaching friend. I whip the first
cowboy with the butt and he falls, clutching his temple. Where\rquote s
Freddie Shep, I ask.
\par Not here, stutters the other guy.
\par I know that, I say. I want to know where.
\par The guy on the floor pulls himself to his feet. There is bloody
gash at the temple where I hit him. He says he isn\rquote t scared of
me. I don\rquote t run with Pogie Vallance any more, so why should he
be?
\par Tell me, I say slowly. My eyes widen and lips purse.
\par Not if your man life depended on it.
\par He\rquote s called my bluff. I feel strangely nostalgic for the
vicious gangster for whom I used to work. The wound in the
cowboy\rquote s thigh makes him cry out and drop to the floor again.
The next one, I say, won\rquote t be just a flesh wound.

\par I leave the snooker hall with some rumours of Freddie Shep\rquote
s location, but only after relieving the receptionist of her CCTV
tapes. They make it into the fire of a tramp\rquote s dustbin. My Mini
zips in and out of traffic as I head nort
h, and into the neon beating heart of London. Piccadilly Circus is as
busy at midnight as at midday.
\par My car is parked and I skip down the road and around the corner to
O\rquote Rielly\rquote s. The pub is a branded, charmless fa\'e7ade. A
band plays badly in the corner as a gaggle of out of tune tourists join
in. I\rquote ve been to Ireland. This isn
\rquote t it. I order a Guinness anyway. Yes please, Cold
Guinness.
\par I can\rquote t see Freddie Shep, so I ask the barmaid. The blonde
Australian smiles and her dimples make my heart feel light. She has
never heard of him, but she }{\i\fs22 is}{\fs22
new. I could show her around sometime, I say, but right now I need to
find my friend. She says I can come back any time, then serves someone
else.
\par I carefully scan the stained wooden booths, then the crowd of loud
tourists. The only person I know here is a huge knot of muscle called
Johnny \lquote Dangerous\rquote
Peterson. He is wearing a black T-shirt and a long raincoat, and has a
rolled up balaclava on his head.
\par I nod. He nods back. Then he nods to the door, and I realise what
is about to happen. I wonder if the barmaid will go home afterwards or
if she will just take it all in her stride and return to work. I hope
so.
\par I leave Johnny Dangerous to his business and head to my car. The
cockney redneck had told me the rumours were sketchy at best and
I\rquote d taken the chance that Freddie Shep was involved. I get back
to my Mini and slap the roof.
\par In half an hour I am picking the lock on a townhouse. A girl who
}{\i\fs22 only }{\fs22 works for a BT call centre really can\rquote t
afford this. The place is neat and smells sweet. I see only
women\rquote s shoes on the rack and only women\rquote
s coats on the hooks.
\par I creep to the landing and try the first door. It is a black
marble-tiled bathroom with brass fittings and a monstrously huge tub.
T
he second room holds a small child sleeping under a smiling moon duvet.
A picture on the bedside table shows white Freddie Shep with an older
black man that I think I recognise. But not quite.
\par I close the door and ghost into the last room on the floor.
Breathing slowly and pretending to be asleep is a black, shaven-headed
woman in her twenties, almost motionless beneath white cotton
sheets.
\par I flick on the light. Okay, honey, I say as I cock the Browning. I
am quiet so the kid doesn\rquote t wake up. Let\rquote s see your
hands.
\par }\pard\plain \s17\ql
\fi284\li0\ri0\sl480\slmult1\widctlpar\faauto\adjustright\rin0\lin0\itap0
\fs21\lang2057\langfe1033\cgrid\langnp2057\langfenp1033 {\fs22 She
stirs and sluggishly sits up. The hands, I say. Let me see them.
\par }\pard\plain \ql
\fi284\li0\ri0\sl480\slmult1\widctlpar\faauto\adjustright\rin0\lin0\itap0
\fs20\lang2057\langfe1033\cgrid\langnp2057\langfenp1033 {\fs22
Slowly, she reveals empty hands. She is wearing a grey camisole top and
her breasts look large and floating on air. Lot of money in those, I
think.
\par What do you want, she asks bluntly. I need to see Freddie Shep, I
say. He\rquote s stolen something from me. The prick steals from
everyone, she says. She shakes her head. Are you going to use
that?
\par I lower the gun but don\rquote t put it away. I want to use your
phone, I tell her, and walk over to the cabinet beside her. She eyes
the gun, then follows my arm up to the shoulder and over my face. I
tell her to dial Freddie Shep\rquote s number.

\par She says she doesn\rquote t have it. I mention what a nice kid she
has next door and this time
her hard face submits. She rubs her hand over the stubble on her head
and opens the drawer of her cabinet. She takes out an address book and
opens it on Freddie Shep\rquote
s name. She hugs back under the covers for comfort. I hit the numbers
for his mobile phone. It rings twice and he answers, Hello? Sweetheart
is that you? There is a lot of background noise and I know where he is.
I hang up.
\par Can\rquote t get through, I say. The reception\rquote s bad.
\par }\pard\plain \s17\ql
\fi284\li0\ri0\sl480\slmult1\widctlpar\faauto\adjustright\rin0\lin0\itap0
\fs21\lang2057\langfe1033\cgrid\langnp2057\langfenp1033 {\fs22 I turn
and walk to the door of the bedroom. She says that I\rquote m in deep
shit. I tell her I
\rquote ve been in deeper, but I need what Freddie Shep has taken. I
turn to look at the bald beauty once more, and gasp.
\par }\pard\plain \ql
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\fs20\lang2057\langfe1033\cgrid\langnp2057\langfenp1033 {\fs22
A full-bore shotgun, both barrels, points from under the duvet. She
calls me a mother fucker and tells me to drop my gun. I can\rquote t, I
say, and one of the barrels flares. The wall above the door explodes
and she says the gun\rquote
s loaded. That was just a warning. The phone is ringing. She orders me
to drop the gun again. I dive sideways and fire my Browning, hoping to
wing her. She pulls her trigger but the shot goes high.
\par I stand back up and jump on the bed, throwing the now-empty
shotgun aside. The phone is still ringing. A ruby-red crater has
replaced her left eye. I could never make a shot like that again if I
tried. Funny. Can\rquote t hit a barn door usually.

\par }\pard\plain \s17\ql
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\fs21\lang2057\langfe1033\cgrid\langnp2057\langfenp1033 {\fs22
On the landing, the kid, an eggshell skinned boy, has been disturbed.
He rubs his eyes and looks up at me. I pick him up and tell him we are
going to see his daddy. He wants his mummy, but I say she\rquote s gone
away for a while.
\par }\pard\plain \ql
\fi284\li0\ri0\sl480\slmult1\widctlpar\faauto\adjustright\rin0\lin0\itap0
\fs20\lang2057\langfe1033\cgrid\langnp2057\langfenp1033 {\fs22 I park a
hundred yards away from Freddie Shep. Jules Shepherd\rquote
s lockup is closed, but light glows under the flaking door. After
securing the kid in the Mini I walk up to the door and listen as
Freddie Shep and his father raise their voices to one another.
\par I kick the door hard and their faces jump. Freddie Shep says not
to hurt him. I say I was going to, but now I won\rquote t; I don\rquote
t want to orphan the little boy sitting quietly in my car. He knows
what I have done. I want my radio, I tell him.

\par The thing doesn\rquote t even work, he says.
\par I know it doesn\rquote t work \endash it\rquote s an antique. My
grandfather brought it over from Jamaica. I tell Freddie Shep he can
keep the marijuana he found and also the TV. I just want the
radio.
\par He hands it to me out of a bin liner in the corner. Freddie Shep
says I should have stayed retired. I say I am; this isn\rquote t work.
He tells me the name of the dead girl\rquote s father and says I\rquote
m dead.
\par I stop breathing. He\rquote s right.
\par I remember the picture in the boy\rquote s room. Freddie Shep and
another man.
\par I snatch the radio, release Freddie Shep\rquote s kid, and get
into my Mini. I have a Browning 9mm, an antique radio, and an
indistinct little motor. The car takes an ag
e to start, but no longer than normal. I spin the Mini around and
screech into the main road. I drive hard at the traffic. I can\rquote t
go home and I can\rquote t fight them all. I\rquote
m sweating so much my hands slip on the wheel. I clip a Land Rover, but
don\rquote t stop, just rev the engine and tear down the pavement.
Running might buy me some time, but where am I running to?
\par In the end, there really is no choice. I stop my car outside the
house paid for with Pogie Vallance\rquote s money. I get out of the
Mini. It\rquote ll be easier this way, I tell myself. Less pain. I sit
on
the bonnet, clutching the radio to my chest. My sweating has stopped.
My heart has slowed. I wait for them to find me.
\par (1756 words)
\par
\par }}