Charlie Spark: Villain Extraordinaire

Chapter 1

Nile Terrace

When the last century was in its dotage, on an overcast morning in July, a number twelve bus from Catford Mews roared past The Trafalgar pub, splashing a wave of ditch water over Charlie Spark as he stood on the corner of Nile Terrace and Waterloo St.

As the bus driver caught sight of his victim, he let out a cackle. This was echoed by the passengers and some truants outside the betting shop who were all howling with laughter.

Dripping from head to foot and glaring daggers, Spark threw his cap on the ground, jumped up and down on it and bellowed a load of drivel which sounded like You wraggga, fragga, wrarrr, you fraying, wrarrr, I’ll get you.

Then he tore off like a maniac in a fifty yard dash down Waterloo St screaming threats such as Stop that bus you wrarr..(puff puff)....stop...I’ll smash you, you framma wrarr, etc at the bus driver who glanced in his rear vision mirror and noticed a madman chasing the bus, shouting something.

A few grinning passengers taunted Spark to run faster when the bus was doing thirty miles an hour while others cheered him on from the lower platform as the bus gathered speed, sweeping past a queue. The truants kept pace at a distance behind Charlie Spark, urging him on with mock encouragement – Look at him go – the Olympic champion.

Having reached the speed of an infuriated hare, he could almost touch the white pole of the bus platform.

In a last attempt to grab onto the pole, just as the driver’s foot went flat to the floor, Spark launched a running dive, missed by inches and landed on a bed of horse manure at which a cheer rose from the bus with handkerchiefs waving out of the windows and an eruption of applause from the truants in the rear.

It was an hour later, after a bath and change of clothes that he passed the same delinquents loitering outside the betting shop. One of them with earrings and tattoos asked him to place their bets but ignoring them he headed down the Old Kent Road serenaded by whistles and catcalls.

Acid rain drizzled as he hobbled over the broken pavements. His dustman’s jacket soaked up the rain like a sponge and the water from the puddles seeped through the holes in his boots. Before long, his socks were full of water and he squelched with every step.

Past the boarded-up shops, the bollards leaning drunkenly and the dead dog in the gutter, past the brass balls of the pawn shop and his watch inside the window, he followed the Old Kent Road and its decaying terraces, their chimneys leaning over as if whispering to each other.

Chapter 2

The Old Kent Road

It was mid-day and the listless traffic shuffled endlessly along. Everything was staggered in the scene of grey and drizzle as the beer lorries lumbered down to the Elephant and Castle or New Cross Gate while the rain continued to fall.

Quite a way along the Old Kent Road, Charlie saw what appeared to be a post office although its windows and entrance were covered in so much dirt that it might easily have been another boarded-up shop.

This was his chance to rid himself of a dud cheque, lifted that morning. He had only to stroll inside and scratch out an alias, calm as you please. But he needed to be quick as he was ready to collapse from hunger. In his pockets there was only a penknife, a box of matches and an old Underground rail ticket.

His bad luck had started six months earlier when he was arrested for handling stolen property – his job shouldering crates of fruit and vegetables at the Borough Market ended as soon as his reservation at Hotel Pentonville began.

On his first night back in prison, the worst part was realizing how stupid he’d been to get caught. Time inside passed slowly and the only things to occupy him were outwitting the warders and loafing in the prison library.

Since getting out of prison two days before, he still had the sense of being boxed-in. The noise and pace of the outside world were jarring and as usual, money was scarce.

Outside the post office, a group of striking miners from a colliery in Lancashire were handing out leaflets.

Here, lad, said an old man in a cloth cap with a roll-up hanging loosely from his mouth, Take one of these and sign our petition – we want our jobs back and we’re fighting for our communities. Support the miners. Sign this.

Spark signed the paper with his usual fictitious name – ‘Charles Dangerfield’ and told them he’d put something in their collection on the way out as he didn’t have any money.

To get inside the post office, he had to step over a mound of dustbin bags where a tramp was curled up fast asleep. It was impossible to tell whether the sleeper or his mattress was the source of the stench which lingered at the doorway.

Inside, there was a queue of almost seventy people snaked in a line from one side of the room to the other and back again. Obviously it was pension day for everyone ranging from teenage mums to wizened grannies. In the air, lingered the haze of cigarette smoke.

He was tempted to continue his journey but the forged giro cheque nestling in his wallet bade patience so he took his place in the queue, feeling his right foot in its soggy boot. Bluebottles buzzed about the room and chased one another along the windows.

After an age of waiting, a small pile of one pound notes was counted out for him, one of which he gave to the miners. Then he resumed his journey to the nearest pub which was the Tyburn Tree across the Walworth Road a few streets away.

Chapter 3

The Black Lion

While everyone else went to work or their places of business in offices or shops, Charles and his associates whiled away their time at a few select clubs and pubs where everyone knew everyone else, no-one trusted anyone else and the undercover squad were recognizable at fifty paces but ignored.

The landlord of the Tyburn Tree kept a boxing ring in the back room behind the saloon bar where some of the great and infamous had sweated blood, often hitting the canvas with their noses which had become flattened over time and matched their puffed up eyes or ears.

Around the walls of the bar were handbills and posters advertising bouts at Wembley Arena, Alexandra Palace and other exalted boxing haunts ; photographs of living legends and their contests hung alongside old satin trunks, boxing gloves, trophies and title belts. British, Commonwealth and European champions had all battled it out there at some time in their careers.

In keeping with that reputation, the Tyburn attracted a clientele unlike any other pub in London.

Upstairs was a gym and another boxing ring where young hopefuls from all over South London trained. Every Saturday night, the downstairs bar would be filled with a flammable crowd, waiting for the bout and ready to cheer someone to victory. Even Spark had boxed there years before.

After reaching the Tyburn, he saw that it was closed with no sign of life inside so he decided to push on to the next nearest pub which was the Black Lion.

It was a blessing that the Lion never closed. Inside the public bar, there was always a mixed crowd. Many of the flushed and creviced faces had prison stamped all over them. Like him, they considered themselves above any wage-slave existence. Some would snap up whatever was going and if something took their fancy, they would pocket it before it was even missed.

It was half past five and the Black Lion had been open since mid-morning. It always amused the publican to see his patrons arrive just as the doors were unlocked and most days he could set his watch by them.

Inside, the crush around the bar was three deep. Strangers were instantly noticeable and the mob circulated as if in an exclusive club. As long as no damage was done and there was no violence, the landlord said that what his patrons got up to, was none of his business – he only served them drinks and ran the place.

Those of the greatest notoriety avoided being seen at all and dealt privately elsewhere. At any time, there could be professional fraudsters and kiters in the crowd whose market was supplied by the car thieves and burglars. There were stolen goods and warehouse stock which found a new home.

Many in the crowd were officially unable to work and permanently affected by bad backs or gout or any other ailment you could mention. Some of them pretended to be employed ; others like Charlie Spark feigned joblessness, often under a variety of different names. Most of them were dissolute, living from one day to the next.

The crowd often included hold-up men or bank robbers who had learned the use of weapons and explosives in the army. There were firearms for sale which all of them knew about and feigned ignorance. It was the place where plans might be hatched out before some daring escapade hit the newspapers the next day.

Those who had been inside or in trouble with the police, weighed the prospect of being caught before chancing their freedom. To them, it was a game of outwitting the police : sometimes the risks were too great or fortune dealt a bad hand. This was their view of the world.

Chapter 4

Spark At Work

Charlie Spark had timed his constitutional for the evening trade. From the noise inside the bar, he wasn’t to be disappointed.

With an air of expectancy, he waited before opening the door of the public bar, like a dog thrashed for stealing meat from the kitchen but returning for more. As he opened the door, his face was met with a wave of rank, hot air which was suffocating. Inside, the bar was packed and deafeningly noisy with a stage-show in full swing.

It was his first time back at the Lion for several months and he was on the lookout for anything which could tide him over. One or two of the old faces knew him and some even waved to him across the crowd. One way or the other, he knew he'd find something of interest prior to the bell being clanged for last orders.

After six months of baked beans, bread and bromide tea, he was desperate to pick up whatever he could lay his hands on and to start by finding someone with money. At first sight, no-one presented a possibility. Yet the scene inside the Lion could change very quickly and was not lacking in originality as the doorman cast an eye over the turf guide and forgot about collecting for the performers on stage.

Across the room, the smoke hung overhead and standing room was limited. Charlie moved through the crowd to the bar and squeezed in a place near the end. As his pint was being drawn, he casually looked around him. Most of them were unknown to him and he was only greeted by the landlord who kept a pony-sized Alsatian which at that moment was stretched out asleep on the bar floor.

As he sipped his stale beer, the stage performer was cavilling the audience who were whistling, booing and heckling her. At the other end of the bar, a discreet member of the vice squad stared at his watch and prayed for his shift to end.

Eventually, the crowd began slow-clapping the dancer with some of them barking until the landlord’s Alsatian woke up and joined in the din. The uproar suddenly ended when the 'artiste' directed her copious rear at the crowd and was promptly hit a bulls eye with a pork pie. The culprit, a well-known confidence trickster was promptly grabbed by the collar and marched out by the doorman.

Meanwhile, with his pint staring back at him, Charlie hung near the bar where a few of the local girls were waiting for their husbands or boyfriends.

In his early youth, women had been attracted by his his blonde hair and blue eyes. When he looked at you, his smile feigned generosity and openness. Naturally, this was well-rehearsed and familiar to those who knew him. His true character was cleverly hidden from public view. Only very rarely could one observe a squint in his eyes which betrayed a certain furtiveness or when the shape of his lips and mouth hinted there was something dubious about him.

Secretly, he imagined himself as an actor and like any professional at the Old Vic or the Theatre Royal in the Haymarket, he rehearsed a range of personas and dialogues for different occasions in front of the mirror when he was shaving or dressing each morning.

For those who were unacquainted with him such as Recorder judges in the Crown Courts or jury members or advocates and lawyers, he could on occasion bring tears to their eyes while pleading from the witness box for understanding and forgiveness. For those who knew him, there were the tragic stories of his childhood ; the beatings he’d endured from a violent stepfather ; how his mother had deserted him and he’d been placed in an orphanage where he’d fallen in with the wrong crowd and been led astray. These and a thousand other stories were pure fiction and were acted out for the benefit of juries in performances worthy of Drury Lane. As often as not, they would attract the sympathy of the female jurors and would end with a verdict of ‘Not Guilty’.

By the age of twenty six, he’d lived with a succession of different women. Some were burdened with squalling brats ; others were alone and wanted to stay that way ; many were younger but a few were older. At first, each of them had been fascinated by his criminal exploits and the lure of the underworld. All of them tried to steer him away from criminality, especially his first partner who had been his parole officer.

However before long, they all discovered that he’d never change his ways, least of all for them. And whenever the Flying Squad smashed the front door down at six o’clock in the morning or when a brick crashed through the living room window from a ‘friend’ or when he landed back in prison or offended their fathers or brothers or uncles who all viewed him as a bad lot, they became frightened and then angry with him until eventually, it became too much even for the more patient and loving of his admirers and each union ended abruptly with the lady in tears.

Chapter 5

Bob King

Charlie Spark had little to show for the times he’d been in and out of prison.

The only thing he’d salvaged from it all was a battered old sports car stolen years before which he was gradually 'restoring' with parts plundered from other cars. Apart from that, all he had was debt : the council bailiffs had been hammering on his door, claiming he owed two years rent which had piled up during his enforced holiday. He kept no food in the cupboards and the fridge. His wardrobe was in need of replacement and made him look like a scarecrow. In Wandsworth Prison, he’d watched the gnats chasing each other around and around outside his window and had felt like one of them – going nowhere.

As he stood at the bar considering all of this, an hour passed while the pub had slowly emptied and began re-filling for the evening session.

The approach of night brought with it a different crowd who hung in the shadows around the billiards tables. They spoke only amongst their own circle, examining the floating trade and disinterestedly noting the undercover squad who were themselves pretending to be just as disinterested. In the foreground of the bar, the mob were yelling for the next performer as the mirror-ball threw spots of reflected light in waves across the ceiling and walls.

In the hazy lamplight at the end of the bar, Charles sat dejectedly, contemplating the dregs of his beer. Behind him, the door creaked to and fro with departures and arrivals. Then a familiar accent – gravelguts Glaswegian – made its entry.

Its owner was a Scotsman, Bob King, a mountain of a man wearing an army flak-jacket covered in badges and insignia of different campaigns and brigades including those of certain daredevil commando regiments. (His real name was Bob MacNeish but he styled himself with an alias as he considered himself the ‘king’ of bank robbers.)

Three ponderous weight-lifting types stood beside him, each of them bursting out of his suit. Charlie recognised them immediately as the three ‘R’s’ or ‘aaaarrrggghs’ (depending on your view) – Rourke, Rooney and Riley. They were all from Dublin and were all related to each other : like the Scotsman, they were proficient at breaking into vaults in the dead of night. Grouped together, the Glaswegian towered slightly above them, being at least six feet six in height and easily eighteen stone with jet black hair, a grisly beard and beetling eyes which darted excitedly as he spoke.

This was the conversation which Charles overheard.

So, ah said to ma field commander, when we reach the hills above Port Stanley, ah sez, ah nivver used tae like their stinkin' corned beef anyhoo and after this shoo, I'm going tae kick a few yon gauchos when we get through their for’ard lines doon theer.

On cue, Spark heard someone nearby (who was dead drunk) return with the usual quip : And was he a penguin ?

Then, dispatched with venom : Lissen, pal, ah wuz there right enuf while youse was back here quakin' in yoor boots wi’ frayt. An' ah wuz in Vietnahm an' Angoola an' a load o’ other warrs youse have only read aboot in yoor wee adventure mugazines. So jist youse shut yoor squeekin' gullet oor ah'll give ye a boot right in the... At this point, the noise of the bar drowned out the precise threat.

Just when the landlord was ready to signal to the doorman to eject them and when both sides were calling for reinforcements, Spark decided to make a run for it. He wanted to avoid being cornered for hours with a load of improbable war stories but had left his escape too late. King noticed him sliding from his seat and grabbed him by the collar then ignoring the taunts that his tales were fantasy, he waved his detractors away like so many bothersome insects and tapped the counter to gain the barmaid's attention.

A large whisky for the lad please, darlin', rasped the hefty voice.

Struth. If it isn’t Mr King himself, said Spark, pretending not to have noticed the Scotsman as he steeled himself to be bored rigid for the next three hours.

King's weightlifter frame squashed in at the front of the bar, crushing the incumbents as the barmaid rushed to and fro.

Well, well. Ah havnae seen ye in here for a while, said King, who aside from being a professional blagger was also a part-time wrestler, squatting eviction agent, trout poacher, haggis connoisseur and military historian. He’d also been out of the army for almost two years but sometimes felt he should have stayed there.

Yeah, Bob – only been out of Wandsworth a few days and I’m up against it... three giro cheques don't touch the sides, let alone one.. moaned Spark. Anyhow, what's been going on while I've been away ? Anything happening in the next few months ? What about Big Stavros ? Is he still in Strangeways ? Oh, uh, how's your wife – still got you on the run ?

Bob King grinned sardonically, revealing a gap in his ivories. Like all prison wives, Mrs King fretted when he was inside but hounded him outside. Whenever he was locked up, she waited until the parole committee were feeling generous enough to let him out again, so she could sink her painted Dundee nails into him.

Aye, the missus ne'er lets up, so she does, King said wistfully. If ah'm banged up, she can't visit me enough. Remands in Brixton – she's doon there every day with a hamper. She's a dab hand at shopliftin'. We came oot the soopermarket the other day and she had a turkey and two bottles o’ wine in her jumper. Dinnae ask me hoo she does it. But whene’er ah'm hoom, sittin’ aroond the hoose, it's nag, nag, nag – ‘Why ain’t youse doin’ a bank jawb tae get some money in ?’

Spark was invited for supper at the King's flat and felt certain to be regaled with the one about bivouacking, jungle warfare and trying to avoid being blown up by guerrillas in Borneo ; or the story about how King had amassed a fortune in Chinese gold but had forgotten where he'd buried it ; or it might be all the old mercenary stories of his time in the African jungles.

The Scotsman's anecdotes were so diverse and with so much embellishment that the original events on which they were based (which were probably mundane), were unrecognisable.

After King arranged to meet Rourke, Rooney and Riley next day to talk about a bank they had their eye on, he and Spark decided to wander across the Walworth Road to the Tyburn Tree to see if any pugilistic talent was on the bill that evening.

Soon, they’d escaped the vicinity of the Black Lion and the drunks stumbling nearby. The din of the juggernauts, jets and sirens was overwhelming and on reaching the Tyburn, Bob King paid for another round of drinks and led Charlie away from the public bar. From upstairs came the muffled roar of a crowd at a boxing match.

In an alcove, the Glaswegian rolled up the sleeve of his right arm to reveal fifteen Francois-Demain gold wristwatches. Some were studded with diamonds and Spark saw at once that they were each worth several thousand pounds.

He was dazed by the jewels. Although tempted, he’d learned to his cost years earlier that fencing expensive jewellery wasn’t for amateurs.

Thanks but like I said – I’m flat broke. Was that the Knightsbridge jeweller's vault last Thursday ? he asked. In reply, Bob King merely winked but inwardly smiled as do tigers after a feast of curry spiced mahout.

Chapter 6

A Wager

They decided to go upstairs to the boxing ring and with each step, the sound of cheering and padded blows grew louder. After a few taps, the door to the gym opened from the inside and they entered a haze of sweat, cigar smoke and beer which was almost overpowering. The potman knew them well, gave a brief nod and carried on shouting at his protégé in the ring to box harder.

Around them were gathered a hundred spectators, all squeezed in together, spilling beer and treading on one another’s toes while clamouring in a deafening roar which suddenly broke off with the clang of the bell ending the fifth round.

Several scarred faces in the crowd were walking exhibits of the life of a boxer. Spark spotted an undercover plod, conspicuously wedged in a corner, getting reports from informants.

The potman was a reformed sponge and slept rough in doss houses or in Lincoln's Inn Fields. In his youth, he'd won and squandered a fortune as a professional boxer. These days, he spent his time training younger boxers including the Jamaican lad in the blue and silver trunks on the evening’s bill.

When the bell rang for round six, the old man's voice could be heard above the taunts of the audience who had all wagered heavily on the contest, roaring dementedly for a knock-out blow. Some of them could only slur their words in a drunken stupor through the haze of smoke, the reek of cheap whisky mingling with the smell of sweat and grime.

In the sixth round, the local boy from Bermondsey in the flashy green trunks was copping the worst of it and after many savage belts to the head, blood began trickling down his left eye. The bell at ringside clanged and the combatants broke off to their corners. The tension in the crowd unwound as everyone debated the merits of both boxers and who was going to win.

Charlie Spark could hear moans of dissatisfaction about the performance of the favourite from Bermondsey. Many in the crowd realised their bets were as good as flown already, even though the bout still had a fair distance to go.

Seems they're a trifle put out, Bob, he said to his companion.

D'ye reckon he'll go another roond ? asked Mr King as the seconds were furiously fanning, watering and patching up the contenders.

If ah saw him dive oot the door noo, run awl the way to King's Cross an' get a one-wee ticket to Inverness, ah wouldnae be surprised one bit.

He'll be going some alright, was Spark's reply although feeling indifferent. Suddenly, a polished voice addressed them :

Care to speculate on the lad's performance, gentlemen ?

The enquiry came from a mature voice with a public school accent through the clamour around them.

They both looked sideways (and in King’s case, downwards) at an enormously stout, old fellow with a white brush moustache, snowy hair scraped back across his sun-tanned crown and sporting a white linen shirt, double breasted blazer, silk tie and matching handkerchief.

He’d reached them through the crush of beer glasses and cheroots as he held several betting slips and a pencil in one hand, with a cigar and whisky chaser in the other hand. His bronzed face was set in an ironic smile, barely concealing his adeptness at outfoxing his opponents. Bob King could only stare at the old boy's shirt collar which seemed to cut into the perspiring blubber of his neck.

Try your luck, gents, he wheezed. I'm still taking bets, seven to four on, for the Jamaican chappie, four to one on the Bermondsey wallah. Now, who will it be for you ?

It took all of a moment for Charlie Spark to size up the old fellow in the manner of a typical gamester. He detested posh accents (except for the times when he himself was pretending to be a toff.)

I haven't seen you here before. Where have you suddenly sprung from ? He was always wary of first encounters at the Tyburn as was everyone who went there.

Listen, laddy, I've been drinking, gambling and debauching at this watering-hole, long before you were sat on your potty. That's how long I've been about these parts......now, are you interested in taking a bet or not ?

A shade of crimson fired up in the old boy's chops as he flattened down the white strands of hair swept back across his head and in outrage at the question.

Bob King delicately interposed at this point to stake two fifty pound notes on the Jamaican boxer from Brixton who was at shorter odds.

Best of luck, said the old rogue good-naturedly as he pocketed the notes in a pigskin valise while ignoring Spark completely.

Bob King said something in the bookmaker’s ear and took him to one side. Without attracting attention, he lifted half the cuff of a sleeve to reveal one of his timepieces. Then with the passage of some inaudible words between them, he dropped something into the bookie's pocket, gave a tiger grin and padded back to join Charlie Spark in the thick of the crowd.

Chapter 7

The Bookie Is Found

The bell at ringside rang out the start of round seven. The Bermondsey lad began bashing his way around the ring, dancing and flying in hops and jumps then suddenly launched into a higher gear like an out of control Inter-City express train pushing ninety miles an hour. The usual experts derided both trainers with what they were doing wrong while around the ring, scores of bad losers were screaming blue murder that the match had been fixed.

As time wore on, the Bermondsey lad grew fainter. In a matter of minutes, he was stumbling against the ropes, hiding his head in his gloves, suffering a battering at the hands of his opponent. The cut above his eye had opened again, producing a grotesque spectacle : the crowd goaded him as the last of his strength was visibly draining away while he tried to stay on his feet. Disgustedly, they screamed for a knockout as the room shook to a deafening pitch.

For a short time, the Bermondsey lad seemed to regain some of the early momentum of the fight. With every jab that connected, sprays of sweat showered off the contenders’ heads and bodies in the humidity and clouds of smoke. Eventually, near the end of the round, the favourite stumbled, his legs gave way and he could take no more. Breathless and exhausted, he hit the canvas, near unconsciousness, without knowing that he'd already been counted out by the referee.

In the same instant, Bob King was ecstatic and merrily danced a highland fling, calling to those around him : Ah've won a wee ton. Ah've won yon pony. Ah've won, haw hey, ah've won.

His friend had the composure of a Presbyterian minister at a temperance meeting but was also imagining ways to deprive the Scotchman of his wad. An irritating thought gnawed at him, whining to him that he should have taken the same bet in any way he could contrive.

Bob King had wagered on both boxers, using one of his watches.

Where's the old geezer who was pencillin' his book, he was only here a wee minute ago... he said to Charlie Spark as he anxiously looked around him.

Together, they surveyed the devastated crowd but couldn't see any white whiskers or the distinctive pigskin bag. Through the crush, they scoured past various soaks, oafs, louts, cut-purses and villains in the gym until Bob King nudged Spark in the ribs and narrowing his eyes, growled restively : Ye don’t suppoose he's done a runner, do ye ?

Spark scoffed mockingly then gave the Scotsman a look which immediately caused Mr King to push his way out to the stairwell leading to the bar.

Ah'll flay the old coot alive when ah get ma hands on him, he cried viciously, thwacking a great fist into the broad open palm of his other hand. Charlie Spark decided to go downstairs to the saloon bar to ask the landlord whether he'd seen the old cove hurriedly pass through. Everyone was too shattered to put a sentence together, let alone see anything ; chances were that the pretend bookie had slipped out through the dressing-room door into the adjoining lane, a few streets away from the Walworth Road.

Swiftly, Spark rushed back through the gym to get to the laneway, followed closely by his enraged friend. As they ran through the boxers’ dressing room where the Bermondsey lad was being patched up with antiseptic and elastoplast, both boxers and their trainers were sharing a bottle of cheap champagne, lamenting their paltry winnings on the miserable