Clamourous harbingers of blood and death. The both of em. There you go. Bit of Shakespeare.
I go round the other side of the bar. I don’t mind Micky, but that other cunt, I ain’t got nothing to say to him. Micky holds up his shandy as I shift onto a bar stool. Alfie Knowles gives him a nudge and whispers something in Micky’s ear. And they both start laughin like a couple of pissed up brasses. Micky holds his glass up to me again, and gets back in conversation with Alfie Knowles. Sid slides over, dryin up a pint glass with a tea–towel I know for a fact he wipes his face on.
“Usual, Jay?” he says,
“Please, Sid,”
Sid’s eczema is fuckin ragin. All over one side of his face and across his nose. Always comes up when he’s got something to shit himself about. With Alfie Knowles in the house, that’s reason enough. Sid goes over to the fridge and brings back a bottle of San Miguel. Snaps the top off, and lands it in front of me. Always pays to get the bottled stuff in here.
“Got any food on the go, Sid?” I says.
I know it’s a bit early, but I’m fuckin starvin.
“Fuckin Chelle’s late again, Jay,” he says, wipin his face with the tea–towel. “I can knock you up a cheese sarnie if you want?”
I’d rather lick the floor in the pissers than Sid knock me up a cheese sarnie.
“It’s all right, Sid,” I says. “I’ll wait.”
“Fair enough, Jay,” he says. “I make you right. Too much cheese, ain’t good for you, mate.”
I nod me head and wonder what planet Sid’s from, then get meself a table. Wanna keep Micky and that other cunt in full view, cos something tells me it’s best I fuckin do.
Ride of the fuckin Valkyries starts up. Fuck me, can this day get any fuckin worse?
I don’t even think about the beer in front of me. Suddenly I’ve lost all me appetite, you know. I lean me elbows on the table and press the bottom of me hands into me eyes. And all I can think of is death. Death, death, and more fuckin death.
A chair scrapes. Perfume. Either Gay Tony or Chelle’s finally turned up. I take me hands away from me face. It’s Chelle.
I look deep in her eyes. They’re blue, like Sophie’s. and they’re sad. Faded. Fuckin shame for one so young to look so beaten. She reaches out and folds one of her little hands over mine, gives it a squeeze, shines a little smile. Stays a moment.
But the thing with moments . . . they never last long.
“I best go,” she says. “Sid’ll do his nut.”
I nod me head – a lump in me throat.
Sid gives Chelle a bollockin for bein late, and she gives him a mouthful back. Sid shouts over at me.
“Can’t get the fuckin staff,” he says, shakin his head like the whole world is something he don’t understand no more.
***
“Here you go, son.” he says, and he comes over with what passes for a menu in here – a gravy stained bit of cardboard with pictures of food drawn by Sid.
“Cheers, Sid,” I says.
And he stands there. Waitin.
I hate it when people do that, like they’re watchin the inside of you tick over.
“Fuck it, just give me a bacon sarnie, Sid.”
“Right you are, sir,” he says, takin the bit of cardboard out me hand, and bowin like a silly cunt.
“And the wine list, sir?” he says.
Does this every time, Sid. It ain’t funny when you’ve seen it every day for twelve fuckin years.
“Fuck off, Sid,” I says.
“What’s got your goat? You miserable cunt,” he says, and he slips away to the bar, mumblin like I’ve just kicked him in the bollocks.
Life. That’s what’s got my goat. Fuckin life.
Tristan und fuckin Isolde. Fuck me, if Sid don’t hurry up with my sarnie, I’m gonna have that fuckin jukebox right through the fuckin window. Fuck Wagner. Fuck Micky. Fuck the fuckin lot of em.
Sid gives me a filthy look from the bar. Seems I’ve proper hurt his feelings. Fuckin good.
So. Tony Thatcher – the geezer I gotta kill. Skinhead, scum. That’s what Micky said. On the face of it, two good reasons not to bat a fuckin eyelid, but seein Reg Tucker slicin himself up this mornin has made me fuckin queasy, you know. And Sid’s bacon sarnie ain’t gonna help none neither.
I got a ragin thirst on now, and take a sip of me pint.
Lovely.
And here comes Sid with me bacon sarnie and a face like Mary Whitehouse shittin a melon.
“Cheers, Sid,” I say, takin the plate off him.
He grunts, and fucks off.
Service with a smile.
Back in the day, you could almost guarantee someone like Tony Thatcher with his skinhead would be the epitomy of fuckin evil. But now, a geezer starts losin his hair, and he thinks nothing of shavin it off. Don’t mean he’s a fuckin Nazi worshippin scum fuck. Just means he’s got certain sensiblities, that’s all, regardin his hair. Nothing wrong with that. But cross Micky Archer and you could have a skinhead, a mullet, a Kevin Keegan fuckin perm, it don’t make no fuckin difference.
The damage is done.
I go to take a bite of me sarnie, but with Sid’s eczema playin up, it’s hard to tell whether the crumbs on me plate are bits of bread or bits of his face. Don’t fancy takin me chances, to be honest. I down me pint and get up to leave.
Hand on me shoulder, pushin me down.
“Goin somewhere, son?”
Micky.
I sit back down.
“All right, Micky?” I says.
Micky sits down at the table with me.
“So, so, Jay. Not bad, you know.”
I nod me head, not really knowin what to say back. I’ve gone in a bit of a daze. You know, when things catch up with you and it feels like you’re just about to fall off the edge of the world.
“Got something for me, Jay?”
Micky lays his hand on the table, palm up.
Phase back in. Eddie Fitch. Reg Tucker. I dig in me jacket for the cash, and tell him about Reg Tucker. And all through I’m tellin it, not a fuckin blink from Micky. Just the slightest smile on his lips and twinkle in his eye when I say the bit about Reg Tucker slicin his arm open and droppin to his knees.
I palm a score as I give Micky the rest. Only useful thing me old man ever taught me. I know Micky ain’t gonna count the money, he’s got his kicks already. He stuffs the wad of notes in his trouser pocket like they was a used tissue.
“Fancy joinin me and Alfie at the bar for a pint, son?” he says. “Bit of company?”
Sittin here with Micky feels like I’m sittin in a bath stark bollock naked with Sid up the other end, the crusty bits of his skin floatin in the water between us. It was that look what Micky give me when I said about Reg Tucker. If I don’t leave now I’m gonna chuck me guts up all over the table. And that wouldn’t be wise. Especially with Alfie Knowles lookin on, smilin like a bastard.
“Gotta go, Micky,” I says. “Things to do.”
He nods, like he knows.
But he don’t.
***
There’s a toy shop in the shoppin centre, near where the fountain used to be. Bound to find something there for Sophie.
The fountain, it was this great big sort of tumble of blocks all stood on end, and water would piss out the top into this concrete bowl all covered with brown and cream tiles – proper seventies. I’d sit on the side for hours, readin me books. Lit up the place, it did, that fountain. But over time, like the rest of us, it just sort of got worn down. Just become a receptacle for fag–ends and piss. In the end, the council switched off the water and boarded the whole thing up. Ten years later, the shoppin centre got remodelled – a roof and everything – and you’d never know the fountain had ever been there. Shame. Fuckin shame.
But the toy shop’s there, that’s the main thing.
***
There’s mums in here with their kids, and a young girl behind the counter. Toys everywhere. It’s a toyshop so that ain’t no fucki
n surprise. See, I’m nervous, sayin things like that. Like I’ve walked into some mental boozer off me manor and I ain’t tooled up, I’m gettin looks from everyone and the whole place has gone quiet.
Me hands are clammy.
Sweatin.
There’s a member of staff puttin some plastic animals on a shelf. Don’t wanna hang around here more than I have to. So I go over.
“You got any rabbits?” I says.
She turns round and looks at me kinda strange. Like I’m a lunatic.
“Little ones. Fluffy ears. You know, for kids.”
She gets me drift.
“Over there, sir,” she says, pointin to the back of the shop to a whole load of shelves stuffed with all sorts of cuddly things.
“Thanks,” I says.
And I walk on over.
I see it straight away. The one I want. I pick it up. A rabbit – one of them proper soft ones, like velvet – big brown eyes like glass what you can see your face in, and ears so floppy you can’t help but fold em in your hands. I cuddle him to me, right into me neck. And hold him there. And I know it’s right, you know, just by the feel. I take the rabbit to the counter, and there’s people starin at me harder now – kids and everything. This big old, grumpy lookin fuck of a geezer cuddlin a fluffy rabbit to his neck, strokin its ears like it was fuckin real or something. I suppose it must look kinda odd. Still, fuck em.
“Eight pounds and ninety–nine pence, please, sir.”
I take Eddie Fitche’s score out me pocket and hand it over.
“Thank you, sir.”
I nod, not knowin what to say, that lump in me throat again. I take the change, and stuff the rabbit inside me jacket, stridin fast out the shop like I got the Devil on me fuckin heels.
And as I’m walkin to where I gotta go, the words to Teddy Bears Picnic start runnin through me head. You know, the horrible bit about not bein alone. Me jaw’s all tight, and I can hear meself singin them words really slow through tight gritted teeth – every word scarin the fuckin shit out of me.
Chapter Six
Out the shoppin centre, back through the market. The old clock on the church strikes one. One o’clock. Fuck it. I stand still a bit, not knowin what to do. I’m weighin it up, how much time I got. Breaks me heart to make my little Sophie wait, but I figure once I’ve done with Tony Thatcher, I’ll have all the time in the world with her. Other way round, and I’d have to be rushin her along, and I couldn’t be doin that.
So I turn round and go back through the shoppin centre to the bus stop on the other side.
***
I love buses, me. And trains. All that sort. I get these seizures every now and then, see. Haven’t told you about that, have I? Had em since I was seventeen. Don’t happen often, but often enough so they won’t let me drive. First time it happened, I was comin out the back of the second hand bookshop down the old High Street with a mass market Anthony Trollope and a collection of Somerset Maugham short stories.
Next thing I know I’m flat on me back. It’s like I know I shouldn’t be there, but not enough to want to get up. Everything around me is muffled, like the whole world’s underwater. There’s slow–floatin words comin at me, letters disjointed, disconnected in space. And there’s people speakin but their faces are shadows, and all I’m thinkin is least I ain’t alone. I try and speak but me breath’s all torn up and I’m paralysed all over. Me right shoulder and me elbow are hurtin like a bastard, and just towards the end, just before the world gets right again, the thought flashes through me that this is what dyin feels like.
I take this medication every day — when I remember — but part of me, a big part of me, especially on days like this, wishes for that layin on the floor lookin at the world through eyes that can finally see. Cos when I don’t take me tablets, I know it, cos I can see colours proper and sounds that actually mean something and I melt into the colours and the sounds and everything feels real. More real than anything has ever felt me whole life. And then it all goes pop, and I’m on the floor again. Like bein hit by a fuckin train.
I didn’t take no tablets today.
Today, ain’t a day for tablets.
***
I’m lookin out the bus window on me way to Tony Thatcher’s showroom. Gotta build meself up for this one. Harness the hate, you know. Got this thing where keepin me word is fuckin everything. I know it’s a fuckin nasty business, but Micky’s seen me right over the years, and when a mate asks you to do a little something in return, where I come from, there ain’t even no thinkin about it.
I know Micky’s a cunt, but what can you do.
The bus stops to let a couple of oiks on. Fifteen probably, maybe younger. Hoodies over baseball caps, all twitchin bones and snarlin, Givin the driver grief, the pair of em already. One of em shouts back about the driver bein a cunt, and they both head upstairs. Even a couple of hours ago, I’d have swallowed em for breakfast, gone up them stairs and give em a right good hidin. But as the day goes on, the life’s ebbin out of me.
One drop at a time.
I’m sittin next to an old girl what smells of piss. Ninety if she’s a day. Still, good luck to her, gettin about at her age. Good fuckin luck.
Headin down the main road, away from the market, past the Old Bill Station and the petrol garage, into the suburbs. Big houses. Trees out front. Driveways. Fuckin gravel driveways.
Bastards.
People gettin on, people gettin off. One in — one out. Just like life. One in — one out. A fuckin merry–go–round of tears and joy and fuckin heartbreak. I mean, where’s the fuckin sense in it? Year after fuckin year. Generation after generation. Everyone forgotten. People in colour with real laughs and real voices and real tears all turned to fuckin dust. Real people. Thousands of years of real people comin and goin. And we ain’t no different. Everyone sittin here, sittin here on this bus. Me, the driver up front, the oiks upstairs, the old girl smellin of piss next to me.
We ain’t nothing. Not in the grand scheme of things. Grains of fuckin sand. That’s all we are. Grains of fuckin sand in a fuckin massive bucket full of sand with a load of fuckin holes in it, and we’re gettin closer to the bottom every day.
There’s a scufflin upstairs. My stop. Time to get off.
***
The industrial estate where Tony Thatcher’s got his gaff is nothing but a shit–hole.
Glance into the world just as though time were gone: and everything crooked will become straight to you – Nietzsche.
He was a stupid cunt sometimes. Lookin at the world like time ain’t happened? That’s just fuckin ridiculous. You can’t do that. Cos time happens. Things happen. Happen right in front of you. Reg Tucker slicin up his arm and droppin dead in front of me — that happened — no matter what Frederick fuckin Nietzsche says about it.
There’s a sign up sayin all the different places. Tony Thatcher’s Motors is left off the roundabout. This ain’t a place for walkin cos the pavement’s disappeared and there’s cunts cuttin me up all over. But I ain’t got no choice. Sometimes you get them days when the whole of the inside of you becomes everything you see and everyone you meet.
Today is one of them days.
That’s why I wanna have a chat with him first, Tony Thatcher. See what he’s about. And if he is a skinhead scumfuck like Micky says, no problem. But I’ve had me fill of the mindlessness of this game, you know. All that fuckin macho shit where cunts like Micky Archer and Alfie Knowles are fuckin king. Cunts, that’s all they are. Cos all these others — Reg Tucker, the old girl on the bus smellin of piss, this Tony Thatcher — they all come in the world the same way as Micky Archer and Alfie Knowles. All fuckin miracles at one point, you know. All of em.
And a fuckin miracle deserves a bit of fuckin respect. Whoever the fuck they are.
I’m goin past factories. Boxes of metal with people inside. Souls bein ripped apart inside.
Me grandad on me mum’s side, he worked in a factory all his life. Doors. His hand was fucked when he was born
— deformed, you know — so the army wouldn’t have him. Stuck him in a munitions factory, then doors after the war. Mum said she went in there with me once — the door factory — when I was a nipper. I don’t remember, but she said it was like a load of ghosts. No–one even said hello. Too busy pullin levers, drillin holes, hammerin and cuttin.
I’m goin past these factory units, and all I can hear is the clankin and the grindin and the screechin of machines. I sit on a grass verge. Close me eyes. And I think how me grandad was such a bastard. Always angry, cuffin me nan round the head when his tea weren’t on the table or his shirt weren’t ironed. And he’d push her, me nan. Right in front of me. Me watchin, a littl’un, thinkin this is how the world works.
But listenin to this clankin and this screechin and this grindin, I’m realisin me grandad spent most of his life in fuckin hell. That don’t excuse how he treated me nan and what he made me see, but just knowin he weren’t doin it just for the fun of it, you know, sort of helps me understand him a little bit, you know.
***
Tony Thatcher’s ain’t far, as it happens. Looks like the only car place about. There’s a big sign with red letters sayin it’s his gaff, so it ain’t hard to miss.
There’s a shiver goes down me. The sort when there’s violence about.
Evil.
Death.
I walk in.
I know fuck all about motors. Colour and size is about as far as it goes. Like I said, the seizures have fucked me on that score. There’s motors all over. A couple of salesmen wanderin about, that’s all. Business looks far from fuckin boomin, if you know what I mean. Geezer comes towards me just out me periphery vision. Then he’s on me. Skinhead scumfuck of a geezer, just like Micky said. And he’s got these little eyes — black and perfectly round. I’d rather trust meself drivin backwards to fuckin Hull and back than this cunt sellin me a motor, I can tell that from the off.
One Day In The Life Of Jason Dean - Ian Ayris Page 4
