To Hell in a Handcart

by Richard Littlejohn

  It was Ilie’s idea to steal the temporary traffic lights from the High Street and set them up at various locations. Easier to sting a captive audience. It was a variation on the idea he had used to hijack the car transporter in Hamburg, which would have worked like a dream had it not been for Freund’s treachery. If he ever straightened things with the Russians, Ilie vowed, he would return to Hamburg one day and slit Freund’s throat.

  Ilie also came up with the idea of buying, or rather shoplifting, a doll to use as a prop. The English were mugs, he reckoned. Real suckers for a woman begging with a bay-bee.

  That day they’d set up their phoney roadworks on the main drag through north-east London at the point where three lanes funnel into one.

  Ilie’s gang surrounded the car and went into their usual routine, banging on the windows, sloshing dirty water on the windscreen.

  The driver was a big man, his wife much smaller. There were two children in the rear. A pretty little girl and a boy, younger, a scale model of his father.

  Ilie tried to grab the woman’s handbag, smashing the passenger window with a crowbar and reaching through with his knife to cut the straps.

  The driver had grabbed the knife and buried it deep into Ilie’s forearm, accelerated away, brushing Maria into the gutter.

  At the hospital, they insisted on giving Ilie a powerful tetanus jab. Now his arse was sore, as well as his arm.

  And for what? Nothing. They’d come away empty-handed.

  Fuck it. If only he’d stuck to stealing cars. Why the hell did he have to get greedy?

  Ilie made a mental note to steal a new knife. He picked up the cellphone he’d taken from a parked car in Dalston and which had been reprogrammed by a computer engineer from Montenegro, claiming to be an ethnic Albanian from Kosovo fleeing Serbian oppression.

  Ilie studied the keypad.

  He pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket and entered an eleven-figure number. Ilie pressed the green SEND button.

  In a penthouse flat in Highgate, a stone’s throw from Karl Marx’s tomb, a phone rang.

  Ilie’s brother’s phone.

  Thirteen

  Mickey woke with a start. The noise jolted him bolt upright.

  ‘Good morning, Goblin’s gang. It’s 7.30. Rise and shine. This is Radio Goblin’s reminding you that breakfast is now being served in Goblin’s Grille until 9 am sharp. Here’s some music to get you in the mood.’

  ‘What the …? What on earth …? Jesus,’ said Mickey, sitting up and rubbing his eyes, as the radio set in the bedhead tried to persuade him that everywhere he went, he always took the weather with him.

  Mickey fumbled the light, located the radio and hit the off switch.

  He walked to the window to see what kind of weather he had brought with him.

  It was pissing down.

  ‘Where did that come from?’ Andi stirred from her slumbers.

  Mickey picked up the Goblin’s guide from the MFI pine dressing table and turned to the section marked In-Room Entertainment.

  Under Radio, he read: ‘Radio Goblin’s broadcasts from 7.30 am to 10.30 pm, when it switches off automatically. Guests who do not wish to be woken at 7.30 am should set the control from AUTO to OFF.’

  ‘Now they tell us,’ Mickey said.

  It was well past 10.30 pm when they’d finally made it to bed.

  ‘You were otherwise engaged,’ Andi teased, running her tongue along her top lip.

  Mickey smiled, remembering his nightcap. He walked round to Andi’s side of the bed, kissed her forehead, slid his hand under the cover and ran his fingers along the inside of her smooth left thigh.

  ‘Later, lover,’ she said. ‘I’m starving. Wake the kids and let’s get some breakfast.’

  Mickey’s advancing erection beat a reluctant retreat. He dialled the bambinos, first Terry and then Katie.

  They were already awake. Radio Goblin’s had beaten him to it.

  ‘Fifteen minutes, downstairs in the lobby,’ he told them both.

  The rooms could not be described as generously proportioned, but they had made an effort.

  The chainstore pine furniture was at least homely. There was a minibar and the usual tea-and coffee-making facilities and satellite TV. There was a proper power-shower and the plumbing actually worked.

  Even so, the bathroom seemed to have been carved out of former cupboard space. If you were petite, like Andi, it was no problem.

  If you were the size of Mickey, taking a dump meant assuming the natural childbirth position, with one leg draped over the side of the bath. But that didn’t stop the other leg getting scalded on the red-hot radiator/towel rail. The only solution was to swivel round and drape both legs over the bath, putting your arse at risk of third-degree burns.

  It was the first time Mickey had ever taken a shit side-saddle.

  The lobby looked different in daylight.

  The main building had a 30ft-high, clear-glass conservatory tacked onto the front of it. But it couldn’t disguise its origins.

  Goblin’s had started life shortly after the Second World War, one of dozens of utilitarian holiday camps which had sprung up around the coast of Britain.

  The cheap package holiday boom of the late Sixties and early Seventies had pretty much wiped them out.

  Goblin’s was a brave attempt to fight back, to bring the Disney experience to those reluctant to travel abroad and to compete with foreign invaders like CenterParcs.

  A Kenyan entrepreneur who had made his fortune buying up and selling on former British Railways hotels had invested millions in an attempt to transform Goblin’s into a leisure experience fit for the 21st century.

  He had been partly successful. The original swimming pool had been relined, heated and covered over to protect it from the elements.

  The canteen had been redecorated and redesigned. It now looked like a shopping mall food court.

  The concert hall had been turned into a state-of-the-art laser disco and karaoke venue.

  But somehow, the DNA seeped through. The place still smelt of knobbly-knees contests, glamorous grannies, aye-aye-aye-aye conga, and risqué ‘Ooo, missus’ comedians.

  Radio Goblin’s was a throwback to the days of tannoys, ‘wakey, wakey, campers’ and enforced jollity.

  The old Greencoats had become Goblin’s Greeters and they clearly hated it. If you’re going to dress grown men and women as giant pixies you need to live in an irony-free society.

  The Americans can get away with it. Your average aluminum-siding salesman from Idaho has no problem conversing with a six-foot gerbil. The six-foot drama student inside the six-foot gerbil costume thinks it’s his first step to Hollywood stardom. In the USA, everyone’s in showbiz.

  At Goblin’s, the Greeters weren’t aspiring actors. They were out-of-work toolmakers, redundant fishermen, unemployed bank staff and otherwise unemployable youths. They didn’t see it as step one on the Yellow Brick Road.

  If Disney is the Magic Kingdom, Goblin’s was Surly City.

  The French family wandered into Goblin’s Grille, where the queues were already forming.

  They’d eat first, then plan their day.

  Andi might have been starving but she took one look at the full English breakfast buffet, poured herself a glass of grapefruit juice, tipped an individual packet of muesli into a bowl and topped it up with lukewarm milk.

  ‘Is that all you want, love?’ asked Mickey.

  ‘For now, yes. You know I’m not a big breakfast eater.’

  ‘But ten minutes ago, you were starving.’

  ‘I’ve changed my mind.’

  ‘Suit yourself. We’ll get a proper lunch later.’

  Katie chose black coffee, a bottle of Sunny Delight and a pot of blueberry yoghurt. After watching the chef wipe his nose on the sleeve of his green Goblin’s jerkin, she decided she was watching her weight.

  The congealed eggs, limp bacon, burned sausages, radio-active baked beans, cold toast and rancid butter substitute held no such
horrors for Mickey. He was a veteran of police catering. Compared with the old Tyburn Row canteen, the Goblin’s Grille was four-star Michelin. Which might explain why everything smelt and tasted of burnt rubber.

  Terry followed suit, loading his plate like his dad and piling half a dozen hash browns on a side plate. They looked like deep-fried Brillo pads.

  Mickey and family carried their food to a large toadstool in the corner and took their places on plastic seats designed to look like tree stumps.

  ‘You can’t sit there,’ said a peroxide waitress, dressed in Goblin’s uniform, her bulbous thighs straining her laddered green leggings.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘This section is reserved.’

  ‘Who for?’

  ‘Guests.’

  ‘Guests? We’re guests,’ said Mickey, cutting into a sawdust sausage.

  ‘Other guests.’

  ‘What other guests? The place is half empty.’

  ‘Special guests.’

  ‘Special? Aren’t we special?’

  ‘All our guests are special, sir. It’s just some are, well …’

  ‘Don’t tell me. More special than others.’

  ‘Not exactly, sir, just different, like,’ said the waitress, who looked like a dog-rough version of Debbie Harry, Mickey thought.

  ‘Different? What, disabled or something?’

  ‘Or something, sir.’

  ‘What kind of something?’

  ‘You’ll find out, sooner or later, sir.’

  ‘Brilliant. Can I finish my breakfast?’

  ‘They’ll be down soon. They all come down together. Look, I’m not trying to be difficult, sir. Why don’t you sit at that table over there. It’s got a lovely view of Goblin’s Grotto. I’ll carry your meals.’

  ‘Mickey, let’s just do it,’ said Andi.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. If I can help you further, my name’s Debbee. I’m not actually a waitress. I’m a glamour model. I’m resting at the moment, though.’

  And have been for the past twenty-five years, thought Mickey. Reminded him of an old Tom he’d pulled in at Tyburn Row. It could have been her, for all he knew. He wasn’t going to pursue it. She was never charged. She used to give relief to half the relief in exchange for immunity from prosecution, even if not immunity from anything else.

  They shifted tables and resumed breakfast.

  As they did, there was a kerfuffle at the entrance to Goblin’s Grille. An unruly gang of youths, all aged about fourteen, fifteen maybe, shuffled in, pushing and shoving and jeering, beneficiaries of what the probation service called ‘broadening the horizons’ of young offenders.

  Goblin’s was where Tyburn juvenile panel had sent Wayne Sutton to ‘confront his criminality’.

  Wayne had chosen to confront the staff, instead.

  He whisked the hat off the head of a Goblin’s Greeter and threw it to one of his mates. A manic game of catch ensued, with the Goblin’s Greeter, an overweight, balding man in his late fifties, running around like a headless puppy in vain pursuit of his headgear.

  The youths appeared to be in the charge of a man in his late thirties, about 5ft 8ins, denim shirt, cord trousers. He maintained an air of complete indifference, studying the vegetarian alternative menu.

  The mêlée was broken up by Debbee, who dived in like a rugby wing threequarter and retrieved the hat.

  She squared up to Wayne, quite obviously the ringleader, and grabbed him by his earring.

  ‘Oi, you can’t do that, you slag,’ Wayne squealed indignantly. He knew his rights.

  ‘Don’t you call me a slag, or I’ll rip your ears off, you little twat. Just behave, all right?’

  ‘You’re hurting me.’

  ‘Good. Now calm down, get your breakfast and sit over there and eat it.’

  ‘I’ll have you.’

  ‘Don’t make me laugh, Sunny Jim,’ said Debbee, throwing back her head. ‘Now just do as you’re told. And you,’ she said to the man nominally in charge. ‘Yes, you. I’m talking to you. Keep these hooligans in order or I’m calling the management.’

  ‘Don’t you take that tone of voice with me, mizz.’

  ‘And don’t you mizz me, either.’

  ‘There’s no need for violence. You could try reasoning with them.’

  ‘And you could try doing your job and controlling them.’

  Debbee turned on the heels of her pixie boots and marched off. The youths made barking noises as she left.

  ‘Marvellous,’ said Mickey, watching from a distance.

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Andi.

  ‘That’s all we need.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Mickey. It was only high spirits. They’re just kids. Lighten up, we’re on holiday. So are they. You know what kids are like.’

  ‘Everything all right, folks?’ It was Debbee, back to clear away their plates.

  ‘Yeah, fine,’ said Mickey. ‘You’re a bit tasty in a ruck.’

  ‘So I’ve been told.’

  Andi scowled. Debbee might be a dog, but she didn’t like Mickey flirting with another woman.

  ‘Who are that bunch?’ asked Mickey.

  ‘Oh, they’re, like, deprived kids or something. They’re here for a week on holiday. That bloke is a social worker, I think. He’s a bit of a wanker, if you’ll pardon my French. He can’t control them. Look at them now.’

  The gang of youths was gathered around the table in the corner which the French family had recently vacated.

  It was like feeding time at the zoo. They tore at their meals with their hands. They threw bits of food at each other.

  ‘That’s why I put them in the corner, well out of the way,’ Debbee explained. ‘You don’t want a face full of fried egg, do you?’

  Terry thought it looked a bit of a grin. For two pins he’d have joined in.

  Mickey was less than impressed.

  At the centre of the group, Wayne Sutton held court. He had plans for the rest of the day. And they didn’t include water polo or crazy golf. He’d tell them later.

  The food fight subsided. Wayne sat under a large, green and white No Smoking notice, and lit a cigarette.

  Jez Toynbee, social worker, buried his head in the Guardian.

  ‘See?’ said Debbee. ‘Hopeless.’

  ‘That kid in the middle,’ said Mickey. ‘I’ve seen his type before. He’s a wrong ‘un. It’s written all over him.’

  ‘I dunno Dad,’ said Katie, polishing off her blueberry yoghurt. ‘He’s kinda cute.’

  ‘Yuk!’ spluttered Terry, mopping up the last of his break-fast with a cold piece of toast.

  ‘What?’ said Mickey.

  ‘That boy in the middle. He’s quite good-looking, don’t you think. Mum?’

  ‘Well, um.’ Andi knew what was coming.

  Mickey put down his mug of tea, very slowly. Always a bad sign.

  ‘Now you listen to me, young lady.’ He looked his daughter straight in the eye. ‘He’s trouble. I don’t want you going anywhere near him. Understand?’

  Katie averted her gaze.

  ‘I said, do you understand?’

  She muttered something under her breath.

  ‘Hey, I’m talking to you. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Dad.’

  Fourteen

  Radio Goblin’s blared out of the loudspeakers concealed in every ceiling. There was no escape, short of poking your eardrums out with a knitting needle.

  Agabloodydoo.

  ‘Come on, love. Let’s get a drink,’ Mickey said to his wife.

  Katie and Terry had gone swimming.

  Mickey and Andi strolled into Goblin’s Goblet, decorated in the same elfin style as the rest of the public space.

  ‘Large VAT and a white wine spritzer, please, chief.’

  The barman was kitted out in the same uniform as the rest of the staff. He was distinguished by the ring in his nose. Mickey had never seen one like this before. Most dedicated nose-ring enthusiasts favour one
or other nostril. This one was dead centre, like a prize bull. Mickey wondered if they tied him to a rail of an evening.

  He poured their drinks into two wooden Goblin’s goblets, like halved acorns.

  ‘Any ice?’ asked Mickey.

  ‘The machine’s broken,’ explained the barman, in a broad Brummie accent.

  ‘Do us a favour, chief. Turn the music down a bit,’ said Mickey.

  Agabloodydoo had given way to GerisoddingHalliwell.

  ‘Love to mate, but I’m not allowed, like.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Policy. The customers like it.’

  ‘We’re the only customers in here.’

  ‘No can do, boss. It all comes from a central control,’ said the barman, half-apologetically.

  Andi picked a splinter out of her mouth.

  ‘Sorry about that, madam,’ said the barman. ‘Bits come off in the dishwasher.’

  ‘Worked here long?’

  ‘A few months. I came down from Brum. I got the old tin-tack when the Krauts pulled out of Longbridge. I used to be a skilled man, you know.’

  Another customer walked in.

  ‘Do you have any Chardonnay?’ he inquired.

  ‘We’ve got white wine. I don’t know what sort,’ said the barman.

  ‘It’s not Chilean, is it?’

  I‘ll have a look.’

  The barman picked up the bottle and read from the label. ‘Produce of grapes from the European Community.’

  I’ll have half of lager.’

  Jez Toynbee nodded back, settled on the next bar stool and took a sip of his lager from his wooden goblet.

  ‘I saw you at breakfast,’ Mickey said. ‘You’re with that bunch of young hooligans.’

  ‘I am with those young men, if that’s what you meant to say.’

  ‘No offence, chief. But they looked a pretty unruly bunch to me.’

  ‘High spirits, that’s all.’

  ‘That’s what I said,’ Andi chipped in.

  ‘So what brings you – and them – here?’

  ‘Same as you, I imagine. Vacation.’

  ‘I take it you’re not their dad. Not all of them, anyway.’

  ‘Funn-ee. No, but they’re in my care.’

  ‘Probation officer?’

  ‘That’s not a term we use much these days, even in the probation service. I’m their mentor.’