by Unknown
There were kids in the big room, slouching round green baize tables with cues held like torches to ward off the dimness. They were all in the obligatory hoody and baggy trousers. Chains hung from a couple of pockets, beanie caps pulled low like it was winter outside. I ignored them. They were just tag-alongs. I walked across the room, down the centre of the dozen pool tables. I was watched all the way. Mouths hung open. No one spoke, they didn’t have to. Their faces said, What the fuck is he doing here?
I told them.
‘This has got fuck all to do with any of ya. I’m here to see Gardy.’
‘Dead man walking,’ someone said, like prison rap.
Maybe he was right. I was taking a big chance throwing myself into the lion’s open mouth, but hey, sometimes you’ve gotta live dangerously just to get by.
The pool hall was spread over two floors. The boys, they had to hang out down here in the shitty quarters; the men, they all went upstairs into the loft. It was like they were saying that they were above the others, and I’m not talking literally.
This time I didn’t get a free walk up the steps.
Two guys stopped me. One of them was a hard bastard I knew as Toad. No one called him that to his face, ‘cause it was nothing he’d go by. The other I didn’t know. In my head I called him Skank, ‘cause that’s the way he smelled, like a whore bitch.
Toad was an ugly man. No one would deny it, not his mother even. He’d a round head, warty texture, flat nose, and wide lips. Get the picture?
‘The fuck you doin’ walking in here?’ he said with a hand flat on my chest.
‘No other way in.’
‘Who says you’re goin’ in?’
‘Me,’ I said, ‘and Gardy. He’s expecting me.’
‘Whatcha carrying?’
I showed him my empty hands.
He snorted at the other man, who began wiping me down.
‘You like how that feels?’ I asked the skank. ‘Rubbing yoursel’ all over another man?’
‘The fuck’s this?’ he asked touching the bulge in the back of my pants.
‘I shit mesel on the way in when I knew you’d be here to stop me,’ I told him.
He withdrew his hand, looked at Toad for what to do. Toad knew I was packing, but asked anyway.
‘You packin’, Alec?’
‘’Course I am.’
‘Gonna have to have it.’
‘Touch it,’ I said smiling, ‘and you’ll get it all right.’
Toad rocked back on his heels. His tongue went from one side of his lips to the other. I half expected his eyes to roll back as he blinked, but they didn’t.
I could hear the silence behind me, as contradictory as that seems. It was as if the hush was a tangible weight pressing down on my shoulders. The gangsta music had faded so even it was indistinguishable from the buzzing in my skull. My peripheral vision retracted, like I was a horse in blinkers. I zoned down on the hand pressing on my chest.
‘Take your hand off me, Toad, or I’ll break it.’
‘Fuckin’ Toad?’
‘You heard.’
Toad removed his hand.
But only to coil it into a fist.
He should have hit me then. But he didn’t. He was hard when he got going, but he was a pussy before hand. No real bottle. He flicked his gaze to the skank standing at my shoulder and I guessed that’s who would kick off first. I smashed the prick in the throat before he got the chance. Point of my elbow bone right in his voice box; fucker couldn’t even scream.
Toad flinched, but not far enough.
My forehead cracked him on the bridge of his nose.
He went back, hands cupping the blood spewing into his palms. I hoofed him in the bollocks.
I said the bastard was hard. He didn’t go down, but that was only a minor set back. I grabbed him by his skull and battered my knee into his chest, then used his head like a bowling ball, fingers inserted in his nostrils to swing him down and round and across the floor.
Don’t know if that was him out of the fight or not, ‘cause I immediately went up the stairs and into the room they called the Gods. I’d filled my hand on the way up, the Browning feeling like a clumsy and unfamiliar weight. Shouldn’t have, I used to carry one all the time, but it had been a few years. It was a single action pistol, with thirteen 9mm rounds in the magazine, and I had the hammer cocked back, the safety catch on, ready to go.
There were five of them up there. Four punks and the biggest arsehole of them all. The one in the middle was Raymond Gardner. Or Gardy to friends and foe alike. I showed him the barrel of the Browning so he could see the black hole that was gonna suck him into oblivion.
‘Heard you were expecting me, Gardy?’
He had to take a spliff out of his mouth to speak.
‘Alec Duncan, me ol’ pal,’ he grinned. ‘How long’s it been? Fuck me, must be three years.’
The Browning never wavered from his skull. Give him his due, he didn’t look bothered. As if having a gun pointed at him was a daily occurrence. Maybe it was these days.
His pals didn’t look as confident; they were antsy, trying to move away without making it obvious. I read Gardy’s face; wasn’t difficult being the proverbial open book.
‘Pity me an’ you can’t be friends again. You see the wankers I have round me nowadays? Not like it was back in the Regiment.’
The Regiment was a whole lifetime away for both of us now. His if I didn’t get my way.
‘Things were different back then,’ I told him.
‘Dunno about that. I’ve still got the same enemies. Mick’s and rag heads.’
And at least two Scots, I wanted to add. Me and Billy Reid.
‘I’m here about my cousin Billy.’
Gardy came round a pool table, putting his head even closer to the barrel of my gun. He sat on the edge of the table, folded his arms like he was fuckin’ Simon Cowell offering scathing criticism. He put on a passable Glaswegian accent. ‘It’s the difference between Bing Crosby and Walt Disney. Bing sings but Walt disnae.’
‘The fuck you on about?’ Not that I hadn’t heard that old joke about a million times.
‘I’m speaking in metaphors,’ Gardy said.
‘You’re talking shite,’ I corrected.
He smiled, thumbed the spliff back between his teeth. I wanted to remind him that the no smoking ban also applied to toking on a joint, but that would have just made me look like an idiot. The law didn’t view holding an illegal handgun on someone favourably either. I let it go.
Gardy was a wiry fucker, always was. In the last three years since I last saw him he’d put on the beef, but it was all round his neck and shoulders. He still looked like an ex squaddie. Right down to the short hair, the rubber soled boots. He was still dangerous. The difference was I was clean, but he was wired. The gange wasn’t the only thing he’d taken judging by the twitching round his eyes. I glanced, saw white residue from a couple lines on the pool table rim. Coked up. Speed maybe. I’m not that up on the different substances people snort up their noses these days. Didn’t care for them or the people that peddled them. I had to hang with Billy only because he was blood.
‘Billy says he owes you money,’ I said.
‘Like I said, Bing sings- -‘
I got it this time. Billy had reneged on paying his supplier.
‘You can’t get blood from a stone,’ I reminded him.
‘It’s all about the ways and means, Alec, me ol’ pal.’
‘You wanted him to steal money from our grandmother, you bastard.’
‘She’s eighty-two, ain’t she? What does she need with a heap of cash?’
I flicked off the safety. Almost shot the prick there and then.
His friends had made themselves scarce, backing off into the corners, still trying to look like hard-cases, but failing. I wondered if any of them were carrying; if they were they weren’t making a move yet. I kept the gun on Gardy. Like stink on shit as they say.
Gardy studied the e
nd of his spliff. Looked like it had gone out. Told me he was blowing instead of sucking. Bad sign; meant he wasn’t afraid of me or the gun. That’s what comes of coke, makes you feel indestructible I heard.
‘Billy owes you no nothin’. That’s it, Gardy. Leave it at that an’ we stay good ol’ pals.’
Gardy shook his head.
‘Can’t be done me ol’ china.’ The fuck had he switched to a cockney accent for? That was Gardy, though. He used to be good fun, would have us all grinning at his Sean Connery or Billy Connolly, his Tommy Cooper or Prince Charles. I used to laugh with him, now I was laughing at him. I saw now that he used the accents and mimicry cause he just wasn’t happy with the skin he was in. Was why he’d reinvented himself from a Special Forces soldier to a drug peddling smack-head, I supposed. Pathetic bastard.
Then there was me. I was also once an SAS bad-arse. Now look at me. Running around like a common criminal, defending someone who I should’ve smacked round the head a few times for even thinking of burgling my granny’s bungalow. Give Billy his due; he’d come to me before he did it. Made me wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t been in town, though. I was there protecting one dead-beat from another.
Gardy jutted out his chin, lips tight on his teeth, as he looked me up and down.
‘You’re lookin’ fit, Alec. What are ya doin’ these days?’
‘Hodd carrying,’ I said. ‘Building site over Yorkshire way.’
‘Fuckin’ labouring?’
‘Carrying bricks beats carrying shit.’
‘Depends on your perspective. See the shit pays better. Come to work for me Alec. I’ll let Billy’s debt go.’
‘Kiss my arse.’
‘Not my style. I’ve kicked plenty in my time.’ He laughed. ‘Kicked yours once, as I recall.’
He had too. Gave me a right leathering. But that was then.
I lowered the Browning.
‘Got a deal for you,’ I said.
‘Shoot,’ he said.
Maybe I should have, but I’d a point to prove.
‘Ooh, bad choice of word, eh?’ he grinned. ‘What I meant was- -‘
‘I know what you meant. Me an’ you, we get it on. I win, Billy’s debt is clear.’
‘What do I get outa the deal?’
I lifted the gun. ‘You get to stay on living.’
Gardy stuck the spliff back between his lips like it was a cheroot. Said, in his best Clint Eastwood, ‘You gonna use that gun or whistle Dixie?’ He laughed. ‘Where? When?’
‘Right here right now, if you want?’
He shook his head. ‘Where’s the money in that? I’m a fuckin’ business man these days, Alec. Don’t fight for nothin’, you know.’
He glanced round his four pals. ‘Which one of you pricks thinks Alec can take me?’
They all grumbled out uneasy laughter. Like, what the fuck were they gonna say?
‘Put a ton on me, lads,’ he said. ‘I win, I take the pot. Four hundred should do it. It’ll cover Billy’s debt.’ He squinted up at me. ‘You want to put up a wedge, Alec?’
‘I carry bricks, not cash.’
Somehow I got the impression that Gardy’s pals weren’t too happy about putting up the stake, not when it looked like a sure winner for their leader. But it was an out for them, a way of getting back into his good graces. They counted bills onto the corner of a pool table.
Gardy picked up the stack of twenties and tens. Riffled them under his nose. ‘I love the smell of cash in the morning.’ He mangled the Apocalypse Now quote, but his pals laughed with him. I shook my head. Wondered where we were doing it, so I asked him,
‘Where we doing it?’
‘Out the back,’ he said. ‘We’ll pick up the others on the way down, get a real purse going.’
I led the way down. Trusting Gardy was like I said earlier, like putting your head in a lion’s mouth, but I got the impression the money and the accolades meant more to him than if he cold-cocked me from behind like a bitch. Toad and the perfumed skank were nowhere to be seen and maybe that was a good thing. Blood spatters on the floor showed which way they’d gone. Into the pisser to clean up. Fuck ‘em; I didn’t need any more enemies clamouring round me ‘cause Gardy was dangerous enough for any man to contend with.
We went out through the back of the pool hall and down a flight of metal steps. The young gangstas followed us out, brave now that their vaunted leader was among them. They were all talking excitedly, dissing me behind my back. Telling Gardy to fuck me over real good, like they’d been raised in South Central LA instead of here in northern England.
There was a cobbled yard, dustbins, a shell of a car. Recognised it as an old Ford Escort like one my dad had back in the early eighties. Could’ve been the same one for all I knew ‘cause someone boosted it from outside our house and we never saw it again. Couldn’t fathom how the car got here because the yard was fully enclosed by a high wall; maybe the car was here before the wall and they just built around it like it was a museum piece in need of protection. Right.
Gardy took off his shirt. Threw a couple of lightning-fast punches, danced like Ali for the crowd. They were all cheering him, money passing back and forward.
I put the Browning down on one of the bins. Took off my sweatshirt and piled it on top. Stood there in my vest like Bruce Willis. Some of the crowd shut the fuck up, ‘cause I was a wiry bastard mesel. I shook the kinks out of my hands as I walked forward.
Gardy bounced on the balls of his feet.
I said, ‘Remember, I win, that’s it.’
‘My hand on it,’ he said, like I was going to fall for that old trick.
‘Your word will do.’
‘Okay, we’ve a deal.’ He turned to the crowd. ‘No one steps in. No one does nothin’, got it?’ He got sounds of assent from them. ‘If Alec beats me, then that’s everythin’ over with. No one touches Billy Reid.’
I nodded at him. For old time’s sake.
‘Rules?’ he asked.
‘You’ve seen Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid?’
He nodded. ‘I have.’
‘Good,’ I said and front kicked him under the chin. As he picked himself up off his arse, hand massaging his jaw, I said, ‘You should’ve seen that one coming, Gardy.’
He smiled at me, blood trickling from between his lips like he was a vampire fresh from a virgin’s throat.
‘Sneaky bastard,’ he laughed. ‘That’s the way I got you the last time.’
‘We’re square now,’ I told him. ‘We start from scratch.’
‘Okay.’ He came at me quick.
He punched me in my chest, then hooked at my head with a left. His knuckles scraped my skull but I was ducking. I sunk a dig into his guts. It was like punching a drum. I folded my arm, slammed him with my elbow, and that had more effect. He arched his back, got a hold on my face with both hands. Dug his thumbs into my eyes.
Could have tried to fight his hands off me, but while I was doing that he’d have demolished me. I rammed forward, hit my forehead against his. Kneed him in the bollocks. I’ve heard about guys on steroids; abuse makes their testicles shrivel. Maybe that was the case with Gardy ‘cause he didn’t flinch, just came back at me with a knee of his own. Got me in the solar plexus and nearly knocked the wind clean out of me. But at least his thumbs were out of my eyes.
We rattled round the yard, grunting and swearing, trading punches and kicks, none of them landing too cleanly. The crowd moved with us, baying for blood. All of it mine, of course. One of them spat on me; would’ve broken his nose given the chance but Gardy wasn’t giving me a second. I grappled him and we both rolled across the floor, digging and clawing. We spilled apart. Someone accidentally on purpose stepped on my hand. I swung a kick at him from the floor, caught him on his shins and the prick jumped back. Then it was back to Gardy. We had a hold on each other, his fists twisted in my vest; mine in his mouth and on his belt. We used that prop to struggle back to our feet.
Gardy tried to bite m
y fingers and I jerked my hand free. We backed away a step. But that was all. Then we were back into it.
I looped a right over the top of him, hit him in the back of the neck. Tried for his mastoid with the edge of my hand, missed but nearly tore his ear off. He backed away, touching his lughole like it was a prized possession. ‘Fuck me,’ he said.
I intended to.
I threw a punch at his windpipe.
Gardy stepped quickly to the side and caught my arm. Hand on wrist, hand on elbow. He rolled my arm, locked me tight, then pushed down on the joint. I felt a tendon rupture. Fuck me but it hurt. Gardy kept pressing, trying to give my arm a two-way hinge. I kicked my heel into his shins, and threw myself away. Nearly tore my arm out of its socket, but at least it wasn’t broken.
Gardy didn’t stop to think how I’d got away, just monopolised, coming after me while I was still off balance. He kicked me in the arse with the toe of his boot. Dunno if you’ve ever been kicked there for real, but it’s not the playful admonishment that most people think of. A blast of pain went right up my spine to the crown of my head. Then it went all the way back down again.
Could hardly stand.
Couple of Gardy’s pals were in my way and I grabbed at them to steady mesel. They shrugged me off, swung me round and Gardy planted his fist in my left eye socket.
Jesus! White light, a taste of metal in my mouth, pain like a son of a bitch.
They didn’t know it, but Gardy’s pals had helped me. Put me back on my feet and ready to give back everything I got. I jabbed Gardy in the mouth. Stuck a one in his gut, another in his ribs. He winced with every shot and I followed him. Palm under his chin, heel hooked round his knee in a Judo trip.
Gardy wouldn’t be caught so easily; he hooked me under an armpit, swung round, got his hips under me and threw me with a Judo hip-toss of his own.
Flat on my back there was no escape from the heel he stamped on my chest.
It was like having the stuffing forced out of every orifice in my body. I must have yelled in agony, ‘cause Gardy looked like he was pleased with himself and tried again. This time I was ready for him and I swept his leg over me with both arms. He straddled me, looking down at me with the red-rimmed eyes of a mad bull. I punched him in the balls.
