Beat on the Brat and Other Stories

by Nigel Bird

  Hit the main man bang on the nose, sweet as a nut.

  Should have been game over, but them guys were no fun.

  Soon as our backs turned, they came again. Caught one right on the back of my head. Don’t reckon it was no snow either. Felt like a stone. Sounded like it too.

  Bang out of order, it was. I was raging.

  Turned and went straight for them. Course Al hadn’t noticed – just kept on across the road like it was any other day.

  Came at me like it was a charge out of the trenches, a load of kids with nothing better to do when the school’s shut than harass the public.

  Course I was screwed, but I wasn’t going down without a fight. Clenched my fists real tight and swung me a string of good ones, three in a row like I’d turned pro. Didn’t have time to think, just let my hands work. Landed one on the chin of the kid with the bleeding nose – he dropped to the floor like a corpse.

  For a moment I thought I could take them. Like I was a well-oiled machine. A triumph for experience over youth. Except they kept coming.

  Caught another with a left. It was like heaven. Then the skies came crashing.

  Someone took my legs and I was down. Had him squeezed between my thighs and nutted him good, but there were too many others.

  And it went black.

  Next light I saw was from a bedside lamp at the Royal Free Hospital.

  Couple of uniforms were waiting for a chat.

  Asked what I could remember.

  Played the amnesia card.

  They filled me in.

  Ward three they told me.

  Got me a chair and wheeled me up for a look, hoping to jog something in that memory of mine.

  He was all ventilators and tubes, the daft prick. Ravi Bhopar. Vegetarian, lover of life, father of six. Hardly knew the bloke except for what he said when he came down to pick up stationery.

  Why’d he do it? Lying on top of me and taking a kicking like that.

  They sure fucked him up.

  His skin was yellow where it used to be brown. Lumps of spit crusted at the sides of his mouth. A bag at the side of the bed was filling with red piss.

  Told the uniforms a little about what went down, but not enough to help them out. There’s more than one way to open a can of worms after all – there’s the easy way and there’s the personal.

  ***

  Weather was fucked. Cold front from Russia or something.

  Only Luke and me got in on Thursday. Took me longer than Monday on account of the broken ribs, bruised buttocks and swollen testicles. Felt something twinge every step of the way, but nothing was going to stop me.

  Didn’t broadcast my arrival. Went in through the back and watched from my office till I was ready.

  Told Luke I had some business I had to take care of and got on the blower to Uncle A.

  ***

  Uncle Archie wasn’t going to be put off by a bit of bad weather. 91 years old and there he was, no worries.

  Salt of the earth he is. Always got by doing a bit of this and that. Winters he made money selling roasted chestnuts to tourists, the rest of the year it was seed for the pigeons on Trafalgar Square for anyone wanting to play at Mary Poppins. Charged a damn sight more than tuppence a bag and all.

  Lives in Edmonton these days on account of him not having a proper pension and living so long. He’s on the third floor of a block that make Eastern European towers look like Luxury apartments. Loses residents every year from the balconies, if balconies is what you call them – they’re more a place to collect bird shit in case you want to spread it on your plants if you ask me.

  Still keeps the lock-up garage in Islington. Fills it with things he couldn’t get rid of. Arsenal champions shirts, fireworks from the wettest November since records began, singing goldfish that were all the rage until someone found the poison in them.

  I help him with the heavy stuff when he needs.

  It was those fireworks that popped into my head when I was trying to sleep off the beating.

  “Still got the old chestnut stove?” I asked him Tuesday.

  “Sure. Always handy for barbecues.”

  “And the fireworks?”

  “In the lock-up.”

  “Thing is, Uncle A, I might need to take them off your hands for a bit. Sort out a problem I’ve been having.”

  He didn’t need to know what I was thinking, but it felt good telling. Even added some fresh ideas, he did. Wanted to get his hands dirty on this one.

  Can’t keep a good man down.

  ***

  “How’d you boys like to earn a few bob while you’re standing here with your hands on your cockles?” Uncle A was the crafty cockney Dick Van Dyke could only have dreamed of being.

  The boys just stood. A few of them spat in the snow.

  The short ugly one with the ‘I’ bandage over his nose stepped forward. “Jog on, mate,” he said coming close like he was trying to rub eyeballs with the old man.

  “Can’t jog on account of my knee. Can walk though. Your loss.” Uncle A took the handles of the converted oil barrel and went to push it away.

  “Hang on,” the bandaged one said. “Tell us about it before you go.”

  He let go of the handles and stood up straight. “Me and the boy here, we’ve got to head up north for a few days. Can’t bear to miss out on the profit with the weather like this.”

  “Something in it for us?”

  Uncle A smiled.

  My scarf slipped. Pulled it up, tightened it at the back then jostled about in the extra-large boxer-shorts I’d invested in on account of the swelling.

  He explained things as I fiddled. How to light it, to roast the nuts, how to keep them warm. Told them the trick with the small bags and gave them advice on the patter.

  “Never mention the price,” he said. “Hit them with that when you’ve passed them over. ‘That’s two quid, squire’ tell them. If it’s a woman, ‘Darling’. Kids are always ‘Sweetheart’. Keeps them sweet. It’s the cockney shit they’re paying for.”

  “Where’s the catch?” a lad with a pug-ugly face asked.

  “No catch. Straight fifty-fifty and you’ll be able to buy all the tunes you like. We’re back Monday for the split and the gear.”

  Job was a good one. Couldn’t have stitched them up better if he’d been a seamstress.

  We retreated. Took the back way into the office. Headed upstairs for the ringside.

  They’d already lit the firelighter and were huddled around it staring at it like it needed fixing.

  “Sure it’ll work?” I asked.

  There wasn’t time for him to answer.

  Went off like a bag of grenades.

  Looked like I’d overdone the powder the way it threw them onto their arses with their clothes on fire.

  We settled back to watch the display.

  Green and blue fountains poured from the sky. Rockets exploded over rooftops.

  Trickles of red stained the snow, pug-face on his back waving his arms and legs like he was making a snow-angel.

  It’s the weather, I guess. Brings out the kid in all of us.

  Sugar And Spice

  Tommy Atkins was made of bad things. Frogs and snails and puppy dog tails.

  His parents knew it soon as he came out of the womb.

  Bruce Robertson knew it more than most. He’d been Tommy’s muscle for a good while, twisting an arm here and there. Breaking or chopping them off if things got out of hand.

  But Bruce didn’t mind. He was made of bad things, too.

  People said he was rotten to the core.

  Might have been better for him if he was. Wouldn’t have got himself into the mess he was in if they’d been right.

  Somewhere in Bruce’s soul was sugar and spice and only Tommy knew it.

  Most of the time Bruce’s nice side was about as easy to spot as a zebra on a crossing.

  The night they went after Barnsey it was like an enormous zit on the end of a tiny nose.

  Pu
tting a bullet through a man’s head meant nothing to either of them.

  Tommy took Barnesy out with a shot to the temple, no sweat.

  It was the same with Barnesy’s wife. Bruce gave it to her while she slept. Let the pillow soak up blood and brains.

  When it came to the kid, Bruce didn’t have it in him.

  Hiding under the bed the child was a loose end that needed tying. But Bruce couldn’t tie it.

  Sure, he squeezed the trigger, just not as hard as it required.

  Instead of taking her out, Bruce walked away.

  How was he to know she’d made them both? Was able to describe them to the police down to the finest detail as if it had been tattooed onto her eyeballs.

  ***

  And now Tommy was coming for Bruce with everything he had.

  They’d cornered him in the industrial estate on the outside of town.

  Bruce laid-up. Hid in the attic of Cheeky Charlie’s. Only went down to buy food from the machines or when he needed the lavvy.

  Three days and three nights he’d been there.

  The diet of sweets and fizzy drinks had taken its toll and he was experiencing cramps from lying still for hours on end.

  On the fourth day, he decided to give up. Lay and closed his eyes and willed himself to death. Only problem was his lungs wouldn’t stop and his pulse went on no matter how hard he tried.

  And that’s when he saw it.

  A spider wove its silken strands, threading and circling until a web was made.

  Bruce felt a tear in his eye as the spider stood at the edge of its home waiting for unsuspecting visitors to call for dinner.

  Patient it was, like a fisherman on the banks of the Tyne.

  That night a storm pounded Charlie’s place. Made it rattle and shake as if it were about to cave in, but the metal sheets remained in place, not a bolt removed or out of sorts.

  Only casualty was the spider’s web, ripped apart by a gust that whistled through the gaps.

  The spider didn’t sit and mope, oh no. Just waited for the wind to end and started over, spinning and weaving like nothing had happened.

  And Bruce was inspired.

  Decided the only way to make a life was to get up off his arse and run for it. Start over in another town.

  Besides, Tommy and his gang would have given up the ghost way before.

  Took the spider in his palm and squeezed the life from it, then jumped to the floor, opened the door and ignored the alarm that sang out loud.

  The first pop halted him where he stood. The second dropped him to his knees. The third, he knew nothing about.

  Hoodwinked

  John Campion was always going to do well for himself. Everyone knew it.

  Day he packed up and left for college we didn’t reckon on seeing him ever again, not if them tutors could get him to tell stories the way he did down at the tavern. Like he’d swallowed the blarney stone and digested the whole darned thing. Couldn’t burp without embellishing facts and when he puked he threw up a thesaurus.

  “Truth be stranger than fiction,” he’d say before he started. The words “I ever tell you about…” always got us in a huddle.

  Never had to pay for a beer his whole life far as I know.

  Turned out we was wrong about never seeing him again.

  It was Easter.

  He showed up on the mountain without sending word to man nor beast. Carried the rucksack he left with and a bag of books to give to everyone - signed copies of his very own novel.

  Wasn’t alone neither. Had a woman with him. Film director. Wore her hair long and her smile wide, just as I like them.

  Word got round about the movie they was planning to make. Based on that novel of his it was. Had the place buzzing like a saw. Biggest news in the hills since McGregor turned on his wife and kids and swallowed the barrels of his gun.

  JC and Eve stayed for a couple of weeks. Chatted to just about everyone.

  Eve was nice. Kind of lady you’d like to get into the sack. A little modern maybe, a head full of crazy notions, but it didn’t stop me or nobody else taking a crack at her.

  We was all spraying the wrong tree anyhow. Only had eyes for the female variety so JC said.

  ***

  They came back six months later, heading up a party of caravans and trucks that carried an army of crew.

  Had everything a man could want right there with them, down to the kitchens and the food.

  Right off they set to auditioning folk.

  My brother Paul got him a part. All he had to do was pretend to fill cars at the gas station. Could have trained a chimp to do that. Wasn’t even going to get to say nothing which was probably for the best.

  Meant I had to stay home and look after the birds, set them flying for anyone who’d pay to watch.

  First thing Paul did with his dough was to head on in to town. Came back with a brand new pair of jeans and a cell-phone. Bragged that it had a fancy camera in it.

  Ask me a phone’s a phone. No need to go putting things together that don’t fit.

  Looked mighty fine, I told him, but wouldn’t be no good to a hungry man.

  ***

  Lead actor was Johnny ‘Cupcake’ Owens.

  Night he showed up, pretty much all of the females in the county got themselves hysterical.

  Even old Mamma Creek left the house for a look – first time she’d left her porch since Jacob passed away the year before. He was got by the cancer. A seven year old girl managed to lift him from his bed when the tumour was through with him.

  Almost as light as one of my birds he must have been.

  Biggest I’ve got is Philly.

  10 pounds is all she weighs. Sits on my glove like she weren’t nothing.

  Finest monkey eating, ball sucking eagle in the country, that’s for sure.

  ***

  I drove Marlene and the kids down to see ‘Cupcake’. She’d have broken my nose if I hadn’t. Queued for an hour to get his autograph and shit.

  Hardly recognised him up there on the platform. Didn’t look anything like Commander Scott in that ‘Warzone’ movie. Like someone had taken his ass and shaved off a few inches here and there. Felt good knowing I could take him without breaking sweat.

  That wife of his looked pretty pissed by it all.

  Three months gone she was. Got the feeling she wasn’t going to like being out of the city, not one bit.

  ***

  For the next couple of months you couldn’t move for bumping into one of them actors or key-grips or whoever.

  Not that I was complaining.

  Got so I was wearing them birds out. Flew the falcons three times a day. Almost killed them.

  Kept the bank happy with all the trade we was doing.

  Paul was having a ball. Couldn’t get enough of being under the lights.

  Didn’t take off the make-up after his shots. Wore it like a badge. He’d a been better off in a dress, you ask me, even with a beard longer than Santa’s. But it was nice to see him happy. Like he’d found something to be proud of.

  ***

  Maybe his taste for the high-life was what did for him.

  Even if it was, doesn’t make it right.

  A few weeks before the end-of-filming, Paul came back like he’d won the Oscar for best pumper of gas.

  Pulled out his phone and showed me.

  Johnny Cupcake’s white ass shining like the moon. Nothing wrong with that. Except it was framed between the legs of one of the Creek twins.

  Couldn’t be sure if it was Amy or Mary he was screwing from the angle, not that it mattered much either way. Certainly wasn’t Mrs Cupcake and she definitely wasn’t old enough to let a man of Cupcake’s age take her cherry.

  ***

  Plan made sense, pretty much.

  Send the photo on to Johnny, make sure he knew it was real. Ask for a bag of cash to keep it from the press and give him the phone in return.

  Didn’t want to be greedy, neither. Not so much to make him
think too hard, not so little to leave us short.

  $20 thousand we decided, a fart in a warehouse to a star like Cake.

  Enough for us to set up a little concern of our own. A hunting and fishing shop to go alongside the ‘Birds Of Prey Experience’.

  ***

  I dropped Paul off just down from the pond where they was to meet.

  Pulled off nice and smooth and never looked back.

  Cake might be rich, but he was also careful. Didn’t want no one getting wind of any of it.

  Smoked near a half pack of tobacco waiting for that brother of mine to show.

  Rosy closed the diner and came and sat for a while. Told me how she was going to change the menu soon as the film came out. Name the burgers after the stars. Was even thinking of changing the name of the establishment.

  I said she should hold her horses. Wait till the film was really a film before she did any such thing. Besides, ‘Skin and Bone’ didn’t seem the right kind of handle for a place you go and eat, but what the fuck did I know?

  We changed the subject and climbed into the back seat for a little hot-loving. Sure does know how to please a man does Rosy Ford.

  After we was done, I drove her home and circled back.

  Still no sign of Paul.

  Got it into my head that he’d run off on me, him holding all the cards like he did.

  Did my best to find the bastard. Fumed over it for days. Practically had a heart attack just thinking about it.

  ***

  By the time they found him the film crew were long gone, leaving nothing behind but a couple of broken hearts and a whole load of dreams for folk to cling to.