Brit Grit

by Paul D. Brazill

  He pulls a golf bag from the cupboard. It clatters over, spilling clubs over the floor.

  “Fuck,” said Craig. “Give us hand, eh?”

  “Maybe a nine iron,” said Tony, putting out a cigarette on the doorframe and walking over to Craig. “Should do the trick.”

  The end

  The Night Watchman

  Paddy Johnston had more birthdays than the Queen. He was sat at the bar in The Raby Arms wearing his beer stained Concorde Security Services uniform, head wobbling around like one of those little toy dogs that people used to have in the back of their cars in the sixties and fiddling with an unlit Embassy cigarette. As the afternoon staggered on, he was getting more and more wound up.

  “It’s bad enough having to work on me birthday,” he said “and me a pensioner ... but when I can’t even have a tab in the pub ... on me birthday.”

  Paddy’s face was like a blackcurrant crumble and so lived-in, squatters wouldn’t stay there. He kept jabbing the cigarette to accentuate each point, like he was about to throw a dart.

  “Gotta work, haven’t I? “ said Paddy. “Birthday or not. Haven’t got two pennies to rub together, have I? Pensioner, aren’t I?”

  The Raby Arms, like most of its punters, was permanently nicotine stained and it would take more than a few years of a smoking ban to cleanse it of its tobacco tinge. Like most afternoons, it was half empty – worse since the Wetherspoons Pub had opened down the road – and most of the customers were school friends of Methuselah, nursing half pints of Strongarm and waiting for someone to buy them a drink.

  Behind the bar today was Tuc, who usually only worked at Velvettes. He was filling in for Nick, the usual barman, and Tuc wasn’t too happy about it.

  “Don’t get me wrong, Peter,” said Tuc, “sometimes the crack’s good but, you know, at least at Velvettes I get a flash of gash and even the odd tip. Most of the punters are out of towners on business trips. Here, I’m like the kid in that Bruce Willis film. I see dead people.”

  “So what’s the problem with Nick?” I said.

  “Best not ask,” said Tuc, wiping his glasses with his tie. “Let’s just say, if he shows his face around here again, it’ll be missing a nose. If Jack’s got anything to do with it.”

  I sipped my pint of Stella. Jack Martin, the owner of both The Raby Arms and Velvettes Gents’ Club was not someone to cross. Paddy turned and looked at me.

  “It’s me birthday, y’know,” he said.

  “Many happy returns. Time flies,” I said. “It’s come around so soon”

  Tuc smirked as he puts in a CD.

  “Gladys Shite and the Pimps, eh?” I said as “Midnight Train To Georgia” crept out of the tiny sound system.

  I nodded to Tuc. “Get him whatever he’s drinking, Tuc.”

  Paddy grinned. “Cheers, brother. You’re a gentleman and a scholar.”

  I glanced at my reflection in the mirror behind the bar and thought that maybe I did look like a gentleman or a scholar.

  Paddy looked up at the clock, downed the pint of Stella and the Bell’s chaser in no time and staggered off the stool.

  “Off to graft now,” he said. “On me friggin birthday.” He bumped into me and slowly squinted at me like he was trying to scrutinize a magic eye painting.

  “Scuse me brother, do I know you?”

  “Only for about fifteen years, Paddy,” I said. “ Been a lot of booze under the bridge since then, though, eh? I’m Peter. Peter Ord.”

  “Ord,” he said, looking around the room for help. “I know that name...”

  An invisible light bulb appeared above his head.

  “Aahaa! You’re the private dickhead that Ollie Robinson’s missus paid to follow him. See if he was banging birds during night shift.”

  “Strictly confidential, Paddy,” I said.

  “Aye. Well, he was better off shot of her, brother. She’d had enough cock to make a handrail round the QE2, I can tell you.”

  The old grandfather clock in the corner struck two and Paddy reacted like a prize fighter.

  “Friggin ‘ell. Two o’clock. Gotta start me shift, brother.”

  As he stumbled out of the room I waved to him.

  “Happy Birthday, Paddy.”

  He paused, the door half open, letting in the warm, summer air. “Birthday,” he said, perplexed.

  “It’s not me friggin birthday until May.”

  * * *

  When I walked into Jack Martin’s office at Velvette’s Gentleman’s Club, I was expecting a bollocking, at the very least. I know that he was pissed off about my fling with Maria, one of the exotic dancers that worked for him. And I knew that I’d have to face a punishment. But this?

  “A babysitter?” I said?

  Jack glared at me, blue eyes piercing beetroot skin.

  “You used to be a teacher, right?” he said, filling two tumblers with brandy, his voice bearing more than a passing resemblance to that of the tiger in The Jungle Book.

  “Once upon a time,” I said.

  “English, I believe?” said Jack

  I thought of the staff room at Dyke House School, stuffed with disappointment and cigarette smoke, and was immediately draped in a cloak of gloom. I gulped my brandy.

  “English Lit, I believe?” said Jack, lighting a King Edward cigar.

  I nodded.

  “Right, well. Listen. My little angel, Holly, is doing her A Levels at the mo and isn’t doing so well at the subject. Can’t tell King Lear from a pig’s ear . The lives of dead poets hold bugger all interest to her. So, well, I’ve decided that you can give her a little extra tutorial, while I’m away in Lansagrotty.”

  “But why, me? There must be lots of eager ...”

  Jack held up a hand.

  “Yes, well, maybe too eager, some of them,” he said. Holly’s a beautiful young girl and I don’t want anyone trying to have their wicked way with her. She needs to concentrate on her studies. Her future. So, yes, as well as helping with her stanzas and whatnot you can keep an eye out for any unsavory characters. You’ll be like a night watchman.”

  Just like Paddy, I thought. I shuffled in my seat.

  “So, the English lessons are just a cover?” I said.

  “Not much gets past you, lad,” said Jack. “I know she’s safe with you. She wouldn’t touch you with Roman Polanski or any other five foot Pole.”

  He chuckled to himself, picked up a copy of the Times and started on the crossword. Nothing like an ego boost to start the day.

  * * *

  It was Saturday night and I was nestled on a bar stool contemplating the evening’s third double whisky. Uncharacteristically, The Raby Arms was heaving and, unfortunately for me, so was the man next to me.

  “Paddy, watch what you’re doing,” I said, stepping away from the pool of pavement pizza.

  “Sorry, brother,” said Paddy.

  I moved closer the bar. Tuc was in full on seventies disco mode, playing Sheila & B. Devotions’ “Spacer” much to the chagrin of the cast of “Cocoon” that were stuffed into the far corner of the room. The rest of the customers, a bunch of sweaty Muscle Marys on their way to Newcastle to see Shirley Bassey, seemed happy enough though.

  “So, Tuc. You’ve worked for Jack Martin for as long as I can remember. Tell me about Holly.”

  “Spoilt little twat, if you ask me. Worse since Mrs. Martin popped her clogs, God rest her soul. She looks like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth but I’ve heard that a few chav stiffies have. They don’t call her Minstrels for nothing.”

  “Oh, great.”

  “Yeah,” said Tuc “And I’ve also heard she’s got a thing for older men. So you better watch your step.”

  Suddenly, someone banged into me and I spilled my beer. I turned and saw Paddy swaying toward me.

  “Ey, you’re him. The gumshoe?” he said. I recoiled from his acid breath.

  “Just the man I need,” said Paddy.

  oman"> I said.

  “Yeah. Listen....” he drag
ged me toward a small table in the corner.

  “I was on the force, you know, for 20 years, man and boy. In uniform the whole time. I worked on the lot. Even murder. Even the Binns’ fur robbery. Remember that?”

  Who could forget. A bunch of Braniacs in the Seventies broke into the department store warehouse and stole a fair amount of expensive mink coats. Unfortunately, they used a Robin Reliant as a getaway car and so it didn’t exactly take Columbo to track them down since about one million people noticed the car crawling down the street.

  “My best mate, Starskey to my Hutch, was a bloke called Ernie Teal. Side by side we were. Me and my shadow, like Flanigan and Allen. Well. He made Detective and moved down south to Dar..Dar…”

  “Dartford?” I said.

  “Naw, Darlington. Or York. Somewhere like that. Anyway, he disappeared into thin air.. we were like blood brothers, we were...”

  “And so you want me to track him down?”

  “Indeed, brother “ said Paddy “Ex-copper. Shouldn’t be too hard, eh ...? And I know you’ll have connections. In the force.”

  I drained my glass.

  “Another pint of Nelson?” I said to Paddy.

  “Aye,” he spluttered.

  * * *

  The evening was melting into night and dark, malignant clouds were spreading themselves across the sky. I pulled down the metal shutters and locked up Las Vegas Amusement as a battered yellow taxi cab spluttered to a halt in front of the arcade. Living above an amusement arcade was hardly ideal but my landlord, Mr Raymond, give me a cheap deal as long as I locked up and did the bingo when one of the callers rang in sick.

  The deodorant soaked taxi snaked it’s way along the sea front, past pubs, greasy spoons, gift shops and amusement arcades, as the rain fell down in sheets. Heading outside the town, behind the park, where the busses don’t run, towards a six bedroom mock Tudor house . The taxi stuttered to a full stop outsi de a swinging sign: “Dun Robbin.”

  The door was opened by a petite, short-haired blonde in a Cradle of Filth t-shirt and cut-off jeans so tight you could read her lips. And she was stunning. My jaw dropped so much that you could have scraped carpet fluff from my bottom lip.

  “Holly?” I said.

  “Follow me, Mr Teacher,” she said and she led me into a house so kitsch Liberace would have considered it tasteless.

  “Help yourself to a drink,” said Holly “And I’ll slip into something more comfortable.”

  And, as she scuttled upstairs, I did just that. I poured myself a large Zubrowka and apple juice.

  After a couple of minutes, dressed exactly the same, Holly bounded down the stairs with a pile of books and sat next to me on the sofa.

  “This is cosy, isn’t it?” she said. I swigged the vodka to wash away the dark and dingy thoughts that were lurking in the murky corners of my mind and iimmediately, an old Police song corkscrewed through my brain. And I friggin’ hate Sting.

  * * *

  The misconception that Paddy had is a common one. Lots of people believed that all PI’s were ex cops with connections in the police force and the underworld. And, maybe that was true of some of them but in my cases I had to use other resources. In the case of tracking down Detective Sargent Ernest Teal, well, I used something called the Yellow Pages.

  Early morning and the air tasted like tin as the big black Grand Central train pulled into the station. I’m overwhelmed by a sense of foreboding. Maybe it was foreshadowing or maybe it was just the hangover. I took a seat and pulled out a well-thumbed copy of “Saturday Night, Sunday Morning” . It was at least a couple of hours to York.

  I tried to concentrate on the book but ended up gazing out of the window at the rows of concrete blocks being smudged by the morning rain and ended up nodding off. When I peeled back my eyelids, the sunlight stung my eyes and I saw that the train was pulling into York Station.

  From the photos it looked as if Ernie Teal was an oak of a man, and you could easily imagine him overpowering the various ne’er-do-wells that he came across before he took early retirement. Mrs Rose Teal was, however, a stumpy woman, who seemed out of sorts without her husband.

  “He just scarpered,” she said, sitting with her handbag on her knee, clasping the handle tightly with both hands.

  “Any indication as to ...” I started to say.

  “Oh, he blamed it on the house, said it was draining money. He was against moving here, really. Gentrification he called it but then, he never liked Yorkshire. Said it were full of homosexualists.”

  She sipped her tea.

  “He left me well provided for, though. I’ll give him that. Paid for the mortgage and left a lot of money in the bank. Then he just buggered off to Brazil.”

  At once, my spider senses started tingling. Corruption, payoffs, bribery. This is it, I thought. A real case: bent copper pisses off to South America with a well stacked ...

  “I reckon he’d have stayed if he hadn’t won the lottery . I mean...”

  “What?” I said “Lottery?”

  “Oh aye. Eight million quid, near as dammit. Blessing and a curse.”

  Awkwardly, I dipped my custard cream into my tea and just stared as it crumbled onto the coffee table when I took it out.

  * * *

  “You did well, lad,” said Jack, his skin looking weirdly bronzed. “After that... faux pas ... you had with that lap dancer last month, I wasn’t 100% sure that you could be trusted but ...well, the CCTV speaks for itself.”

  Jack started counting out the wad of cash.

  “I could see it all. The only visitor my angel had was that Carole girl from school. And they just stayed in her room studying until the early hours, not even a trip to a nightclub.”

  As I put the money into my jacket pocket I flashed back to the night I drank too much and fell asleep on the sofa at Jack’s house. This segued into me going looking for the toilet, accidentally walking into Holly’s bedroom and finding her and Carole involved in what the tabloids would call “Girl On Girl Love Action” I faded out as I closed the door, unseen.

  “Let’s hope she passes her exams,” I said, finishing off my brandy.

  Jack grinned.

  “No need to worry about that, he said. “The head of the local education department is a regular in Velvettes. He owes me big time after a recent ... indiscretion.”

  “It’s not what you know, it’s who you know,” I said.

  * * *

  “Gripping this, eh?” I said, but Tuc was enthralled, staring at the television screen. “Deal or no Deal,” does that to some people.

  The door bursts open and Paddy wandered in, his fly’s as wide as the Grand Canyon. He staggered toward the toilet.

  “Oh, Paddy,” I said. “I’ve got some news for you. Sort of good news and bad news.”

  “What’s that, then, brother,” said Paddy, jiggling around a little.

  “It’s about that mate of yours,” I said. I tracked him down. I know where he is but the expenses it’ll cost you for me to get to him might be a little more than you’re willing to pay.” I smirked a little. “He’s in Brazil.”

  Paddy had the toilet door almost open and he turned to look at me.

  “Brazil? Who do I know in Brazil?”

  “Ernie Teal, “I said. “Your old mate. Cagney to your Lacey”

  Paddy shook his head.

  “Ernie Teal? What would I want to see that tosser for? Never could stand the bloke!”

  And he turned, farted, and stumbled into the toilets.

  I finished my drink and saw that Tuc was grinning.

  “I reckon that’s one you won’t get paid for,” he said.

  “Yep, I’ll just have to put it down to experience,” I said.

  Tuc tapped my empty pint glass. “You want another one?”

  “Well,” I said. “In the absence of the stuff that dreams are made of, a pint of wife beater will do very nicely indeed.

  The End

  Everybody Loves Somebody, Sometime

&nb
sp; Even when he closed his eyes, Jack could see the rain seeping into the ceiling. He saw that dark patch spreading, the ceiling buckling. And when he slept, he dreamt of drowning. Dreamt of the ceiling collapsing and filling the room with dirty, rancid water. Choking him. Dragging him under.

  He was getting paranoid, he knew. The palpitations were increasing, too. And the worrying was getting worse.

  He worried that the candles that he used to light the cottage would burn the crumbling place down. Which wouldn’t have been that bad an idea if the place had still been insured. But he’d stopped the insurance over a year ago. His invalidity benefit didn’t go far, after all. Booze, of course, and Pot Noodles. Maybe the odd cheese and onion pie.

  When the winter kicked in, his arthritis bit like a beast and he stayed in bed as much as possible, with a bottle of whisky as a teddy bear.

  The whisky was his friend most of the time. Bringing him welcome memories. The golden days.

  Jack Hayes, Tommy Morten and Harjit Singh. The Rat Pack mark two. Their tribute act was the best in Bournemouth. Maybe the whole of the south coast of England. They’d once opened for Tommy Cooper. And Shirley Bassey had been a big fan.

  They played hotels and night clubs. Casinos . Tommy was Frank. Harjit was Sammy and Jack was Dean, of course. They were like kings.

  Things were going great until that tour of the Greek Islands. It was a joy to start off with. The audience lapped it up night after night.

  Then some little twat of a waiter sneaked into the dressing room and used his phone to record Lou Lou – the Philippine girl that did Judy Garland in the show - down on her knees , between Jack’s legs, playing come blow your horn. It was all over You Tube in a day. Turned out that Lou Lou was only 17. And she was a he. How the bollocks was Jack to know?

  He was a laughing stock. When they played gigs the audience would shout out requests for “Lola” or “Dude Looks Like A Lady”. So the band sacked him.

  And then the house of cards fell down.