I knew I had to say summat. On the spot, I were. ‘Reckon you won’t be doin’ much more strippin,’ I says, giving her a friendly smile. ‘Less you wears a paper bag.’
To be honest she could have done with a paper bag anyhow, even before last night. But she couldn’t hardly expect to get by without one now. I didn’t mention none of that, course. I were all set to, but she turned arse and went into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her and rattling that Elvis painting on the wall. That were a birthday present from me and all. Different birthday, mind.
I sighed and got up. I went to her door and put me ear to it for a bit. She were sobbing, just loud enough so’s I could hear it. Weren’t the usual put-on, neither—she were sobbing for proper this time. I put my hand on the doorknob and left it there a second. Then I came to me senses and stepped away. I lifted her smokes off the side and went out the front door, shutting it quiet behind us.
Oh aye, reckon I’m a cunt, does you?
Well that’s what I am.
And so’s the feller who bust my face last night. And so’s all them little fuckers done over Hoppers with the glass last night. Then there’s me old man, who started us off on the cuntish trail by being such a good one himself. And every other bastard in town. Cunts, the lot of em. Sal included. So don’t come at us with your finger wagging and your arse in the air, cos if you looks hard enough in the mirror you’ll find a cunt there and all.
All right?
Now shut yer face or fuck off.
I got back in me Capri and drove townward, feeling lighter in meself the farther I got away from Sal. I had work to do—a bird to find and a feller to do over. Them’s two things I knew I could do when I put me heart to em, even if nothing else were going right for us. In fact, I knew if I could just get them two jobs done then all the rest would foller. All about confidence, you see. Land a couple of lefts and the rights looks after themselves. Here’s what I’d do:
Sort out Frankenstein. He’d lamped us at Hoppers last night and doing him would restore my standing in the community.
Fuck Fat Sandra and her arcade monkeys.
When I says fuck her I don’t mean it literal, you twat.
Lager and smokes.
But I’d just pop down the Paul Pry first. It were payday and I only had a fiver on us. Might sink a couple while I were down there and all. Feller needs his strength getting up before performing great feats, don’t he?
‘No.’
I looked around the bar, sipping me pint. It were a quiet lunchtime in the quietest establishment in town. And that’s just how I liked it. I spent enough time in Hoppers surrounded by the cory munts and filthy slappers that passed for townfolk. Outside work I needed a peaceful environment in which to sup me hard-earned. And with Nathan the barman in charge, the Paul Pry were it.
‘You what, Nathan?’ I says.
Weren’t folks could relax with Nathan around, see. I were one of em, course, but that’s cos I’m easy-going meself. I knows he knows everything and I don’t give a toss about it. Other folks ain’t so happy about that side of him, mind, Nathan knowing every little thing they gets up to and what have you. So Nathan’s gift were also his curse, which were to preside over the least-frequented hostelry in Mangel.
‘I says no. An’ I’ll not say him again. Clean yer ears out. No’s an easy word to hear, and I reckon there ain’t much of an excuse for not hearin’ him first time.’
The lager trickled down me neck as Nathan’s meaning came through. ‘What d’yer fuckin’ mean, “no”?’
‘I’ve told you before, Blake—kindly control yer language in my bar, ladies bein’ present.’
‘I don’t see none.’
‘Ain’t the point.’
‘What is the fuckin’ point?’
‘Principle of it.’
‘Where’s me fuckin’ wages?’
‘Ain’t payin.’ He shrugged and went about his barmanlike affairs as if he’d just told us he were out of peanuts.
‘All right, Nathan,’ I says, sucking a fag. Weren’t like Nathan to play games, but a game it surely must be—made no sense else. ‘I’ll play. Why ain’t I gettin’ paid?’
‘You ain’t gettin’ paid, Blakey, cos I ain’t no longer your paymaster.’
I stubbed the smoke and plonked my empty glass before him. ‘You what?’ I lit another and chucked the empty box.
He sighed. ‘I don’t like repeatin’ meself. You wants yer wages, you’ll have to ask yer new boss. I’m sure he’ll be just as good a paymaster as I were. And kindly pick that fag packet up.’ He took my empty and refilled her.
‘Eh? But you owns Hoppers.’
‘Wrong.’
‘Wha…?’
‘Not no more, I don’t.’
‘Course you does.’
‘Nope. Not after last night.’
I remembered he were having us on and calmed down a bit. ‘All right, Nathan. Who fuckin’ do own her, then?’
‘Less of yer swearin’.’
Fuck calming down—I wanted to climb over the bartop and break his face. But this were Nathan the barman. You could do that to other barmen but not him. ‘Who?’
He were wiping down the pumps, whistling a tune I weren’t acquainted with. ‘Nick Nopoly,’ he says.
‘You fuckin’ what?’
He went to serve a punter. I started going through all the Nicks I knew. There were Nick Leecrom school—he’d disappeared ten year ago, and folks who disappears in Mangel don’t as a rule ever turn up again. Ventured one too many a time into Norbert Green, like as not. Then there were Nick Soil—but he were an old cadger and spent his days putting on tuppenny bets down the bookies. There were no way he’d buy Hoppers, and he’d never win enough to anyhow. I tried thinking of other Nicks, well aware that I were wearing out me swede for no good purpose—I knew full fucking well who Nick Nopoly were. Only I didn’t want to face it. If I ignored it long enough it might go away and Nick Nopoly might start being someone else.
But, you know, I weren’t quite sure why I were fretting. He were only a streak of piss, weren’t he? And he drove a fucking shite ugly motor.
‘Nick Nopoly,’ says Nathan, folding his hairy arms and setting em down atop the counter, ‘is an outsider.’ He gave us a long, slow wink, like he’d said all that needed saying on the matter.
‘But…’ I had a lot of buts. I had so many fucking buts I weren’t sure which but were best. But as it turned out I didn’t need none of em.
Nathan cleared it all up for us, see. ‘I’m a businessman, Blake. Businessmen needs to make money, not fritter it away. And Hoppers don’t make no money. All Hoppers makes is trouble. The harder you tries to turn her around, the more trouble you gets. Look at last night—meant to be the night everythin’ turned around, it were. Folks’d start buyin’ and I’d start earnin’ at last. But what happens? You tell us what happens, Blake—you was there. What’d I tell you? “No trouble,” I says. So what does I get, eh? Trouble. Know what I says to Nick wossname, after he’d signed? “You ought to give that place a new name,” I says. “You ought to call her Trouble.” Thass what I says to him.’
I opened me gob.
But he were off again: ‘And as fer him bein’ an outsider, what of it? Like I says—I’m a businessman. One punter’s good as the next un. Ain’t first time an outsider’s owned Hoppers. And besides, who else’d buy her? Who in Mangel is barmy enough to buy that place, besides meself once upon a time? And don’t say you would. I’m talkin’ about folks of means, not the like of you.’
‘But…’ I knew there were a good but in there somewhere gagging for air. I tongued me bleeding gums, hoping that’d spring him out.
‘No buts,’ says Nathan. ‘You wants yer wages—and I’ve no doubt you does—get em off yer new boss, like I says.’
‘But…’ It weren’t the one I were after, but it were a but. ‘But where is he?’
‘You’ll find him in the Bee Hive,’ he says, picking up a Mangel Informer. I fucking hate
d that particular journal and hadn’t read it since they’d printed all that shite about us a while back. Far as I were concerned, that paper were a tissue of bollocks, or whatever they says, and like all good tissues it were fit only for blowing your nose or wiping your arse on. But I couldn’t help clocking the headline: INTO THE LION’S DEN.
‘Be there till six he will, like as not. After which, Hoppers.’
I looked at him a bit longer. There were no point rowing with Nathan—you couldn’t win. And even if you could, it wouldn’t gain you fuck all. I necked me pint and got up.
‘Payin’ fer them, you are,’ he says nodding at my empty.
I glared at him, wishing he’d at least said them last two words the other way round and put a question mark after em. I couldn’t believe he were being such a cunt. Not only were I a discarded employee and deserving of a bit more respect and gratitude—I were one of his top punters, and merited a particular level of service. ‘Take it out me wages, same as always.’
‘Can’t very well do that now, can I?’
‘Come on, Nathan. I only got a fiver on us. Put him on the slate or summat.’
‘See that sign?’ he says, poking thumb over shoulder. ‘NO CREDIT.’
‘Fuckin’ hell,’ says I, reaching in me pocket. ‘And pick that fag packet up.’
Course, soon as I were back in me car I recalled the thing I’d been wanting to say, the but that had kept hid under the shock of everything:
But what about me?
See, Hoppers were all I had. And don’t go getting the violin out and taking the piss. All I means is, you know, Hoppers is the only job I ever done. Only legal one, like. And it’s more than…
Ah, fuck off. I can’t be arsed. You wouldn’t bloody understand if I told you.
So go on, fuck off.
Still here? All right…
I were headed out Norbert Green way. I didn’t give a shite if I were straying onto dangerous ground, and that folks from thereabouts is liable to put you on a barbie if the sun’s just so in the sky. Fuck em. I wanted me wages, didn’t I? And if I had to go into the Bee Hive to get em…
Only thing were—I thought to meself, lifting up an arse cheek and pumping out a long rattler—what the hell were Nick Wossname doing in Norbert Green, let alone the swarming stinking heart of it? All right, so he knew Nobby and Cosh. Knowing them would get him in there no problem, if they was still the vicious cunts I used to know em to be. But how the fuck had he come to know em?
I’d asked meself such questions as these before. None of it had made sense then, and it were no different now. I pulled up outside and opened the door of me 2.8i.
There’s a feeling in your guts only a walk on the pavements of Norbert Green can give you. I were nigh on immune to it, having got up to a fair bit on them streets in me time and more or less got away with it. Saying that, within twenty or so yard of the Bee Hive I were as liable to cack meself as the next feller.
But I weren’t having none of oday. I wanted me fucking wages.
I strode across them paving slabs like a bull across his field. I were Royston Fucking Blake—I could go anywhere. And who the fuck were gonna stop us? No one, that’s who.
Just then the door opened and out come Frankenstein.
8
INTO THE LION’S DEN
Steve Dowie, Crime Editor
The sun is shining as I walk up the five marble steps of Mangel Amusement Arcade, but the moment I pass through the wide entrance it might as well be midnight. Not only is this a dark place—it is a threatening place.
I am walking into a jungle. I know the natives are there. I cannot see them, but I sense them. They recede into the shadows, furtive, suspicious of this stranger. The smell is like a jungle, too: flatulence and indifferent personal hygiene.
I go to the booth in the centre of the floor and request change for the slot machines.
‘Who’s you?’ says the large lady ensconced therein.
I shrug and try to look impatient.
She glares for a while longer, then picks up my money.
‘We don’t change pounds,’ she says, pushing it away and shaking her head. ‘Nothing bigger on you?’
I offer a five-pound note, which is greeted similarly. I offer a ten. ‘More like it, ain’t it?’
I pick up the coins and turn away. I count the money: only seven pounds. But I am not here to cause a scene. I pick a machine at random and feed in a coin. It flashes and plays an inane tune, does little else. I put more money in. Suddenly the sour odour of old sweat intensifies. An arm stretches out and leans on the machine. I sense sharp eyes following the spinning icons. The wheels stop suddenly.
‘Here, I’ll get you jackie from them nudges,’ says a male voice, barely broken but roughened already by years of smoking.
I turn to face this native. I ask him to clarify his meaning.
‘Shift,’ he says, shouldering me aside and taking the controls. He works the buttons like the pilot of an aircraft, jerking the wheels until three dollar signs line up. The machine plays a fanfare and pumps out coins. ‘Nice one,’ says the young man, kneeling down to help himself. ‘I’ll just get me commission.’
Taking advantage of his good mood, I ask him casually where I can buy some ‘sweets’.
He pauses and looks at me, eyes of a bitter old man staring out of a boy’s face. Then he scuttles away.
I pick up what coins remain and move on. The banks of machines form three flashing, bleeping aisles. I take the central one, heading for a machine near the end where two lads are engrossed in their gambling. I put some money into the next machine along. Almost immediately I receive a blow to the back of the head and collapse. Four hostile young faces peer down at me.
‘Giz it,’ says one.
I ask him to clarify.
He kicks me in the ribs. Small bony hands probe into my pockets and deprive me of my coins. I feel one reach for my wallet.
‘Oi!’ It is a gruff, female voice—the large lady in the booth. ‘Get out of it, you. Go on. Let him get up, that’s it. Now you there—**** off.’
I get on my feet and step away from the violent youths. An investigative reporter has no use for dignity. I nod my thanks to the booth lady.
‘Didn’t you hear us?’ she shouts. ‘I says **** off.’
I mumble my excuses and leave.
Outside the sun is shining and the air is clean. People are going about their business. Dogs bark. Young children squeal and frolic, but the oppressiveness of the arcade clings to me like soot to a chimney. I hurry along Frotfield Way.
Halfway down the High Street I notice that jungle stench again and resolve to have my overcoat cleaned.
‘Oi, mate,’ says a voice at my side. It is the youth who won me the jackpot. He looks up and down the street, then drops a screwed-up piece of paper in front of me.
I pick up the paper and smooth it out. ‘YOU WANT JOEY—SEE THE J-MAN. DOWN HOPPERS.’
‘Hoppers?’ I say.
But the boy is gone.
Instead of turning into the Bee Hive I walked straight on past, turning me face the other way. I were being clever, see. No point getting into a ruck out in the open, is there? Not when all I’m after is me wages. Course, I wanted to settle it with Frankenstein there and then, but it weren’t the right time just now.
‘Hoy,’ he shouts.
Like I says, the timing were wrong. I trotted off like I were a jogger or summat. It didn’t feel too good but I’d look a twat if I stopped. I heard him coming after. Sounded like he’d crack the slabs with them heavy footfalls. He were gaining on us. ‘Hoy, come here, you,’ he says.
I pegged it a bit faster and started whistling like I were deaf and hadn’t heard him. It were hard to whistle, the rate I were shifting at. I can go a bit quick over forty yard but past that and I’ve had it. I heard him panting behind us and knew it’d be same for him and all. I stuck me head down and gave it everything I had. Not that I were scared of Frankenstein nor nothing, I just fe
el tot want a scene. At the end of the road I turned the corner and went down there a few yard. Me pins had packed up by now and I were running on momentum alone. Me eyes latched on an alley a bit farther up. I were nigh on falling apart when I got there, but there I surely did get.
I collapsed, hitting the ground hard. Lungs was working so hard I thought they’d barge past me ribs and come on out. I had to move. He’d be on us any minute if he were still chasing. I clawed meself upright on a rusty old wire fence and stuck my head round the corner. No Frankenstein.
I bent over and chucked me guts.
It’s a funny one, life is. I ain’t just saying that to make out like I’m a philosophiser or summat, I really do reckon life is a funny one.
Fucking hilarious.
One minute you’re on top of your game. You’re widely considered the hardest feller in town. You’re able to ignore your bird for weeks on end and still she’s gagging for you. You’ve got more fags and tinnies than you knows what to do with. On top of all that you’ve got fifteen sheets in your pocket.
And then what?
Then you’re sat behind a tree in a Norbert Green alley, honk all over your boots, scared to come out. Your face is bust and you’ve lost your two front ivories—all courtesy of a fucking overgrown youngun. Plus half of town clocked you getting decked. Your bird won’t talk to you and you don’t want to look at her anyhow cos she’s turned pig ugly. You ain’t got no beer nor fags. There ain’t even a crafty smoke stowed in your pocket somewhere and you’re fucking gasping for one. You’re skint.
And how? How the fuck had such a state of affairs come about?
This cunt Nick Wossname, that’s how.
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