Booze and Burn

by Charlie Williams

  Still, life weren’t all shite and nettles. I still had me job. And my gold Capri 2.8i with black vinyl roof were parked just around the block. All I had to do were get to her.

  I’d been sat mulling it all over for about an hour in total. It were five o’clock now and I were getting hungry. I left it any longer they’d be hearing me gut rumblings in Muckfield. I got up.

  I staggered around a bit, hurting. Knees was cramped up to all fuck. I hadn’t noticed it before, but didn’t I ever now. After ten minutes or so it were all right, and I walked nice and quiet down the alley, aiming to come out the other side of the Bee Hive and not have to go past it again. No one were about. Never really were in Norbert Green. You stayed in your house unless you had somewhere to go. I went down the lane and turned left.

  My car were fifty yard up the way and it warmed me cockles to see her. If there’s one thing you can rely on in this world, it’s your motor. Always there for you, she is. Might not start every time, but she’s there.

  But I knew she wouldn’t let us down on the starting score. Not today. I’d had her serviced and souped up not but two week prior. Better than new, she were. Had been when I’d parked her, anyhow. I were still thirty yard off when I noticed they’d slashed her fucking tyres.

  C Ni.

  I says just now that I were skint. That weren’t the actual case, as it turned out—I had 15p. But that weren’t enough to get us a bus home, even if buses did come to Norbert Green. So I walked.

  I fucking hated yomping. It were beneath us. Didn’t have much of a choice here, mind—I’d never get a spanner man to come out Norbert Green way. Only mechanics who works there is your local ones, and I weren’t trusting one o’ them with my Capri. Plus I had work at six. Normally I’d turn up whenever I felt like it, me being manager and all, but with this new boss I’d have to set out on the right foot. Just for now, mind.

  And that set us to thinking as I yomped down Shire Road past the graveyard. How the fuck were I meant to do right by Doug the shopkeeper if the feller he’d hired us to sort out were me own boss? I couldn’t, that’s how. Not at the minute anyhow. Not even if I wanted to. Not even if Nick Wossname were the thorn in my side I knew he’d be. I’d have to work summat out, mind. No way were I going without me smokes and lager.

  I were bloody knackered when I reached Friar Street. With a bit of luck it’d be a quiet night at Hoppers so I could sit at the bar and get me puff back. But that hope went the way of morning mist when I clocked the crowd outside trying to get in. What the fuck were going on here? It were only a bit past six.

  I started pushing em aside when I reached the queue. I were the doorman after all. And what were the fucking holdup? Why the queue? I found out when I got a bit nearer. Then before I knew what I were doing I ducked and turned arse. I kept on walking down Friar Street, gasping for a fag and wondering what the bastard fuck Frankenstein were doing manning the door.

  My fucking door.

  ‘All right, fuckin’ calm down,’ I says. ‘That’s it, just fuckin’ take her easy and relax. Nice one. Now, let’s have a think about this, shall us?’

  But it were hard to think. I needed a smoke. I needed twenty of em, chained two at a time. Plus me hands was shaking. This were what it felt like to be an old cadger, I reckoned. And I were only thirt…never you fucking mind how old I were. I were in me prime is how old I were. The trembling were on account of all the shite I’d had to put up with of late. Only so much a feller can take. I needed a drink. Aye, that’d steady me nerves all right. Plus I were fucking starving.

  I got shifting.

  ‘Fifteen p?’ he says.

  I didn’t bother replying. He could see how much were lying atop the counter. Did I have to do his adding up for him now? Fucking cheek.

  ‘What…er…’ He were looking at us a bit shifty. Put him on the spot, hadn’t I? Alvin were a businessman and as such weren’t one to sell himself short. ‘Woss you want us to sell you fer 15p?’

  I sighed and shook me head. ‘Just giz a bag o’ cips. Giz 15p’s worth o’ chips, why don’t you.’

  He sort of smiled and shrugged, then started piling em on paper.

  ‘Ta mate,’ I says, taking the full portion off him. ‘Owes you one.’

  ‘Right you is, Blakey.’

  I walked out of Alvin’s Kebab Shop & Chippy and headed back for Friar Street, shovelling chips in me gob. After a minute or so I could think proper again, which weren’t such a good thing as it turned out. What the fuck were I meant to do with Frankenstein on me door? I’d have to fight him, wouldn’t I, if I wanted in to see Nick Wossname. I knew I could have him, mind. Experience tells, mate. He were big but I had the moves.

  ‘All right, Blake,’ says a passing feller, on his way to Hoppers like as not.

  ‘All right, Dave.’

  I lobbed the chip paper in a bin and wiped hands on strides, realising that I weren’t dressed for door work anyhow. I were dressed like a punter.

  ‘Hold up there, Dave.’

  It weren’t bad, as disguises went. I’d been known to use better, but without a wig there’s only so far you can go. Still, it were worth a punt, me being a punter and all.

  There weren’t much of a queue now, but you could tell from the corner that Hoppers were rammed. I strolled on up, walking funny and keeping me head down.

  Frankenstein weren’t paying no mind anyhow when I went past him. In a daze he were, sunk eyes off in the distance. Could be he were pondering on the East Bloater Road and what lay beyond it. But I reckoned not. I reckoned it were just meself who gave thought to such matters, Mangel folk in general being happy with their lot. Ain’t saying I weren’t happy, mind, just that I were a cut above your typical Mangel citizen in the thinking department. But you knows that, course. Can’t very well talk to us for long without knowing it, can you?

  Anyhow, I reckoned Frankenstein weren’t up to the job, else I wouldn’t have sailed past him so simple. Tricky undertaking, is door work. Especially at Hoppers. Only your top swedes is up to such a task, and I reckon Frankie here fell well short in that area. It were too much for him, and his head had shut down. So I got into Hoppers with nary a second glance.

  And I’ll tell you what, it were fucking rammed in there. Hadn’t seen it so packed since that time a while back when my face were all over the Informer and everyone wanted a gander at us close up. No one were interested in us now, mind, thanks to my clever disguise. I clocked Dave up the far end of the bar—where I’d told him to be—and started wending me way down there.

  Weren’t easy as you’d think, I can tell you. Folks was getting in the way more than normal. Some was walking in front of us, flailing about like saplings in a storm. Others just stood there, like twats. And they wasn’t your typical puntership neither. Mostly younguns these was, so young I wouldn’t have let em in meself, Hoppers being a class establishment and The Forager’s Arms across town being the favoured venue for the high-bollockeddrinker. I’d soon sort that out once I’d had a word with Nick Wossname and booted Frankie off my door. But first things first.

  ‘All right, Dave,’ I says, making him jump. I’d forgot how he were as good as blind without his glasses. I handed em him along with his donkey jacket and cap.

  Course, I felt a bit sorry for him. There were good reason for him wearing that flat cap. He’d managed to keep it hid from Mangel folk in general for a goodly stretch of time and all, but it were out now. Bald as a plucked turkey, weren’t he? Balder, considering most plucked turkeys you gets round here still has a few feathers on em.

  ‘All right, Blake,’ he says, squinting at us, shiny pate glinting in the overheads.

  I called Rache over and pointed at Dave, who were just then putting his cap on arse-about. ‘Hiya, Blake,’ she says, giving us a nervy smile. ‘You all right?’

  I ignored her. She were a good girl, Rache, but I didn’t want her fretting over us just cos another feller were on my door. No one had to worry about old Blakey. Sort meself out, couldn’t I
? Mind you, it were a nice surprise having a smile off her, considering the way she’d been spitting piss at us the past while. I pointed at Dave and winked at her.

  ‘Hiya, Dave,’ she says. ‘What’ll it be?’ Smart girl.

  ‘Oh, aye,’ he says still fumbling with his donkey jacket. ‘Er, Blake?’

  ‘Pint, ta,’ I says, putting my own coat on. Always felt good to wrap meself in leather it did. Like pulling on a suit of armour.

  ‘Right,’ he says. ‘He’ll have a pint. Er…me an’ all.’ When she went to get em he says: ‘Blake, what you done to me glasses?’

  ‘Couldn’t see through em,’ I says, sparking one up. I offered the packet to him but he didn’t take one.

  ‘Aye, but where’s the lenses?’

  ‘Lenses?

  ‘Aye. Where’s me blinkin’ lenses?’

  I glared at him for a bit, fag hanging out the side of me gob. Summat behind the bar caught my eye. It were my reflection in the mirror, but I’d have sworn it to be Clint Eastwood for a moment there. It were only the leather coat and slightly fleshier head gave us away. And the hat, me not wearing one and Clint doing so. Plus Mr Eastwood hadn’t ever been known to show himself in Mangel, to my knowledge, let alone working behind the bar at Hoppers. ‘You swearin’ at us?’ I says to Dave.

  ‘Soz about that, Blake, but where’s me lenses?’

  ‘Glass bits, you mean?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Had to take em out. I telled you—can’t see with em. Might as well walk round with me eyes shut.’

  ‘You…y…’ He started coughing so I slapped him on the back a couple of times. His false gnashers flew out his trap and slid along the bartop, coming to rest a few yard along in front of a bird. She dropped her drink, let out a little squea and ran off.

  ‘I kept em for you, mind,’ I says, handing him his teeth back. ‘Them glass bits. In yer coat there.’

  He started rummaging in his pockets while Rache came back with the drinks. ‘Where’s me fags?’ he says.

  ‘That’ll be four pound fifty, love,’ says Rache.

  ‘Ta, mate,’ I says and went off out back. I’d come here with a job to do after all. I didn’t have time to stand about talking shite with the like of Dave.

  The office door couldn’t have been shut proper, seeing as how it swung open on the first knock. I were all set to apologise—this being our first proper meeting and that—when I noticed the room were empty.

  So I went in.

  After all, in a way it were more my office than his. How long had he been at Hoppers? A day? Less than that, in fact. And look at me—I’d been there fuck knew how many years and I hadn’t never had chance to call that office me own. Nathan had made us manager but never let us use the office. ‘Wouldn’t be right,’ the cunt said at the time. ‘No, wouldn’t be proper. And I’m doin’ you a good turn there. Lettin’ you have that office right now wouldn’t do you no favours at all. Trust us.’ So what did he do? Did he use it for himself? Like fuck. Left it empty, didn’t he? Got new locks put on and shut the place up.

  So aye, it were only fair I got to sit in the boss chair for a few moments on me own. And that’s what I did.

  Ah, I had some memories of that room. You wouldn’t believe the goings-on I’d clocked within them four walls. Right up until the last time I’d been in there and all. Although I noticed they’d mopped it up a bit and fixed the window since that occasion. Still had that cigar box atop the desk from the last boss, mind. I flipped the lid—four inside, big fat ones. I took one and lit it using my half-burned fag, sucking deep and then regretting it when the heavy smoke wanted out again sharpish. Always done that with cigars I did, forgetting how strong they was compared to fags. I could get used to em, mind. I swung me boots atop the desk and sat back, dreaming like this were my own office and them stogies was mine by rights. Do the place up smart, I would. Nice wood panels and a big drinking cabinet built in. I’d have a picture of Clint up there on that side—the one from the end of The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly where he’s stood in his poncho staring the shite out of the other two and making em shit.

  On t’other wall I’d have a nice shot of a bird with her kit off. But tasteful, like. Baps but no bacon.

  Aye, be happy in there I would, in that office. The rest of them out there could do what they fucking wanted—I’d sit here and count me coinage and let them deal with the punters for once. Maybe I’d let Frankie stay on the door. He didn’t deserve it, jumping us like that, but I couldn’t deny he had door potential. Perhaps I’d even let Rache manage the bar. Long as she served us pronto when I phoned through for me pint.

  ‘Go ahead, make yourself at home.’

  It were Nick Wossname.

  Fuck knew how long he’d been stood there in the doorway but it put the shite right up us and I dropped the cigar. Fuck it. Leave it burning there on the carpet. His fault for giving us a fright, wernit?

  He looked a bit different from the other time I’d seen him up close. Older this time, which you can put down to it being light in here just now and dark the other day when I’d clocked him out front. Seemed less of an outsider and all, which were just him getting used to the place like as not.

  Stood at the door with him were Nobby and Cosh, the two I’d clocked him with outside the Bee Hive just now. Behind them were Frankenstein. He towered above em by one head and half a neck, and the top bit of his hair were hid by the door frame, which I’d always reckoned quite a high one. He were licking his lips.

  ‘Can I knack him, boss?’ he says, not taking his eyes off us. ‘Eh, boss? Can I?’

  ‘Look,’ I says, half getting up off the chair. ‘I were just…erm…’

  ‘Sittin’ in that chair for old time’s sake,’ says Nick. ‘I know. I don’t blame you.’

  ‘He wants knackin’, boss. Bein’ cheeky, he is.’

  ‘I dunno about that. What do you say, Blake? Cheeky, were you?’

  I chewed on a bit of baccy I’d found between me teeth and squinted at him. Clint did a fair bit of squinting and baccy chewing and all. You cannot deny there was obvious likenesses between us two. I sat down again. ‘How’d you know my name?’

  ‘Is your name Blake?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘“Perhaps”? You mean you dunno?’

  Only difference were that Clint always had a gun, which I wouldn’t have minded right then. ‘Ain’t sure if I should tell you,’ I says instead of shooting em.

  Frankie were going purple. ‘See, boss? Cheeky bugger wants knackin’.’

  ‘Aye,’ says Nobby, licking his ginger tash with his purple tongue. ‘Always been cheeky, that un has.’

  ‘Always been a wanker an’ all,’ Cosh says. The two of em started chortling like they’d said summat funny. Oh aye, said I’d tell you about them two, didn’t I? Go on then…

  Nobby and Cosh had always gone round together. Cos of em both being so pig ugly like as not—Nobby with his bright ginger hair and freckles like baked beans stuck to his face, Cosh with his harelip. As younguns they used to stick bangers up cats’ arses, you know. Everyone thought that were a great laugh. When they was a bit older they was caught fucking heifers down the Cowie. Now, that ain’t such a bad thing, you might say. Feller can’t very well learn about birds and shagging if he can’t fuck heifers first. But these two started by killing the poor heifer, then cutting fuck holes in her guts and shagging them. Folks didn’t like that so much. But it were only a heifer, wernit?

  Few years after that a young lass disappeared in Muckfield on her way home from school. Old fller said he seen Nobby and Cosh take her, but he had a heart attack and died before summat came of it. Coppers turned up fuck all as usual and let em go. But that don’t mean nothing. Everyone knew it were Nobby and Cosh. And the only way they got off from getting strung up a lamp post were by never straying out of Norbert Green. Not even a lynch mob’ll go in there after em. And Norbert Green folk don’t give a fuck about a Muckfield youngun.

  ‘All right, No
bby and Cosh,’ I says.

  ‘All right, Blake.’

  ‘All right, Blake.’

  ‘Who says you two nonces could come out?’

  They shut up at that. But I knew I’d be paying for it soon enough, if they got their way.

  ‘You hear that, boss?’ says Frankie. ‘Can’t say that, can he? I can knack him, boss, if you just says…’

  I’d have ignored em and walked on out if they wasn’t blocking the doorway. I’d do it anyhow but I didn’t want to cause a scene, what with all them folks out there. I were here to talk business, not fuck about.

  Nick Wossname were looking at us, chewing his lip. ‘Nah,’ he says after a bit. ‘Leave us alone a while, will you?’

  ‘Eh? But, boss…’

  He ushered em out with nary another word. Looked about twelve he did from behind, with them stupid baggy togs of his. Someone ought to take him aside and tell him how to dress proper. Especially him being boss of Hoppers and all. Feller in his position ought to have a clean shirt and a sovereign on his finger.

  ‘Royston Blake,’ he says, turning to face us after shutting the door. He sat down in the hard wood chair opposite and got a pack of smokes from out his pocket. I didn’t like him sat there. That had always been my chair. Why didn’t he tell us to get out of his chair? I would have told him where to go, course. But if he asked nice I might have obliged. Fuck knows I wanted to. I didn’t like it this way round. It were like he were taking the piss, him sat there and me in the boss chair. ‘Smoke?’ he says, holding out the pack.

  I took one.

  ‘You don’t want those cigars,’ he says, making a face. ‘They been there…what, a year?’

  ‘Two year.’

  ‘That long, eh? And how long you been here?’

  ‘Never mind that,’ I says. Cos I were here on business, weren’t I? ‘I come for me wages.’

  ‘Ah yeah.’ He reached behind him and pulled a fat wallet from out his back pocket. ‘How much do I owe?’