Booze and Burn

by Charlie Williams

  Fucking hell, I were thinking. This is a piece of piss. And there I were, thinking I’d be in for a hard time. I did some quick sums in me head then doubled it couple of times. Then I took a bit off cos there’s only so much piss you can take before the bladder runs dry. Then I made up a number cos I never had been no good at sums. ‘Eighty,’ I says. I clamped me jaw tight shut. Hold firm. Stand your ground.

  He counted out eight brownies and laid em atop the desk. I picked em up. Been a long time since I’d held this much in me paw. Nathan normally kept back most of me wages to cover all the subs. And it were never this much anyhow. I looked at this Nick feller, wondering if Nathan had told him about the subs when he bought the place. Nah, he couldn’t have, if he’d had to ask us how much he owed. This feller truly were a piece of piss. ‘So can I keep me job then or what?’ I blurts.

  He started stroking his chin, which normally means a feller’s about to talk bollocks. Body language, ennit? ‘Sort of.’

  ‘“Sort of”? Woss “sort of” mean?’

  ‘I mean there’s work for you, but not on the door.’

  ‘Oh aye?’ I were getting interested now. I loved working door at Hoppers but there were one job (only one, mind) I’d pack it in for. ‘You wants us to manage the place?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘I ain’t workin’ behind no bar, you know. And if it’s glass washer-uppers you wants, you can go down the job shop.’

  ‘None of them things. Put it this way—what d’you think a bloke like me needs, doing what I do?’

  It were my turn to stroke me chin. Doing what he done? Far as I were concerned, he were another flash outsider coming to Mangel, reckoning he can clean up. I’d seen em before, mate. They never lasts. ‘How the fuck should I know?’ I says.

  ‘But you do know what I do, right?’

  I shrugged. ‘You owns Hoppers.’

  ‘Yeah. And?’

  I shrugged again. I didn’t like shrugging and it were him making us do it. ‘I don’t fuckin’ know. Woss I meant to say? Fuckin’ hell…Have I got a fuckin’ job or what?’

  He smiled and shook his head a bit. But not like he were naysaying us. It were a slow shake, like he were recalling an old joke. He were an odd feller all right. But he seemed to like us, didn’t he? Can’t say I blamed him neither. Quality in a man stands out a mile off, and if you’re hiring in Mangel you can’t do better than come knocking on my door. Mind you, depends what the work is. ‘Mind you,’ I says, ‘depends what the work is, dunnit.’

  ‘All right,’ he says. ‘I’ll tell you.’ He got up and strolled over to the window. Funny how folks always does that when they got summat important to say. But what could be so important?

  What job, I asks you, is more important than your doorman?

  That is a question folks has asked emselves up and down the ages without much joy. Truth be telled, there ain’t nothing more important than the job of welcoming them what’s welcome and sending the others on their way. I mean, imagine a world where unwelcome folks comes and goes as they pleases, lowering the tone for the rest of you. Not pretty, is it? And that’s why your doorman is sacred.

  But there were one other job I wouldn’t have minded doing. Besides managing. And Nick Wossname got it in one, as it happened.

  ‘Blake,’ he says, ‘I want you to be my minder.’

  9

  WHAT IS WRONG WITH MANGEL YOUTH?

  Malcolm Pigg, Chief Editor

  Yesterday saw seven domestic burglaries, eleven car thefts, six muggings, two armed robberies, and eight reports of shoplifting in this town of ours. That’s 37 crimes in one day. How many of those do you want to bet were done by grown-up professionals? Two, perhaps? Five tops? Let’s say five for bother’s sake. That leaves us with 34 crimes.

  And who did those 34?

  Children is who. You know it and I know it. Tell you what, I won’t even bother looking at the details of who they caught for them (where they caught anyone at all). I’ll stake my reputation here and now that at least nine out of ten of those 35 were youngsters.

  Now, I’m well aware that kids in Mangel have never got up to much good and oftentimes a lot of bad. In fact, I got my assistant Jeanie to have a look at the records and see what she came up with for this day 20 year previous. She came back with this nice chart here comparing like for like today against 20 year back.

  Look at that. Go on, just look at it, will you? (Ta, Jeanie.)

  Now, we’ve got the same police force, same folks on the streets give or take a few, same schools, and same water supply. So what is it that makes the youngsters of today so wayward?

  Respect for their elders and betters, that’s what.

  They don’t know what respect is anymore. And do you know why?

  Fear.

  It’s you lot I’m talking about now. Parents and teachers and folks on the street. You’re afraid of them. You know it and they know and they don’t respect you for it. So here’s what to do:

  Tell your kids off. Spank them. And if that doesn’t work, send them round my house. I’ll teach them a thing or two about respect.

  It is an undisputed and widely held fact, according to most folks, that Minder is one of the greatest programs ever to have graced our telly screens. The pairing of Dennis Waterman at the height of his telly powers and that old feller with the hat were a potent brew, and one what had the world and his mate watching every Sunday night come flood or fire. But it weren’t Waterman they came to see. Weren’t the old hat feller neither. No.

  It were the white Capri with a black vinyl roof at the start.

  See, your Capri is class. And a Capri on a telly program is the mark of a class show. With Minder you had that theme tune and all which not even a man dying in the gutter could help but tap his boot to. So all in all it were a top bit of telly. Which were why I gave Nick Wossname the nod.

  ‘Aye, go on then,’ I says. ‘You won’t find a better minder round here than Royston Blake.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Course it is. Who else is there? There’s hard lads here and there, but they ain’t got class like what a minder needs. But I got it, mate. You don’t spend ten years in a dickie bow and not pick up class.’

  ‘You won’t be needing a dickie bow with me.’

  ‘Ain’t bothered. I were growing out of it anyhow.’

  ‘Oh, right. Well, the job is just being around really, in case anything kicks off. Obviously you’ll need to step in now and then, but your presence is more important than your punch. Know what I mean?’

  He were a clever lad, were Nick Wossname, and I were looking forward to working with him. ‘A raised eyebrow is as good as a thump in the kidneys,’ I says. ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Right. You won’t get regular time off as such. You’ll be off-duty whenever I don’t need you. I’ll pay you double what you make now.’

  I started to smile but pinned it down. Double what I were on now? Were he taking the piss or what?

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he says. ‘I can afford it. I’m doin’ all right, Blake. And I’ll be doin’ a lot better before I’m through with this town.’

  I frowned. ‘Woss you mean by that?’ Cos it were an odd thing to say, wernit?

  ‘Forget it,’ he says, shrugging. ‘But listen, you ought to think it over first. Sleep on it and let me know tomorrow. I don’t want you changing your mind on me.’

  Were he fucking joshing or what? I’d been waiting my whole life to be a minder. I just hadn’t realised it till now. But it all made sense when you looked at it. I were your perfect minder. Just look at the facts here:

  Hardest feller in Mangel bar none.

  Respect of his public built up over ten year of doorman work.

  Possessing a level of style and sophistication rare in this town, picked up off my old feller, who were a snappy dresser in his day, so they says.

  Drives a Ford Capri, with eighty sheets in me pocket for getting her on the road again.

  So no, I didn’t ne
ed to sleep on nothing.

  I were all set to tell him as much when I came to me senses. He were right—you ought never to commit yourself to a tackle unless you’re sure you can reach the ball. And it’s a blind man who knows how to find his mother in a crowd. So sleep on it I would.

  He reached his paw across the desk. I flobbed on minshook his, cos I were feeling proper rosy now and there ain’t no finer way than that to honour a feller. My life were looking up again, and it were all down to my new mate Nick Wossname.

  I couldn’t be arsed with Hoppers when I came out of his office. I were a minder now, weren’t I? A minder ain’t chained to one place like I had been as a doorman. A minder gets out and about, getting up to this and that.

  Frankenstein were at the door. I stopped and had a gander at him close up, nodding appreciatively at his stiff collar and spotless sleeves. Manning doors is a dirty job, but there’s no excuse for sloppiness, I always says. Only thing I could fault him on were his dickie, which were straight as the horizon. I reached out to set it askew. But he weren’t having it.

  He called us a cunt, told us to fuck off, and shoved us away.

  In that order.

  Didn’t bother us, mind. I were testing him, see. And he’d failed. He’d got the ingredients right but the recipe were wrong: he should have shoved us away, told us to fuck off, and only then called us cunt as I sat in the dust wondering what had come to pass. But I said nothing about it for now. Plenty of time to set him straight. And as for him lacking respect for his olders and betters—I let him off that one and all. He didn’t know yet that I were the boss’s minder and therefore well above him on the Hoppers career ladder.

  I gave him a wink then got back on me feet and fucked off out of it.

  I bumped into Filthy Stan outside the Volley and asked him if he’d pick up my Capri first thing the morrer, fix her up, and drop her round mine. He were all up for it, but when I mentioned Norbert Green he shook his head so hard the grease were flying off it like water from a wet sheepdog. Not even for fifty would he do it. And to be fair I couldn’t blame him. Sixty quid and he had a think about it, then shook his filthy head and went to fuck off again. Then I got seven brown ones out.

  He gave us the nod at that, cramming the notes in his back pocket. By rights I ought to have gave him a slap for trying to rip us off, but I couldn’t see no other way of getting my motor back. Seventy wouldn’t kill us, what with me being a high earner and all now.

  And at least I had a tenner left.

  I stopped at the offie in Cutler Road and spent that on fags, nuts, and a half bottle of whisky, then headed homeward. I were in a good mood now so I didn’t mind the yomping so much, but I’d be a lot happier doing it on a full tank.

  The nuts was gone by the time I could smell Burt’s Caff and I wished to fuck I’d held firm and only gave Stan the sixty. Steak and chips I fancied if Burt had any in, otherwise steak and summat else. Pie perhaps. I had a think about it and decided Burt might give us credit just this once, seeing as how I were a minder and all now. Life is all about give and take after all, and he’d be sure to need my minding skills sooner or later. Before going in I popped up the alley next to the caff for a quick piss. After I put meself away I twisted the cap off the hard stuff and put him to me lips, closing me eyes and swimming in that golden sea for a while. I got quarter way down before coming up for air. And it’s then that I noticed her.

  She were sat on her arse not but ten foot from where I were stood. ‘Hello?’ I says. I took a step closer cos she didn’t seem to hear us. It were dark up there so I sparked me lighter and crouched down.

  Doug’s youngun, it were. Mona.

  I shook her foot and said her name. One of her lids opened a bit and she copped half an eyeful of us. A little smirk touched her chops. She said summat quiet.

  ‘You what, love?’ I says.

  The lid shut and her face went slack. I leaned in and got a cop of her breath. No sauce fumes whatsoever. It were like when I’d seen her outside Hoppers that time—out of it but no sign of boozing. I wondered if there weren’t summat wrong with her. Maybe she went mong now and again or summat. There’d been a feller like that at school. Elmer, his name were. Used to go mental of a sudden and then lie on the deck, legs twitching and tongue out. Ever so funny it were. Couple of year back he crashed his motor into a wall and carked it. Such a shame that were. She were beautiful silver Ford Zephyr with nary a spot of rust upon her.

  Anyhow, there was two reasons why I doubted our Mona here were like that. First off her tongue weren’t hanging out. Second off I’d been noticing a fair bit of odd behaviour amongst youngfolk of late, and they couldn’t all have what Elmer had, could they?

  I took another swig and sparked one up, wondering why I were fretting my head over it. Her health weren’t my fucking problem. Especially not now I had a new job as Mangel’s premier minder. Doug could take his mouldy ale and squirt it up his cock with a pair of bellows for all I gave a toss.

  Who the fucking bollocks were he, telling Royston Blake what to do?

  I took another swig and a few puffs, then tossed the smoke and picked Mona up. There weren’t much to her, to be fair. It were like lugging a rolled-up mat on me shoulder. I went up the far end of the alley and booted the old door. There were a bolt t’other side but it never had worked in the old days, and it were no different now. Beyond it were a grimy old yard round back of the joke shop. From there you could step over the low fence and tippy-toe along the big old wall overlooking the Wall Road. So that’s what I done.

  Couple of motors was passing in either direction, but that didn’t bother us. Hadn’t done nothing wrong, had I? Quite the opposite, mate. My good deed for the year, this were. And if Doug didn’t give us a big thank you—and the four hundred tins and smokes he owed us—I’d get them bellows out meself.

  I set her down and jumped off the wall into the car park behind Hoppers. The fucking whisky bottle fell out and smashed on the tarmac. I kept calm about it, mind, and didn’t shout—I were after some transport, so I couldn’t have folks clocking on to us.

  Weren’t easy getting Mona down off that wall. She were light as you like but there were summat awkward about her arms and legs, and I ended up dropping her.

  ‘Oh, soz,’ I says, but I needn’t have bothered. She were awake but not enough to give a toss. Just lay there on her back, she did, with that daft smirk on her face. Summat were up with her for surely. No one gets dropped like that without crying about it. Especially not birds. But I didn’t have time to fret over that one. I perched ross me shoulder again and strode into the car park.

  I set her down and started trying door handles. Normally you’d have at least twenty motors here by this time, but I weren’t surprised to find only ten or so. Hoppers were full of younguns tonight, and younguns don’t drive. Not their own motors anyhow.

  Weren’t long before I found a door unlocked. A Mini it were, which weren’t ideal. I don’t really fit in Minis, never had done nor ever would do. Easy to start em, mind. But just as I were climbing in summat over the far side of the yard caught me eye.

  Nick Wossname’s flash motor, wernit?

  Like I says already, she truly were pig arse ugly and I still stands by that, but she weren’t half shiny. Put the other motors to shame, she fair did. Even that burgundy Austin Princess over there by the bins. Not that I were interested, course. There were just summat about her, you know? I checked no one were nearby then went on over.

  Ever seen the paintwork on them ugly new motors, have you? Fucking smart, it is. Closer you looks at it the more little sparkly ones you sees in it, like they plucked the stars out the sky and lobbed em in a paint pot, then stirred it all up and slapped him on. Not that I were impressed, mind. I’d still have me Ford Capri any day. Course I fucking would. And she had metallic paint and all. But not like this one here. Bloody marvellous it were, and I spent a goodly few minutes breathing on her and buffing her up and just plain staring at her. Then a motor started up
across the way, over by where I’d left…

  I stood up, opening me gob to shout summat. Then I shut it and went down again. All me sap drained south. That’s what it fucking felt like anyhow. I hadn’t seen nothing. I hadn’t fucking needed to. Hearing it were bad enough.

  And still she never made no sound.

  Not a fucking peep.

  The engine stalled and whoever it were got out. Who the fuck could be twat enough to drive over a bird lying slap fucking bang in front of his motor? He’d have had to walk right past her to get to his door. Course, it didn’t take much to work out who’d done it. And when he started blubbering like a babby I knew it for surely.

  ‘Fuck,’ I says, slumping down against the flash motor. The occasion demanded summat a bit grander, but that were all I could think of to say. ‘Fuck,’ I says again, but in a slightly grander way. I had a point, mind. I were fucking fucked, I were. And I weren’t hanging about to collect me dues for it.

  I crept to the back wall and bunked over, dropping down into the scrub and sliding on my arse down to the Wall Road. Dave could sort his own problems. Weren’t my fault, were it?

  Don’t start.

  By the time I’d turned into my road, there was four things I knew for surely.

  First off, I were fucking thirsty.

  Second off, I were dog arse knackered.

  Third off, I’d blown me chance of being a minder. I mean, fucking think about it: if Mona were still alive she’d for surely let on that I’d carried her and plonked her in the car park, leading to her getting run over by Dave the twat. And if she’d carked it I were in even more shite—there’d been a couple of motors going up and down the Wall Road and someone must have clocked us lugging her. All right, Dave had done the deed so he’d cop the full whack, and rightly so, but I couldn’t see Nick Wossname having us as a minder after this.