Booze and Burn

by Charlie Williams

  But it were all off now. I didn’t even wanna get back on the door no more. Destined for a higher station, weren’t I? And the way to it were clear now. Mona would have a chat with Nick, and he’d come to us with arms and wallet open.

  ‘Hoy,’ I says. ‘You hear us or what?’

  You had to see it from Jack’s angle, course. He’d been asked to do a little job. That ain’t an everyday summat to a feller like him, so now he wanted to do it. And here I were, knocking him back into the gutter, telling him he weren’t wanted after all.

  ‘Look,’ I says, taking pity on the poor old tosser. ‘Go down an’ tell Nathan. Tell him Blake says it’s off. He’ll pay you anyhow. All right?’

  He said summat I couldn’t hear. Didn’t sound too happy, mind. But he wouldn’t be, would he? Can’t be much fun being Jack. He turned and went roadward.

  I stood where I were for a bit, sucking in the baccy smoke he’d left hanging in the air behind him. Then I remembered that his breath would be mixed up with it and all, and started coughing. A minute or so later I hauled meself straight, wiped me eyes, and hopped off down to Hoppers.

  ‘I could be so good for you…’ I sings to meself, boots slapping pavement like steak on a butcher’s board. ‘Love you like you wants us to…’ I didn’t give a toss who heard us, neither. In a good mood I were. Best mood I’d been in for fucking donkeys. And who gave a toss if I weren’t head doorman of Hoppers no more? Doorman’s a shite job when you thinks about it. Stood there all night, looking like a cunt, fielding pot shots from lairy cunts and fighting off pissed-up old slags who can’t cop off with no one else. And what about them fucking daft togs a doorman’s got to wear? Dinner jacket? You’re stood on the fucking door, not sat down for steak and chips. No more of that for me, mate. Minders wear minding gear, which is usually blue jeans, leather bomber, and black boots. Minders gets out and about, poking all the top birds and taking shite from no fucker.

  Royston Blake, minder.

  Aye, I didn’t mind the sound of that.

  ‘I’ll do anythin’ for yooooooooo, I’ll be so good for…Fuck.’

  I were about twenty yard off from the Hoppers door, but I could see summat were up. I halted, harking a tiny voice inside us that told us I were once again in a deep, deep pool full up of brown, brown shite. What the fuck were Jack doing yonder, scurrying off up the road? Looked like he were trying to slip summat back inside his coat on the trot, like he didn’t have time to stop and do it proper. I opened me gob to hoy him.

  But a tiny voice inside made us shut it again.

  I looked at the Hoppers door. No Frankenstein there. All I could see were half a fag smouldering away there on the pavement and a dark puddle by the entrance where some twat had spilt his snakebite and black. I looked at the puddle while I mulled things over, watching it spread slowly from the doorw. All I wanted to do were go inside and start minding for Nick Wossname. But summat big and dark and horrible were blocking my path and I weren’t sure what it were. I were thinking about what it might be when a bird screamed.

  Then another bird.

  Then folks was running past us up to Hoppers, cos where there’s birds screaming there’s summat worth copping an eyeball of. And I were going with em, floating more than walking. I knew I ought to be floating the other way, but I had to see.

  ‘Frankenstein,’ I says, looking down at him there on the hard stuff. His back were up against the door, legs splayed out. His white shirt were glistening red from chest down.

  ‘Frankenstein?’ says someone a fair bit younger than meself. ‘What the…? Ah, Frankenstein, heh heh. He do look like him though, don’t he? Odd lookin’ fucker. Wouldn’t say it to his face though, mind. Don’t matter now though do it? Heh heh—’

  ‘Fuckin’ shut it, you,’ I says, nice and calm.

  Another feller of about fifteen looks at us and says: ‘Woss you fuckin’ care? You’re Royston Blake, ain’t you? Swiped your job, didn’t he, this un? So woss you care?’

  I looked at him, this fucking youngun who reckoned he knew what were what. I wanted to answer him, I surely did. I wanted to tear off his swede and bark the news down his neck. But I couldn’t. Not with all them other cunts crowded round and about, looking from Frankie to meself and back to Frankie. And what were the point anyhow? He wouldn’t understand. None of em would. All younguns, they was. And what do younguns know?

  ‘He done it,’ says a bird behind us. And I just knew she meant me. ‘Royston Blake over there. Done it before an’ all, he has. And got away with it. Mam telled us.’

  ‘Aye,’ says someone else. ‘In the paper, it were.’

  ‘Hey, Blake, how’d you do this un here? Fishin’ knife, were it? Can’t do that kind of job with a lock knife. Blade’d snap off in him.’

  ‘Woss you gonna do now, Blake? Can’t hear no coppers comin’ yet.’

  ‘Where’d you…?’

  I pegged it. I shifted pins fast as you like, down Friar Street and back up the side of Burt’s Caff. I hopped over the wall at the end—knocking part of it over—and dropped down into the Wall Road, landing a bit funny but not being inclined to fret over that just now.

  I could hear sirens. Seemed to be coming from all sides, they did. But it weren’t the coppers that were bothering us…

  I suppose you’re sat there reckoning it’s a bit rich, me getting all hoighty over one dead feller, what with my past and all. And I’ll readily admit to you here and now:

  I have killed.

  I’ve killed more than some and less than others. But in this day and age who can put paw to chest and say they ain’t? Sometimes a feller’s got u cornered, and sticking him in the ribs is the only move you’ve got, or pinging a wrench off his swede. Or running him down with a robbed motor. As that feller says the one time (I forgets who):

  “The journey through life is blocked by many a tree. You can walk around some but others is too big. So you got to chop em down.”

  I reckon that about says it all. Don’t you?

  Anyhow, the point here I’m getting at is that when folks is just folks it don’t do to make a fuss over one or two of em getting dead. But when folks is a doorman…

  Well, that’s different, ennit?

  There is a land far, far away where the folks reckons cows is sacred, so I hears. That means you can’t kill one nor fuck it nor do nothing with it besides looking after it. I dunno where that far-flung land is (Barkettle, I think) and it don’t matter anyhow—you got to respect their beliefs and let em get on with it. But come on…a fucking cow? Where’d you get steaks and burgers from if you can’t hack a fucking cow down?

  But a doorman…you ever had a doorman burger? No, you ain’t. And I’ll tell you for why:

  Doormen truly is sacred. Ain’t they?

  All right, so this Frankenstein here hadn’t been a doorman all that long. Plus he’d swiped my job from under us and that. But he were still a doorman. He were still wearing the black and white of the entertainment security industry. Only it were black and white and red on him. Or just black and red by now, like as not.

  That much on its own were enough to place a chill in any doorman’s heart. But it weren’t the worst of it. I’ll tell you what the worst of it were in a minute or two. Well, actually I won’t—you’ll hear us telling it to the party I were headed to see, if they’re in. But I’ve got to get there first, ain’t I? And that’s all part of the yarn I’m spinning for you here. I can’t just jump from A to B and skip the to and fro, can I? Stories don’t work like that, mate, and you can’t expect life to neither. I mean, what kind of a world would it be if you could click your heels and get where you wanted to be? There’d be no motors in that world for starters, which means no Ford Capri. And what kind of a world would that be?

  But my Capri were still in Norbert bastard Green. So I’ll skip the yomping and take you straight to the doorbell, shall I?

  ‘What?’

  ‘All right, love.’

  ‘Who zat?’

  ‘
Me, ennit.’

  ‘Who’s you?’

  ‘Fuck sake…Blake.’

  ‘Oh, Blake, is it?’

  ‘Aye it fuckin’ well is. Now let us up.’

  She went quiet for a moment or two. But I knew she weren’t thinking. Sparking up, she were. I could hear the lighter. She sucked deep and says: ‘Fuck off,’ then fucked off.

  I buzzed her again. I weren’t yomping all the way out here in the pissing rain with coppers hanging off my arse like shite off a sheep just to hear fuck off. Actually, she could tell us to fuck off all she liked. Didn’t mean bollocks to us. Told us to fuck off all the time, she did. I hadn’t ever listened to it before and I weren’t planning on starting.

  ‘I says fuck off,’ she says.

  ‘All right, Sal, you’ve said yer piece. Now buzz us up and put the kettle on. All right?’

  ‘Put the kettle on? I’ll put the fuckin’ kettle on your head. I says fuck off and I means fuck off. Now piss off.’

  I looked behind us. Some lads was knocking about on the scrub up yonder, but they was trying to chat up a couple of birds there so they wouldn’t have noticed us. Other than them, no one were about. Not that I gave a toss anyhow. You knows Royston Blake better than to reckon him a nervous person. I just didn’t want to get seen is all. I’m a well-known face round here, and what with the coppers after us and all I had to keep me profile low.

  There were a little window beside the door. I got a half brick off the floor and put it through it. But it were one of them windows with wire in em, so I had to bash it a few times to get a hole big enough for me arm. I reached through and opened the door, scratching me wrist on the wire as I pulled it out and cursing the cunt whose idea it were to put the fucking wire in them windows in the first place. I shut the door behind us and went up the stair, bleeding and frowning, but by the time I were rapping on Sal’s door I’d thought of a way to get summat out of it. That’s what your swede is for, see. Take your opportunities and make the most of em. Watch and learn, mate.

  ‘Come on, open the door, will yer?’

  She didn’t. But she would.

  ‘Sal, I’m losing blood here. I dunno if I can…I…aargh…’ I leaned on the wall and waited. Course, I could be kicking her door down and gaining rightful entry that way, but I didn’t want Sal with a strop on. I were shook up, fuck sake. I’d just come from seeing a doorman with his guts flopping out. Sometimes a woman’s touch is the only thing to bring you out of it. The door opened.

  Just a crack, mind.

  ‘Sal…’ I says, holding out my arm. ‘I’m hurt, Sal.’

  ‘Woss happened?’ she says. But you could tell she were thawing. There’s two sorts of birds and Sal were the better sort, despite appearances.

  ‘I, er…fuckin’ let us in, eh? Please?’

  For a minute there I thought she weren’t going to. I thought she’d finally turn us away for proper, maybe laugh in me face or flob on us and then slam the door. And do you know what? Gave us a moment of panic, it did. I hope you appreciates my honesty here cos I wouldn’t tell no other fucker this. I thought of a life without Sal, and I panicked. Fucking barmy or what? Cos it weren’t like we was wedded nor nothing. Just shagged each other now and then, we did. But we was mates and all. And right now I needed her.

  She opened the door and went off to the kitchen. I followed her, making noises like I were in pain. To be fair on meself I weresuffering. The wiry glass had spiked a juicy vein by the looks of him, and if Sal here couldn’t sort it I’d have to go down the ozzy, which I didn’t fancy at all. But when Sal took me paw in hers and started mopping all the blood off it I knew she’d see us right. Had the touch, did Sal.

  She dried us off with one of her best tea towels—not saying a word about the blood getting all over it—and bandaged the feller up with a bit of gauze under it. Felt all right after that, I did, as if by patching up me wrist she’d fixed all them other little buggers that kept my life from flowing straight and true. I kissed her on the cheek and says ta and patted her on the arse, then went to the fridge, leaving her to clean up the mess.

  There was nothing there besides some butter, half a block of lard, four old spuds, and half a bottle of sparkling. I fucking hates wine. It’s strictly for birds and arse bandits and don’t do no good at all for a real man like meself. I shut the fridge door and looked around the kitchen, wondering where she hid the voddy. ‘Got a fag, Sal?’ I says.

  I could feel her eyes on us so I added: ‘Needs summat for me head, don’ I? Feelin’ a bit faint, like.’

  She took us by the arm and led us back into the living room. ‘Rest is what you needs.’ She pushed us back on the sofa and started unlacing me boots.

  ‘Got any voddy though, Sal?’ I says. Cos I really did need some now. I mean, enough’s enough—I couldn’t even remember the last sup I’d had. ‘An’ how about that fag?’

  She breathed deep through her nose and shot us a tight-arsed smile. ‘I’m turnin’ over a new leaf, Blake. You won’t find no vodka here. Fags neither. All that’s behind us now. An’ I means it.’

  She looked scared, like she’d built a big old house out of cards and I’d walked up looking to knock it all down. And to be honest, a bit of us wanted to do just that. I mean, all right, she were trying to give up the pop. Fair play to her. Sauce never had done her no favours and looked to have got the better of her of late, what with that belly of hers. But fucking come on—fags? What’s wrong with fags? And what about me? I hadn’t had a smoke in fuck knew how long, and the least a bird can do is give a feller what he needs. But I never knocked down her house of cards.

  You should know I ain’t like that.

  I pulled her to us instead, trying to block out the stitches on her face and the way her flesh felt like cold dough. ‘Know what?’ I says in her ear. ‘I’m proud of you. Right fuckin’ proud, aye.’

  She clamped her paws behind me back and squeezed us so hard I thought the bandages might pop off and me wrist start squirting red. After a while she let up a bit and started sobbing.

  ‘Eh,’ I says, holding her face to me chest. Last thing I wanted to do were look at her. She looked rough enough already without all the redness and blotchiness from crying. ‘Woss the fuckin’ matter, eh?’

  She weren’t really up to answering so we just stayed like that, me rocking her nice and gentle and her calming down slow. To be honest with you I weren’t too bothered about what were the matter with her. Birds can turn odd now and then, and them’s the times edsler’s best steering clear. He can ask and listen all he likes, but he’ll never understand. Fellers ain’t built for understanding birds, and the same goes t’other way, although birds might tell you different. Your typical feller knows he don’t know and don’t give a toss, when all’s said. So when Sal started to say summat I hushed her up and pushed her face to me chest a bit harder. ‘Plenty time for words,’ I says. ‘All the time in the world, there is.’

  She seemed all right about that so we stayed hugging each other for a bit. Somehow she’d managed to get her knickers off and before I knew it my hands was working her arse cheeks. It were just as well she were on top cos I didn’t have the energy to do much jumping about, what with yomping here and there and all the other shite I’d been putting up with of late. But I weren’t so far gone I couldn’t rise to the occasion.

  Course I fucking weren’t.

  ‘I loves you,’ she says afterwards, when we’d been lying still a fair old while. I’d been doing a bit of thinking about this and that and I’d worked out a bit of a plan. I knew what to do next anyhow. I’d always found that thinking comes easier right after you’ve shot your muck, see, when your tadger’s lying limp and contented up a bird’s fanny. But the sound of Sal’s voice shook us out of it. Which weren’t a bad thing, to be fair on her. You can’t lie there thinking forever, can you? Sooner or later you’ve got to pull out and do summat.

  ‘Aye, nice one,’ I says, giving her another squeeze. When you got used to it her plump body weren�
��t so bad, long as you kept the lights low. Still weren’t so keen on her belly, mind, which were a bit lumpy and not so soft as it ought to be. ‘Couldn’t do us a favour, Sal?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Go up the shop an’ get us a few tinnies, eh?’

  She went all still, like she’d heard someone come in the kitchen window. But there were no one else here. Just her and meself.

  ‘Only I ain’t really up to it, like,’ I says. ‘You know, me injury an’ that…’ I rolled her over so I were on top, dick soft but still in place. While I were still up her I knew I could get her agreeing to anything. ‘An’ you knows I loves you.’

  At them words she clamped her legs around us so hard I went a bit stiff again. ‘Oh, Blake,’ she says, kissing us all over the face. ‘I’ll go to the shops for you. And when I comes back I got summat to tell you. Summat important, Blake.’

  ‘Nice one,’ I says, laughing and wrenching meself free. I were busting for a slash and me lower back were giving us grief beyond belief. I went and had a long piss, humming ‘Don’t Cry, Daddy’ by The King himself. Mind you, if I were crying it’s cos it stunk of puke in that bathroom and I wanted out sharpish.

  When I came back she were all set for the shop, though I knew she had fuck all on under that coat. Sal were lazy that way. She kissed us again and went to the door. ‘Oh, and some fags,’ I says as she stood in the doorway blowing a kiss. She frowned a bit but I knew she were all right about it.

  Soon as the front door were shut I sat down and picked up the blower.

  ‘Hello. Paul Pry. Fine selection of ales and—’

  ‘Nathan?’

  ‘Aye. Who zat?’

  ‘Me, ennit? Blake.’

  ‘Ah, Royston Blake.’

  ‘Aye, Blake. So?’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘So you heared or what?’

  ‘Heared what?’

  ‘Come on, I thought you knows everythin’?’

  ‘I never said that.’

  ‘You knows iss true, though.’

  ‘Seems not, don’ it? So woss I meant to have heared?’