Booze and Burn

by Charlie Williams

  I look at him with eyes both quizzical and addled, I hope.

  ‘Summat wrong with your legs or summat?’ he says. I notice for the first time how young he really is. This is a boy in a giant’s body. But he still stands between me and my investigation.

  I look at my legs and shrug.

  He seems concerned about my smell. He sniffs the air around me. I flush slightly, remembering that I forgot to wash this morning. Can a case of mild body odour be grounds to deny entry? I realise that this is my moment—either I will reach the place beyond and find out what is destroying the youth of Mangel, or…

  Or I will fail.

  Suddenly the granite hand falls off my chest as the doorman appraises the next customer. My passage is clear. I slouch onwards.

  Inside I don’t know which way to turn. Children—aged ten to eighteen—are everywhere. I am so manifestly not one of them and I feel sure they will sense me. But none does. They are too busy: dancing, wandering, talking to each other, talking to themselves, or just sitting still as if watching some imaginary television.

  I cannot just stand here and watch. I must do something. I go to the bar. There I ask the handsome barmaid where the cigarette machine is.

  ‘It’s empty,’ she says. ‘Been empty for weeks.’ She offers me one of her own.

  I light up and immediately start coughing.

  ‘Summat wrong?’ she says. ‘Hang on, you don’t smoke, does you?’

  I shrug. There’s no point in hiding it.

  ‘Why’d you have a lighter then?’

  A reporter should always carry a lighter, but I cannot tell her that. I notice the Mangel Informer she has been reading and wonder if she has already rumbled me.

  ‘Here, I knows you,’ she says, settling the matter. ‘You’re that—’

  I put my hand on hers and wink at her. It is a risky move. She will either understand me and shut up, or I will be thrown out. She moves away and starts pulling a pint. I wonder if I shouldn’t just leave. Maybe I really am out of my depth here. Maybe I shouldn’t have studied so hard at school.

  She puts the full pint before me. I am teetotal, but I don’t tell her that. She leans towards me. She is a generously proportioned woman and I find myself lusting after her, despite myself. I take a gulp of beer to cool myself down. ‘I think you’re all right,’ she says. ‘You’re the only one who gives a toss.’

  About what?

  ‘About this town and the way the kids is going. Look at em all,’ she says, nodding to the seething, deranged melée behind me. ‘They’re all in here. This is their home, ain’t it, where it all happens? What took you so long?’

  I look into this woman’s eyes and realise that, for the first time, someone shares my wavelength.

  Who is the J-Man?

  She giggles nervously and steps back, fingers to lips, eyes flitting. She seems slightly inebriated. Not on alcohol but on the precariousness of her situation. Satisfied that no one is within earshot, she leans in again. ‘He’s my boss.’

  The J-Man. Nick Nopoly.

  ‘Makes them sweets, he does. I seen him doing it, out back in his office. Never used to see them sweets in Mangel, we didn’t. Only since he’s been…’

  She stops suddenly as a customer arrives for a refill. I know this is the end of our interview, and feel an unexpected twinge of sadness. She takes the man’s empty and moves away. He has greasy black hair and a cleft palate. He grins at me, exposing an expanse of glinting pink gum. It makes me feel bad inside, as if he’d tricked me into eating his own excrement. I leave a bank note on the bar to cover my drink and step away. The man pockets the cash, but I am not about to argue.

  I glance at the doorman as I hurry out, wondering if he will notice my suddenly improved gait. But he doesn’t even see me. He’s staring at the sky, as if contemplating chariots of angels coming down to take him away.

  I were dreaming. I knew that much. I knew it cos I were in me bedroom at home and I could hear Mam and the old feller downstairs having a go at each other. But Mam had died when I were only a babby, hadn’t she, which is how I copped on to it being a dream. Cos I weren’t no babby here. I weren’t a big feller neither, but I were big enough to rob. I knew that cos I were watching the little portable I’d robbed out of someone’s house with Legs and Fin the one time. It were black and white and you couldn’t hardly get a proper picture on it. But it were better than being down there.

  Clint were on. I think it were A Fistful of Dollars but I weren’t sure. He’s hid behind a horse or summat, watching the goings on across the way, which sounds like a feller and bird having a row. I know it’s Mam and the old feller before it shows em. When it does show em it’s funny and not funny. Funny cos the old feller’s wearing a cowboy hat and Mam one o’ them red strappy things what all the prozzies wears in them films. Not funny cos he’s strangling her.

  Back to Clint again, and he’s going for his gun. Only it ain’t there. Some cunt’s took it and he ain’t happy. But you can’t hold Clint back. He reaches down his sock and pulls out a fucking great big bowie knife. His eyes narrow and he starts to get up, nice and slow.

  I’m in the kitchen now. It’s a dream so I don’t have to tell you how I got there and you ain’t bothered anyhow, are you? The drawer’s open and I’m getting summat out. It’s a chopping knife. I takes it and goes to the stairs. Halfway up the stairs and it ain’t a chopping knife no more—it’s a bowie, just like Clint’s. The old man’s up there in his bedroom shouting about Mam, calling her a tart and a slag and all that. Mam’s making a gurgling noise and it don’t sound good. But I’m Clint, ain’t I? I got narrow eyes and a brown hat and a big fucking blade. I go up to the bedroom door, aiming to open it nice and slow. But I don’t go through with it. This is a fucking Clint Eastwood film, ennit? So I take a run-up and break the fucker down.

  He gets off her sharpish. Knows he’s for it, don’t he? He’s got Clint on his arse now and he’d better tuck his shirt in. But it’s too late for him, see. She’s lying there on the bed, dead. It’s me Mam, with her long blonde hair and red lips. Her gob’s hanging agape and her big blue eyes is wide with the horror of it all. And it’s the old feller who done it.

  He’s cowering in the corner there, trying to get behind that wardrobe. I go to him. I got a blade in my hand and the blackness is coming over us…

  I dunno what time it were when I came to. I were stretched out on a bench and I could hear running water. Took us a few minutes to work out I were in Vomage Park, up the far end by Shatter Crescent, and the sound were coming from the Piss Fountain a few feet away.

  The Piss Fountain were so called on account of the three little statues of younguns in the middle of it, slashing into the water no-handed. They’d been slashing like that long as I recalled and showed no sign of slowing up821tween em was a bird with her kit off, but you couldn’t see her nips nor fanny nor nothing. Could have seen em when they first put her there, like as not, but that had been long ago and the weather had wore her smooth since.

  I sat up and tried to think.

  The whisky bottle were lying empty on the floor. The label looked dirty, like I’d rolled it in dogshite or summat. My hands was dirty and all but it weren’t no dogshite. Sticky and greasy it were, like paint or summat. Fuck knew how that had got there and to be honest I didn’t give a toss. I gave a toss about my head, mind, which felt fucking awful. I needed water sharpish, else I didn’t know what I’d do. There were a drinking tap somewhere in the park but I couldn’t recall whereabouts, it being so long since I’d last been in there. I picked up the bottle and went down to the Piss Fountain to fill him up.

  After that I felt a bit better, but I still didn’t know what time it were. So I looked at me watch. It were a bit dark and I had to squint. ‘Look at you,’ said me mam. ‘Wonderin’ what time it is when you don’t even know what you’re doin’.’

  I looked up and sure enough there she were in the middle of the fountain, surrounded by the three pissers. ‘Oh,’ I says. �
��All right, Mam.’

  ‘Don’t Mam me. I’d of known he’d be sleepin’ on park benches, I’d never of had a child. Three hours you been lyin’ there. Three hours.’ Her face softened a bit, despite her being hewn of stone. ‘I used to watch you in yer cot when you was only little. Did you know that, Royston? Do you remember?’

  ‘I remembers, Mam,’ I says. ‘I remembers it all, an’—’

  ‘Do you, though, Royston? Do you remember when I used to stroke your soft cheek and whisper, “I loves you”?’

  ‘Mam, I does. I—’

  ‘You was my little man.’

  ‘I still am, Mam. I’m still—’

  ‘I stroked your hair, too, Royston. I used to love that hair. Even got to cut it once, before…’

  ‘Before what, Mam?’

  ‘Before I went away.’

  ‘Where’d you go, Mam?’

  ‘Everyone goes away, Royston.’

  ‘I know but—’

  ‘And when they go, you’ve just got to let them.’

  ‘But, Mam—’

  ‘Bye, Royston.’

  ‘Hang on a min, Mam. Mam?’

  I stopped pressing me face to her chest when I noticed it were bleeding. Blood were dripping down between her tits and running out of steam down by her belly, sucked in by the thirsty stone like as not. Cos it weren’t Mam no more. It were a statue again, of a bird with her bits worn smooth by the tick tock of the clock. I waded out of the fountain and started walking.

  I walked down the main path through the park. Next to the big old weeping willow about halfway down I spotted the drinking tap. I were parched again and wanted a sip, but someone were there already. He stood up, wiped his gob, and squinted at us.

  ‘All right, Blake,’ he says.

  ‘All right, Clint.’

  We sat down on a bench nearby. There’s a lot of benches in Vomage Park, but I don’t reckon I’d ever sat on even one of em before now. And here I were, trying two out in the one night. Fancy that, eh.

  Clint offered us a stogie.

  ‘Cheers,’ I says.

  I checked me pockets. I knew I had me lighter somewhere, but before I found it Clint struck a match on his boot and held it out.

  ‘Nice one,’ I says. He were all right, Clint.

  ‘Been waitin’ on you,’ he says, brushing some ash off his poncho.

  It were a decent cigar. Much better than the one I’d had in Nick Wossname’s office. And I smoked this one proper and all. Instead of sucking it right down I let it play around me gob a bit first, then took a bit down nice and slow. It were a whole new experience, and one I truly reckoned were down to me being sat there with Clint, and not the usual breed of wanker I sat down for a smoke with.

  ‘You know summat, Clint?’ I says. Then I told him what I just told you. About the usual breed of wanker.

  ‘Well that’s nice, Blake,’ he says. ‘But you oughtn’t to be usin’ language like that to describe yer townfellows. This here town is made of folks, right? You treat the folks bad, you treat the place bad.’

  ‘Got summat on yer mind have you, Clint?’

  ‘Aye, matter of fact I have. Thass why I’m here.’

  ‘I reckoned as much. We don’t see you round here too regular, like.’

  ‘Blake…’

  ‘I mean, we gets you on telly and that. I got all your films on vid at home. Mind you, I taped over Hang ‘Em High by mis—’

  ‘Shut it and listen,’ says Clint.

  And I did. Cos Clint shoots truer than no man never did.

  ‘The natural order of things has been broken,’ he says, squinting through the smoke. ‘And you broke it. The sanctity of this here town has been jeopardised, and it’s your fault. This is why I’m here, to try and set you on the straight road. Do you hear us, Blake?’

  ‘Clint, can I ask you summat?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You got one o’ them hip flasks?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Hip flask. You know, one o’ them little fellers you keeps yer whisky in. You got one? All the cowboys has em.’

  ‘No I ain’t got a fuckin’ hip flask.’m tryin’ to tell you summat important here.’

  ‘I knows that, Clint, I knows that. But us sittin’ here havin’ a nice cigar an’ chat, I thought—’

  ‘We ain’t havin’ a nice chat.’

  ‘—I thought, right, here’s a good time to have a little heart-warmer, you know? You sure you ain’t got one?’

  Clint were looking a bit itchy, and you knows what cowboys is like when they gets itchy, with their trigger fingers and all. So I shut up and let him say his piece. I weren’t looking forward to it, mind. To be honest, when I first clocked him there I thought he’d come to give us a few tips on minding, not have a go at us about breaking the natural wind of what have you, or whatever.

  ‘Royston Blake,’ he says in a voice that didn’t sound like him. To be honest he hadn’t sounded much like himself all along. He’d sounded more like Finney. But I knew it were Clint and not Fin because Fin were a greasy-haired streak of piss and this here feller were…well, Clint.

  ‘You have killed,’ he says. And I’m shutting up now and letting him talk. ‘You have killed in the past and you will kill again. But this time, this last one here, that’s one too many. It ain’t on. It just is not on. I’m talkin’ about the natural order of things here and you breakin’ it. You followin’ us so far, Blake? You looks lost.’

  ‘Well,’ I says. And I were a bit lost as it happens. ‘I’m just wonderin’ who it is I’m meant to of killed, like. Cos if it’s Frankenstein you means, then you got the wrong feller. I never killed no Frankenstein. That were Jack, wernit? An’ if you means Dave there in the wood, I never meant that one. It were his idea and I just went a bit far, like, by mistake. An’—’

  ‘I don’t wanna hear it, Blake,’ he says, blowing smoke into the air. ‘You’ve killed, and now you must set things straight.’

  ‘But how?’ I says. ‘I mean if a feller’s dead—’

  ‘Shut up. Just fuckin’ shut your big face for once and listen. I got summat to say here and I’ll say it. All right?’

  ‘All right, all right. Fuckin’ hell, Clint…’

  ‘Right. Here it is…’ He flobbed some nasty black stuff on the grass and cleared his throat, which was a bit arse-about if you asks me, but there you go. ‘There is a cancer in this here town. A cancer spreadin’ through the veins of Mangel, trapping innocents and making the strong go weak. And there’s only one way to fix a cancer. Do you know what that is, Blake?’

  ‘Cancer?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘But there ain’t no cure for cancer, is there? Our Aunt Betty caught it and—’

  ‘Cut it out.’

  ‘No, I’m just sayin’—’

  ‘I mean cut it out. The fuckin’ cancer.’

  ‘And pray it never comes back.

  ‘But…’

  ‘I gotta go now.’

  ‘Hang on, Clint…Clint? Where’s you off to? Hoy, Clint.’

  But he’d fucked off, hadn’t he? And I were left on me tod again. I sat there thinking about things for a bit. A goodly while I should say, cos when I heard a noise and looked up it were a milk float going by out on the road. I got off me arse and went home.

  When I got there I climbed in me pit and fell fast akip.

  15

  HOPPERS DOORMAN SLAUGHTERED

  Robbie Sleeter, Junior Reporter

  Dean Stone was knifed to death last night as he kept door at Hoppers in Friar Street. The 16-year-old head doorman, of Blickett Lane in the Norbert Green district, bled to death before ambulances could reach him. He had only been in the job for three days.

  A large, flabby, moustachioed man was spotted running from the scene. Witnesses described a scruffy individual in a very tatty black leather jacket, with a red nose, and some teeth missing.

  ‘Can’t say I knew him,’ said Mr Bruce Arkle, a witness. ‘But he looked like a **** to me.’r />
  ‘Yes,’ said Miss Penny Trandle. ‘A ****, that’s how I’d describe him as well. But I couldn’t put a name to him.’

  ‘Fuckin’ what?’ I says.

  But they’d hung up already. I put the blower down and fell back on the pillow. My head felt like shite shovelled up and scooped into a placcy bag, then slung against a wall a few times and fashioned into the shape of my head. And do you know what? I were glad of it. I hadn’t felt that way for a goodly few days now, and I’d missed it. I nestled me face into the warm sack of feathers and savoured the sweet ache of it. But it didn’t last. Things was popping up behind me eyelids, making us toss and turn like bedsprings was sticking into my arse.

  Questions, I’m talking about here. Like who were that trying to call us just now?

  And what the fuck had I got up to last night?

  I knew I’d got up to summat. Sometimes you knows, though you dunno what it is. All I could recall were leaving Hoppers and yomping off up the road, singing “The Wonder of You” by Elvis. But the way I were singing it were ‘The wonder of me…’, not you. Cos you’re a cunt and I were a minder. To be fair on meself, the night had turned cold of a sudden, and the particular air that were about at that time didn’t do me swede no favours. Plus I’d had that bad pint back ther, which couldn’t have helped. So what you’re left with is a blank spot between then and now, during the which I’d done summat that didn’t sit well in me guts come light of day.

  Mind you, not knowing what I’d done weren’t the worst of it. It were not knowing what I’d set off from Hoppers to do that had us fretting more. I knew Nick Wossname had asked us to do summat for him, see. But fuck on a stick knew what it were.

  I got up and had a shower. It were well hot and came down hard on me eyelids, doing a fine job of chasing away them nasty questions I didn’t want to answer. By the time I got out I were scrubbed up and clear of conscience. There’s no point letting a rough swede ruin your morning, is there? And if I couldn’t recall what I done last night, it weren’t worth recalling. I started brushing me ivories. The phone went again.