‘What?’ I says, still doing the ones at the back.
‘Woss you doin’?’ says a voice like Nathan the barman’s.
‘Who zat?’
‘You knows who zat is. Woss that noise?’
‘You knows woss that noise. What else a feller do first thing he gets up, besides piss?’
‘First thing he gets up? I got folks eatin’ lunch here.’
‘Woss on special?’
‘Pie.’
‘Again?’
‘Aye. Look here, you, I wants a word. Woss you been up to?’
‘Me? Not much. This an’ that,’ I says, like a fool. Nathan knew everything that happened in Mangel, didn’t he? But I couldn’t very well tell him what I didn’t know. And the bits I did know didn’t bear the repeating of em.
‘“This an’ that,” you says? This an’ blinkin’ that? I knows what you been up to an’ I don’t care fer it. There’s a fine balance in this here town of ours and we all plays our part in keepin’ things just so. There’s a higher purpose to the lot of it, Blake, a pattern that some of us is witness to, but not the like of you. And this thing you done yesterday…You gone an’ tipped the scales, Blakey. You get down here sharpish an’ don’t let no one see you, least of all coppers.’
‘But…’ I says as the line went dead.
I put the blower down and went back to the bathroom with me toothbrush. I couldn’t use it no more. My hand were shaking too much. I rinsed me trap out and sat down on the pan.
The shaving mirror were turned sideways, letting us know just what I looked like as I sat there heaving one out. ‘Fuckin’ look at you,’ I says to the mirror. ‘Get it together, you big fuckin’ ponce. You’re a minder now. Minders is hard as nails inside an’ out, and don’t take no shite off no fucker. What’d Clint be doin’ now if he were a minder, eh? Reckon he’d be sat on the throne like you is, wishin’ all his troubles’d flush down the pan with his cack? Eh? No he bastard would fuckin’ not. He’d be out there in his motor, er…mindin’, an’ that.’
Which reminded us…
‘Filthy Stan the Motor Man,’ he says. ‘Can I help you?’
I were shaved and dressed and dapper now. ‘Where the fuck is my motor?’ I says down the blower.
‘Whose motor? Who’s you?’
I were dapper all right but still rough in the head. And I weren’t enjoying that no more neither. Pie and chips and a pint or two ought to set that one straight, mind, which were the main reason I’d decided on taking Nathan up on his invitation. I mean, he couldn’t ask us down the Paul Pry and not lay summat on for us, could he?
But I had to sort out a means of getting there first. ‘Who’s me? Who’s fuckin’ me? I’m the cunt gave you seventy bastard notes is who I is.’ I were thinking like a minder now, see, taking it from no fucker and dishing it out like a dinner lady.
‘Ah, Royston Roger Blake. Been readin’ about you here in the paper.’
‘What…you…where’s me Capri, you fuckin cunt?’
He were quiet for a bit, then I heard him mumbling summat. Then the line went dead.
I called him back.
‘Filth—’
‘You hang up on us again, you fuckin’ wanker,’ I says, nice and calm, ‘you hang up again an’ I’ll—’
He only hung up again, didn’t he?
I felt a mite aggrieved at that, and I don’t mind telling you I took it out on the blower. Weren’t long before I calmed down, mind. A professional keeps his place tidy, so I went downstairs to get the broom from under the stair. After I’d swept all the bits of blower up I went looking for summat with a hood to wear. There were nothing like that in me wardrobe or under the stair with the other coats, but I found an old parka in Fin’s room. It were well tight round the shoulders and gut and chest and arms and head and neck but otherwise it were a good fit. I zipped it right up and clocked meself in the mirror. You couldn’t hardly see through the snorkel bit at the front but that’s how I wanted it. I didn’t want no one recognising us in town, things being as they was, and this were spot on for that. Right smart I looked. Bit like an Action Man. You know, the one with the parka. Only thing letting us down were the trousers. So I went and put some on.
Then I went out.
‘Oh aye,’ shouts Doug from across the street as I went past. He were stood in his open doorway in his white coat. ‘Take more than an old anorak to hide you from me.’
I looked away and trudged on. I couldn’t be doing with him and his bollocks right then. I know he had Fin in there, but I couldn’t sort out every fucker’s problems, could I? A man has priorities. I had so many priorities I could put em in a pan with some water and make soup out of em. There was too many to think of, and the only one I could look in the eye just then were the one about pie and chips and a couple of pints.
‘Be sure to drop by the morrer,’ shouts Doug. ‘I’m puttin’ on a new special—sausages.om me.R
But I weren’t listening.
Things was a bit odd as I walked into town. I weren’t quite sure why. Could have been cos there weren’t so much traffic. Could have been the dark shadow hanging over everything and painting it dark grey, despite it being lunchtime or thereabouts. Could have been either of them, but when I got downtown I found a few other things to make it all a bit odder.
Smashed windows, for starters. Shopfronts mostly but also houses here and there. Some was boarded up but others was left with the glass lying about and the wind blowing in. It were like the shopkeeper or feller who lived there had clocked on to the way things was going and couldn’t be arsed to fight it.
Then there was your beggars. Mangel ain’t ever had beggars. Not cos no one were ever skint. Plenty of folks is skint in this town. But Mangel folk is proud folk. You wouldn’t catch me holding me paw out for scraps. I’d rather work for me crust, or hop through a window and swipe some other fucker’s crust. But these ones here didn’t look up to that much work. Looked half-dead they did. Some of em a bit more than half. I went past four or five of em down the High Street, sitting on their skinny arses in their baggy jeans, some of em with hoods up, backs propped against brick and stone. Not one of em could have been more than seventeen or so.
‘A few coppers, mister?’ says one, holding his hand out.
I stopped and looked at him, then up and down the High Street. ‘You what?’ I says.
He turned his face up to us. His skin were like flour and lard, except around his eyes where it were like soot. ‘Coppers, mister. Just a couple? Cup o’ tea, like.’
I had another glance up yonder and the other way. ‘Where?’ I says. Then me eyes set on summat else across the way and I moved on.
It were Mona.
On crutches.
She were wearing a little skirt and her right leg were like a pipe cleaner next to the other one, which were in plaster up past the joint. Didn’t seem to bother her, mind. She were shifting like the clappers and I found it hard keeping up. I would have hoyed her but summat told us to keep it zipped, like me parka. Folks’d recognise my deep and powerful voice, wouldn’t they? And I were doing so well at keeping meself hid so far, apart from Doug. So I just followed her.
I reckoned she were headed down the arcade at first. But she sailed straight past Frotfield Way and turned right. I huffed and puffed after her.
All the way to Hoppers.
I stood in the doorway of Margaret Hurge Twentieth Century Hair Design and watched Mona go in through the unmanned doors of Mangel’s premier piss house. ‘You just stay there, my love,’ I says. ‘You just sit tight with your manky pin an’ I’ll come back for you in a bit. All right? Bit o’ business first, eh.’
‘Gonna stand there talkin’ to yerself all day, is you?’ comes a voice from behind.
‘All right, Marge,’ I says, turning about.
‘Oh, hiya, Blake.’
She were all right, were Marge. Used to do me dearly departed wife’s hair in the old days. Can’t say it made much difference, but Beth seemed to lik
e it. Marge were a bit of all right though. Had the goods she did, and she carried em well. Bit too much to say for herself for my liking, mind.
‘You still workin’ over there?’ she says, nodding at Hoppers. I’d thought it a question but it couldn’t have been, cos she carried on talking: ‘Only I ain’t happy with it. This street has turned bad of late an’ it’s all on account of your place over there. Comes up and down here all day long, they does, makin’ their noise and droppin’ their litter. And then there’s the robberies. You seen Mr Fillery’s place up yonder? Emptied it, they did. Not one single ornamental figurine left in the whole shop. It’s a disgrace. And you ought to…’
But I weren’t listening no more. I’d like to stand there slying glances at Marge’s tits all day, but I couldn’t. Had Nathan the barman waiting for us, didn’t I.
‘Ah, the feller himself,’ he says.
And I’m glad he did cos I were all set to turn arse and fuck off out of it. The Paul Pry were rammed with the disprocessed of Mangel again, except most of em was reading the paper this time instead of sitting around talking bollocks. But that weren’t the problem. They all knew us and I knew them. That’s what the problem were. I were their doorman of old and they was my punters of yore. But you’d not have knowed it, the way they went all quiet and gawped at us as soon as I unzipped me parka. I gandered in the mirror behind the bar. I still looked like Royston Blake, far as I reckoned. ‘I stink o’ shite or summat?’ I says to no one in particular, checking the underside of me boots.
No one in particular answered. They turned back to their papers and started cooing amongst emselves again. And that were when Nathan came up behind us, saying: ‘Ah, the feller himself,’ like I says just now. ‘Took yer time, didn’t you?’
‘Fuckin’ had to yomp here, didn’t I? That cunt Filthy Stan’s got my Capri.’
‘We’ll have no swearin’ in here, Blake, ladies bein’ present and all. And don’t blame your woes on Filthy Stan the Motor Man. Ain’t his fault yer head gasket’s went. Didn’t tell him about that, did you? He can’t do the work before you agrees to pay fer it, now, can he? How many times he gotta ring you before you’ll answer him? And answer him with a civil tongue, I might add.’
‘Head gasket?’ I says. ‘I only wanted the tyres…’ But it were no good arguing the toss. I hated that about Nathan sometimes. The odds was stacked on his side cos he knew all about you and you knew jack shite about him, besides him having a sparse tash and hairy arms.
‘Well there it is,’ he says. ‘You’ll talk to him about monies or you’ll tow her away yerself.’
‘Here, Nathan,’ I says, trying to peel the parka off.
‘Best leave that on,’ he says. ‘YouÙll need it where we’re headed. Come on, you.’ He went through the door beside the microwave, leaving it open behind him. The door, not the microwave.
I scratched my head and looked over me shoulder. You ain’t never seen so many eyes turn away so quick. Every bastard one of em looked down at his paper or found summat of interest upon a beer mat.
‘Just off to splash me boots,’ I shouts to Nathan.
He shouted summat after us but I couldn’t be doing with it. I weren’t scaredy of going back there behind the bar nor nothing, I just needed a moment to meself first.
No one were in the bog and I were glad of it. I got meself out and let her go. I’d only been going about a minute when I heard one of the crapper doors swing open behind us. My nose filled with the smell of shite. ‘Hoy, you, you fuckin’ fucker,’ says someone.
I turned my head just in time to see that it were Jack. I might have guessed that from his turn of phrase there, but you never know, do you? He got us by the parka and rammed me swede into the wall. I got me paws out onto the tiles in time, and though the blow were far from pleasant it could have been worse. He tried doing it again but I stuck me elbow out behind us and got him one in the kidney. He staggered back into the sink. I turned around, tadger still out and dripping.
‘Fuckin’ matter with you?’ I says, putting it away.
Jack’s blade were out before I’d got meself zipped up. He were breathing hard and didn’t look too rosy. But Jack hadn’t ever looked rosy since Mangel Jail, and it hadn’t stopped him killing Frankenstein, had it? ‘Fuckin’ come here you, you fucker. Steal my credit would you? I reads the fuckin’ papers. Sayin’ iss you knifed the fuckin’ doorman, they is. You, you fucker. You couldn’t—’
‘Hang about…’ I says.
‘You ain’t fuckin’ thievin’ this one off us.’ He pointed the blade at us. ‘No fucker’s keepin’ us out this time.’
‘Come on, Jack…’
‘I can’t fuckin’ stand it out here. Things has changed too much, Blakey.’ His voice were getting softer. The blade were dropping down a bit. ‘Ain’t like the old days no more, it ain’t.’
I hadn’t heard Jack say so many words since he’d come out of jail, and it scared us a bit. Weren’t going barmy on us, were he? A blade’s one thing, but a barmy feller’s summat else besides.
‘Used to have a laugh in them days,’ he were going on. ‘Did we, Blakey? Sometimes I can’t recall nuthin’ before goin’ inside. I dunno woss what out here, Blakey. I tell you, I fuckin’ hates it. There’s fuck all for us here. There’s nobody. I ain’t even got mates, you know. I drinks on me own cos every bastard’s scared of us. If I only had a mate, a proper mate. One mate…’
His whole body sagged and he let himself fall against the piss wall, sobbing. Mind you, he hadn’t dropped the blade yet so I had to be careful.
I moved quick, aiming a boot at his spuds.
p height="0%" width="5%">But he seen it and stepped away. I couldn’t fucking believe it. And him with tears running down his scarred cheeks and all.
Me boot swung past him but I just about kept meself upright. He jumped away from the piss wall and fixed us with them eyes of his. I watched the blade weaving side to side like it were alive. Jack went left with it. I moved the other way. Jack were a fast mover for one so ravaged by the long-term effects of alcohol abuse, and he went to change direction. But there were piss all over the floor and he went arse up.
He landed hard, flat on his back. You could hear the puff going right out of him, but he didn’t stay down. I backed off, reaching for me monkey wrench. But I couldn’t get the fucking zip down enough on me parka. ‘Jack,’ I were saying, cos he were on his knees now and the blade were still pointed at us. ‘Jack, come on, mate…’
His whole head were bright red and he didn’t look cheerful. He showed us his yellow and black gnashers and says, panting: ‘I’m…I’m goin’ back inside an’ no…no fucker’s…’
But it stopped there. His eyes opened wide and I saw the whites of em, though they wasn’t really white what with all them red lines and that. His body went stiff and he toppled sideways into the puddle of piss.
I watched him lying there for a bit before I made a move. He were going more and more purple, making noises like an old door creaking, whole body juddering slow like he were riding a horse or shagging. He were pawing at his chest, trying to get at summat in there. But the twat had forgot to drop his knife, hadn’t he? I don’t reckon he even noticed the little stabs he gave himself through his shirt. They got slower and slower until the blade dropped out of his hand and he went still.
After a bit I got meself out again and finished off the piss. I thought about things during that piss. I thought about the way it ain’t your fault a lot of the time cos there just ain’t no accounting for other folks, is there? You can try doing it all but it just don’t work—somewhere along the way you’re gonna have to call on someone. And that’s when things turn to shite. I mean, look at me here—all set to start a new life as Mangel’s top minder I were. But what happens?
Jack is what fucking happens.
I told him, didn’t I? Down that alley there last night. I fucking told the cunt to leave it alone cos I’ve got it all sorted. But he don’t listen, do he? Never does, the like of h
im—hears what they wants to hear and fuck the rest. Fucking wanker. I’ll show em, I thought to meself as I turned about and pissed on his face.
I were trying to get it right in his ear but I dried up just when I got me aim right. I put meself away and started kicking him until his chest were like a sack of soup and kindling. I stopped when the door opened behind us and someone came in. I don’t even know who it were. I ran at him and dropped my head on his nose, splitting it asunder and filling the air with little red drops. He stayed up so I drew me fist back and gave it him on the jaw. He went down this time.
‘Hoy, woss goin’ on up there?’ says Nathan as I opened the fire door. ‘That you, Blake? Where’d you get to?’
I fucked off.
16
INFORMER REPORTER BUTCHERED
Robbie Sleeter, Junior Reporter
Steve Dowie, this newspaper’s crime editor, was found dead at his flat in Shatter Crescent early this morning. A police pathologist has described the body as ‘a right state. Stabbed forty-seven times, he was. Blood all over the carpet. Went right through the floorboards and into the flat below, where an old lady lives with her cat. I’ve never see so much blood leave a man’s body. You ain’t either, have you, Brian?’
‘No,’ replied Dr Wimmer.
The door to Dowie’s flat had been kicked down. ‘I heard a racket about two in the morning,’ said a neighbour. ‘But I didn’t think anything of it. You don’t, do you? Noises are normal round here, what with vandals in the park and folks coming home drunk. So no…but when I came out in the morning to get my milk there it were: his door kicked down and the frame all splintered and broken. Well, I had a peep inside. You’ve got to watch out for your neighbours in this day and age after all. And there he were on the floor. Blood everywhere…except the thing on the bed there, there were no blood on that. What is it they call them? Blow-up dolly, is it? You know, the ones lonely men pleasure themselves with. Mind you, I always knew he were a bit odd, with his spectacles and his secretive ways.’
Booze and Burn Page 19
