by Liza Cody
Bucket Nut
LIZA CODY
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
A Note on the Author
By the Same Author
Chapter 1
There was a little bloke in the aisle screaming his head off. Quite sweet he looked in his grey mackintosh and muffler. His flat cap fell down over one eye.
‘Bucket Nut!’ he yelled.
I could hear him clearly over the screams and yells. The things they think of to say.
‘Shut yer face!’ I gave him the finger.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw the Blonde Bombshell stagger to her feet. I turned my back.
There was a little old lady in the second row bouncing up and down with rage.
‘You big ugly bully,’ she screeched. ‘Big ugly … trollop!’
‘Trollop yerself,’ I shouted.
The Blonde Bombshell hit me in the back and I fell against the ropes. The front row came alive, bashing me with shoes, programmes and handbags. I rolled away to the middle of the ring.
The Blonde Bombshell crashed on top and twisted my arm behind my back.
The front row went wild.
‘Kill ’er,’ they howled. ‘Have her rotten arm off.’
The Blonde Bombshell grabbed a handful of hair and pulled my head up off the canvas. She is such a wanker.
‘Watchit,’ I said. ‘Mind me teeth.’
She knew I had the toothache. But she bashed my face into the floor. Silly cow.
I heaved myself up onto hands and knees with her on my back. She got an arm round my throat. She always gets it wrong: a sort of pinch rather than a lock. But they can’t see that even in the front row. And they were really going crazy in the front row.
‘Ow-ow-ow,’ I wailed to encourage them.
The Blonde Bombshell started to grind the other hand in my face. She really is a bitch. She knew about the toothache and it made me spitty with her.
I got the old quads bunched and then slowly I rose to my feet. She was clinging on. I could feel her breasts squashed against my shoulder blades and that wire-support bra she wears to give her extra cleavage dug into my spine.
She thought I was going to stand upright. She never learns.
Halfway up I went over in a forward roll and dumped her on her back. I twisted and at the last second crashed down on her shoulders. She was too winded to make a bridge. I had her.
The referee ambled over. He was taking his time because the crowd had gone all quiet.
‘One …’ he said.
‘Ooh, you bastard!’ someone shouted. ‘You cowardly filthy bastard!’
And the boos began. It sounds like a cattle market when I win a fight.
The Blonde Bombshell tensed to make a bridge. But I was so pissed off with her I wasn’t going to let her up.
‘Two,’ the referee said reluctantly.
They booed me all the way to the dressing-room, and that made it a good night.
I’ll give you some advice for free: if you set out to be a baddie in this life don’t count on any applause. Count the boos. It’s the only sure way to judge how well you’re doing.
I was doing pretty well for a beginner.
We turned the corner in that chilly corridor at the back of the theatre, and I could still hear them booing. The wrong woman had won much too quickly.
‘Ow, me bleedin’ back,’ the Blonde Bombshell complained. ‘You might let up on those falls. I’ll be black and blue in the morning.’
‘And you might let up on my bleedin’ teeth,’ I said. ‘I told you I had the toothache.’
‘I forgot,’ she said. Lying cow. She was losing sequins from off her fancy leotard, leaving a little trail of sparkle behind her. But I wasn’t going to tell her that – not after what she did to my teeth. Having toothache does something nasty to your disposition.
And then there was her dip-brained boyfriend sitting in the dressing-room when we got there.
‘Poor baby,’ he said to the Bombshell, and he gave me a look. I was supposed to be nice to him because he was giving me a ride back to London after the show. That meant he thought I should let Poor Baby win.
‘Have your arse out of here,’ I said. ‘I want to change.’
‘I’ve seen more women’s bodies than you’ve had hot dinners,’ he said. Stupid git.
‘Not mine, you haven’t,’ I said. ‘And you’re not going to.’
‘Who says I want to?’
‘Then move it,’ I told him.
But he wanted to massage the Bombshell’s shoulders with his big greasy hands. I almost felt sorry for her except she was purring and wiggling as if she enjoyed it.
Does everyone want to be wanted? Do all women want to be touched – even by a greasy-handed dip-brain? Well, I don’t know the answer to that, but then, I’m different. Of course I don’t like being big and ugly, but you have to admit that almost everything in this life can turn out to be an advantage. For one thing, it is definitely an advantage not to be fancied by the Bombshell’s moronic boyfriend, in spite of his Ford Granada.
They don’t heat the dressing-rooms in these old country theatres. It was probably a condemned building anyway. There is no shower. You are supposed to do the best you can with the wash basin in the corner.
I wouldn’t mind that. The place wasn’t designed for wrestling and these cruddy holes are the best I can expect at this stage of my career.
What I did mind was standing about in a draught, still sweating, with the toothache, while his poxy Lordship grabbed a feel.
Still, I had to be polite. The last train home from carrot country would have left hours ago. It’s a fact of life, isn’t it, that the further a place is from London the earlier the last train goes. I had to get back.
‘Go on,’ I said. ‘Shift out of here.’ I was trying to be friendly.
‘Eva’s shy,’ the Bombshell said. Well, what would you expect from someone who wears a lipstick called Champagne Fizz in the ring?
‘Eva?’ Dip-brain said. ‘Shy? Eva Wylie? ’Eave a bleeding beer barrel, more like.’
There is nothing more piddling than a dip-brain trying to be clever, and a Ford Granada doesn’t give anyone the right to insult me. I stuffed his head in the wash basin and turned on the tap. Then I picked up my Puma sports bag, my jacket and shoes. It was best to leave before I got really narked.
In the corridor I was caught by Mr Deeds. He was looking a bit narked himself.
‘When I ask for fifteen minutes,’ he said, ‘it’s fifteen minutes I want. Not seven. Not ten. Not even twelve and a half.’
‘Sorry Mr Deeds,’ I said. Mr Deeds is the Governor.
‘Get your act together, Eva,’ he said. ‘Little towns like this aren’t too chuffed with women in the ring. I had a job getting you on the bill in the first place. You got to give the punters their money’s worth.’
‘I slipped,’ I said. ‘And Stella’s got this bad back. We couldn’t help it, Mr Deeds.’
‘Slipped, my arse!’ he said. ‘I saw you flaming “slip”. And I’m bleeding sure Stella’s got a bad back – now.’
‘Sorry Mr Deeds,’
I said again. I was getting fed up standing in that draughty corridor apologising. I don’t like apologising, especially when my teeth hurt, but there’s not a lot else you can do when the man who pays you is narked.
‘Play the sodding game, Eva, and you could make a few bob,’ he went on. ‘Piss us around and you’re out. O-U-T. Got that?’
‘Out.’
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Next week it’ll be a different story, right?’
‘Right, Mr Deeds.’
He waddled away puffing on his cigar stump. Fat twat. It’s always the fat twats who pay your wages. He’s got a backside like an elephant. Trouble is, he’s got a memory like an elephant too.
I was in a bit of a mood after talking to Mr Deeds, but I wanted to see Harsh before I left. If it hadn’t been for Stella Bombshell, I’d have stayed to watch his bout. Harsh is good. He’s an athlete, and I can’t say better than that, can I?
I knocked on his dressing-room door. I was hoping he’d be alone but he wasn’t. Not surprising, really. There aren’t that many nice guys around, and everyone likes Harsh.
His girlfriend opened the door. I don’t like her. Well, I say I don’t like her, but actually I don’t know her. She’s tiny, and tonight she was wearing a kingfisher blue sari which made her look like a miniature princess. When she’s around, I feel like a bloody haystack in a hurricane. I wished I’d had a wash.
‘Hello, Eva,’ Harsh said. He was against the wall stretching his achilles. He’s one of the few who warms up properly before going on. That’s why he doesn’t have as many injuries as most. Also, he has beautiful balance. I warm up properly too. I’m working on the balance.
‘Would you like a Coke, Eva?’ Soraya said. She has lovely manners, but I still don’t like her.
‘I’m just on my way out,’ I said. There was a slim chance he might ask me to stay and then give me a lift back to Town.
‘I’ll see you next week then,’ he said.
‘We’re spending the night in Bath,’ Soraya told me. And then I remembered that everyone except Stella Bombshell and me were booked at the Pavilion.
‘Oh, well, ta-ta then,’ I said, as if I hadn’t a care in the world.
‘Goodnight, Eva,’ Soraya said. And Harsh smiled at me. He has a lovely smile, has Harsh. Shiny white teeth, all the right size.
If I can get enough fights, and if I do well enough in the Championships, I’m going to get my teeth fixed properly. I know a really good dentist and I’m saving up already, but it’s expensive.
Chapter 2
You can’t walk quietly on cinders.
They call this old pile of parts the Grand Theatre, and even the car park at the back is as un-grand as you can possibly get. All the cars are parked any old how on hardcore and cinders. The Grand! Don’t make me laugh.
Still, it wasn’t lit. That’s one good thing about rotten venues in carrot country – they don’t light their car parks. It’s like they’re just asking you to borrow a car.
I found a Renault 12 that was really begging to be borrowed – the driver’s door didn’t even close properly, and the wiring panel was loose. When I started it I found the tank was nearly full.
I was doing the owner a favour really – provided he was insured.
Who needs a lift back to Town when there are so many carrot crunchers queuing up to lend you their motors?
It wasn’t very late, but there was hardly anyone about on the streets of Frome as I drove out. It gave me a lonely sort of feeling. I like a bit of bustle, but you don’t find it much in carrot country. Everyone goes to bed early after watching their Mary Poppins videos, I suppose. I couldn’t even find a chipper open. What on earth do country people do for fun?
I was hungry. People my size need food after exercise. But another piece of advice I’ll give you for free is – don’t stop for nosh in a small town where you’ve just borrowed a car. Everyone is related to everyone else and someone’s bound to see you and call the polizei.
I’ve learned a lot of self-control in the past couple of years. So I drove straight past all the pubs and ignored my empty stomach.
There was a story Harsh told me once about the most famous wrestler in history. His name was Milo of Croton and he used to train by carrying a calf around on his shoulders for miles and miles. It was always the same calf. As the calf got bigger and heavier, Milo had to get stronger and stronger to lift it. Harsh said Milo was ahead of his time, and that story was about the basic principles of weight-training and how you have to train your muscles slowly against increasing resistance.
Milo won five Olympic titles, so I wouldn’t sneer at his training methods if I were you. If Milo of Croton was anything like me, though, he would’ve ended up eating his calf with roast potatoes and lashings of gravy.
It isn’t a good idea to think about roast potatoes when you’re starving – not if you want to pass the next kebab house and get out of town without being caught in a borrowed motor.
I hate the country. When you get away from the town it’s all dark and your headlights pick up corpses. You’re always running over things that are already dead – hedgehogs, rabbits, foxes and things that have been squashed by so many cars you can’t tell what they were. If it’s got feathers, you know it was a bird, but otherwise it’s anybody’s guess.
Things stare at you with junky green eyes.
In the country, things are either dangerous or dead. People may not be much better than animals, but at least people don’t leave other people dead on the roads. They take them away so that they don’t have to get run over again and again. Just think what London would look like if everything that got run over was left where it lay.
And take the food.
I stopped at a chipper about thirty miles out of Frome. They were just shutting up shop when I got there and all they had left was a couple of mushy-pea fritters. Mushy-pea fritters! I ask you! I really do hate the country.
They tried to make me live in the country once. I was seven years old, and it was one of those fostering deals. They sent me off to live with this weird couple who had a big house in Cambridgeshire where they kept dogs and ponies and about five other kids. It was the sort of deal that made all the social workers misty-eyed and damp-knickered.
‘You’ll love it, Eva,’ they whinnied. ‘All that space to run around in. All the lovely grass and trees.’
In my opinion, social workers don’t know obbly-onkers about city kids. Everybody went to bed at nine o’clock. There was nothing to do. The ponies had evil tempers. The dogs farted and had fleas and crapped all over the ‘lovely grass’. And the weird couple were religious freaks who expected all the kids to ‘get along’ with one another.
What makes people think that just because you’re the same age as someone else you’re going to get along? I mean the kind of kids who get fostered come from all over. They’re nervous. Whatever kind of family you come from, you miss your home. There are kids who want to knock you about, kids who steal, kids who wet the bed, kids who set fires, kids who can’t talk. And we’re all supposed to get along, and be grateful for the grass and evil-tempered ponies.
Nature is supposed to be good for you. But it isn’t. It bites, stings or poisons you at the drop of a hat. And besides, there are more birds in Trafalgar Square than ever I saw in the country – and that’s counting all the dead ones in the road.
No. London’s the place to be, and don’t let anyone tell you different.
In London you can hustle. There’s always a way to make a little biscuit – always somewhere to kip. It’s best not to be too fussy about what or where, but if what you want is to get by, without too many folk asking questions, you can do it here.
If you’re not stupid, that is. And I’m not stupid. A lot of people think I am – because I’m big. Big equals stupid, right? Well, anyone who thinks that is about as sharp as a golf ball.
And anyone who says it out loud to me gets a puffy kneecap.
I left the car at Waterloo and legged it home.
I had a home that year. And I had a proper job.
There was a chain-link fence with razor-wire curled in loops over the top of it. I got my keys out and undid the padlocks on the gate. As a precaution I whistled – wheee-yooooo. It was after midnight and the dogs would be hungry.
They hurled themselves out of the shadows, butting into my knees and thighs, slobbering.
‘Hello, Ramses,’ I said. ‘Hello, Lineker.’
They were all right, as dogs go – but over-eager. They led the way to the shed, and I unlocked it. I mixed a couple of scoops of doggy-toast into the revolting meaty gunge they eat and stood back while they munched it up.
Then I picked up the torch and did my rounds.
It was a big place so a round took quite a long time. The best bit was the second-hand park because that was lit. All I had to do was check the fence and walk between the cars making sure no one was camping out on the back seats.
Then I walked round the sales room and offices, making sure all the doors were locked.
The worst part was the wrecker’s yard. There was a big spotlight but the bulb was gone. I’d spoken to Mr Gambon about it three times, but he was a tight sod.
‘You’ve got plant there,’ I told him. ‘Worth thousands. You’ve got parts and spares – mountains of them. A light bulb’d make my job easier.’
‘Lazy cow,’ he said. Me! But I should’ve known better than to ask for something on the grounds it’d make my job easier. That’s like giving them a licence to say ‘no’.
One of these days, I thought, I’d talk to the Owner about it. But since he moved out to Ongar I don’t see much of him.
Lineker was snuffling in a pile of steel rods, but Ramses ran off to the perimeter fence. I took off after Ramses because he looked purposeful. I caught up in time to see him snap the hind-quarters off a big brown rat.
There were a couple of weak lights on the fence, and a sign which read Armour Protection. I don’t know what Armour Protection is, or if it ever existed. The only protection that yard had, was me, Ramses and Lineker.
Chapter 3
My house was a Static Holiday Van.
Sometimes, along with used cars and commercial vehicles the Owner buys second-hand caravans and mobile homes. My Static had spent most of its life at Poole Harbour in Dorset, and when the weather is damp, you can still smell brine and sea-mould in the furnishings.
