Give The Devil His Due

by H G White

‘Cheers man,’ he said with a grin.

  ‘Well make the most of it, ‘cause there’s no more left.’ It was a lie, but my need was greater than his. The lone remaining bottle would be exclusively mine, in front of the TV later that evening.

  We chatted for a while, mainly discussing the nuisance kids that kept damaging cars with footballs, the bed-sits at the top of the street housing druggies and lowlife that seemed to be contributing to the local crime wave. In essence, the general crap-small-talk that neighbours do best. Dave told me he was looking for a career-move into the ‘World of Advertising’, hence the new hairstyle. He told me that the bond market wasn't performing well at the moment. On hearing this, I could feel my early-warning bullshit detectors going to Defcon 1. Having worked for a while in advertising myself, I played along.

  ‘Oh yeah, what exactly do you see yourself doing then Dave?’

  ‘Well, with my experience in the bond markets, my move into advertising would have to be something corporate, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Yes, I think I do Dave.’ I made a mental note: must remember to ask on Dave’s behalf at the local MacDonald’s – see if they needed any leaflet-droppers.

  ‘Small-time is for losers guy.’ Did I hear right? Did he just call me Guy? My name was Will – last time I checked. I made another mental note: must examine back of Dave's head for fissure appearance. I changed the subject.

  ‘I'm off to Bristol tomorrow Dave.’

  ‘Yeah? What’ya doin' over there?’

  ‘Oh, just meeting up with a buddy of mine. He's organised a boys’ night with two other mates that we’ve not seen in a long while. I s’pose if we were kids you’d call it a sleepover.’

  Dave gave me a ‘Having a gay orgy then, are we?’ look.

  ‘I know what you're thinking Dave, but it's nothing like that. It's just once we've had a few drinks we won't be in any fit state to drive ourselves home, and as he's got the space, it makes sense to crash there rather than fork-out on hotels.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ I could see Dave preferred to believe it was the gay orgy-thing.

  The sun appeared from behind a cloud; it was starting to get even warmer. How I wished at this point there were more stubbies in the fridge. Never mind, I'd probably be getting a fair old soaking in Bristol. Dave piped up, ‘My shout,’ and disappeared into his house.

  Within less than a minute he had returned. In his hands – two more cold ones. I made a third mental note: examination of Dave's head not necessary. He had redeemed himself!

  Friday, South Wales

  I awoke to the sound of traffic and checked my alarm clock – 7.30 a.m. Not too bad. I'd get a few hours in at work before I headed on over to Phil's.

  Phil Simms was my buddy. Our paths had criss-crossed over the years and, unlike most school friends, we had never really lost touch. There was a period of about five years when we didn’t speak to each other, but there was nothing malicious in it. We'd become geographically severed. With work, travel and my having got married, it was just one of those things.

  Anyway, we'd got back in contact and made up for lost time, filling in the gaps on what we'd been doing during the interim. Mainly failing in relationships and not being as successful as we’d hoped in our careers.

  Phil had written an innovative software program and then got ripped off by an unscrupulous employer. The royalties he should’ve received would have set him up for life. Despite this he’d still done considerably better than me financially. He owned his own place. Unlike me, he hadn't got married. Instead of spending his money on a woman, he'd indulged himself in every way he thought he deserved. All the boys’ toys he could afford. He was a total must-have gadget-freak. You name it and he had it: fast cars, up-to-the-minute sound systems, computers, cameras, mobile phones etc. Sure, there had been women along the way, but for Phil, they always came second.

  It was at Phil's house the first time I ever saw a VCR rigged up to a HiFi and, back in those days, that was rocket science. He'd always been very technical and a stickler for detail. No surprise he'd ended up a software designer. The one thing about him though was that he’d always try and help you if you were in trouble. He'd helped me out quite a few times, and I would never forget that.

  In contrast to Phil’s, my career path had been quite an odd one. I never really seemed to hold positions down for very long. My current occupation was one of cab driver/philosopher. I know it’s been said that philosophy is the very best profession a man can take up, when he is fit for nothing else, well that may be true, but It's hard not to have a different outlook on life once you’ve driven a cab, and it’s even harder not to share your thoughts. The number of people you come into contact with and how they vary is something you can only understand if you've done it. And a cab driver without an opinion is like a yin without a yang

  After all, where else do you get a job that can guarantee you a captive audience and a one to one opportunity to talk about any subject you or they choose? If you like the sound of your own voice, it's the job for you. If you don't like the sound of your own voice then shut up and it's the job for you. If you don't like what the punters have got to say, drive a cab with a dividing partition and even then it's still the job for you. It sounds like the world was my lobster, the reality? It wasn't. OK, the money was just about enough to get by. But for me, if I’m honest, the main attraction was being my own boss and providing I didn’t do anything that would cost me my licence, I couldn't be fired.

  Before becoming a cabosopher (try saying that after five pints!) I was a keyboard player, but I hadn't been active with that for a few years now. I'd taken the decision to settle down and end my living out of a suitcase, in the hope of finding some well-paid gig close to home. The cab driving was something I took up as a stopgap measure. Something I could fit in around my music, but it hadn't worked out that way. It had monopolised my time, leaving me tired and irritable on Sundays, usually because I'd worked six and two. Translated that's six days plus two nights. I'd work the whole week, then Friday and Saturday I'd work double shifts, napping for an hour or so in between the day- and night-shifts. Couple that with what I had to endure on those two night-shifts – obnoxious beer-heads, projectile vomiters, the prematurely incontinent. Usually, the pre-maturity took place before they had got out of the vehicle. If luck was really against me, I could end up with a punter that did all three during one journey. That's not to mention the violent, insane and over-ripe hummers.

  Come Sunday I needed to recharge, though this was the day I should have been doing family things. So my home life suffered as a result. I had a failed marriage, plenty of debt, a dog with cancer and a bad case of haemorrhoids. I knew that there were people out there worse off than me, but there were people out there a whole lot better off as well.

  Aside from the cab driving, I'd dabbled in insurance, written advertising jingles, worked in shops, offices and also been on the dole. I had ‘experience’. If you could name it, then I'd probably done it; neurosurgery and male-stripping being exceptions. Even with all of this I was still searching for something in life, although I didn't know what it was. With a bit of luck, I'd realise when it came along, if ‘it’ came along.

  I was looking forward to the evening, seeing the guys we hadn't seen for donkeys' and all the stories they’d have to tell. The morning wasn't anything to write home about. The usual suspects: old ladies going to bingo, Sainsbury’s shoppers with too many carriers, and the great unwashed. I knocked off about midday. Having already packed my overnight bag the previous day, there wasn’t much left to do apart from putting Pugsley's things together: dog bowl, food, lead and toys. He had a squeaky plastic king-sized burger that he would play with. Because of his undershot jaw, he used to have difficulty picking it up. It was really comical to watch him trying to get this thing under control. I used to feel a tad guilty in laughing at his struggle. Leaving the house, I grabbed a water bill that was sitting on my porch window sill. It was red (always waited for the red ones to ar
rive before paying-up – that was my MO). It’d become a bad habit that needed to change.

  I headed for mum's house. Pugs had to be dropped there first, before the journey to Bristol. She'd look after him for the night. She always moaned about his dribbling. He couldn't help it; he was a Boxer - they all dribble. She might moan but I knew she loved him. She wouldn't have been willing to look after him otherwise.

  An hour and two cups of tea later, I was on my way. Hopefully I'd see a post office en route where the water bill could be paid. Even more hopefully I wouldn't see Dave in it, dealing bonds.

  The drive to Bristol was a pretty uneventful one. I arrived relatively unscathed. No road-rage today, though it has to be said that when there was road rage, I was usually the instigator not the victim – another of my bad habits.

  On the doorstep waiting to greet me was Phil. He had this odd habit of knowing my exact arrival time, and he'd be standing there, in front of his house just as my car rounded the corner and entered his street. Every time I visited him he did this. It was almost as if he was tracking my car via satellite.

  The other two reprobates we were going to meet up with were Neil Fairburn and Trevor Kozen. Neil and Trevor were like chalk and cheese. Neil, always the ladies’ man, and Trevor constantly with his head in books (academic or Star Trek were usually the flavours of choice). Neil, handsome; Trevor, geeky – he could have been Woody Allen's lovechild! Neil, forgiving; Trevor, not.

  In fact, if you ever crossed Trev or someone in his family, he would make it his life's work to get even – talk about holding grudges. It was amazing how the two ever became friends they were so different, but friends they were, and good ones at that. The last I heard about Neil was that he'd become a sales rep. Successful I would imagine. He always had a very slick line in chat. I hadn't a clue about Trevor. I remembered him going to university to read law, but what he was up to now was anybody's guess. With so many spaces to fill there’d be plenty for us all to catch up on.

  Looking at Phil standing there on his ownsome it was obvious I was the first to arrive. ‘Where are they then?’ I asked.

  ‘Trev'll be here in about three quarters of an hour.’

  ‘What about Neil? Is he still coming?’

  ‘Yeah, he hasn't told me anything different.’

  We went indoors. Phil was one of those people always in the middle of something. I could see he had one of his PCs on. Virtually every room in his house had a computer. When asked why he hadn't got one in the bathroom, he said there was one on order. The man was sick, and needed to get a life.

  ‘Won't be a minute finishing this Will. Dump your gear upstairs and we'll go out the back.’

  I went upstairs, put my stuff in the spare bedroom and made a quick visit to the bathroom. Less than two minutes later I was sat out on Phil's patio. Phil, never one to wait for the sun to be over the yardarm, had a couple of chilled cans on the table.

  ‘I can't go mental Phil. I won't be up to it this evening if we have too many now.’

  ‘Don't worry, I shan't let you.’

  We sat there and talked for awhile. Phil had just passed his motorbike test and was feeling the need to give me a street-by-street account of his test route. I listened jealously. I’d wanted to sit mine but hadn't had the time for enough practice to put in for a test.

  Motorbike talk over, Phil was telling me how the reunion had come about. It transpired that Phil had bumped into Neil's folks a couple of weeks before. Neil's parents had Trevor's mother's home number and so that's how Phil had tracked the lad’s down.

  I wanted to know more. ‘So where are they coming from then?’ I asked.

  ‘London.’

  ‘What, both of them?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘That's weird.’

  ‘What's weird?’

  ‘Them not travelling together.’

  ‘Well, maybe they've finished work at different times. Maybe they're coming from different parts of London.’

  Phil always had a possible answer for everything. I still thought it a bit odd that they weren't journeying together. After all, it was the same rail line that they'd be using. Why not get the same train and catch up on old times? Just as I was having that thought, Phil's next-door neighbour's dog went ballistic. There was someone knocking Phil's front door.

  ‘We're out the back, side-gate's unlocked!’ Phil shouted.

  A few seconds later, the gate moved tentatively open and a grinning Peachy appeared before our very eyes. I had to ask him, ‘Why the slow-mo entrance Peachy?’

  ‘I didn't know if you had the hound-from-hell back here.’

  ‘No he's next-door’s’. He's in their back garden. Just sounds like he's in mine.’

  I could see the relief on Peachy's face. Trevor ‘Peachy’ Kozen looked like he hadn't changed at all. Same baby face, tight black curly hair; he even had the same glasses on. Well, they probably weren't, but they looked like they could’ve been.

  The years had been very kind to him. He obviously still had the same canine phobia he'd possessed as a child. And why ‘Peachy’? Well, ever since we were adolescents and the sap started rising, Trevor had suffered from what Phil described as ‘peach syndrome’, named after the famous Professor ‘Simon (I Like ’Em Big!) Peach’ in the film ‘The Italian Job’. Trev liked ’em big too, and I mean BIG, hence the nickname Peachy. At least it was better than being called ‘Tea-cosy’ – the other nickname he’d had as a youth.

  ‘How was the train ride?’

  ‘Train was packed. I had to stand until Swindon.’

  ‘You should stop being such a cheap bastard and buy a first-class ticket then,’ Phil quipped.

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘Nice to see you too Peachy,’ replied Phil.

  ‘Nice to see you? It’s customary for the host to welcome the guest warmly and inform him of the sleeping arrangements.’

  ‘You're in the back room downstairs Peach. There's an airbed in there but you'll have to blow it up yourself. Bog's straight up the stairs directly in front of you, cans are in the fridge. Any other questions?’

  ‘Yeah, what's for dinner?’

  ‘We'll sort that out later. Probably a sit-down Indian.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  With that, Trev disappeared inside, only to return minutes later, Hawaiian shirt and shorts on, can in hand. He looked like he'd just arrived on the first day of his holidays. I could see it was going to be one of those evenings.

  ‘So fill us in then. What've you been doing with yourself?’ I asked.

  ‘Where shall I start?’

  ‘Why not begin at the beginning?’ Jesus, I was turning into Lewis Carroll! Trev did begin at the beginning. He gave us the whole lot, from university to lawyer, to a kibbutz, then political journalism, BBC researcher, assistant records manager at the Central Criminal Court and his current post – which he'd held for the last three years: senior archivist at the British Archives, Kensington. Throw in a couple of Dawn French look-alikes along the way. One he had been engaged to – but the relationship went sour when she lost weight for the wedding, so he lost interest. I reckon there was enough material there for a major new series on Channel 4. It seems I hadn't done it all; Peachy had.

  He'd even brought along three photo albums to substantiate all this, just in case we didn't believe him. Both Phil and I were laughing at one of his holiday snaps, when the hound-from-hell announced Neil's arrival. Same routine; the slow opening of the gate followed by accommodation instructions and drink location.

  Unlike Trev, Neil had changed. He looked tired and quite gaunt. He was going to have a quick shower to freshen up before joining us outside.

  I said to Phil, ‘Must have had a heavy one last night.’ He was showing his age a little more, but you could see he would scrub up well. He still had a bit of panache about him. Like Peach, he gave us the low-down on what he'd been doing over the last few years. Repping, redundancy and acrimonious divorce. Then he dropped a bombshell.


  ‘I've been inside too.’ I looked at Phil; Phil looked at me. Trev just looked … well, sort of vacant.

  ‘Inside?’ Phil asked.

  ‘Yeah, prison.’

  These were uncharted waters we were venturing into. Neil continued. ‘It was all to do with the break-up. I became very depressed, and got done for drink-driving. It was the next day at the station, after the cops had pulled me the night before, that I found out she'd stopped the insurance direct debits. My blood alcohol reading was so high I got nine months. The magistrates acknowledged that the insurance might not have been my fault, but it didn’t excuse my state and for that reason they sent me down.’

  I could see the tension in Phil's shoulders ease. I think he initially thought Neil was going to tell us he'd spent the last ten years inside for being a mad axeman or something.

  The atmosphere lightened and we all started to really enjoy the warm afternoon. The chat, the laughter … it was like we were fifteen years younger. Phil put some tunes on the stereo and opened the french doors. I don't think it was a random collection; he had pre-selected the tracks. It was stuff that was around from the last time we'd all been together. Phil had always fancied himself as a bit of an ‘Alan Freeman’. The music leaked outwards to where we sat and provided the perfect mood for our discovery and nostalgia. All in the world was well.

  Phil got so into the swing of things that later in the evening he insisted on paying for the Indian. By the time we all crashed out, it must have been about 5 a.m. We had talked about virtually everything. Our ups, our downs, where we were going and how we hoped we’d get there. For that one evening we'd all had a tremendous mental lift. Funny how familiar friendly faces can raise your spirits. Our heads were newly-filled with the missing jigsaw pieces that had just been put into place.

  Chapter 2

  Saturday 11.20 a.m. Bristol

  I felt like absolute shit. By the time I got into the bathroom the other three had violated it. Even though there were no visible signs of the sacred place having been desecrated, there was an aura lingering and this made me feel even worse. I don't think these people understood the concept of ventilation, was it really that difficult to open the bloody window? So, Alka Seltzer, shower, another Alka Seltzer and all the while muttering to myself, ‘Never again, never again.’