by Miles Hadley
Toff Chav
Miles Hadley was born in Northamptonshire. He attended Campion school, Bugbrooke and studied at the University of Aberdeen and the University of Nottingham Ningbo campus in China. He has also studied at George Brown College, Toronto, Canada. His first novel, Toff Chav was part of his project for the Vaughan Park Anglican Retreat centre scholarship residency near Auckland, New Zealand.
Copyright © Miles Hadley 2018
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.
The moral right of Miles Hadley has been asserted
First published in Great Britain 2018 by Miles Hadley
Printed and distributed by Bookbaby. Pennsauken, NJ, USA
Print ISBN 978-1-54394-095-4
Book cover design by Book Beaver
Formatted by BookBaby
‘The life so short, the craft so long to learn.’
Geoffrey Chaucer
‘Where justice is denied, where poverty is enforced, where ignorance prevails, and where any one class is made to feel that society is an organised conspiracy to oppress, rob and degrade them, neither persons nor property will be safe.’
Frederick Douglass
Table of Contents
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
Epilogue
1
You might not think it was the year 2015 in England, but it was...
‘Images! Photographs! Portraits! He shall be that man. The one – the photographer not just of his day, but of his age!’
Archie Hodgkin-Smith stared at the many portraits of his ancestors. His gilt-framed DNA bedecked the walls of the blood red stairwell. They, the leaders who were born and sired. More of those genes, more of those traits, and more of those circumstances!
God, he loved his family’s ancestral pile. Risely. It rolled off the tongue so well, just as it had always done going back to the English civil war, when Sir William Smyth, founder of the Hodgkin-Smith dynasty, had fought at Edgehill alongside Prince Rupert. The backbone of dear Blighty – that’s what they were. And here they were – portraits for posterity. Masters by the Masters.
Those faces, those ancestors that he saw, who seemed to be conspiring at the same time to make him aware of his heavy burden of responsibility to rule – or, if not to rule, to at least pass down the estate and produce an heir. They seemed to whisper to him from over the centuries. His twenty-three-year-old ears rang with their whispers, and he tried to cover his ears with his hands to stop them from telling him their stories, their legacies.
From Sir William’s cavalier war cries, through to the Regency heirs who had moved a whole village to make way for a serpentine lake and muttered ‘Never mind the villagers, never mind the villagers’. To the founders and soldiers of far-flung corners of the British Empire, who had fought for their standards and been spurred on by the reveilles of their buglers and trumpeters. What a lot to trumpet about! Leaders born and bred!
All of those forebears, all of those ancestors to think about when realising that, if Archie lost Risely when his time came, it would not just be him who was fucked, but all of them as well. He would be damned if he was the one who caused their portraits to be auctioned off to some nouveau riche wannabe – or, worse, a stinking-rich foreigner.
Archie was young, hung and incredibly ambitious. Full of beans. Full of that ancestral derring-do. His testosterone-fuelled self would forge his own empire – a creative one – brimming with verve and sophistication.
‘Never mind the greats, such as Cecil Beaton or Steve McCurry and his Afghan girl! Sweet, dear, stately Risely shall be restored to its spectacular former glory. No longer will the Hodgkin-Smiths be known, in this the twenty-first century, as mere fusty custodians, but as something more – something of gravitas – a legacy in the arts that transcends generations. My stamp on the dynasty – my own glorious photographic stamp...’
Archie’s phone buzzed, prompting him to hurriedly fumble for it in the pocket of his silk paisley dressing gown. It was his mentor, Silvio – Silvio Melacuzzi. Silvio, the Photographic Portraitist of the moment. The glossies were literally queuing for his talent. And here was Archie – his intern, his protégé – speaking to him, the Master of fine Photographic Portraiture.
Silvio was not only flavour of the month, but the taste of the decade. That Italian flair and know-it-all manner! That brain forged upon the foundations laid by the likes of Da Vinci and Michelangelo!
‘Archie!’
‘Yes?’
‘Where the fuck are you?’
‘At home... Risely.’
‘Get the fuck down here. We’ve got a major shoot on.’
‘Silv... do you know how long it takes to get down the sodding M1?’
‘Okay.’ Silence. It was the tone of Silvio’s ‘Okay’. It had Archie worried. It was an ‘I don’t think you’re committed enough’ type of okay.
‘Shit,’ Archie muttered, staring at Sir William Smyth – who had fled, but returned in glory with Charles II, ‘Semper Fidelis’. That had been Sir William’s motto, ‘Always loyal’, just as it was now Archie’s. There was a definite resemblance between Sir William and Archie – as his mother often remarked.
‘You all right, mate?’
Archie turned around and looked at him. Henry. Henry Arbuthnott-Percy. Stark naked. Stark bollock naked. Beyond him, the door was ajar and, amongst a stinking, smoky haze, were scattered around the room empty champagne bottles, glasses, ashtrays and remnants of drugs paraphernalia. In the centre of all this was Archie’s great Jacobean bed, upon which lay the bodies of two young men and four women. All were naked, arms and legs entwined. Breasts, thighs, buttocks and sexual organs all conjured up a fantastic, heavily breathing melee of flesh.
Here lay some of the best-bred beauties in all of England. The shit-hot-looking top tier of old Blighty. God, he loved the sceptred isle and its drugs-enthused orgies. Most of all, Archie loved them when they took place in his bed – his private domain, reeking of sex, drugs and booze. Such opportunities were rare. His parents were still struggling to maintain the crumbling old pile with its Constables, Titians and a shit-high annual heating bill.
Archie and Henry had agreed years ago that, instead of having monogamous sex with other women, they would share them. And Christ how they had shared. But never with the plebeians. That was the golden rule; never with the plebs. A snob Archie was, and an unabashed one he would remain on pain of death. Archie’s logic was that, given the choice, would you have an Aston Martin or a Fiat Punto? In his book, he believed that the same principle applied to fucking. ‘Fuck
the best, but not the rest’ – that was his motto. That was their motto.
Henry was saying something again. So irritating for Archie, when he had to deal with his mentor and now a cracking headache combined.
‘Fuck off,’ Archie muttered. ‘What? No, not you Silv… I was speaking to Henry. What? I don’t know, I’ll ask him. Hen! Silv wants to know if “With Pleasure” has any more shoots lined up. Events. That sort of stuff?’
‘Why do you always fucking ask me?’ said Henry.
‘We’re only asking, Hen. It’s not like we’re the fucking Spanish Inquisition.’
‘Fuck, my head hurts!’ Henry exclaimed. ‘Can’t think right now... going to take a shower.’
‘Don’t go in the Morsley room one. It’s sprung a leak.’
‘I think I’m going to spring a leak in a minute. Dying for a slash.’
‘What, Silv?’ said Archie into his phone. ‘Sorry? The reception is fucking awful here. Yes, we will get Wi-Fi. But it’s kind of tricky at the moment. Out in the sticks... Oh, all right, I’m coming. Ciao.’
Archie ended the call and then began to get dressed. ‘Hen! Hen! I’m leaving! Tell the others they’re welcome to stay for as long as they want until this evening. That’s when the parents come back. No fucking hanging around until then – they’ll have a fucking dicky fit. What? They hate the sight of you, Hen! Still haven’t forgiven you for drawing that beard on that portrait. No, not that one – the Gainsborough... Work to do, Hen. I can’t afford to fucking delegate like you. I have to reach perfection. My zenith shall be soon! And take Bella and Smidgeon for a walk to Aspley woods if you want.’
2
* * *
I live in a slum
Some say I’m a bum
But I don’t fucking know
Cos I can’t have it all
Them there at the top
They set up their shop
Many centuries ago
To keep us all low
We is caught in a trap
Being fed their crap
And where do we go?
No one here knows
Give us benefits and shit
So we all just sit
On our arse all day
It’s the only way
Want to trash their lives
With our guns and our knives
Screw their fucking lies
Then we’ll hear their cries
They debate all day
Them having their say
Over all our lives
With our guns and our knives
We are kept in a place
By a nation two faced
Looking up to the Queen
It’s fucking obscene
Made to bow and scrape
Or they’ll all go ape
And put us in our place
It’s a big disgrace
We’ll give them shit
Cos this is it
Go fuck yourself, you Tories!
Fuck Labour with your stories!
Cos I live in a slum
Some say I’m a bum
But I don’t fucking know
Cos I can’t have it all…
* * *
The rap by Dregz blared out from Gary’s phone. The angry, spat-out words echoed around the concrete car park. The words tapped into the general mood of the Downtown Posse. They seeped into the boys’ psyche and into their anger and rage. They didn’t fucking know. They couldn’t have it all. Gary looked up at the sign in its yellow luminosity; a beacon amongst the gloom of the area. The magnificent ‘M’; a testament to salty fries and burgers wolfed down with a Coke or a milkshake.
Gary sat perched on the disability grab rail, alongside Deano and Jamal – the other members of the Downtown Posse. The seat offered little comfort to them. Yet, it symbolised who they were, who they were supposed to be – steely tough and well hard.
For Gary, sitting on the disability rails was a rite of passage. Gangs had fought over them, scattering French fries and Coke into the air as they did so. Many a girl had been won over by the physical prowess of Gary and the rest of the Downtown Posse on these rails.
Imitating ape-like creatures, they would hang from the rails and swing while shoving French fries into their mouths. For the ultimate comedy effect, they might stick fries into their nostrils and blow them out as if they were catarrh. How Gary loved to gob. Gob at the gobshiteness of the world. They would hoick up the remnants of their feast and attempt to beat each other on how far the foody spit of phlegm would go.
Gary and the posse chose this place because there was cheap food. Sustenance of sorts. It didn’t matter if it was unhealthy. They could not afford to care about their health. They did not care. What Gary cared about was cheap food that tasted good – short-term shit.
Gary was eating a French fry when suddenly Deano slapped him hard on the back, almost causing him to choke.
‘Enjoying it, cunt?’ Deano asked with an aggression that matched his slap.
‘You fucker!’ Gary responded, laughing. He looked briefly across at Jamal, further along the rail, as he slurped on the remainder of his large Coke and rattled the ice with his straw. Gary gazed at his scar; the one on Jamal’s face. It had been carved out by the Death Squad and spread across a cheek. A warning.
Fuckers, Gary thought. It could have been worse. They could have given Jamal a Chelsea smile. Gary bit into the warmth of his burger and washed it down with some Coke.
Gary watched as a busty woman exited the restaurant, causing Deano to put two fingers to his mouth and give a wolf whistle. Gary chuckled as the woman looked around at Deano and gave him a look of disgust.
Gary heard Deano cackle in response, observing the woman’s strutting form as she got into her car and drive off. He muttered to Gary.
‘Fit as fuck.’
Gary nodded his head in agreement and adjusted his Nike cap. ‘Fit as fuck,’ he repeated.
His phone buzzed. It was Crystal.
‘All right?’ she said.
‘All right,’ Gary relied. ‘Where are you at?’
‘Skaters at Drakes. You?’
‘Macky Dees.’
‘Aw. You should have told us. We’d have joined you.’
‘It’s just me and the lads. Isn’t that right, lads?’ Gary looked around at Deano and Jamal. They yelled in unison at the phone.
‘Aye!’
‘What are you up to later?’ Crystal asked.
‘Might go to Jamal’s. Want to come?’
‘Yeah. All right.’
‘Should be there around three.’
Deano suddenly hit Gary in the arm, causing him to wince with brief pain and annoyance.
‘Michelle!’ Deano hissed.
Gary understood. ‘Is Michelle coming too?’ he asked. He put the phone away, looked at Deano and smiled.
‘Is she coming?’ Deano asked expectantly.
‘You’ll have to fucking see, won’t you?’ Gary exclaimed.
Deano laughed and hit him again. ‘Cunt!’
Gary gave him an almighty shove, this time knocking him off the disability rail. Gary tried to knock Deano’s Nike cap off his head and they started scrapping. Gary eventually snatched the cap, revealing Deano’s shaved blonde head and the small dent that he had got from a drunken fall.
Deano chased Gary, who made off with the cap to the other side of the car park. Gary ran back towards the disability rails, dodging Deano’s hatless advance, and threw the cap to Jamal while simultaneously yelling his name. Jamal had just thrown away the empty packaging of his meal and caught the cap. Deano immediately went for him. However, Jamal expertly evaded his lunge and threw the cap back to Gary. He caught it. Deano panted and yelled.
‘You fuckers! Give it back!’<
br />
Gary stopped, laughing at the expression on Deano’s face. ‘All right.’
Gary hoicked up the foodiest bit of phlegm he could muster and deposited it in the centre of the inside of Deano’s cap.
‘Urgh! That is fucking gross, man.’ Deano screwed up his nose in revulsion and, after grabbing the cap from Gary, frantically tried to clean it. His rubbing caused Gary and Jamal to laugh loudly.
‘Fuckers!’ Deano muttered grimly, his eye giving an angry tick. ‘I’m going to get you back for that. Fucking arse bandit cunts.’
Gary offered his hand for Deano to shake. ‘No hard feelings.’
Deano reluctantly tried to shake his hand, his eye giving that involuntary tick again. Gary took his hand away at the last minute and stuck his thumb on his nose, wriggled his fingers at Deano and ran away, giving him the two fingers.
‘Come on then!’ he challenged Deano, laughing and gesturing for the two boys to follow him; the lads; the rest of the Downtown Posse.
‘Where are we going?’ Jamal yelled after Gary.
‘Yours, fuck-face!’ he yelled back. ‘I want to see your mum and give her one!’
‘Fuck you, Gaz!’ Jamal yelled. ‘You sick cunt!’
Gary and Deano laughed at the look of rage on his face.
‘You did say that you had some hash, didn’t you?’ Gary said.
The Downtown Posse arrived at Jamal’s flat and his mum, Diane opened the door. The flat was high up in a tenement block of identical flats, with an outside walkway linking them. The building was a towering grey edifice; a monolith of 1960s brutalist architecture.
Gary looked at Diane. She looked stressed and untidy as always. Jamal had told him that she was a depressive. She smoked a lot of cigarettes and would sometimes join Jamal in smoking something stronger. Despite her depression, Gary knew that she cared deeply for her son. She was devastated when she found out what the Death Squad had done to his face. Poor old girl, Gary thought to himself.
Diane greeted them all as usual with a hug and a very well-spoken ‘Hello boys’. It was a greeting familiar to Gary since childhood when she’d been in better health.
