Felix Shill Deserves to Die

by Gareth Busson

  I imagine the bar staff must have been under orders because it didn’t take Carl’s group long to get served. With a pint in each hand they made their way noisily back to the basement. I let a minute or so pass, and then picked up my drink to follow. Before I made it an inch from my seat however, the reality of the situation hit home.

  Felix, exactly what is it that you are hoping to achieve here?

  The question forced me to sit back down. What was I hoping to accomplish? With each of the other people on my list the reason for our reunion was clear, but with Carl…

  All of a sudden the chest pump was revving up again. My nerves were faltering. Inspiration was needed. Fast. I reached into my pocket for Water’s cocaine and then ducked into the toilets. When I emerged my entire face was numb but my confident swagger was back. I continued my descent.

  The second act was starting out when I took up my position against the wall, but I could see from the compère’s face that the situation hadn’t changed.

  ‘That bloke wants sorting out,’ he said to the ticket seller.

  ‘Did you speak to the bouncers during the interval?’ the other replied.

  The compère nodded despondently.

  ‘And won’t they do anything?’

  ‘Nope, they’re shit scared of him.’

  Then the two men exchanged a few words I couldn’t hear. It culminated in the compère pointing to the row of empty seats where the try-outs had previously been sitting.

  ‘What, all of them?’ he asked frantically.

  The ticket salesman nodded.

  ‘Well, what the hell am I going to do now?’

  A penitent shrug was the only reply.

  Turning his back, the compère lowered his head and pinched the top of his nose. ‘I don’t know why I bloody bother, I really don’t.’

  I tapped the compère on the shoulder. Right at that moment, with the cocaine pulsing through my system, I felt like I could solve any problem.

  ‘What’s up, fella?’

  He snapped a look at me. ‘It appears that today’s performers are not quite up to earning their stripes. This heckling’s scared them all off, and to be honest, I can’t say that I blame them.’

  ‘Well, I’ll go up if you want.’

  They both looked at me in disbelief.

  ‘You?’

  ‘Yeah, why not? I’ll give it a whirl.’

  The compère’s initial look of relief soon faded.

  ‘Have you ever performed before?’ he asked cagily.

  ‘Loads of times, I’ve already done one gig today in Soho. Brought the house down.’

  That seemed to be enough. They were desperate and with nothing else to lose the compère checked his watch.

  ‘Can you do ten minutes?’

  ‘Hey, I’ll do my best.’

  ‘Great. Get yourself ready and I’ll put you on next. What’s your name?’

  Without missing a beat I replied, ‘It’s Melvin, Melvin Lennox.’

  Don’t ask me where that one came from.

  ‘Good name. Right, Melvin, ten minutes. And thanks.’

  I pulled off my jacket and jumper and laid them on the table next to the ticket salesman. He laughed and patted me on the tattoo.

  ‘I tell you, you’re a braver man than me, mate.’

  His comment suddenly brought home to me what I had volunteering for. Ten minutes ago I was desperate to retain my anonymity. All it took was a line or two of cocaine and I was ready to declare my existence to the world! Terror, the likes of which I have never experienced, consumes me.

  ‘Listen, I need a favour,’ I said. My throat is painfully tight.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I need to borrow your glasses.’

  The ticket salesman looked bemused at the request. The specs he wore were not expensive, just a pair of National Health standard issue. Even so, he was reluctant to part with them.

  ‘Look, come on, mate,’ I said, ‘I’m helping you out here.’

  Reluctantly, he handed the glasses over and struggled to refocus on the stage. I slid them on, necked the rest of my VAT and was about to start pacing on the spot, when the performing comic finished. There was a look of almighty relief on his face as he walked from the stage, one that I was wholly resentful of.

  I watched him receive congratulations from some friends and then disappear back upstairs. Freedom lay at the top of the illuminated staircase and for one brief and very tempting moment I considered making a run for it. But then I heard the compère’s voice begin to wind up.

  ‘…So please, give a King’s Head welcome to a very funny, and I might add brave guy – Melvin Lennox.’

  My head’s all swirls. Stomach contracting.

  This is a dream. Nothing more. This is all a dream.

  A dream in which the compère is replacing the microphone. A bad dream where the audience reacts by tripping into a half hearted round of applause. A nightmare that has Carl Green calling out ‘Next!’

  This is not happening.

  My heart goes supersonic. The ticket salesman looks expectantly at me.

  ‘You’re on,’ he says.

  Deep breath. Move towards the stage.

  Past the point of no return.

  ‘Dead man walking,’ comes the cry.

  ‘Good luck,’ the compère says as we pass. His hand is limp and cold. He thanks me again. Apologises.

  What the hell are you doing, Felix?

  Walking into the light’s beam I feel a sudden wave of heat, like radiation, pass over me. I feel sick, though not in the pit of my stomach. It’s a growth in my throat. Wedged in there. Gagging me. Making me want to retch. I cough pathetically and try not to think about it.

  Sick.

  Puke.

  Vomit.

  Spew.

  Shit.

  ‘Shit?’ I hear myself say aloud.

  The audience titters.

  Carl calls out, ‘Yes, you are.’

  I can’t help laughing at that. Left myself wide open for it really. Still, at least he hasn’t recognised me. Not yet.

  ‘Good evening, Crouch End.’ I shout it as energetically as the chest pump will allow.

  The crowd shout their greeting back, which includes a ‘Fuck off’ from Carl. I pick up the microphone stand, laugh nervously and place it behind me.

  ‘So,’ I say, dragging my sandpaper tongue across my wooden lips, ‘what do I want to talk about tonight?’

  Yeah, what do you want to talk about?

  My mind is blank. Empty. A vacuum.

  Where’s the cocaine when you need it? Where’s the surge of confidence that got me into this mess? Fucking drugs are all the same. Never deliver when you really want them to. I take another deep breath, which reverberates agonizingly through the PA system.

  Felix, they’re sitting there. They’re waiting. Waiting to be entertained. Entertained by you. You need to say something. Something funny. Funny. Remember that?

  An hour passes. It’s like God pressed the pause button. What the hell am I going to talk about? What the hell can I talk about?

  Jesus, come on Felix. Come on! Just say what’s been on your mind…

  ‘School!’

  The word leaps from my mouth as though it were escaping a burning ship.

  ‘Anyone here remember that?’

  No one does.

  ‘I do. I really miss it, but as someone told me recently, you have to move on. You have to move on from all that degradation, sexual insecurity and intimidation, and join the real world… where you can earn a living from it.’

  A guy in the front row laughs. So does a woman somewhere to the left of the room. I press on,

  ‘Can you believe that pressure groups are actually trying to outlaw bullying now? That’s true; they say that it is harmful to a child’s development. But I don’t think that bullying is necessarily a bad thing. Take me, I was bullied at school and it never did me any harm. Really, it never did. You can ask any one of my five ex-wives.’
/>
  A third of the audience laughs this time. They almost drown out Carl’s belch. Almost.

  ‘But really, bullying never stops, it just grows up. It gets refined. Systemised. I had an appraisal at work a couple of weeks ago and my boss started his own special brand of intimidation. He told me that I have problems “multi-tasking”. I said, “Multi-tasking? Look mate, you’re in no position to criticise me about that. Your idea of multi-tasking is reading a book while you’re taking a shit.”’

  The entire audience reacts this time. Even some of Carl’s group.

  ‘Yeah? Well, you’re shit,’ he bawls through the noise.

  I lift my hand against the spotlight. ‘Here, mate, have you ever heard the expression, “There’s no ‘i’ in team?”’

  No reply.

  ‘Well there may be no ‘i’ in team, but I can see a lot of ‘u’ in the word cunt.’

  That brings the house down. Glad of the relief, I stand there on the stage and laugh right along with them.

  A shiver creeps across my back. It’s been years since I’ve experienced the undercurrent that’s flowing through me. I know the feeling well. I remember it from my youth. I used to feel it when I was entertaining the kids at school. Right at that moment I can say almost whatever I want and I know the audience will give it a chance. I don’t even need to be that funny. I just have them.

  ‘Y’know, I really do hate my job,’ I say, taking a moment to wipe a tear on the sleeve of my t-shirt.

  Carl takes the opportunity to mimic me.

  ‘Y’know, we really do fucking hate y–’

  ‘Seriously, my job is so bad that I'd rather work as a hi-rise window cleaner in Islington right now.’

  Again they go along with it. There’s not one intake of breath. I really do have them in the palm of my hand. All except one.

  ‘Yeah? Yeah? Well, why don’t you fuck off there, then?’ he says.

  Snap.

  That’s it.

  ‘I tell you what, why don’t you fuck off there, Carl, eh? If I really wanted to talk to a cunt, then I’d go down on your mother…’

  The audience falls silent…

  ‘…again.’

  …then erupts.

  Shit. I’ve said his name. Cover blown. Game over.

  Nevertheless, the glasses must work a little too well because even when the audience quietens down it takes Carl a while to place me.

  ‘Shill?’ he says with a dumbfounded relish. ‘Shill, is that you, you little prick?’

  There’s an underlying menace in his voice. I can see only a white wall of light in front of me, but I know he’s smirking.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I have a confession to make,’ I say amiably. ‘You see, I actually know this guy. Carl Green is his name and we used to go to North Walnwick High School together, didn’t we, Carl?’

  Silence.

  ‘Well, anyway, we did. And to cut a long story short, Carl used to bully the crap out of me. Isn’t that right, Carl? Every day for about three years you used to beat the shit out of me. Every single goddamned day, without fail. You even used to stalk my house on bank holidays, didn’t you, Carl, eh?’

  Someone laughs.

  ‘Actually, that wasn’t a joke.’

  My grip tightens on the microphone.

  ‘Do you know, he was so good at bullying that the teachers used to encourage him. Isn’t that right, Carl? You were so… fucking ignorant… that beating little kids up was all you were any good at, and so that’s what they used to grade you on. Actually, that’s not entirely true, you were quite good at getting butt fucked by your mother as well, but let’s not go–’

  ‘Shut the fuck up, Shill,’ Carl growls above the laughter.

  ‘Ah, of course, you never did like the mother jokes, did you, Carl? That was what started you picking on me in the first place, wasn’t it?’

  There’s the shiver again. Telling me to leave it there. Walk off. Get away.

  No chance. Having too much fun. Own worst enemy, isn’t that right?

  ‘Did you know that Carl’s mother is so fat that when she was diagnosed with skin cancer they gave her twenty years to live?’

  I talk over the laughter. ‘It’s true, and did you know that Carl’s mum smells so bad, she once made the Right Guard turn left?’

  Something is happening behind the light. The laughter has died down. For once Carl sends nothing back at me through the light.

  ‘Did you also know that Carl’s mother is so old, when God said let there be light, she flicked the switch?’

  ‘Yeah?’ comes the familiar voice at last. ‘Did you know that your mother’s dead?’

  The room holds its breath. It was as though someone’s put a gun between its eyes.

  How the fuck do he know about that?

  Nostrils flared. ‘Yes, I did know that my mother’s dead, Carl.’ Teeth bared. ‘But I notice that yours is still very much alive. She paid to give me a blow job earlier tonight.’

  Carl doesn’t reply. Instead I hear the scraping of chairs on the wooden floor. A pale figure appears somewhere behind the spotlight.

  You’ve done it now. Run!

  Before the spectre can grow any darker I drop the microphone and bolt for the stairs. Ironically, the ticket salesman has seen this coming. He’s holding my clothes out for me. In one motion, I grab them and throw his glasses down onto the table. Then I’m off and up the stairs. I have no idea how close Carl is. The noise from the bar drowns out any sound of footsteps. Need to move fast though. His eighteen stones of bulk will cut through this crowd a lot easier than mine ever could.

  This is a dream. This is all just a bad dream.

  The bouncers outside are slow to react when I barge between them. I’m already round the corner and sprinting up the adjoining street before they can shout after me. However, when they fall suddenly quiet I know Carl has emerged. I can imagine them answering his questioning look by pointing submissively in my direction, like a pair of neutered Rottweiler’s.

  At the end of the road I steal a glance back over my shoulder and see the familiar sight of my old nemesis running after me. He’s alone. A good clear fifty yards away. But it’s not that which is bothering me. I’m more concerned with the whereabouts of his foot soldiers.

  Without thinking I head left. It’s only when I’m some way along that I realise my mistake. The road I’ve taken curves back towards the main road at a dangerously sharp angle. If Carl has ordered his knuckle draggers to cut me off, then they will soon be at the other end. I’ll be trapped.

  Nothing else for it. Better to hole up somewhere.

  An arched driveway lies between two terraced houses. I dart into it. My footsteps echo like a siren, but the passage is mercifully short and soon opens up into a small courtyard.

  At the far side is a darkened alley. With a bit of luck it might lead back out to the main road and the relative safety of the busy thoroughfare. Being chased by a bunch of skinheads means I risk being picked up by the police but even that’s preferable to the fate that awaits me here.

  Hells teeth, anything is preferable to this!

  As I approach the opening my eyes begin to focus. To my absolute horror I see a wooden gate recessed a few feet into the alleyway.

  I flip the handle. Shoulder it a few times. It plain refuses to budge. Perhaps I can break it down?

  I stand back and weigh that option up. One or two of the panels are hanging off but it still looks sturdy enough to resist my best efforts, and think of the noise I’d make. There has to be another way.

  Quickly now.

  I scan the courtyard but there’s no escape I can see. No other alleyways or entrances. This is it. End of the line.

  Carl’s footsteps slap louder and louder against the pavement. He’s just seconds away from the entrance.

  If you weren’t trapped before, you certainly are now.

  My head begins to whirl with panic. There’s only one choice: maybe the shadow that’s hiding the door can do the same for
me. It’s not much but it’s all I have. Tucking my jacket and jumper behind my legs, I flatten my back against the wooden panels. Just then I hear Carl slow his pace. The slap-slapping slows and he stops on the pavement right outside the driveway. Bent double, he is fighting to catch his breath. Then he looks up and starts waving at something.

  ‘Go back,’ he shouts. ‘Go back and check the next one along.’ Then he returns to his crouch. If he looks to his left he’ll see me. I’m sure of it. All he needs to do is tilt his head. Just a little.

  A few excruciating seconds later he’s recovered enough to continue. He turns and starts to retrace his steps. The second he disappears, my body wilts with relief. The evening’s adrenaline makes my legs shake uncontrollably. In an attempt to calm them down, I lean forward and place my hands on my knees. As I do so, my jacket rucks up against my leg. The fabric folds in on itself, tipping the pocket on end and sending a shower of loose change tinkling to the ground.

  I stand bolt upright. Assume my camouflage. Church libraries of prayer pour through my mind. God must be able to hear them, because he playing with the remote control again. The world’s been paused. The orange hole of street at the end of the driveway is like a photo. No sound. No movement. For a moment I allow myself to think I’m safe. Then I see Carl’s bald head reappear from behind the wall.

  He looks directly at me.

  Walking backwards, it takes the rest of his body time to catch up. But it soon does and the next thing I know, he’s standing - almost filling - the opening.

  With hands on hips, he sizes up the situation. Then he starts to walk towards me, his silhouette forming a grotesque keyhole against the light. I can hear someone panting. It’s me.

  ‘Where you gonna fucking go now, Shill?’ he says, holding his open hands out like talons in front of him. ‘I’m coming for you, just like I used to when we was at school. Remember the bus stop?’

  He sneers. I remain in the shadows. Try to sound unmoved.

  ‘Just tell me something, Carl. Just tell me why.’

  The question stops him for a second.

  ‘Why? After what you’ve just done you’ve got the front to ask me that?’