Felix Shill Deserves to Die

by Gareth Busson

  ‘Alright, man?’ the blonde one said.

  I nodded. Ordinarily I would’ve lowered my head, but something about the girl caught my eye: her green waist-length parka. My daughter has one exactly the same. Hers is smaller of course, but the style is identical. She’d be wearing it zipped up in weather like that too.

  ‘Ya gotta toke free, mister?’ the other asked. She was black, with long waxy curls and from the fresh splashes of dirt flecked against her bright pink quilted jacket and trainers I could tell she had not been expecting these muddy conditions when she set out from home. It’s funny. Amelie has a pair of those too. The memory distracted me momentarily.

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘A toke? Y’know, a snout? A fag? Ya got one, man?’

  ‘Yeah, one second.’ I originally thought they were around sixteen, but now that I was up close I could see that I was way off. They were barely in double figures. ‘How old are you two?’

  ‘Old enough to not give a shit about cancer, man,’ the girl in the parka mumbled from behind her bitten nails. ‘Now you got one for givin’ up or no?’

  ‘Yeah, to be honest I could do with one myself.’ I took a couple out and handed them one each. Totally irresponsible, I know, but I was hoping they might be able to help me.

  ‘Either of you from around here?’

  ‘Not really,’ Muddy Pink replied. The other one jabbed her hard in the ribs before correcting her.

  ‘We know the area though, man. Wassup?’

  ‘I just want to know if I’m going in the right direction for Primrose Hill.’

  Muddy Pink glanced down at her mobile phone, which had started to vibrate.

  ‘Yeah, ’s up that way,’ Green Parka said. ‘Show ya for a fiver.’

  Muddy Pink looked up from her mobile. ‘Show ya somefin’ else for twenny,’ she said. Her ham-fisted attempt at seduction was so out of place that it made me feel even more nauseous.

  ‘Hey, now you watch your mouth, young lady. There’s no need for that. You might think you’re being grown up, but playing that kind of game is gonna land you in big trouble in this town. What if someone were to take you up on it, eh?’

  ‘What if they were, man?’ she answered obstinately.

  ‘Yeah, so what?’ Green Parka joined in. She stopped biting her fingernails.

  ‘So what? So what? You’ll understand so what if someone ever does.’ I’d almost forgotten what it was like to be a frustrated by a child. ‘Do your parents know that you’re out at this time of the night?’

  They both looked coyly at each other.

  ‘I thought not, I bet they’re worried sick about you. I know that I would be if you were mine. Now I suggest you two go home, this is no place for children your age.’

  ‘What you know about my age, man?’ Green Parka said, throwing out her arms, ghetto style. Muddy Pink aped her.

  ‘Yeah, fool. Who you callin’ chil’ren? Hanging round riverbanks, like some fuckin’ pervert. I’ll call the cops. Get your ass busted.’

  ‘Yeah, whatever.’

  ‘Damn straight whatever, still.’

  As I turned to leave I heard a familiar voice behind me say.

  ‘’S up, sis?’

  I looked back and saw Burberry and Skullcap coming down a set of stairs leading from the canal bridge. Their trainers squeaked on the anti-slip surface.

  ‘’S up?’ said Muddy Pink, ‘I tell you wassup, bro; we just got chiefed by this poomplex.’

  ‘For real?’

  ‘Standard. Dirty bastard.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Green Parka chipped in, ‘an’ the skank’s got the breath of a thousand Arabs, innit.’

  Burberry squared up to me. ‘The fuck you bustin’, whitebread?’ He waved a heavily ringed hand in my face. ‘Thought you was rollin’ on to Primrose?’

  I didn’t flinch. If I’m honest, I didn’t see his hand until it was on its way back. Since he was here though, maybe he could talk some sense into her.

  ‘She’s your sister?’

  ‘She’s whoever the fuck I wants her to be man, innit?’

  Then again, maybe he couldn’t.

  ‘Now what the fuck you doing messing in our yard?’ Burberry joined in, puffing out his chest.

  ‘Yard? Your yard? Jesus, why do all you kids grow up thinking it’s cool to be a gangster nowadays?’

  ‘We is de OGs, man,‘ Sockhat said, just as his mobile beeped. He pulled the phone out, then looked across at Muddy Pink.

  On seeing this, a penny the size of a dustbin lid clatters to the ground in my empty barrel of a head. Fucking duped again. I groaned.

  ‘Listen, I’m really not in the mood for games today, kids. I suggest you piss off back to the flats.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Skullcap was clearly trying to wind himself up. ‘Well, you better get in the fuckin’ mood – quick stop, bro.’

  ‘Aw look, just piss off out of it, would you?’ I turned away and tried to make out they were not worth taking seriously. It was when I started to laugh that Burberry pulled out a Stanley knife.

  ‘Oh?’

  I tried to make that “Oh?” sound flippant, as though he’d just produced a rubber chicken or a water pistol, but instead it came out as the kind of “Oh” that usually has “shit” attached to it. To underline that fact, I felt my colon loosen.

  I couldn’t show them I was afraid. Had to front them out. If I didn’t then this could get nasty.

  ‘And what do you think you gonna do with that, big man?’ I said.

  ‘You dizzy?’ Burberry sneered. ‘Gonna bang you up, guy.’

  ‘Are you now? I don’t think so. Why don’t you toddle off and finish your homework or something, before someone gets hurt.’

  ‘Only one gonna get hurt here’s you, man,’ Skullcap said, whipping out a screwdriver.

  ‘’S right, we’ll do some homework on you ’less you offer up the wallet,’ Green Parka said. ‘We means it.’

  ‘Yeah, for true.’

  ‘Yeah, and I’m sure you do. Look, even if I had a wallet – which I don’t – there’s no way I’d hand it over. But I tell you what–’

  ‘Right, do ’im, Vin,’ one of the girls screamed.

  I raised a hand. ‘Calm it down a bloody minute. Listen, I tell you what I’ll do. As a sign of goodwill – and to reward your initiative – I’ll slip you a twenty – nothing more. How’s that sound?’

  Burberry liked the idea. ‘Hand it over then, man.’

  I couldn’t be sure what money I had in my jeans right at that moment and so I reached into my jacket pocket and fumbled through the gollywog money. As I did so, the top of the wad poked out. It was only on show for a split second but that was long enough for these vultures to get the whiff of it.

  ‘Just pass dat over, man,’ Burberry said. ‘All of it.’

  I took a guilty intake of breath that turned into a nervous grunt somewhere at the back of my throat.

  ‘Not going to happen,’ I said under my breath.

  ‘Right, fuckin’ bust ’im up, man,’ Sockhat urged.

  Burberry looked across at him and then back at me. He licked his lips.

  ‘Right, I’ve had enough of your mouth, sunshine.’ All of a sudden I felt like one of my old teachers. ‘Just fuck off out of it, the lot of you, before I really do get wound up.’

  ‘Do it, man.’

  ‘Stick ’im, Vin.’

  ‘Booyah.’

  Booyah indeed. Funny how it’s always the ones you least suspect that stab you in the back. It’s my own fault. I should’ve known where the blow would come from. Next thing I felt was a jab of pressure just above my belt and then the pinch of a blade and for the second time in two days someone cut into me. I cried out and spun around to see a long butterfly knife in the hand of Muddy Pink. There was a tiny measure of blood on the tip. My blood.

  ‘You little shit, you just fucking stabbed me.’

  ‘For real, man,’ she sneered, ‘now pass dat dollar over or you’ll get another.’

&
nbsp; I looked around at them. Suddenly they were each holding a sharp point of some kind in their hand. Worst still, they had me circled, covered from every angle. When I focussed on one of them, another manoeuvred to cover my blind spot.

  ‘You fuckers, I don’t believe this is happening to me.’ I could hear the panic in my voice.

  ‘Believe it, fool.’

  ‘Hand the paper over.’

  ‘Yeah man, now.’

  I spun around until I started to feel giddy. Then I felt another stab. This time the edge didn’t penetrate my jacket. Either they were not strong enough to get through the material or the blade was too small. Probably one of the Stanley knifes.

  I stopped for a second. There was another lunge. I turned. Then another. Little bastards were like termites. I had to get out of there before they figured out where the soft, unprotected spots were.

  For once the negative energy of a comedown actually came in useful. With all that pessimism coursing through me, it was an easy task to transfer it into aggression. I waited until the world had settled back into focus and then threw a haymaker in the one direction that I knew could definitely do me harm. The muddied pink girl wasn’t expecting my attack. She let out a squeal of surprise that was cut abruptly short when my fist landed, catching her squarely in the face. She fell away from me at an alarming rate. From my angle it looked as though someone had yanked her back using a rope tied around her forehead.

  When she came to a stop the little girl emptied her lungs and then, still struggling with the shock of the blow, lay on her side, blood pouring from her open mouth.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, trying to make it better. ‘You need to breathe in. Calm down. Just take a breath.’ The adult that she had just been pretending to be was suddenly gone, and now she was nothing but a harmless, defenceless child. But I couldn’t help thinking that I’d just knocked a large and irrevocable part of the child right out of her.

  When the others saw the mess that her face was in, they backed off. Even so, I knew that it wouldn’t be long before their shock morphed into anger and I really didn’t have the energy or heart to fight them all off. It might hurt, but I needed to press this advantage.

  Burberry was blocking the path leading back to Camden and so I charged back at him. He feebly raised the thin triangle of steel in front of him, but it was scant deterrent. My arms were longer than his and I swatted his face with an open palm before he had time to lash out again. The blow knocked him sideways, clean away from the path and into the canal. The splash he made as he entered the water was relatively quiet, but Burberry more than made up for it when he resurfaced. I could hear him complaining about the ‘bastard freezing cold’ as I ran back under the bridge. He urged the other two to chase after me, but he was wasting his time. After what they’d just seen there was no way that they would dare to tackle me. Not now.

  With a hand pressed to my back, I stooped back along the towpath. I couldn’t believe how stupid I’d been. Nevertheless, once again I’d enjoyed more than my fair share of luck. That was either the first time those kids had pulled that scam or the first time someone had stood up to them. Either way, I pitied the poor bastard that got stung next time. They wouldn’t make the same mistake twice, and next time they might look further than the tool shed or local DIY superstore for their weapons.

  When I stepped off the towpath the stab wound was hurting more than I could have ever expected, making me fear the worst. I hadn’t got the nerve to feel my flesh. Not without a mirror. To my twisted senses, a scratch would feel like a bayonet wound. I blinked furiously at the Breguet. Like me, the second hand was almost at its lowest ebb. That was good news because it meant there was one place, the last place that I ever thought I would ever rely on for security, now open for business.

  I found it at the other end of Camden High Street; the oversized letter shining out like a golden beacon amongst the other lifeless shop signs.

  Inside it was empty. Must’ve literally just opened. I walked up to the vacant counter and tried my best to ignore the corporate friendly grunge and smell of boiling oil.

  A moment later, one of the employees backed out of the disabled toilet behind me. Placing the toilet in the vicinity of the till was typical of these inner city franchises. That way the staff could monitor the crap that was coming out as well as the crap they were shovelling in.

  I moved away from the counter so that I was out of his line of sight. Then, just as he was bending to erect the “caution - wet floor” sign, I slipped behind and locked the door. I heard him curse.

  Wasting no time, I began to strip off. There was a warped plastic mirror above the cracked basin and I distended my neck to see over my shoulder into it. To my surprise the cut was tiny, barely five millimetres in diameter. Not even a stitch. Still hurt like a bitch though, and it had bled quite badly leaving a dark slick along part of my belt and jeans. Unsurprisingly, the field dressing that had been protecting my still raw tattoo was literally hanging from my skin. I used it to wipe away the dried blood. Then I pressed the last remaining bandage from my first aid kit against the wound. I studied the white cotton for a few moments. It stayed white. As long as I held the swab in place and didn’t make any sudden moves then the cut would heal over. Sudden moves. There was no chance of that.

  As I was pulling the two sides of the thin crepe material across my waist I noticed something; I was thinner. Not just a few pounds either. I must have lost close on a stone in weight. Twenty-four hours ago I felt every ounce of the excess that I was carrying around, but now I could actually feel muscle underneath my waist’s loose skin. Maybe the lack of blubber explained my sudden intolerance to the cold. It might also be the reason that the stab wound hurt as much as it did.

  I turned my attention away from my midriff and massaged my tender jaw. The day old stubble only served to highlight my emaciation. I leaned in closer to the mirror to study the rest of my pallid face. My eyes were so bruised it were as though they were recovering from a broken nose and my wet and greasy hair looked like a wig made from a plastic mould. Throw in the purple cut on my brow and I looked every inch the kind of guy who has narrowly escaped death – though not without a real struggle in the process.

  I was working up the courage to examine the inside of my mouth – a sight that I knew would not be pretty – when I heard the raised voice of a woman outside. From what I could make out she was laying into the employee for dropping his guard and allowing me to use the facilities.

  I thought it better to give it a minute before venturing back out there. Use the time to wash myself down a little more. But she was in no mood to wait and started to slap on the door.

  ‘Would you come out of there, please,’ she called out. Her voice was clear. She was speaking directly at the door.

  I blanked her and set about relieving myself instead. Unfortunately, that took me a while. It wasn’t my intention to take the piss, but I was having real difficulty in actually taking the piss. Yet another unfortunate side-effect I suffer when I’ve taken ecstasy.

  ‘I know you can hear me,’ she persisted, ‘I can hear you moving around.’

  ‘Gimme a minute,’ I said, and pulled my clothes carefully back on.

  ‘Look, if you don’t come out of there in the next ten seconds then I will be forced to call–’

  She stopped talking when she heard the snick of the lock. From the disgruntled look on the young floor-mopper’s face, I deduced that the pudgy, sour-faced woman who greeted me was the manageress.

  ‘You’re not a customer,’ she said, waving a finger at me. ‘You have no right to use these facilities.’

  ‘Well, I was just on my way to buy a coffee, actually.’

  ‘Yes, of course you were. That’s what they all say.’ She looked past me and pointed. ‘What does that sign say, hmm? Go on, tell me what it says.’

  All I wanted to do was tell her to fuck off, but if I did that then I’d be back out on the street. Self-righteous cow could see that she was my only
hope of asylum. I played along.

  ‘It says toilet.’

  ‘No it doesn’t. It says “disabled toilet”. Are you disabled?’

  ‘Well, I’m very sorry, did someone need to use it?’ I exaggerated a look around.

  ‘That is not the point. Now, answer the question; are you disabled?’

  ‘Look, there’s no harm done.’

  The manageress was not listening. She had the tiniest thread of an argument and she was determined to garrotte me with it.

  ‘Are. You. Disabled?’

  ‘No. I’m. Not. Disabled.’ I replied. ‘But believe me, if I hadn’t made it in there when I did, then I would be now.’

  The employee cracked up and turned his back just before she could scowl at him.

  ‘And now I’m going to order that coffee I mentioned,’ I said, and left her pursing her lips into a sphincter.

  A few minutes later I was the proud owner of a large cup of caffeine. I held it up and saluted the manageress – the latest member of my growing international fan club – who was now watching my every move. I picked the table furthest away from her and sat staring out of the window. Even that was painful. Whenever I moved my eyes they stung, as though they sat in sockets lubricated with vinegar, but if I focused on one spot for too long then a swarm of white fireflies came towards me, filling me with the fear.

  I noticed a copy of the Daily Mail lying on a nearby table and reached across for it. Maybe the news would help to take my mind off the discomfort. On the front page was a picture of a very sombre and tired-looking Prime Minister. “Clueless” read the headline. The lead article took great delight in explaining how, at a press conference the previous day, our usually self-assured leader had been unable to reassure his worried nation at this, their latest hour of need. Again and again the reporters probed for detail, but each time their questions were met with a tongue-tied and inarticulate response. It was almost as if he was holding something back. In the end, when someone asked about the alleged tensions between No.10 and the Ministry of Defence the Prime Minister walked out. So, with no official word on how BH1612 had been brought down or on what the government planned to do about it, the journalists had let their imaginations run riot, devoting pages and pages to wild speculation.