Deadfolk

by Charlie Williams

  Took us half a minute to notice she weren’t starting. Wheezed and choked she did, but stayed put. Some nights your Ford Capri can be like that. Temperamental. And there’s no point in getting all het up over it neither. A Capri is like a beautiful woman and ought to be treated like one and all. If she don’t wanna play…well, that’s up to her, ennit?

  So I walked. I yomped the half mile or so to Cutler Road, keeping my eyes a yard or two ahead of me boots. ‘Cunts,’ I says every time my foot fell. ‘Cunts. Cunts. Cunts.’ When I started climbing the stairs to Legsy’s flat, I tried to get out of that mood. I always wiped me boots on entering a feller’s house and the same stood for the shite in my head. I rang the bell.

  I stood on the doorstep scratching my bollocks and thinking how thirsty I were. Kitchen light were on again, along with the telly, flickering shades of green into the hall. He shambled up to the door again, same as he always done.

  ‘All right, Blake.’

  ‘All right, Legs.’

  I got meself a cold un and plonked my arse down in the usual spot. I looked over at Legs, who were crashed out on his beloved sofa, punching buttons on the remote like I weren’t there. It were always the same with him. I reckoned if I just sat there and kept mum he’d happily watch telly in silence, then get up and head for his pit, turning all the lights off on his way. He kept flicking to and fro between channels, which were getting irritating being as he gave us just enough time to get interested in each one before switching to another. One were showing nothing but adverts for things I couldn’t afford and they didn’t sell in Mangel anyhow. One were showing a bird dancing and swinging her tits on a misty stage. The other one had news on, and that’s what he plumped for.

  The war were on as usual. Some talk were going on in the background, but I couldn’t hear it proper. Forty or so deadfolk was lined up on the floor on their backs, most of em covered up with sheets, leaving a foot or hand sticking out here and there. Soldiers was standing all around, guns at the ready. But there were nothing to shoot at. They was looking at the cameraman and down at the deadfolk and then up at the cameraman again. I wondered if they was weighing him up for a dead man himself. They could take his gear and flog it for a few quid, like as not. But I knew it weren’t likely. If they shot the cameraman they wouldn’t get on telly.

  ‘Much else on?’ I says.

  Legs flicked again and found a film. It were on a street corner at night. A feller were waiting in the shadows on the one side, flick knife out and glinting. Up the other way were coming a bird with big tits and blonde hair, swinging her handbag and singing to herself. It were the same bird who’d been stripping just now.

  I didn’t want to interrupt him. Looked like he were having a good time watching his telly, though he were pale and frowning. But if I kept quiet it made no sense me being there. ‘Legs,’ I says. ‘We was talkin’ just last night on a certain matter.’ I lit one up and took three or four deep pulls on it. ‘I’m on about the Muntons, the problem I got with em.’

  ‘Oh aye,’ says Legs, tearing his eyes away from the bird on the screen who were just now getting raped. ‘What of it?’

  ‘Moved on a bit, you might say.’

  ‘Better or worser?’ He got a fag out and lit it, which were a good sign. Legsy always sparked up when he were concentrating.

  ‘Worser.’ The bird were trying to scream, but the feller had his hand across her mouth while he pumped into her. I were seeing all this but not really paying no mind. ‘Gettin’ so as I can’t do me job. Know what happened just now?’

  ‘Oh aye? What?’

  I thought about it for a bit, then says: ‘Ah, more of the same really. Nuthin’ new.’

  ‘No.’

  The next scene were in a police station. Legs flicked over and found a western. I watched it for a bit to see if Clint Eastwood were in it. Legsy must have been doing same, being as he flicked back to the news when it became clear there were no Clint.

  He seemed happy just to let our conversation hang in the air, so I pressed on. ‘I were thinkin’ on what you said last night.’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘About the Muntons.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Said you’d help us out, right?’

  Legs flicked the telly off, stubbed his fag, then sat upright and rubbed his hands together. ‘Now then. I’m glad you came to us with this. Done a bit of thinkin’ on it meself, I has.’

  ‘Oh aye? Nice one, Legsy. I knowed I could rely on you.’

  He sparked another one up. ‘I reckons you oughta stand up to the fuckers.’

  I played it over in my head a couple of times before replying, just to be sure he’d said what I thought he’d said. ‘You what?’

  ‘Face up to em. Only thing a bully understands, that is. Soon as they sees you ain’t a soft touch they’ll leave you alone. Ain’t worth their bother doin’ nuthin’ else.’

  I scratched the back of my neck and took a long swig. ‘Well, ta, Legs.’

  ‘S’all right.’ His hand were already reaching for the remote. ‘Any time. Can’t help out a mate, who can you help? S’what I says.’

  We watched summat for a bit, then I says, ‘Only I reckons it ain’t as simple as all that.’

  ‘What ain’t?’

  ‘Me standing up to the Muntons.’

  ‘Why ain’t it? Worst you can get is a beatin’. Had one o’ them before, ain’t you?’

  ‘Like I says, ain’t that simple.’

  ‘Why the fuck not?’

  ‘Cos I…’ I swirled the beer around in the can, searching for the right words. But I knew in my heart there were only one way of putting it. ‘Cos I lost me bottle. Thass why.’

  Legs looked at us. I couldn’t meet his eye. I were ashamed to, and were glad the light were low and he couldn’t see us turning beetroot. But all the same I had a feeling a little smirk were hovering round his lips. ‘You?’ he says. ‘Royston Blake, head doorman of Hoppers? Lost yer fuckin’ bottle?’ He made a farting noise as if to rubbish such a barmy idea. But then the smell reached us and I realised it were a real one.

  ‘Fuckin’ hell, Legs,’ I says, wafting it away.

  ‘Aye, soz. Pies, ennit.’

  ‘I ain’t joshin’ around here. I lost me bottle. Simple as that.’

  There were a bit of silence. Weren’t the silence that a couple of mates can sit in and not worry about talking. More a silence filled with turmoil and fart gas. Then Legs stood up. He walked over to the window and looked out of it. There weren’t much to see out that window during daylight. Couple of brick walls and a few chimneys, some pigeons if you was lucky. And at night there were even less of a view. But he looked out anyhow. ‘You ain’t lost yer bottle,’ he says. ‘You just been lettin’ it all get to you.’

  I thought about that. I knew it were wrong. I’d lost me bottle, plain and simple. But I thought about his words anyhow. Letting it all get to us he’d said. Maybe that were part of it.

  He stepped back away from the window and started walking the room, hands behind back, fag in gob. When he spoke again it were in that voice of his that you had no choice but to listen to. ‘You know, with some men, their reputations is all they’s got. Proud men. Men of honour. Them’s the sort always been bred in Mangel. In the old days, leastways. And when someone takes that reputation away from em…well, like takin’ their life away, ennit?’

  He passed the fag from one hand to the other to drive his point home. Then he walked around a bit more, thinking out his next bit.

  ‘Now you can set us straight if I’m wrong on this, but I reckons you’re a man o’ that sort, Blake. Man o’ reputation.’

  I stared into space for a moment. Man of reputation. I hadn’t thought of meself in such terms for a long while. Sounded about right, mind.

  ‘And now you’re hurtin’, cos that reputation o’ yours has taken a few knocks. When it goes down, you goes down. And them Muntons goes up. That the way iss gonna be, Blake? Happy about you goin’ down and them up, is you
?’

  It took us a while before I noticed I were shaking my head. And then I shook it harder. ‘No it fuckin’ ain’t.’

  ‘What you gonna do about it then?’

  ‘Dunno.’ I put tin to teeth and chugged. It were empty. I lit a fag instead. But no matter how hard I puffed, it just didn’t do the same job as lager. ‘Bit of a mess, ennit?’

  ‘Not such a mess as you can’t fix it. Don’t require no deep thinkin’, Blake. Just a bit o’ courage. Woss the first thing a man like you does when someone gives him grief?’

  I wanted to be as honest as I could, so I thought about it for about twenty seconds before answering. ‘Nut him.’

  ‘Right you are.’

  ‘But I can’t nut the Muntons. There’s three of em and they’m the hardest f—’

  ‘You can if you gets one of em alone.’

  ‘I…but…’ The lit end of my fag were about an inch long, and glowed brighter when I pulled on it. It were like a beacon, pointing through the dark to where Legs were stood. Listen to him, it said. Legsy knows what’s what.

  ‘Trust us, Blake. Get one of em alone. Trust us. Trust yerself.’

  That were that, far as that conversation went. Some of his words echoed in my head for a while. Specially the ones about trusting meself and him. I dunno if I dropped off or not, but summat happened. The darkness got darker. It got so dark that most things disappeared. Legs weren’t over there on his couch no more. I weren’t even sure the couch itself were there. And I dunno what happened to me fag. Then I spotted one or two things in the blackness, things what wasn’t there before. Seemed like faces.

  But I couldn’t be sure. More of em was popping up all around the room, though it weren’t really a room no more. I could see they surely was faces now. Fellers and birds—cheeks white, eyes wide, mouths hanging open like they was watching summat on telly that they didn’t like the look of but couldn’t turn away from. It were me they was watching, course. And they was the crowd outside Hoppers.

  I were curled up in a ball, cowering. I knew it weren’t no Munton that were getting to us. It were the crowd. They was hissing at us, jeering, spitting. I had to do summat. I had to turn em around.

  And then it were morning.

  Neck were stiff and gob felt like it’d seen use as a pickling jar overnight. I sat up and stretched a bit. Legs weren’t on the couch no more. I could hear snoring somewhere not far off so I reckoned he’d crashed out in his pit. I went to the kitchen and swigged two pints of water, then lit a fag and looked in the fridge. It were full of beer and pies. I weighed it all up for a while, then shut the fridge and went out the door, closing it quietly behind us. Watch said half five. It were early for us, and I thought about turning back for a kip on the recliner. But then I looked around us.

  Sun were out already. It had rained overnight. The slate on the rooftops glistened like the calm surface of a river. Everything smelled fresh and earthy, though there were nothing but concrete and stone outside Legsy’s flat. I walked down the stairs and headed for Hoppers to pick up my vehicle.

  I had things needed doing.

  5

  She started first time. That were always her way. Blowing hot and cold. But when she blew hot she didn’t half. I pulled her out of the Hoppers car park, thinking how it were only natural that she’d be right as rain and ready to go this morning. I were feeling that way meself. And last night, when she’d played up on us, I’d been feeling like shite.

  We went home. After a wash and change of clobber I went down the stair and set about getting some scran together. There weren’t much in the cupboard so I made do with half a dozen eggs, eight sausages, a few fried slices, and a cup of tea. Then I sat down in front of the telly and watched this and that for a while. I didn’t have a remote control so my habit were to stick with whatever I found. A weather report said the sun were due to shine all day, which were all right by me. Then the war came on and I drifted out for a couple of hours.

  A bit later I got back in my car and drove her back into town, me touching her the way she liked and her taking us the places I wanted to go.

  Namely the Paul Pry.

  I don’t reckon I’d ever been down the Paul Pry at opening time before. Never had much call for pop at eleven in the morning, even if I were awake at such an hour. And that were the way with most folks, it turned out. The place were empty besides Nathan.

  ‘All right, Blake,’ he says.

  ‘All right, Nathan.’

  ‘Early fer you.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Usual, is it?’

  ‘Aye.’

  It were when I’d touched bottom of me second pint that he says: ‘Business?’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘You up and about at this hour. Business, is it?’

  ‘Oh, right. Well, matter of fact I does have a bit of business to sort out. Aye.’

  ‘This wouldn’t be to do with what we was talkin’ about, would it?’ He refilled my glass and plonked it back in front of us.

  I picked it up and necked half of it straight off. ‘And what might that be?’

  ‘Well…Muntons.’ He folded his hairy arms and squinted at us. ‘Baz in particlier.’

  ‘Don’t be barmy.’ I laughed and shook my head and swilled the rest of the lager down. While it were settling in me gut, I thought about what he’d asked and how I’d answered it. It were one thing keeping your designs to yourself. Specially if they involves violence. But what were the point of doing what I had planned unless folks knew about it? How would I get my reputation back if folks didn’t know I’d done what I were about to do?

  They wouldn’t, is how.

  Not unless someone told em. And I couldn’t hardly go round town bragging about it meself. That’d be asking for it. No, it had to start as a rumour, just like the rumours that had been besmirching my name of late. And who better to start a rumour than Nathan himself?

  ‘Matter of fact, Nathan, you ain’t too far from the truth there.’ I winked and raised my empty vessel.

  ‘Oh aye?’ He put his polishing rag down and looked us in the eye. ‘Well you just be careful. Times is hard and I can’t afford to lose custom. And thass why I’ll not be puttin’ another fill in here.’ He picked up my glass and put it behind him, next to the till. ‘Not until you comes back afterwards anyhow. All right?’

  It weren’t all right. I were thirsty and I needed to get me strength up. But I saw his point and liked the idea of it, saving my thirst for the victory toast and that.

  I got up. ‘Ta, Nathan.’

  ‘Bye, Blakey. He’ll be turnin’ up at the Bee Hive shortly, by the way. Thereafter at Munton Motors. On yer guard, eh?’

  ‘Oh aye. Ta.’

  Norbert Green, as well you knows, were and is the hairiest bit of Mangel. Some might say Muckfield has its moments and all. It had to be said—some hard fellers had come from out Muckfield way. But it were still safe to walk there for most folks, long as your face weren’t wrong.

  Norbert Green, on the other hand, were a different proposition. Folks went missing out that way all the time. Folks who weren’t from Norbert Green, that is. Even the coppers wouldn’t get involved if they could avoid it. Not that they had much call to stick their snouts in. Far as they was concerned, them what ventured there did so at them’s own risk. Norbert Green mostly policed herself. And if on occasion she didn’t, there was always the Muntons to step in and sort matters out.

  If Norbert Green were a boil on the devil’s back, right in the middle of it were a big yellow bag o’ pus known as the Bee Hive. I pulled in about thirty yard up the road from it. My watch said five past one. Either he were already in there or he’d be along any second. I had to think quick. I had to decide on where best to do it. I could go straight to Munton Motors and have it out with him on his home turf. Or I could surprise him on his way back from the pub, long as he weren’t driving.

  Get one of em alone, Legs had said. That’s all I had to do.

  All right, I tho
ught. All right all right all right. So I’m here in Norbert fucking Green, waiting outside the fucking Bee Hive in me fucking backfiring Ford fucking Capri in broad bastard daylight. But it were all right.

  Get one of em alone.

  Never mind that any cunt walking past on his way to the pub might clock us and walk inside and spill the beans. Never mind that Baz Munton would get on the blower to Lee and Jess.

  ‘All right,’ I says aloud, holding open hands up in front of us and nodding slowly. ‘Calm down.’ I took a deep breath, closed me lids, and listened to Legsy’s words in my head.

  Trust me.

  Trust yerself.

  When I opened em again me eyes latched onto a fat arse wrapped in grimy denim shambling down the road fifty yard up yonder, away from the pub. It were the arse of Baz Munton, and it were swaying left to right across the pavement as the beer in his large belly sloshed hither and thither. I waited till he were out of sight. Then I turned the key.

  Only she weren’t starting, were she. I tried her again a few times, but no. I opened my gob to call her summat rude but held me tongue. And thank fuck I did. A man who abuses his car—even verbally—is a man who don’t respect himself. I stroked the dashboard and said a few calming words. Then I had a think.

  The idea came at us like a mugger out of a dark doorway. Well, it weren’t much of an idea, such as it were. More like the boost I needed to go through with the only thing I could do. I got out of the car and hared off down an alley.

  Fuck knew how many pairs of Norbert Green eyes clocked us as I zigzagged through side street and shortcut, hopped over fence, and darted across lawn. But stealth weren’t of the essence. Long as it ended in a face-to-face with Baz it didn’t matter who seen us. The more the better, long as none of em was members of the Munton clan. No point in me blacking his eye or breaking his nose unless the whole of Mangel knew that old Blakey were behind it.

  I got there in about five minutes. Or maybe it were one. Time didn’t matter. I were there, lurking behind the big oak tree in the graveyard halfway between the Bee Hive and Munton Motors. I could hear Baz’s boots crunching gravel further up the path, getting closer. It were too easy in a way. Too easy to do what I went and done.