Deadfolk

by Charlie Williams

  The boot popped open.

  ‘Woss that almighty hum, fellers?’ Nathan were standing over by the doorway. He started slowly toward us. ‘Gat folks complainin’ back there.’

  ‘Shut the boot, Blake,’ whispers Finney. But it weren’t much of a whisper. More like a feller with a bad cold hollering.

  ‘I’m tryin’.’ And I were. But the bastard wouldn’t stick. The wrench had knacked it good.

  ‘All right, fellers.’ Nathan were standing a little ways off now.

  I pushed the boot down best I could and propped my arse up against it. ‘All right, Nathan.’

  ‘All right, Nathan.’

  He didn’t say nothing for a bit. Just stood there licking his tash and scratching his hairy belly. It struck us as strange how a man with such a hairy belly should have problems growing a proper tash. Hairy is hairy, I’d always reckoned. You’re either hairy or you ain’t. Well, Nathan were a bit of both. ‘Woss you gat in there then, eh? Smells like a butcher shop a week gone doomsday.’

  I slied the wrench inside my leather and opened me gob to say summat, though I weren’t sure what. But Fin got there first. ‘Ah, nuthin’. Juss some…er…Blakey, what were it you had in there?’

  You could tell from the way his eyes was set in his head that Nathan knew exactly what were what. Like I says to you just now, he knew every bastard thing that ever came to pass in the Mangel area. Don’t ask how. Folks had been joylessly asking about that un for yonks. Just like in every town there’s a cunt like Finney, there’s an oracle along the lines of Nathan the barman and all. ‘What can I tell you, Nathan,’ says I. ‘Secret, ennit.’

  He laughed. A real belly laugh like only a portly barman can do. Then he stopped. Just like that, as if he’d never been laughing nor ever had been nor would do. ‘Don’t you recall, Blake?’ says he. ‘I already promised to help you out. Gatta trust us now. Keepin’ secrets from us don’t make us feel right trusted.’

  No one spoke for a bit. Seemed like no one in the whole of town were speaking. There were no noise at all, come to think on it. Not even cars and that. Then it all started up again.

  ‘Only one way to make old Nathan feel trusted now. What you say, Blake? What were that thing you was plannin’ on deliverin’ to us?’ He turned to Fin. ‘Reckon he owes us a favour, Finney?’

  Fin said summat. Ain’t sure what. I were concentrating on meself, slipping my hand back in my jacket and wrapping me fingers around the greasy monkey wrench. My eyes was on Nathan’s head, picking out the best spot to plant the heavy end. I were weighing up a knobbly bit round the back just above his hairline when Finney says: ‘Ain’t that right, Blakey?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Thass a big wrench.’ It were Nathan this time. I looked at my arm. On the end of it, at about head height, were the wrench. ‘Woss that fer, then?’

  ‘The boot,’ says Fin. ‘Gettin’ it open. Boot’s knackered, ennit?’

  Nathan looked at Finney, then back at meself and the wrench. ‘That right, Blake?’

  They stood there like so for a minute or two, watching the wrench. I reckon even I had me eyes on it, wondering if any second it might jerk out of my grasp and stave Nathan’s head in. ‘Aye,’ I says at last. ‘Boot’s knackered.’

  ‘Well, you’d best fix it,’ he says, wandering off pubward. ‘Otherwise folks’ll be catchin’ on you’ve got a dead man in there.’

  ‘Shite.’

  Finney’s motor were a 1976 Austin Allegro 1300 Estate. Weren’t a bad model as Allegros went, but I’d always reckoned if you went for the Estate you’re better off going with the 1500. I’d told Finney this time enough, but he were happy with what he had and content to shunt along at whatever pace he could get out of her. Like Finney says just now, she were mostly shite brown on the outside, with the bonnet and parts of the roof in grey primer and plenty of rust and filler elsewhere. The interior were the standard black vinyl and worn through here and there. In the middle of the sports steering wheel were a shiny Leyland centre cap. For a little car your Allegro Estate were quite roomy, and if you put the rear seats down you had ample room for a dead body.

  ‘Shite.’

  We was headed north out of town. Before we’d left I put the Capri in the car park behind Strake Hill. It weren’t the best of places to leave her. Cars was filched from there most every week. But there weren’t many safe places to park in Mangel at the best of times. Anyhow, I jumped in with Finney and we headed north, like I says.

  ‘S’fuckin’ matter?’ he says. His nose had stopped bleeding now. Lips and chin and backs of his hands was all plastered in dried blood. But blood never bothered Finney much. Which were just as well, him working in a slaughtering yard and all.

  ‘Legs,’ I says. ‘We was meetin’ Legs back at the Pry.’

  ‘Nah.’

  ‘You what? “Nah”?’

  ‘He ain’t there.’

  ‘Says who? You knows how he’s late sometimes.’

  ‘Ain’t late. Ain’t comin’.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Cos…’

  I weren’t really bothered about why he were or weren’t there. Maybe he’d crashed his milk-float. Or dropped a barbell on himself and bust his neck. And I dunno why such nasty thoughts brung a smile to my careworn face, but bring one they did. It’d always been that way between meself and Legs. We was mates, but we still thought of each other in cuntish terms. He weren’t a cunt in the Finney mould, course. His head weren’t full of shite. But he were always trying to get one over on us. In a friendly manner, like. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Oh…’ says Fin. ‘He, er…rang us before I left. Says he were tied up with his motor, like.’

  ‘Oh aye? Woss up with it?’

  ‘Erm…head gasket.’

  I knew this were shite and bollocks. Legs drove an Escort Mexico. Everyone knows you can bet your pecker on them Mexican head gaskets. But a passing black mariah reminded us of matters more pressing. I looked at me watch. ‘We can’t just drive around all night like bastards.’

  ‘Aye,’ he says. But I knew he’d be happy as a pig in shite to do just that.

  ‘Turn left up yonder,’ I says.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Cos we can’t just drive around.’

  We stopped at the end of the road. Nothing but thirty yard of scrub lay between us and the River Clunge, which were tree-lined along this stretch and frequented by angling types. No one were about, far as I could see. No cars was parked anyhow. And unless they’d come on foot and was down on the bank, no anglers.

  ‘Tell you what, Blake.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Thass a fuckin’ smart plan. Lob Baz in the river. Wish I’d of thought o’ that.’

  ‘Ta.’

  We fell quiet. I lit a fag and froped it for a bit, thinking about being boss of Hoppers. After a while I says: ‘Well, go on then.’

  ‘What?’

  I nodded at the river. ‘Lug him yonder.’

  ‘Me? Why me?’

  ‘In your car, ain’t he?’

  ‘He were in your cellar.’

  ‘Aye, but you took him without askin’.’

  ‘But I were helpin’ you.’

  ‘Wants to help, does you? Lug him yonder and chuck him in then. Push him out a bit an’ all, catch the current. Don’t want him washin’ ashore ten yard downriver.’

  He stared at us while I carried on smoking. Then he shook his head and got out. ‘Come on, Blakey,’ he says, hanging back into the car. ‘Help us. He must be twenty stone if he’s an ounce.’ He waited for a bit, then shut the door and started making noises out back. Soon he had Baz on the ground and were lugging him slowly down to the water. I could hear him grunting and panting like a randy boar. He were right about Baz being a lump. Finney were struggling, and that were saying a lot considering he shifted dead cattle around for a living. But I were staying put. This were the way it had to be. I had responsibilities now, me being boss of Hoppers and all. If anyone clocked us putting a corp
se in the river, I’d be headed for more shite, just when I were clambering out of the first lot. No, it had to be this way. And besides, Finney’d said he wanted to help.

  Fuck it. I got out and went to give him hand. I knew I oughtn’t to. But what can you do? Mates is mates, even if they’re cunts as well. I always helps a mate in need. Call it a fault in me character.

  We took a leg each and dragged Baz onto the path running alongside the bank, then stopped for a little rest. Finney got his fags out and passed us one. We smoked and stood quietly, listening out for folk. Finney started kicking an old pop can around. ‘No one about, is there?’ I says. But Fin didn’t hear us. He’d booted the can up the path and were off after it, imagining himself making a run at goal from the halfway line. All of a sudden I felt uneasy, like I were standing on a wall with a slurry pit on the one side and a sheer drop on the other. A deep sound started up somewhere in my head like the lowest note on a church organ. Unless I got shifting I’d fall off for surely. Fin were miles away now. He’d turned off into the scrub and were chasing the can back toward the car, dribbling past invisible fullbacks and shouting his own commentary. The noise in my head were getting louder, making us tremble and loosening me bowels. I flicked the fag, half-smoked. It pinged off Baz’s dead face and landed in the dirt, where I stepped on it. I grabbed Baz’s feet and hauled him down a little track that led to the water. I’d feel better once he were in the river.

  ‘All right, mate.’

  I stopped dead and looked over my leather-clad shoulder. There were a feller sitting a few foot down from us on the water’s edge, holding a rod. He winked at us, then saw Baz and frowned.

  ‘All right, mate,’ I says, pleasantly enough.

  It were Danny, short podgy cunt with glasses from three year above us at school. Four, perhaps. I’d never called him by name before and I weren’t about to now. Anyhow, didn’t much matter who he were. He were the bastard who seen me lugging Baz. He had to go.

  We looked at each other a minute or two. The end of his rod started twitching this way and that, but he weren’t aware of it. We was staring at each other, wondering who were planning what. Then I stood up straight and pulled out the monkey wrench. It were a nice weight in my hand. Felt like it were meant for more than just servicing a wide range of nut gauges. Hitting folks’ heads seemed a more proper usage right then. Specially when I swung it and caught him just above the left ear. His body lurched to the left and I thought he’d go down for surely. But his legs started wheeling under him, making up for the pull of gravity. He scuttled off sideways. I followed and brung the wrench down on the same spot near enough. This time the sound were like batting a marrow with a crowbar.

  He went down for good this time. He lay there kicking and dribbling, eyes flitting about like moths around a light bulb. I watched him, thinking how it were a shame and all, but there hadn’t been much else I could do. Then he stopped twitching and went all still.

  I booted him in the guts hard as I could. Just to be sure.

  I waited, and lit another un. My legs was starting to ache. I wanted to get out and stretch em a bit. But that’d be spoiling it. I’d done me bit, and now I had to keep my head down. Across the river the sun were dipping behind the Deblin Hills. I looked at me watch. Eight o’clock. I had to be in the graveyard by nine to meet Mandy and get my passport to happy days. And I were fucking starving. Me guts was making noises like a pining greyhound. And where the fuck were Finney? Last time I seen him he were chasing that flipping pop can and screaming about some of the crowd being on the pitch and reckoning it were all over.

  I lit another one and waited. I went over all the things might have happened to him. He’d trod in a pothole and broke his leg. He’d fallen in the water and drowned. He’d sat down and fallen akip. He’d forgot what he’d come here for and walked off homeward. I looked at the steering column. The keys was still in it. Perhaps I’d best fuck off.

  But then he comes out of the trees clutching a big fish in each hand, grinning like a beered-up friar.

  ‘Fuck me, Blakey,’ he says, slotting his arse into the worn out driver’s seat. ‘Ever seen barbel this size? Here you go.’ He dropped one in my lap.

  ‘Well bugger me,’ says I. He were right. They was the largest barbel I’d ever seen in them waters or any other waters, not that I’d ever seen waters other than them running through the Mangel area.

  ‘Found em down there by the water,’ he says. ‘Someone left em there. Gear an’ all, loads of it. Fancy it? I’ll pop back down there if you wants it.’ He went to open the door.

  I pulled him back and says: ‘Leave it.’ He looked at us funny, so I says: ‘Don’t want folks seein’ us round here. Case they finds Baz.’

  ‘Aye, nice thinkin’.’ He started up the Allegro and pointed her townward. ‘So er…you get rid of Baz an’ that?’

  ‘No. Got up and ran off, didn’t he.’

  ‘Eh?’ He slammed on the brakes, making the fish fall off me lap. An old codger walking his dog stopped and clocked us.

  ‘You means he came back to life an’…oh.’ He started laughing. ‘You’re joshin’ us, right? Got up an’ ran off, heh heh.’

  The old cunt still had his bifocals on us. His hound started barking. I stared back at him until he got moving again. ‘Just fuckin’ shift,’ I says to Fin.

  He stopped laughing after a bit and says: ‘Right then, thass that sorted. Fancy gettin’ pissed now?’

  Finney were hard to get rid of. He saw it as our duty to get plastered, being as how we’d just achieved summat. I fobbed him off by telling him I were meeting Sal for a drink, and he were welcome to come along and join us and get arsed and that. Finney’d always been funny around birds. Birds of mine anyhow. Specially Beth. He hardly ever came round ours in case she answered the door, and the one time he did try his luck she made him stand on the doorstep. She told us later she didn’t want folks like him hanging around the house and bringing the place down. She had a point. Fin were a scruffy cunt if ever there were one. And he didn’t speak proper like meself and Legsy. But he were a mate, weren’t he. A wife ain’t meant to treat her feller’s mates like that. And I told her as much. But she just shrugged and says oh well, what’s done is done. And she’d do it again if he came round again. But he wouldn’t, would he. Not now she’d put him in his place.

  Anyhow, that’s how I got shot of him. He dropped us off by my car and went off somewhere. I headed for Norbert Green, stopping off at Alvin’s for a bag of chips and a can of pop. I ate and drank as I drove, which weren’t ideal. The bag were wedged between me thighs and the heat from the chips had us sweating like a bastard. I wolfed em down fast as I could, shutting up them pining greyhounds in me guts. Then I downed the pop in one go, which had us belching so loud folks was turning their heads as I drove past. And that were with the windows rolled up.

  It were bang on nine when I pulled up outside the graveyard. No one were about, besides meself and all them deadfolk underfoot. There were a church over the far corner, but I don’t reckon as anyone ever used that, besides for funerals. Ain’t much call for churches in Mangel, and I don’t reckon as ever there were. There’s a reason for that, my old man used to tell us. And this were the one thing I remembered him telling us that didn’t have a wallop on the end of it. According to him, right, religion is for folks who’s missing summat in their lives. There’s a hole inside of em, see, and they fills it with churches and vicars and that. It’s the same the world over. Big flocks of folks with holes inside of em, temples and gods to fill em with.

  Well, Mangel folk ain’t got that hole. Mangel folk don’t need anything but bread, water, and air. And lager. And fags.

  I set off down the path, getting rid of a bit more pop gas as me guts got shifting. This were it then. I were finally gonna find out what this doofer were that every bastard were after. Not that it mattered. Could be a golden calf for all I gave a toss, long as it got us my name up above the door of Hoppers. I walked past the spot where Baz had
drawn his last breath. You’d never have known it. I’d covered me tracks pretty good there. It were hard to believe it’d really happened, seeing it now. I were glad of that. And Baz were off to the sea by now, which is where the River Clunge finally comes out, I hears.

  Course, there were no sign of Mandy Munton. Not that I’d expected there to be. By my reckoning she’d be lurking behind a tree up the other end of the yard, ready to jump out behind us when I came past. It were only when I reached the far gate that I wondered if her brothers might have rumbled her. And by then it were too fucking late.

  I barely had time to swear under me breath before Jess were atop us. He were a heavy cunt. Not as heavy as Baz, but Jess were hewn of muscle rather than lard. He were your proverbial shite house, less windows and doors, being as his eyes was always blank as a brick wall and he rarely opened his gob. But it weren’t his weight what bothered us. Not even when he brung it all down into me guts via his right knee. I could handle that. Well, I’d get over it in time anyhow. It were his smell what I couldn’t handle. Stank like he’d filled his trolleys, he did. And I didn’t take kindly to it. Fighting’s a physical business, and the least he could have done were wipe his arse proper. Aye, it got my goat up all right.

  He were using my head as a speedball when the thing started inside of us. It were the same thing what’d done for Baz, once he’d brung it out. It were a blackness surging outwards from somewhere in me belly, making us numb all over but mad for blood. Me arms and legs felt like cooling pig iron. I threw Jess off. It weren’t that hard. He were up quick, chin stuck out like a bulldozer shovel. But he could have been swinging an axe for all I cared. I’d still have had him.

  I swung my right leg at him, ignoring the right he were swinging back at me face. He connected nice and sweet with my left eyebrow. And on another day that might have stunned us good and proper. But not this time. And he knew it. My boot landed square between his legs.