by John King
I stood in the hall for a few minutes, finally went up the stairs to the landing and stopped under the loft, the hatch back in place, and this was where Smiles killed himself. I don’t believe in ghosts, but something bad happened there and this terror came from nowhere, the sort of mental thinking that belongs in horror films. My legs were frozen and I was shitting it. Really cacking myself. Never known anything like it. There was a cold silence, and I passed Smiles on the stairs and raced back to his mum, for a second feeling what it was like for Smiles living down the landing from where his mum killed herself. Why didn’t they move? I saw myself sitting in a bath where my mum died, billions of cells ground into the pores of the tub. There’s nothing in that house but sadness, the drip of a tap and a plughole blocked with the long hair of a depressed woman. Smiles didn’t want to die in water, same as his mum, and I felt the motion of a train crossing Siberia, the rhythm of running water, left the house as fast as I could, jogged to the pub where there’s light and warmth, Dave drumming his fingers over the table, lifting a hand and running it along the collar of his shirt. His eyes move left and right, brain working out the right words to say. I wish he’d get on with it.
–Me and Chris have been talking, he says, leaning forward, with a serious look on his face.
I nod and lift the glass to my mouth. Dave’s in control.
–I know Smiles hung himself, and he’s a silly cunt for doing that, bang out of order for what he’s done to his family and friends. He’s wasted his life and everyone is unhappy. It’s down to him what he does, I know that, we all know that’s the way the world is, it’s survival of the fittest and we’re responsible for our actions, but listen, there’s more to it than some loony stringing himself up from the beams. Don’t you think so?
I nod again and Dave’s manner eases. Something flickers, the friendship we used to have. However much you try and be your own person, pull out of the crowd and go your own way, you’re always getting invited back. There’s safety in numbers, a common enemy the easiest way to unite people. Chris moves forward in his chair. Dave is almost smiling, the first time tonight. We used to smile all the time, when we were kids. We didn’t bother about the serious stuff, only saw ourselves and what we were going to do next, the music we were listening to and the pubs we were drinking in, the bands we were watching, the girls we were going to fall in love with one day and the girls we were going to knob in the next few hours. The bare essentials.
–He was different before he went in the canal, Chris says. He was, wasn’t he? I’m not making it up. After he came out of the coma nothing was ever the same. It changed him. He was damaged.
I nod, slower this time. I know all this and reach for my glass. Pour half the drink down. They’re not telling me anything new. I’ve had time to work it out in my head. Years away, free from the pressures of life, buried away in a Chungking room, knocking around Hong Kong, no responsibilities weighing me down, breaking away from the propaganda and hatred. It’s easy to see where this is going. But I’ve had a long train trip to get used to the idea of Smiles’s death, days with nothing to do except look out of the window, letting the facts sink in and the truth come out. I know my part in all this. It’s straight in my head. I listen to Dave.
–He goes on about Hitler and that other cunt, talking a load of shit that used to fuck me right off, ends up in the nut house, and then he goes and builds his own fucking gallows. Now everyone else thinks it was just Smiles being sick, a fucking loony who wasn’t really alive, but it’s not that easy. The way we see things is that he was murdered. As good as, anyway. That slag Wells who chucked you both off the bridge is guilty. Murder or manslaughter, take your pick, it doesn’t matter. Thing is, he was older than you two, and there was four of them as well. It could’ve been you who got stuck under the water and ended up brain-damaged. Think about it.
I don’t disagree, can’t argue with the logic, except that there’s a lot of different reasons why things happen. They’ve forgotten what happened to Smiles when he was a kid, how he came home from school one day looking forward to some food, calls for his mum and she’s not there, goes upstairs and finds her sitting in the bath with no clothes on and no blood in her veins. What does that do to an eight-year-old? But I don’t say anything. I’ve just come back after three years away and to them I’m the bloke who turned his back. I’m on the outside and have to watch what I say, work my way back in and earn the right to have an opinion. I can’t start preaching fresh off the train. They don’t say anything, probably haven’t thought about this, but I know the feeling’s there, in me more than them probably. Our differences are forgotten, but could flare up any second. Smiles has brought us together. I know what they’re working towards, building up the story.
–Same again? Dave asks.
I smile and make the most of the break.
–Good boy.
He goes to the bar and takes his time.
Chris is concentrated and takes over, moving around on his seat and lowering his voice.
–That Wells needs sorting out for what he did.
He looks left and right.
–I know he got a slap off Tony and had one of his legs broke, but it’s not enough. He’s killed our mate and got away with it too easy. Just walked off laughing.
You do stupid things when you’re pissed, when you’re young. If you got hold of Wells and asked him if he meant me or Smiles to end up stuck under the water, for Smiles to go into a coma and get brain-damaged, fucked up, whatever happened to him, he’d say no. Anyone would say no. You have to think what finding his mum in the bath did, the hidings Smiles got off his old man. Does it matter who’s to blame? Smiles is dead and that’s the end of it. You have to be reasonable, see things from every angle. Revenge isn’t an answer.
Except Dave and Chris aren’t in the mood to be reasonable. I haven’t been part of this for three long years and it’s hard now. I worked in the bar, got pissed, knobbed a few girls, went up to Taiwan and Japan, did the same there, over to Manila and out into the countryside, through the rice terraces and down to the beach, sat in the sun and had the massage girls rub coconut oil into my back. Most of the time I kept to myself, the hours I spent with other people social. In one way this is a bad dream, but in another there’s this big shot of commitment, the feeling of belonging that comes when you’re sucked back into your own community.
I’m part of the brickwork now, not some drifter passing through, getting pissed on cheap Chinese lager, the big shot showing big face at a communal table, flashing my money around as I order more noodles. Back home I’m another face in the crowd, sitting in a pub, having a pint. I think of the bars in Hong Kong, the dark shades and dim lights, the drying sweat of these one-night-stopover Europeans lining the bar, ogling the young girls in hot pants, these financiers and businessmen on their way to the whorehouses of the Philippines.
Here things are different. It’s in this pub, in the pint of lager resting in my hand. This is my culture, my world, and certain things are expected. Wells can pull us together. I see this easy enough. It makes us feel good inside, being part of a group, even if the group’s small and isolated. Everyone’s got a bit of the martyr in them. The Left hates the Right and the Right hates the Left, and they both hate the anarchists, who say they don’t have any leaders or flags but are proud that they’ve got a name.
–Here you go. A decent English pint. Get that down your throat.
Dave puts the lager in front of me. I sip the drink, enjoying the effects of the alcohol. I can feel myself getting pulled in. The comradeship you feel when you’re together, the warmth of the pub, the drink that makes you do the sort of things you regret in the morning, when you wake up with a black eye or in the cells. The prisons are packed with blokes who had one drink too many, got carried away.
–So we’re going to sort Wells out once and for all. We’re going through his front door and kill the cunt. Or at least cripple him. What do you think about that?
And what ca
n I say. It’s the drink talking, and it doesn’t make any sense. Smiles wasn’t like that, he wouldn’t want blood on his hands. Even if they want to do the bloke you can’t steam straight into his home. They’ll end up inside. Institutionalised same as Smiles. I’ve got too much guilt to go round battering people. I need time to settle in again. Smiles died years ago. I nod but don’t say much, dodge the issue, go with the flow and let the lager simmer, stay till closing time when Dave starts stirring Chris up. We leave the pub and Chris climbs into his car, Dave’s voice ringing out in the night air.
–I’m going to break his kneecaps. Do a proper job on him.
He’s talking bollocks, his anger mixed with sadness, needs to make sense of something that doesn’t make any sense at all. Chris sits behind the wheel as Dave holds the back door open. I look at the seat, the chance to get in, drive a mile or two down the road, pull Wells out of his front door and kick him to death. It’s tempting, it really is, and I’m pissed, but still strong enough to say no. And I’m tired, only got home last night. If they’re going to do Wells they should wait till they’re sober. Fuck all that. It’s a mug’s game. They have to be honest. Say it could’ve happened to anyone, that maybe it was the old man, or his family history, something in his genes. It’s easy to go with the flow. Jump in with your mates and find an enemy. It’d feel good, till tomorrow, and it won’t bring Smiles back. That’s the important thing. Smiles wouldn’t want us running around hurting people. He wasn’t a fighter. I tell Dave to let it go, it’s all in the past now.
–You’re a shitter, Dave sneers. A fucking shitter.
I know I’m not scared. It’s just not right. I turn to walk away.
–You’re a bottle merchant, turning your back on your mates and fucking off to the other side of the world.
I swing round so I’m a foot from the cunt’s face, pull my arm back, fist clenched by my waist, ready to curl the knuckles into his face. One punch and his nose is broken and his shirt stained. I ease back and Dave takes a swing. I move sideways and he carries past, kick his legs away so he goes down. The hate bubbles up, but I control myself. It’s hard to be honest, but I come through alright, turn and walk off. I can hear Dave as I go, mouthing off like he’s always done, ranting and raving. I’m better off on my own, making my own decisions. Always have been and always will. I feel good, coming out a winner.
I stop for some chips, the anger bubbling away as I wait for them to come out of the fryer. A couple argue over fish cakes or cod. They’re drunk and confused, start laughing at themselves when the drink clears and they see the answer. The bloke serving reaches for one fish cake and one strip of cod. The woman leans her head on the man’s shoulder. I go to the door and look down the street. It starts to rain and puddles quickly form. When my chips are ready I shake salt over the vinegar, go out into the rain and walk home. The chips taste like shit, but I eat them anyway. Dave’s a mug, but fuck him. Chris can fuck off as well. Fuck all these cunts who can’t move on. That’s the end of us three as far as I’m concerned. They’re people I used to know, and now they’re in the past. I’m a grown man with no job and no money, but what I do have is a fresh start. I don’t need those two. We’ve got nothing in common these days. Nothing at all.
DAYGLO
Slough, England Spring 2000
SITTING PRETTY
I bang on the pub window as I pass, Dave and Chris turning and taking a second to register, grinning back, Dave sticking up a single finger US-style, the bulldog two squeezed out. I go in and filter through the Friday night drinkers, a mass of shaved skulls and bleached blondes, running across the ages eighteen to forty-five, older grey-haired men stuck in the corner by the game machines. Dave leans forward and tries to smack my head as I pass, but I’m too quick and swerve left, leave the silly cunt flapping air as he tilts off balance and nearly tips over. Tricky’s grumbling away in the background, going on about standing in government lines, and I reckon I know what he means. His voice fills every corner of the pub, merging with the laughter, the deep thud of life away from the glossy advertising posters, free from the sugary lies of those party-political soundbites. I get served straight away, a non-Irish pint of Guinness poured in one go, the white cream backing up the glass, black base slowly rising, turning solid.
I’m gagging for a drink but wait till it settles, sip an inch of milk off the top. Beautiful. Nothing compares on a Friday night. Could be lager, could be stout. Doesn’t matter. I turn around and find myself face to face with Micky Todd, a well-respected member of our local free-enterprise culture, a man who samples his product before selling, thereby ensuring he supplies the best gear, eyes sharp, mind alert. He wonders if I got hold of those tickets we discussed, and I smile my best smile, dip in a pocket and pull out a plum, a long brown envelope with four seats for next month’s heavyweight bout at Wembley. Micky kisses the tickets, mentions gold dust and peels off the fifties. He thanks me for the friendly price and efficient service, taps me on the shoulder and says that if there’s anything he can do, anything at all, just let him know. Cheeky cunt. A businessman by any other name, he likes to play the gangster, and I’m not going to stand here and tell him he’s a tart, that I remember when he was a snotty-nosed little hooligan in cherry-red DMs and a cap-sleeve T-shirt, a cocky herbert running around bashing people up with a hammer. I’m attached to my kneecaps for a start, and anyway, there’s worse around.
It’s better dealing with people you know, earning a modest profit and keeping things tight, specially with the likes of Micky Todd who, with his brothers, runs a local security firm, at the same time dealing a selection of Class A drugs around the M25, in the boom towns and sprawl of Outer London and the Thames Valley, where the population is young and larey and looking for an edge, proving that only the fittest survive. After a brief chat he goes off to the bogs for a toot, and I take another inch off my drink, continue towards Dave and Chris. Two kids see their chance and step forward, all acne and one-colour tattoos. I pop their money in an outside pocket without counting the notes, pass them their blow and ask what they think of the track. They ease up and grin, say Tricky is one evil fucker, that he leaves the opposition standing. They fade away as I step forward, transferring the cash to an inside pocket where it’ll stay safe and sound.
–Fuck me, it’s Al Capone, Dave shouts, turning a couple of heads.
He’s got his arms wrapped around these two women who grin but don’t laugh, and they’ve got friendly faces and fit bodies, done up for their end-of-the-week drink, shopping-mall fashion and pale faces shown up by Dave’s tan and slicked-back hair, easygoing girls who want to love and be loved, not worry about the bigger issues clouding the horizon. I gulp my drink as Dave holds court, follow the easy flow of his humour, deflecting the needle and not letting him slip under my skin, the same game we’ve played since the day we met. Those late-night rows and broken bones are in the past, the battle more cunning these days, twice as deadly, a sign of the times. His energy carries him along and I watch as he races past at a hundred miles an hour and bangs his head into the nearest wall, pick him up and dust down his Stone Island. It’s obvious he’s been at the charlie.
–Seriously, girls, this is an old mate of mine, one of the best blokes you’ll ever meet. He’s a bit serious, bit of a wanker to be honest, the sort of man who sits around brooding when he should be out and about, a miserable cunt who needs to smile and leave all that state-of-the-nation bollocks to the professionals. Our betters know best.
The one with the short hair tells Dave not to be so rude. He apologises and wonders if she’s related to royalty, on day release from Windsor Castle maybe, on her way to Balmoral for tea with the Queen, stopping off for a quick drink with the plebs. He goes to pull her close, but she shakes off the arm wrapped around her back in one easy move. She sways her body, and I love the easy balance, the way she escapes without Dave seeing what’s happening, trying to keep things friendly but at the same time making her point. She’s wearing a half-cut top under
a PVC jacket, faded jeans that are loose around her legs. She’s a looker alright. Razor green eyes and tough features. She’s a bruiser who can look after herself, her lips thick and full of blood.
–My mate here, the one drinking the Paddy water, has got his own little record empire, haven’t you?
Dave doesn’t stop, keeps on going, banging away.
–This woman was saying there’s a lot of shit music around, and then you come strolling in.
Chris raises his eyes into his head, Dave gearing up for one of his coke-fuelled rants. Chris keeps quiet. Prefers the easy life. Sticking to the straight and narrow.
–While the rest of us are out doing a nine-to-five, this bloke is sniffing around in people’s lofts, standing in church halls dealing with dodgy men in plastic macs, selling them scratched wax. Don’t know how he survives. Don’t understand it at all. Must be something more to it. You don’t need a lot to live if you’re a single man.
You don’t have to have all the new gadgets. But Dave’s brain is racing, tongue sprinting to catch up. Walk into a pub sober and the last thing you need is someone done up like a clothes horse running off at the mouth, giving you grief in front of people you’ve never met before. I want to thump Dave and knock him out, but I don’t do that sort of thing.
