Death Of A Nobody

by Derek Farrell

  “Troy,” another diminutive server pushed himself forward. This one had the sort of eyebrows that suggest someone has drunk a bottle of gin without first locking up the tweezers. If Joan Crawford had been around (and I can almost imagine every Queen’s favourite (alleged) child abuser knocking back a few of Ali’s Absinthe Frappees at the bar) even she would have gone Too Much!

  The barely-extant eyebrows were either side of a nose that should have had a tattoo reading “Test Your Breaks” at the top of it. It jutted out from his suspiciously smooth skin before deciding, after a couple of centimetres to change direction downwards, lending it the air of the most treacherous black run in Switzerland.

  Troy was wearing a t-shirt stretched tight over heavily muscled shoulders and a chest that had to be at least a 36DD with the words “The Best Actor is…” emblazoned on it. There had, I figured, to be at least one…

  Mind you, at least Troy – for all his close-to-Vulcan eyebrows – had a handshake. It was firm and controlled, and accompanied by eye contact which, by the time he’d pumped my hand for the third time and stared in to my eyes, had progressed from reassuring to ever-so-slightly creepy.

  “Yes, thank you, dear,” Walker intoned, separating our hands and shooting a look at Troy, “We’ll call you.” He gestured at a specimen who, had he been any taller than five foot one, would have been described as Godlike. “The last one,” he said.

  “Can speak for himself.” This one stepped round Walker, made eye contact with me (which required him to tilt his head backwards, despite my being not exactly gigantic in stature). “Darryl O’ Carrol,” he said, in an accent that sang of Guinness, peat bogs and the lyricism of W.B. Yeats., the effect of which was somewhat ruined by the immediate creation, in my mind, of a mental picture of this bald, muscle bound midget dragged up as a comedy leprechaun.

  “I’m not really a waiter,” he confided, “I model. Mostly.”

  “When he’s not oversharing,” Walker muttered darkly.

  Darryl shot him the sort of look I imagine Darby O’Gill received every time he knocked over a pot of gold. “But it’s lovely to be here today,” he finished in a sing-song voice before (in my dream) leaping into the air and waving his shillelagh overhead.

  “Well,” I said, wondering how on earth I’d ended up with this mismatched set of waiters, “It’s, um, lovely to have you all here.”

  Darryl held up the garment bag at his side. “Anywhere we can change?”

  I directed them back to the bar and the gents loo, and, as they trooped out of the room, turned to Caz, who had taken the opportunity to fill two glasses with Gin and tonic.

  “Don’t worry, Mr Bird,” Walker paused in the door, “I run a tight ship. I’ll keep these three in line.” And with that, he was gone, leaving a sense of dourness mingling with the whiff of magnolia scented moisturiser that Filip had left on my hand.

  “Lord,” Caz dumped the gin in front of me and swallowed half of hers in one gulp. “Where the hell did you find those three?”

  “They were cheap, have their own penguin suits, and so long as they hand out the canapés on time and in silence, we’re going to be fine.”

  “Oh you sweet, deluded boy.” Caz smiled, ducking down to retrieve her ever-present litre of Tanqueray from her ever present Gladstone handbag before topping up her drink. “Those four hate each other. Or, to be more precise, three of those four hate the fourth, who seems to have decided he’s in charge. This is going to make Who’s afraid of Virginia Woolf look like Mary Poppins. You better just make sure the guests are half cut before the staff start offing each other with the fish knives.”

  “I’m not serving fish,” I said, as she slid the booze back into the bag, “And since when do you get topped up without topping me?”

  “Since you, my love, became chef in an all-in-wrestling themed Wake. You’re going to need sobriety – or as much as you’re likely to get while I’m around.”

  I recommenced hammering chicken breasts. “And that’s another thing,” I mused, “You’re in a pub. Why on earth do you persist in bringing your own booze?”

  “Because,” Caz answered, looking for a lemon to slice into her gin, failing to find it, and making do with a slice of cucumber pinched from one of my garnished platters, “At the prices you now charge, either I’d be bankrupt in a month if I was paying, or you’d be bankrupt if I wasn’t. Besides which, I’m not drinking anything that Oilcan Ali’s sourced. I’d be blind inside a week.”

  And with that proclamation, she toasted me. “Tempus fugit, sweetheart. Time you stopped banging your chicken and got on with the vol au vents.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Temperatures had – according to the radio in the corner – hit 30 degrees at lunchtime. In the kitchen, where trays of puff pastry vol-au-vents had been going in and out of the oven since mid-morning, the temperature had to be ten degrees higher.

  The pub regulars had been told we had an event on, and would be closed till the evening, so the bar itself was empty, which meant that most of the team migrated, at one point or another, to the kitchen, where they stood, sweating, complaining about the heat, and watching me cook.

  Dash was slumped in one of the kitchen chairs. On the opposite side of the table, a petite blonde, her hair a cloud of curls, was leaning half in and half out of a leather armchair that had been repurposed from an upstairs room. Held in her hand was a phone, and she stabbed spastically at the screen, attempting to crush an army of electronic cockroaches.

  “Dream on, loser,” she muttered, her sapphire blue eyes never leaving the screen before her.

  “You talkin’ to me?” Dash asked.

  “Well I don’t see no other losers in here,” she responded, tearing her eyes from the phone just long enough to cast a dismissive glance across the table. “An’ if you don’t stop staring at my tits, I’ll ‘ave my grandad on to you. Loser.”

  Dash blushed to his roots, and the blonde sniggered nastily. “Frightened?”

  “I wasn’t staring at them,” Dash muttered, desperately trying to find something believable in the room to focus on. “Anyways, I’ve seen better.”

  “I bet you ‘ave. On the internet. But this,” she stood up, arms spread wide in a display that made her already tight white t-shirt stretch further across her bosom, “Is real, loser. And you aint never getting’ near it. So, unless you want your bollocks hacked off with a fucking spoon, I’d avert your eyes.”

  “Avert?” Ali, a bottle of vodka in her hand, entered the room, stood just inside the door, and scowled at the blonde. “Such a posh word, for such a ropey little tart. She giving you any gyp?” This last addressed to me.

  I shook my head, and began piping guacamole into a tray of flaky pastry nibbles. “Not me,” I said, glancing at Dash, who remained embarrassed.

  “Listen, Elaine” Ali advanced on the blonde, who stared back defiantly. “Let’s get one thing straight,”

  Elaine snorted “Straight?”

  “Yeah,” Ali continued her progress until she was almost nose to nose with the girl. “Despite what you might think, you’re not wanted here. Danny doesn’t want you, Dash and Ray don’t want you, and Christ knows I don’t want you here.”

  “Feeling’s mutual.”

  “Yeah, I think we’d all gathered your feelings on the situation. But here’s the thing: You are here. Mainly cos your dear old psycho of a grandad wants you babysat and we’re the perfect mugs, cos this one,” (this, again, addressed to me, and accompanied by a gesture with the vodka bottle, though her eyes never left Elaine’s face) “Is too soft to tell the old bastard that we’re a pub not a crèche for lazy self-obsessed nasty little slags who think threatening kids is fun.”

  Elaine Falzone’s eyes blazed. “Did you just call my Nannu an Old Bastard?” she hissed?

  Ali brought the bottle up so that it rested under the perfect chin, and her nostrils flared. “Oh, love, I’ve called Chopper Falzone worse than that in my time. And I’ll call it him to his face if he ev
er shows it round me again. Yep,” she nodded as the sapphire blue eyes flickered in their certainty, “I know how it is. Round here, the threat of a visit from Chopper’s usually enough to get grown men wetting themselves. But guess what? I aint scared of him, and I aint scared of you, little girl. Now, unless you want me calling the old bastard an’ telling him, first, that you’re refusing to do the job you’re here to do, and second, what you’ve just threatened to do to this nice young man, you will shift your arse and get that bar stocked. Pronto.”

  Elaine’s face set into a mask of fury, and the standoff was maintained for several seconds before Ali stepped to one side, and, eyes never leaving Elaine’s, gestured towards the doorway.

  Elaine, head held high as though she were a duchess and Ali a nasty smell, wafted from the room, muttering, as she went, “Fuckin’ dyke!”

  I put the piping bag down, and began using a tweezers to place tiny, almost translucent slivers of pickled apricot on top of each guac-filled vol-au-vent.

  “And you,” Ali shook her head at Dash, “Need to stay away from that one. Keep your eyes in your head, your tongue in your mouth, and your cock in your pants. Or there will be trouble. Now,” before Dash could protest innocence, she gestured him, too, off, “You need to get changed, and help your brother stock up.

  Dash fled the room, and Ali turned to me. “You doin’ all that on your own?”

  I shrugged, reminding myself that I was, at least nominally, the boss here, and making a mental note to tell Ali – when she’d calmed down – not to call me a mug in front of the juniors.

  “Where’s that posh bint?”

  “The Posh Bint,” Caz announced, entering the kitchen, “Is behind you, sweetness. Daniel, dear heart: Allow me to help you.”

  Caz, her Armani ensemble completely encased in the sort of voluminous kitchen whites last seen in the nineteen hundreds, tottered over to the table, plonked her handbag on the floor, and commenced piping cream cheese into the recently hollowed out shells of what had been described as heritage dwarf tomatoes, but which Ali had described as “Under ripe cherries. They’ll all get the shits if they eat them.”

  Ali, her face suddenly transformed into a battle between composure and hysterical laughter, raised an eyebrow. “Well, if it isn’t the Michelin Woman. Nice of you to join us. Oh- ” her eyes strayed downwards, “You can not be serious.”

  “What?” Caz innocently enquired, as her own gaze travelled down to her feet, where the most exquisite pair of Louboutins shone like peacock feathers in a midden heap. “Too much?” She raised an eyebrow that said she knew exactly how fabulous the shoes were.

  “You’re gonna wear them in a kitchen? Have you ever heard of Health and Safety?”

  “Oh, let me think. Fortnum and Mason. Dolce and Gabanna. Shampoo and Conditioner. I’ve heard of those. Is Elf an Soifety a grime band?”

  “You can’t wear them in the kitchen,” Ali stalked over to her. “They’re a trip hazard. Sides: they’re gonna get destroyed if you get any grease on the suede.”

  Caz, recognising a fellow stilletophile, nodded approvingly. “You’re right,” she agreed.

  “I’ll get you some Crocs,” Ali said, eliciting a gasp of horror from Caz.

  “I’d rather die,” she said, slipping the shoes from her feet, and placing them on the table as she bent down to grab a pair of flats from the ostrich skin black hole that was her handbag.

  Now, it was Ali’s turn to shriek, as she leapt forward and snatched the shoes off the table. “New shoes. Table,” she gasped in horror.

  “Is this more health and safety?” Caz asked as she slipped the flats on.

  “I’ll put these somewhere safe,” Ali said, shaking her head in despair at Caz, who had already recommenced filling the tomatoes.

  “You know, Danny,” Caz murmured as Ali, still shaking her head, placed the shoes next to the dresser on the opposite side of the room, and left to supervise the bar staff, “I think she’s warming to me. I appear to have been promoted from a Posh Tart to a Bint. Progress, wouldn’t you say?”

  “She wants your shoes,” I said.

  “No, dear, they’re Louboutins; she wants my soles. But as anyone who knows me will tell her, that went long ago. Any sign of Dave, Dozy, Beaky and Titch?”

  “They’re prepping the buffet tables,” I answered.

  “So,” she said, putting the piping bag down, “And, en passant, life really is too short to stuff a tomato, dear heart; what are you going to do about young Mister Fisher?”

  “Do?”

  “You know: Don’t give me that innocent look. I’ve seen you looking at him like you’d quite happily jump him in the middle of the high street. Yet here we are, with you and he appearing – to these trained eyes, at least – to be drifting somewhat.”

  I was saved from having to respond by the arrival, at that moment, of one of the twins, resplendent now in a crisp white shirt, thin black tie, black trousers and the shiniest midnight black brogues ever seen.

  “’Ere, your ladyship,” he said, twirling slowly, “This is a proper bit of gear. I’ve never had couture before.”

  Caz sighed. “Couture should only ever be worn by the young and the beautiful,” she noted. “Sadly, it’s only normally purchased by the old and the toad-like.” She nodded appreciatively. “It looks wonderful, Dash. Just don’t spill anything on it. Domenico wants it back in time for Milan, and a crotch smeared in cream cheese is not the look he’s going for this year.”

  “I’m Ray,” Ray smiled, and Caz blushed.

  “And I’m mortified, dear boy,” she apologised. “But in those outfits you both look so alike.”

  “We look alike out of them, Caz” the boy laughed, “We’re identical twins.”

  “Identical in every way?” Caz flirted, and Ray, flirting back, twitched his eyebrows.

  “That’s for us to know. Right: what needs doing?”

  “Here,” Caz gestured at the tray of tomatoes, “You could get them inside.”

  Ray hefted the tray, nodded his head at Caz, clicked his heels “Bien sur, m’lady,” he said, and was gone.

  “Did he just speak French?” I was flabbergasted.

  “Juste un petit mot,” Caz – who, in preparation for an upcoming vacation to Nice, had taken to playing Berlitz French language and Edith Piaf CDs at every opportunity – shrugged.

  At that point, the waiters trouped into the room, and the temperature dropped to almost freezing.

  Clearly, something had happened in the bar, as the three younger members of what I was still mentally referring to as “The team” were clustered together shooting daggers looks at the sombre figure of Dave Walker.

  Troy, in a voice that was clearly intended to carry, offered his opinion to the other two: “Course, you can’t really call yourself an actor when you haven’t acted since Thatcher was in power. I mean: what you are then is less an actor, more a has-been.”

  This was all said whilst staring directly at Walker, who displayed no emotion as he crossed to me. “Mr Bird. We await your orders,” he intoned in the voice I imagine Lurch from the Addams family would use to advise that dinner was served.

  “Oh,” I was flustered, as the phrase “Mr Bird” usually referred to my father, and, on those occasions when it referred to me, had been said by coppers or bailiffs. “This lot,” I gestured at the huge wooden kitchen table, now covered in platters of food, “Need arranging. Caz, can you go with the guys and let them know what goes where?”

  Caz raised an eyebrow at me as if to say I’m supervising staff?

  Walker lifted the first platter up, held it high overhead, and, as he passed Troy, said “I’m assuming your theatrical experience is limited to Panto.” He paused, running his eyes over the diminutive trio, “You know: along with your six mates.”

  “Fuck you, granddad,” Troy snarled back. “I’m Shakespearean. I toured in Midsummers Dream,” he announced, managing to mangle the name of the play he’d presumably performed eight times a week. �
�They loved my Bottom in Blackpool.”

  “I stand corrected,” Walker murmured, as he left the room.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Left alone momentarily, the rest of the waiters having grabbed trays and minced off to arrange them in the bar, I had time to think about the situation between Ali and Elaine, and I was worried.

  Here’s the scoop: Once upon a time, I had (I had thought) it all: I was a correspondence co-ordination executive (alright: mailroom boy) for a popular fashion magazine, happily (I thought) partnered with Robert, a lawyer in the city whose annual income was the same as mine, only with two more zeroes added to it, and I was living the dream (though not, as it had turned out my dream).

  Then, one day, I had lost it all: the job “Downsized,” ( a bullshit phrase, meaning “Fired all the little people so the big people could be seen to be doing something to justify their obscene salaries, whilst saving – in the grand scheme of things – a pittance”) and, on arriving home, I’d discovered the love of my life in bed with the window cleaner (which was apt, as there was definitely some polishing going on when I’d walked in).

  And so, with no home, no job, and no money, I’d ended up living at my parents, sleeping in the bunk bed I’d slept in as a kid, surrounded by my vintage Kylie posters and wondering what the fuck I was gonna do.

  Till I walked in to The Marquess of Queensbury public house, noted that they were looking for a new manager, overlooked the fact that the place was not so much a Gin Palace as a Hooch Hovel, and applied for the job.

  Which I’d promptly got.

  At which point, several facts became obvious: The full extent of my experience in the licenced victual trade had been standing on the other side of the bar ordering drinks. I had no idea what I was doing. And I was actually working for one of South London’s most notorious gangsters, one Martin “Chopper” Falzone.

  Falzone owned pubs, shebeens, chop shops knocking shops, and one fully functioning Pound shop rumoured to be the site of several ‘disappearances’ over the years, which was believable as there was so much tat in the place you could have leaned Jack Hat McVitie in amongst the discount brooms and nobody would ever have found him.