Death Of A Nobody

by Derek Farrell

  “So are we,” I said, and she waved the fact aside as thought that were always a foregone conclusion.

  “So what are you going to do tonight?” Mike asked. “You want to come out for a drink? Get over all this?”

  I glanced at what had to be half a litre of gin in a glass before me, and shook my head. “Thanks for the offer, Mike.” I closed my eyes, saw Jane's feet – one still wearing a Birkenstock, the other showing toenails painted a surprising canary yellow, which contrasted ghoulishly with the purple toes - recalled thinking She’s taller than I remembered, and shivered.

  “It’s thrown me a bit.”

  And the sound of Jane’s voice You come anywhere near me, and I’ll sing like a canary, rang around my head. She wouldn’t be singing now. Or ever.

  Despite the heat, I shivered. This was no suicide. Someone had shut her up.

  Caz threw a concerned glance at me, and said “D’you want me to stop over.”

  I smiled bravely – I hoped bravely, though I knew she’d see through me – and waved the offer aside. “To be honest, I think I’m gonna get my dad to pick me up. Might stay over at my parents for a couple of days. And Caz, about the other night.”

  “You’re an old fashioned boy, Mr Bird,” she said, swigging from her glass, “Which is one of the things I love most about you. But we’re not all that old fashioned; or that principled. So next time you want to get all Mother Superior on me: Don’t, and we’ll be fine. Agreed?”

  I held the glass up in toast. “Agreed.”

  “So,” she asked, having swigged from hers, “Now that you and PC69 are talking again, when are you going to discuss the whole, y’know Mrs PC69 situation?”

  “Now who’s getting all Mother Superior?” I asked.

  “The difference,” she answered, looking to Mike Green for backup, “Is that you, my dear sweet, old fashioned little gay, need mother superioring. Now, call him. Agreed?”

  I shrugged assent, and toasted the two. “Thanks for coming round,” I said.

  “Hey,” Mike smiled back, “That’s what friends do.”

  “And besides,” Caz said, “When I saw the Standard review of last night’s Fiasco Di Paella, I knew I had to rescue you before that bar manager of yours has claimed my crown as the best PR woman in London.”

  Mike’s jaw dropped. “The Standard reviewed you?”

  “I know,” I grinned at him, and recited from memory: “Five Stars, a proper old fashioned boozer with surreal humour, efficient (and cute) staff, happy patrons and tapas to die for. Tapas to die for,” I repeated, smiling at Caz. “That’s my food, that is.”

  Mike shook his head. “How long have you had this talent? You know,” he clarified to my puzzled look: “The ability to fall into a vat of shit and still smell of roses.”

  “Since he met me,” Caz replied, tilting her head as though awaiting the pop of flash bulbs, “And that’s not the smell of roses, dear boy: That’s Chanel.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  It was the smell that roused me.

  I was dreaming of Jane Barton and Dave Walker when I smelled burning.

  The burning wouldn’t have registered a moment earlier, when Jane Barton, her face still lividly bulging, and Dave Walker, gore still oozing down the back of his shirt, had been sat in straight backed chairs, silent, unmoving, and staring at me in an accusatory way, as though saying: Come on, then. Sort it out. But the scent hit my nostrils as the dream morphed into something else; something that vanished almost as soon as the scent registered.

  And I woke up.

  Silence. In my room, at least. Beyond my room, out past the cracked-open window and the fluttering curtains, was a distant police siren, wailing into the night, the constant low hum of the city, and the sounds of a struggle, a strangled cry, and of glass bottles being kicked around.

  And then, above it all, there was the smell of burning.

  A smell that seemed too close for comfort. And, accompanying it, there was the sound of crackling, as of wood splitting.

  Underneath me.

  I threw the sheets off me, and dashed across the bedroom to the landing.

  Out here, the smell was stronger, and I could see smoke. Not the thick billowing kind, but enough to tell me that the pub was on fire.

  I took the stairs two or three at a time, more throwing myself down them than running, and, at the bottom of the stairs, I stopped dead.

  The entire back door was aflame.

  I looked behind me, down the hallway to the bar, which seemed dark and still. The fire, for now, seemed localised, but it was already spreading, the flames reaching up to the ceiling , and outwards to scorch the walls on either side of the door.

  Behind me, lined up against the wall, were three newly delivered beer barrels, and above them, fixed to the wall, was the phone. I dialled 999, and told the operator what was happening. They told me the fire brigade was on the way, and advised me to leave the pub via the front door and under no circumstances to tackle the blaze.

  I hung up, and eyed the silent bar behind me.

  I could be out of here in a minute, but that fire was spreading. And fire is unpredictable. How long would it take the fire brigade to get here? Ten minutes? Twenty?

  In five, it would have caught the ceiling or the wallpaper, and would spread down the hall. I had to put this fire out, or at least stop it from spreading. But how?

  As I was watching, waiting for the ceiling to catch fire, the flames caught the doormat just inside the door, and that, rather than the ceiling or walls, suddenly burst into flame, adding another incendiary layer to the conflagration.

  I ran to the bar, grabbing the ice bucket, knowing that the contents of an ice bucket would be unlikely to quench this blaze, but feeling I needed to try something. I needn’t have bothered: Ali had efficiently emptied every ice bucket after closing. Likewise, most of the shelves were emptied, waiting to be restocked the next morning.

  I ran back to the hallway, where now the doormat was blazing away, threatening the carpet around it.

  I loved Ancient History at school, and particularly the Ancient Romans, and I remembered that, when a fire broke out in Ancient Rome, because everything was so closely packed together, so wooden, and so dry, it was almost certain that the whole city would go up, if you didn’t create a fire break.

  And sometimes, whole houses or blocks of houses would be simply torn down so that the fire could not catch them, and the spread could be limited.

  What I needed, right now, was a fire break. I needed something to move this fire away from the door that was, by now, cracking and splintering,, tiny flickers of black ash floating down the hallway towards me.

  Which was when I realised that I was choking on smoke.

  I ran back, again, to the bar, still desperately grasping for a way to move this fire away.

  When it hit me.

  Or, rather, I stumbled over it.

  In the dark, and the smoke, I walked into one of the barrels, stubbing my toe so badly that the pain had colour and light.

  When I’d finished suggesting the heavy metal barrel had Oedipal tastes, I realised that it might actually be my way to break the flames.

  I was a weedy kid at school, not one of those ones who was always sick, or who was always picked on, but just one of those who wasn’t very sporty, and would be second division material for the bullies.

  Then puberty hit, and it was obvious that I wasn’t, shall we say, as other boys. Suddenly, the bullying stepped up a notch, and almost every day I was either handing over my lunch money to one bully or having (and losing) a fight with another (usually because I’d already given my lunch money away to the first one, and thus the second had – as a matter of honour – to beat me up, since what was the point of being a bully if the money was already gone; beating me up became, at that point, almost a consolation prize).

  So my brother Paddy, who was a year above me in school, finally had a word with me, and took me to the local boxing gym.

 
; “I don’t like sports,” I’d whined. “And I don't like boxing.”

  “Yeah? Well I don’t like being the laughing stock of the school cos my pansy brother would rather get his head kicked in than throw a punch, so you can shut the fuck up and start fighting, or I’ll pop round when Whistler Moore’s finished pulping you and have a go myself.

  “Listen,” he put his arm around my shoulder, “You’re my brother, and always will be. And I love you, no matter what happens. Cos you’re a good kid, Dan; but,” he said, adopting the world weary tone that only a brother 18 months older than you can, “the world is full of fuckers who make Whistler Moore look like a Balla-fuckin-rina. And if you don’t learn to fight them, you’ll be unhappy for a lot of your life, and frightened for the rest of it.

  “So: You wanna learn to box?”

  “I’m gonna tell mum you said ‘Fuck,’” I smirked back.

  “Yeah?” He grinned, playfully twisting my arm behind my back, “Well you’d better do that after you’ve learned to fight me off, cos if you dob me in, I’ll beat the living shit out of you!”

  So, that summer, I learned to box, at Flatface MacKenzies ‘Boxing Gymnasium’ off the Old Kent Road, and within a week of my return to school, I’d been suspended for punching Whistler Moore so hard I broke his nose.

  My mother was mortified, the other school bullies were mollified, and Paddy gave me all his comics and sweets for a week, though whether that was because he was proud of me, or because he was afraid I’d tell my mum of his part in my disgrace was – and remains – a mystery.

  Flatface MacKenzie had a pretty Spartan setup in what was basically a disused warehouse, but one of the exercises he particularly liked was designed to build shoulder strength, leg stamina, and to work the lower back. It basically consisted of lifting a bag of cement, and throwing it as hard as you possibly could – whilst still retaining your balance – across the room.

  Or, at least, it started as a bag of cement, but it ended, as I remembered now, by lifting a beer barrel, and hurling it.

  I judged that the door had to be structurally compromised by now, and figured that, if I hit it just right, it should smash outwards, taking (hopefully) the majority of the flames with it.

  Of course, there was always the risk that there might be some sort of blowback that would throw the flames back into the hall, and possibly right into my face.

  But it was a chance I’d have to take.

  I planted my feet firmly on the carpeted floor, lifted the first barrel overhead, tilted backwards slightly, remembering that the power here came from the shoulders throwing the barrel, rather than from trying to swing it back (which would more than likely make me lose control and throw my back out to boot), but it had been ages since I’d done anything like this, and I wasn’t sure if it would work.

  It didn’t. The barrel arced through the air, hit the door, with the distinct sound of splintering wood, and bounced back into the hall, drawing with it a shower of sparks that scattered across the carpet and threatened to ignite.

  Undeterred, I lifted the second barrel, steadied myself, felt my legs complain at the weight, took a deep breath, flexed by shoulders, and hurled the thing, full force, at the dead centre of the door.

  The impact was loud and solid, and the door – already fatally compromised by the fire – flew off what was left of its hinges and into the alleyway outside.

  At that exact moment, the first barrel made a strange sighing noise, which quickly became a hissing, and then there was an explosive bang as the valve, damaged, no doubt, by the impact and the heat, opened, showering 60 pints of beer up and outwards, the impact making the barrel spin so that it became a sprinkler system dousing the remaining flames in IPA, the beer caramelising as it turned to steam, so that, by the time the fire brigade arrived to put out the still flaming door in the back alley, the first man on the scene sniffed the air in the hallway and said “Phew! Smells like a brewery in ‘ere!”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  “Here. For the shock.” Caz handed me what looked suspiciously like a champagne cocktail. “What? I put two spoonsful of sugar in it.” She toasted me, and downed half of hers in one slug, before sliding another cocktail towards Ali, who sat, more miserable than normal (if that was even possible) beside me at the kitchen table.

  “Who’d want to burn this dump down?” Ali asked, sniffing suspiciously at the glass, before sipping, raising an appreciative eyebrow, and sipping again, “I mean, it’s Chopper’s pub. Whoever did this was signing their own death warrant when he finds them.”

  “If he finds bothers looking for them,” I said, swigging from the flute before me.

  “Oh, he’ll look for them,” Ali stated, “And when he finds them,” she drew her finger across her throat in the style of a Hollywood Mafiosi.

  “Right,” Dash came into the kitchen, “That geezer’s finished with the door. It aint pretty, but it’ll hold up if anyone tries to get in.”

  “Cheers, Dash,” I said, “She in yet?”

  Dash looked sheepish. “Not yet, but the tubes are a mess.”

  “She?” Caz asked.

  I sighed. “That’s what I meant about if Chopper looks for the burner,” I said, glancing at Ali. “I heard a female voice last night, in the middle of all the chaos. A sort of squawk. It was Elaine.”

  Ali’s face dropped. “You think Elaine torched the pub? Why would she do that?”

  “Well, she’s hardly been a fan – of me, or of the place – this past few weeks.”

  “But she’d perked up,” Ali protested. “She even put the rubbish out.”

  “’Ere, mate,” a stranger’s voice echoed from the hallway, and Dash turned aside as the door fitter entered, a litre of Vodka in his hand, “You throwin’ the stuff away these days?” He asked, jokingly, “Only, if you don’t want this, can I take it off your hands?”

  Ali leapt to her feet, swiping the Smirnoff from his grip. “Where’d you get that?” She demanded.

  He shrugged, seemingly unconcerned that the trophy wasn’t his anymore. “Was in an open bin bag out the back. I was movin’ them round to tidy up, and it fell out.”

  Ali looked at me. “She was putting the bins out.”

  “Walker was right,” I said: “she was shorting punters on doubles. Till she’d shorted enough to cover a bottle, then, when she swiped it, your stock control wouldn’t show it up.”

  Ali’s eyes glinted the way, I suspect, those of a mongoose do when faced with a Cobra whose been masquerading as Trainee Barmaid of the Year. “The mardy little tart!” She hissed. “I’ll fucking string her up!”

  “This aint right,” Dash protested, “She was settling in.”

  “Oh grow up, you dappy twat,” Ali turned on him, “She was playing you as much as she was playing me.”

  “No,” Dash – the picture of young love desperately seeking reciprocation – protested. “If she was swiping vodka, then fair enough: I get it. It’s part of her nature. But why’s it still here? I mean, if she came round to get her booze, why torch the pub?”

  “He’s right,” I agreed. “And, having torched the place, why leave her bottle behind?”

  “Maybe she only meant to light a small fire,” Dash offered.

  “What? Just half burn the fucking joint down?” Ali snapped back.

  “It might have got out of hand, and then she didn't know what to do.”

  “I got a suggestion,” Ali drained her champagne flute and accepted a refill from Caz. “She cudda called the Fucking fire brigade. Or done a Joan of Arc an’ flung her worthless arse on the flames.” Her cheeks flamed, though whether from the fizz or the fact that she'd been betrayed by the girl who, only the night before, she'd been asking me to reward, was hard to tell.

  “I never thought I'd say this,” Caz replied, “but she's got a point.” She toasted Ali, who, confused by what seemed to be an entente between her and Lady Muck, finally, and with an air of suspicion toasted her back.

  “So how do we find ou
t what happened?” Dash asked. “”How do we find out where she is?”

  “There’s only one thing for it,” Caz offered: “call her. Or her parents. Find out why she's not turned up for work this morning.”

  I had a better idea.

  The phone only rang twice before Chopper picked it up. “Danny,” he sounded almost avuncular, this man who – the Sunday papers would have us believe – once disposed of a rival gangster by having him crushed alive inside a Vauxhall Viva at a scrap deposit in Dagenham.

  “Great to hear from you. How's my little princess doing?”

  “Um,” I looked across the table where Ali, Dash and Caz- the latter quietly mixing another batch of Champagne cocktails – stared back at me. “Elaine’s, um…”

  Elaine’s what? Gone berserk with petrol and rags? Not quite over her juvenile alcoholic phase? So fucking deranged she makes you look like a Benedictine monk?

  “She's fine,” I said. “Doing fine.”

  “Oh, so you've heard from her, then,” he asked.

  “Heard from her?” Shit. Was I not supposed to have heard from her?

  “Listen,” he carried on, as though he'd not even been expecting an answer. “Wanted to thank you for arranging this training course. When she called last night and said she'd be away a few days, I'll admit I was a bit iffy.” He chuckled; the sound of a man imagining how long it'd take for a Nissan Micra to be pulverised with me inside it.

  “Funny really, innit, the idea of me being worried. I mean, if you believed the papers I'm Genghis Khan crossed with Al Capone. But Lainey means the world to me. Rest of the family's not up to much, but that little girl… You know what she is?”

  Psychotic, I wanted to say, but instead, I kept silent, figuring he hadn't quite finished his monologue.