by David Louden
6
I WAS FOURTEEN years old and pulling in more money on a weekly basis than anyone in the neighbourhood. It would be the most financially prosperous period of my life. I’d never have that much income in my pocket; it’s depressing to think you’ve peaked before your balls have even fully dropped.
By the end of the first week I was able to slip three hundred into the old lady’s bank account. It was the walk-in days of banking so she never really knew what she had tucked aside she’d just spend until it ran out and then borrow against the strength of what was coming to her. She didn’t have to do that for quite some time and all for the price of a couple of sandwiches though I found potatoes worked best.
I was doing my usual pre-race walk with the hounds when I got the feeling I was being watched. There was never anything that screamed sting just a general feeling in my gut and I was making too much green to take a risk so I let the four main races that day pass, placed short bets and lost honest. The next day I played it straight too, I walked the dogs, set them up in the kennel and went about my business when I heard some kind of grumbling coming from one of the pens. Peering over the half door I was confronted with one of the other workers on his knees wanking off the 2 to 1 favourite.
“You making a movie there or is this just for fun?”
“Shit.” he froze solid for a moment, so instant he still had the dog’s cock in his hand.
“I ain’t too sure what’s going down buddy but if you’re slinging that slop for pups you need to find a second job.”
“I’m not milking them off. Doug, can you keep a secret?”
“Is it a romantic secret?”
“Fuck you.”
“Not ‘til you wash your hands.”
“I’m knackering them out, it’ll slow him down.”
“Are you fixing the race?”
“Yeah, I figure I do this to five of them, stick a few on the sixth and…”
“You doing this long? You look like you’ve been working out.”
“You keep it quiet and I’ll cut you in.”
“I’m sure it’s a swell way of making money hand over fist but I’m good, just buy yourself a pair of fucking gloves or something.”
It wasn’t much of a wonder they were sniffing around the kennels. They had me wining and dining the pooches before Gary hand-fucked them until they were good for nothing but rolling over, farting and going to sleep. That week was a write-off; I made my basic money, ran my bets for the old timers and tried to stay away from any kennel that sounded like the animal had a Thai masseuse in with them. I had tucked away enough money to buy myself a new typer; this time it was a laptop – pretty basic but it was all mine and tech was more expensive then. It was heavy as a pavement slab and the battery got so hot you could cook a chicken breast on it but I paid for it outright and sneaked it into the house one night just before dinner. The week before going back to school I gave Mum £100 and told her I got an employee bonus and wanted to buy our school uniforms with it. She was fit to burst and we all got new threads for the start of the school year, it was aces. I also hooked myself up with a cellular phone, the first in the school, all the school including the god-damn teachers.
“How’d that little fuck afford a mobile phone?” I heard Peacock say as I strutted my way down the hall but the money was slipping away faster than I could bring it in. Gary was still jacking the racers, the track owners where certain someone was playing funny buggers with the form and Gary wasn’t smart enough to control himself and work the odd race. In one night I counted twenty dogs, all wanked-off, all lazy from the big O he brought them to.
I stood at the back of the kennels supping down a cigarette when I overheard the track owner talking about bringing in the cops and after that fitting the place out with new cameras to cover everywhere.
“Someone is fucking with these dogs.” he didn’t know how right he was.
“We bring the cops in here Mike and we’ll never pull another race, that’s us over. People get to thinking the deck is rigged and we’ll be the fucking ones running out on the god-damn track.” said his associate.
“What are the options?”
“I know a guy you might want to talk to.” I said before I could even think about whether I meant it.
The pair looked at me. Who was this little prick, smoking down Marlboro and interrupting their business meetings? Mike stomped out his cigarette blowing smoke as he crossed the sawdust covered pen.
“What’s your name kid?”
“Doug Morgan.”
“I’m Mike Thompson, I own this fucking haemorrhaging hole. You know something I ought?”
“Before I say anything, Mike is it? First I ain’t no snitch, but there’s a guy by the name of Gary and if you go have a word with him now it’ll be a couple of words and the problem might stop but if you bum me another cigarette and go see him in ten minutes you’ll see for yourself and it’ll be problem solved.”
“Ten minutes…problem solved,” he repeated, handing me a cancer stick “what’s second?”
“Sorry?”
“You said first, there must be a second.”
“Oh shit to-the-yeah, second is I am not involved in anything Gary’s got going on. I saw him at it the other day didn’t know what to make of it then didn’t really know how to bring the matter up…just remember that.”
I was by the main entrance fifteen minutes later when the track security perp-walked Gary out the doors and bounced his loving palms down all five steps.
“I ever see you round here again muthafucka and I’ll cut those fucking hands off!” warned Mike.
Gary threw me a look; he was an older guy – older than me anyway. I figured him for a guy with a family and mouths to feed but didn’t we all. I felt a tinge of guilt about him, it stung like a bee but fuck him, if he had to turn tricks to make a living he may as well work-it down by the Albert clock. At least that gig was honest and you got a fuck you could look in the eye once you got off.
I made my way back to the kennel for the last weigh in. Mike was there supervising, he’d get hands on for a few weeks but eventually would ease back into his ghost-like role as owner/manager.
“You work here long kid?”
“This summer, I’m back to school now so daytime is out of the question but I can still do weekends…maybe the odd Thursday night.”
“Well whenever you’re on I want you in charge of the animals. You’re the new head honcho when it comes to the kennels, I’ve spoken to the kennel master and he agrees.”
I was stoked. Not only did the ‘end of lays’ mean I could get back to proper earning but I was now in charge of all the dogs pre-race; I had free reign and the pups were now safe from the Belfast Stroker. The last race of the night I played straight, I didn’t need to but it felt like the right thing to do. The Morgan’s were getting financially comfortable and I had enough set aside for a banjo.
7
DANI McCORMACK took over from Georgia Cline in the Geography department and was the new head of English Literature. Cline had a mental breakdown the year before thanks to a mouthy fourth year who claimed to see a dildo in her desk drawer and that when he mentioned it to her she chased him around the room trying to fuck him with it. We all knew the story was full of shit; we all knew what he was like. He was the kind of kid who’d claim to have fucked your girlfriend and would lay it down with enough conviction that you’d thump the wall and call that innocent little girl a whore that wasn’t worth knowing. I was on my way back from the can to French class when Dani ran by, hands to her face, eyes submerged in salty tears. From her class I could hear the chant get your tits out, get your tits out, get your tits out for the lads!
I turned and went after her, it was only week one and those fucking savages had already reduced a perfectly good educator to tears. I caught up with her at the stairwell. She’d turn and give me her back, pointing those dangerous curves at me while her shoulders shook.
“You ok Miss?”
> “I’m fine,” she managed between sobs “shouldn’t you be in class?”
“It’s French, they’ve been practicing the same god-damn verbs the last three months of last year and the two classes we’ve had so far. Baigner and Bavarder can keep.”
“You say that now,” she said wiping her face “but when you’re looking to casually run yourself a bath you’ll regret this moment.”
“That’s funny. O’Reilly hired him a funny teacher, but Baigner’s to bathe someone else.” I don’t know why I mentioned that but the idea excited me.
She’d wipe her eyes again and turn to face me, all eyes and mascara.
“How’s my make-up?”
“Did you look like Gene Simmons when you drove in today?”
“Fuck.”
“So, are you ok?”
“Oh I’m fine, those…those fucking kids!”
“Don’t let those dense pricks get to you. They smell the new off you and they’re trying to break you because the rest of the great minds in this place are mean-spirited bastards who don’t have much left to break.”
“I just never expected to be treated like that.”
“What can I say, they’re assholes but they’re insecure little assholes. The big ginger one shat himself during PE two years ago and the lanky goofball at the front we give him shit about his sister being his ma and he can’t stand it.”
She’d smile and ask “Is his sister really his ma?”
“Who the fuck knows, all we know is that the dickhead can’t stand it and it will shut him up if you give him some grief about it. Don’t let those pricks get to you Miss.”
Dani rubbed my arm.
“Thanks…Doug right?”
“That’s me.”
“You’ll be in my creative writing class, right?”
“No, I don’t think so Miss.”
“No, you will.”
“You got the wrong guy.”
“I’ve seen you with your books hanging out of your pocket and I’ve read through some of the stuff you submitted last year. It’s got promise, you need to focus and give it some direction but it’s good.”
“I’m not one for artsy-fartsy shit. I got a job, I do a spot of writing at home. It’s just for me and I’m happy with that.”
“And what good is it if nobody ever reads it? How will you ever get any better?”
I could see the checkmate pasted all over that angelic face.
“So I’ll see you in my class, right?!”
“Maybe…we’ll see. You make that ginger cry and you got yourself a deal.”
She shook my hand and marched back down the darkened corridor, determined. Her hips more forceful than hypnotic. I’d glide along behind her, I wanted to see this – to see her stronger than she was. I’d cling to the corner of the door as she slammed her hand down on the desk.
“Right!”
Get your tits out, get your tits out…
“That’s no way to speak to a lady, let alone your teacher so shut your god-damn traps or I’ll be getting mothers on the phone…sisters too maybe. Anyone got a sister who’d be interested in have a parental meeting?”
Laughter exploded killing the chant.
“Ah wise Johnny she’s talking about your ma!”
“Your ma’s Sabrina, Johnny!”
“Sabrina the teenage mum!”
“Miss, his dad’s the priest, Miss.”
“All of you shut up. There’s a lesson plan I generously cultivated for you and you’re not going to enlighten yourselves. First mouth open starting from now better be catching flies or cooling soup otherwise it’s a month’s detention.”
The strict side wowed me even more than I knew possible, I wanted to watch forever, to soak up as much of her aura as I could take without getting drunk and shepherd it back home to the typer. I’d get back to class right in time for the latest recap on what we were doing, why French conjunctive verbs were important, and the best way to learn them. I prayed they were testing her will; I couldn’t deal with being surrounded in a never ending hell circle if it wasn’t at least for kicks.
I was walking to work at the end of the school day when I got a blast of the horn from a Volkswagen Beetle and a wave from the passenger seat; it took me a moment to realise it was Miss McCormack; the smile was back on that face and the make-up had managed to heal itself. As I reached the turn off that would lead down the leaf carpeted drive to the steps of the track I dropped into a corner shop and stocked up on pre-packed sandwiches. When I got into the sawdust covered kennels that familiar scent of animal hit my nostrils and I saw the now painfully familiar sight of my new best friend Mike. He’d been there first thing without fail every shift meaning I was never able to fix-up the first race of the evening,
“We’re dropping a race tonight kid.” he said.
“Oh yeah how come? Captain Longstroke get at the canines again?”
“We lost two from the first race and three from the second so we’re going to work the seventh trap and merge the two together, ok?”
“Sure thing boss, point me in the direction of the athletes and I’ll get them round the track.”
I watched the board religiously before I took the dogs around the course; merging the two races would play havoc with the odds. One of the favourites would have to lengthen and there’d be one hell of an outsider in the pack. Naturally that would be the dog you’d be tempted to lay down on; after all 33 to 1 is one hell of a temptation when you know the little rascal is going to come home for you but it was flashy and exactly what I didn’t need. The favourite for the second race was Carl’s Boy he was 2 to 1 on but was coming in at 4 to 1 now on account of The Lexington Charm whose paws seemed to chew up this course every time he rang. 4 to 1 was tasty enough for me, a £10 bet would pocket me an easy score that wouldn’t be too out of the ordinary to attract suspicion.
I slipped away just before the race started, ducking my regulars in order to make it to the booth on time and put down.
“Carl’s Boy to win!”
“You’re pretty lucky kid.” stated the teller.
“I wish Brian, I haven’t played a winner since working here. Anything I lay down belongs to those old coffin dodgers.” I replied pointing generally over my shoulder.
“Here’s you docket.”
The bell rang, the dogs ran and I made sure to claim it from one of the clerks further away from the kennel. I played the last race too, £15 on a 13 to 2 and lost. It was the first flaw I’d discovered in my system and left me thinking for most of the following day at school.
8
WHEN I TURNED fifteen my mum started giving me money for my birthday; “you’re a man now,” she’d say “you should be able to buy yourself the things you want in life.” One of the guys in my class got the same speech from his mum, he spent most of his money on pornography and diet pills which he sold as ecstasy, Ruth had it easy. I hadn’t seen my dad or even thought of him in a while. A while can be a lifetime when you’re that age. I certainly hadn’t mentioned him since Mum and I had that talk and I scored him out of my life like a bad debt. In my formative teenage years I had settled upon wanting a banjo; I had known my old man was quite good on the thing and I wanted one of my own – maybe I was curious to see if anything had rubbed off.
Joe Clegg was my best friend back then; a stocky little kid with a boxer’s nose and a flat head. He had put forward a proposal that I spend my birthday money on a case of Harp, but I resisted the urge to make my friends happy and pushed forward with the idea of owning my very own banjo. My dad had promised me his but I was pretty sure by this stage that he had forgotten that blood oath. I stayed in on Friday night, the first since I was allowed out after a certain hour and instantly regretted it as I was bombarded with question after question about my motives behind a quiet night-in. Had I fallen out with my friends? Were they off somewhere without me? Had they left me out? Was I feeling ok? Was it a girl? Are you seeing a girl? Is fifteen too young for a proper girlfriend? Ch
rist. All I wanted was to say that I was staying in so I could buy a banjo the next day and didn’t end up pissing my money up against a wall just to shut Joe up, but I didn’t. Mum wasn’t a fan of the hooch and after the ass pounding I had taken thanks to the Russian fire water I had learned the importance of being a secret drinker.
I slept in. I slept in every Saturday morning because I could and because I usually sat up watching Japanese pink movies and whatever risqué Exploitation offerings I could get pre-internet. The night before had been a marathon double bill of Kung-Fu Cannibals and The Crippled Masters. I caught the first bus that came along the Oldpark Road and rode it as far as North Street. There was a music store across the street from the Art College near St. Anne’s Cathedral which was the best place to start my search. I had no idea what I was looking for and was almost thankful when I realized this pokey little emporium on the bottom level of old newspaper printer didn’t stock banjos.
“So what should I ask at the next one?” I quizzed the weekend worker.
The only other store I knew of was by City Hall at the end of Royal Avenue, which was a straight five minute walk from where I was and though it had changed hands over the years since the old man dragged us there it had never changed. Belfast, for all it’s worth, was and is little more than a village with tall buildings. The store was now called Music City, wall-to-wall guitars with a small corner populated with banjos by the stairs that would lead up to percussion instruments and kids with undiagnosed anger management issues. I had wanted a five string, I wanted to play bluegrass and move into a Hixploitation movie and live off the land but they didn’t stock the American stuff. I finally found an Irish traditional four string banjo that had been custom made (for a client who had never called to collect it) just sitting at the back of the store. I bought it and two packs of extra strings without giving a second thought to the fact that I knew shit squared about banjos, playing, tuning or reading music. Even with the money I had tucked away from the track it cleaned me out. The joy carried me out of the store across the road and towards the back of Castlecourt shopping mall which now sat in the heart of the city and the black taxi depot that would take me home cheaper than a bus. I past Copperfield’s Bar which sat on the corner and would funnel me out on to the narrows of Castle street and for a moment thought the sound was in my head, it was only when I realized I didn’t know the tune that I realized a banjo was being played. In years to come I’d busk in the same spot whenever I was a little short on play money or rent, on this occasion the spot was taken up by Jack.
