“Nobody catches Spring Heel Jack!” the figure suddenly screamed, the deep, low voice almost seeming to shake the ground. Then there was a burst of flames at its feet and the figure suddenly shot high into the air like a bloody rocket. I reckon it must be a good sixty foot up to the top of the building but the figure managed it easily, nestling on the edge of the roof high above, and then turned looking down towards us, watching. The flames flickering around it made it clearly visible. Whatever it was. It laughed once. a long deep laugh and then it leaped up higher on to the roof and was gone, the sounds of laughter trailing after into the darkness, which settled once more upon the audience who were more or less stunned into silence.
Much to my amazement I improvised a little speech there and then and brought the night to a close pretty damned quick. As the walkers shuffled out of the alley and off into the night several of them stopped to shake our hands, and the journalist seemed to be beside herself as she came to give her verdict.
“I wasn’t that impressed up till now” she stuttered, “But that finale was spectacular! How on Earth did you do it? Was it wires?” I just smiled and tapped my nose and she grinned before getting her plainly confused photographer to take our picture. Arthur unsurprisingly disappeared into the darkness at this point, his limp now completely forgotten.
“What the hell was that?” asked Edward and Jack and I shrugged. Mary was babbling about spirits of the night and so on and so forth, so we left her to it.
“God knows.” said Jack. “But who cares? Look at this - we got thirty quid in tips!”
And so we made our way back to the van and eventually got it going just in time to join the lock in at the local. We all had more than half a pint that night, I can tell you!
This all happened a few months back now. Needless to say the Echo review (we even got our own article!) praised us to the nines. We now run four walks a week, and we are that successful we are thinking of setting up a franchise! Jack (that’s the other Jack – the one not quite on the payroll) doesn’t seem to mind, either. It’s as if the more people he gets to scare the happier he is to do it. He never fails to turn up. Sometimes I’ll even get him some chips from Mr Chan’s. He seems to like them. Though I have to be careful to make it a small portion or if he’s got some left he tends to start flicking them at people below from the rooftops once we have finished.
So there we have it. We’re doing very well these days. We’ve even replaced the van. It just goes to show though, doesn’t it? In Liverpool the ghost next door is not always the kind of ghost that you would expect!
A Large Sweet Tea, Please.
Every match day just before kick-off Stan took his place in his usual seat and settled down for the game. He only ever bothered with the weekend home matches, so once a fortnight he would pack a sandwich, get his season ticket out of the drawer and off he would go. It never failed to amaze him how valuable his season ticket was. He knew that tales abound in Liverpool about parents putting their unborn child’s name on the season ticket register in the vague hope that the as of yet to be born child would be able to take possession of said ticket before they retired themselves. It was a nice little earner for the clubs as well! Typically it took a fiver a year to stay on the list. Which went some way towards the casual thought that whoever invented insurance (“Now run that one past me once again. I give you money just in case something happens but if it doesn’t then that’s okay but you’ll charge me more next year?”) also had at some point turned their hand towards the management of football season tickets as well.
Of course, because season tickets were so much in demand what with the seat being all but reserved, it tended to be the same people sitting in the same seats at every home match. Over the years some of these people became friends, or at least familiar with, the people sitting around them. Which was just a little unfortunate for Stan, as Jim was the guy sat behind him.
To say that Jim was a big bloke is a bit like saying that Queen’s Drive is a very long road. He was enormous. Stan thought Jim must be at least six and a half foot tall and just as wide. He was just grateful that Jim sat behind him and not in front of him, because if he did he would not have seen any of the matches at all.
It was however, unfortunate that Jim was actually there at all in Stan’s case, because Jim had taken it upon himself to bully Stan mercilessly. Never a tall man, in fact Stan was five foot five and a quarter (and the quarter was very important). Jim towered above him. Given that Jim’s seat because of the nature of the construction of the stand was a bit higher than Stan’s, if poor Stan ever turned around to face him the first thing he would see were Jim’s knees. This, sadly he had to do every home game at half time. It had almost become some kind of ritual.
As the whistle for half time blew Stan felt himself tensing. Every bloody match it was the same! He waited, and there it was. The single tap on the shoulder and Jim’s booming, mocking voice.
“A large sweet tea please, waitress.” said Jim, a wide stupid grin spreading across his face. Stan had turned to face Jim’s knees as the five pound note fluttered down from high above as it always did. “And I’ll have your shoe.” Stan knew better than to argue. He bent down and slipped his left shoe off before passing it up to Jim who snatched it from him, the same stupid grin increasing just a little bit more.
“Oh leave him alone.” said Ernie who sat next to Stan. “Go and get your own tea! I don’t know why you have to take his bloody shoe as well.” Jim laughed out loud at this.
“Just a bit of insurance. Make sure the bugger comes back, right? Besides, it’s none of your business, mate. I’d watch myself if I was you, or you could be doing the tea run next match.” Ernie shuffled around in his seat and sat in silence. Dutifully the single shoed Stan disappeared to get the large sweet tea.
Eventually he returned and passed the large polystyrene cup to Jim along with the change. “Thank you.” chirruped Jim sarcastically. “Nobody quite makes a nice hot sweet tea like you do.” and removing the lid he had a quick sip of it. “Lovely.” He declared. “Make it a bit quicker though next time, eh? Takes you for bloody ever to get it! Probably because you’ve got such short legs hey, short arse!” Jim burst out laughing at this, but nobody nearby joined in. They never did, but it didn’t stop Jim sniggering loudly to himself for a while.
“Can I have my shoe back now please?” said Stan. This was the bit he was dreading. On the other side of Stan his season ticket neighbour Bert tutted loudly as Jim held the shoe up and spat into it just the once before giving it back.
“There you go, little man!” chortled Jim as Stan reluctantly took the shoe off Jim and gingerly placed it back on his foot. Stan sighed to himself as he turned to face the pitch once again. He was just glad that the match day ritual was over for another fortnight. The second half quickly passed, and before he knew it the match was over and it was time to leave. Jim was always quick off the mark, but Stan used to hang back a bit to miss the worst of the rush. He knew Bert did the same and they sat there in silence waiting for the crowds to lessen off a bit. On this day however, Bert had something to say.
“Don’t know why you let that big fool get away with that every match.” he said. “Wants bloody locking up, he does!” Stan just smiled at him.
“Don’t worry about it, Bert.” he said. “It doesn’t bother me.” Bert however, was going off on one now.
“He’s just a bully, he is. Wants reporting. You need to do something about it! Making a right fool of you he is, if you ask me.” Bert seemed just a little angry that his words had failed to make Stan angry as well, or at least get him fired up and determined to do something about it.
“It’s not a problem.” said Stan. “Really. It isn’t.” Bert however, was determined to have his say.
“Well if you won’t do something about it I will! I’m going to write to the ground, I am. Let them know what he gets up to every home match. They might even take his season ticket off him if we kick up enough of a fuss.” Stan sighed
at this
“Don’t do that, Bert.” he said simply. “There’s really no need.” Bert however, had the look of a man on a mission. Stan stood to fasten his coat. It was time to leave. But first he had to stop Bert from doing whatever it was that he had planned.
“Look Bert.” Stan said, getting the other man’s attention. “Have you never wondered why it takes me so long to get Jim’s tea?” Bert sniffed angrily.
“Never even thought about it.” he said. Stan could see that Bert was not calming down in any way at all, and so Stan decided to tell him why he wasn’t bothered about it.
“It takes me so long because I don’t go to the nearest place to buy the tea. I take a bit of a longer route.” Stan smiled. “One that takes me past the toilets.” Bert smiled a weak smile, not entirely sure exactly where this was headed. “That’s right.” said Stan. “As long as he keeps spitting in my shoe, I’ll keep pissing in his tea.”
A Good Day at the Office
~ Dedicated to anyone who works in a call centre ~
Christ almighty, I was up early. Had it not been the middle of summer it would still be dark for hours. But I was on the way to work anyway, despite the fact that the electronic lock on the building where I spent every mindless working day would not allow anyone to enter for at least the next two hours at the earliest. That would be at seven thirty. Looking at the clock on the car dashboard I noted that it was currently five thirty in the morning. As I pulled on to the small industrial estate where the call centre I worked in was based it was just getting light. This was a one way street so there was no through traffic. In fact it was the only building on this stretch of the short road. It was very quiet. Nobody around at all.
Good.
I drove right up to the building. The car park was off on the left and of course completely empty at this time of the morning. There was however a relatively wide turn circle right in front of the office and so I turned the car around in this and headed back away from the building before turning the car sideways across the road so that it was now completely blocking the road. Normally this would cause havoc, of course. Nearly two hundred people worked in the two storey small squat building, and it was so remote that nearly all of them drove in. But at this early hour nobody noticed at all, because the building and therefore the car park, was of course, completely empty.
I sat in the car for a minute and lit a cigarette. I was now gazing sideways at the building that was at the end of the drive, the large green and yellow logo on the side of it catching the early morning light. To me it looked like an infected scab. Even looking at it momentarily made me clench my teeth. I had worked in that damned place for three years now and to say I hated it with a passion was an understatement of monumental proportions. Every single bloody day that I worked there I felt as if I was being watched over by a hatchet faced bunch of spineless gobshites who had the collective intellectual prowess of a slug that’s just spotted a very large lettuce.
That was all about to change.
I mean. Call centres. The cotton mills of the twenty first century, and that is doing a great disservice to cotton mills, believe you me. It is the way they have to measure everything, quantify every mind numbing second you spend in the feckless place. How many seconds you spend on the toilet, how many seconds each call lasts, how long between calls and so on for bloody ever, it seems like. Then feeding it all back to you until you want to rip your headset off and beat them into tiny little blood covered lumps with it. “How do you think that call went?” “How do you think that call could be better?” How about if I rushed round to the customer’s house and offered to make them a cup of tea? Would that make you happy? Idiots. As far as I am concerned it’s a big pity they’re not all locked in the sodding building now. Take it from me, I bloody considered it. Simple thing is the whole collective bunch of phone watching dickheads are just not worth it.
I finished the cigarette and popped the boot. Five thirty-five. Gazing casually in to the car I then stopped to reflect on the building itself. It was quite low and relatively flat for a two storey office, though it was quite long. It stretched from my left to my right before me. I laughed quietly to myself. It almost as if the great big ugly soul sapping spider of a building was somehow apprehensive. As if it realised that something was wrong. I laughed again. I was about to squash this particular bug.
Oh yes.
First I removed the six small stub nosed shells from the boot and laid them carefully out off to my left in a neat little line. Then I shouldered the CSA1 ILAW portable rocket launcher and loaded in the first shell. Effective up to a distance of three hundred metres but not less than ten, the state of the art, second generation rocket launcher was a single shot device favoured by all British army forces. It would take up to eight seconds before I could load the next shell. I was being cautious however, and had decided to give it a minute between each shot. I figured that was just enough time for me to admire my work between shots while I was also loading up the next shell. I didn’t want to rush the job now, did I? There would however be a significant back blast when the launcher was fired so I was careful to make sure neither the shells nor the car were anywhere behind me.
I paused for a second. Five thirty nine. Were you to ask me at that second whether I had any doubts regarding what I was about to do then my honest answer would be no. I couldn’t bloody wait. Yet still I paused, savouring the moment. Nobody was going to be putting a headset on today. Or ever again. Not in that hell hole, anyway.
Smiling and at the same time quietly humming to myself I aimed very carefully at the top left hand corner of the building’s upper storey and squeezed the trigger.
It is probably best to say that although I had very carefully researched the weapon before obtaining it, and that had taken some doing, that’s for sure, I had never actually seen it in action as it were, unless of course you count YouTube videos.
The real thing is exquisitely more fun. The launcher bucked almost gently as the missile was released and at the same time I saw out of the corner of my eye a large arc of flame erupt just behind me. This all seemed to happen in slow motion. A thin plume of smoke seemed to rise in the air and then there was a deafening explosion.
The top left hand corner of the building simply disintegrated, and a huge cloud of smoke rose into the early morning air. Rubble flew up in to the sky and then as if realising its error began to fall to the ground again. The centre of the building on the top storey seemed to sag. As the smoke cleared the first fifteen metres of the top of the building had been completely destroyed. Bits of rubble jutted up from the edge of the roof like big black rotten teeth stumps.
Five forty. I reloaded the launcher. I noticed almost as if through a cloud of excitement that the intruder alarm on the right hand side of the building was wailing loudly. It sounded almost as if the building knew it was injured and was screaming for help. I fired again.
Time to put it out of its misery.
This time I hit the top storey in the centre. As the smoke cleared I registered the fact that the alarm seemed to have stopped. Pause. Reload. The third shell finished the top storey altogether. Most of it was in the car park and turn circle now. Three to go. Five forty two. As I was loading the fourth shell there was a loud secondary explosion. Probably the gas mains. As I watched the reception entrance on the far left of the building suddenly blew out, glass flying in to the car park over to the left.
The fourth shell reduced the lower storey on the left to no more than a pile of rubble. The centre of the building on the ground floor looked as if it was about to fall in on itself, so I was quick to fell it with the next shell. Five forty three. All that was left of it was the bottom right hand corner of the building. It was in fact no more than a large pile of rubble that seemed to be attempting to remain standing but was nevertheless collapsing in on itself. Without hesitation I fired the sixth shell in to it.
And the building was gone.
Smoke and dust filled the air, but apart from that
everywhere else was quiet. The industrial estate was too remote for witnesses and so I quietly and calmly placed the rocket launcher back in to the boot, and closing it got back in the car. I started the engine and looked at the clock on the dashboard display. Five forty five. Blinking. Five forty five.
Five forty five. The numbers flashed red. There was a loud buzzing in my ears. I was hot. I closed and opened my eyes but still the loud noise screamed at me. Five forty five. Still the numbers continued to flash.
Rolling over so I could reach I turned the alarm clock off and lay still in bed.
Slowly I began to laugh to myself. Jesus! That dream had been realistic! It had almost been as if I had been there! I paused and rubbed imaginary smoke from my eyes. I was still hot. Time for a shower. I kicked the covers off and put my feet on the floor. Reaching for my dressing gown I made my way out of the bedroom, heading for the shower. I was however very careful not to disturb the CSA1 ILAW portable rocket launcher that was propped up ready for use on the landing, the six shells placed carefully around it.
It was going to be a really good day at the office.
Three Small Wishes
Once upon a time. I mean. Come on. Nobody says “Once upon a time” do they?
They do?
Really?
Liverpool Revisited Page 17