Johnny and The USed Wonz

by DaNeo Duran

  ‘You got twelve pence?’ When he shook his head she said, ‘Sorry darling.’

  He sighed and looked away. ‘Where are we?’

  ‘Where are we?’ the lady went from laughing to serious in one breath. ‘We’re in Stonebridge Park.’

  He’d seen the sign on the way in and on the platforms. ‘But where’s Stonebridge Park?’

  ‘Where is … kid, are you on drugs?’

  ‘No,’ he said looking at her with indignation.

  ‘Sorry darling, it’s just … look, this is London.’

  He might have guessed. Even though he’d seen nothing recognisable he’d suspected as much.

  ‘Where should you be? Are you in trouble?’

  ‘Where’s the famous stuff?’

  ‘Wembley’s round the corner. Everything else is about seven miles away,’ she huffed. ‘You are in trouble aren’t you – what’s your name darling?’

  Again he ignored her. ‘I need to ring someone in Carlisle but don’t know the area code.’

  The lady shook her head. ‘Don’t look at me I’ve no idea about that.’

  He looked down thinking he might never speak to Miss Wilkinson again.

  Suddenly the lady said, ‘If you dial 100 from a phone box the operator will tell you for free.’

  With that bit of good news he thanked her and made to leave. He’d almost reached the door when she called, ‘If you tell me your name I’ll give you a Mars bar.’

  His eyes narrowed as he considered the deal. ‘Johnny, I’m called Johnny.’

  ‘Well Johnny, you have a nice day. Catch.’

  He caught the chocolate bar which he devoured before reaching a phone box. He dialled 100 but unfortunately he hadn’t even two pence to call Miss Wilkinson. The operator offered to reverse the charges for him.

  ‘It’s okay thanks, I’ll find some money.’

  He spent three hours wandering around the area with his face to the ground before finally finding one, two pence piece outside an amusement arcade.

  Walking into the sun he soon found a phone box but decided to wait. Miss Wilkinson would probably be out at that time on a Saturday – maybe with a boyfriend.

  With nothing else to do he asked the first friendly face the way to London’s city centre.

  The elderly man pointed to the station.

  ‘No no,’ Johnny said. ‘I’ll walk it.’

  ‘Oh,’ the man said without questioning why someone Johnny’s age would do something like that alone. ‘Basically you keep heading down this road. If you go on long enough you’ll reach the Thames.’

  Johnny thanked the man and periodically checked his route with other pedestrians. By mid-afternoon he passed through Soho and Covent Garden. If he survived another night he thought he’d come back to give them a proper look. For now though he kept walking and, as the old man had said, he found the Thames. He followed its banks until a familiar and reviving image came into view. A tower, it had to be Big Ben.

  Jogging towards it the sun brightened; he almost smiled. Searching for the best view he crossed a bridge to the south bank where he sat on a vacant bench and settled his eyes on the building he’d seen so many times on bottles of brown sauce.

  When he could sit no more he stood on weary legs and wandered away from the view further into south London away from the Thames.

  From a roundabout he entered Walworth Road and saw a café. Having grown hungry again he put his read round the door and asked the lady if he could borrow a spoon.

  The lady looked outraged. ‘No you bleeding well can’t. What d’you think this is? Clear off.’

  He retreated and walked on. He came to a chippy. The divine smell of freshly battered fish made him dreamy. He wondered if he’d ever taste fish and chips again. He knew they’d have disposable forks but without three pence to buy one and the dressing down he’d just received he didn’t go in.

  Across the road Johnny saw an unusual restaurant and plucking up courage crossed over. Appearing empty of customers Johnny wondered if the, Taste of Bengal might still be closed at the evening’s early hour. Seeing movement behind the door he knocked and entered and came face-to-face with a brown man.

  Carlisle’s near entire white population meant Johnny had never seen Asian people.

  Finding his voice he said, ‘I don’t wish to cause you a problem but I’d be grateful if I could borrow a spoon just for the shortest time.’

  He told him about the rest of his shepherd’s pie.

  ‘Will you bring the spoon back?’ the man asked.

  ‘Of course,’ Johnny said. ‘I’ll just be over there.’ He pointed to seats on the other side of the road. ‘You’ll be able to see me the whole time. I’ll even wash it up if you like.’

  ‘Very well,’ the man said. A minute later he came back from the kitchen and handing him a spoon said, ‘Enjoy your shepherd’s pie.’

  Barely full Johnny went back to the cafe. The Indian man asked him, ‘Do you like curry?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You’ve never tried it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You must try some then.’

  Johnny sat as instructed in the reception area overlooking the tables. The man appeared a few minutes later with a small portion of what looked like chicken stew with rice on a tea plate.

  ‘Is this for me?’

  ‘Of course. Try it and tell me what you think?’

  ‘Okay, but why are you being nice to me – giving me food?’

  ‘You’ve won it by being polite.’

  ‘Will it burn me – I’ve heard it’s hot?’

  ‘This one’s mild you’ll see.’

  Johnny accepted the plate and skewered a piece of chicken.

  ‘It’s delicious,’ he said as brand new flavours filled his mouth.

  ‘You like it, that’s excellent,’ the man seemed delighted.

  When Johnny cleaned the plate up the man said, ‘I am Iftekhar.’

  ‘If-te-kar,’ Johnny repeated.

  ‘That’s right. This is my restaurant and whilst I appreciate you might not have money now I see you are a bright young man with bag-ro reedoy – the heart of a tiger. One day you’ll have money and I hope you’ll come back to visit with your friends.’

  Johnny left feeling buoyed and thought of trying Miss Wilkinson’s phone number.

  He past two vandalised telephone boxes before, inside the third urine-stinking box he picked up the receiver, rubbed it clean on his knee and dialled.

  It rang and rang. He pressed the two pence coin against the slot and imagined the sound of his teacher’s voice but gave up after several more rings.

  I might have won a curry and the money to speak to you but I didn’t win the sound of your voice, he thought replacing the receiver.

  He found a place to watch a brilliant sunset and wondered about Frank’s funeral. He imagined Miss Wilkinson would be there. He feared that the man he’d kicked down the stairs might be dead; still crumpled and covered in vomit. But, with equal measure he feared the man at the bottom of the stairs had got up and would see his son’s funeral.

  Sunday 28th April 1974

  At first light the next morning, having crawled into bushes off Albany Road the previous night, Johnny woke cold, hungry, grubby and with no idea what to do next.

  He’d been lucky when the lady gave him the Mars bar and when Iftekhar had fed him curry but knew from having seen dirtier kids at school that people’s kindness stopped when smells started. He hoped he didn’t smell but knew he soon would if he didn’t keep properly clean. He needed food but the only way he could think to get it meant going against the specific teachings of his mother.

  Within hours those teachings had come under significant counter reasoning.

  Having found his way to Waterloo station Johnny stood by the sinks in the toilets to wash as best he could. He then poured water down his throat from his gravy tub but his belly craved nutrition and wouldn’t be put off no matter how much he drank.


  Before long he watched a lady shop assistant sell snacks to travellers. His stomach continued grumbling.

  He called up the feelings in his heart but couldn’t connect to his mother’s guidance. But with no objection and no other means to fed himself he reframed, stealing as winning.

  Being Sunday the shop essentially had few customers and the lady assistant worked alone. Johnny observed her looking bored with nothing to do unless, as happened every few minutes, she’d be overwhelmed by swarms calling in before catching one of the day’s trains.

  In a quiet moment he watched her read and wondered if he could run in and out without being seen. Sometimes she’d even disappear to a storeroom for a minute or so.

  He rejected the notion of dashing and grabbing. Instead he watched singles, couples or parents with children visit the shop in its busier moments and that gave an idea.

  On the next busy surge he saw a woman around his mother’s age faffing with her purse.

  Guessing she’d go into the shop Johnny rounded and fell in step behind her. Sure enough she crossed the shop’s threshold. The shopkeeper concentrated on her till. Whilst the woman had her back to him Johnny slid two pasties down one sleeve of his parka where they stopped at its elasticated cuff. A packet of Custard Creams went down the other sleeve. When the woman reached the till Johnny moved outside and stood as if waiting for her. When she left the shop he followed her towards the waiting train before changing course.

  Half an hour later he sat admiring views of London with a satisfied belly. Only then could he reason what he’d done. He told himself he’d won the food as Iftekhar had told him he’d won the curry. From his heart a message came with his mother’s voice telling him he had to survive but things would have to change. He couldn’t imagine change; couldn’t imagine returning to Iftekhar’s with friends and money.

  Later that evening he found a clean functioning telephone. He rang Miss Wilkinson.

  She picked up after five rings. ‘Hello.’

  The sound of her familiar voice caused a blast of emotion. He forced the coin through the slot with the pips and steadied himself against the phone box.

  ‘Miss,’ he croaked.

  ‘Barry, is that you?’ Her voice sounded shrill.

  ‘Not Barry. It’s Johnny now.’ He leant against the phone wishing he could see her. Wishing she could hold him as she had done after his mother had died.

  ‘What’s happening – where are you?’

  She sounded as desperate as he felt.

  ‘I’m surviving. Thank you for the shepherd’s pie it saved me.’

  ‘My god. Where are you the whole city’s looking for you?’

  ‘They won’t find Barry and Johnny’s elsewhere.’

  ‘Bar … I mean … love I’m so worried about you.’

  ‘I’ll survive.’

  ‘Come home.’

  ‘There is no home.’

  Miss Wilkinson stammered. ‘Your dad …’

  The pips interrupted her.

  Too afraid to hear anything about his once-upon-a-time father he said, ‘You’re my favourite person.’

  She couldn’t respond. Out of time and money the line died.

  He walked the streets back to Albany Road in tears. He missed Frank and his mam. He missed Miss Wilkinson and playing guitar. He could have written songs about how he felt but with no instrument and nobody to sing them to he simply flopped over the fence into the bushes and fell asleep as he had done the night before.

  Monday 04th June 1984

  Mazz had finished recording Johnny’s chords and the bandmates gathered in the dressing room.

  ‘Are you guys coming for something to eat?’ Christine asked getting up.

  Stu rested his feet on the coffee table and told her they’d catch her up.

  ‘Alright mate,’ Johnny said once she’d left with Mazz, ‘I’ve kept you waiting long enough.’

  He told him about Vanquar’s top management reshuffle and what that could mean for the band. ‘The followers we have are dedicated for sure but if Vanquar-USA decide they don’t want us here it’ll take more than a second album to stay. Dane says they’d probably stop the tour budget.’

  Disheartened as he imagined Johnny had felt the previous few days, Stu listened to Johnny. ‘Just when we thought we were doing so well we find out we’re in danger of disappearing into obscurity.’

  ‘Or England,’ Johnny said. ‘I’m sorry mate, I know how much America means to you. Since arriving here it means everything to me too. We’ll just have to see who gets the senior post at Vanquar.’

  ‘So would they cut our entire touring budget or just the USA gigs?’ Stu asked.

  ‘There’s a point, I don’t know. Dane’s only contracted to manage us in America. It figures that’s all he’s interested in.’

  ‘Well given Trudie’s selling Little Spirit so well and given we come from the same production team maybe Vanquar think it’s time we went back to England.’

  ‘Meaning Dane would be out of a job.’ Johnny vanished into thought for a moment. ‘Richard only signed the USA management rights away…’

  ‘Richard was a far better manager than Dane but he’ll be up to his neck with Little Spirit.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I was thinking. So if Richard hasn’t time for us it’d make sense for Vanquar to keep Dane on as manager.’

  ‘Retreat to England and have Dane as manager?’

  ‘It’s getting worse by the second isn’t it?’ Johnny said knowing he’d yet still more beans to spill.

  Stu, neither happy at the thought of leaving nor working long term with Dane said, ‘So, we go to England to record the next album?’

  ‘That we do,’ Johnny said ever grateful of Linda’s loan.

  ‘Do we even know if Vanquar will want to market and distribute it?’

  ‘My guess is they’ll decide when they hear it. We have to record a phenomenally good album.’

  ‘I hear that. No chance of resting on our laurels. No wonder you’ve been so weird lately.’

  ‘I haven’t felt so helpless in years.’

  ‘So what’s changed, you seem more relaxed; you got good news?’

  ‘Well,’ Johnny started, ‘given what I’ve just told you if I said I had a way of making us a bit of extra cash you’d be okay with that right, you know, generate extra security?’

  ‘Of course, what’s the idea?’

  ‘Poker.’

  ‘Poker?’

  ‘Every little helps.’ He shot Stu a weak smile.

  When Johnny explained what had happened at the table after the previous Saturday’s Lawrence gig Stu’s temper erupted.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Johnny started.

  ‘What d’you mean it’s okay?’ Stu shot to his feet.

  ‘It’s—’

  ‘It’s okay we get to record a second album? We were doing that anyway! But it’s not okay that we might get dropped by Vanquar and it’s way off okay that, whether that happens or not, the band owes Linda a fortune.’

  ‘Put like that I agree but—’

  ‘Right, so we agree: as things are, they’re definitely not okay?’

  Johnny had heard enough. He too leapt to his feet. ‘Do you want to record a second album or not?’

  ‘Want? We’re musicians it’s what we do. Never mind want, how about need?’

  ‘Whichever. We’re still getting to record a second album so agree with me that’s okay.’

  Stu stared at him speechless then sat down. ‘We’ve gotta get that money back.’

  Johnny slumped and told him about Zora the PI and what had happened on the multi-storey roof in Kansas.

  ‘I don’t understand, if you were going to beat up one of the bouncers why didn’t you just beat them all up on the night?’

  Johnny laughed. ‘It could’ve been six against one. No, this way I made them think I was compliant; then hit them with surprise.’

  ‘Okay,’ Stu said. He looked at his friend as anger abated. ‘I can’t believe
you didn’t tell me earlier.’

  ‘Mate, I wasn’t about to tell you or anyone else anything until I knew we had the means to record the second album. You can’t imagine my surprise when Linda offered the readies.’

  ‘We’re in her pocket for sure.’ Stu looked cross again but said, ‘So Dane knows nothing about this?’

  ‘He could be part of it. I mean, nobody else knew that amount of money was in the accounts. Jack and Quinn don’t know, do they?’

  ‘Definitely not,’ Stu said. ‘But Dane knew and if he’s out of a job he’d welcome the money.’

  ‘Part of it or not I don’t want him knowing what a wazock I’ve been.’

  Stu stood up again. ‘Roll on Wednesday when the PI tells us who these guys are.’

  Friday 03rd May 1974

  Almost a week after arriving in London Johnny’s shoulders sagged; hauled down by the pointlessness of his existence.

  Twilight faded as he milled around deserted warehouses off Old Kent Road. During the week he’d woken in the night under pouring rain. The next day he’d walked the length of Oxford Street. By its end he had a new set of clothes, bar his parka which still looked new.

  He’d also stolen toothpaste, toothbrush and a comb. The thrill of stealing suffered under the weight of guilt. Convincing himself he’d won the items helped. Still owning nothing but clothes, plastic cup and plectrum he longed for friends. For a week nobody had spoken to him, pinched his cheek or fluffed his hair.

  He wondered what Miss Wilkinson knew about the man at the bottom of the stairs. Again the thought of him living or dying terrified him. But could facing the music should he be found guilty of murder be that bad? At least he’d have a bed, meals and company. But, Miss Wilkinson hadn’t mentioned him being in trouble, did that mean the ogre still had breath?

  Such a dreadful notion could not be entertained. He couldn’t ever be Barry again, the ogre could never be his dad and Johnny wouldn’t consider sharing even the same city so long as he lived.

  He’d pass long hours shadow sparring in public parks imagining Greeny holding pads for him.

  Once his muscles had warmed he’d practice judo footwork. Next would come karate. Unlike some students impatient to learn new skills, Johnny liked to master each move before moving on. The repetition helped time pass. Finally practicing kung fu, he’d loop meditative sequences and on fine days as hours passed, he’d almost feel normal.

  But now, ambling alongside a warehouse, he looked for a place to sleep feeling far from normal.