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My Fault

Page 16

by Billy Childish


  The next day I’m admitted into hospital. The old girl goes with me all the way to East Grinstead, by taxi. Of course, that sort of trip doesn’t cost tuppence. The old girl has to dip into the house-keeping, something she’d put by, hidden in the lining of her coat, from the thieving hands of Crowsfeet and the old man.

  The driver helps me to the car; I can just make him out through the purple fog . . . I wince at every step, the jolts of my footsteps . . . I roll my head on my shoulders, I gag, I hiccup. My mother strokes my brow . . . I groan, I go dizzy . . . I have to hold onto my guts, all the way, through Maidstone and down into the Weald . . . The roads go everywhere, and my tusks, my little elephant . . . I break into a cold sweat, I have to hold my vomit in my mouth, ’til we get there . . . She hands me the hip flask, I take a hit, gingerly, between my lips . . .

  Our driver lets us know all about the blacks, and the wrongs they’ve done him personally. It appears that they’ve bankrupted his brother-in-law, and all but raped his sister . . . He knows the old man intimately and has driven him on several occasions; it’s his big opinion that my father is the only true gentleman left. The main problem, as he sees it, is that the streets are full of fools; no one can drive properly, and the weather’s all wrong!

  The old girl has to drop me at the gate . . . She can’t afford to hang around on account of the meter . . . She can’t drag her eyes away from it, every time 5p clicks up she winces . . . She kisses me on the cheek and waves goodbye. She can’t come in with me, she can’t afford it, they have to turn round and head straight back or it’ll cost an arm and a leg! She just sees me laid on the trolley, and she waves goodbye. I watch her go, she smiles and walks back to the taxi, the door opens, we turn a corner, she’s gone.

  ‘The skin won’t stop growing over my eye . . .’

  That’s my elephant talking, the guinea pig club, East Grinstead, his trunk joined onto his foot. That’s what he’s been trying to tell me all along, in between nodding his tusks and mouthing words. And I stare past the climbing frame, screwed into his skull. I become engrossed in the wing-nuts, one on each temple, where the metalwork disappears into his skull. I look away and try not to stare, I pretend to be reading my book. I look to his lips, to his mouth . . . He’s trying to tell me something, but my eyes keep travelling back to the meccano . . . And his eye, it seems that the skin won’t stop re-growing.

  They cut a little pink bit out of his mouth, then fashion a tear duct out of it, just like that, intricate, crafted. A bit of glue and he’s got a new corner bit. Like as if they’re God, to create such a thing!

  They unwind him, from the nose up, his whole trunk full of blood. Like a baa-lamb, all the wool comes out, brown and clotted, great strings of it, at least fifty foot of the stuff. And a little fresh bit, a few droplets on the bed spread, scarlet . . . He waves to us, my elephant, the scaffolding’s screwed into his forehead like a block of flats. They’re rebuilding his trunk, his thumb joined to his face, a few threads of skin . . . A doorway through the scaffolding — we follow the bandages, we all hold on. Nursy comes over to my bed, throws the brake and wheels me in.

  They pull the little curtain round my bed, a squirt of the needle in the air. They dig it in, and we’re off! Down the hallway and into the garden . . . I watch the rose bushes go past, then through the double doors, and the ceiling, six sky-lights, a hanging vase, and a face, my elephant, gentle, reassuring.

  German, I think. Yes German, or possibly Austrian . . . He talks low down, monotone . . . He pries open my gob, pushes my tongue to one side, and inserts his little hand drill. He turns it between his thumb and fore-finger. I see his eye, bulging, magnified, accentuated by his eye-piece; it stares into my trap, it blinks.

  Coring the root, slow turns of the drill, down the length of my tusk, taking out that other fool’s fillings. Nearing the head of the abscess, like an egg yolk. I can’t swallow, my head’s tilted back, it trickles down the back of my throat . . . a special mixture of blood and pus. He’s almost done; just a few more twists. Then he hands me over to his student — I see her standing in the wings. She glints her headlamp in my eyes and rattles her cutlass. She’s champing at the bit, raring to have a go. She jumps right in and gives it a little tap with her hammer. I jolt in the chair, my hands grip the arm-rests — hey, that hurts! She messes me about, working away at the enamel, grinding, bit by bit. The Kraut straps a clamp on my forehead to hold me steady, two thumb screws and a vice.

  ‘Ouch!’ She goes into my gums, the anaesthetic’s wearing off. I squirm in my seat. She holds onto my nose with her rubber glove and stares stone-like into my gob; she’s all thumbs.

  I wave my elephant goodbye, I slip under. He lifts his trunk in the air and trumpets. A golden sun glinting. A bird of paradise. Animal magic. I lift my hand, I want to wave too, but it’s too heavy, way too heavy . . . And there’s a little light in the distance and a humming noise. Someone’s filled my throat with gravel.

  ‘There, there!’ I look up, her little starched hat perched on top, a charming effect, and then her nose underneath. She puts her palm to my forehead. ‘There, there.’ There is a real angel by my bed, hovering over me. I give her a weak smile. I’m gonna puke, I can feel it rising. I’m lost, I don’t know where I am. Never fear, nursy’s here, with her little bucket.

  ‘There, there.’ Here it comes. I gargle on the clots, about two pints worth. Maybe only one and a half. I have to let it go, dark brown, in hot jets. That’s the stuff, I must have swallowed it during the operation. That’s my blood in the bucket. I study it at close range. Yeah, that’s me in there, in little clusters, coagulating, foaming round the edge. It clings to my dangly bit at the back. I let it all come out, hot and steaming, I fill the bowl.

  ‘There’s a good boy, that’s it. . . there there . . .’ She fondles my brow. Wow, those nurses have got some style! Warm hands, strong but soft, and not in the least bit sweaty, against my hot brow . . .

  It jumps out of me, hot and sour. And in between I have to try and breathe as well. But it keeps coming, in spasms, my stomach cramping, my eyes water. It sprays out of my nose . . . It’s never going to stop . . . I empty my guts . . . I sweat and suffer, pulling at the bed clothes. I fall back onto the pillow — my little rock.

  I manage a weak smile, just for her, for my little nursy. She tussles my hair, her eyes travelling down over my boy’s body, and she blushes. The colour rises to her cheeks, and I see it for the first time, in her eyes, and it’s a warm feeling, like nothing else.

  They stitch my gob back up and send me right back on the job, back to the beatings. They re-embroidered my whole mug. And a pretty mess they made of it, too. A cobweb between my teeth, holding my gums in, all hand done.

  ‘Your teeth are a mess, Steven! My God, they’re worse than your mother’s! Why do you take him to the NHS, Juny? They’re butchers! I, personally, see Mister Williams in his private practice. He does excellent work!’

  He shows us his pearlies, every one of them a cap — a gob of gold.

  My father always talked about money, but there wasn’t a penny for us or my teeth.

  They cut my gums away, clamp my trap open and start chopping. They peel it away from the teeth, and tuck the whole thing under my chin, then dig the poison out of my jaw-bone . . . Buff it up like new . . . and then lace the whole thing back together again. That’s the way they work.

  A week resting up, then off I go, a soldier, but powerless, under the rule of Crowsfeet, as if I was his girl. I wanted to have other friends, but he wouldn’t let me — he guarded me jealously.

  I was really very unhappy, and like I say, I have no reason to hoodwink you. You can point to my total lack of education, and my admissions of guilt, then pick up those very sticks and beat me with them all over again. I’m ready and I’m waiting; I’ve had every other conceivable insult levelled at me. That I smell of the shop! I’m full of humbug and know nothing! But one thing I do know all there is to know about, and that’s humility. I was bullied for the
best part of my childhood, and still it comes easy to me. I have to bite my lip, to quit from apologising for people walking into me, standing on my feet, and letting go of doors in my face.

  28. INSPECTOR SORREL

  Like any idiot can tell you, it only takes one loudmouth to start rocking the boat, and everybody winds up in the drink. He was heading for it, that Crowsfeet, but nobody dared tell him. Backchat him? It would have been more than my delicate little jaw was worth, I was still spitting out bits of cotton. I held my tongue for once, I was worried about my profile. No, when that bastard’s time came, he had to ‘take his punishment like a man’! By himself, standing up. Smack! Right on the chin, that rearranged his ugly mug, the cunt!

  In the end he was lucky to go down for only a year. Naturally he tries to drag the rest of us down with him. We should of seen that one coming — the finger of the snitcher.

  He stares into the space above my head, rolls his eyes back, open and shuts his biscuit shoot, then — Smack! I’ve already told you about it. Smack! A little dance of the fried eggs, then he lets one off — Pow! in my direction. To think of it, he had the nerve to treat me like that, and then to grass me up as well, if that doesn’t take the biscuit! Argh, it makes me want to spit!

  I just want a chance, that’s all, my space to set the record straight. The use of this useless soapbox, to tell of my feelings, deep down, disenchanted and dole-ridden.

  And here I am, sage-like, passing the law. No kidding, my humble remembrances. Aggressive, pissed off, but also swallowing down, studying my nails, doing my upmost, over thirteen drafts, to explain to my friends and haters alike, to a world that doesn’t know and doesn’t care. All the truths, half-truths, lies and despairs of my hapless childhood. I’ve still got a brace of home-made pistols to prove it . . . Just in case I get to thinking that I made the whole thing up . . . Something the law passed over, to remind myself, to prove that I wasn’t day-dreaming.

  Don’t think that we just sat there and let events overrun us — hell no! We took precautions, me and Goldfish, doubled security! We hid up our armoury in different stashes round the countryside, Lee-Enfield 303’s, 4.10 shotguns, black powder and live rounds.

  We did our upmost to outmanoeuvre both policeman and peace-maker alike, but Crowsfeet’s completely out of control. He’s bragging and bluffing all over the estate.

  He digs into his rags and pulls out something black, snub nosed, he unwraps it. A pretty little darling with a winged eagle embossed on her handle. Stolen that very morning from the old Colonel’s house on King George’s Road. He’s looking for a buyer, a quick sale. He totes it around the council estate, and even brings it into school with him. He offers to give a display of marksmanship after dinner on the school field! He pulls it out of his duffel bag and lets us feel its weight.

  ‘It’s a Nazi revolver, a Mauser . . . SS probably, or a Luger!’

  He shows us the slugs, a handful, lead money, the real thing. Goldfish advises him to dump it for all our sakes, to go chuck it in the village pond.

  ‘Wipe it and sling it in the deep end!’ That’s his advice. He tries to point out the whys and wherefores. But no matter how hard he explains, no matter how many bubbles he blows, Crowsfeet still knows better. The only thing he’s interested in is hard currency. Why should he go ditching a meal ticket like that? A thing of beauty with a hand-carved grip.

  For all the good it did him, Goldfish may as well have sung to the starlings . . . He pointed out that he was Captain, the General even! But Crowsfeet just laughed in his face . . . He made like a cowboy, waving it about over his head . . . The whole thing gave Goldfish bad dreams; he could see all his hard laid plans being washed away. He had nightmares, in graphic detail . . . all of us wiped out in a bloody siege on Week Street, Maidstone. The whole regular army versus the W.L.A....

  We’re holed up behind a barricade of bullet-ridden dustbins. I’m on the Bren gun. Goldfish’s heart swells with pride. He tosses a home made nitro marble, he flings it, it bounces and it explodes! But still they pour in more and more men . . . They’re massing for the big push! We’re hopelessly outnumbered!

  The whole place goes up in smoke, a deadly salvo. He sees me fall, I bite the tarmac. Then from out of the smoke . . . a bulldozer . . . rumbling, trumpeting like an elephant! It claims victory, it squats, crushing our barricade . . . The officer climbs down, wearing wellingtons and a donkey jacket. He forces Goldfish to his knees. Goldfish stares up into the barrel of the revolver, he hears the trigger click, then wakes himself up screaming.

  He comes into school still sweating, both headlamps on full, the lashes folded back. He spills the beans, miming out the whole scenario. ‘Then I look up ’n’ the revolver goes off,’ he stammers it out, he can’t get his mouth round the words. He’s trying to tell me something. ‘The officer! The man with the gun, I recognised him!’

  I look him straight back, I swallow down, I know what he’s going to say next, I loosen my collar . . . and mouth the name as he speaks.

  ‘Crowsfeet!’

  We stare at each other. It had to be, I knew it. A premonition? Whatever, that was some dream, more like a nightmare. His mouth was the big give-away. You couldn’t mistake that cake hole, egg custard — that was Crowsfeet, alright!

  Then the balloon goes up. Two police cars meander into the school car park, me and Goldfish are taken from our lessons and frog-marched into Batman’s office. He stands there in his mortarboard, hands on his hips, and our little cold friend sitting on the desk. We try to ignore him, to pretend not to notice. But he grins at us, he waves, he tries to attract our attention, pointing, lying on his side.

  They’ve already taken Crowsfeet weeping to the meat wagon. His crust went completely soft, blubbering, begging me and Goldfish to take the revolver off his hands. Practically giving it away, free of charge. We bite down and ignore him, we play deaf. Slippery with sweat, his eyes like fag ash . . . We look away, the hinges of his mouth still moving, but silent, behind the rear windows, between the bars. We stand there staring at the wallpaper, repeating our yeses and nos . . . Of course, we look at the carpet as well . . . We avoid sir’s eyes . . . we let him know that we’re humbled . . .

  It seems Crowsfeet’s implicated me on several scores. Firstly, as the look-out man, secondly as a fence, and lastly as the ringleader. His accusations growing more and more outlandish, desperate to save his own skin. In fact, the more he squealed, the more guilty he became. In the end he was just firing off blanks. It came as no surprise that he fingered me and Fish. After all the big talk, he turned out to be nothing but a snitch baby.

  The only thing they could hang on me, was my miserly little lady’s revolver, a delicate purse pistol, bought off Colonel Snow in the Melville Court flats. The rest of the stash remained unfound. But that didn’t stop them coming round my house in the middle of our tea, and start sounding off accusations in front of my mother. A real inspector too, by the name of Sorrel. I got to know his face. He bangs the table and punctuates the air with loud threats, showing off to the two rookies stood by the door, acned and feckless.

  He doesn’t give a damn about my hollow pleas of innocence, as far as he’s concerned my goose is well and truly cooked! He pulls out his notebook and reels off places and dates, he insinuates, he paces up and down kicking at the skirting boards. I had to give it up, there was nothing else for it. If I’d have let him start rooting about there’s no telling what he might unearth.

  I go to my room, pull back the bed, lift the floorboards and stick my arm down by the pipes. My hand comes to it . . . a leather purse with a brass clasp — my little pea-shooter . . . When I get back to the kitchen, old Sorrel’s wagging his arse like a dog on heat, he bounces up and down on the spot, sieving spittle through his moustache. He can scarcely believe his luck; he holds my little baby up to the light, showing it off to his two friends. He plays Cowboys and Indians, he squints at it, scrutinising the craftsmanship. He rubs his mitts together so hard that the scurf flakes off like
snow, in great clouds. He scratches like a hound, pulling at his collar, choking through the dust.

  It seems that there’s at least two positive identifications of me as the look-out man, and still other witnesses who have yet to be interviewed. Crowsfeet painted a pretty black picture of me down at the local nick, and as Sorrel’s so pleased to point out, I’m on a sticky-wicket by anyone’s reckoning.

  ‘Yes, sonny, things are looking decidedly shitty from where I’m standing!’

  He takes a sip of his tea and helps himself to the plate of shortbread. He puts one in his gob and then another one, he jams them in there like he hasn’t been fed for a week . . . He’s not bashful about it either — the rookies don’t even get a look in. They watch mesmerised as each butterfinger crumbles into his salivating gob. They wag their truncheons like two doting hounds, the eyes sorrowful, waiting for the crumbs . . .

  Sorrel lets it be known that if it wasn’t for Crowsfeet asking for the break-ins at my parent’s house to be taken into consideration, he’d be more than happy to bang me up for several years, at Her Majesty’s leisure!

  The Borstal is waiting! And there’s plenty of beds spare for any new miscreants!’

  He smiles at me without his eyes, daring me to contradict him. He sniffs as if I’m something he’s picked up on the sole of his shoe, then holds out his hand, reddened, peeling, the nails eaten away, white skin hanging. And I have to hand it over, my little shooter. I drop her into his palm. Then he smiles with his teeth, yellowing, tobacco . . . He shows them, gritted, the cheeks pinched.

  ‘Thank-you!’

  That’s Sorrel for you, never rash. He chews everything over twenty times, pacing up and down. One minute, it looks like he’s come to a decision, then he shakes his head and he’s off to examine the wallpaper. He looks everywhere for the answer, chewing off great swathes of flesh from his cuticles. He winces and swears, sucks his thumb and wipes a whole new film of scum from between his ears . . . He gallops around the room like a gee-gee, then pulls up short in front of me. I can hear his cogs grinding. He arrives at his decision. He weighs the pros and cons, his distinct dislike of me, against the lack of any hard evidence whatsoever.

 

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