To Hell in a Handcart

by Richard Littlejohn

  ‘Mentor, eh?’

  ‘Sort of big brother. It’s my job to help them overcome their disadvantages.’

  ‘And what kind of disadvantages might they be?’

  ‘Difficult family situation, behavioural irregularities.’

  ‘Irregularities?’

  ‘These young men, my clients, are suffering socio-economic deprivation and have lacked guidance.’

  ‘I’ve come across a few like them in my time, climbing out of people’s windows with a pocket full of jewellery, that sort of, er, whatchacallit?, behavioural irregularity.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Ex-Job.’

  ‘I see. I might have known.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Leave it, Mickey.’ Andi touched his arm.

  ‘No, love. What might you have known, chief?’

  ‘That you’d be judgemental. I’ve brought them here to get away from that kind of prejudice.’

  ‘Prejudice. Fucking prejudice? You’d be prejudiced if you’d had to deal for years with some of the lives little bastards like this have wrecked.’

  ‘That’s unfair. You can’t lump them all together.’

  ‘So, enlighten me. What have this bunch done between them?’

  ‘I am not at liberty to discuss individual cases.’

  ‘Let me guess. A bit of TDA?’

  ‘TDA?’ inquired the barman, who was enjoying the excitement.

  ‘Taking and driving away. Nicking cars, in English. Robbery, burglary, spot of criminal damage?’

  ‘Whatever they have done,’ protested Jez Toynbee, ‘is behind them. They deserve the chance to become fully rounded, integrated citizens.’

  ‘No fucking chance.’

  ‘They certainly wouldn’t have any chance if the system left it to people like you.’

  ‘And you know best, do you?’

  ‘I’m prepared to make an effort. That’s what this programme is designed to achieve.’

  ‘Programme?’

  ‘Yes, we call it the Better Way project. It is aimed at showing these unfortunate young men that there is a better way. To give them hope, to include, rather than exclude, them.’

  ‘And that’s what they’re doing here, is it?’

  ‘We believe that if they can be exposed to the rewards of life they will be able to confront their behavioural disadvantages.’

  ‘And what about the kids who don’t have, er, behavioural disadvantages? Who don’t rob and burgle and destroy.’

  ‘That’s not my problem. My job is to nurture and mentor my clients on behalf of society, people like you.’

  ‘Well, thanks a bunch. It’s come to this, hasn’t it?’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘Nick a video and win a holiday.’

  Fifteen

  The spark plug hit the side window of the Vauxhall Cavalier, shattering it into a thousand shards.

  Good. No alarm.

  These older models were a pushover.

  Wayne Sutton reached inside, flipped the lock and crawled onto the front seat. He rifled the glovebox. Nothing much. A half-eaten bag of wine gums, a couple of Celine Dion cassettes. He pocketed about £10 worth of coins the owner kept in the car for the purposes of feeding the meter.

  Nothing else worth nicking. Not even a mobile.

  Wayne slid out of the car and walked away nonchalantly. The rest of the gang kept watch as he approached a Land Rover Discovery. On the dashboard, the telltale red LED flickered, indicating that the anti-theft mechanism was armed.

  Wayne peered into the car. In the luggage bay, a set of golf clubs. Back home he’d have had them away in an instant. They’d have been fenced in a couple of hours. Here, Wayne reckoned, he might look a bit conspicuous, hawking a set of precision Pings around the tables in Goblin’s Grotto.

  Wayne was after cash. High-end stereo cassette players, common currency on the streets round Tyburn Row, were no use to him here. Non-convertible.

  ‘Let’s knock this on the head,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing here for us.’

  It was always a long shot. The Goblin’s holidaymakers were unlikely to leave large sums of money lying about in their motors, but it was worth a punt.

  The rooms were favourite, but not right now. Not in broad daylight. He’d wait until they were all at dinner tonight, or pissing it up at the Goblin’s Groove, the camp’s laser-disco.

  The rain started to fall again. Time to mooch back inside.

  Wayne and the chaps retrieved their swimming costumes from their rooms and made their way to the pool. As they passed the bar, they acknowledged Jez Toynbee, who waved cheerfully. ‘Having a good time, boys?’

  ‘Yeah, wicked.’ Wayne smiled back. ‘Tosser,’ he said under his breath, through a clenched grin.

  The boys changed and threw their clothes into a loose heap. In their trunks, they were diminished. The South Central Los Angeles fashions, the trainers the size of cross-Channel ferries, added swagger and menace.

  Stripped of their combat uniforms, they looked what they were – a bunch of awkward, sprouting schoolboys. Or would have been, if any of them had ever bothered going to school.

  Despite his surly demeanour and spiteful eyes, Wayne was a pretty boy. He had the androgynous appeal of the young models favoured by the fashion industry.

  Wayne thought about wrenching open a few lockers, but the vigilant presence of one of Goblin’s security staff deterred him. The guard was dressed like all the other workers at the holiday world, except for a thick leather belt, with a heavy torch and a two-way military-style personal radio dangling from it, and a tin star on his lapel.

  The guard detached the torch and twirled it like a six-gun. ‘You can’t hang around in here. Come on, out of it.’

  Wayne and his posse shuffled off, pushing and shoving each other. Two of the other boys picked up the smallest member of the party and heaved him into the deep end, next to a notice reading ‘No Horseplay’.

  Wayne dived in. He was a strong swimmer, self-taught in Tyburn Reservoir, where he’d retreat for a joint and a dip on hotter days. One afternoon he’d stumbled across his mum, servicing an itinerant tarmacing gang in the pump house. He didn’t go home for three days. She hadn’t reported him missing. Probably hadn’t even noticed.

  As Wayne surfaced, his attention was drawn to a petite, dark-haired girl in a skimpy bikini, perched on the edge of the pool, with her legs dangling in the water.

  The rest of her was bone dry.

  Wayne saw a heavily built lad, a couple of years younger, maybe, with cropped hair, creep up behind her.

  ‘No, Terry. No, don’t you dare. You know I … Terry!’ she cried out.

  It was too late. He pushed her square between her shoulder blades and she lost her balance and tipped into the water.

  As the girl came up for air, the boy ran towards the pool and launched himself into the air. He raised his knees to his chest, clutched them in his arms and hit the surface like a depth-charge.

  The wake knocked the girl off balance again and submerged her.

  ‘Terry. You sod. You sodding, sodding, sod.’

  Terry laughed.

  ‘That’ll stop you posing. Little miss bathing beauty.’

  ‘I’ll get you for that,’ his sister screamed, lashing out at him.

  Terry felt an arm round his neck. It started to choke him and dragged him underwater. Terry thrashed about in panic as his nostrils began to fill with chlorinated liquid.

  Wayne Sutton tightened his grip. Terry kicked out. He couldn’t breathe.

  ‘Stop that. Stop that NOW,’ Katie screamed, launching herself at Wayne. She scratched his face, causing him to loosen his grip long enough for her brother to struggle free.

  ‘BASTARD. Leave him ALONE.’

  Wayne turned and raised his arm. The girl looked up at him, soaked and bedraggled. Wayne stopped mid-swing.

  ‘He’s my brother. Just leave him.’

  ‘But I thought he was hurting you.’
/>
  ‘He was just being a stupid kid. There was no need to half-kill him.’

  ‘I was only trying to … oh, fucking forget it.’

  ‘OI, you. OUT. Out of the pool, this instant.’

  It was the jolly green swimming pool attendant, swinging his torch and barking for assistance into his radio.

  ‘Wossupwiv you?’ Wayne screamed back.

  ‘No Horseplay. Them’s the rules. Someone could get drowned.’

  Katie intervened.

  ‘Just a misunderstanding. A bit of fun that got out of hand. It won’t happen again, will it?’

  The colour was returning to Terry’s cheeks, though he was still coughing and spluttering.

  ‘Will it?’

  ‘Nah,’ coughed Terry.

  ‘Will it?’

  ‘If you say so,’ said Wayne Sutton.

  ‘Last warning,’ said the pool attendant. He turned on the heels of his pixie boots and marched off to sort out a drunken thirty-something sliding headfirst down the under-fives’ novelty water-chute.

  ‘And, well, thanks,’ said Katie.

  ‘Yeah, right.’ She could have sworn that Wayne Sutton actually blushed.

  ‘Laters.’

  ‘Laters.’

  He swam off.

  ‘He coulda killed me,’ Terry whined.

  ‘Serves you right.’

  ‘I’m telling Dad. He told you not to have anything to do with those boys. And him in particular.’

  ‘You do that and I’ll tell him you tried to drown me. Now just leave it. I’m starving. Let’s get some chips.’

  Across the pool, she could see Wayne Sutton hoisting his lithe frame out of the water. He glanced back in her direction. She pretended not to notice.

  A bit of a show-off, a bit hot-headed, but boys were like that, Katie thought.

  Just as she’d thought at breakfast.

  Kinda cute, too.

  Sixteen

  Ricky Sparke turned down the sound on Sports Report and answered the phone.

  ‘There you are.’

  ‘Where else would I be?’

  ‘This time of day, the Marquis of Granby would be the obvious bet.’

  ‘I thought you were supposed to be on holiday.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Then what are you ringing me up for?’

  ‘How’d Spurs get on?’

  ‘Haven’t you got a wireless down there?’

  ‘Yeah, but it only receives Radio Goblin’s.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You don’t wanna know.’

  ‘What about the car radio?’

  ‘It’s pissing down. I can’t be bothered to get wet.’

  ‘No TV?’

  ‘It’s piped in and at the moment it’s a choice between monster truck racing and CNN Asian Business Report.’

  ‘Sky?’

  ‘They’re too mean to pay the subscription.’

  ‘What kind of place you staying at – Whitemoor prison?’

  ‘Not as good as that, mate. They’ve got Sky. The food’s probably better, too. And there are more criminals in here.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Team of young tearaways with some iron in tow. The Better Way project.’

  ‘What’s all that about?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when I see you. How’d Spurs get on?’

  ‘Lost two-nil.’

  ‘Doesn’t surprise me.’

  ‘When you back?’

  ‘Tuesday night. I’m back on the case Wednesday morning.’

  ‘You all right for a job Friday night?’

  ‘Yeah, don’t see why not. Anything special?’

  ‘I’ve got a date.’

  ‘Been hanging round Battersea Dogs’ Home again?’

  ‘Oi, leave off. She’s OK.’

  ‘Were you pissed when you pulled her?’

  ‘I’d had a couple in Spider’s.’

  ‘You given her one yet?’

  ‘Nah, but you never know.’

  ‘What’s she look like?’

  ‘One of the Gladiators.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Kirk Douglas.’

  Mickey roared with laughter. ‘See you Wednesday, superstud.’

  ‘What’s so funny?’ Andi emerged from the bathroom.

  ‘Have I told you lately that I love you?’

  ‘What’s with the Van Morrison?’

  ‘Ricky.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘His love life.’

  ‘What love life?’

  ‘Exactly. Grab-A-Gremlin night at Spider’s is about as good as it gets for him. I couldn’t face that. Trying to get inside the drawers of some old boiler with her lipstick on sideways.’

  ‘I should think not. You’re a married man.’

  Andi let her towel drop, slowly and deliberately.

  ‘Come here.’

  There was a loud knock at the door.

  ‘Mum, Dad. You coming?’

  ‘It doesn’t look like it.’ Mickey shook his head.

  ‘We’ll be down in a minute, son,’ Andi called out. ‘Meet us by the fruit machines.’

  Mickey swung his legs off the bed. He stroked Andi’s pert arse as he took his clothes from the wardrobe.

  ‘This could just be your lucky night.’

  Seventeen

  GerisoddingHalliwell had given way to Sade, the Lightning Seeds and Andy Williams. Radio Goblin’s came over all easy listening in the evening.

  The boys watched the girls as the girls watched the boys that watched the girls go by. Or was it the other way round? Mickey wondered as he loaded his plate with spag bol.

  Never could stand the bloody record.

  ‘How’s your dinner?’ he asked no one in particular.

  Terry was on his third slice of pizza – Pixie’s Pizza Palace forming part of Goblin’s Grotto food court. He gave his dad the thumbs up.

  ‘A damn sight better than I expected, to be honest,’ said Andi, even though her vegetarian moussaka wasn’t up to her dad’s standards. He’d won prizes for it.

  ‘This is OK, too,’ Mickey agreed, pouring himself another wooden tumbler of Chianti.

  ‘We’ll dance it off.’

  ‘What, with my back?’

  Katie looked a picture. Made up, she was right, she could pass for three years older.

  She picked at a barbecued chicken breast. Her mum poured her a glass of Soave.

  ‘Go on, love. Have a drink.’

  ‘You sure? Dad?’

  ‘Of course, love. We’re on holiday.’

  Andi took a sip.

  ‘Can I have a beer?’ asked Terry.

  ‘You can have one out of the minibar in our room later.’

  ‘Yeah? Great.’

  ‘OK, team, so what’s the plan?’

  ‘I’m going to play snooker,’ Terry announced. ‘You wanna game, Dad?’

  ‘Your mum and me are going for a nice drink.’

  ‘I thought you were going dancing,’ Katie said.

  ‘Not me, love. I’ll tell you what. Me and Terry will have a couple of frames of snooker, you two girls go and shake a leg and we’ll meet back in the bar in, what, say an hour.’ ‘Sounds good.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘Come on, Ronnie O’Sullivan,’ Mickey said to Terry, who grabbed a last slice of cheese and pepperoni.

  Andi and Katie headed off to Goblin’s Groove for a bop.

  Although the records were all recent releases, most of them were remakes and Andi knew all the words.

  The DJ was the same irritating git who’d woken them at 7.30 that morning.

  Katie danced opposite her mum, but her mind was elsewhere and her eyes scanned the room.

  There was no sign of him.

  ‘Looking for someone?’ her mum asked.

  ‘No, just curious.’

  ‘Checking out the talent?’

  ‘Don’t be daft.’

  ‘See anyone for me?’

  ‘Stop it, Mum.’

  Stil
l no sign of him. No sign of any of them.

  ‘Come on, let’s go and meet your dad.’

  Mickey and Terry were sitting at a toadstool in the bar.

  ‘Two-NIL to the champion,’ sang Terry, jubilantly.

  ‘He wiped the floor with me. Wanna drink?’

  ‘Yeah, drywhitewine, alloneword,’ Andi laughed.

  ‘Katie?’

  ‘No thanks. If you don’t mind, Mum, Dad, I thought I might go to bed. I’m tired.’

  ‘No, that’s fine, sweetheart. Off you go.’

  ‘Night, everyone.’ Katie glanced at her brother. ‘Come on, Terry,’ she said, ‘let’s leave the crumblies to it.’

  ‘Bloody cheek,’ said Mickey.

  ‘I don’t wanna go to bed,’ Terry protested.

  ‘You don’t have to. Here’s the key to our room. There’s bound to be something on TV – there’s a Greek channel if all else fails. They were showing Dallas earlier. And you can have that beer from the minibar I promised you.’

  ‘Cool.’

  ‘Just the one, mind.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’

  Terry raced for the stairs. Katie kissed her mum and dad on the cheek and followed him.

  ‘Good kids,’ Mickey said.

  ‘The best, lover.’

  Wayne Sutton drained his third can of extra-strength cider and stubbed out his spliff.

  He’d found a better way, all right.

  A better way to pass his time than playing snooker, or fannying around on fruit machines, or playing five-a-side football or going dancing with Jez Toynbee.

  Some of the chaps had formed an escape committee and broken for the border. Or rather, they’d stolen a car from Goblin’s car park and driven off in the direction of the seaside. Jez Toynbee hadn’t even noticed they’d gone.

  Wayne wasn’t bothered. He’d headed for the nearest offie and half-inched a six-pack of Old Mummerset Brain Damage while the owner was out in the yard tackling a small fire in his dustbin. Which Wayne, naturally, had started.

  In the background, the relentless thump-thump from Goblin’s Groove disturbed the calm of the night air.

  He could hear the twats getting louder as the night wore on and the alcohol went ahead on away goals.

  ‘Hi-Ho Silver Lining’.

  While the twat’s away, the lice will play.

  And Wayne had already taken advantage. He’d turned over three chalets, netting a couple of watches, a necklace and nearly £700 in cash. Just lying there, on the bedside table.