Hound Dog

by Richard Blandford

  ‘Oh well,’ I say, ‘I could do it again for your birthday.’

  ‘That would be fantastic. My dad loved Elvis you know. You remind me of him.’

  ‘He could watch too, I guess.’

  ‘Nah, he’s dead.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s OK. He got what was coming to him.’

  Coreen shaves my hair very short, so it’s difficult to tell where my bald spot begins and ends. Then she trims the beard so that I look like Ming the Merciless or something.

  ‘What do you think?’ she asks.

  ‘Um, it’s not what I would have chosen, but it’s… nice.’

  ‘Well, that’s kind of the idea. We need to make you look as different as possible. And the hair’s just the first part.’ I realise all her sentences go up at the end when she says them, as if each one’s a question.

  ‘Ta-da!’ She hands me a pair of thick-rimmed spectacles, the type poncy Londoners wear.

  ‘I don’t wear glasses,’ I say.

  ‘You do now. It’s normal glass, see? They don’t make you see better or nothing. And that’s not all. Johnny sent me shopping for you, look.’ She leads me to the TV room. In there is a mountain of bags from the sort of shops it’s not occurred to me to shop in for about thirty years, not since I discovered British Home Stores. Some very nice stuff here, very stylish. I recognise some of the names. Fcuk. Benetton. It’s smart, but casual. ‘This is your new wardrobe,’ she says, ‘I hope you like it.’

  ‘I do,’ I say, ‘I like it very much.’

  ‘Good. Now get your arse into some of it so we can take this photo.’ Johnny is standing by the door. ‘We’ll be in the study when you’re ready.’

  ‘Johnny’s being very hands on about all this,’ I say to Coreen once he’s gone.

  ‘Oh, well it’s my special project really,’ she says. ‘It’s something he’s given me to do to keep me quiet ’cos he never did get round to leaving his wife like he said he would. So he’s working on it with me today, and I do my bit like a good girl and keep my trap shut.’

  ‘Well you’ve done a good job,’ I say, as she turns her back while I put on some new trousers. ‘How did you know what would fit me anyway?’

  ‘I worked it out from looking at you,’ she says. ‘Just a talent I have.’

  ‘That’s very impressive.’

  I’m genuinely not expecting it when she turns round and puts her hand down my boxer shorts, grabbing hold of it hard. ‘No, that’s impressive,’ she whispers, and kisses me on the lips. ‘And besides, I have many other talents. Bet you want to know what they are.’

  ‘Needlepoint?’

  ‘Close.’ She giggles, and draws back. ‘Go on, put your trousers on and go and have your photo taken.’

  I try to finish getting dressed, but I have to send her out of the room because my erection just won‘t go down while she’s there. Then I go to the study, where one of Johnny’s men takes my photo. I am born again in the flash of his camera.

  Chapter 28

  It’s autumn in Manchester, and the leaves are falling. I’ve been walking around for hours, round the nice areas and some of the bad, and my legs hurt, but I can’t stop. This is where I’ve ended up, wearing the clothes that Coreen chose for me and living off the few grand Johnny doled out to get me started in my new life. There isn’t much to it yet, other than a rented flat in Victoria Park, the clothes, a new mobile and number, and my new name, backed up with fake ID: driving licence, passport, courtesy of Johnny. I need to look for work, but I haven’t got round to it yet. When I do, I’m allowed to give Eddie and Johnny as references. Johnny offered me some bent work, but I said I didn’t want it. I’m too old, and if I got caught I’d go down not only for that, but everything else most likely. Besides, I’m really sick of all that crap.

  I’m all wrapped up in a big thick coat Coreen thought to get for me. It’s been pissing it down, and all the brown leaves are soggy and sticking to my feet like cornflakes. I’ve walked all the way through Moss Side and Whalley Range, and now I’m going back again. I need a few weeks to get my head together around here. Things have really changed for me. You could say that door flew open. I think it was seeing Fatty and Gayboy shot down that did it. All those years, I had nothing but contempt for the pair of them, but seeing them dying, it struck me as being so unfair, such a waste. But more than that, afterwards it felt like I lost something that was important to me, that a part of my life had ended along with them. And there’s no getting round it, I have to admit, I miss them a little bit, and the thought of them not being around makes me sad. I suppose what I’m saying is that it’s occurred to me that really, I quite liked them.

  A truck drives through a puddle and drenches me outside the school for the deaf. If you want a place to be depressed, you can’t do better than Manchester. I’ve been thinking about what happened to my sister lately, what my dad did to her, and how she ended up hanging herself in her bedroom. I remember it happening, with my mum screaming and crying, and my dad cutting her down. Me, I just stood there. It tore me apart inside for weeks afterwards, at times I felt like doing the same thing too. But mostly I was angry. Angry at my dad for sending her mad enough to do it, but mostly angry at her for leaving. I went a bit crazy for a while, smashed up a whole load of stuff, beat up a few kids. But pretty soon after, I got my bird knocked up, and then I had my own problems, so I never really dwelt upon it again that much. But now, like Fat and Gay Elvis, it just seems a total shame. There’s somebody dead and there’s no good reason for it, other than my dad couldn’t keep his pervy hands to himself. I’ve been thinking that maybe my life would have been better if my big sister Bridg was in it, but who knows?

  I haven’t been in Manchester for years. It’s a lot different now, a load of the tower blocks have gone, and you can’t move for students in a lot of places. It’s worse than Cambridge. I’ve had to think about lots of different stuff since I got here. A whole load of stuff fell out of that door, stuff I never wanted to look at again, let alone think about. Some of it’s easier to deal with than the rest of it. I’m not too sad about my first wife and kid, and that lady and her daughter. I mean it’s all pretty stupid, and it’s bad that the boy grew up without a father and all, but really, I was just a lad. Even if I’d stayed, he wouldn’t have had much of a dad with me being the way I was, so it was probably all for the best. He turned out all right anyway, so I heard. Karen had a hard time of it for a bit, people said, but she got married again eventually, and I think to someone who had a bit of cash. So I don’t feel that bad about all that. It’s like when I was doing the thieving afterwards, and I got caught and sent down. I mean, I was still very young, and no one was really hurt, so that doesn’t bother me that much. But I suppose what does bother me quite a lot is what I did to my third wife Chrissie. I was just plain bad to her. After all, when it comes down to it, what I did was find a girl who didn’t know how to stand up for herself, and pushed her further than anybody’s meant to go. There’s no excuse for that sort of thing. Everybody deserves some respect, even when they don’t know that themselves. I only worked that out the other day. Chrissie’s just the beginning of course. After that, there was the fire.

  I cut through Moss Side. No students here, just normal people. Why on earth I got involved with the fire I’ll never figure out. OK, it was the money. And it all goes back to Eddie. Back then, he wasn’t quite the millionaire businessman he is these days, and he needed a favour. He was trying to open up another strip club up in London, but a local shopkeeper was kicking up a hell of a fuss, saying it would lower the tone of the area and all that. Eddie reasoned that if the man’s little grocer shop wasn’t there any more, he’d most likely lose interest in complaining. He offered me the job of taking care of it. I was a good choice, because if I got caught, I wouldn’t squeal, and if I went down, no one would miss me. Plus, I was fucking broke. Now, the grocer and his family lived above the shop, but Eddie was impatient, and he couldn’t be bothered to wait
for the property to be empty before it got torched. Instead, Eddie just told me to go over there and do it. So, at two o’clock one morning, I poured a can of petrol through the letterbox, dropped in a match, and ran. Then I got in my car and drove away while the fire took hold. Now, the shopkeeper was woken up by the smoke alarm from the shop below, called the fire brigade, who put the fire out no problem, and got everybody out OK. Quite a few cabbages were lost, but the damage wasn’t irreparable. Turns out I hadn’t even done that great a job. But that didn’t stop the police from paying me a visit soon after. Turns out the shop was opposite a garage with a CCTV camera on their forecourt. Not only did they catch me on tape pouring the petrol through the letterbox and then speeding away half a minute later, but they also managed to get the car number plate. I’d driven up and filled the can with petrol there not five minutes earlier.

  As you can expect, Eddie did and said nothing. The police were working their arses off trying to connect him to me. There were loads of links of course, dating back to us sharing a prison cell together, but nothing that would have stood up in court. So it was me that ended up in the nick again for a good few years, while outside Eddie built his empire. But I don’t mind that now.

  What really bothers me, so much so that it makes me want to do myself damage, is that I could have killed an entire family, including the little ’uns. And I didn’t have a twinge of conscience about it. I keep on telling myself things were different then. that it just wasn’t in my nature to think about things like that, but what sort of excuse is that? It’s nowhere near good enough is it?

  And as of today I’ve now got an even bigger weight to carry round. I don‘t normally read the paper, but this morning I was waiting for a haircut, and I was flicking through one and there it was, tucked away on page seven. The final part of a near-forgotten summer silly season story. ‘ELVIS ATTACK VICTIM DEAD’. It said that Buddy never woke from the coma. He had a brain haemorrhage and they ended up switching the life support off. There was no mention of Em. And so I walked right out of the hairdresser’s then and there. And I haven’t stopped walking yet.

  I felt bad before but now I feel the worst I can imagine anyone can feel. I can’t stop thinking about Em. If she feels half as bad as I did when I lost Bridg, then I might as well have killed her too. I want to find her and put my arms around her and comfort her, but I know I can never do that. What I should do, I know, is walk into the nearest police station and turn myself in. Not for me, I’ve been punished for the fire already, and it’s still torturing me. But maybe seeing me banged up for the rest of my life would give Em some comfort. I won’t do it, though. I’m too old and I’m too scared and I’m too lonely. Em will most likely never have peace because I’m too much of a coward to give it to her. End of story.

  I walk up Oxford Road, past the university, with all the cool students in their cool clothes milling about and not looking where they’re going just like they do in Cambridge. Looking at them makes me realise that my need for sex has nearly completely fizzled out since coming here. Normally, all these girls in their autumn-wear would be making me hard and filling my head with duffel-coat fantasies, but the old thing’s just hanging there, limp and shrivelled, like a deflated balloon. I never want charlie any more either. My desires may have been inconvenient and made me act rather strangely, but at least they were mine. Now they’ve been taken away from me too. I miss them like lost friends. I miss them like I miss Gay and Fat Elvis. I miss them like Buddy. I miss them like Em. I miss them like Bridget.

  I don’t know where or why I’m walking now. But I can’t think of a reason to stop or go back, so I just keep going. Keep going all the way down this long road, past the Cornerhouse cinema, where I sometimes go to watch boring old art films now that I don’t deserve anything entertaining, until I reach the point where a flight of steps leads you down to the old Manchester canals. I walk down and stand on the side, leaning over the railing, looking into the water. I spot a polystyrene cup far in the distance where the sun is setting, and watch it as it makes its long journey to underneath where I stand.

  ‘Look at that fella, he’s going to jump!’

  ‘Don’t do it, mate!’

  A bunch of scallies laugh at me as they whiz past on their bicycles. It’s getting dark now, and where light isn’t reflected in it, the water is black like tar. And I think, why don’t I? Why not just jump? Why should I keep on going? I can’t think of a single reason that doesn’t come down to cowardice in the face of death. But still I don’t jump.

  Chapter 29

  Five days later, Coreen is on my doorstep.

  ‘Fuck me, what are you doing here?’ I ask.

  ‘Well, I just thought I’d drop by.’

  She’s wearing tights and trainers, a denim miniskirt and a tracksuit top, and carrying her holdall, stuffed full. She’s drenched from the rain and looks just lovely.

  ‘Can I come in?’ she says. ‘I’m soaked. It wasn’t raining when I left London, but I got past Birmingham on the train and it started pissing it down.’

  ‘Yeah, that happens. But how the hell did you find me?’

  ‘I asked people didn’t I? Your flat upstairs?’

  ‘Yeah, follow me.’

  We go upstairs and I open the door. The flat’s pretty tidy.

  What with me not having much to do all day, I’ve finally taken to learning how to take care of myself properly. The furniture came with the flat, and I haven’t really added much, other than a TV. The walls are completely bare, so it’s pretty depressing, but it’s only when I walk in there with Coreen that I notice. Maybe I’ve been too depressed myself for it to register.

  ‘Well, this is… nice,’ she says.

  ‘You don’t mean that do you?’

  ‘No, not really.’ She giggles. ‘Can I put this bag down somewhere?’

  ‘Yeah, anywhere will do. Sit down, please. So, um, what are you doing in Manchester, Coreen?’

  ‘Oh, this and that, do a bit of clubbing, do some shopping. Gonna be ’avin’ it large in Manchestah!’

  ‘Right, right. So are you staying with some mates or something?’

  ‘Ah, I was hoping I could stay with you actually.’

  ‘With me?’

  ‘Yeah, well, I don’t really know anybody else in the area, and, well, you know, you’re my mate, ain’t yer. Christ, I’m soaked through.’ She unzips her tracksuit top and takes it off. Underneath it, she only has on a V-neck that clings to her breasts.

  ‘Um, would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘Do you have anything stronger?’

  ‘Actually, no.’ This is true. The desire for alcohol has gone the same way as that for charlie and wanking.

  ‘Oh, well, tea it is then.’

  I go to the kitchen. As I make the tea I can feel two months’ worth of depression drain out of me. When I come back she’s texting on her mobile. I put the tea down on a coffee table and she smiles. ‘Cheers, my dears,’ she says.

  ‘So how long were you thinking of staying?’

  ‘Oh, not too long. Wouldn’t want to outstay my welcome or anything, but you know, I thought we could spend some time together, have a laugh, hang out.’ She leans forward to pick up her cup of tea. I can’t help looking down her top.

  ‘We could go to the cinema,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah, we could do that.’ She stays hunched forward and drinks her tea. My gaze is torn between her cleavage and the floor.

  ‘So, um, what does Johnny think about all this, you going away and that?’

  ‘Ah, Johnny.’ She stares into her mug of tea and while her mind is elsewhere, allows it to slip. The tea spills onto her hand. ‘Ahhh, shiiit!’ she cries, ‘Ow! Owl’

  ‘Come with me,’ I say, ‘we’ll run it under the tap.’ I put my arm round her waist and quickly lead her into the kitchen. There I hold her wrist as the cold water flows over her reddening hand. I don’t have any bandages so I have to make do with wrapping it in a towel.

  ‘I’m such a mong,
’ she says.

  ‘No, no you’re not,’ I say. ‘You’re not a mong. You’re a Joey.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Joey. A Joey Deacon. Oh never mind.’

  ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘No, I guess you’d be too young.’

  ‘So why am I a Joey?’

  ‘Do you remember the programme Blue Peter?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s still on.’

  ‘Well, years ago they did a campaign to raise money for spastics. And so kids could learn about them, they had this guy on called Joey Deacon, who was one and had to use a wheelchair. But all the kids just thought he was really funny and laughed at how he talked and dribbled, and how one week he lost his shoe in the Thames. Anyway they all called each other Joeys or Deacons as an insult. And once the kids did it, their parents took it up as well. Now people say it and they don’t know where it comes from.’

  ‘That’s not funny. It’s really cruel.’

  ‘So’s mong.’

  ‘Why? It just means stupid.’

  ‘No it doesn’t. It’s short for mongoloid. You know, Down’s syndrome.’

  ‘Oh. My. God. I’m so sorry, I didn’t realise.’ She hides her head in the palm of her hand.

  ‘It’s OK.’

  She puts her arms around me and rests her head on my chest. ‘You’ve got to help me,’ she says softly. ‘Johnny doesn’t know where I am. I had to get away from him, he’s mental. I know he’d have ended up killing me. He was getting really obsessive and weird.’

  ‘Why did you come here?’ I ask.

  ‘He wouldn’t think to look here. You see, I couldn’t be by myself. I wouldn’t be able to stand it. Anywhere else he’d figure it out and find me. And you seem… kind. I think you’re a good person.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that.’