And the fourth thing I knew for surely—cos if you’re paying us heed and not just sitting there picking your nose and wondering what you’ll have for tea, you’ll recall me saying there was four things I knew for surely—is that I were fucking thirsty.
That’s right—I said that one already. Give yourself a gold star and shut your fucking hole. I says it twice for a reason, see:
Thirsty enough for two fellers, I were.
Anyhow, you can be thirsty as you likes, but if you ain’t got a penny to your name nor a drop in the house you ain’t gonna get far. These was desperate times all right. And you knows what desperate times calls for.
‘All right, Doug,’ I says when he popped up behind his counter at last.
‘All right, Royston,’ he says, eyes narrowing. Not enough so’s I couldn’t see how bloodshot they was, mind. ‘Well?’
‘Come for me fags and lager, ain’t I?’
His lids widened a bit. But not in any jovial way. He shouldered past us and looked both ways out the door, then came back in front of us and says, stubbly chin thrust out at us: ‘You what?’
‘Fags and lager, ennit?’ I started whistling but it didn’t sound right so I stopped. ‘You know, me dues. I done what you hired us for, ennit?’
After a bit he says: ‘How’s that, then?’ He weren’t smiling.
‘Your feller—Nick Wossname. Done him over, ain’t I? “Smack him around a bit,” you says t’other day. “Then you can have this little pile here. In payment, like.” Well cough up, then. Fair’s fair. I done my bit.’
I were getting a bit fed up with Doug, if I’m honest. And his starey eyes and silent approach to conversation weren’t helping matters. All right, so I were feeding him a plate of shite with nary a flicker of shame, but shame don’t help you if shite’s what you’re feeding. And these was desperate times.
‘Where’s my girl?’ he barks at last.
‘Ah, right…’ Cos I’d forgot about that bit. ‘In town somewhere.’
‘You what?’
‘I says in—’
‘I told you go on an’ bring her back here. Where is she?’
‘I had her. I swear I did. Got her away from Nick Wossname, didn’t I? All set to come home with us, she were, but the fuckin’ cow slipped us and hared off. She’ll be all right, mind. Turn up here in an hour or so like as not. Right, then…#8217; I says, rubbing me paws and peering over his shoulder. ‘Out there, is they?’
He did some more staring at us. And I’ll tell you summat—I didn’t much care for Doug’s stares. Staring’s a fine art in Mangel. Some can do it, some can’t. But that ain’t the end of it. There’s staring, see, and there’s staring fit to turn a feller’s blood to black pudding. And that’s what Doug the shopkeeper were doing there for a minute or two.
‘All right,’ I says, feeling me pudding turning black. ‘All right, Doug, keep yer fuckin’ hairpiece on.’ I turned arse.
‘An’ I’ll tell you summat,’ he says as I opened the door. ‘You’ll get nuthin’ from us until that little girl is back here where she belongs.’
I started crossing the road, feeling a bit sick. ‘Tell you what,’ he says behind us from his open doorway. His voice had softened somewhat so I stopped. ‘Bring her back before sunset the morrer an’ I’ll double the bounty. How’s that sound?’
‘Eight hundred tins? And fags?’ I says.
‘You’ve had some already.’
‘Around eight hundred of each, you says?’
‘Go on then,’ he says, pulling the door shut as he spoke. ‘Just bring her back safe.’
Doubling the bounty were a marvellous thing, but the cob in me pants were drooping already by the time I slotted key in door. I were stepping into a home bereft of life’s comforts. Weren’t even no whisky in there, far as I knew. I’d been meaning to tax another bottle off Hoppers but hadn’t had chance, what with this and that. So it were with a heavy heart, a knackered pair of pins, a sore set of gums, and a bruised arse that I shut the door behind us.
I sat said arse gently down at the kitchen table and buried face in paws. I ain’t one to yield easy to self-pity, I can tell you, but there’s only so fucking much a feller can take, ain’t there? I mean, ain’t there? Put up and shut your face, I heard a feller say once or twice. And I reckon he had it about right. But I’ll bet me trousers he hadn’t got as low as meself without having a glass and a smoke to keep his nose above water. Or some coinage to get it with. Or a mate to share his woes with.
And that gave us an idea.
I cleared me throat and knocked on Finney’s door. He’d surprised us earlier by not being in, but he’d be home now for surely. Cripple can’t stay out for long on his tod. Who’s gonna wipe his arse for him?
But there was no answer.
I knocked again. He’d be fast akip in his pit, like as not. And there was nothing stopping us walking on in. But if you’re aiming to tap a feller for a few quid you’d best be polite. ‘Come on, you cunt,’ I says politely, knocking a bit more. Still no sound. I went in.
He weren’t there. Nor his cripple chair neither.
I stood in the middle of the floor, scratching my head. It worried us a bit, him being out so long. He were a cripple, weren’t he? What’s a cripple doing out and about at night?
Still, no good fretting over Finney.
Next morning I woke up on the floor. I sat on the bed and took a few deep ones for a while, getting used to not being akip no more. ‘S’all right,’ I were saying to meself. ‘Just another one o’ them flyin’ cunt dreams.’ I repeated that a few times then got up and made my way across the landing.
Like all dreams, the flavour had wore off by the time I’d had a piss. I brushed me teeth, splashed me face, and threw on some gear. None of them things made us feel the way they ought to. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d got washed up and dressed that early, so the novelty ought to have had us whistling and frolicking. But it weren’t. Felt like shite, didn’t I? Not your normal shite, mind. It were on account of it not being your normal shite what made it so shite, in fact. Know what I mean?
No?
Fuck sake…you’re hard work, ain’t you? All right, I’ll paint him black and white, just for you:
I’d had fuck all to drink last night, ennit?
One pint in Hoppers and a sip of whisky is all. My head were clear, thoughts buzzing round it like little buzzing fellers. But I didn’t like it that way. Felt like I had a beehive for a brain. No, I liked me thinker nice and fuzzy of a morn. I liked to start off rough and ease meself into the day gradual. I were a fucking doorman, for fuck sake. A doorman, up at half nine with a clear head? I were letting meself go, is what I were doing. I went down the stair.
I opened the fridge and reached for that bag of sprouts over there. Big old bag he were, and you never knew what were lurking behind, me having plonked it and forgot it weeks ago. The paper gave way and summat looking like sprout soup and stinking like landfill spilled out and onto me boots. The bit of shelf it had been on were black with mildew. I found that a bit odd, cos you ain’t meant to get mildew in your fridge, I don’t think. Mind you, I’d been wondering for months if that fridge weren’t bust—the seal around the door were coming off anyhow. But I forgot all about all that when I found a tin of lager there, right in the corner.
I reached for him.
He didn’t want to come at first. The mold and fungus and what have you had growed up around and fused him to the fridge, like. I tugged hard and at last popped him from his furry cradle. It were only half a can as it turned out, and I swore a bit as a few drops sloshed out the open top. Finney’d put it there like as not after I’d nodded off at the table one night. Course, it’d be flat by now, but flat lager’s better that no lager in my experience. I got a knife from the sink and cleaned up the outside of the can, then put it to me lips.
Ah, it were lager all right. Not even the onslaught of nature could take that away from it. And it hit the required spot quite nicely, if you
made a few allowances. But I weren’t sure about them crunchy bits. Especially not when one of em started wriggling under me tongue. And when a big old earwig crawled out the can and waggled his feelers at us I heard a female voice piping up somewhere inside us, saying: Royston Blake, you got a drinking problem.
I got the sieve out the cupboard and used it to get all the bugs out of my lager. That were the first use I’d ever had for that sieve. Been me mam’s at one time I supposed, if you went back far enough. Fuck knew what she’d used it for, but straining earwigs and woodlices out of pop weren’t it, like as not.
Ah, if she could see us now.
I leaned back on the sink and supped the lager out of a mug. I’d never seen her, mind. Not even a photo. But I still felt a twinge of shame at the thought of her up there, looking down on her only begotten youngun drinking such manky beer.
I tipped the lager down the sink and went to the door. Mam were right, bless her—I did have a drinking problem. No son of hers ought to be reduced to drinking that old cat spray. No, I ought to be drinking proper lager, out of cans that ain’t been opened yet. And far as I could see there were only one way I could get hold of some:
Find Mona and collect me dues off of Doug.
10
SWEET TEST INCONCLUSIVE
Robbie Sleeter, Junior Reporter
Police scientists Dr G. Gumb and Dr B. Wimmer were forced to abandon the controversial testing of unidentified sweets on human subjects when all four volunteers fled the laboratory.
‘I just can’t understand it,’ said Dr Gumb. ‘They were all here the one minute, sucking and chewing on the sweets. I turn around to drink my tea and read the paper, and next thing you know they’re gone. I just can’t understand it. You can’t either, can you, Brian?’
‘No,’ replied Dr Wimmer.
‘To be honest I thought it might have been down to the tea. Me making a cuppa for meself must have put their noses out of joint, I reckon. But I couldn’t have given them tea. Laboratory conditions don’t allow for the drinking of tea. Do they, Brian?’
‘No,’ replied Dr Wimmer.
‘But I would have made them some after, honest I would. Looks like I won’t get chance now though. Anyhow, we’d just like to say this to those volunteers, if they’re watching: Please come in and tell us what happened after you left here. Did your hair fall out? Did you start talking funny? Perhaps you experienced strong sexual urges? Please come in and tell us, so we can write it down. Anyone who does so will get some tea.’
‘Right,’ I says, opening the front door. ‘No more fuckin’ about.’
I were right, you know. That’s what I’d been doing of late, ennit? Fucking about. Royston Blake, letting an overgrowed youngun swipe his job from under him? Getting his tyres slashed in Norbert Green, thereby stranding his Capri there? And allowing the cruel wossnames of fate&212;with the help of Dave—to fuck up the things I had done proper, like getting a new job as Mangel’s top minder and helping out Mona? Fucking about is what I calls that. From now on I were doing things proper.
I waited twenty minutes for a bus before recalling how I didn’t have no coinage anyhow. I thought about going back to tap some off Fin, who’d rolled in after I’d crashed, like as not. But it’d been hard enough getting past Doug’s without him clocking us, and I didn’t fancy risking it again. I cursed my bastard luck and started walking.
Tell you what, mind—there’s summat to be said for being skint and having your motor stuck in Norbert Green. I were getting used to walking, weren’t I? In a way. As I’ve said before and like as not will say again—fellers ain’t build for yomping. Yomping’s for tramps, housewives, and boot coppers, as everyone knows. But that morning I were almost enjoying it. Air were clean and not so stinking as it were by habit. Nice and crispy and all, nigh on stinging me nostrils with crispiness when I sucked too much too fast. But that might have been on account of the flattening that Frankenstein had gave it t’other night. Me pins was bursting with beans and all. Felt like I could walk halfway round the world without stopping, I did. And I would have and all, if leaving Mangel were summat a feller could reasonably do. But it weren’t, ain’t, and never will be.
And besides, I were fucking knackered by the time I reached Mangel Infirmary.
Doing me own headwork, I were, see. My custom were to visit Nathan the barman when summat needed knowing. He’d always furnish us with the required nugget if I made a fair exchange of it. But since him being my boss I’d stopped requiring them sorts of nuggets. Nathan casting his portly shadow over my affairs had the effect of keeping us out of shite, and when your nose is clean you’ve got no call for Nathan’s help. And besides, last time I’d called on him for that I’d ended up with me face splashed over the Mangel Informer with the word KILLER under it. But that’s a story I already told and ain’t telling again.
So like I says, I were working things out for meself this time. About time I started doing that, I were thinking as I staggered through the glass doors. Me pins was knackered and wobbling, but my head were all right, up for tackling any of life’s shite. Me thinker were feeling sharp, and though I hadn’t liked it that way upon getting up, the walk downtown had blew air through me ears and settled it all down a bit.
‘All right, love,’ I says to the bird there. She were a lass in her twenties with nice shiny dark hair tied up behind her head. Tits wasn’t up to much, but her face made up for it a bit, though no amount of prettiness can truly balance out that kind of shortage.
I waited for her to say hiya and flash us a little smile perhaps, but instead she says: ‘You’re banned.’
I looked behind us to make sure she had the right feller. There were only meself nearby so I says: ‘Come again, love?’
‘Royston Blake, aren’t you? Says here you’re banned.’
‘Says where?’ I says, leaning over the bartop.
‘You ain’t meant to…Get off.’ She were off and running out back before I could get a proper hold of her a. I shook my head and got the bit of paper she had down there. Next to a photo of yours truly—the one from the papers a couple year back—it said: ROYSTON ROGER BLAKE. DO NOT APPROACH OR ENGAGE IN CONVERSATION. LIKELY TO BE VIOLENT. CALL SECURITY IMMEDIATELY.
Well fuck me, I were thinking as the bird came back out front, security guard in tow. ‘Well fuck me,’ I says as the guard moved to the fore, egged on by the bird. ‘All right, Don.’
‘All right, Blakey. How’s you?’
‘Not so bad. Where’s Burt?’
‘Dunno. We ain’t married, you know.’
‘I knows that but I always sees you two…ah, never mind.’
‘Shame about Hoppers, eh.’
‘Aye. How’d you hear?’
‘Hear what?’
‘Lost me job.’
‘Lost yer job, have you?’
‘Aye.’
‘Sorry to hear that, Blakey.’
‘Aye, fuckin’ bastards.’
‘Fuckin’ right.’
‘So how’d you hear?’
‘You just telled us.’
‘Did I?’
‘Anyhow, shame about Hoppers, ennit?’
‘Aye.’ I reached in me jacket pocket for a smoke then recalled how I were hungry, skint, and fagless. ‘What is?’
Don gave us a smoke and had one himself. I were grateful for that cos it fucking reeked in that hospital as usual. Reeked of shite and death and open wounds left to go manky. Don offered one to the bird but she didn’t seem to notice, so wrapped up were she in our conversation. ‘Hoppers, I’m on about,’ says Don. ‘Shame what iss come to, ennit?’
‘What, you mean that feller on the door?’
‘Feller…? No, the punters in there now. Younguns, ain’t they? Full o’ fuckin’ younguns.’
‘Aye, well…could be you gettin’ old, that.’
‘Ain’t just me says it. Everyone else do an’ all.’
‘Who’s everyone?’
‘Everyone who drinks in Hoppers. Proper punt
ers, not them screamers you has in there now. Time were you could rely on Hoppers to keep younguns out. Forager’s Arms is where they goes, not a proper drinkin’ place like yer Hoppers. But look at it now—all younguns and that stuff…woss they call it? Joey, aye.’
‘Joey? Who the fu—?’
‘Aye. Your fault an’ all, I says. You on the door, ennit? Younguns can’t get in without your say so, can they? Well, ta very much, Blakey. Ta for fuckin’ up Mangel’s only decent piss house. Always knew we’d lose Hoppers one day with you on the door, what with your mental pro—’
‘Excuse me,’ says the bird. She looked upset about summat.
‘What?’ says Don.
‘You gonna chuck him out or what?’
‘Who?’
‘Him. Royston Blake.’ She didn’t look happy.
‘Why?’
‘Cos he’s banned. Here on this list, he is,’ she says, grabbing it out of my hand. ‘ROYSTON ROGER BLAKE…LIKELY TO BE VIOLENT…HISTORY OF MENTAL ILLNESS…CALL SECURITY IMMEDIATELY. Well? You’re security, ain’t you? Chuck him out.’
Don looked at her for a bit, smoking his fag and blowing it in her face. Then he says: ‘Nah, harmless, ain’t he? Poor old cunt,’ and went off out back again.
She turned to us and set her chin firm. ‘Kindly leave. Else I’ll call the police.’
‘Look, love…’
She picked up the blower, dialled, and starting murmuring. After that she says to us: ‘I’d go now if I were you. Police on their way.’
‘Look, you dunno what I’m here for yet.’
‘Ain’t interested. Banned, you are.’
‘But what if I’ve broke me leg or summat?’
‘Banned, I said.’
‘What if I got a lurgy, and the whole town gets it if you don’t cure us?’
‘Ain’t interested.’
‘All right,’ I says, ‘all right, I’ll come clean. I ain’t got no lurgey. I’m in top health and fit as a farm cat, as you can see. All I wants to know is…’
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