Booze and Burn

by Charlie Williams

  ‘All right, Jack,’ I says.

  Jack nodded at us, which told us that he were sober. Jack hardly ever said a word when he were dry. Which were good really cos when he did open his mouth he stunk the place out, him with his breath. You couldn’t blame him, mind, not for his breath nor his drinking nor his untalkativeness and that. He’d had a hard life. You had to go easy on the poor fucker. One day in Mangel Jail is too much for most men, so they says, and Jack had spent six year in the fucking place.

  I breathed easy when he fucked off to a quiet corner with his pint and paper. Jack were harmless enough. If you didn’t spill his pint. And you held your puff while he spoke to you. But to be honest I didn’t much like being around him. It’s cos I’d knowed him before, see, before he’d gone inside. And seeing what Mangel Jail had done to him always got to us a bit. Mind you, weren’t so low he couldn’t buy himself a pint, were he?

  I sat on me stool, twiddling me thumbs, thinking about that fact. I noticed a dead pint a little ways along the bar. About a third left inside there were. Never could understand them who don’t finish off their pints knowing full well there’s folks in shite countries who has to go without. Good lager it were, if a bit flat by now. I edged along the bar until the pint were bang in front of us, then sat tight until I felt confident that no one were clocking. They weren’t, course. Why would anyone want to look at a doorless doorman?

  I picked up the pint and drank it slow. While I done that I tried to make out what they was all carping on about behind us. I couldn’t. Talking too low they was, one after t’other like they was having a meeting or summat. What was they all here for anyhow? Hoppers were their pub, for most of em. Not the Paul Pry. I had a reason to drink here meself: Hoppers were a place of graft for me, and I needed a change of air in me off hours. But them? What right had they to come here, whispering like a bunch of fucking…bunch of…you know, whisperers or summat. And what was they on about anyhow?

  Bet they was talking about meself.

  There I were, Mr. Dozy Fucking Twat Ex-doorman, thinking no one were paying us heed. And all the while them cunts behind us was pointing and having a laugh at us.

  Hark at old Blakey over there, out of work and penniless, unable to pay his way, supping leftovers.

  Bastards.

  ‘Eh, Blakey,’ one of em calls out. ‘What d’you say to that?’

  ‘What?’ I says, spinning to face em. ‘Woss I fuckin’ say to what?’

  No one answered us for a bit and I weren’t sure who’d asked anyhow. I sat there nice and calm, waiting for me answer. But all I got were nervous looks. And not too many of them, neither. Most of em looked at the floor or swilled the beer around in their glasses.

  ‘Now, now, Blake,’ says Nathan behind us. ‘We’re all on your side here.’

  I looked back at him, wondering what he were on about now. The punters started chattering again. I noticed my heart were beating hard but starting to slow a bit.

  ‘What you sees here,’ says Nathan, all low and confiding, ‘what you sees in this here bar, Blakey, is what is known as an exodus.’ He nodded over my shoulder. ‘These lads here is the dispossessed of the Mangel drinking community.’ Someone put an empty atop the bar and Nathan went to serve him.

  While he were gone I thought hard about what he’d said just there. When he came back I says: ‘You fuckin’ what?’

  ‘Exiles, Blake. Good, honest punters exiled from their natural habitat, which happens to be your former place of employ.’

  I wished I had a fag. And another pint. ‘Hoppers, you mean?’

  ‘Aye, Blake, I means Hoppers. Folks has stopped drinkin’ there of a sudden. Been restin’ yer eyes of late, has you? Open em, Blake, and you’ll see that Mangel is changin’ under our very hooters.’

  ‘Well,’ I says. Nathan had put another one in front of us so I drained half of it off. Mind you, I still hadn’t coughed up for the first, so I dunno what he were playing at. Ain’t my place to question Nathan’s motives though, is it? ‘Well,’ I says, licking foam off me top lip. ‘Well…’

  ‘Gat summat to say, Blake? Besides a preamble, that is?’

  ‘Aye…I mean no, you’re right. I mean, this Nick Wossname…’

  ‘Nopoly.’

  ‘Eh? Anyhow, this Nick Wossname…it’s him, ennit, all this bollocks? Since he comes along it’s all gone to shite, like.’

  Nathan were smoothing down his tash. ‘I ain’t disagreein’ with that, Blake.’

  ‘I mean, fancy gettin’ someone else on the fuckin’ door. Woss he fuckin’ playin’ at? I’m the fuckin’ head doorman of Hoppers. You knows it an’ I knows it and so do every fucker else. These fellers here is disprocessed, you says? You knows why that is, right? Cos I ain’t on the door there no more. Cos of fuckin’ Frankie there instead, standin’ there like a…’

  ‘Blake…’

  ‘…a fuckin’…you know, a…’

  ‘Blake, just—’

  ‘An’ you knows what? You fuckin’ knows what, does you? Cos I’ll fuckin’ tell you, I will. See this? See my face here where he bust it? Here an’ all. An’ there’s this bit here…’

  ‘Blake, listen…’

  ‘Catched us by surprise, he did. Bein’ nice to him, I were, givin’ him the doubt of his benefits an’ that, an’ he fuckin’…wearin’ dusters an’ all he were, else he’d never of…plus he were clutchin’ some lead or summat…’

  ‘Shut it and listen.’

  I hadn’t ever heard Nathan the barman shout so loud. Voice raising weren’t part of his repertoire, you might say. Had no need of it, did Nathan. Which were why I did like he says and shut me gob. And so did every other fucker in the Paul Pry on that particular weekday afternoon, going by the silence that ensued.

  ‘You lot carry on,’ he snapped at the punters, waving his arm. ‘Go on.’

  They went on and carried on.

  ‘Now,’ he says, leaning his hairy arms atop the bar and putting his swede not far from mine. ‘This here’s a quiet establishment by reputation, as well you knows. Always has been that way and always will be, that being the way I likes things. Folks in large number means trouble. And trouble, as well you also knows, I don’t much like. But right now—at this moment in the long history of this here pub—the Paul Pry ain’t quiet.’

  He took a sip of his drink and wiped the froth off of his tash. It were only lemonade, mind. Nathan never touched lager, to my knowledge.

  ‘Now, I don’t like that, Blakey. I don’t like that at all. I wants peace and quiet restored, and the only way I sees that happenin’ is when them over there gets their Hoppers back.’

  ‘But, Nathan…’ I says.

  ‘What is it?’ he says, all impatient like.

  ‘Can I have another pint, mate?’

  ‘Never you mind that,’ he barks, eyes ablaze. ‘You’ll get your beer soon enough. But you does what I says first. Right?’

  ‘But…’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘I…’ But it were no use. Nathan were a higher being, weren’t he? And as such I were powerless in his presence. ‘Dunno, really.’ I shrugged.

  He picked up a cloth and started mopping the bartop like I weren’t there. I were starting to regret asking him for that pint there now. I mean, I fucking needed one and that. To be fair I needed one like I’d never needed summat before. But it looked like I’d stuck me chin out too far and made him go quiet on us. His flow were broke beyond repair. And now that he were holding it back, I wanted it. I wanted to know what he had in mind.

  But I were fretting needlessly. He turned to us all casual and says: ‘I wants you back in Hoppers. On the door.’

  I nodded. ‘Too fuckin’ right. I belongs—’

  ‘No, not like that,’ he says. ‘I wants you on that door so’s I can get that feller out. He’s a bad un, Blake. This town will come to no good with him here. Look at my pub already,’ he says, almost spitting at the punters behind us. ‘Look at em. Blinkin’ layabouts to the man. They can do
what they wants in Hoppers but they ain’t doin’ it in my pub.’

  ‘But, Nathan,’ I says, ‘why not just turn em out if you don’t want em?’

  ‘How can I? I’m a fair man, Blake. I knows when a debt’s owed, and right now them lot’s due summat from us, bein’ as it were me sold Hoppers to that individual in the first place.’

  ‘Aye, thass true,’ I says. Cos I’d been meaning to mention that.

  ‘Thass true? Thass flippin’ true? Who’s you to blinkin’ say woss true or ain’t? Woss you know about arcane knowledge and covert machinations, eh? Eh?’

  ‘Well, er…’ I says, wanting to scratch me ear but fighting it. ‘Mashed what?’

  He shook his head and drained his soft drink. ‘Just listen here,’ he says. ‘Here’s how you’ll get yer job back…’

  Course, I were fucked now, weren’t I? Nathan had kept us there yakking the best part of fuck knows how long, and I were meant to be up Hurk Wood in that much shy of an hour. As I’ve said many a time, walking ain’t one of the many things I does best. Don’t worry, I won’t go on about it again, even though it is one o’ them things that just can’t be gone on about enough times in my book. And this is my fucking book, ennit, so…

  Ah, fuck you.

  Anyhow, what I were trying to get at there is how I came to be trying handles along the Cutler Road that day, and how the only one that weren’t locked were the one belonging to the Hillman Imp. All right? So no fucking taking the piss. Necessity is the mother of all evil, as they says, or summat. And four wheels is four fucking wheels. They says that and all.

  Mind you, by the time I had her pointed north on the Barkettle Road I were starting to come round to that little Imp, believe it or no. What you loses in nigh on every area, you gains in headroom for the taller driver such as meself. Plus that little engine in the back there were revving like a Catherine wheel with nary a tremble, and I just knew she’d keep it up as long as I asked her to. I’d even go far as to say she were moving slowly up my rankings. Against all the odds she’d hauled her ugly arse off the bottom spot and gone one above your Avenger, and were just now holding back for a go at your Viva. But then I clocked our reflection in the windows of Cullimore Storage & Distribution, and the dream of glory were over for her. Seeing yourself in a Hillman Imp is like when you’re in bed trying to get to kip and you feel a big spider scuttle over your face.

  I pulled up there and then. I weren’t driving that nail not one minute longer. And no four-eyed cunt were making us do it, no matter how many daughters of Doug the shopkeeper he’d run over and kidnapped.

  But then it started raining.

  And it’s a foolish man who ignores his omens.

  I swallowed hard and got going again. Least no one would see us. And even if they did recognise us, they’d talk emselves out of it. Every fucker in Mangel knew where I stood on Hillman Imps, so no one would believe I’d drive one. And besides, by the time I caught sight of the phone box in Hurk Wood I were getting used to her again.

  The rain were easing off as I pulled up. I checked me watch: ten minutes late. But not even Dave’d be so barmy as to call the coppers out. I might get collared for aiding and abetting, but what about him? He’d fucking ran her over, hadn’t he? So phoning the coppers’d be like eating shite to make your brother chuck up.

  ‘Time d’you call this?’ he says, stepping out the phone box.

  ‘Thought you says you’d be over by yonder larches?’ says I.

  ‘I were, till you failed to turn up at the agreed minute.’

  ‘Joshin’, ain’t you?’

  ‘No I ain’t. You was late.’

  ‘Only a couple o’ fuckin’ minutes. Woss you gone an’ done?’ I could feel me fingernails cutting into me palms. Dave were wearing his glasses again, held together by some old chongy by the looks of him. But hitting a speccy feller never had been a problem for us. Why should four-eyed cunts get away with it? If a four-eyed cunt’s asking for it, he’s asking for it. Fuck him and his glasses. ‘Come on, spill.’

  He thought about it and says: ‘Who says I done summat?’

  ‘You. On the blower just now.’

  ‘Never says that. I…B-Blake, come on, mate…put us down.’

  ‘Fuckin’ tell us now.’

  ‘I…take it easy, Blakey. I never done nuthin’, honest. Just havin’ me little laugh is all…Let us go, Blake. You’ll rip me coat.’

  I knew I wouldn’t cos them donkey jackets is like chainmail, unless you puts a Stanley to em. But I let go anyho You could see in them big speccy eyes of his how he were givin’ us it straight now. ‘Windin’ us up then, was you?’

  ‘Aye,’ he says, setting his glasses right. ‘Soz, Blake.’

  ‘And what the fuck for should I help you now, eh? Reckon I drives Imps for fun, does you? Reckon I comes out to Hurk Wood cos I likes lookin’ at trees?’

  ‘I says I’m sorry. I just wanted to…’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well…’ He made a choking sound, like he had a chicken bone stuck down his neck. I were all set to wallop him on the back when he done it again, a bit different this time. I looked in his big goldfish eyes and saw that he were crying. He sniffed hard, took his glasses off, then rubbed his eyes and pulled himself straight. I were glad of that. If there’s one thing worse than a Hillman Imp it’s a feller bawling. You asks me, fellers who bawls ought to be made to drive Hillman Imps. They deserves each other.

  Dave put his glasses back on and says: ‘Everyone takes advantage of old Dave, don’t they? Every blinkin’ one of em. And they all expects us to take it. Well, I’ve had it, Blake. I’ve blinkin’ had it. I ain’t takin’ no more of it, I ain’t. An’ I’ll show em. I blinkin’ will, you know. Next feller pushes us I’ll…’

  He reached inside his donkey jacket and pulled summat out. At first I thought it were one o’ them novelty fag lighters you keeps on the table. Then the barrel glinted and I knew it were an actual pistol.

  He waved it around, tears streaming down his ruddy cheeks. ‘I’ll blinkin’…’ he sobs. ‘I’ll blinkin’ show em…’

  ‘Dave,’ I says.

  He stopped crying and gun waving and clocked us like he’d forgot I were there. Then he put the gun away and wiped his eyes and says: ‘Soz, mate.’ But you could tell he were still upset.

  I were stumped for what to do. I wanted to ask him where the fuck he’d got that firearm. And what did he have it for anyhow? But I couldn’t even believe he had it. Dave, waving a gun around? It were like having a sheep growl at you—it don’t make no sense and you ain’t sure how to take it. So I says: ‘Fuck sake, Dave,’ and walked off toward the larches.

  There’d be summat coming along the road sooner or later anyhow, and I didn’t want to be clocked. Dave had already been spotted, like as not, twat that he were, but just cos he were in shite didn’t mean I had to jump in with him, as I’ve said before. He were walking alongside us anyhow by the time I’d crossed half the twenty odd yard to the larches. Which were a good thing, as it turned out. Cos I’d had an idea, hadn’t I?

  I stopped and says: ‘Dave.’ Well, I more whispered it than said it.

  And Dave answered same way. ‘What?’ He were back to normal now.

  ‘You ain’t mentioned us to her?’

  He looked thick for a bit then says: ‘No, ain’t said nuthin’ to her besides “it’ll be all r” and “there there,” an’ that.’

  ‘Nice one. Right, well we got a problem.’

  I explained it to him nice and simple. He were a bit confused but seemed all right about it. I made sure he knew what to do and what I had planned, then sent him ahead while I stayed back a few minutes.

  Weren’t like it were a shite plan nor nothing. As plans went, it were all right. But it were the details what done for us, out there in Hurk Wood that day.

  If you want to er-change the…

  I tried hard to work em out, them details, but that fucking Minder tune were back in me swede and I couldn’t think for
toffee nor sprouts. I’d spotted a way of getting back in with Nick Wossname, see, which meant my minding career were back off the ground. And not only that, neither. The way he tossed coinage about I were set for a nice little bonus, weren’t I?

  Right people, right time…

  I tried shaking me swede and sticking thumbs in me eyes, but it didn’t work. Dennis Waterman wouldn’t fucking shut up with his warbling. After a bit I gave up on the details and got on with it. Which were a pity, considering the amount of grief I’d have avoided by turning arse and going home. But like I says just now, it weren’t like the plan were shite. It were the…

  I’ve got a good…

  Ah, for fuck sake—there he goes again, round and round me swede like a lost tapeworm without a roadmap. Fucking shut it, Dennis, will you? I’m trying to tell em about how you and your fucking tune fucked it all up for us out there in the woods. No disrespect, mind. Minder were a fucking smart telly program. Even if you never saw much of that white Capri after the opening bits.

  She didn’t look too happy. On her back she were, but her eyes was wide and bulging like eggs set to plop out a chicken’s hole. Arms was tied afore her with leccy cable, and her gob were gagged with what looked to be an old sock strapped in with more cable. So no, she didn’t look happy at all.

  Dave were sat on the trunk of a fallen tree, leg bouncing up and down. Looked like he were waiting for summat to happen—which is what I told him not to look like. Cos summat were about to happen, and Mona were meant to think he knew fuck all about it.

  I’d been spying through the thinning branches of one of them larches. I took a step back, aiming to walk round t’other side. Summat big cracked underfoot. Dry branch under the fallen leaves, like as not. But knowing Hurk Wood the way I knew it, I wondered if it were a leg bone. Anyhow, the crack were loud enough to set Mona off. She started wailing, though she couldn’t get much of a noise through that sock. I had a quick gander and Dave hadn’t budged.