Pig Iron

by Benjamin Myers

  It was adoration. He just had a way. A way of holding himsel. A look. You could see it in the way people acted around him an all. They never looked at him square on, always sideways, after he’d passed.

  Mebbe they recognised him, I thought. Mebbe they had seen him scrapping down at the Big Meeting that spring, when all the collieries had paraded their flags and the knuckle men went behind the big tops and tents and stalls to settle some scores.

  I was just a wee slip of a thing. Just gone fifteen and green as spring corn cobs. I knew nowt about the world, nowt about anything much but how to get the logs in and how to polish brass pots so bright you’re the envy of all the magpies to fifty mile and back.

  *

  You ever worked with ice cream before, Johnno?

  What do you think, I want to say. Course I bloody haven’t. And you can stop calling us bloody Johnno an all, daft get.

  But I bite my lip and keep quiet because I need this job. I need to get some money together to get away. Away from the town of ghosts before they suck us back in.

  I’ve eaten a few, like.

  Funny says Arty. But he’s not smiling.

  Arty is Tony’s Dad. Arty Vicari.

  Arty and Tony Vicari.

  Tony was in Deerbolt with us. He was this smackhead lad who had somehow ended up getting three year for accidentally kidnapping some bloke. If that makes him sound tough he wasn’t; he was just another daft knacker in hot water thanks to a hankering for the brown powder, like most of the herberts in there. It was summat to do with tying up a dealer that he owed money to, or owed him, or shagged his girlfriend. It didn’t really matter. I heard similar stories every other week from someone or other in there. Knobheads, the lot of them.

  He was nowt to look at, Tony. A proper streak of piss he was. All ribs and elbows and wide eyes like a little spuggie waiting for a worm. He was taller than me but he just had the look about him. Textbook soft touch. It’s not how big you are, it’s how you hold yersel. That’s one thing me dad learnt us. One of the only things he said that made sense. And the way Tony Vicari held himself advertised his vulnerability like a roadside billboard.

  It wasn’t long before the lads moved in. That trial period where they’ll leave you be until they’ve sussed out whether you’re a nutter or not had passed and Tony V had failed with flying colours. He was nee nutter. Neither am I mind, but at least I can pretend. Tony trying to act hard only made it worse. Lads already knew that Mr Whippy was his dad.

  The lads. Them half dozen dribblers, knuckleheads and underfed nerks who had got this far on brute force and brainless stupidity, already institutionalised by the time they were old enough to tax. They were real medieval merchants this lot, proper old fashioned in their approach to antagonism. Ambushes, shanks in the arse and pans of boiling water were their idea of fun. Sexual assaults and imaginative humilitations. Bum business; all that stuff you probably read about. Like I say, soft as shite on their own. But they were rarely on their own.

  Well they had young Tony pinned as another soppy victim, quicksticks. And they wouldn’t leave the lad alone, always mithering him and niggling him, making life hell for a bit of fun.

  We all of us got it; it’s how you first handle it that matters.

  It started subtle – just enough to crush him slowly: piss in his tea, skids on his pillow, snapped phonecards. Anything to keep themsels amused. Grabbing his cock all the time, joking that they were going to tear his hole. It was all hot air to anyone with a bit of summat about them, but unfortunately for him Tony had nowt about him, and nee-one looking out for him neither, so it took him all of five minutes before he started to crumble.

  That’s when I stepped in with a bit of baccy and a few friendly words after his daily fleecing in the rec room left him on the floor clutching a sore jaw and balls and his kecks round his ankles.

  Listen, I telt him. Low-key is the way in here. Mystery and that.

  Aye, I telt him. You don’t want to go about pretending you’re summat you’re not because nee-one’ll believe you. You talk too much; you need to keep it on the down-low. Be mysterious. Freak them out. And don’t be blubbing into your pillow for your mam neither.

  I helped him up.

  Because if I were you I’d occupy the middle ground, always try and remain whatsit. Aye, impartial. Blend in. Don’t scare and don’t be scared. Be subtle. A few words. The odd favour. Nee shit-stirring. Be low-key. That’s all it takes.

  That’s all I said to him. Owt that anybody with half a brain would tell you, but you’d think I’d just saved his bloody life or summat. After that he stuck to us like glue, like a bloody shadow, all thanks-John-John this anything-you-need-John-John that.

  I had to tell him to cool it right down.

  See, you’re trying too hard again, I telt him. You don’t need to be up me ringpiece all the time. Find your own way. The lads’ll be bored of you soon enough. Any day now, you’ll see.

  He perked up after that. Perked up and opened up. Telt us his Dad ran the vans and did good business selling ices to the charvers and the pit-yackers and the touroids around the town and down at the Miner’s Gala when the sun was shining. Telt us he’d repay the favour one day; telt us he’d already put in the word with his Dad Arty.

  He’s not bothered about you being a gyppo, he said. Reckons he likes you lot.

  All I had to do, he went on, was call up his auld man when I got out and tell him I was a marrer of his flapping-mouthed feckless junkie kidnapper of a son.

  You know what us Italians are like, he said. Family orientated and that. Any friend of mine and all that. You know – just like the Corleones.

  The what?

  You know, The Godfather?

  Na. Don’t know that gadge.

  Well, we always return favours.

  OK Tony, I said, thinking to mesel: aye, right. OK.

  But it turned out that unlike most of the yarn-spinning workie tickets inside, Tony Vicari has been true to his word because here I am, months later, talking to his auld man Arty, who sounds reluctant but says to us, aye come and see us first thing tomorrow, early like, and I’ll try and fix you up with summat. Nee promises.

  And five on the dot mind, he says.

  Aye.

  That’s five in the morning, he says like he’s not expecting us to turn up.

  Aye.

  Is that a problem for you?

  Nor.

  You’ll not be sleeping through the alarm because you’ve been doing bongs all night.

  Na.

  Or chasing blinge.

  Na.

  Or out on the rob.

  What ye saying, like?

  Good. See you then.

  Bingo, I’m thinking. Have that, you gimlets.

  *

  When them three months were up and the hay bales were in the barns and the leaves were curling we did get married.

  It’s too soon, said your Granda, though there was nowt much he could do about it once them Wisdoms started planning a party. He said nee good’ll come of it. You’ll see.

  But marry him I did, and the wedding lasted all weekend as Wisdoms and Dunnes and many more travelling families besides gathered from across the north and far beyond to join the holy communion – or drunken commotion as your Granda Dunne called it.

  It were a church wedding and then later when the formalities were over we did throw a git big party down the road at the Edenside site where we were to live as husband and wife, just up the hill and cross the fields from Godric’s Abbey.

  A fire was built, songs were sung, new marrers made and some auld scores were settled too. I barely knew people there, the most of them coming from the Wisdom side. There was drinking and there was gambling on the cards and the spinning coin game they called headinams, and it went on long into the night and right through to the next day. Money was made and money was lost and bottles were drained past dawn.

  And when dawn came we got out the skillets and fried bacon and eggs on the open fire then the c
arousing started all over again. Those that wanted sleep crawled into caravans until the heat and their headaches woke them, and those that didn’t, didn’t.

  For once Mac kept out of the fighting. It would be a foolish man that stepped up to a Wisdom, on his wedding night, but more than that he seemed fit to bursting with the happiness.

  And I was happy too. Happy to be wed to this big man; happy to be enjoying the good times as the endless summer drew to a close and we all of us used the same sky as our blanket and used our smiles for umbrellas when it threatened to spit.

  And that fire did burn for three days without ever once dying out, and when it was finally down to its last embers, and the men were too drunk to gather more wood, and the orange pulse was turning ashen, we crawled into our van and slept the sleep of princes and princesses, our cheeks glowing and our hair raggedy, and me making a memory in my mind that I’d find meself clinging to in all them dark days that were to come.

  *

  Eyes on sticks. There’s loads of them. Git big ugly things on the top of poles sat on street corners and in the middle of traffic islands, watching ower everything. Big robotic eyes up in the corners of the rooms and on the stairways, prying eyes at every turn.

  And now there’s bloody more of them outside than in, glegging into every nook and cranny, up the closes and down the alleyways. Unbelievable. A lot can happen when you’re indoors for five year.

  It’s worse than prison this, I say to Arty.

  What is?

  All this, I say. Them bloody cameras and that.

  It’s the “in-security” business Johnno, he says. They watch ower everything these days, you know.

  Why’s that then?

  You have been away a long while haven’t you, lad. Because it’s just the way it is.

  Aye, well. What are they watching out for?

  For owt. Crime and that. It’s this estate. It’s full of wrong uns.

  Looks alreet to me I say, and it does. Or it’s certainly nee better or worse than most places. There’s that cladding stuff on some of the houses, for starters. Double glazing and that. Decent tarmac roads. Play areas. All that shite.

  Looks can be deceptive, he says. Two years ago this place was a nee-gan area.

  Looks alreet to me. What about now?

  It’s not much better.

  I’m halfway through shadowing Arty in his van for a week and so far it’s a piece of piss. Alls I have to do is keep him company while he talks us through the drill: how to do the ices, how to clean the pumps, where the float bides, how to crank up that funny music these vans always play.

  And the route. He talks about the route a lot. Mind, he talks about everything a lot.

  While he drives and blethers ower his shoulder to us I lean against the counter and eat so many ice creams slathered in the sticky sweet bright red shite they call monkey’s blood it’s enough to put us off for life.

  You’ve got to stick to the route, he says for the third time today. At all times. Never veer from the route, because if you do you might end up on someone else’s route.

  Aye.

  I’m not messing, he says. The route is everything. If you end up on one of our other boys’ patches it’s hassle, but if you end up on a rival’s it’s bloody turf warfare. The Manfredis from Washington mebbe. Or the Granellis from Gateshead. Either way, stray from the route and it’s all fucked. You’ll not remember the ice cream wars, I expect.

  Nor.

  Good. Cos it was messy and I wouldn’t want to gan through all that again.

  Aye, I say, trying not to smile.

  It’s nee laughing matter, mind.

  Aye.

  And that’s how the day goes – him yacking about the route and me with me ice cream nosebag on, ganning aye Arty, no Arty, every now and again.

  When he parks up and does the cones for the bairns, I climb into the front seat and do a rollie for each of us.

  He doesn’t seem such a bad gadgie though, Arty. He’s one of them third or fourth generation Italians and his north-east accent is thicker than mine. And, aye, he’s a bit of a knob and he yacks too much and he keeps calling us Johnno like he’s off bloody Neighbours or summat but I reckon he’s got a decent head on him, and at least his endless blethering saves me having to say owt. That’s good.

  Our Tony reckons you helped him out, he says when we stop for a brew break.

  I have a drag on my tab, then exhale, making sure to blow the smoke out the hatch because Arty says the smoke gets in the pipes or summat and then the ices taste of tabs, and that’s bad for business.

  I was just looking out for him, I say from beneath a big shrug. It was nowt much though.

  Well, I appreciate it, son. We all do. I know it’s not easy being in there with all them nutters and nonces and that. I know you need marrers to get you by. People to look out for you.

  Fact is Johnno, he says, our Tony should never have been inside in the first place. He’s just a daft young bugger, that’s all. It was the smack that done it, you know. There’s nee use complaining about it now, mind, but if I could turn back time and find out who got him on it in the first place I’d break their fucking legs. Then I’d break his for being such a daft little shite.

  I squint out the hatch and flick out some ash. Gob on the ground. A greener. A proper oyster.

  Aye well, I say. He’ll be alreet.

  Arty drains his mug then leans forward and clicks the switch that sets the music playing. Music that’s already doing me nut in after only a couple of days. The same jangling and parping day in and day out. It’s not music, it’s bloody torture is what it is.

  I’m glad you came to us actually John-John.

  He shouts this over the din.

  Our Tony says you’re not scared of owt, he goes. Says you’re a bit of a one-off. I can see that you take after your Dad.

  This gives us a bit of a jolt.

  Me Dad? I go.

  Aye. I knew him a bit, like. What a fella he was, eh. I remember this one time –

  I’m nowt like me Dad.

  I say this all surly like and my tone seems to register with him because his eyes sort of flick away, and I instantly feel bad. Arty’s alreet, but I don’t hardly know him and when people are being friendly like he is it makes us nervous, and him mentioning me Dad takes us out of the present moment. Pushes us back to where I divvent want to be.

  It’s not his fault, the daft twat. He’s not to know.

  Then it’s as if Arty has just remembered the full story with what happened and that because his eyes widen in remembrance and then he looks a bit embarrassed.

  Sorry lad, Arty said softly. I was just saying, like.

  Aye, I mumble. Well.

  I don’t have the heart to tell Arty that just because me Dad had been known to throw a few good right-handers and the odd knockout bullhammer and had a name about town for being bananas, and just because every traveller in England knew the Wisdom name, and probably still does, and just because of what he did and what I did and all the shite that followed, it doesn’t mean I’m owt like him at all. The only thing we share is a name and it seems like nee-one will let us forget that in a hurry.

  I feel like telling Arty all this. I want to tell him this but I don’t. I don’t because I know he’d not understand. So I button it. Like I always do.

  Then we’re turning a corner, then another and we’re crossing the main road and entering the other estate further on down the way. We drive in with the music jangling and clinking just above our heads like a bleeding migraine, then we follow the road round into a long crescent of houses. There’s some scrubland in the middle with a burnt out car sat on display like it’s meant to be summat else, like a fountain or a statue or a piece of over-priced abstract art, only somebody’s nicked the gallery brick by brick from around it. It looks like it’s got delusions of whatsits.

  The car’s paint has been stripped by the heat of the fire. It’s left a sort of dirty grey shell. There’s nee wheels on it neit
her.

  It marks the exact centre of the Nook estate.

  Some kids are clambering on top of the car as Arty pulls ower and parks up. They’re treating it like a climbing frame.

  Oh, right shit hole this place, he sniffs. The Nook.

  Yeah, why come here then?

  Because if I don’t, someone else will. Once you give up your patch, that’s it – you’d have to kill to get it back. Anyroad, it’s still summer and even if the little skidmarks round here have nee money one or two of them can still afford a cone or an eighth. Make hay while the sun shines and all that.

  An eighth, I say.

  Aye.

  Of what.

  What do you think? Pollen. Tack. Whatever’s in.

  Weed and that? You never said owt about you dealing, Arty. Bloody hell, I’ve only been out a week.

  Come on, it’s only a bit of puff kiddo. It’s practically legal these days.

  Is it? Nee one telt me.

  Practically. They’re not going to lock you up for a bit of puff, not these days. Nee-one’s arsed any more man.

  Easy for you to say, I gan, pissed-off and feeling like I’ve been hoodwinked. Bloody typical. I get mesel a job – me first proper job – and it turns out to be doing deals on wheels. And here’s Arty going on about breaking the legs of those numpties that sold his Tony gear when he’s selling stuff himself. Hypocrite.

  The trick is to be discreet, he gans, totally oblivious to the darkening of me face to match me mood. Don’t offer it around – just sell to those that ask. And don’t make enemies because they’ll end up being the downfall of you. There’s a lot of grasses about, you know. That pun was intended, by the way.

  I’m not really listening to Arty. I’m feeling too anxious now. Anxious because I’m sitting on a pile of summat illegal and I bet there’s enough of it to send us straight back inside. And if there’s tack there’s probably other stuff too. There’s the fact I’ve not even got a bloody driving licence neither. One more blot on me copybook.

  I’m anxious about this place an all. The Nook. You get your senses sharpened when you’re inside and there’s summat about it that I don’t like. I can feel it. It’s a red brick maze with nasty surprises round the corners and eyes on you all the time. Bloody hell, I’m thinking. Pissing bloody bollards.