Pig Iron

by Benjamin Myers

  I think about it for a moment. She has a point but I feel in nee hurry to answer.

  Who cares, I say. I don’t see what this has got to do with me boffing you just now.

  How many, John-John.

  I shrug.

  Exactly. Because they’ve all been chased out of there. That’s Kyle’s family. They run things and they’ve got rid of anyone they divvent want round there. They let the junkies stay cos the junkies buy their gear off them, or swap it for owt that they’ve chorred – cars, tellies, owt they can get their hands on – because they’re not just into the BNP stuff, they deal an all. Tack, whizz pills, bugle. Wobbly eggs. Brown. Everything. No-one buys or sells owt on the Nook without them knowing about it. They sell to half the county, man. And you don’t get away with that by being a nice person do you? They’re into owt, that lot. Not just the dealing. Protection. Chorring. They run dog fights and they pimp lasses out. They make porn. Underage lasses. Owt going. Anything bad that’s happening, you can bet there’s a Bannon behind it. They’ll come for you next John-John, trust me. And Kyle’s the least psycho of the lot of them.

  I shrug.

  And this is the lad you go round with is it?

  Maria goes quiet.

  Hard is he, I say.

  Aye, I reckon.

  Aye well. He didn’t look that hard last night, like. His Nazi brothers weren’t around then, were they?

  There’s a moment’s silence and I can hear her brain ticking over then she says, Why, what happened last night? Has he been hassling you?

  I don’t feel like telling her what went down at the fairground with the fight and Barker Lovell and that because I know nee good will come of me telling her about it all, and all that stuff about Nazis and swords and burnt Asian lads has got us proper down, and now I’m thinking too hard about bloody nutter fathers and messed up families and me own past, so instead I just shrug and concentrate on smoking me tab down to the dimp.

  Has he though, she says.

  What?

  Been hassling you.

  No, I mumble. It’s nowt I can’t handle.

  Cos he’s already mentioned you.

  Mentioned me? How like?

  Aye. He won’t shut up about you.

  What did he say?

  Nowt.

  Howay man, he must have said summat.

  He was just being a knobhead, that’s all. He was just going on about the bloody ice cream gyppo this and gyppo that. Twisting on about you being on the estate and that. Reckoned him and his brothers would sort you out.

  What’s it got to do with him, the bloody nebby nose Nazi get, I say. He needs to mind his own beeswax, that one.

  I don’t know, John-John. Everyone thinks the Bannons are dead hard and psycho and that, so he just feels like he has to act it all the time. You would if you’d been through what he had. He feels he has a name to live up to.

  I look at her and raise an eyebrow and say he’s not the only one for fuck’s sake.

  You swore she says. And sorry.

  You don’t know the half of it, I say.

  So what happened last night?

  It’s nowt. It’s not even worth mentioning.

  Was it at the fair?

  Aye.

  After I saw you.

  It was nowt, Maria.

  I knew it.

  Knew what?

  That summat had happened.

  You were with him last night weren’t you, I say. That’s why you were acting all weird with us.

  I wasn’t acting weird.

  Aye, you were. That’s who you were gannin off to meet wasn’t it. On your girl’s night out?

  Aye, she says in a low voice. Mebbe. But that bastard never turned up.

  Did he not?

  Na.

  That’s because he was off with his marrers, looking for trouble.

  I fucking knew it, spits Maria. I knew he’d get into bother at the fairground. Did you see him scrapping, like?

  Aye.

  Where?

  On the ground after I’d put him down.

  How do you mean?

  It was me he was fighting.

  You?

  Aye.

  Oh, fucking hell John-John. What happened?

  Suddenly Maria’s all interested in what I have to say. But now that the story is unravelling I divvent much feel like being a part of it.

  Nowt really.

  Gan on, tell us.

  He just started on us, that’s all. That’s how I know he’s a proper dick – cos he’d rather chase after me than spend the night with you. Him and his sackless povvy bastard mates.

  Which mates?

  I don’t know.

  I do. I bet it was Boz and Shotter and them lot she says, as much to herself as to me. Were his brothers there?

  How would I know? They were all about the same age and all on the gear and looking for trouble.

  And they started on you?

  Aye. Or they were going to until this showground gadgie stepped in and called a square go.

  A what?

  A fair fight.

  Between you and Kyle?

  Aye. Between me and him.

  And what happened John-John, for fuck’s sake?

  Well, I say taking a git big pause. Nowt much. Here – do you want to see me glass eye again?

  John-John.

  Nowt much I shrug, enjoying Maria’s frustration. I brayed him good and proper – put him on his arse like.

  Shit. Was he hurt?

  Banny?

  Aye.

  Who cares? He was practically blubbing though. Proper pissed off, he was.

  I care, she says in an urgent voice that I don’t recognise, and suddenly I see her in a whole new light. Maria’s not the lass I met on the round that day, the girl whose just shagged us and shown us a part of her I thought nee-one else would get to see. Suddenly she’s someone else; just another lovesick ninny who’s fallen for the first feckless bad lad that’s come along. The bad lad from the bad family. The family with the reputation. The big fish in the little stagnant pond that’s got nee stream running in or out of it. “Oh, but he treats us nice”. Shite. Fug this for a game of whatsit, I think. Aye – bloody soldiers.

  He didn’t look too happy about it, I say. But he’ll live. He said he was coming after us, but stuff him. What’s he going to do?

  Oh shit.

  I said he’s alreet Maria. He’ll live. He just got taught a lesson, that’s all.

  I stand up again. The sun has gone behind a cloud and it’s not so warm just sitting here with sweat drying on me back, so I pull me top over me head.

  It was nowt anyway, I say. Just some bollards. But it’s over now.

  No John-John. You don’t understand. If he says he’s coming after you, he’ll come after you. Especially if you panelled him in front of his mates. It won’t be over. He’ll keep coming for you. Him and his brothers.

  So, I say.

  He’s stabbed people. He’s been inside. They all have.

  I shrug. Sounds like you’ve got a thing for cons to me.

  No, she says.

  Nazis then.

  No.

  I thought you said he wasn’t as bad as people think he is.

  Aye well. He’s not when he’s with me. He can be proper nice sometimes. But with you…I told you, he’s already got it in for you.

  He started it, the daft knacker. Let him come.

  There’s his brothers an all.

  I’m not arsed me, I say, though me head’s working overtime thinking about what Maria said about them lot dealing and running everything, and how if Arty Vicari was knocking out weed on the Nook, then he was either doing it with the Bannons’ permission, or he was selling it for them. An if he was selling it for them, then he’s in their pocket. He’s working for them. Them bloody Nazis. And anyone with half a brain knows that nowt good ever comes out of business like that. It’s nee wonder that this Banny lad has got it in for us, me not only battering the twat but
also refusing to knock out gear an all.

  Bloody typical though isn’t it, I’m thinking. Four weeks out and I’m working for the man who knocks out for the biggest rough-arsed plastic gangster charvers around, and on top of that I’m shagging the lass of one of them an all. The one I put on his arse last night. And all I bloody want is a quiet life, just to be left alone in a green cathedral like this place. Christ.

  Let him come, I say again. I’ve taken on worse than him. Much worse.

  That’s a bad idea John-John.

  I notice that when she’s serious Maria starts calling us John-John instead of Johnny and although John-John is me name it somehow sounds colder the way it falls off her tongue like that. More formal and less friendly.

  A thought occurs to us.

  And where do you fit into all this anyway? All the dealing and shagging and that?

  You should just leave, she says.

  I’ve only just got here.

  Town I mean. You should get away for a bit.

  I snort.

  I doubt it. There’s me job and me flat and the parole officer. And little Coughdrop an all. I can’t just drop everything. Any road, I don’t want to. I’ve been running away from bullying bastards like him and his lot all me life. So sod him.

  That’s a bad way to talk John-John. Kyle’s done stuff. They all have.

  Yeah well. I’ve done stuff too, remember?

  *

  Mac had not seen Barker for many months, but it took only one call from a service station telephone box for the grapevine to deliver him to our doorstep.

  We were stopping at a site near Luton run by a traveller called Jimmy Buckle. It was a real midden-heap of a site.

  It was an abandoned small-holding that he and his vast family had assumed ownership of. In its centre stood a shell of a derelict house and beside it a dilapidated barn had junk spilling from its mouth: old blue gas bottles, a toppled fridge-freezer, a small tower of rolled up carpets, piles of tyres. There was a caravan too, slumped and rusting on its bare axles. Surrounding all this rubbish was a crescent of haphazardly parked trailers facing inwards, as if to protect these worthless, rotting treasures from the outer world.

  Down in the town, the site had a reputation. Few people ever went up there. It was just the type of place your Dad felt most comfortable in.

  Buckle was regarded as a traveller who welcomed fellow men of the road; his was a good stopping site before you hit the suburban sprawl that bled into London. He was also known as a knuckle man who, at just over five feet but built like a bullet, earned the nickname Big Slice. Buckle was regarded as a pit-bull fighter. They said it once took six men to pull him off one opponent, and he was impossible to knock over so long as he was conscious.

  It was just after dawn one morning when there was a knock at our door. Mac answered it and there stood Barker Lovell in the half-light. I watched from the bed.

  Barker nodded and said, “Now then.”

  Bare-chested, Mac yawned and stretched. Barker noticed the early signs of a slight paunch around your Dad’s white waist. He’s been on the ale, he thought. No doubt about that.

  “You best come in then.”

  I roused myself to get the tea and toast on. It was as if minutes rather than months had passed as their conversation re-ignited. There was no small talk; like with most true travelling men. Oftentimes if a traveller says he’s going for a bit of a wander, he might be gone an hour or he might be gone a month. That’s just the way it is.

  “Hello Vancy,” he said.

  “Barker.”

  I got our Charm and Bobby dressed and sent them out to play with the Buckle lot. Then I made myself look busy tidying up.

  Barker parted the curtain with one yellowing finger and looked out. He was dressed the way he was always dressed – wool suit, trilby, silk scarf. The auld way. He kissed his teeth.

  “Well, this is a shit hole.”

  “Do you want to tell Big Slice that?”

  Barker shrugged.

  “He’s like a bloody skip rat, that one,” Barker did say through a slurp of tea. “Gives us more refined travellers a right bad name with all that shite lying about.”

  “What do you care?”

  Barker reached for his baccy pouch, rolled a cigarette, licked it, sealed it and lit it. Mac reached for an ashtray.

  “I don’t. I’m just saying, like. Burnt mattresses and broken fridges and that – well. He should make more of an effort. If you look like rubbish, people will treat you like rubbish.”

  Mac grinned a wolfish grin.

  “So how come you always dress like you’re selling bloody pegs or summat?”

  “You cheeky get.”

  They paused. Barker drank more tea, sniffed, then sat back on the recliner.

  Mac drained his mug and carefully placed it on the side.

  “I want to fight,” he said finally.

  “Good,” said Barker. “Been keeping in shape have you?”

  “Aye. Can’t you tell, like?”

  “Not from where I’m sitting, no. Been training have you?

  “Aye,” said your Dad. “You and I both know that Mac Wisdom on a bad day can still tan any numpty that you care to send his way.”

  Barker laughed. He was pointing at Mac’s new bellbottom trousers, bought from Big Slice at the knockdown price of two pairs for a quid. They were chocolate brown polyester and skin tight around the thigh but fanning out to a twenty-two inch flare at the hem.

  “I hope you’re not planning on fighting in them.”

  “What’s wrong with them?”

  “You look like a bloody woolly woofter.”

  Mac stiffened and his brow dropped. His hands curled into fists.

  “You look like that bloody whatshisname,” continued Barker.

  “Who?”

  “You know.”

  “I divvent, like.”

  “You do, man. That mincer off the telly.”

  “Danny La Rue?”

  Barker roared with laughter and slapped his thigh, dropping tight little shreds of burning tobacco onto the table.

  “No, you daft bastard. I meant Rod Stewart – but, aye, Danny Le Rue’ll do an’ all.”

  Mac’s eyes darkened.

  “Christ man, I’m only joshing you,” sighed Barker. “Lord God almighty. I hope you’re not going to fight Cliff Pike in them.”

  “Who’s Cliff Pike?”

  “One of the meanest, dirtiest fucking apes on this bloody island, that’s who.”

  Mac snorted.

  “Well, how come I’ve never heard of him then?”

  “Mebbe because you’ve got your heed up your arse half the time and the rest of the time it’s in a pint pot?”

  “That’s bollocks, that.”

  “Well,” sniffed Barker. “We’ll find out tonight, won’t we.”

  Your Dad’s eyes widened.

  “Tonight?”

  “Aye,” said Barker, drawing on the last of his tab. “You said you wanted a fight, so I got you one. We’ll leave this afternoon, after you’ve cooked us up some scran.”

  He ground out his cigarette and started whistling a song.

  It was some pop song they kept playing on the radio. I recognised it.

  ‘Maggie May’, they called it. By that poof Rod Stewart.

  *

  When I’ve dropped Maria off a long way from her house and then taken the van back to the lock-up and walked home, it’s double late.

  As I head through the estate to my flat I’m sweaty, hungry and knackered. It’s only half-dark though, like someone has left a light on a million miles behind the sky. I’m feeling dead weird. Weird, because on the one hand I’ve finally got me oats and on the other Maria’s mashed me head and it feels like it’s all turning to shite already, like I’m being pulled in four directions by wild horses or summat.

  And I’m pissed off because I’m trying me best to keep me head down and just crack on with things. Really trying. And now there’s this darkn
ess coming ower us. It’s a different kind of darkness. A sense of impending whatsit. Aye. Doom.

  It’s there as I turn into my close. I can feel it.

  The front door is open. Wide open. The way it’s hanging on its hinges tells us it has been forced. I can see nowt but varying shades of darkness in there. My radar was right.

  I stop on the landing and wait, me senses heightened. I listen but I cannot hear owt.

  I walk closer, to the doorway, and stand there. Summat smells funny. It’s in the air. A vague tanginess. Like stale piss or summat. A spoilt dinner mebbe. Then I walk in.

  I go quickly down the hall on silent heels, into the bedroom and turn on the light. Everything looks just as I left it: mattress, rack of clothes, pile of books. Glass of water. Ashtray. Nowt that’s worth taking anyway. I call our Coughdrop.

  Aware of every breath I take and every swish me clothes make, I walk into the kitchen – the same. Hacky plate and cup. Bin. Dog bowl. Tins of food. Robinson Crusoe half read on the side. Same as ever. But, everything feels wrong. The atmosphere feels different, like there’s a charge running through the air and into me. A warning charge. A current of fear.

  I go down the hallway again and into the darkness of the living room. I fumble for the light switch and turn it on, and when I do I see summat I can’t comprehend, summat alien. Summat that’s beyond me understanding and experience so far.

  It’s long, about five or six feet, and it’s flat and it’s stretched out on the carpet and it’s red and blue and brown and black and purple, but mainly it’s black and red. It makes us think of art galleries and butchers’ windows, and it stinks. It’s like a tear in this dimension. A glimpse into another world.

  Me mind races to process what me eyes are taking in.

  In amongst it all there are shapes, a suggestion of a greater structure. The over-stretched oval of an eye. A grimace of teeth. A peeled back cheek, ripped from its moorings. The parts comprise a face, or what was once a face, now re-ordered and re-distributed. It’s like a broken mask or a spilled dressing up box.

  Me body buzzes and surges and lurches as me senses battle it out and that charge of horror that is emanating from this room, down the corridor and out onto the stairwell, runs right through us stronger than ever. I gag then I retch and my hand goes to my mouth in case I gip. Nothing comes. Nothing liquid anyway. It’s more of a long moan.

  It’s the dog turned half inside out.