by Irvine Welsh
– Come on, Bal, we’re all West Ham. No fucking doubts about that, Les said. Les was okay, but there was something about the slag that was giving me the hump. I drew my head back and stuck one on his nose. I heard the crack and saw him stagger back, trying to stem the flow of blood with his hand.
– Fuck me, Thorny … we’re on the same fucking side … we shouldn’t be fighting each other … he says, all fucking gasping as the blood splashes out onto the deck. It’s fairly coming out n all. That was a nice one. That blood though. He should hold his fucking head back, the daft cunt. Somebody should give the fucker a hankie.
– And don’t you Ilford cunts ever forget it, Bal shouted, giving me a nod. He looked over at Shorthand and Riggsie. – Come on, lads, get ’em in for Les and the boys over there. We’re all fucking Firm after all!
– Oi! I shouts over at the Ilford, – One of you cunt’s get old Les a hanky, or a towel from the shithouse or something! Want him to fucking well bleed to death?
They jump n all, the fuckers.
I looked over to Chris, the landlord, who was washing some glasses. Looked like he had the hump. – Sorry, Chris, I shouted, – just putting a slag right on one or two little things. No aggravation like. He nodded over. An alright geezer, Chris.
The Ilford cunts stay for a couple but their hearts aren’t really in it and they’re queuing up to make their excuses and leave. Bal had to stay until the last one had gone: put on a brave face on account of the hand. Don’t want that Hypo slag boasting about how he’d given Barry Leitch a bad cut.
Once they’d gone Riggsie says to me, – Bit out of order there, Thorny, nutting Les like that. He’s an okay geezer. We’re all on the same fucking side.
Yeah, and he’s out off his nut on ecstasy, the fucking ponce. I ain’t getting into it with him.
– Bollocks it was, Bal said. – Thorny was in the right. You beat me to it there, Dave. Yeah, we need these slags, but not as much as they fucking think.
– Something about the cunt’s attitude I didn’t like, I tell them. – He didn’t show enough respect, you know?
Riggsie’s shaking his head, all humped up and everything, so he don’t stay for too long, which is good, cause after taking Bal down to the A&E to get him stitched up, me, him and Shorthand are straight back to his place to plan tonight’s job, which was the real order of business before those Ilford wankers came down here disrupting things.
So back at his we’re all pretty fucking well pleased with ourselves; well, Bal’s a bit broody on account of his hand I suppose. I look at myself in the full-length mirror he’s got: well fucking hard I am. I’ve been fairly hammering the old weights in the gym. I got quite a few things to sort out.
I look at my mates; they can be cunts at times, but they’re the best mates you could have.
Bal, he’s a head shorter than me, but he’s a heavyweight n all. Shorthand’s a bit of a wimp; he’s the joker in the pack, ain’t he. He gets on your bleedin tits at times but he’s all right. Riggsie ain’t with us so much these days. It was always the four of us, now it’s just the three, innit. He ain’t with us, but he’s still always with us, if you know what I mean.
– Riggsie, Bal scoffs, – Mister fucking love n peace these days ain’t he?
We had a good bleeding laugh at the cunt.
London, 1961
Bruce Sturgess was, as was his habit, in the boardroom fifteen minutes before the meeting was due to start. He went over his slides, checking the sharpness and clarity of the image the projector threw onto the screen from all seating points in the musty, wood-panelled room. Content, Sturgess strolled over to the window and looked at the new office block which was being constructed opposite. They seemed to spend forever on the foundations, but once they were complete, the structure rose into the sky rapidly, and it would change the city skyline for a least a couple of living memories. Sturgess envied the architects, the planners. They have their monuments, he considered.
His thoughts were distracted by the arrival of the others. Mike Horton came in first, followed by the ebullient Barney Drysdale, with whom he had enjoyed a robust evening of drink and conspiracy last night in the bar of The White Horse public house, just off Trafalgar Square. In the small, crowded bar, populated largely by staff from the nearby South African Embassy, he and Barney had spent a great deal of time discussing this meeting. Barney tipped him a wink and then started making gregarious remarks to the other executives who were coming in and filling the chairs around the large, polished oak table.
As usual, Sir Alfred Woodcock was the last to arrive, languidly taking his seat at the top of the table. Bruce Sturgess thought what he always thought when Sir Alfred sat down: I WANT TO BE WHERE YOU ARE NOW.
The buzz of the chatter immediately ceased, though Barney’s booming voice went on a little longer and was apparent in its isolation. – Oh … sorry, Sir Alfred, he said in crisp apology.
Sir Alfred’s smile was impatient but carried a redeeming dose of indulgent paternalism which Barney alone seemed able to elicit. – Good morning, gentlemen … we are here today to talk largely about Tenazadrine, our proposed new product lead … or rather, I should say, Bruce will be telling us exactly why this should be our new product lead. Bruce, Sir Alfred nodded.
Sturgess stood up, feeling a surge of power. With an assertive swagger brought on in response to an icy scowl from Mike Horton, he clicked on the projector. Bloody Horton pushing the promotion of a useless fucking mouth-ulcer cure. Well, Tenazadrine would blow all that away. Bruce Sturgess believed in this product, but much more than that, Bruce Sturgess believed in Bruce Sturgess. – Thank you, Sir Alfred. Gentlemen, I am going to tell you why, if we do not lead off on this product, this company would be missing an opportunity which probably only comes along perhaps two or three times in a lifetime in the pharmaceutical industry.
That was exactly what Bruce Sturgess did in his presentation of Tenazadrine. Horton could feel the cool reticence in the room thaw. He was aware of the empathetic nods and then the mood of growing excitement. He could feel his own mouth drying out and was soon wishing for a swig of his vaunted mouth-ulcer cure: a product, which, he realised, would be a long, long time in the making.
Suburbia
This fucking ski-mask’s too bleedin hot, innit: that’s the problem with them. Don’t bear thinking about. This one was a piece of fucking piss though. We had the place well sussed out, knew the whole family’s M.O. backwards. That’s one thing I gotta give Shorthand: he does his surveillance well. Mind you, them suburban types don’t exactly make it hard for ya. They are creatures of habit and no mistake. And long may it bleedin well continue, cause it’s good for business; and, as Maggie herself once said, what’s good for business is good for Britain; or something like that.
The only spot of nastiness about the whole thing was that it was the bleedin Doris that answered the door. Well, I was in the striker role so I just punched her square in the gob and she fell backwards into the house, crashing down heavily and just sort of lying there twitching on the floor like she was having a bleeding fit. She didn’t even make a sound, like cry out or nothing. I stepped in and shut the door. The way she was just lying there: fucking pathetic; it made me all sort of angry at her, you know? Bal bends down and holds a blade at her throat. As it comes into focus and she realises what it is, her eyes are popping out of her bleedin head. Then she’s holding her skirt down against her thighs. That gets my fucking goat, that does; as if we want any of her, the cheeky slag, as if we’re sick or something.
Bal talks to her softly in his put-on coon voice, sort of West Indian like, – Keep it shut an you live. Fuck wit us an your white ass is yesturday’s noos, woomun.
Total pro is our Bal, ya gotta give him that. He even has his eyes and mouth blacked under that ski-mask. This Doris just stares at him; her pupils huge, like some cunt’s dropped an ecstasy on her.
Then this geezer, the husband, comes through. – Jackie … for god sake …
–
SHUT YIR FUCKIN MOOTH SLAG! I shout at him in my Jock accent. – IF YE WAAHNT YIR WUMMIN HERE IN WAAHN PIECE YI’LL KEEP IT FUCKIN SHUT! RIGHT? He nods all timid like and says, – Please, take anything, just don’t …
I move over and bounce his head hard off the wall. Three times I do it: once for business, once for fun – cause I hate slags like that – and once for luck. Then I stick my knee into his bollocks. He slumps down the fucking wall with a groan, pathetic little cunt. – Ah telt ye tae shut the fuck up! Ah sais tae shut up n dae whit we ask n that wey nae cunt gits hurt, right? He nods all fucking cowed, cringing into the bleedin wall, pathetic wanker. – Now if ah git any bother fae you, son, your missus here’s no even gaunny be good fir donatin organs. Right?
He nodded at me, fucking shitting himself.
It’s funny, but when I was a nipper, people always used to say to my old man – who’s Scotch – people like this smarmy scumbag, that they never understood the Jock accent. Funny thing is, when I do these little jobs, they always seem to get the message loud n clear and no mistake.
– Now dat’s di attitude we loike ta see, Shorthand says, sounding like a bleedin Mick. – Now. Right sor, I’ll be tankin you to be gettin all di mooney and jewellery you got in di house. Now. You stick it in dis hold-all, right? If you’re noice n quiet, sure, we won’t even be havin to be wakenin up dem poor little children up di stairs now will we? Now.
The accents is a great stroke: tactics to throw the filth off the track. I do a good Jock one on account of my old gel and my old man. Shorthand’s Irish is alright, a bit over the top sometimes, but Bal’s West Indian dread is fucking brilliant.
The shit-out cunt of a husband runs around with Shorthand, while Bal keeps a tight grip on the missus with the knife at her throat; too bleedin tight if you ask me, the dirty slag. I make us all a nice cup of tea, which ain’t that fucking easy with them gloves on n everything.
– Goat any biscuits, hen? I ask her, but the poor bleedin cow can’t even speak. She’s pointing to a cupboard above the worktops. I check it out. – Fuck me, a pack ah Kit Kats. That’s pure dead brilliant, so it is, by the way.
God, this bleedin ski-mask is hot.
– Sit doon oan the couch, hen, I tell her. She don’t move. – Sit hur doon oan her erse, Bobby, I say to Bal. Her gets her onto the couch, with his arm around her like he was her bleedin fellah or something.
I put the tea down in front of her. – Dinnae even think of flingin yon tea in anybody’s face, hen, I tell her, – or see they weans up the stair? Thair fuckin wormfood!
– I wasn’t … she stammered. Poor bleedin Doris. Sitting at home watching the telly and this happens. Don’t bear thinking about really.
Bal ain’t best pleased. – Drink youah fuckan tea, woman. My friend Hursty here, he make you nice tea. Drink Hursty’s tea. You think we you fuckan slave? White bitch!
– Hey, hey, c’moan you. The lassie disnae wahnt nae tea, the lassie disnae huv tae have ony tea, I told Bal, or Bobby as I called him.
When we went on jobs like this, it was always Hursty, Bobby and Martin we called ourselves. This was after Bobby Moore, Geoff Hurst and Martin Peters: the Hammers who won the World Cup for us in 1966. Barry was Bobby, the general; I was Hursty, the up-front striker. Shorthand – well, he saw himself as Martin Peters, the schemer: ten years ahead of his time and all that bollocks.
Of course, there wasn’t much bleedin cash around: we only got about two hundred. There’s never a fucking farthing in these bleedin places. We only really do it cause it’s easy and it gives us a bit of buzz. It also keeps your hand in with planning and all that. You can’t allow yourself to get all rusty. That’s why we’re the country’s number one firm: it’s the planning, innit. Any silly cunt can steam in; it’s the planning and organisation that sorts out the real professionals from the bleedin mob. Anyhow, Shorthand, he gets the card numbers from the husband geezer then tours around a few cashpoints and comes back with six hundred quid. These fucking machines and their bastard limits. It’s best to wait until midnight, then at 11.56 or whatever, you draw out two hundred, then another two hundred at 12.01. It’s only 11.25 now, which is too long to hang about. You always have to leave a bit of extra time in case of struggle. This one though, it was too fucking easy.
We got em trussed up and Bal slashed the phone wires. Shorthand put his hand on the geezer’s shoulder. – Now. Don’t you people be goin and talkin to di officers of di law now, you hear me? Sure, you’ve two lovely children upstairs there who go by the names of Andy and Jessica now, don’t they just?
They nod at him in shock.
– You wouldn’t want us to be comin back here for dem, now would you? Now.
They stared at him in fear, the crapping cunts. I said: – We know yon school yir weans go tae, the scout troop, the fuckin guide pack; we know everything. But youse forget us and we forget youse, right? Yis goat oaf lucky!
– So no plaice in-volv-mant, Bal says softly, touching the gel’s face with the flat end of his knife.
The side of the skirt’s face had swollen right up an all. That made me feel funny. I don’t hold with hitting a Doris: not like my old man. He don’t hit my mum now though, not since I told the cunt he better hadn’t. That’s one thing I’d never do is to hit a Doris. Tonight, well, that don’t count cause that’s business, that’s all there is to it. You’re in the striker’s role and you can’t let the side down. First cunt who opens that fucking door gets it, Doris or no fucking Doris, as hard as you can fucking well give it. And I can give it fucking hard all right. It’s like the whole job depends on it and you can’t let the side down. Gotta be professional, innit. Like I said it’s business, and what’s good for business is good for Britain and I like to do my bit for the Union Jack. You gotta just put all them personal likes and dislikes aside, they don’t come into it. But punching a Doris ain’t something I go for: not in a personal way like. I ain’t saying it’s really wrong cause I know some Dorises that deserve a fucking good slapping; all I’m saying is that their ain’t no real satisfaction in it.
– Sure, it’s a pleasure doin business with such foine folks, Shorthand says, and we just piss off leaving the family in peace, while we’re buzzing on the old adrenalin. One thing I am glad of is that we didn’t have to wake any of them kiddies. I got a little un of my own and the thought of some cunt doing something like that there … well, no cunt would fucking well dare. The thought makes me wary though, sort of puts me in mind to check up on the little un. Maybe go round there tomorrow morning like.
Wolverhampton, 1963
Spike laughed and raised the glass of Bank’s bitter, halting it an inch from his lips. – Cheers, Bob, he grinned, his deep-set eyes furrowing into one narrow slit which looked like a mouth, – moy all your problems be little uns!
Bob winked, and took a sip from the pint. He smiled at his workmates around the table. He felt good about them all, even Spike. Spike wasn’t so bad. If he didn’t want to get on, that was up to him. Spike would be happy to be stuck in The Scotlands for the rest of his life; no ambition but to use up the big wages on more drink and more hopeless horses. He’d felt the gulf grow between them since he’d flitted, and it was to do with more than his physical displacement out to the Ford Houses Estate. He remembered what Spike had said: Y’all don’t want tall boi movink out there, spending all that good brass on a bloody house when the council’ll rent ya’ll woon chayp. Ya’ll got to enjoy loife!
That was Spike’s view of enjoyment, tipping Bank’s down his neck. Molyneux’s North Bank on a Saturday, after the bookies. That was his life, but he was standing still. Bob was working-class and proud of it, but he was a skilled man. He wanted the best for his family.
His family. The first one on the way. The thought warmed him with the rum he had with his pint.
– Another one, Bob? Spike urged.
– Don know about that. Oive got the hospital tonight. Could happen any toime, they said.
– Roobeesh! Ferst woons ur orlwe
ys loite, everywoon knows that! Spike roared as Tony and Clem gave a drum-roll of encouragement on the table with their empty glasses.
But Bob got up and left. He knew that they’d be talking about him and what they’d be saying: that he had gone soft, that he was spoiling their excuse to get drunk, but he didn’t care. He just wanted to see Mary.
It was raining outside: a dull slow drizzle. Although it was still the afternoon, the winter darkness was starting to fall and Bob pulled his collar tight against a whipping wind. A Midland Red bus came into view, then it was upon him, then it was zooming past his outstretched hand. It was half empty and he was at the bus stop and it hadn’t stopped. The stupid injustice of it bemused and angered him. – Fucking bastard Midland Red! he shouted at the vehicle’s waddling, teasing rear as it receded away from him. He trudged on.
He sensed that something was wrong when he got to the hospital. It was just a flash, that fleeting sensation that something was amiss. Every expectant father must feel this, he thought to himself. Then he felt it again.
Something had gone wrong. But what could? This was the twentieth century. Nothing went wrong these days. This was Britain.
Bob’s breath was almost knocked from him when he saw his wife in the bed, howling through her obvious sedation. She looked terrible. – Bob … she wailed.
– Mary … what happened … you had it … is it okay … where’s the baby!
– You have a little girl, a healthy little girl, a nurse said without enthusiasm or conviction.
– They won’t let me see it, Bob, they won’t let me hold my baby, Mary whined.
– What’s happening ere! Bob shouted.
Another nurse had appeared behind him. She had a long, tortured face. She looked like someone who had seen something that was both terrifying and incomprehensible. She wore her professional demeanour like a tramp wears a new tuxedo. – There are one or two irregularities … she said slowly.