CONTENTS
Acknowledgements
Dedication
1 The Set Up
2 How to get?
3 The Green, Green Grass of Home
Epilogue
About the Author
Copyright
Acknowledgements / Big thanks…
Firstly, to Tom and June and my family for allowing my imagination to flourish and not getting me tested… To Louise Sears [Nee Duggan], Esther Roberts, Julian Raikes, Briony Adams [Nee Salton], Little Jo, Lee Bilham, Barney Vost, Elizabeth Haynes, Vicky Blunsden, Linda McQueen and Dawn Sackett for all their encouragement and help in finally putting this out there… Finally, to Stacy Tuffen, for just being Stacy Tuffen. I hope it makes you smile at least once…
For
Absent friends. I miss you all.
When you choose your friends, don’t be short changed by choosing personality over character.
William Somerset Maugham
1 The Set Up
1.1 Taxi Driver
He didn’t open his eyes as he reached across the bed and turned off the radio alarm.
Vanilla fucking Ice?
He shook his head, tugged up the duvet and dozed off. Exactly nine minutes later, another well aimed slap turned the radio off again. He rolled over, opened his eyes and looked across at the wardrobe. The suit hanging from its door was dark grey wool, not as expensive as he would have liked, but tidy enough – a job interview suit. And it wasn’t as if he could afford a nice suit, he’d just been lucky enough to borrow one last night, right before last orders, and it had still cost him a tenner in a return cab fare.
He got out of bed and went to the bathroom to flick the switch for the immersion. He hated not having a shower. Baths took too much time and then all you did was wallow in your own dirt. While he was waiting for the water to heat he put on some Kate Bush, The Whole Story, and went downstairs for the iron and board humming the intro to ‘Running up That Hill’.
Today, Tom Adams had to go to court. It wasn’t his first choice for a Monday morning, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. He thought about the last month or so as he ironed the right arm of the shirt. Everything had been alright. He didn’t love what he had turned into but it kept him in booze and pub grub all week, and treats at the weekend. More importantly it paid for his day release to college. Housing benefit and income support let him attend college so long as he said he would take a job if he was offered one, and that wasn’t going to happen with his interview technique.
Tom thought of himself as a facilitator. He and a couple of friends provided a service that benefited all involved, but his heart hadn’t been in it recently and being ‘visited’ by nine Old Bill and two dogs had told him his time was up. The crazy thing was though, he had moved twice recently, leaving him to assume that there must be someone feeding information to the police. Wanker.
Everyone was partied out and moving on, or if not, attempting to. There was still the hard core that would be there for the foreseeable, but it wasn’t his thing anymore.
With the ironing done he put on the suit and went downstairs. He ate a small bowlful of Rice Krispies with tepid enthusiasm and called a cab.
The suit looks good, he thought as he caught his reflection in the side window of the car.
Look at the baggy suit on this little tosser. The arsehole’s off to court, the taxi driver thought as he watched Tom. ‘Morning, mate, where to?’
‘Morning. Up to the train station please.’ Tom grimaced as the taxi pulled away. He was already sweating inside the suit.
Tom looked again at the cab driver and realised he recognised him. He considered telling him that Lassie had taken his seventeen-year-old daughter’s arse cherry the week before, but he did need to get to court.
‘Cheers mate,’ said Tom as he paid the driver, and tipped him.
‘Yeah, thanks and have a great day!’
He walked into the station and bought a ticket to Colchester, grabbed a paper and slid onto the train as the beep, beep, beep sounded. Harwich was truly a dump. One shitty club, lots of shitty pubs, a shitty town centre and three shitty train stations. He looked at the paper, Monday 3 June 1991, the football was over and the back pages were full of gossip. He enjoyed the gossip almost as much as he enjoyed the season. Who was going where, for how much? Who wanted to leave? Which famous footballer had been caught taking drugs this time? It amused him when other people’s lives were in even more of a mess than his own.
At the court, he found the usher and gave his name. It was cold and depressing in the big building, but the usher had one leg shorter than the other and his robe kept lifting as he walked which amused Tom for about twenty seconds. He shuffled around in his suit until he caught sight of his solicitor coming towards him.
Tom respected Toby Charles. He was a bloke who had taken his chances.
‘Hello Mr Adams. I trust you had a good journey?’ he said as he offered Tom his hand.
Hi, please call me Tom.’ He always remembered to be polite. After all, as his Nana used to say, manners cost nothing.
‘Fine, Tom. So, we know why we’re here, yes?’ His eyebrows raised as he spoke and Tom instantly thought of Lassie. He’d love this bloke. Nice tie, Tom thought, and laughed inside at the way he’d said ‘we’, as if they were all in this together.
‘I have the probation report from your case officer and I have to say it’s very favourable.’
‘Err, yeah, great. He’s a nice bloke.’ Brogues, very cool.
‘Well, if all goes well today we should have no problem securing a non-custodial sentence, probably a community service order, a fine and/or probation.’
Probably just in the right place at the right time. Bet he hadn’t had to put up with the sort of bullshit I had when I left school. The YTS on £ 27 a week just so the Tory government could say that school leavers were ‘in work’ when really they were getting their arses felt cleaning out freezers for 50p a fucking hour. She was why he was there, in court today, it wasn’t anything to do with what he’d done, it was her, and her fascist ideas. The bitch had only survived so long because the red-top readers loved her for going to war over a bit of ground the size of Canvey Island, that was worth about the same too – fuck all.
‘Excellent Mr Charles, thank you very much for all your help,’ he said, looking at his watch.
‘Well, I see from the register you’ve contacted the usher. We’ve just got to wait to be called now. Did you bring a sandwich and a paper?’
Bollocks, Tom thought remembering the paper going in the bin at the bus stop. ‘No, I forgot, I’ll pop to the newsagents quickly now.’
Toby Charles waved his Guardian at him as he said ‘Ok, be quick. There is one person you really don’t want to upset today.’
1.2 Brown or Red?
Patrick Wherry’s eyes didn’t open as his brain began its slow rewiring job. The radio that had just sprung into life in the background began bringing him round with ‘Groovy Train’. He slid his tongue along neglected teeth, a dirty fingernail along the inside of a molar and peered at the off-white paste under his nail. A slight gag followed and finished with a mouthful of thick phlegm. He needed a glass of water. He opened his eyes, hoping for the best, but found only a can of Vimto with a cigarette end hanging out the top of it. He stirred in anguish, he felt damp; he slouched back and considered his options. His hands slipped between his legs to investigate the potential damage. If he’d pissed himself it would be a long walk home with his legs chafing and his new denims humming of stale urine. Either way he had to move.
They were damp but it wasn’t him, it was the chair. Closer inspection of the room and the wet wallpaper falling away from the walls, exposing a healthy covering of mould explained the situation whi
ch was better than he had hoped as he had form for a bladder that did its own thing. Delicately he picked the dried crustie’s away from his sore eyes and looked around. He’d been asleep in an old cloth chair with worn wooden arms. The room smelt of old books and was a poor excuse for a home; the drawn orange curtains were a clear throwback to the 1970s sitcoms his family loved and the sun seeping through made the room glow. He felt like he was inside someone’s guts waiting to be flushed away. He liked the idea… until he imagined being deposited into the Mersey with the rest of the needles, shopping trolleys and assorted other shite that found its way there.
Heaving himself up and forward he battered a trail to the door; he had to struggle against a pile of dirty clothes to get it open. Jesus, student houses, he thought as he made it into the hallway. How the bollocks was he meant to find the shithouse in this rabbit hutch?
He found the magic door that he needed thanks to a nice ‘Men at work’ road sign. He picked up the copy of Viz from the floor and sat down to contemplate the day with Roger Mellie. He hated this part of the weekend. It was Monday, it was, according to his watch, 08:13, and another depressing, weekend of hopelessness had passed. He needed, and wanted all this rubbish to end. It was boring, or it had become boring. It used to be fun, selling gear to the students in John Moore’s halls, getting generally twisted, making a few quid and no stress. Things had escalated though and he and Razor were now being asked to do too much, and were getting too little. The last scrape was the line in the sand. He needed out.
He flushed and walked back to the room he’d started in, which smelt possibly even more disgusting than smell he’d left behind in the toilet. At first sight it looked like there was a mess of people in there, but really there seemed to be only five, including him. It looked so crowded because the room resembled the doorway of a charity shop after late night deliveries with shite everywhere, trousers, skirts, hats the lot. It looked like the Lime street tramps had had a feckin field day in there. He looked towards the old chair he had been sitting in. It was now occupied by an even bigger mess than when he had clawed his own eyes open. He stepped over a Woolworths placky bag and aimed a kick at the tramp who had nicked his seat.
‘Fuck off’, Razor said. ‘Now!’
‘Come on soft lad, it’s time to trip the light fantastic and get the fuck out of here. We have to show our faces before ten if we want to eat anything in the next few hours.’
Razor stood up and ruffled his jacket. After consideration, Paddy decided not to take the piss. It was far too easy, far too early and Razor looked like he felt. They waded through the detritus that was the floor of the bed-sit towards the door.
‘Cheers fellas,’ said a voice from the floor, followed by a muffled, ‘Yeah, thanks.’
Leave us the fuck alone and let us get out of here with our dignity intact, Paddy thought.
Don’t say goodbye, or thanks for sorting us out. It embarrassed him; these were lads and lasses he was in awe of in a strange way. They were exciting. He liked them and would continue to do so, that is if they stopped chucking the Gary Abletts down their gates every weekend. He’d like people to ring him or Razor to ask if they wanted to go the football or for a game of snooker or a midweek drink. Not just every Thursday or Friday asking them to deliver gear for the weekend, with the ultimate piss-take being the late Saturday night call for a restock. He couldn’t understand the brass on them ringing them at the end of a night, although he and Razor would always get over there to keep the party going.
‘Yeah, cheers girls,’ he heard Razor say as he pulled open the door into the mighty region of Anfield. They stepped past bin bags and a pram in the five yards of front garden before they reached the gate. An average day, Monday was. It was the kind of day to take stock of the weekend, and plan for a sunny future, unless that is you had to sign on. Paddy Wherry squinted up at a lovely blue sky and in a second went into what can only be described as a full body sweat. He grabbed Razor’s arm and sat on the wall.
‘Game weekend that, Paddy?’
‘Yeah, ok I suppose.’
‘Did you get anything out of those birds?’
‘The one from Wycombe was up for it but she got a little too battered and started calling me Terry.’
‘Who the fuck?’
‘An ex-fella.’ Paddy butted in to silence Razor. He looked at his scruffy Reeboks for a split second, and then they both fell about laughing.
Raymond Wilkins stood and considered the bag of humanity that had been his bezzie mate since they were kids for a few almost fatal seconds, and then started singing ‘Groovy Train’ to him.
‘Please fuck off Razor, I’m having a moment here.’
Arm in arm the two boys staggered off in search of a sausage sandwich.
1.3 Cuckoo
‘Read em for me then Razor.’
‘Read what?’
Paddy had been sitting and watching his mate stare into a cup of shite brown tea for about a lifetime, or so it felt. They were in a café waiting on a couple of sausage sangers with brown sauce. It was always Brown. A friend of theirs, Donald, refused to even entertain brown sauce after 11 a.m. – it was a breakfast sauce. That had stayed with him.
He’d known Ray Wilkins for most of his life. They had lived on the same road since they were five and had gone to the same schools. Raymond was nicknamed Razor because of his razor sharp wit: basically he was a soft lad with no brains. He was also known as Butch, as a mark of respect to Ray ‘Butch’ Wilkins the England footballer, but Ray hated this even more as he was a skinny piece of piss and six foot tall.
‘Read me feckin leaves soft lad.’
‘Jesus.’ Razor muttered. ‘Ok then here we go…’ He’d done this loads of times before, and began swishing his tea around the bottom of the mug.
It says here that you’re going to be the next centre forward for Everton, then you’re gonna be crowned the next Messiah and tell everyone that Jesus’s church is bleedin the world and to do away with organised religion and just treat people nicely…’
‘Fuck off yer fucking knob head. Firstly, me ma would kill me for doing away with the church, (crosses himself) and secondly, I’m shite at footie so no one will take us.’
‘This is what is says my son.’ Razor got up bowing like a Catholic cardinal.
‘Dickhead, you’ve been wanking at your Nan’s again, reading her Peoples’ Friend and looking at the grannies!’
‘Fuck off la, you’re plain wrong.’ Razor said, flicking a lonely cold, table stranded bean at Paddy.
Paddy ignored the bean attack and thought about their next move. He’d thought about it a lot lately, ever since he’d seen them all together in the kitchen at his Ma and Da’s house, congratulating each other.
There had been a few raids lately in the district. None of his Dad’s mob had been busted but things were edgy to say the least. His brother in-law and top boy, George Meachen, known by most as ‘The Scouse’, who he fucking hated, had sent him and Razor down the local to get them out of the way. They had come back later with some chips to watch the boxing. They both thought they had seen a few quid before and some weekends they were doing a grand each on the tablets, but it was a fucking shock when the pair of them opened the back door to his Ma and Da’s; firstly, he had nearly had his fucking snout blown off by George and secondly, they had never seen a bin bag full to the top with cash before. They were both yanked through the door and stood in the corner and then told to fuck off upstairs with their food. It seemed that George had needed to count the money before a big deal in Manchester and had come to their house to do it.
Paddy and Razor hadn’t really talked about that evening but it had been flying around in Paddy’s head ever since. That money is what he, Razor and others around the city were making for that smug cunt. He disliked George for being with his sister, but hated him more because it seemed that he took no risks, just counted money and drove around in a flash motor, usually driven by one of his psycho mates. This got on his nerves. W
here was his new motor or flash clothes?
‘What’s twisting your keks into a knot there, Paddy?’ Razor asked with brown sauce slapped around his mouth.
‘Nothing, mate,’ he said laughing, “though you look like you’ve had your mush in someone’s backside, la!’
‘Do one, dickhead,’ Razor replied as he dragged a skinny arm across his mouth and licked off the sauce.
Paddy smiled and drifted off again with his plan in the forefront of his mind. After that night things had moved quickly. He and Razor were now dealing a lot of gear to more people, doing less legwork themselves and making more money. It seemed that since they had seen the size of the business they were being lured with the promise of cash and responsibility. Things were talked about more in his kitchen. Things happened more in his kitchen too. It still didn’t seem fair though the run to Warrington had been a disaster for all of them. It was since then that he’d been planning his exit strategy.
Paddy looked up at the old digital clock on the wall, it was 11:00 hours, Monday, 3rd June 1991.
‘Penny for em, dickhead.’
Paddy Wherry sat, thinking, almost in a state of higher consciousness, fingering the mustard bottle in front of him.
‘Answer me this, Razor,’ Paddy said, staring intently into Razors eyes, ‘how far would you go, or what would you do to have a new start, a new life somewhere else. A clean slate?’
Paddy watched as Razor considered this question with all the ease of a constipated horse. It seemed to totally confuse him and his eyes started to bulge; he looked as if he might cry.
‘Err, erm. I’ll get back to you,’ he answered and fell back into the cheap white garden furniture that had been left to the rubbish men or for students to put in their kitchens and had ended up in the Star of the Sea café.
Paddy leant over the table and spoke softly and intently to Razor, making sure he understood every word. ‘Remember Warrington, Razor?’
The Comedown Page 1