The Comedown

by Martin Doohan

  Razor nodded. How could he forget, it had only been a month or so ago.

  They had been sent to Warrington for a drop off and had ended up in a horrific crack flat on one of the estates. The buyers were all addicts and when they were in the flat they had become pretty sure they were not getting out of there with their drugs or payment for the drugs. He remembered looking at Paddy across the kitchen and nodding towards the bread bin, which had an old Luger hanging out of it. The conversation with the buyers had been tense, with them insisting they all tried the gear before any money changed hands.

  ‘That fucking Luger, eh? I thought we were going to get shot and robbed!’

  Paddy’s fist on the table startled Razor.

  ‘What the fuck?’

  This is my point, Razor – we are nothing but worker ants for those cunts. Those people are my blood. But my Da, George and all of them, they really don’t give a fuck about anything but money. If it had gone wrong in there we were on our own. They sent us alone, with no warning, with no back up and no hardware, into the Lion’s den, my friend. It was a new deal, new connection. So they send the young mugs, the dispensable mugs. Not a fully trained soldier. The ones that can fuck up a deal and not be missed. Then they know who they are dealing with and can act accordingly. We owe them nothing, Razor, not a fucking bean and the deeper we get the more chance we have of being shot, stabbed or banged up… which one do you prefer? Paddy stopped and wiped some white spittle from the sides of his mouth before settling and watching Razor, patiently waiting for his response. Razor just stared into the distance over Paddy’s shoulder.

  Paddy knew he was considering something stupid. He cast his mind back to Jack Nicholson in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest; at least he’d have fucking tried... Was it a gamble? Yes. Was it potential death? Yes. Was he still considering it? Yes. He sat looking directly at Razor. His mate was still sat in some sort of catatonic state, either that or he was about to shit himself.

  He returned to his own thoughts while he waited for Razor’s brain to get into gear. He had come home from having a knock up at the park last week and had gone into the kitchen to make a drink – there was none there so he had gone into the pantry in search of a bottle of Kia Ora when he noticed someone had been mucking about with the floorboards. He had understood straight away what it was and confirmed it minutes later when, having prized a board away, he saw the black bin bag. He had immediately pulled away, his arsehole as tight as his Nan’s purse and had sat on the floor. Forgetting the squash he had gathered his thoughts before calmly walking out of the house, down to the boozer, stopping at the call box to ring Razor on the way. They had played a couple of games of pool when Razor had turned up. They had discussed it and forgot it. Seeing as it would probably mean the end of their meaningless little scally lives. But Paddy had not been able to think about anything else since.

  Razor seemed to be back in the room. He stood up, wild-eyed and lent over to speak to Paddy quietly.

  ‘I’ll tell you what I wouldn’t fucking do, you crazy little twat. I wouldn’t even fucking dream of robbing your fucking brother-in-law, and in doing so, half of this city’s fucking underworld. He’d finish you, you stupid cunt!’ He then sat down and stared up at the ceiling, unable to work out if he felt sick because of the conversation or because of the colour of the fucking ceiling.

  Paddy realised that Razor was well up for it.

  1.4 Court

  ‘Thomas Adams to court two please’, the usher repeated as he limped through the crowd of people waiting to be punished. Tom tightened his tie and walked briskly, head down into the court. He was led towards the dock and asked to stand. Toby Charles approached the front of the court, shook hands with the prosecution and after everyone was put in the picture they were ready to start. Tom relaxed when he saw that everyone was smiling. It was really an open and shut case. Tom had instructed the court through Mr Charles that he would be pleading guilty to all charges. So this was just a get to know you and read a probation report, listen to any mitigating circumstances and then pass sentence.

  ‘All rise.’

  Here we go Tom thought, hoping to be on the train with the hour.

  Then the door to the court opened with a low creak and he heard a giggle, a darting look from Charles and the gathered court population told Tom something was not going to plan. He turned towards the door and then towards the public gallery. Tom felt his heart jump as his thoughts nearly turned verbal. Fucking hell. This is all I need.

  Into the gallery had just wandered some of the lads he knew from what he called ‘going out and about’. Going out to Tom was his way of pigeonholing the people that didn’t work much and went out all the time and were mostly off their heads mostly all of the time.

  The magistrate looked horrified, Toby Charles looked annoyed and he felt very embarrassed. They were all looking very giggly and a bit spooked Tom immediately diagnosed this as Monday mushroom madness. This was confirmed when Danny leant over the rail, and apologised for giggling, explaining that they had been drinking mushroom tea for breakfast. Mushroom tea, that is, of the magic variety.

  Tom smiled weakly, thinking fuck off quickly, please…

  The magistrate had called for the court security guard and was in the process of explaining the problem to him. The lads, by this time, were in fits of laughter and Ally, a mad Scot, was shouting ‘Free the Harwich one!’

  The security guard politely asked the lads to leave, which they thought was hilarious. The pain continued as Justin then tried to offer everyone cold cans of orange Tango, complaining that it was hot in the courtroom and everyone deserved some refreshments. More security soon turned up and began, much to everyone’s relief including Tom’s, to shepherd the lunatics outside and off the premises. After a break of ten minutes the court was ready to start again. Although the magistrate and prosecution now looked more than ready to lock him up in time for lunch. He had after all, as his brief had pointed out, managed to piss off the one person he shouldn’t have today.

  The magistrate read out the charges.

  ‘Are you Thomas Adams?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Do you reside at…’

  Tom was quite confident that he would not be going to jail, even with all the goings on. She couldn’t blame him for those silly fuckers, could she? He had been told this by his solicitor and by his probation officer, Richard Barford. A nice Irish fella with a big grey beard. He’d been in trouble before but nothing serious. It only bothered him that they were beginning to tot up and after this last one ‘having a laugh’ at the weekends didn’t seem worth the aggro. The bust at the house had revealed nothing, much to the amusement of himself and Lassie, who both felt so mightily happy afterwards that they had put on an old Braintree Barn tape of Mr C and Julian and had happily munched their way through a bag of pills. The local constabulary had torn the place apart, and even considered digging up the garden until they had found an ornamental machete and mask that Tom had bought at a car boot sale for a laugh. They were overjoyed at their ‘find’ and had arrested him for possession of an offensive weapon. A charge he was happy to consider would be his last. He looked at his watch and then up at the magistrate. He would have loved to have gone not-guilty and argued that the weapon was an ornament, but these fuckers in magistrate’s courts were more corrupt than the old bill themselves. Do gooding wannabe freemasons who entered each other, as well as quiz shows, on a regular basis. Come on then. Get on with it…

  He was embarrassed enough by today’s proceedings already and just wanted to get back and clean the house.

  ‘Mr Adams, you pleaded guilty to all charges and in consideration of your probation report I am willing to offer you a non-custodial sentence.’

  Nice. He nodded his head in thanks.

  ‘You will be required to carry out seventy-five…’

  Gutted, thought I wouldn’t get any more than fifty.

  …hours of community service for your crime. However, for bringing thi
s court into disrepute this will be increased by ten hours to eighty-five hours of community service. May this be a lesson to you not to invite your friends to court? Your crimes are serious and should not be trivialised by your own arrogance. Your order is to be carried out in your locality of Harwich. You may stand down.’

  Tom looked down at his feet as he itched in his borrowed wool suit. Fucking cow. What a liberty. I’m gonna kill those tossers.

  He stepped down and thanked Mr Charles.

  ‘No problem, Tom. Hopefully this will be the last time you need my counsel. Good luck for the future.’

  ‘Hope so,’ he replied. They shook hands and Tom slunk off to meet the probation officer who was lurking in the shadows stage right.

  The order would be every Sunday from 08.30–14.30. It would involve painting fences, cleaning gates and chopping down overgrown bushes. The major inconvenience was the fact that he’d have to watch himself on Saturday evening. Friday would now become his blow-out day.

  Tom walked out of Colchester Magistrates’ Court semi-relieved. He had a lot on his mind, including college on Wednesday. He loosened his tie, slung the suit jacket over his shoulders and wandered down the high street to the Castle, thinking a cool pint would sort his head out. He glanced at his watch and then up at the big clock to check the time, in doing so he nearly walked into a group of pissed squaddies and swerved into the chippy and was greeted by jeering and hot potato missiles. He promptly decided the squaddies would have been a better shout. Inside the chippy looked like a kid’s Play-Doh and paint party. He really couldn’t believe the mess it was in. The woman behind the counter was shouting at a bloke who was covered in red sauce and was in the middle of downing the brown. He was happy to see that it was not only his day that this bunch of loons was intent on making a misery.

  The woman behind the counter smiled at him and barked, ‘Do you know this bunch of nutters?’

  ‘Yeah unfortunately’, Tom replied.

  The four of them were now rolling around the floor laughing as Ally was puking red and brown sauce into a paper bag. There was a queue of people forming outside, some wanted to see the show, others just wanted to get their lunch.

  In high-pitched desperation the woman called, ‘Get them out of here and I’ll give you free fish and chips.’

  ‘OK! Salt and vinegar please, and a sachet of tartare sauce. And, give us some serviettes please to clean him up.’ Tom nodded at the red and brown freak.

  ‘Come on lads’, Tom said pushing and pulling them, keeping out of the way of the sauce machine. ‘Let’s go to the pub.’

  ‘Hey Tom!’ Ally said. ‘How’s it going? Weren’t you in court today?’

  ‘Yeah, nice one,’ he replied. ‘I got eighty-five hours’ community service.’ He left it at that.

  In the pub it was orange juices all round for the boys. He considered the fact that this may well bring them down from their buzz, he’d read somewhere that vitamin C has that effect on natural acid. He felt surprised that they even let them in, though they did hide Ally round the corner. This is no fun he thought. He wanted to get home.

  It was late Monday afternoon and the story of the morning’s proceedings twinned with more vitamin C had the desired effect. The lads were coming round as the mushiness wore off and all four had progressed to lager. They were all sorry they had cost him ten hours of his life and were promising to make it up to him. They were talking about getting some cars together for the weekend for a party in Oxford when Justin walked outside with a tray of drinks along with a bunch of older ladies, who looked like they had been drinking most of the day too. Louise, Louise, Sally and Karen were all very drunk, all very late twenties and all very pre-hen party.

  They all sat down and began to talk shit to the assembled group. Tom surveyed the scene, thinking he was glad he wasn’t on any gear as the assembled rotters in front of him would definitely send him over the edge. Squaddie’s wives, mothers and divorcees all before thirty. Tom sat listening to the conversations, considering his options through another four or five rounds of drinks. It was half four. He thought he’d just head to the toilet and would then make tracks for home before he ended up out all night, again. The problem was, he was a bit pissed.

  Tom promised himself that this lager would be his last. The girls were now friendly to the point that one of them, Louise was snogging Danny, the other Bean. Sally, Karen, Justin and Ally were happily watching.

  ‘You bunch of sex cases.’ Tom said as he sat down.

  ‘Fucking right,’ they all seemed to answer at once.

  ‘I love watching,’ said Karen, ‘it really makes me wet.’

  At this point Tom began to realise that he was coming up on an E. He sat down and took a gulp of lager; it tasted slightly bitter and fucking horrible as he finished it. As he put the glass down, Bang! He was up and flying, all at early o’ clock on Monday, the day he had promised himself it would all end!

  ‘You gang of absolute fuckers,’ he gurned as he leant on the table, nibbling his bottom lip and rubbing the back of his head. He also felt the faint need to have a shit rising in his bowel.

  ‘Told you we’d make it up to you mate,’ said Bean.

  ‘Back round to ours then,’ one of the witches said.

  Tom Adams closed his eyes and rocked back into his chair in ecstasy bliss. He knew he’d probably be spending the rest of the week off his face. He knew he should fight it, but what could he do? He stood up and put a hand on Bean’s shoulder,

  ‘You’re a wanker,’ he said, trying to eat his own tongue as his eyes rolled into the back of his head and the need to go to the toilet reached the peak of his need to do very soon list, ‘but I loves ya.’

  A group hug ensued and when he next consciously opened his eyes he was in a flat on the Grinstead Estate. A dirty little flat with toys strewn all over the front room. He looked at his watch – half six, he’d lost two hours, the usual really.

  He considered how many hours of his life he had lost in these kinds of stupors, he’d paid for it even. He needed to get out of the flat and home as soon as possible. He looked up from his position next to the stereo and saw eight bodies jumping around shouting the words to ‘Don’t Make me Wait too Long’. He loved that song but not on a Monday, fuck he needed an e-vac fast. The song finished and Ally boomed out Doug Lazy’s ‘Let it Roll’ for an encore. At this point he felt himself giving up again as he felt a wave of euphoria steaming through his body. He took a massive swig on a bottle of ready mixed JD and coke that was magically already in his hand and drifted off into ecstasy world, dreaming of being at home, sitting on the sofa, drinking a little wine and watching ‘Cracker’.

  He began to come around when he was half in, half out of a dream. He could hear noises, like some kind of vacuum cleaner. Was someone cleaning up? He tried to clear his mind and looked at his watch again, seven, he needed to call a cab. The sound was still there, this time clearer and almost like a broken vacuum cleaner, one with a teddy bear stuck in it. There was no sound of music now just this weird Hoover sound. When he opened his eyes Tom Adams knew that something was going very wrong in his life. Across from him on the floor, with her back to the sofa, was the woman he thought might be Karen. Her eyes were rolling round in her head and she was making a strange sound, almost like a vacuum cleaner. Lying on the floor in front of her was Ally, who seemed equally wasted and was making weird sounds too. The room was dotted with bottles of JD, wine and beer. There were also two bottles of champagne, one of which was next to Tom. The other bottle of Moet was in Ally’s hand and it was sliding in and out of Karen’s fanny, making the vacuum sounds. There was bubbling from the top of the bottle and this seemed to excite both Ally and Karen.

  Tom staggered towards the kitchen, trying to work out how he felt about the scene He looked at the clock on the wall and then at his watch. He considered looking for the others, but glanced back into the front room and quickly decided to laugh off that idea. He moved toward the yellowing net curtain across t
he window, parted it with an empty Bic pen and wrote down the name of the road before going into the hallway and ringing a cab. A kind sounding girl promised him a cab as soon as humanly possible. He left, clicking the door shut and staggered to the end of the road. After five minutes of peering into the summer evening a cab turned up and Tom got in. ‘Harwich please mate.’ He glanced at the dashboard which winked back at him, 7.30. The whole day was a fucking write off.

  ‘Fare upfront please, mate,’ the cabby countered, ‘there’s some right twisted fuckers around here.’

  ‘You’re not fucking wrong, my friend,’ Tom said handing him a score, ‘You’re not fucking wrong.’

  1.5 Charles Bronson

  Paddy nodded at Razor across the table as Razor stood up and took the plates and cups from their brunch back to the lovely Linda, a terrible looking thing whose neck was a sea of boils and make up. He watched him return to the table and raised his eyebrows when he didn’t sit back down. Razor shook himself down and then spoke clearly, without much accent, as though he had been practising what he was going to say. ‘You, la, are off you fucking tits. You are mad. Are you on a Charles Branson type death wish thing? Tell me you are fucking joking so I can fall about and you can call me a twat for believing you.’ All this came out without Razor once taking a breath.

  Paddy, impressed, looked at him and replied, equally slowly and methodically, though his motivation was more to allow understanding than thought process. ‘There is a village in Cheshire missing an idiot and you are it Butch. You complete fucking imbecile. This is the chance of a lifetime, cash, lasses, cash and more lasses. I’ve got a plan... Are you listening to me Razor?’ He slowed his speech down as much as he could. ‘I have a fucking plan…’ He paused before adding. “Oh, and it’s Charles fucking Bronson you fucking lemon.’

  ‘Fuck off, Pat-fucking-rick, you are a complete fucking knob head.’