The Comedown

by Martin Doohan

  He then smashed his head into her face, sending her reeling back into the optics; her broken body fell on the floor with whiskey and vodka dripping all over her. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a zippo. ‘Shall I fucking burn her?’

  ‘Leave her, she knows.’ George Meachen then turned to Paddy grinning, with hands and forehead covered in blood. He grabbed a beer cloth and rubbed his face and hands,

  ‘See la, you’re in the firm. Let’s make some fucking money, eh!’

  Paddy grabbed the bag and made toward the door.

  ‘I’m getting the fuck out of here George.’

  ‘Us too, wanna lift to the gym?’ George spoke as if he was just out on a shopping trip looking for socks.

  Paddy, his head screaming, turned down the offer and left the pub, swinging a hard left as soon as he could. As he turned he looked back and saw George and the others calmly leave the pub, get in the BMW and drive off. He sat on the wall and cried. Jesus fucking Christ he thought. He looked down at the bag and thought of Razor. He’d killed them both. He had fucking killed them both.

  He got himself together as he heard the wail of the sirens flying down the road. He turned and walked, rubbing his streaming eyes with his arm. As he walked he decided that none of this would ever reach Razor’s ears. It would be unfair and if they were going to die for this they were going to have a right good fucking laugh before they were caught. It was done now. No going back, unless it was for their own funeral.

  1.7 Wag

  After a steady ten minute walk he bowled into Joey’s street feeling slightly better, it was a normal Liverpudlian street, of old back-to-back cotton industry workers’ houses where the front doors opened onto the streets and everybody knew everyone. He remembered it well from days spent in the back room while people from the bank or other lenders knocked on the door and waited for a response. No one opened their door to anyone that knocked at that time in the morning, even now in Liverpool, and the stupid thing was everybody’s doors were always unlocked, it was a trust thing, and no one had anything to steal anyway. He got to the front door of Joey and Breda’s house and saw the door was ajar; it kind of gave him a sense of home, that nothing had changed. He smiled to himself as he pushed the door open and called a greeting to those inside, the greeting stopped abruptly and was replaced by ‘What the fuck is going on here’ followed as fast as he could spit it out.

  ‘Hello, Paddy son,’ Joey said, completely ignoring the fact that he was kneeling down in the front room with a plastic knife and fork in his pants with some fish n’ chips in newspaper surrounded by bottles of Merrydown Silver.

  Paddy looked at Joey like a Huntsman would look at his favourite gundog before he shot him. ‘Come on, you crazy old sod’ he said, and pushed a few bottles of cider out the way so as to able to help him up. It was at that moment that he smelt a terrific smell of shit, he reeled away and knocked over a half drunk bottle of cider, fell into a chair and sat looking in disbelief at his uncle Joey. He hadn’t noticed that the newspaper did not in fact contain a fish ‘n’ chip tea but about half a pound of human waste. At this moment Breda came steaming in and grabbed Paddy’s bag.

  ‘Wouldya watch what the feck you’re doing there Joey, you’ve gone and got Paddy’s bag all wet,’ she scolded his uncle.

  Paddy jumped up and grabbed the bag. ‘It’s fine Breda, honestly, it’ll be all right.’

  ‘Will it fuck yer silly sod,’ she said, grabbing the bag. ‘We’ll put the wet stuff on the horse and yer’ll have yer tea here yer little fecker.’

  Paddy clung on to the bag, feeling new beads of sweat start to run down his back,

  ‘No Breda, honestly, you need to concentrate on Joey for Christ’s sake, he’s having his own shite for tea!’

  This seemed to calm Breda down and Paddy too. She fell about laughing and Joey just sat there bemused, slowly cutting his own excrement into little pieces as Breda explained that the night before had been a particular heavy night; her Housing Benefit had come in and a friend down the road had a little win on the Bingo. She carried on to say that after a long afternoon she and Joey had come home and had a blistering row that ended with her knocking him out and in the process dislodging his gold tooth, which he had then swallowed. His uncle was now in the process of retrieving the tooth.

  Today was becoming slightly too weird for Paddy and he asked for and received a cup of tea with lots of sugar. The parcel of shit was hastily put away, though not thrown away as the tooth had not yet been recovered. He sat and explained he was away to play five-a-side later with Razor and had to get off as he was only meant to pop in and make sure they were alright. He made his way to the door, told them he loved them and would see them soon and left. Out on the street he felt cooler if not safer and a glance at his watch told him it was just after 3 o’clock. A fifteen-minute walk would put him in the centre of town with time to grab some food and a drink.

  He met Raymond on busy Lord Nelson Street with a wink and smile as he shook the bag. Purchases of tickets, beers, sweets, a newspaper and a Burger King for Razor accomplished, they boarded the train and took their seats in first class looking forward to the ticket collector coming round and asking them to move. They cracked a can and Paddy Wherry used his feet to push the bag under the seat but remembered to still leave a leg in the holdall handle, old habits dying hard. The cold 1664 tasted great and Paddy leant back in his seat and began to plan their next move in his head. He looked across at Razor who had instantly fallen asleep. He smiled and wondered to himself what the hell he had gotten them into. Looking out of the window he yawned, and finished his can. He cracked another and placed it on the small table under the window before resting his head in the plush comfort of the first class accommodation. Paddy woke just as they pulled into Crewe and instantly shuffled his leg, checking the holdall was still attached to him. Paddy grabbed his can from earlier, it was warmer but ultimately still drinkable. Razor was still asleep across from him and he gazed out of the window, not wanting to wake him. By the time the train pulled away both were sound asleep and on the way to London.

  Paddy was dreaming that he was on an island somewhere in South East Asia, which could only be reached by little boats and they only came twice a day, there was beer but not many people. He wandered up and down the beach in his dream and then back to his little hut just a short distance away. Then he was poking fish in the sea with a big stick, trying to catch some food, prod, prod, prod…

  ‘Wake up son,’ prodded the ticket collector, ‘tickets please and I hope you two have both got first class ones for the WHOLE of your journey!’

  Paddy smiled and gestured towards sleeping beauty,

  ‘We’ve both got tickets, hang on a sec,’ Paddy kicked Razor and nodded towards the guard, they both went into their pockets while one of Paddy’s legs instinctively pulled his bag toward him.

  The guard scanned the tickets and looked them both up and down. ‘So boys, off to the bright lights of Amsterdam for the week?’

  Paddy looked at the guard with a stare that stretched between puzzled and are you working for the dole? ‘How do you know that?’ he enquired with a suspicious look.

  ‘Easy one that lads,’ the guard mused, ‘you’ve got tickets to Harwich, and the last time I looked no great football side plays in Harwich, in fact the only reason someone usually goes to Harwich is to get to Holland and Amsterdam.’ The guard looked at them with a ‘look at me, I’m fucking Columbo’ grin on his face, gave them their tickets and sauntered off into the next carriage.

  They looked at each other and shrugged. Neither of them had looked at the paper and both seemed too caught up in their own thoughts to bother. Paddy stared out of the window, his mind back in Asia, and Razor sat mulling over the possible ways that his body could be disposed of that would leave him unrecognisable to his family. He shuddered and tried not to think about gangster films. They shot past Rugby station and Paddy looked into the bright summer afternoon as it started to subside into the hills.
All was going well so far. Milton Keynes was next: a true shit hole he’d heard, with a living boil on the side called Leighton Buzzard, which was a very cool name. Watford came and went like Elton John at a Texan dinner party and they were in London. London always had something to offer. The trip round the circle line to Liverpool street featured a man in a suit who was crying, shouting at what must have been his girlfriend, that she had bought the wrong sausages, that these really wouldn’t do and she was going to have to go back to Farringdon and get some more. He was in bits. Paddy was intrigued by this conversation, as was Razor. They got off at Liverpool Street, looked at the man, looked at each other and shrugged the ‘wanker’ shrug. Paddy considered giving him a couple of fifty pound notes and telling him to get his own fucking sausages but thought better of it. They negotiated the building site that was the station, huge signs informing them that it would be finished in December that year. Razor pointed out the pub in the corner, but the Harwich train was leaving in 10 minutes and Paddy wanted them both to be on it.

  1.8 Poison

  The taxi driver was clearly a U2 fan, which wasn’t a problem at all, but Tom did think he had the wrong album on.

  ‘You got the Joshua Tree,’ Tom asked hopefully, as ‘New Year’s Day’ crashed around the cab, almost killing him.

  ‘I have indeed,’ said the cabbie. ‘A sublime album.’

  ‘Could you put it on?’

  ‘Are you ok son?’ the cabbie ventured.

  ‘No I’m fucking not, mate,’ Tom wailed, ‘I’ve had a fucking beast of a day. Can you just put on ‘One Tree Hill’?’

  ‘Sorry, mate, I’d love to but the tape’s fucked, and anyway I’m no one’s fucking Tony Blackburn, shitty day or not!’

  Tom subsided into silence. ‘New Year’s Day’ was replaced by some Madonna and 15 minutes later they were outside Tom’s place. He told the driver to keep the change and walked up the path to what he hoped would be a house with the hot water on. He found Lassie in the kitchen, who greeted him with: ‘I didn’t think you were coming home today.’

  ‘Good one dog boy, why don’t you take yourself for a shit over the park?’

  Tom opened the fridge and cracked two beers, sat down and began to tell his mate about the day’s proceedings.

  Lassie doubled up with laughter and spluttered: ‘I really can’t believe it, lad. Jesus, you bring it on yourself don’t you?’

  Please, I don’t need a lecture,’ Tom answered, as he stared at the wall. It made him feel a lot better. The wall just stood there, like a big magnolia concrete pillow. It seemed to make sense, just sitting there looking at the wall.

  ‘Wake up, freak,’ Lassie said. ‘You were zoning out there, fella.’

  Lassie stood over the dishevelled looking Tom and thought about throwing a blanket over him, instead he wandered off into the kitchen and made himself a nice cheese and salad cream sandwich. He pondered toasting it, but realised it would make a hell of a mess in the new Breville. He picked up a half smoked spliff, lit it and took a chunk out of the meal he had made himself. He heard Tom go upstairs.

  Tom spent ten minutes standing under the shower, switching from cold to hot, and making sure he was still alive or at least had nerve endings. Then he lay back on his bed listening to Talking Heads while he finished his beer and decided that a few drinks on the seafront with Lassie were what he needed to finish off his day.

  Lassie appeared to be dead. Tom felt his neck and the confirmed the worse – he was still alive. The pointer to his catatonic state was the huge reefer in the ashtray. Lassie looked the same as he had when they had left school: massively stoned. Tom had known James Lassiter since they were at school and had shared a house with him for nearly two years, even though Lassie was a massive stoner. Tom hated smoking and usually made him do it in the garden. Shithead he thought, turning off the TV. He picked up the phone in the hallway and called a cab. Ten minutes later he was in the Cliff Hotel. He took a stool at the bar. To his left was the jukebox and the right a ‘hot peanut’ machine he had never seen before, a new gimmick just waiting to be launched he guessed, but which would probably end up being properly launched out of the door by some maniac at the weekend.

  He smiled at the young filly behind the bar, had he slept with her? He didn’t remember, but had a vague recollection of intimacy. Pretty and a lovely bottom too he thought as she opened the fridge for a bottle of Holsten Pils. He nodded at a couple of the pool or maybe darts team as they left for an away match. The pub was verging on empty and his first bottle was gone in seconds. The next followed, though the complete lack of attention the barmaid was paying him led him to conclude that he must indeed have slept with her. He would make an effort to grab her again after he put some tunes on. Flicking the buttons on the jukebox he thought again about the bottle of champagne thrusting into Sandra, or was it Lucy? He didn’t remember. Filthy bastards he thought, and ten extra hours of community service for the privilege. He would just do the time, and keep his head down. He carried on choosing tunes, five for a quid it said. The first one came on, ‘We Built This City’ by Starship. He looked up as the barmaid began to giggle and blushed.

  ‘That one’s a mistake, sorry. Can you eject it please?’

  She walked towards him smiling, ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Err, that’s a mistake, can you get rid for me?’

  ‘Of course, Tom,’ she said, bending over to find the correct button and giving him the beginnings of a semi.

  ‘Cheers, you’ve saved my blushes there. Can I buy you a drink?’

  ‘Not allowed to drink on duty,’ she purred. ‘It’ll have to be after work.’

  Worked every fucking time he thought. Now he just had to get her to say her fucking name!

  ‘No problem, I’ll just have a few drinks here and wait for you, my sweet.’ He leant back on his bar stool and sipped his Pils, while the jukebox whirred and the Happy Mondays came on. He sang along in his head and felt a little bit more relaxed.

  1.9 Travel

  Razor had never really left Liverpool and he was enjoying the journey. There was a woman sitting directly opposite him, kinda city type he’d thought. Black suit, shoes and bag, with harsh almost black eyes. As the train approached Colchester she stood to get off and smiled at him, in pity he thought, as she walked to the exit. He was admiring her arse as she went when she looked over her shoulder and winked back at him. Razor sat there, bulging out of his trousers. He glanced up at the wall to see which way the toilet was, left... He wanted to tear the head off his old man while that wink was still in his memory.

  The train moved and Paddy awoke with a start, ‘Where the fuck are we?’

  ‘Fuck me, la, a city bird just gave me the come on! A cracking skirt type, honest,’ he blurted out with one hand on his throbbing cock. ‘I gotta get to the bog, la, let me outta me seat.’

  Paddy stood up laughing to let Razor out and looked down, ‘Where’s the fecking bag, Razor?’ he said in panic.

  Razor looked at his best mate. He looked like a smack head from home, with sweat beads forming all across his forehead. ‘It’s here,’ he said, pulling the Head bag from under the seat. ‘It’s here.’ His knob now resembled a winter acorn in his pants.

  They sat in silence, starring at the bag as the train rolled along, each wondering who was going to bottle it first. When they reached Harwich Town they grabbed their holdalls and headed outside, where they found a bus station with no buses and a solitary taxi. The taxi driver, Racing Post in hand, was half asleep but quickly roused by their broad Scouse. You couldn’t trust Scousers.

  ‘Hello mate,’ Paddy ventured. ‘Can you take us to a decent hotel?’

  The driver looked around, put his paper down and replied, ‘Sure, lads, there’s only one half decent one round these parts, the Cliff Hotel.’

  The driver watched as the two young lads, early twenties he thought, put their gear in on the back seat and got in. Neither of them went for the front seat, which suggested they were up for doing a runner.
Fucking Scousers, always on the fucking rob. Cunts. Wankers. They were sure to try to leg it. He looked into the rear-view mirror. They weren’t scruffy, but they weren’t well dressed either. Thieving fucking shit bag Scouse cunts.

  ‘There you go lads,’ he said, as he stopped the cab. ‘Best one in town, and it’s got a bar.’ Thieving wankers.

  Paddy pressed twenty into the driver’s hand. ‘Cheers,’ he and Razor chimed. ‘You’re a gent.’

  The driver watched the two lads walk into the hotel before pulling away. Nice lads those two.

  Paddy and Razor found no one in the lobby of the hotel except a large African Grey parrot sitting in a cage. It stared at them, unfurling the red plume of feathers on its head. Razor approached the beast with a finger to stroke it. WHAM! The beak of the monster struck a huge blow on the cage making a loud clanging sound. Through his laughter Paddy noticed a girl of about twenty, dressed in black trousers and a white top watching them.

  ‘Can I help you?’, she said.

  Twenty minutes later the two of them were sat in a nice twin room overlooking a beach. There was a bathroom with a shower and a small mini bar. It would do fine. The TV flickered into life and again an uneasy silence settled over them.

  Razor broke it. ‘Right, we’re here now lad. What the fuck do we do now? You do know we are far from safe, fella, they WILL come for us.’

  Paddy pulled himself up and looked over towards Razor. ‘They’ll come for us. As soon as they know where we are. We have to get out of the country as soon as possible.’ He stood up, thinking about the pub earlier, he wanted to talk about it but it might well break Razor if he knew. He walked to the sink and splashed some water over his face and then stuck his hand in the holdall, pulling out a handful of notes. ‘Come on, let’s go and have a drink.’

  They went downstairs and followed the signs to the bar. Razor stopped on the way in to say, ‘Eh, la, things are looking up! Listen to that: ‘Wrote for Luck’, fucking mega tune!’