The Comedown

by Martin Doohan

  ‘Gary Sparks is on his way down,’ George said. ‘He’ll meet us at the hospital when we go to collect your brother.’ George put his hands into his pockets, pulled out a bunch of black cable ties and pass them to Kevin. ‘Look after these, please.’

  Kevin pocketed them.

  ‘You and Graham can take that cunt Paddy home and Gary and I’ll concentrate on the southern thief.’

  ‘Do you honestly think he’s got it?’

  ‘He might have, he might not, Kev. It’s not my fucking problem. If Paddy has stitched him up, he fucking well deserves it. What would you do if a pair of grubby Scousers rocked up with 40K of someone else’s money? I’d walk the other fuckin way, lad, the other fuckin way.’

  George looked up and smiled as the food arrived. ‘Thank you,’ he said, and gave her a fiver for her trouble. ‘Sweet girl’, he remarked as she walked off with her tip.

  The two sat and ate their food in silence until a friendly tourist at another table tried to strike up a conversation. Speaking confident, but broken English he said, ‘Hello, are you here for the festival? We are, we come every year.’

  George replied, ‘There is an old English saying. Never interrupt an Englishman while he is eating his breakfast.’ He leant forward and smiled at the group, lowering his voice to a whisper he added, ‘Now fuck off and leave us alone.’

  At this the other man blushed and, embarrassed, turned away, trying to fathom what was going on.

  George and Kevin soon finished and headed for the door.

  ‘Fucking hell, can’t a man have a breakfast in peace nowadays?’

  They made for the hotel car park, where George opened the boot and pulled up Paddy’s head. His eyes are a dull yellow and the smell coming from the boot is foul. Using the boot lid as cover, George opened Paddy’s mouth, pushed in two more tablets and made him swallow them with water. He then dropped him back into the boot and smiled at Kevin. ‘He’s having a fucking wonderful time in there, Kev, and he sends his best.’ This cracked him up and acted as a cue for Kevin to join him, which he dutifully did.

  ‘Come on, we’re off.’ George pulled out of the car park and followed the road toward Harwich until he reached a filling station. ‘Just gotta make a couple of calls.’

  Thirteen minutes and forty seconds passed before the car door opened and George returned to the driver’s seat. ‘All fine at home,’ he said.

  ‘I didn’t hear a squeak from the boot, even with the engine turned off, should we check on Paddy, George?’

  George Meachen ignored this observation and continued, ‘Sparksy’ll be there for two.’

  The woman at the hospital reception desk sat filing her nails and ignoring the phone. She glanced up to see a well-built, short, stocky chap striding towards her. Not good-looking but not ugly either. He had the look of a boxer with a rather large losing tally, a flat nose, and fallen eye sockets. And she had never before seen a man in a full shiny shell-suit before. She decided she definitely wouldn’t shag him. She couldn’t understand his broad Liverpudlian accent and was relieved when she finally managed to direct him towards the ward holding his friends.

  ‘I hate that fucking accent,’ she mumbled to her colleague as she watched the shell-suited character shuffle off down the hall.

  When Graham had first come around, he had forgotten to ask about Razor. When he did remember to ask how the ‘joy-rider’ was he was told that Raymond was in quite a bad way. He had sustained some horrific injuries, had lost one leg, and had already been into theatre twice. Looking upset for Razor hadn’t been easy but he was sure he had managed it. The little toe-rag deserved all he got, and worse was probably to come.

  He now sat up in bed laughing to himself at the comic he was reading. It was the Beano. He looked like a panda thanks to his bruises and had been nick-named Chi-Chi by the nurses. He had been heavily concussed when he’d been admitted and had spent most of the last twenty-four hours asleep. His head was sore but he was definitely enjoying the attention from the nurses. Especially the Irish girl with tits to match her arse and a forehead that was coming in a close third as the most prominent feature on her body.

  At this point he saw the shell-suited Gary Sparks walk through the ward doors, speak to a nurse and then walk towards him smiling.

  ‘Fuck me Gazza,’ Graham laughed, ‘You look like the silver surfer!’

  The ward was momentarily filled with Scouse laughter as the two men exchanged unpleasantaries and generally slagged each other off.

  Gary told Graham they were meeting George and Kevin at two, but he’d arrived early. Graham called the ward nurse and explained that he needed to check himself out of the hospital. He glanced up at the ward clock, he had about an hour to get things sorted. Should be easy.

  ‘That’s fine, Sir,’ the nurse said. ‘Home rest would probably best for you now. However, the police have called and would like to talk to you before you leave.’

  Graham replied, ‘OK, well… my brother’s coming at two. Can I do the formalities with you, wait for my brother and then talk to the police. Does that sound OK?’

  ‘That’s fine, I’ll start the paperwork.’ The nurse smiled, retreated to the nurse station and picked up the phone.

  At exactly two o’clock, George and Kevin pulled into the hospital car park. Waiting outside for them were Graham, now fully dressed and bandaged, and Gary.

  ‘Any news on Razor?’ asked George.

  Graham replied, ‘He’s lost a leg and he’s having surgery to try to save the other one. He isn’t walking out of there any time soon.’

  ‘OK,’ George said, ‘he’ll keep. This is what we’ll do. We put our passenger into Gary’s car with Kevin and Graham to take back to Liverpool. I’ll change the Astra for another hire car and Gary and I will chase up the Adams boy and clear up the mess in Harwich. Given no major grief we should all be back in Liverpool by Thursday evening.’

  Kevin brought Gary Sparks’ car around to where he and George had parked the Astra.

  ‘Will it be OK to do this here George?’ Kevin asked.

  ‘Fuck it, just do it,’ he said.

  When they opened the boot the smell was powerful – his stay in the boot had included no toilet breaks. Paddy can’t open his eyes as he has been in darkness for hours and is mumbling, crying.

  Kevin Stones is visibly taken aback at Paddy’s state, ‘George, we need to clean him up, he’s fucked.’

  ‘Not as fucked as he’s gonna be, Kev. Now grab the smelly little thieving cunt and put him in the back of Gary’s car. When you get home, cable-tie the cunt to something solid in the shed. If you wanna wash him down then you can, after all, you’re gonna torture the little shite and you might not want to get all shitty, eh?’ George laughed at his own humour as Kev pulled Paddy’s dishevelled, stinking body into the boot of Gary’s car, momentarily he feels like apologising and leans in to speak to the boy but is thrown back by the smell of human excrement. He slams the boot shut and leans on it, breathing heavily.

  ‘Done, let’s go home.’ He doesn’t know whether he is talking to himself, to the others or to the youngster in the boot of the car. Whichever, he gets into the car next to his brother, shuts the door and waits for the others to get ready.

  George walks over to the car, slaps a hand on the roof with a loud bang and leans into the window. ‘Good work lads, see you in a couple of days.’

  He bangs his hand again on the roof of the car and nods to Gary to get into the Astra. ‘Let’s do this.’

  2 How to get?

  2.1 Taff

  ‘Any ideas who you can borrow 2.5K from, squire? That’s a lot of cash.’ Lassie knew of one person who might be able to do it, but wasn’t going to be the one to make the suggestion.

  Tom smiled. ‘I think we both know only one person who would entertain such a ludicrous idea, my friend, and that’s Taff.’

  Lassie nodded in agreement, ‘I think it’s hilarious that Taff is the only person we know that can potentially save your bacon. Ho
w fucking ironic…’

  The two boys smiled a rueful smile as they peered into the bottom of their glasses and drained their pints. They stood, gathered their thoughts, left the Victoria and crossed the road to the taxi office. Tom made a call from the phone box outside and they then went in to get a cab. The office smelt musty and of stale kebabs. Behind the desk was a huge man who looked like a moose and smelt like an elk. The boys looked at each other and both raised one eyebrow, something they had spent months practising. They called this the ‘SRM’ or ‘single Roger Moore’. This show of surprise wasn’t as serious as raising both eyebrows, indicated by the ‘DRM’ or ‘double Roger Moore’. They opted to wait for their cab outside.

  The cab skirted along the coastline and made its way into the older part of Harwich, where the narrow streets were lined with overhanging houses.

  A middle-aged man sat waiting for them in an old wicker chair on a patio to the side of a house. One hand held a scotch and the other a huge reefer. He was dressed in an old pair of jeans and a shabby fisherman’s pullover, and wore unmatched flip flips on his feet, one black, and one electric blue. An Essex County Cricket Club hat sat a jaunty angle on his frizzy grey hair. He leant forward, about to speak and stopped, looking at his watch. ‘Morn… Oh, good afternoon boys,’ he mumbled, wondering where the day had gone.

  Tom leant in and shook the offered hand. ‘Hello Taff – fuck me, that cricket hat used to be white, didn’t it?”

  Taff’s reply is quick, dry, sincere and is finished off with the draining of his glass, and has all three laughing and instantly at ease.

  ‘Catch me givin’ a fuck, boyo? Drink?’ The offer duly accepted, shortly all three were sitting in the warm June sun, sipping whisky.

  ‘Got to have a patio boys… too dark otherwise.’

  The boys agree with fervent nods.

  ‘However,’ Taff continued, ‘I don’t imagine you’re here to discuss the importance of outside space or the greatness of my fucking whisky are you? Especially when taking into consideration the state of your fucking face…’

  Over the next twenty minutes, Tom Adams retold the story of his week. Taff sat there throughout, attentively listening and nodding, occasionally muttering ‘Jesus wept’ or ‘bloody hell’. As Tom finished Taff began shaking his head and staring into his whisky. He could obviously tell where he would come into the story.

  ‘These seem like serious people, boys. Very serious. I wouldn’t touch them with a barge pole.’

  ‘Neither would I if I had the fucking chance again,’ Tom answered.

  ‘Aye, but you have, Tom, and you’ve dragged young Lassie into the fray too, you fucking idiot.’

  Tom looked at Lassie and gave him a single Roger Moore, almost in apology.

  ‘I know, I know, it really was just bad luck though, and now we, sorry, I need help.’ Tom could feel the pleading in his voice and told himself to stop begging. It would be the end of it if Taff felt he wasn’t in control.

  Taff looked up from his glass and stared into Tom’s face. ‘Thing is, Tom, you’ve lost control of this situation haven’t you, you silly bastard?’

  ‘I admit,’ Tom offered, knowing Taff had the measure of him, ‘that I’m not fully in control of the situation. But, with a little help from you, it is retrievable.’ Tom felt his Adam’s apple nearly in his mouth.

  Taff fell silent and looked at the floor. He was sharp and smooth operator despite his projected image and persona, and was clearly why he was well known to one of the top men around in terms of underworld contacts and general naughtiness. He was a man to be respected and a very handy man to know, especially as he was also a brilliant painter and decorator.

  ‘You’re two and a half grand short Tom, two and a half grand, not 500 quid. Two and a half grand! And if you think I am going to lend you 2.5k you are fucking mad. It’s not because I don’t like you, you’re a nice lad, but how the fuck you could pay that back is beyond me. You’ve already said you’ll have to take gifts at the weekends and they don’t come cheap. You’ll be working it off for years and no one wants that liability. And what if something happens to you in the meantime? What then with my money? What happens if the psycho wants to tap you again in future? You know what these fuckers are like, leeches! You know how we operate down here boy… quietly, under the radar. Like fucking ghosts… now you’ve shattered that in three days and there are people running round town waving guns about!’

  Taff sighed, finished his drink and looked at Tom.

  ‘Sorry, boyo, you’re on your own.’

  Tom listened to the words fall from Taff’s mouth. He felt like he had a baby elephant sitting on his chest, he stood up and tried to take in a deep breath. He couldn’t and felt dizzy as he began to sway in the early afternoon heat. He was well and truly fucked. He felt himself leaning over and then went very light as Lassie’s arms grabbed around his chest. Lassie and Taff sat him down in a chair, Taff went inside and got some water and returned with a wet dishcloth. Tom came around and sat quietly, staring at the reality of the situation.

  After five minutes of silence, with Lassie and Taff watching over him, Tom spoke. ‘Totally understand, Taff. I totally get it. It’s massive. Sorry for asking. You too, Lass, sorry for getting you into this, you’ve got to distance yourself from me straight away. This bollocks is mine to deal with.’

  ‘I’ve got your back, mate. I’d be a cunt if I didn’t.’

  ‘This is a bridge too far.’ Tom looked at his best mate and took his head, ‘This is well beyond my expectations of a mate, and you’ve got to leave it.’

  Taff sat and watched the scene unfold, he was struck by the maturity of young Tom Adams, he’d clearly bitten off more than a rabid hippo could chew but was doing his best to deal with it.

  Tom stood up and offered his hand to Taff.

  ‘Cheers, Taff, it needed saying. Don’t know what the fuck to do still but I needed to hear that. Thanks, mate.’

  Lassie nodded and stood up, shook hands with Taff and the boys walked toward the stairs.

  ‘Hang on,’ Taff said, scratching his head. ‘I might have an idea.’

  The two boys turned round and faced Taff with a look of confusion, trepidation and mild hope in their faces. Taff was busy pouring them all another whisky.

  2.2 Wilhire

  Safely behind the counter and a secure door the sales assistant and the manager of Wilhire’s Harwich branch looked at the car paperwork, at the two characters standing in reception behind the two-way mirror, and at each other.

  ‘Have you checked the car thoroughly?’ The manager asked the sales assistant.

  ‘Yes, I have. There’s no damage, apart from the horrendous smell.’

  ‘What type of smell?’

  ‘Err, it’s like human faeces.’

  ‘Shit you mean?’

  ‘Yes,’ the sales assistant confirms, ‘shit.’

  ‘And it’s almost overpowering?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is that why they want another car?’

  ‘Well, yes…’

  Both men fall silent and look out through the safety glass at the menacing George Meachen and the shape of Gary Sparks.

  “Yes”, the sales assistant replies.

  ‘So, it’s just the problem of an overpowering smell of shit that is permeating throughout the whole vehicle that is the problem here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The manager looked through the two-way mirror once more, fumbling with his name tag, took a step toward the door put his hand on the door knob, waited and then allowed his hand to drop away.

  ‘Fuck it, give them a new car and put the valets on double time. Life’s just too short.’

  ‘Thank you,’ the sales assistant chirps at his manager, the relief almost tangible.

  Twenty minutes later a white Vauxhall Astra pulled away from Wilhire’s Dovercourt branch. Inside it two broad Liverpudlian men were much happier than they had been an hour earlier.

  ‘That fucking car is a w
rite-off George, they’ll never be able to get that smell out of it. It’s fucking ingrained in it. It’s like a part of its fucking DNA, they’ll have to rename it the Vauxhall Shitstra.’

  ‘I get the fucking idea, Gary, now shut the fuck up.’

  George wanted to keep tabs on this Adams toe rag. He didn’t trust him. First they drove back to his house and waited outside to see if there were any signs of movement. It was a cul-de-sac though and they couldn’t be seen to be hovering. Especially if the lad who took a whack in the face had called the old Bill. They drove by a couple of times but nothing stirred. He waved a hand to Gary Sparks that he’d had enough. He’d turn up. The town was too small. They’d eat, have a few beers and if needed tap up the taxi drivers again for information. It was simple enough stuff and frankly, he felt pretty confident that Adams would come up with most, if not all of the cash. Which would come in handy for his Xmas in the sun. He smiled to himself and rubbed his belly.

  ‘Let’s take in the sights of this unholy cunt of a town and then get something to eat, eh, Gary?”

  You’re the boss, Gary thought, nodding his agreement to George.

  They drove around Harwich, past the docks and along down the sea front past old lighthouses, tired amusement arcades, decrepit beach huts and a wind battered roller skating rink. A yellow-turfed putting green almost screamed for help and beyond that a throng of Cockney holidays makers shoved chips into their already overweight offspring.

  ‘This place is fucking depressing, George, it’s worse than fucking Southport!’

  ‘Calm down there, Sparksy, I fucking like Southport, this is a true blot on the cuntscape.’

  Gary Sparks turned the Astra around and headed back into town.

  ‘I’m sure a saw a Chinese restaurant that was open in town, George, fancy it?’

  ‘OK, but if it’s crap you’re gonna get a kick in the bollocks.’