The Comedown

by Martin Doohan

  Before Tom had a chance to ask, a middle aged couple approached. Tom thought it was a bit odd as the restaurant had lots of seats but they were making a bee line for the girls’ table.

  The man spoke first, not to Tom or Lassie, but to the girls. Tom wondered what he was saying as they clearly knew each other.

  Vanessa Paradis replied in English ‘Please, we are learning English, please speak in English.’

  The man slid into the seat next to one girl and put his arm around her and patted the hand of the other. Lassie and Tom immediately assumed that he was her pimp and braced themselves for some kind of extra payment demand.

  Instead, the man smiled, and said, ‘Hello, my little Princesses,’ and how was your studying today?’

  Tom began to grin and Lassie nearly spat his burger out. He felt Lassie kick him under the table and he returned the favour.

  Vanessa Paradis gave both boys a sly look as her Mum and Dad carried on the conversation in Dutch. She smiled, picked up her milkshake and sucked hard on the straw. ‘Mmm,’ she said. ‘This tastes funny.’ She laughed and took another big slurp, grinning as she pushed her lips all the way down the straw to the base of the cup and back up again, strawberry milkshake now on both lips.

  ‘Err, it was nice to talk to you both,’ Lassie said, getting up from the table. ‘Come on, Tom, we have to get back to the hotel.’

  Tom followed Lassie outside, where they both fell about laughing.

  ‘Can you fucking believe that? Can you fucking believe that?’

  ‘I really can’t,’ Tom replied. ‘The one time you get a decent result it turns out you’ve had your knob polished by a school girl!’

  2.15 The English Spirit

  Gary Sparks sat astride a huge motorbike as a group of girls cheered and screamed his name. He got off the bike and smiled to the baying crowd before realising he had his helmet on. He raised his hands to his chinstrap and began to remove his lid to show the girls his dashing good looks… He squealed and jumped, hitting his head on the roof of the car… his eyes were open and his hand was painful, to say the least.

  George Meachen calmly dispatched the cigar he had been smoking out of the open window, the same cigar he had just stubbed out on Gary’s hand.

  ‘What the fuck? I was fucking asleep then!’

  ‘You cheeky fucking cunt,’ George mumbled, and then more loudly, ‘I’ve got a good mind to throw your fucking no-mark arse out of this car and do the job myself.’

  Now wide awake, Gary remembered who he was with, ‘Sorry, George, I’m really fucking sorry, Boss.’

  He hoped the boss bit would calm George down. George liked people to know he was the Guvnor.

  For a while neither of them spoke, and then George finally said, ‘We’re going round in fucking circles here, Gary.’

  Gary grabbed his chance. ‘Nah, we’re OK boss. Pull over here and I’ll grab a map.’

  While George waited for Gary he considered their next move. He needed a hotel, a bath, a whiskey and a meal. Then they would have a trawl around. He was convinced those Harwich throwbacks would be here; trying to drum up some useless little scheme to save their raggedy little Essex arses. It stank of them. He could feel it in his blood, he smiled to himself as he considered how fucking easy it would be to top someone here, they must be pulling them out of the canals everyday he thought, smiling to himself as Gary knocked on the door of the car. He considered not opening it and driving off but thought better of it, even if the bloke was a complete waste of space.

  ‘OK,’ Gary said, ‘I’ve got a half decent map and there’s a hotel not far from here.’

  Twenty minutes later they were still driving round looking for the hotel when George slammed on the brakes. ‘Get out of the car with your fucking stupid little fucking cunt of a map and go and show a taxi driver. Then ask him to drive to the hotel, we’ll follow the fucker. Do it now, before I explode, Gary, I’m at fucking breaking point!’

  Gary didn’t need any prompting. He leapt out of the car and found a taxi driver, who nodded and waved at George in the Astra. George followed for about twenty metres before the taxi-driver stopped and waved his hand at the sign pointing out the hotel with a broad grin.

  ‘For fuck’s … you can fucking pay him,’ George said, ‘and give him a decent tip too, you fucking maggot.’

  A concierge waived them into a parking space.

  ‘Fucking pay him up fucking front, Gary, I don’t’ give a fuck how much it is!’ George growled as he grabbed his bag and walked into the hotel.

  They checked in and George went straight to the bar for a settler. He sat brooding in silence for a while and then said, ‘I’m going to have a bath and lie down. I’ll be up for five o’ clock. Do you think you can manage to be ready then, eh, Sparksy?’

  Gary took his cue, grabbed his stuff and headed for the lifts. ‘See you at five, George.’

  George requested a wakeup call for five and made his way up the grandiose staircase to his room. His bags were neatly placed on the bench at the end of a large bed. The window gave a view of a canal and the streets where those little fuckers were probably wandering about right now. He found there was a TV over the bath so he settled himself in for a soak with the BBC World news and a miniature Glenlivet from the mini-bar.

  In the room across the hall, Gary Sparks lay on his bed. He imagined that his room, nice as it was, wasn’t as good as George’s. Still, he was the boss and things hadn’t exactly gone well so far. He needed to put on a good show from here on in if he wanted his reputation to remain intact.

  At five, George was sitting with a whiskey in a quiet spot in the hotel garden. His back was to the wall and he faced the door, giving him 360-degree view of the area. At 5.01 he was frowning at his watch wondering where Gary was. When he looked up he saw the concierge pointing Gary towards him.

  ‘What are the plans then, George?’

  ‘Firstly, Gary, don’t talk to that nosey cunt of a concierge. Let’s be as low key as possible here, don’t talk to anyone we don’t have to. Accents, faces, they’re all memorable.’

  This brought a nod of agreement from Gary, along with an internal wince. Who did he think he was kidding? A fucking great big Scouser, dressed like a gangster. Keep it low key? Fucking lunatic.

  George continued, ‘Secondly, we go out and have some dinner. Maybe Italian. Then we’ll go for a wander and see if we can spot our two young friends. If we do, we follow them. We can’t fucking hijack them off the street in Amsterdam with nowhere to put them unless we’re going to out them and I want that cash, it’s a matter of principle. We need to get them back to the UK and then we’ll drag the cunts home and take it from there.’

  Again, Gary nodded in agreement. He had decided he wasn’t going to disagree with him at any point.

  ‘Come on then, let’s go and get something to eat.’ With this, George downed the last his Scotch and headed toward the door. They passed the concierge, who politely bid them a nice evening. Gary followed George’s lead in ignoring him and they walked out into the warm Amsterdam evening. Their search for a decent looking restaurant took them down thin cobbled streets. They walked alongside narrow canals toward the main train station, both reluctant to ask anyone for a recommendation and neither picking up any leaflets for fear of looking, as George had said ‘like a fucking tourist.’

  Gary slowed as George stopped outside an Italian restaurant.

  ‘Here we go Gary, this’ll do us, Ginos. Like Dexy’s Midnight Runners. This’ll do.’

  A waiter approached them and after a quick conversation they were seated at a quiet table away from the heat of the oven, as George had requested. There wasn’t much conversation as they worked their way through their pizzas. Gary was relieved to see George had switched to drinking lager. He had seen the destruction George could wage after a session on the Scotch and didn’t really want a repeat while he was alone with him, abroad and out of his comfort zone.

  They finished their meal, paid the bill and
began walking back up the road towards the hotel.

  ‘Try to remember this road name, Gary,’ George said. ‘Have a good scan of the area, and how to get out of here in the car.’

  ‘It’s on the hotel cards,’ Gary showed George the one he’d picked up as they left the hotel earlier.

  ‘Still, get your bearings though, eh?’

  ‘Course.’

  As they walked up the street a young man, scruffily dressed but with clean trainers and an Arsenal hat intercepted them, ‘Now, there’s a couple of true English gents if I ever did see them.’ The accent was Dutch but the English was perfect. ‘Don’t suppose you can change an English twenty-pound note?’

  ‘It’s a bit warm for a hat isn’t it, la?’ Gary said, immediately checking himself for letting his accent surface.

  The youth shrugged, ‘I love the Arsenal, they are so fucking boring! Fucking English football, all you want to do is fight.’

  At this George laughed, ‘You cheeky fucker, go on then, I’ll give you fifty guilders for it!’

  ‘Thank you so much Sir, I truly love the English spirit, such lovely people. I have met lovely English people all day!’

  George paused, thought about it, laughed and gave him the guilders. Wasn’t worth asking, there must be thousands of English around. He pocketed the note, shook the youth’s hand, instantly regretting it, and walked them back up the main street to where there was a row of bars all advertised with neon signs. He chose one that had a table in the window with a good view both up the street and across the canal and sent Gary to the bar.

  Gary returned with Amstel’s and two shot glasses.

  ‘What in fucking hell’s name is that?’

  ‘It’s something called a B52 and it’s free. The bird behind the bar has just learnt to make them and offered them to me for free. I stood and watched her do it, nothing underhand. Just a friendly bird.’

  Without a word, George picked up the shot, raised the glass and sank it.

  ‘Nice,’ he said looking at the shot glass before putting it down. ‘Let’s have another?’

  Gary was soon back with two more B52s and two more beers.

  ‘What now, boss?’

  ‘We look, we watch and we wait my friend.’

  Gary nodded and gazed out across the canal, wondering what he was meant to be looking at.

  ‘What do they look like, George?’

  George realised that Gary hadn’t seen them before. He looked over at Gary Sparks with a twisted grin. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll point them out to you as soon as I see them.’

  George’s mood was unsettling and Gary felt the need to scratch his arse – he hoped to God his piles weren’t going to start playing up.

  George sat looking out of the window.

  For the next half an hour the two men watched the ebb and flow of people. During that time, they were twice propositioned and drugs were offered to them constantly. Both men were warming to Amsterdam.

  ‘Come on,’ said George as he finished the last of his Amstel, ‘We’re going to another bar.’

  The city was livening up and there were increasing numbers of messed up folk lining the streets they went along. As they walked, George scanned the crowd and the bars drooling for business alongside the canals, he spotted a bar he had overheard a Hen party talking about earlier, if these two were anywhere, here would be a good place to start. Once inside the Bulldog, they mounted some stools in the corner by the bar. Beers ordered, George looked about the place. It was much bigger on the inside and seemed to have more than one floor. George tapped Gary on the arm; he didn’t want to shout over the music

  ‘Go have a walk about, lad, have a look. One of them is tall, short cropped hair and the other, shorter with slightly longer hair. Typical British, southern casual.’

  Gary was more than happy to have a wander, the place was rammed full of birds, and most of them were either partially or totally off their heads. It was like a fucking sweet shop. He glided aimlessly through the bar area, and smiled at a couple of girls sitting rolling a huge spliff from tens of separate Rizla. He found the stairs and climbed to the first floor where there was a group of Geordie lads who were smashed out of their faces, all with girls sitting on their laps. He suddenly felt a little stoned and light headed so he made his way back down to George who was still sitting at the bar.

  ‘I feel wasted George, stoned… I’ve got to get outside in the fresh air.”’ He went outside and sat at on a bench. George joined him and said, ‘You fucking lightweight, Sparksy. You OK?’

  Gary thought about the question for a bit. ‘Err, I don’t think I am George. I feel all over the place.’

  George looked at his watch; it was just past seven in the evening. Clearly the beer and shots, along with some powerful passive smoking had got to Gary, the fucking lemon. He didn’t mind too much though. He actually quite fancied a little walk about on his own. ‘Why don’t you go back to the hotel, Gary? Have a lie down, get your head together. I’ll pick you up about nine, nine thirty.’

  ‘You sure George?’ Gary really fancied the idea but didn’t want to rouse any anger that would ruin the next few days or even leave him being blamed for a mission failure.

  ‘Sure, I’m sure. I need you fighting fit.’

  George pointed Gary in the direction of the hotel and then wandered off on his own into the mêlée of Amsterdam, with a grin growing on his face.

  2.16 He Wanted Out

  Razor sat staring at the TV at the end of his bed. It wasn’t on. On his bedside table was a selection of books that had been donated to the hospital or been left by people who had been on the ward, but he hadn’t read a book in years, unless you counted the Shoot Annual from 1987. He looked down at his legs, he’d had two operations in the last three days to try to save the left one. He clearly wasn’t going anywhere soon. This worried him, especially as his bullshit lying was clearly waving a red flag over the question of his identity. He had to do something but he didn’t have a clue what. And he was worried about Paddy. He hoped he was away somewhere but he had a horrible feeling, especially as George and his mob had got to Essex so fast, that he was in trouble. He needed to call his parents too, but any call he made would blow his cover and he needed to get out of this hospital as soon as possible and try to get things sorted. He knew he was in trouble wherever he ended up but he thought he’d take his chances with George, after all, his legs had already been broken, wasn’t that punishment enough?

  ‘Morning,’ the nurse said. ‘Just going to change your dressings and check your legs, OK?’

  Razor smiled and the nurse went about her business. He leant back and dozed, looking at the ceiling. He felt pain as the nurse adjusted his bed. The painkillers he had been given were being reduced in strength and he was beginning to have the occasional panic attack. What he heard next didn’t calm his mood.

  ‘Well now, you’re all nice and clean and ready for your visitors, eh?’ She patted the bed and wandered off, leaving him to fall into a blind panic as to who was coming to see him. He started rubbing his head and looking about frantically. Was it the Stones brothers? Or George himself? Were they going to kill him or kidnap him? He rolled over and tried to open his cabinet to see if his clothes were clean, perhaps he could attempt an escape?

  When it was two policemen who walked onto the ward he was no less alarmed. His bollocks retreated into his groin so fast they winded him. He was speechless and more importantly had nowhere to go. It wasn’t as if he could get on his toes and get out of there. He had to lie there and take whatever was going to happen. He couldn’t help but think it was a losing battle from the start, he wasn’t like Paddy Wherry, they’d trick him and make him say stuff he didn’t want to. He decided to say nothing and continue looking at the ceiling.

  The policemen drew up to his bed, pulled the curtains round it and one of them asked if it was OK if they sat down. He ignored them.

  They silently watched him for what seemed to Razor like ages, he didn’t know what
to think.

  Eventually one of them said, ‘Well, Raymond, do you want to go first, or shall I?’

  Razor scratched the inside of his leg, trying not to make direct eye contact with either of them and again looked at the ceiling. He felt confident looking at the strip lighting, it calmed him. This sense of wellbeing didn’t last long…

  ‘OK, have it your way. You are Raymond Wilkins. You live at… Your date of birth is… Your address is… Nickname, Razor…’

  He listened intently as his particulars were read out to him; they seemed to have it all. Where the fuck was it all coming from? He wasn’t interested he told himself. It wouldn’t work. He just had to stay on the ceiling…

  ‘I’ll call you Razor. Is that OK, Razor?’

  The ceiling was melting now and his eyes were welling up, the enormity of what had happened to him had hit home with the realisation that whoever came to get him he was fucked. He couldn’t help but think what a fucking stupid idea it had all been. But that realisation was a bit too late, wasn’t it?

  ‘Well, Razor, I’ll take your silence as agreement. I know the answers to most of the questions I’m going to ask you, Razor, but we’ll follow procedure. Have you spoken to your mother lately, Razor?’

  Silence from Razor.

  ‘Do you know a Patrick Wherry?’

  More of the same.

  ‘Or the Stones brothers?’

  The strip lighting was beginning to make Razor’s eyes sore so he decided to close them and again, remain silent.

  The chief questioner took a rest and leant back in the plastic chair which creaked with the weight. He nodded to his number two who got up and headed toward the nurses’ station. Razor couldn’t work out what was going on. Within seconds he saw him returning with the telephone cart. He was smiling broadly and parked it alongside Razor.

  ‘Would you like to talk to your Mum and Dad, Raymond, sorry, Razor? He offered the yellow receiver to Razor and placed a stack of twenty pence pieces on the trolley. ‘Thing is, mate, even if you wanted to you couldn’t. Don’t worry, they aren’t dead, but unfortunately your mum can’t speak as she has a broken jaw, severe burns to her entire body and is, in a very bad way. And so is your dad.’