by Dave Wallis
“They’re from gangs that tried to do up Bingo halls and got captured. Now they keep them to work their time off, like convicts or slaves, really,” said Ernie, and Charlie nodded.
“How long do they keep them?”
“How should I know?”
“There’s girls there too.”
“Ones that nobody wants for anything else, I suppose. Or ones that won’t do it.” Kathy looked away.
“Let’s go in and have a go,” said Ernie.
They both looked surprised. Only mugs really used the halls other than as meeting places and gossip centres.
“I want to get some ideas on how it works,” Ernie explained.
“We all know how it works.”
“I mean how the prices go. What’s getting to be the best stuff to collar and that.”
“O.K.”
“We’ll pay in nylons.” Ernie brought out dozens of pairs from inside his jacket. “They’re from that stall,” he said. “And some from this character,” he pointed his toe at the body on the pavement.
“You’ve done him in.”
“So what?” said Ernie, covering a moment’s qualm with brusqueness. “He would most likely’ve done it anyway.”
“He wasn’t a soo-soo. He was young like us.”
“Do you suppose,” said Kathy, “that when we’re the age of the soo-soos we’ll do it, too?”
“Not likely,” said Ernie.
“Wait and see,” said Charlie as they mounted the steps to the hall.
They gave up some nylons and entered. Stakes were nominally in eggs, but duplicated sheets of barter equivalents were handed out. The session began. All mechanical and electronic aids to the gamble had been abandoned and a large display check-board with hooks on which cardboard discs covered the called numbers, hung from two conjurers’ or jugglers’ chrome ladders long abandoned on the stage.
Charlie had his hand on Estelle’s breast. The four sat and watched the empty ritual of number-calling and card-checking. The top prizes were all of food or clothing.
From time to time members of the guard squad slid up and down the aisles, looking like some exotic breed of frogs in their bright, mottled trousers and violent, shoulder-expanded jackets. They glanced down the row where Ernie sat among his tribe and fingered their rifles but there was no trouble. Taking their cue from their leader the gang were simply watching the game.
At the end of the session newssheets were distributed. All real economic information was now contained in the press of NATBINCO. In the weeks following the death of Alf Neighbour the national press had ceased to exist and printed handbills, looking rather like grocers’ leaflets in the old days, were got out by the National Bingo Governing Council and given away only to players in halls run by them. The gang sat on the steps and read them. Some of the younger of surviving hacks were employed to produce these documents.
“Look at this,” said Kathy. “They never let on before that any of that lot were doing it.” She read out, “Tragic death of Viscount Romnesey (pronounced Rumzee) a member of the NATBINCO Board.
“On his return from a visit to his great-aunt the Duchess of Schwarzhold in the historic family castle overlooking the romantic Rhine, the popular, thirty-seven-year-old sporting Viscount was found dead in his car last week. He would have been three-hundred and forty-seventh in succession to the Throne.”
“You watch now,” said Charlie. “That’ll make it fashionable and they’ll be doing it even quicker, you’ll see.”
Ernie had been silent. He suddenly burst out, “There’s something fishy about that Bingo session.”
“That’s news,” said Charlie.
“No I mean after the big fiddle was over. Some of the regulars were going back-stage, showing cards and getting an envelope of some sort.”
“Commission.”
“What, in an envelope? You’re living in the past, Charlie boy.”
“I don’t mean cash. Some chit giving ’em a claim on NATBINCO for something.”
A grey-faced, timid middle-aged man came out of the hall. He stepped gingerly round the corpse of Ernie’s victim and glanced about as if to say, “Where ever is the Disposal Squad?” He fussily put a white envelope in his pocket and nervously patted the outside of his jacket.
They began to talk about him in voices meant to be overheard.
“Look at him, a live oldie! Why hasn’t he done it yet?”
“He will soon, you see. You can tell from the way his trousers hang.”
“Hang you call it!”
“Hey, oldie, where’re you going?” Ernie called out.
“Oh, leave him be, Ernie,” said Kathy.
“What you got there, oldie?” Ernie shouted. The grey man smiled feebly in their direction and scurried down the street. He made the mistake of touching his pocket as he went. “Let’s see what he’s got there,” said Ernie. “Solve the mystery of the hand-outs.”
“Watch for the NATBINCO guards,” said Charlie.
“Nothing to do with them if we do up an oldie. He’s not in the hall even.”
They started to walk down the street after the man. He glanced over his shoulder and hurried on. They speeded their step.
Kathy and Estelle fell behind. The boys pressed on. Their quarry jumped a low hedge and vanished into a space between two blocks of flats. They started to run, leapt the hedge and whooped after him. Turning the corner of the flats he was nowhere to be seen. The four or five of the Seely St. gang who had followed Ernie and Charlie were about to scatter in search. “Wait,” said Ernie. Along the rear wall of the high block stood a row of bulging dustbins. They were knee-deep in sodden paper and stinking food tins and scraps. Ernie walked up to one whose lid was firmly settled on. He lifted it and started to laugh. “Out of it,” he shouted and the small grey figure of the man clambered out, blinking and dusting down his baggy suit. “Nothing on me you want lads,” he whined. “There’s good lads. I can tell you’re good lads. . . .”
Ernie pushed him with the flat of his hand and he staggered back against one of the circling gang who pushed him forward again so that he stumbled against Ernie.
“Pushing into me, are you?” said Ernie.
“Sorry, I mean, you know I didn’t mean . . .” the man began to plead and whimper slightly.
“Why haven’t you done it yet, oldie?” asked Ernie.
The grey little man seemed to lose control, he drew himself up, still trembling but surprisingly resolute. “You do it for me if you’re such brave lads,” he said. “There’s enough of you.” There was an uneasy pause. “I know what’s eating you son,” he went on quickly, his voice losing its whining tone. “Your own folks did it and you want revenge. Well you should’ve shown more respect for them while they were here.”
“Oh, yes,” said Ernie. “Even that’s all our fault now I suppose.”
“I didn’t say that. I was talking about why you act as you do. All of you. You used to enjoy showing off in front of the squares and the oldies, as you called us. Now there’s almost no one to show off in front of anymore and you don’t know what to do about it. You’ll have to grow up a bit, son.”
He paused for breath and, all at once, his temper went and his confidence evaporated with it.
“Go on,” said Charlie. “Go on. We’re listening.”
“No offence, lads. You’re good lads, really I know. How about just letting me slip away now? You’ve had your fun. . . .”
“Go on,” said Charlie. “Go on with what you were saying before.”
A silence fell. The grey little man blinked and smiled at them. He even looked smaller than a few moments before.
Kathy spoke, “You’re the first oldie that has ever tried to talk to us about it or shown any guts at all. Now you’re just going like all of them, like all the rest. Go on with what you were saying about us and about why our people did it and all that. Don’t be scared.” She put out one hand towards Ernie as if to demonstrate her girl’s power of restraint o
ver him should there be need.
“That’s right,” said the little man. “No hard feelings. I lost my temper a bit, but no hard feelings, eh lads? Listen to the young lady.”
“What are you two playing at?” snarled Ernie. “You know what they’re all like.”
Kathy was silent and Charlie shrugged, admitting a mistake. In revenge he pushed the man and said, “What’d they give you in that envelope? The one you got tucked away there,” he added as the little man started to make a mime of surprised ignorance.
“Nothing. Nothing that would interest you young gentlemen I assure you,” he said.
For answer they jerked his jacket open, ripping two buttons. Ernie held his arms behind his back while Charlie searched his wallet pocket and brought out the envelope.
They gathered round, Ernie casually holding their prisoner by his coat. Charlie tore open the envelope. Out on to his palm he shook two white tablets. “Easyway pills,” he exclaimed. “All that carry on for a couple of Easyway pills.”
“They’re getting scarce. I suppose NATBINCO have got all that’s left and dish ’em out to regulars like this one. They can exchange them for tins, or petrol or anything.”
“Perhaps they use them themselves. That way the Bingo Halls are just killing off their own customers.”
“I suppose they reckon the customers’ll be doing it anyway sooner or later.”
Ernie suddenly and unexpectedly took the pills from Charlie. “Here,” he said. He held them out to the little grey man who took them. “Now blow,” said Ernie.
“Thank you, lad, I said all along you were a good lad,” he almost bowed as he turned to scurry off. The gang walked away. The boys were tired and stiff from the fight and the chase and the girls, for some reason, a bit quiet and sad. Even Estelle stopped chattering. “Let’s get some bottles and all the discs and find a new place for tonight,” said Charlie. They brightened a little and quickened their pace as they turned the corner of the building, out of sight of the man they had chased. He had been staring after them. His shoulders were hunched with humiliation. He raised his hand to his mouth and swallowed the pills.
The fading seals of the Control Board, originally set to keep prowlers out of premises until the next of kin or the local authority could take over, now served as advertisements. They soon found a flat, fetched beer and tinned food from a hidden store known only to the leaders of the Seely St. gang and settled to an evening’s enjoyment. Something uneasy hung over the party. Kathy was stirring a mess of baked beans and tinned sausages in a large saucepan balanced over an electric fire turned on its side. The first pop disc thudded against the dusty walls and the boys were busy opening bottles. These late afternoon meals which then became evening and all night parties were already stale, following a predictable pattern broken only by scenes and fights over the switching of partners. “It’s flat,” said Kathy to Estelle.
Estelle giggled and patted and fussed her blonde hair. “I was at a marvellous one last week, with some of that gang from Kentish Town. We went to some fabulous medical museum near Euston first and looked at all the weird things in bottles, fabulous kicks. Then we set fire to the whole lot and moved on to Euston hotel. NATBINCO had it but they gave it up a little while ago. It was all dark and we played hide and seek in and out of a thousand rooms. If you got caught in a room by a boy you had to do it with him. Then we ate in the main dining-room. We found a lot of stuff. The frig. was working off some cable the NATBINCO had fixed up, big thing, big as a storeroom only all a frig., see? And we had chicken and lobsters and all sorts. It’s too small here.”
“I don’t think it’s that,” said Kathy. “That oldie put the mockers on it talking like that.”
One or two boys drifted to the doorway and sniffed around after food to pick. “Wait for it,” said Kathy.
“Kathy was saying this was a bit flat, this party, because that oldie upset things, made us feel bad,” said Estelle.
“Never,” said Ernie, slouching in the doorway. “Nobody’s had enough to eat and drink yet, that’s all, especially drink.”
“Fetch us a drink in here, Ernie,” said Estelle.
Ernie shouted over his shoulder, “Charlie, your girl wants a drink.”
The food ready they sat on cushions on the floor scooping up the mess with spoons and drinking from bottles. From time to time the lights flickered and the booming pop discs slowed to a groan and then picked up the rhythm again.
“Those NATBINCO guards are super,” babbled Estelle tactlessly.
“They’re not so tough,” said Ernie. “They’ve just got guns.”
“I’ve heard they have a whole lot of stuff down at Windsor Castle,” said Charlie. “Big guns, lots of ammo, all sorts of stuff and a big store of petrol. It’s the main NATBINCO armoury for the London area now.”
“Windsor,” said Ernie, hissing the word and showing his white young dog’s teeth, “Windsor”. He rubbed his shoulders as if easing an old bruise and said, “Someday I’m going to take that place and get those mobsters that done us, eh, Charlie?”
Charlie just nodded but Estelle was unwise enough to say, “Oh really! A corny little gang like this! They’ve even got tanks down there. One of them I spent the night with told me once.”
Ernie had been drinking. “Shut up you dozey tart!” he said and made a gesture of threatening to throw his beer in her face.
“Listen what he called me,” shrieked Estelle and turned to Charlie.
He made no chivalrous remark in her defence but turned to Ernie, nodded slowly and said, “It’d want proper planning. Casing the place up first, getting all the stuff we need.”
“I wish you’d give up this idea of revenge on the Windsor lot, Ernie,” said Kathy.
“Give up, give up. That was one of the reasons started the oldies off doing it, giving up too easy.”
“That’s not what I meant. You know it isn’t.”
“It’s what you said.”
“You know what I meant. I meant just giving up this idea of taking on the biggest gang you can find.”
The brush with Estelle was forgotten. A small crowd had gathered round, rather intrigued by the sight of the gang leader and his girl having a row. To lower the temperature Kathy said, “You said giving in was one of the reasons they started doing it. What are the others? I should think that giving in just about covers it all. I mean that little oldie we met this afternoon he was typical, given in all round. What other reasons are there?”
Ernie thought best in action. He had a quick eye and nimble fists and was acquiring a ready air of command but could only express himself by anecdotes, rudimentary parables and slang clichés so that now he answered, “He started to do his nut and then when that went he was as scared as ever, like some clot that doesn’t know how to fight, loses his temper, starts going like a heli-rotor and then packs up at the first tap on the point.”
“They were all so clever,” Charlie burst out. One or two started to hold their noses, blow raspberries and otherwise delicately to indicate dissent. “No, no, wait for it, let me finish,” said Charlie. Against a spiky blanket of interruptions. (“Clever at what?” “Just because he passed an ‘O’ level Science himself . . .” “So clever they started doing themselves in nineteen to the dozen . . .”) he fought his point through, “I meant they got so clever at thinking up the answers that they just couldn’t be bothered with the questions anymore. Whatever happened they had the answer ready, making out they knew all about it, that it had all happened before. Then they had nothing much left but getting hold of things to show off with, better cars, bigger houses, projectors to show their holiday films to each other. It’s a good thing really they started doing it. They were all getting so bored without another war they’d’ve soon started one, H-bomb or not. Look at the way they kept going on about the war, films about it, parades, bugles on Nov. 11th, plays, T.V. films, the lot. Making out how brave they were once, living in the past. When we wouldn’t sit around and clap any longer th
ey made out there was something wrong with us. That sort used to keep going and keep from thinking by praying to God and drinking beer and watching leg-shows. They killed their God in the two world wars and in the concentration camps. Not even prize mugs like them could believe in the Loving Father after that little lot, so they were just left with themselves, see? When we wouldn’t clap anymore, like I just said, they had to look at themselves and what they saw started them off doing it. . . .” He paused for breath and brushed his hair out of his eyes. The interruptions had slowly stopped.
The circle of faces, flushed from dancing, hung around and above him. Bright eyes met his own.
“They gave up hope,” said Estelle, simply. She giggled. “While there’s life there’s hope and while there’s hope there’s life, eh Charlie?” She indicated by her tone that the witticism had originated with him and was not her own. Kathy nodded and others started to hum and tap out, “Hope, hope, better than dope, stronger than rope, baby don’t mope, we gotta have hope”, an officially inspired pop song from the early days of the Crisis.
Something seemed to annoy Kathy. “I don’t think it was like that,” she said. “They had hope all right but it was the wrong sort. Like hoping to win the pools or hoping you won’t crack up when you’re doing a ton. Hope,” her voice rose as the thoughts crowded her mind, “Look, all those millions done in the gas-chambers, or tortured to death. Up to the last minute each one must’ve been thinking, ‘Perhaps it isn’t really true. They can’t really do it’ or ‘Perhaps the other side’ll get here first and release us, release me. It’s not true, it’s not really happening, it’s all a nightmare’ and so on and the most they could really hope for was that they’d get into the gas-chamber instead of being whipped or strung up by their hands or left out to freeze to death in the winter. What good did hope do them? I think we have to learn to live without hope. That’s the only way I keep going anyway.” She stopped. Estelle said, “Well, we’ll never do anything like that. That was all crumby oldies did that, doing each other in in wars and cattle trucks. What a crowd! honestly, we’re well rid of them and now the whole thing’s ours.”