Ironopolis

by Glen James Brown

  Ian said you were the one who told him about the bomb.

  UXOUXOUXO [opens fridge] Harry’s wife makes her own haggis from scratch. She gets the lungs and…9

  9 There followed several more cycles of haggis / Westerns / nostalgia / overweight women from the Isle of Man, before I was politely able to make my escape. Fredrick Bunden would be the first – though not the last – instance of my pursuit of the truth being hamstrung by time, memory failure, and, as I later came to realise, outright lies.

  Ian. Cont.

  Anyway, so you saw Bundy, then what?

  We got back to Doug’s and your Curley was waiting.

  Curley my uncle Curley?

  Vincent had sent him round to take us over your dad’s garage.

  Why?

  Do I have to spell it out?

  I…it’s just your story goes from one thing to another. People coming and going without any–

  This is what happened. What do you want to hear? Then Curley came round for a cup of tea? Doug knocked the drink on the head, then we all had a wank? This is real life, not some shitty play like what Morris Clarke’s wife used to do.

  But how am I supposed to make sense of it?

  That’s your problem.

  But I [pause]. Fine. So Curley took you to my dad’s garage and–

  I didn’t say that, did I? I said your dad told him to, but Curley had other ideas. He gave us a choice. If we handed over the money from selling the gear, he’d tell Vincent he couldn’t find us. I said we didn’t have any money – which was true – and he was like, then you better get it. He said if we thought about doing one, he’d go and see my lass.

  Who was your girlfriend?

  Wife now. Paula.

  How long have you been married?

  Twenty year this September, but I don’t wear a ring. Fat fingers.

  That’s your China anniversary. Congratulations.

  Is that what it is? Anyway, I was like, You leave her out of this. I don’t give a fuck who your brother is. Took Curley by surprise, that, me standing up to him, so he went for Doug instead. He got his cider and tipped it all over him, then he grabbed his knackers and twisted. We had ’til tomorrow, he said.

  Did Doug know Paula?

  Look, I know this all comes across like me and him were thick as thieves, but he was just some bloke who hung round the scrapyard sometimes. He wasn’t part of my life.

  Did he ever have a girlfriend?

  Doug? As far as I know, he was never with anyone the whole time I knew him, though he did let something slip once. He was blotto at the scrap yard, and babbling about all kinds of weird shite, and at some point he said he’d been engaged to a Sarah-someone. I actually met her once, briefly.

  You met her? When? What was she like?

  I’m getting to that. It isn’t pretty. You’re writing that down?

  Do you have her surname?

  Nah. That was all he said. It must’ve been before the drink ruined him, though, because there was no way the Doug I knew was getting with a woman. The way he lived, man. There was hardly owt in his flat – a knackered settee with foam coming out, a telly and a video and the bits of scrap he’d pulled out the houses. It stunk too, his flat, like when you’ve left the washing too long before hanging it up. Imagine being a lass and going back and seeing that?

  And then there was his toilet.

  His toilet?

  Taped up tight with a whole roll of gaffer tape. Right round the lid again and again and again. You had to piss in the sink, and there was a bucket for shitting.

  Why?

  Stuff comes up, he said. I was like, gaffer tape won’t do nowt if your pipes are backing up, but all he’d say was stuff comes up. This is what I’m on about – he needed help, but by that point I was sick of it being me having to give it to him. After Curley went, Doug was sprawled on the floor, dripping in cider, and I lost my rag. I was like, What’s the matter with you? Where’s your fucking pride? I thought you were a man? And that’s when he got the knife.

  He attacked you?

  I saw this thing on telly once, about the Vietnam War. There was this look what the soldiers got [Ian slackens mouth, defocuses eyes]. He looked like that, like his eyes were just burn holes in his face. I grabbed him and this happened [shows me the palm of his right hand, the pale ridge of scar tissue scoring his head, heart, and life lines].

  Oh my God.

  I don’t hold a grudge. He was fucked. He didn’t know what he was doing. He was like, It’s all Vincent’s fault. Vincent’s going to get what’s coming to him. Are you alright?

  Yes, it’s just…you know.

  I was trying to calm him down. I was like, You’re not doing this. You’re no murderer. But then I remembered that he already kind of was.

  What do you mean, he already kind of was?

  There was a girl. He was driving and crashed and the girl in the other car died.

  When? What was her name?

  Fuck knows. It’s probably in the papers somewhere.10

  10 Problem is, it isn’t. Teesside University Library has an online newspaper archive; the crash didn’t make the nationals, and there is only a partial collection of local dailies spanning the years 1999 to present, which is no good to me as the accident would have happened in the mid-1980s. The local papers themselves don’t keep archives, and only offer a back-copy service for the previous year.

  And he never talked about it?

  Would you? I’d want to forget something like that.

  But that’s not how it works. Even if he could somehow erase it, it would leave a hole in him. A lacuna. And that’s worse.

  A lacuna? Speak English, man.

  I’m sorry. I, ah, I just think it’s important.

  Listen, having a knife waved in your face very quickly helps you realise what is and isn’t important. So I went into the kitchen to sort my hand and when I came out he was halfway up the street. He might’ve been a pisshead, but he could run. At that point, the sane thing for me to have done would’ve been to ring the police, but I ended up going after him.

  Because you were looking after him, right?

  [Narrows eyes] Do you want to hear this or not?

  Yes, sorry.

  By the time I’d caught up he was banging on your door. I bet you got a fright.

  He obviously wasn’t expecting me to open it, so we both sort of stood there. You were hiding behind a car.

  I wasn’t hiding. I was keeping an eye out.

  So I invited him in and–

  You invited him? I thought he must have threatened you or something.

  You’ve got to invite in anyone who knocks on New Year’s Eve. That’s the rule.

  You’re as crackers as he was. I thought, any second now, Vincent’s going to launch him through the window.

  Dad was walking Chopin11 so it was just me. I was listening to my tapes in the back room. Do you like Kate Bush?

  11 After Rachmaninoff (see footnote (FN).15), there was Chopin, a bullmastiff which Dad pronounced Chopin’ – as in with an axe. Dad got him a couple of years before Mam died and, out of all of his dogs, I hated Chopin the most. It howled longer and louder than any dog before or since, ate its own faeces, and spent hours lapping at its rocket-red penis, this enormous, twitching, mucous-covered lipstick that frequently pearled with grey-yellow semen. Even its name was an aberration; completely at odds as the beast was to the sensual, moonlit melodies of its namesake.

  Don’t know her.

  Oh, you should listen. Try ‘Never for Ever,’ that’s her best one. Then ‘Hounds of Love’ then ‘Lionheart,’ though most wouldn’t agree there. If you want, I could make you a copy?

  I’m alright, ta.

  I like Joni Mitchell too, but not as much.

  Never heard of her. I just listen to wha
tever’s on the radio. I never liked all of that duh duh duh stuff. That heavy metal stuff.

  I’ve heard every Kate Bush song a million times but I never get bored. I think of songs like friends, something that’ll be with me for the rest of my life.

  Don’t have many friends, do you? Listen, I’ve left my wallet in the house, so…

  Oh…same again?

  [I leave the table. Ambient pub noise. Then, under his breath, Ian absent-mindedly whistles a tune I recognise.12 He stops before I return a minute or two later].

  12 The song is ‘Thee Infant Kiss’, from Kate Bush’s album The Sensual World. Not her best, not her worst.

  Cheers. So what happened in there? I never got the chance to ask Doug before, you know.

  He told me he used to work for Dad. He asked me if I’d ever finished my jigsaw, which I still don’t understand.13 He was very drunk. We went into the living room. I had some crisps and peanuts and scotch eggs out. I offered him a drink, meaning pop, but he wanted a real drink. Dad had some whisky in the cabinet, and we just sat there. I’m not good with people, but we managed to talk a little.

  13 Having not yet read Doug’s journals at that point. See Doug’s entry for 3/5/1986.

  About?

  He asked about my leg. I had an accident when I was younger, at the well over by the waterworks. Did you know it?

  Yeah, of course.

  He said he used to drink up there. He said someone had spoken to him from the bottom of it.

  See, that’s the drink rotting his head.

  Yes. Probably.

  Probably? Are you sure that’s just lemonade you’re supping?

  That’s when I saw the end of the knife sticking through his coat pocket. He saw me see, and he said, Your dad’s not who you think he is. So I said, Then who is he? But Dad came back before he could answer. I assume he didn’t run into you.

  I was round the back, in the alley.

  Chopin started howling and Doug panicked. He sort of lurched into Dad’s backroom, which was off limits. He was trapped, panicked. He stumbled into the mantelpiece and knocked Mam’s urn over. The ashes exploded up in a big grey cloud. It’s OK, you can laugh.

  [Chuckling] Sorry, it’s not funny.

  It’s sort of funny.

  I’ve always wondered why he came out covered in dust. Your dad must’ve shit a brick.

  He just sort of froze. I don’t think he could quite process what he was seeing – this drunkard coughing up his dead wife. Doug ran into the kitchen. Chopin was howling his head off, and Dad said ‘Kill’ and let go of the lead.

  From The Journals of Douglas Ward14

  14 Doug’s first entry from his first journal. I possess seven such journals, spanning the years 1986-1993. The first couple are ruled hardback notebooks, reasonably legible and diligently kept. However, by the early 1990s, his handwriting had deteriorated dramatically – scrawled across the cheapest, rough-pulp notepaper. Months go by without an entry. Pages violently torn out. Strange stains and markings. The final journal consists of only a handful of mostly indecipherable entries written in a child’s colouring book, the kind sold in wholesalers for a handful of coppers. I have copied entries in full, in accordance with this document’s opening pledge to transparency. I’ve kept Doug’s stylistic habit of randomly omitting articles. As much as possible, I feel it important to let his voice rather than mine tell his story. The only alterations I made were in the name of comprehension: grammar, spelling etc.

  2/5/1986

  In the group today Karen handed out these journals. Told us they were Tools Of Examination to record thoughts & feelings & shite. Said if we could write down the events what put us in here, we might see Common Threads. Common Threads meaning bits of our personality or how we act what is bad & happens over & over. Our Lives Are Not A Series Of Random Unconnected Events. Her words. Think she believes it too.

  But will try coz it’s late & my nightmares & Mellish’s snoring won’t let me sleep.

  Mellish is my pad mate. Foul Manc bastard. Everything about him stinks: Breath. Clothes. Farts he lets rip loud enough to knock me awake the rare times I drop off. “The BeeGees” he says. BeeGees = Bubble Guts. One of his jokes. Cunt. He’s in here coz his wife let milk boil over on hob so he smashed her head so hard off the side her eye-socket shattered. Blind now in that eye, he says. Smiling like he’s remembering a happy childhood.

  Mellish doesn’t go to Karen’s sessions. Man seems at peace with himself. He has no journal to write in, unlike me.

  But I don’t know where to start. Starting is the hardest part. Common Threads, she said.

  3/5/1986

  Here’s a start. Vincent’s door was the colour red of the kind of blood that comes with stitches. He had only one house back then, not two. He hadn’t knocked through yet.

  Baz Stark had introduced us. Me & Baz both played Sunday League for the Anchor & Hope. Baz a predictable winger, always turning inside on left foot. Open book for a decent defender. Baz said this bloke Vincent was looking for someone who knew his way round a motor. Said I should give him a bell. I needed work so I did. Vincent invited me over & I went on the bus. My first time on estate.

  His living room was full of Chintz. Dado rails & doilies. His smiling wife with tea & biscuits. Wagon Wheels. Pink wafers. A dog barking outside15 & his weird kid at the table doing a jigsaw, but not putting it together. Just pushing the bits about like toy cars.

  15 Rachmaninoff. A snarling German Shepherd the size of a supermarket chest-freezer. He was the first dog Dad named after a composer. I think he got the names from the sleeve of Mam’s LP Eleven Classical Classics, a record I never once heard played. Rachmaninoff’s thing was destroying cardboard. I was a teenager at the time, and every week the night before bin day, Dad would pick through the rubbish while the dog watched patiently; nothing but an occasional sweep of the tail to hint at any internal psychosis. Then Dad tossed armfuls of cereal boxes, frozen-pizza boxes, fishfinger boxes into the yard and Rachmaninoff would lose whatever passed for its mind – head snapping back and forth, jaws, teeth, claws, tearing, grinding, mincing all into drool-soaked confetti. Dad would cheer as he watched, pleased by the crazed relentlessness of his pet.

  Vincent in the other chair with those eyes. Starkey tells me you’re a good mechanic.

  I suppose.

  You suppose?

  No, yes.

  Teacup in his hand looked like a child thing. A dollhouse thing. His bairn kept dropping bits of jigsaw. He was really getting on my tits, the kid. Just being near him got on my tits.

  Vincent said, I know enough good mechanics. I’m looking for loyalty.

  I’m loyal.

  Not like that cunt out there – meaning his dog – that’s beast loyalty. I need the other kind. Comprende?

  I said I did but I didn’t.

  Vincent thought for a bit then leaned over. Clamped his big skull-crusher hand on my knee. You’ll do for me, he said.

  His kid dropped a shower of pieces onto the carpet & Vincent snapped. Start with the fucking corners you little shite.

  & that was how I got my start at Barr Auto & MOTs.

  That was how I fucked my life.

  5/5/1986

  So I started working at garage & at first everything was sound. Cars came in broken & went out fixed & that was down to me. I’d done that. It’s daft, but it felt like I was making a difference & I was grateful to Vincent. I had no qualifications or nowt, but he’d taken me on. I thought he was a mate.

  People warned me. They’d heard stories about him, but I’d say that wasn’t how it was. Me & him were equals. But even then, before anything happened, that wasn’t really how I felt. There was a nature programme on in the day room a few weeks back, about sharks. These suckfish things that live on them. Eating their parasites. Picking dead meat out their teeth. I couldn’t watch it.
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  There was him, his brother Curley & me at the garage. I did most of the bread & butter graft. The oil changes, brake pads, clutch cables & that, while they sat in the office with a man called Beech. Beech gave me the creeps.16 Cunt was always sweating. Always smirking at you like you were both in on something, only you weren’t. I avoided him. Kept my head in the engines & said nowt.

  16 I received a jolt upon first reading this name. Only last Christmas, I’d woken in the middle of the night, in need of relieving my bladder, and, stepping onto the landing, I smelled cigar smoke, heard voices. Dad downstairs with another man:

  ‘Aye,’ said the other man, ‘she reckons she’s got a system.’

  ‘Christ,’ Dad said.

  ‘She owes me thousands.’

  ‘She should stick to cutting hair.’

  ‘I don’t mind. She’ll be emptying my Santa sack one way or the other.’

  Dad chuckled. ‘You’re a sick cunt, Beech.’

  At which point, I creaked a floorboard, and the conversation stopped.

  Then, after a few months, Vincent invited me down the Labour Club. I felt nervous. Good nervous. Like on a date. A lass on a date. He even paid for the drinks. Then a few pints in, he popped the question. In an off-hand way, like: Oh, you know, there’s this bloke. Friend of a friend in Leeds who’s got something for me to pick up. I’d go myself, but I’ve got a short notice job on at the garage. So hows about it?

  I asked what it was, this thing he needed picking up.

  Just a bag, he said. That’s all. Drive up, get a bag, drive back. Another tonne in your wages. Two quid a mile. Not even Ayton Senna got that.

  Did I agree straight away? Or um & ah? Don’t remember now. All I do remember is the balancing act: the fear that Vincent wouldn’t like me, weighed against the fear he would.

  So I drove over. A bloke in a pub in Morley handed over a bag without looking at me. I drove back with it on passenger seat. Didn’t look inside. Vincent didn’t look at me when he took it.

  I started noticing things in garage. Just a weird feeling at first. Like an energy when I opened up in the mornings. A smell, too. Weird metallic smell. Maybe a new stain on the floor. I asked Vincent about it once & he’d said it was from night before, after I’d gone home. Mate of his had driven round short notice with his motor leaking sump oil all over the show. I’d said fair enough, even as I was looking at his hands. Pink & clean even under the nails.