by Morton Bain
I stop the car outside my local newsagent. I need to buy some King Size Rizla for my nightly cannabis habit. In all our time together Lucy has never picked up on my need for a daily smoke, something I find shocking. Admittedly, I go outside to toke, but all the same . . . My excuse that I like to watch the night sky for ten minutes every evening is lame, given I even go out when there’s heavy cloud cover. And the smell! I must reek of smoke when I come in.
There are several scrawny white kids wearing hoddies hanging around outside the shop. A comment’s made as I pass them, followed by raucous laughter. I can feel my jaw clench. When I leave the shop they’re still there, mock-fighting, and generally behaving like the feral shits they are. ‘It’s stopped raining,’ I find myself saying to them. ‘You can take your hoods off now.’
Two boys who are jostling each other stop and look at me. ‘What did you say, tosser?’ the taller of the two asks.
‘No more rain. Why’ve you still got your hoods up?’
‘Maybe it’s ‘cos we don’t want to be recognised on CCTV when we beat the shit out of you.’ It’s the same boy speaking.
‘But that’s not going to be an issue,’ I reply.
‘Why?’
‘Why? Because I’m going to be the one beating the shit out of you.’ I’m running towards the boys before I’ve finished this utterance. Along with the cigarette papers I’ve also bought two cans of peaches. All of my purchases are in a plastic bag, which is transformed into a very effective weapon. I twist the handle as I run and slam the bag into the kid I’ve been exchanging words with. The cans thud into his left temple, and he falls like a stone. The boy standing next to him looks at me in horror as I turn my attention to him. Instead of looking he should have been running. Too late: the shopping bag fells him as well. I look around for the other kids, but they haven’t hung around to suffer the same fate as their friends. I watch their backs as they run as fast as their junk-food-fed legs will carry them.
The shop owner steps out onto the pavement at this point. He looks down at the two boys and says. ‘I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time. You go now. I’ll wait five minutes then call an ambulance.’
When I’m back in my car I see that the bag has torn and my Rizlas have fallen out. ‘Fuck,’ I say, then start the engine.
Later that night after getting stoned I wander downstairs and turn the TV on. I’m greeted with the beaming mug of the anchor on a rolling news station. I would change channels, but I’m feeling too lethargic. Within ten minutes I’ve learned two very important things. Firstly, it’s very hazardous to be a nice person. The anchor has told me about a soldier in Afghanistan who was killed earlier that day, and as ever, he was ‘a wonderful soldier and a loving husband’. He will, apparently, be deeply missed by his colleagues, friends and family. Why is it always such people that get killed? Why don’t we ever hear that so-and-so has been killed, and that he was ‘a right arsehole, and it couldn’t have happened sooner’? I’m tempted to ring up my life insurance company and ask them if they’ll cut my premiums on account of me being a total cunt.
The second thing I learn is that the media is a poisonous quagmire of quicksand and lethal gases. Actually, I knew this already. Open yourself up to more than five minutes of exposure to its horrible influence and you’re certainly doomed. I witness the anchor asking a colleague of his to comment on a rumour about an alleged crime. News nowadays, apparently also includes extensive reporting on the goings-on at other news organisations. The news making the news. Self-referential, recyclical, fart-harvesting shit-heads. I’ve always thought I was in favour of the freedom of the press, but now I’m thinking it might be better to live in a country with a State-controlled media. At least you’d know from the off that everything said and reported was bullshit.
Chapter Ten
‘Whadya mean you’re outta Scotch? You gotta have some left.’
The speaker is a fat New Jersey Mafioso called Vinnie, and he’s sitting to my left. There’s nine of us gathered around Joey’s dining room table, the occasion a reunion between host and his criminal brethren from the States.
‘I’ll have a look,’ Joey says, rising from his chair. ‘But if we’re out, we’re out. I’m not gonna go cruising the neighbourhood looking for a liquor store. You’ll have to make do with brandy . . .’
In the company of his fellow hoods Joey’s voice broadens and slackens into a fruitier Brooklyn accent.
‘We fly all this way to see you, and this is the hospitality you show us?’ Gino, a small man with a cleft palate says as Joey leaves the room. The grin on his face reassures me he isn’t about to pull his gun out.
The joshing is interrupted by the arrival of another pasta dish, carried to the table by a buxom lady in her fifties who is wearing pounds of makeup and jewellery. Joey follows her into the dining room as she returns for another plate. The Americans pile spoonfuls of sauce-laden linguine onto their plates, and then into their mouths, until almost all of them have white tentacles hanging from their chins.
Courtney is amongst the guests. He’s sitting to my right and looking very uncomfortable in a jacket that isn’t big enough for his broad shoulders. Whenever one of the Italians tries to engage him in conversation he answers in the minimum number of words. Seeing that Courtney isn’t showing himself in the best possible light, and perhaps uncomfortable at how this might reflect on him, Joey tries to draw him out: ‘Hey, Courtney, tell these guys about that fucking ghost thing. Tell them about what happened the other day.’
‘Joey shot up his sofa,’ Courtney says.
Joey chuckles. ‘It’s the way he tells them. But he’s right. Some kind of poltergeist thing keeps moving stuff around this house. I went crazy the other day and shot up the couch. I don’t know if I got the fucker. There was no blood.’
A blonde fortysomething called Janice says, ‘My mom used to tell me about a ghost that was meant to haunt her home when she was a kid.’ Turning to her husband, Louie, she goes on: ‘You saw our old place on Neptune Avenue, didn’t you?’
‘If I was a ghost I’d have chosen a better neighbourhood to haunt,’ Louie comments. ‘If I could walk through walls, I’d just have kept walking until I got somewhere more upscale.’
‘The only spirits I believe in come in a bottle,’ Vinnie declares. ‘Have you found my Scotch already, Joey? I’m your goddam guest remember. And someone, pass the calamud.’
‘All out buddy. Cognac? You should wait until you’ve finished the main courses before you hit the spirits, anyway. That’s the way it’s done over here.’
‘Listen, fratu, do you think I give a fuck how it’s done over here, or anywhere for that matter? The only interest I have in this crummy country is how much money you can make for me here.’
‘You guys have done pretty good so far with this hooker racket,’ Louie comments. ‘You think you can expand the action there?’
‘Not in front of the ladies,’ Vinnie reprimands Louie.
‘Yeah, not in front of us,’ one of the wives echoes. ‘I don’t wanna know about any prostitution activities.’
‘Yeah, but you don’t mind spending the money we make from broads,’ Gino says.
‘Enough,’ Vinnie says. ‘Let’s change the subject. So, Adam, Joey tells me you’re a priest as well.’ A gurgle of chuckles erupt.
‘I am indeed,’ I reply. ‘Like generations of priests before me, I find it important to spread lies, instil guilt and fear, and profit personally from the gullibility of my flock. Something you guys can, I’m sure, relate to.’
‘We’ve got a fiery one here, Joey. With the exception of Father Bernard, who married me and buried my mamma and papa, I agree with you. In fact, you’ve got me to thinking. There are quite a few similarities between the Church and the Mafia. We both swear an oath . . .’
‘We both take a weekly collection!’ Gino chimes in.
‘You’re both big in Italy,’ I add.
Laughter interrupts what threatens to become the elicitat
ion of an almost endless list of similarities between the two institutions.
‘What about this poltergeist thing?’ Louie asks, looking in my direction. ‘What’s that all about?’
Being asked this question forces me to quickly examine my own thoughts on the matter. ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I felt the sofa move. Joey wasn’t even in the room at the time, so he can’t have been yanking on fishing line. I don’t know whether what happened is supernatural. It’s probably something very natural, just a something Science doesn’t understand yet.’
‘There you go, Joey,’ Vinnie says. ‘No need to try and shoot the poltergeist. It’s just a natural thing Science doesn’t understand.’
‘Whatever . . .’ Joey says, seemingly unimpressed.
In due course the women take themselves off to the living room, leaving the men to talk business. ‘So you’re doing well,’ Vinnie says to Joey after a long pull on his drink. ‘Do you need some extra bodies? Some more help?’
‘We’re okay at the moment. Maybe in six months or something, depending on how things develop.’
Stroking his glass, Vinnie continues: ‘You thinking of expanding into other stuff apart from whores?’
Joey nods, before replying: ‘ Yep. Thinking about doing more of the white stuff . . .’
‘Coke or heroin?’
‘Coke. I’ve got a pal who lives in Galicia in Spain. Has lots of good contacts with Colombians. Half the coke that comes into this country come through that part of Spain.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yep. Long stretches of deserted coastline with lots of little inlets and bays. If you look at a map, that bit of Spain is pretty much the closest part of mainland Europe to South America. And Spanish. The Colombians like being able to talk in their native language.’
‘Makes sense,’ Vinnie says. He glances at Louie before adding: ‘Do you need us to front you some cash to get things started? I’m guessing you’re looking at moving tonnes not kilograms.’
‘Well, maybe not tonnes, but a lot of kilos. Some financing might help. I’ll know more after I’ve been to see this kid in Spain. We’ll talk numbers, and I’ll get a clearer picture of things.’
‘How you going to get the stuff from Spain to here?’ Vinnie wants to know.
‘Couple of possibilities,’ Joey says. ‘One involves Courtney here driving it over in a van on his own. The other involves Adam driving it over in a van on his own.’ Laughter from everyone at the table apart from Courtney and myself. ‘No, I’m working on that. If it works well, I’ll let you know all about it.’
During the drive home my mind is occupied with thoughts of murder. I’ve already got my wife and Jake to get rid of, but a copy of ‘Hello’ magazine I flipped through at Joey’s has made me want to kill a pop star called Kim Catcheside. I’m filled with hatred for this woman – for her imbecility, for her lack of any discernable talents apart from looking good, and for the fact that this non-entity will be remembered long after I’m forgotten by my small group of friends and family. Just as natural disasters like earthquakes and volcanoes are the result of the build-up of forces that can’t be resisted, so I think this woman elicits a justifiable loathing that can only be sated by her well-deserved annihilation. It seems just and equitable that she be wiped out.
If Catcheside was a celebrity of any real status killing her would probably be difficult, but she’s one of those nonentities that’s been recently scooped up by a desperate media, and from what ‘Hello’ tells me, still hasn’t had time to trade in her trashy cheap house for a trashy expensive one. There’ll probably be a Neanderthal boyfriend lurking around, but despatching him would be kind of fun. So many people to kill, so little time to do it . . .
My thoughts are interrupted by the ringing of my phone. It’s Janet, a dark-haired strumpet I fuck from time to time. ‘Hey, Janet. How you doing?’ I say, trying to avoid driving the car into a lamppost.
‘I’m alright. Just haven’t heard from you for a while.’
‘I’m sorry. Just been really busy with work. Deliveries up and down the country.’ Janet thinks I’m a truck driver. It’s a totally implausible lie given my demeanour and accent, but she’s stupid enough to have bought it. If I can’t be available for a period of time I can conveniently blame my driving schedule. As for why she can never come to my place, that’s been taken care of by a crazy mother I supposedly live with.
‘You want to meet up this weekend?’ Janet asks.
‘Erm. I think that’s doable. I’ve got a load of turnips I need to deliver to Shropshire Friday, but I could come over to yours on Saturday morning . . .’
‘Morning? Can’t you do an evening? You make me feel like a floozy.’
Just then there’s another incoming call. It’s Jane, who I like fucking more than Janet. I’m reminded of those old Ladybird books. John fucks Jane. Jane fucks Jim. John, Jane and Jim like fucking. ‘Hang on a sec,’ I say, before switching callers. ‘Hey, Jane! Good to hear from you. How are you?’
‘Good, but I’m late.’
I think I know what she means, but decide to try humour: ‘Well if you’re late for something, maybe you should hurry up and not be ringing me . . .’
‘No, I mean late late. My period . . .’
‘Ah . . .’ I feel like an air traffic controller, keeping planes in a holding pattern while he co-ordinates their landing. Once in a while a plane declares an emergency and has to be cleared for immediate landing. ‘Shit,’ I say.
‘Can I see you Saturday morning? We need to talk.’ Jane’s declaring an emergency landing. She’s wrong about needing to talk, though. We don’t need to talk, we need to get her an abortion. Still, I have to be seen to be playing the game. ‘Of course,’ I say. ‘Come over to yours about ten?’
‘Yeah. Adam, what are we going to do?’
‘That’s what we need to talk about on Saturday,’ I say, adopting my warmest voice. ‘We need to consider everything, and make the right decision.’
‘I was this was afraid this was going to happen,’ Janet goes on. ‘How could this happen?’
‘Well, we did stop using condoms. It’s not a total surprise. We’ve just proved we’re still fertile.’
We talk for a few more minutes, during which time I run a red light, before I remember Janet and make my excuses. ‘Janet!’ I say, after Jane rings off, but she’s gone. I decide to wait until I’m parked up before ringing her. ‘You’re such a cuntster,’ I tell myself. ‘A proper vagi-tarian.’
Chapter Eleven
It’s my own stupid fault – I’ve underestimated the threat that Jake poses, and he has managed to land the first real blow. It doesn’t come in the form of violence, as I anticipated, but in the form of a sheet of A4 paper that he places on the windscreen of every car parked in the church car park the following Sunday. I’ve got to hand it to him; the boy’s done his homework. The sheet of paper contains two photographs of me. In both, I’m leaving massage parlours – ‘Aqua Massage’ and ‘Annabelle’s’. The paragraph of text beneath the photos outlines the surveillance the unnamed author has undertaken, and states that these two photos are just a couple of fifteen possessed. It’s further stated that ‘your cherished vicar’ on each occasion spent over an hour in each of the massage parlours, making it unlikely that I was dropping off ‘religious tracts’.
What to do? If I kill the cunt now I’ll be the Number One Suspect – even without our history. Driving back from church Lucy still isn’t aware of the leaflet – but she will be soon, along with most of my congregation, the local paper and the Anglican Church.
I take three calls that afternoon from concerned members of my congregation. I’ve had long enough to think of a excuse, which is that I have been visiting massage parlours in an attempt to reach out to fallen women. I know this explanation alone will not suffice; I’ll need to produce witnesses that can testify to my unusual ministry. This will immediately open me up to the risk of being blackmailed, but it’s a risk I’m going to have to take.
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‘Lucy, I need to have a word with you,’ I say, after taking the last of my concerned-congregation-member phone calls.
‘What is it, honey?’
‘There’s someone trying to blacken my name. He’s aware of an attempt I’ve been making to reach out to women working in . . . er . . . massage parlours, and he’s . . . uh . . . trying to make out that my intentions are not . . . pure.’
‘Massage parlours? What?’
I have to think fast. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I haven’t told you about this, but an old girlfriend of mine got into trouble with drugs, and ended up working as a call girl. Ever since hearing about what’s happened to Kim I’ve felt it my duty to try and help women who’ve gotten into this sort of trouble . . .’
‘For Goodness Sake!’ Lucy replies. ‘What a stupid thing to be doing. Who’s found out about this? Can you imagine the possibilities for misinterpretation?’ She pauses, and I sense she wants to accuse me of telling a pack of lies. ‘Well, why do you think someone’s trying to make you look bad?’
I explain the car park paper distribution.
‘Who could be doing this?’ Lucy asks.
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I really don’t know.’
I decide to tackle the problem head-on. The next Sunday in church, after the opening hymn, Greeting and initial readings, I address my congregation: ‘Brothers and Sisters, I’m going to take the unusual step of addressing directly the allegations made by an unnamed individual . . . that my ministry to the needy in our community has . . . gone astray.’ A pause. ‘Many of you will have had a leaflet placed on the windscreen of your car last Sunday, and those of you who didn’t will I’m sure have heard from others about it. It would appear that someone seeks to discredit me, and is going to some effort to do so.
‘Why this individual should wish to blacken my name, I have no idea. Perhaps the Forces of Darkness have such a hold on him that he is compelled go to any lengths to try to diminish the good I have tried to do for those who live amongst us. The plight of women trapped in prostitution has long been a source of sadness to me – partly because I personally know someone who fell into this trap – and it is true that I have been trying to reach out to people working in the sex industy, to try and deter them from continuing to work in an industry that not only endangers their soul, but also the health of their bodies . . . ‘ Looking around I see the entire congregation giving me their undivided attention. They clearly haven’t expected this.