Felix Shill Deserves to Die

by Gareth Busson

  ‘No, I didn’t.’ I lifted my shoulder slightly in the hope that it might deter any more of his attempts at conversation, but with the sweet scent of liquor fresh in the air there was no way he was moving on in a hurry. This raggedy man was my new best friend.

  ‘That’s where my father fell,’ he said proudly. ‘A sergeant major in one of the Leicester regiments stationed just outside Burma. A stalwart. He was one of the tigers.’ The old man’s chin lifted, as if he’d been called to attention himself.

  ‘Right,’ I said wearily, though to be honest I was a little afraid. This guy had to be well into his sixties except he looked much, much older. Painfully old. The dark, leathery skin beneath his mangy beard appeared mummified and apart from the thin blade of gristle that constituted his nose, the rest of his face seemed to be collapsing in on itself.

  ‘”The days of peace and slumberous calm are fled,”’ he said with the contrived passion of a thespian. He glanced at me for some kind of confirmation, which never came.

  ‘Keats.’ he said, undeterred.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh yes, back then that’s when war was war,’ he continued. ‘You looked a chap in the eye when you ran him through with cold steel. Not like now. Oh no! Bloody cowards. A chap doesn’t know he’s been engaged until it’s too late. Just look at yesterday’s happenstance.’

  I unwrapped a fresh pack of cigarettes. The man refused before I had the chance not to offer him one.

  ‘Do you know what this venerable institution is?’ he said, gesturing towards the large rectangular building I was sitting in front of. I shook my head. ‘It’s the Ministry of Defence that is, and tremendously proud of themselves they should be too because they’ve managed to demean one of the most fundamental of human customs; the art of war.’ He looked thoughtfully back at the monument. ‘There’s just no chivalry in it any longer.’

  ‘Was there ever?’

  He lifted his brow, though I still couldn’t see his eyes.

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said, ‘was a time when it was a noble profession. Noble and righteous it was to die for king and country.’

  I snorted in dissent and took another hit from the bottle. Last thing I wanted to hear about was nobility. However, seeing me drinking spurred him on. He rested his plastic bags against the wall and lectured me with even more zeal.

  ‘See, the problem is that the modern man understands too much. The line between virtue and iniquity has faded to the point where there’s no longer such a thing as a worthy cause.’

  He shouted that last part out, making several people look over at us, including a nearby security guard. Any other time I might’ve felt embarrassed by the raggedy man’s theatrics. Not today though. He could recite Shakespeare naked for all I cared.

  ‘It’s the mystique!’ he cried. ‘The mystique of war, it’s gone. Gone forever. Bludgeoned to death by the press, we’re drowned daily in the sea of misinformation, so that now, even though there are missiles raining down at us from the heavens, there’s no compulsion for the average man to riposte.’ And with a flourishing hand, he disarmed an invisible foe.

  ‘Spare a moment,’ he said. ‘Spare a moment and contemplate what it would take to bring you to arms. An appeal in the name of queen and country?’

  I scowled my indifference, but he continued his monologue.

  ‘Perhaps an honourable gentleman, such as yourself might answer that call, but I wouldn’t presume to see many of our newly acquired countrymen spilling blood over dear old Blighty’s soil. Would you?’

  I sighed. ‘Spare me the platitudes, mate, I really do not need this.’

  The old man crouched lower, came towards me and whispered.

  ‘You’d fight for her though, hmm?’

  ‘What? What did you say?’

  The raggedy man chuckled like a curator who had uncovered a lost artefact.

  ‘I’m all too familiar with that countenance,’ he said, ‘I should be. I see it nightly. Come now, don’t shrug, I might even be able to help you on the road to... well, let’s just say I might be able to help you on the road. When did she abscond?’

  ‘About an hour ago,’ I replied meekly.

  ‘Well, dear heart, you should make the most of this point in time. These are the superlative moments. Bask in the pungent sap while the wound is still clean and fresh.’

  ‘Seriously now, do you really think these histrionics are helping?’

  The raggedy man waved away my protest and took up his mark. ‘The only place outside of Heaven where you can be perfectly safe from the dangers of perturbations of love is Hell,’ he said, even more theatrically. ‘And take it from one who knows, you shouldn’t ever wish to be charred by those flames.’

  He leaned across slightly. I couldn’t tell if he was trying to get my attention or simply manoeuvring for a better vantage point from which to witness my suffering. Either way, I wasn’t about to encourage him. To obstruct his view, I lifted my arm and took another swig from the bottle. But as I swallowed, a bubble of acid burst in my throat reducing me to a fit of coughing.

  The raggedy man let out a concerned moan, then began patting me, as though I were a baby in need of winding. His scrawny fingers felt like a skeletal hand against my back.

  ‘Get the fuck off me,’ I said, flicking his arm away. Then grimacing, I placed the bottle of poison on the wall and bent over to allow a thin trail of saliva to fall from my bottom lip.

  When I turned back I saw a look of hopeful anticipation on the old man’s face, like a dog sitting alongside a meal table. His expression was so pitiful it made me feel ashamed.

  ‘Look,’ I said, picking the bottle up, ‘I’m not having any more of this. Do you want it?’

  The raggedy man could hardly believe his luck. He licked his lips.

  ‘Oh well, if it’s fated to waste then I’ll thank you kindly and toast your generosity.’

  He did his best to sound casual about accepting, but it was obvious from the way in which he placed the bottle to his lips that he struggled with an unhealthy thirst. When it was emptied, he sat smacking his lips, a crazy smug look of contentment on his craggy face.

  ‘Since you seem to know all about me, what’s your story?’ I asked.

  The old man sat staring affectionately at the empty receptacle for a second longer before answering.

  ‘Why, that’s a far too lengthy and listless a tale to recount over such a short nip.’

  ‘Well, it’s tough shit,’ I said, ‘’cause I don’t have any more.’

  ‘No matter, that was sufficient to curtail the hoarfrost for a jip.’ Then he placed the empty bottle in his bag, brushed invisible droplets from the front of what must have once been an expensive jacket, and looked out across the river. A sharp wind blew into his face, drawing his tangled bracken-like eyebrows even further down.

  ‘You’re not sleeping rough tonight are you, mate?’ I asked. ‘I mean, it’s bloody cold out here already.’

  ‘Now don’t you worry yourself,’ he said, getting back to his feet. ‘I have a billet of sorts, and if it’s all the same with you, I’ll beg your pardon and make my way there now. I’ve proffered my respects for another week and I do so enjoy the city of a Friday night, “When the maelstrom is at its most vibrant.”’

  He drew in a deep breath and tested the air.

  ‘The ones that matter have a power; they have the power to transform your heart into glass, and every so often, amidst the turbulence of life, they can forget what it is that they possess. It’s at those times when your heart can be broken, shattered into tiny fragments of hope. Nonetheless, sometimes it's better to just leave it that way, rather than hurt or frustrate yourself trying to put the splinters back together.’

  ‘You make it sound easy.’

  ‘Oh, it’s not. It’s far flung from easy. Seeing your every essence lying there in pieces can torture a man’s soul to the point of destruction. But those feelings need to be ensnared. Harnessed with haste. Otherwise you risk being consumed by
them.’

  He picked up his plastic bags.

  ‘Consider Euripides, when he said, “He is happiest who wisely turns those feelings to the best account.”’

  I stared back at him in astonishment. He was right. Stewing in my own juices would get me nowhere. That was the painful lesson that had taken me too long to learn when Kalila first left the scene, and yet here I was about to fall victim to it once again.

  Feeling immensely grateful, I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out the unopened bottle of whiskey. All of a sudden I felt ashamed to own it. The raggedy man shuffled excitedly and clutched it to his breast. Again and again he thanked me, until the itch became too strong and he took off.

  With a renewed sense of purpose, I watched him hobble back towards Parliament and then pushed myself decisively to my feet. I pulled out the piece of paper that I had used to write Kalila’s details on. Alongside it were a number of others that I had searched for during my time in the internet cafe. I stared at the names. With this much aggression bubbling so close to the surface, the choice of my next reunion was easy.

  I started down to the Embankment station. When I found a telephone booth towards the end of the street I reached into my pocket for change. A woman with a broad cockney brogue answered the call.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, clearly annoyed.

  ‘Is Carl there please?’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Er, it’s John, from work.’ I was resting all my faith in the hope that this guy could actually hold down a job.

  ‘He’s not in. Friday night, he’ll probably be down the pub.’

  ‘Yeah, of course,’ I said, affecting an accent that was slightly more akin to hers. ‘It’s just that we’re meant to be going out for a few beers tonight. We’re seeing someone off - a sort of a leaving party, like. The thing is I’ve been off work for the last few days, so I don’t know where they’re meeting up.’

  ‘He never told me about no leaving party, just said that he was going out to have a go at the comics.’

  What the hell did that mean? Whatever. Wing it.

  ‘Yeah, I know that’s the plan. You got any idea where they might start out though?’

  ‘Could be anywhere. Try the King’s Head.’

  ‘The King’s Head.’ I looked down at the address that I had written down. ‘That’s the one just down the road from you in Crouch End, right?’

  A child screamed in the background, making the woman even more agitated. ‘Yeah, course, and when you see him tell him to bring me back some chips.’

  ‘Right, I will.’ But the conversation was already over. I heard the screaming grow briefly louder before it was drowned out by her screech.

  Then the line went dead.

  *

  Ten stops later and with a cold sausage roll and strong cup of tea inside me, I emerged from Highgate station ready for anything, including a twenty-minute walk. By the time I reached Crouch End Hill, Friday night was well underway. I hung off the back of a couple of miniskirts who, as luck would have it, led me straight to the King’s Head.

  Two young bouncers stood on guard outside. Their strained demeanour relaxed when they saw the legs approaching, but they still made sure I received a cautionary nod on the way in.

  The pub itself was typical of those that have sprung up in recent years. As much space dedicated to food and football as the franchisee can stand, and always the same freshly fitted smell punctuating the beer, like some kind of show home for the aspiring lush.

  I ordered a drink and casually surveyed the busy crowd. If Carl caught sight of me then I was sure to be recognised. My appearance might have eased since school but my hair and mouth are the kind that people remember. One never changes and the other never stays still.

  There was no sign of anyone who looked like my old friend and there was certainly no trace of his distinctive voice. I would recognise that the instant I heard it. So with a VAT in one hand and a cigarette in the other, I found a seat in the furthest corner, and took up my vigil. A few days ago I would’ve planned this manoeuvre down to the last detail. I would’ve taken my time to imagine the different possibilities and repercussion of any action taken. But if nothing else, the last twenty-four hours showed me that careful and deliberate planning was no longer necessary. Life is far more interesting when it’s ridden bareback.

  Fifteen minutes passed and with Carl a no-show, I started to notice more and more groups of people heading through a nearby doorway. Even though my drink was finished I picked it up and went to investigate. I would look less conspicuous with a glass in hand.

  On the other side, a small room led to the toilets and a low ‘L’ shaped barrier set in the middle of the floor. When I heard the heavy clump of shoes on hollow stairs I knew it could mean only one thing. Another cellar bar.

  I clodded reluctantly down and joined the small queue lined up at a knackered old decorating table. Behind it, a thin undergraduate was selling tickets to the evening’s main event.

  ‘Five quid, mate,’ he said cheerfully.

  I ignored him and picked up one of the flyers that lay scattered across the tabletop.

  ‘What’s on tonight, then?’

  ‘Comedy tryouts – about sixteen up and coming acts and the bar upstairs is open till twelve.’

  I looked up and scanned across the room. Immediately behind the table a group of young people sat close together. In spite of their proximity they seemed oblivious to each other. Evidently these were the ones about to ‘try out’. Beyond them lay an empty stage. A painted brick wall, presumably intended to make the club feel more urban, acted as the backdrop.

  Just then I felt my ears shoot back. A familiar hur-hur-hur boomed out from behind an adjacent wall and, although from its pitch I could tell its owner was sitting right at the back of the audience, it still filled the room.

  Carl was here.

  ‘You coming in or not, mate?’ the ticket seller said.

  ‘What? Yeah, yeah, I’m just wondering where I’m going to sit.’

  ‘I’m sure there’s a couple of empty seats at the front of the stage,’ he said innocently.

  ‘Bugger off, I’ve been to enough comedy clubs to know what happens when you sit there.’

  He dropped his act and laughed. ‘Well, maybe there’s some further back.’

  I thought about that for a second. If I started walking around the audience then Carl would almost certainly notice me. Scratch that idea.

  ‘How long before you start?’ I said.

  ‘Dunno, about ten minutes.’

  ‘Alright, here’s the fiver. I’m just gonna fetch myself another drink, I’ll find somewhere when I get back, alright?’

  He nodded and then I made my way back to the bar upstairs.

  I got served almost immediately, but opted to stay above ground for the time being. Moving about down there would be a lot safer if the acts were providing a distraction.

  A short while later I heard a muffled cheer come from the stairway. The show was underway. Another visit to the bar, in case the entertainment wasn’t up to snuff, and then I was stooping again.

  ‘It’s alright,’ the ticket seller said when I reappeared, ‘you’ve only missed the first act. Still not sure where you’re gonna sit though.’

  ‘I’ll just stand over there, if that’s alright with you?’ And I pointed to a wall.

  He nodded.

  From where I was positioned, I could only see the first few rows of the audience. That meant I would be unable to monitor or react to Carl’s movements, but in the circumstances it was a risk I was willing to take. I settled in for the show.

  The guy on stage was faltering badly. It wasn’t that his material was bad; he looked to be suffering from a serious crisis in confidence and no matter how much the audience laughed, the look of discomfort would not budge.

  At first I put it down to inexperience, but when a familiar voice called out from the audience I discovered the true cause of his distress.

 
; ‘For fuck’s sake, mate, I’m blind, tell us a joke.’

  It was Carl and judging from the amount of people joining in with sycophantic laughter he was not alone.

  The comedian was well out of his depth and after another few jibes he did the only sensible thing. He signed off graciously and handed over to the compère, who went bouncing into the spotlight.

  ‘Alright,’ the compère said enthusiastically, ‘now we’ve got about four more acts left in this half of the show, so could I please ask that you respect what they’re trying to do and be polite.’

  Sure enough, Carl did exactly as the compère asked and waited for a pause in the next comedian’s act before heckling.

  ‘I say, excuse me, ma’am,’ he shouted courteously, ‘Excuse me, I don’t wish to be too rude, but you’re terribly shit. Would you mind fucking off?’

  Again the same reaction. Again the same result. Only this time the compère didn’t bother with an appeal and when it came to handing over to the next act, he could be heard apologising. And that’s how it continued. The microphone became a poisoned chalice. One by one the comics stepped up, only to be barracked into submission. When it came to introducing the last comic, the compère looked a beaten man. There could be no pleasure in watching another massacre and so I retreated to the bar ahead of the half time rush.

  That final act must’ve lasted a little over a minute because what seemed like the entire basement came flooding up the stairs behind me. From where I sat I watched the room safely using the reflection in a nearby window. I lit another cigarette and pretended to read a paper that was close at hand. Then Carl and his knuckle draggers stormed in.

  Although individually they were not much bigger than me, collectively they were an imposing bunch and the rest of the punters moved to let them pass. Back in school Carl always wore his hair in a crew cut – it had helped to sustain his image. Now the stubble of a fully receded hairline was clearly visible around his scalp, telling me that the style had become more of a necessity than a choice. His head seemed to lack a neck and was wedged between two broad shoulders. Combined with the thick brow and lager drinker’s jowls, it was hard to find anything pleasant in his appearance. Still, he wasn’t in bad shape. Better than me anyway. His sizeable chest strained the buttons of his short-sleeved shirt, making him look square and crudely powerful.