by John King
– I had that bird down to ten guilders for a blow job when they turned up, Carter says. That’s about three quid. Imagine a blow job for three quid. She wasn’t bad was she? She wasn’t Dutch though. Said she was from Russia. Blondie was well nice. Ten guilders for a blow job. I’m going to have to get in somewhere tonight.
– Don’t look at me, Harris says, laughing, the old humour coming through again.
– I can’t spend too much time thinking about that bird, Carter says. She had rubber lips as well. Ten fucking guilders. That’s three quid.
– Fuck off, Mark says. She never said ten guilders.
– Straight up. Ten guilders. I gave her a line and she told me business is shit tonight because there’s so many English about. Said the local news has been going on about the English hooligans drinking in the red light district. The office workers are too scared to come down here because they reckon there’s going to be trouble. There seems to be enough punters around, but she said there’s not a lot of work tonight. The girls are starving.
– You’re telling me that bird was going to suck you off for ten guilders? You’d spend more than that on a round.
– Honest. Ten’s better than nothing for a working girl. Thanks to that pimp I’ve got lover’s balls. Just the thought of that old slag’s doing my head in. If I don’t pull anything later I’ll go down and have one of those girls in the windows. Mind you, they’re not going to be ten guilders. Maybe there was something wrong with those girls. Ten guilders. Fucking hell.
You have to laugh because it’s pure justice seeing Carter getting let down. Thought he was supposed to be this big sex machine. It’s early yet I suppose. Surprised he’s going to pay for it though. A man of his talent and reputation should click his fingers and have the women come running.
The England bar starts up again. There’s faces pressed against the glass, skulls coloured by red and blue light. There must be a hundred of them in there. Should move outside where they can breathe. The glass sweats and every now and then a hand comes through the bodies and wipes it clean. Big hand clearing a view of the street outside. I don’t know about the punters being put off. There’s tourists and that, but Dutch as well. Mind you, no middle-aged men in raincoats. The England boys by the windows watch Amsterdam pass in a pissed daze. Their eyes are glazed and they bang on the glass whenever something half-decent strolls past. It’s funny watching the girls jump and look into that bar. Must be a horror show for the Dutch. Out for a walk looking in on a cave packed with drunk Englishmen. All tattoos and shaved heads, laughing and shouting faces, one or two wrapped in Union Jacks and Crosses of St George.
The window’s almost popping, the multi-coloured lights opposite flashing on and off creating a strobe effect. Fucking mental how the skulls flash. The bar’s singing NO SURRENDER and we all join in outside showing solidarity with the soldiers fighting for England. The window vibrates as that big love-and-hate hand comes through the crowd, banging out a Loyalist rhythm. There’s England right outside and stretching down the road, and they all look round at the same moment in case the glass comes crashing down. The red hand disappears in the crowd and they go back to their singing.
– Why don’t we go and find that bird? Mark says. She’ll do us all for three quid after we saved them from the sand niggers. She’ll do me for free because I kicked that bloke in the balls. St George riding across the desert saving white women from slavery.
– You’re joking, aren’t you? Carter asks. They’ll be keeping their heads down because those cunts have been put in their place. They’ll probably take it out on the girl and her mate once they’ve finished at the hospital.
– You think so?
– It’s not like there’s anyone around to stop them, is there? I don’t suppose the old bill can be bothered because you’re only talking about a couple of tarts, and you never know, they could be illegal immigrants or something.
– We should’ve cut that bloke’s throat, Mark says.
I can see him getting wound up and tell him not to worry. She probably had broken teeth and would’ve ripped Carter’s foreskin off. He laughs and Carter looks worried.
– We’ll get something better later, Carter says. Blow jobs all round for five guilders. Don’t worry, we’ll get our legs over before we leave Amsterdam, and it won’t be whores.
I look sideways to the music bar and there’s enough England in there as well, mixed in with the locals having a laugh. There’s a few birds, but nothing special from where I’m standing. The window in the England bar bounces again. The red hand of Ulster appears as the song ends and we’re into ONE BOMBER HARRIS. I wait for the hand, but someone’s had a word and the blokes outside can relax. THERE’S ONLY ONE BOMBER HARRIS, ONE BOMBER HARRIS. There’s a few scousers, who you can always tell by the shape of their faces and style of dress, a small group of Leeds who look like Yorkshiremen, and I bet when they look at us they know we’re from London. Probably know we’re Chelsea as well.
Billy Bright comes outside and Harris goes over, and they start talking to the Pompey boys next door, the ones from the ferry who’ve arrived as Harris predicted. The scousers wander off taking their bottles with them, and then one of the Leeds mob starts chatting to Harris. Suppose he knows who he is and Harris starts laughing at something, and there you have Portsmouth, Chelsea and Leeds having a chat and that’s something a lot of people who don’t go away with England wouldn’t understand or even believe.
That’s what happens. A perfect example. Go back a few years and think of the rows we’ve had with Portsmouth and Leeds. But you get over here with England and all that filters away. Some things can never be smoothed out, and certain faces are remembered. Things can get personal. But with this lot it’s okay. I see the scousers wandering back. I turn my head because Mark’s banging me on the shoulder.
– Come on, it’s your round, he says.
I nod and go towards the England bar, then think again and go in next door. It’ll be easier to get served, and anyway, there’s a few women in here. I lean over the counter and order three bottles. I look around the bar. There’s not much on offer. Mostly small groups of boring-looking birds getting chatted up by pissed English. I go outside and talk with Harris and the others, but see Mark and Carter waiting for their drinks. I get to the bridge and hand the bottles over, turning to see a man with a Union Jack around his shoulders fall over in the street pissed. He’s one of the Leeds lot and he stays there. A couple of blokes pull him over to a wall and leave him to sleep.
– Why don’t we go to a club? Carter asks.
– You can see a sex show anywhere, Mark says.
– A proper club. Somewhere we can find some women. It’s all tarts and tourists down here.
We look at each other and it makes sense. We’re not going to meet any Dutch birds when there’s hundreds of us hanging about, half the blokes pissed out of their heads. Move down the streets a bit and there’s more English. We’re everywhere. Harris and Brighty have gone inside the bar so we just leave. Halfway down the road I start wondering where we’re going, but Carter says he sussed out a couple of places before leaving England.
It’s a fair old hike so we stop a cab. Carter passes the address to the driver, a big friendly bloke who acts like he’s known us all his life. He’s a Norsk giant with a deep laugh. Says he knows the club and puts his foot down, cutting across tram lines. The air’s hot inside the car and we roll down the windows. He tells us the climate’s changing. It’s June and there’s rain. The air’s turned muggy and we could do with another drink. Five minutes later he drops us off at the end of this pedestrian zone. We pay our money and we’re lining up outside the club, but when we get to the door there’s none of the hassle you get off the bouncers back in London. Blues is fine because we know the blokes on the door. I’m talking about the West End clubs. We’re inside quick enough and there’s a decent mixture of music. It’s not really a club in the normal sense.
Carter doesn’t waste any time an
d gets the drinks. Starts talking with these three birds at the bar. Piece of piss and we’re straight in. Have to keep hold of things. Hanging about with a bunch of nutters all day can lead you astray. Have to be nice and polite. Luckily these girls are pissed as well so there’s no chance of them storming off because they can’t stand the drunk bollocks coming out of our mouths. They seem happy enough. Listening to everything from Block Rocking Beats to Babylon’s Burning.
– It’s my birthday tomorrow, this bird Monica says in my ear. I’m going to be thirty years old.
She looks younger but I’m not complaining.
– My friends are older. She smiles. How old do you think?
How the fuck should I know? Don’t say it though. I have a guess and she laughs and whispers in their ears. They all laugh some more then piss off to dance around to Smack My Bitch Up. Nice one that. Mark nods and says those sand niggers must drink in here. I move over to the wall with Mark and Carter.
– No problem here lads, Carter says. We’re all going back to Monica’s. It’s her birthday party and the girls are sleeping with her tonight. This is our night boys.
Carter is enjoying himself, doing what he does best.
– The blow jobs are on the house tonight, he shouts, trying to be heard. We owe those pimps a favour. Instead of these three we’d have been making do with those mangy old slappers down a back alley, throwing away good money.
I watch the dancefloor bouncing. I can see the girls dancing and looking over. They keep going through Nirvana, Oasis and Black Grape. When they come back Monica’s leaning in heavy, asking if I want some ecstasy or speed? I go for the whizz with Mark and Carter. It gives me a pick-up and the strength returns. I have that dedicated feeling now. Dedicated to getting this bird’s G-string off and in my pocket. Fuck the arse off this bird. Give her the perfect birthday present. She’s full of life and it’s a couple of hours later when we get around to leaving.
There’s six of us walking near empty streets. The girls are singing a song in Dutch that sounds like shit. Some languages fit music, others don’t. English is the perfect example where it works. French the worst. The song they’re singing means nothing to us. It’s a short walk and we climb these cold stone stairs to Monica’s flat. It’s a big place, and one of her mates goes and takes out a punk compilation. There’s old stuff from Stiff Little Fingers, X-Ray Spex and the Pistols, and newer material from the likes of Leatherface, Fugazi and the Blaggers. She puts the CD on and music fills the flat, Monica going over and turning it down. In the light they look dirtier than down the club. Their make-up’s blurred and Monica just stands there and takes off her black jeans. She laughs and says it’s too hot, one of the girls opening a window. I want to get stuck in right away but hang on, because they’re acting coy with Monica half-naked.
One of the girls brings in a pack of lager. It’s nice and cold. Monica puts a lamp on and turns the main light off. Carter laughs and says Harry will be angry he missed out. Probably got lost and is back in the hotel right now fast asleep. I have a long swig of lager and my mind is racing trying to keep up with my tongue. I’m going on about Blues back home and talking about the Dutch-German border for some reason. Fuck knows what I’m on about. I stop talking and sit listening. Can still hear my voice somewhere.
Don’t know how much longer it is but Carter and one of the girls has gone. The sex machine is doing his duty. I look at the chair opposite and Mark’s got this bird on his lap. Her top’s up and her tits are out. They’re kissing and so am I, but it’s not Monica. She must be with Carter. Or maybe she’s with Mark. Fuck knows and who cares, because I’m up and following this bird to a small box room. We go inside and I’m thinking of that film in Johan’s bar. Blondie getting serviced by Ginger. This isn’t Blondie, but it’s a blonde bird. I don’t follow what’s happening but I know what has to be done. I can’t come for ages and this gives the girl the kind of sex she wants. Eventually I finish and lie there next to her. She promises me a blow job first thing in the morning. Starts snoring. I spend the next hour trying to shut down and get to sleep. I hope she keeps her word.
Nicky was down between Harry’s legs when he woke, and it took him a couple of seconds to realise where he was and what was going on. It wasn’t London and if it had been the hotel with Carter he’d have topped himself. When he realised where he was Harry was king of the castle. He looked down and saw the Thai dealing with a serious hard-on. This was the life, leaning back and admiring the wonders of the East, and it wasn’t long till he filled her mouth with some fine English seed. He shut his eyes and rested with Nicky’s head against his shoulder and next thing he knew he was waking up with a cup of coffee next to the bed and Nicky parading a dress she’d just bought. It was bright yellow and showed off her brown skin. She showed him a pair of matching open shoes and he didn’t really know what to say, telling her they were very nice. This did the trick and she seemed pleased. She laughed and skipped across the room and Harry wondered what the fuck was going on.
Last night his brain had been working overtime as he drifted in and out of sleep. He was walking into a Saigon hotel and falling down on the bed, playing a star role in Apocalypse Now. Then he was in The Deer Hunter, falling from a helicopter. From being a cocky bastard firing into ancient rainforest, he was a scared little man on his own, hated by the people he was helping to slaughter. When Harry was a kid Vietnam had been on the telly more than the war in Northern Ireland. He remembered the images – the man getting shot at point blank range and the girl running down a road, back burnt by napalm. The Vietnamese didn’t count because the coverage was all about the number of American soldiers getting killed by Ho Chi Minh.
– This is my son, Nicky said, stripping off the dress and shoes and getting in bed next to Harry.
She propped a picture album on his lap.
– This is my son. He lives with the monks in a monastery outside Surat Thani in Southern Thailand. There is a school near the monastery and that is where he lives. The nuns and monks teach him.
Harry looked at the first picture. A short-haired boy of four or five stood by two cross-legged Buddhist monks. He was wearing brown shorts and a white shirt. The monks wore orange robes. It was the brightest orange he’d ever seen. Their heads were shaved in number one crops, and Nicky laughed, ran her hand over Harry’s head and said their skinheads were even better. Harry said he wasn’t a skinhead, but it didn’t matter. He got the joke. The kid was smiling and Harry wondered if he thought about his mum. One of the monks had tattoos around his neck and on his arms, and when he asked what they meant Nicky said there was a tradition of tattooing in many Thai monasteries. The necklace was for protection and the monks did the tattoos themselves, using swords. She hoped that one day her son would come and live with her in Europe. One day in the future when she had enough money.
Nicky was sitting close with her legs drawn up to her chest. Her tits were perfect, pressed against scar-free knees. Small but perfect. He left it alone and went back to the photos. She was keen and wanted to show them off. There were pictures of the school and the monastery. Some were slightly blurred and showed two golden Buddhas, various buildings, a collection of monks and nuns and kids, some ordinary Thais, and a forest of tightly-packed trees and big shiny plants. There were lots of photos of the boy and Harry looked sideways at Nicky’s face. She seemed proud of her son and he imagined it must be hard being separated.
Harry felt like a cunt sitting there. What did she expect from him? What did she think about her son growing up in an orphanage thousands of miles away? How often did she get to see him? Thing was, you never thought about prostitutes making mistakes. He imagined they just had abortions if anything went wrong, but maybe things were different in Asia. Maybe they didn’t have the same birth control and hospital treatment. He wasn’t looking for answers. He wanted a good time and should skim the photos and piss off, but he couldn’t brush it away. He tried to think what the rest of the boys would do. Fuck off and never think about he
r again. He was just like Balti. They were too fat and slow. They didn’t work things out ahead of time, so hung about and got lumbered with photo albums and sob stories.
He sipped his coffee and the caffeine helped. Nicky jumped out of bed and went to skin up. She was quick and efficient, struck a match and inhaled. Harry didn’t know how she did it first thing in the morning. The coffee gave him a kick because he was slow and tired, but she was jumping around and trying to slow herself down. Fuck knows what else she was on, because when he forgot about her laughter and smiles it had to be a fucking hard life. She had to have something to get her through. She came back to the bed and sucked smoke down her lungs, not caring about her nakedness as she leant over Harry and pointed him back to the photos.
– This is Marc, she said.
Harry thought he looked like any other everyday European. There was nothing to say he hung around massage parlours and go-go bars in Pettaya worrying young girls, and then ended up turning his attention to blokes. He just seemed ordinary.
– This is when we stayed at Chaweng on Ko Samui, Nicky said, running through various beaches and temples.
She looked happy in the pictures. She was wearing sunglasses and her skin was a shade darker. He pointed this out.
– In Thailand it is better to have white skin. The lighter my skin, the better I am considered by Thai people. Western men like dark-skinned girls. Europeans want to sit in the sun and turn brown, Thais want to stay indoors and become white. We both want what the other has.
Harry laughed at this because it was true. People were like that wherever you went, always wanting what the other person had but didn’t value. It was the same in the old days. Dark skin in England showed you were a peasant, while pale skin belonged to the rich who didn’t have to work outdoors. Things had changed, but it was interesting what Nicky said about Thailand, and he supposed it was the same in other countries as well. She was dark in the photo from her time on the beach behaving like a Westerner. Other Thais would’ve looked down on her skin colour, but in the photos she was happy and almost cocky, walking with the European and not caring what the small-minded cunts thought. It wasn’t because he was European, but because he had money, and money was important for both the peasants and rich snobs. They fucking hated it when someone they considered below them came racing through the ranks. He thought of Mango, who’d gone for the shilling and done himself proud, but there was always going to be jealousy from those he worked with who had a massive head start yet found themselves trailing behind.