Abide with Me

by Ian Ayris

  And I'm tinglin all over, sort of got this electric goin through me. Like what I had when Dad said how we was gonna beat the Arsenal, even though I knowed, and everyone else fuckin knowed, we had no fuckin chance. But it ain't always like that, see. Leastways, it weren't then. And who says it can't happen again?

  And in me head I got Paul Allen through on goal, and he's chopped down by that Scotch cunt. And Paul Allen, he didn't roll round on the floor feelin sorry for himself, did he? He fuckin got straight back up like a fuckin man. And what with Paul Allen in me head and seein this little Chinky geezer and his shoppin bags frontin up these tanks, I know I can't let Kenny down. Not now.

  Not again.

  And that girl, George Johnson's little girl. She was only five fuckin years old. And her name was Lilly. And she needs fuckin payin for.

  ***

  Boozer's more crowded than normal, specially for a Monday night. I clock Ronnie's geezers straight off. Two fuckin weasels, back end of the bar. Ain't seen em before, but they know who I am cos I see em joggin each other when I come in. Reckon Ronnie's holdin back his knuckle-draggers case there's any grief later.

  There's a group of blokes by the bar, hard lookin. They ain't from round here. Shit. You can cut the atmosphere in here with a fuckin knife.

  Charlie's talkin to Tony at the bar, and Tony waves at me to come over. Tony's ex-para. Ain't afraid of a fuckin tear-up. Can't be, runnin a boozer on this manor. I give him a nod, but I wanna be on me own for a while. Something about this whole thing ain't sittin right with me, and I only got a couple hours to figure it out.

  It's Terry, see. That's what's eatin me. Ever since I known him, he ain't never been nothing other than a brown-nosin little cunt. At school, only ever picked on the littler kids and always hung about with the likes of Charlie Hamilton and Graham Allerton – the hard cunts from the year above. And in the nick he was so far up the screws’ arses you couldn't find him half the fuckin time. And now he's toadyin round with Ronnie fuckin Swordfish. Terry ain't got the bottle and he ain't got the fuckin nouse to turn someone like Ronnie over from the inside. Just don't make no fuckin sense.

  Besides, he's too fuckin loose with his mouth to get away with it, and trustin someone like Kenny not to fuck it up, well that's just askin for fuckin trouble, that is.

  Tony calls me over. Time for business. I pull a stool up next to Charlie. I reckon Charlie must've filled Tony in with what I told him, but that ain't much, thinkin about it. Just that me and Kenny's in the shit with Ronnie Swordfish. And there's some money missin. That's it in a fuckin nutshell, when it comes down to it. Tony leans in.

  'Them two over there,' he says, noddin over at Ronnie's two weasels, 'you see em before, Johnny?'

  Now if those fuckers sittin there lookin over at us got any fuckin sense, they're gonna have it away on their toes quick as they fuckin can. See, every Governor on this manor's tooled up. Gotta be. And Tony ain't no different.

  Someone's just spat on the back of me neck.

  'Hello, shun?'

  Dribblin Albert. Fuck. There's my chance wankered of makin any fuckin headway with this mess. Tony steps in.

  'Here's a pint, Albert,' he says, pumpin out a freebie. 'Now fuck off, there's a good lad.'

  And he does.

  'That's em,' I says to Tony, gettin back to business.

  'All right,' he says, and reaches under the bar. Comes out with a cricket bat and gives it to Charlie.

  Charlie sticks it in his jacket and goes over to the table where Ronnie's two weasels are sittin. I can see their eyes bulgin out as he's talkin to em, and all three of em go in the toilets. Don't take a fuckin genius to know only one of em's gonna be walkin out this side of closin time.

  Behind me, the door opens, and the cold blows in. So does Becky and her Gothed up mates. She ain't old enough to drink, but Tony lets her and her mates sit about, you know, cos of me dad. Becky gives me her hard look. The sort of look that'd rip your heart out if you let it. One of her mates gives her a nudge they got a seat, and Becky follows her over, still lookin straight at me. Don't want Becky round none of this. Not my little Becks. So I goes over and has a word.

  Door blows in again. Kenny. Comes right up to the bar. Tony lands a coke in front of him. Same time, the phone rings and Tony hands it to Kenny. Can't see his face, but Tony can, and there's something about it that Tony knows ain't right. Not that Kenny ever give nothing away, but if you knowed him, if you really knowed him, there was little movements, you know, when he got stressed. Tiny. Round his eyes.

  Kenny puts the phone down, and finishes his coke. Then he picks the phone up again, and takes a bit of paper out his pocket. Must be numbers on it, cos he's lookin at the paper and dialin what he sees. Tony's made himself scarce, servin another punter. Kenny's on the phone for just a couple of seconds then puts it down, and starts walkin.

  Here he comes.

  Shit. Ain't seen that face on him since the canteen.

  Walks straight past me and out the door. I give it a minute, then follow him out.

  And there's this motor, engine runnin, some big gorilla bastard dressed all in black holdin the door open. I'm lookin at him and he's lookin at me, and we both know I'm gettin in this motor whether I like it or not. And in the back seat, there's Kenny, lookin straight ahead.

  That's when I realise, for the first time, Ronnie's callin the both of us in.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  I'm lookin at Kenny sittin here in his shitty tracksuit bottoms and his old green anorak ripped at the arms, and he don't look like a geezer on a monkey a week. Don't look no different from when I knocked into him goin down the bins at Petticoat Lane, if I'm honest. And as for his gaff, last time that had anything done to it was when the Council cleared it out when his old girl threw herself in the River.

  We ain't doin no side streets this time. Ronnie's wantin us down his place quick as a fuckin flash. Vallance Road, Whitechapel Road, headin for the A13 without so much as a fuckin red light. Kenny ain't moved a muscle since we started off. Just sittin there, he is, hands on his lap, starin at something only he can see.

  'Kenny?' I says, quiet as I can, but I'm shit scared and I know it's comin out more than a whisper. 'Kenny, you all right?'

  Nothing. Fuck all.

  Bastard drivin turns his head round.

  'Wastin your time there, mate,' he says. Tells me he had an uncle like Kenny. Tells me 'his sort' is all the fuckin same. Says they've got no brain, no better than a fuckin cabbage.

  Then he laughs loud and long like it makes him feel better just to do it.

  But Kenny ain't like that. He ain't like what he says. Just no one sees it. Keeps it all hid. Safe, you know. And it's like he's got it sorted more than all the rest of us put together, like he's on the inside and it's the rest of us on the outside's tryin to get in, tryin to understand. And we can't do it, cos we're too fuckin busy runnin.

  Car's bumpin over all sorts of shit, and the fog's comin down off the River. Wasteland. Fuck.

  'Here we are, boys. Time to move.'

  But Kenny ain't goin nowhere.

  'Kenny?' I says. 'Come on, mate. We gotta see Ronnie.'

  I see his chest goin up and down. Heavin. Real deep. He's breathin through his nose and his mouth's tight shut, just like you do when you're about to do something really fuckin scary.

  The fuckin idiot what drove us down here tells us to leave our coats in the motor.

  Wants to know we ain't got no fuckin shooters or blades or nothing. Fair enough, really. I chuck me coat on the back seat. Kenny takes off his anorak and lays it careful on the back seat with mine. And he's wearin the whitest shirt I ever fuckin see. Got all the buttons an all. Can't help smilin, even though I'm fuckin cackin myself.

  What with his shitty tracksuit bottoms and this white shirt, and his brown shoes what I just noticed, I reckon he must be keepin every fuckin charity shop this side of the River in business all his fuckin self.

  Something's clickin in me, lookin at him
, like the wheels are turnin and it's all openin up. It's fuckin right in front of me. Kenny. If Kenny's thievin off Ronnie Swordfish, what the fuck's he doin lookin like a catalogue model out of fuckin Oxfam? If he had the brains to be skimmin the cream off Ronnie, he'd least smarten himself up a bit, fuckin surely.

  We're slippin over bricks and mud, headin towards Ronnie's gaff, and Kenny don't even break his stride. It's like when I was a kid and thinkin he could walk through a fuckin brick wall when he was like this.

  It's fuckin freezin, what with the fog, and the River bein so close, and me jaw's shakin. Not to mention bein more scared than I been me whole fuckin life. I'm gettin the feelin I fucked up along the way, and I'm about to find out how. Been thinkin so hard about Kenny, bleedin forgot my part in all this fuckin shambles.

  Ronnie's gaff's comin up out the fog. Brooksy's standin outside, and the door's openin. Ronnie's out first, then Terry behind him, and four others. I'm guessin the others are the same ones what was sittin round the table first time I was here. The inner fuckin circle. Ronnie comes forward, sort of stridin. Ain't hard to tell he's one angry cunt.

  I reckon I can outrun em all. But Kenny, he's too big a lump, so that's a non-fuckin-starter. And a bullet in the back's no way to fuckin go. Just gettin desperate, that's all. I'm lookin about me, left and right, dunno what I'm lookin for cos there ain't no fuckin way out of this now. I look across at Kenny.

  And Kenny's walkin through mountains.

  Ronnie's stopped, and he's standin there, waitin. The others are lined up behind him, like a barbed wire fence. There's about six foot between us and them.

  And Ronnie don't stand on no fuckin ceremony. Gets straight in there.

  'Where's my fucking money?'

  He's gone right up close to Kenny now, nose to fuckin nose. Funny thing is, Ronnie's about six inches shorter than Kenny, so he's sort of lookin upward as he does it. Can't help smilin a bit, but only cos I'm fuckin terrified.

  Kenny don't say a word. I'm lookin at Terry now, cos if Terry's usin Kenny to fleece Ronnie, like I reckon, it'd be writ all over his fuckin face. But there ain't a fuckin glimmer. And that does it for me. That fuckin does it.

  And I wanna tell Ronnie, but Ronnie's too busy shoutin his mouth off.

  I wanna tell him Kenny ain't nickin nothing. Just he's givin all what Ronnie's payin him to Mum and what Mum gives back to him, he's givin out to whatever other poor fuckers need it. I mean, come on, what's the likes of Kenny gonna do with two grand a month? All he's after's enough to keep himself fed and watered and some spendin money down the charities. Probably dosses at his mum's when the weather's shit, and the rest of the times he's livin on the streets and goin down the bins like he always done. Ronnie, he's heard Kenny's been flashin his cash and the suspicious fuck's assumed he must be on the take.

  Thing is, Kenny's little Robin Hood act's fuckin up Ronnie's loan-sharkin business big time, so no way Ronnie's fuckin standin by and lettin that happen.

  Kenny still ain't sayin nothing. Fuck, he ain't even moved. Leastways, not that no one else can see. But I do. Something's changin in him. That glue in his eyes what's always been there, it's fallin. Fallin away. And there's burnin behind it.

  I gotta say something. Gotta stop it. Buy a bit of fuckin time at least.

  'Ronnie?' I says. 'Ronnie?'

  He turns his head to me, and his face is red and shiny and his eyes are so big, looks like they're gonna fuckin burst right out.

  'And you,' he shouts, meanin me, 'I ain't even fucking started on you yet, you cunt, so do yourself a fucking favour and keep your fucking mouth shut. All right?'

  Brooksy's come forward to stand next to Ronnie, facin me. I know I fucked up the minute I knocked down Kenny's front door. Ronnie musta knowed I'd try and tip Kenny off to find a way out. I was so fucked up with it all, never even thought to keep a look out for any of Ronnie's monkeys.

  Brooksy's lookin at me like he wants to fuckin eat me. He's got a metal bar in his hand. Weapon of choice for your proper fuckin psycho, that is. And he ain't wackin his other palm with it like you see in the films. He's just holdin it, like you would a fuckin bread roll or a rolled up fuckin newspaper.

  Ronnie's on the way to proper fuckin losin it now. He's pushin Kenny, but Kenny don't move a fuckin inch. Stands there like a tree what's been growin there a thousand years.

  And the glue's still fallin.

  Brooksy's see something. He's lookin past me. Behind me. And his knuckles have gone white round the metal bar where he's holdin it tighter. I daren't fuckin turn round case he fuckin lumps me one, but something's occurring.

  He's tryin to say something to Ronnie, but Ronnie don't hear. Ronnie's in a place all his fuckin own, and he tells Terry Wilkins to fetch his sword.

  Fuck. This is it.

  Terry can't think of nothing else he'd rather fuckin do and he's in and out the cabin like Linford fuckin Christie.

  Now's me only chance.

  'Ronnie?' I says, 'It ain't Kenny, Kenny ain't takin nothing, he –.'

  But Ronnie ain't listenin.

  'Shut that cunt up, Brooksy,' he says, meanin me again.

  And Brooksy, like he's on automatic fuckin pilot, cracks me round the side of the head with the metal bar.

  Everything goes quiet. I can feel meself fallin, but it's like in slow motion, and I can see this big fuckin grin on Brooksy's face like the whole world suddenly makes sense to him again. And I know I'm on the ground but I don't feel the ground, and it's like I'm floatin. And everything's quiet. Brooksy's tryin to say something to Ronnie, and he's pointin behind me, and Terry's comin up with the sword.

  I'm lookin at the sky and I'm lookin at the stars and I'm thinkin the moon's like this great big ball of light, just like the one outside Kenny's window. And lookin at it, I'm gettin closer to Kenny, closer to what it's like bein him all these years.

  I turn me head. Neither Ronnie or Brooksy see me cos they think I'm fuckin out of it. And behind me, all lit up by the moon, what Brooksy's lookin at is people, standin on piles of brick and dirt and pallets. Loads of em. I squint me eyes a bit so I can see proper. And there's all the locals from the pub, blokes what knowed Dad all his life, and there's blokes from the football, and the factory. Don't even know half their names. But I recognise em all. And there's the hard blokes that was in the boozer, Charlie's mates, I reckon, and there's women an all. And everyone's tooled up. Half cut bricks, broken bottles, fuckin anything they can fuckin get. And right up front there's Charlie and Tony, and next to them, right at the sharp end, Becky, standin brave as the rest.

  They know they can't do nothing cos, I mean Kenny's got a fuckin sword to his head, but just them bein there means the fuckin world.

  I turn back to Ronnie, and I'm smilin up at him, not that he can see me, of course. He's got the sword in his hand now, and seein that soon wipes the smile off me face. Slow motion, he's liftin the fuckin thing over his head. Then he stops, and his face goes all fuckin grey. Something else has gone off. Terry's doin a runner out past the back of the Portacabin and Brooksy, he's scarperin, and all the others, they're all havin it away on their toes.

  Then me ears pop from where I got hammered, and me hearin comes back.

  Sirens. Police sirens. Fuckin hundreds of em.

  Ronnie's lookin at Kenny. Lookin right in his face. Hard, like he's tryin to work something out. And Kenny's lookin right back at him. Then Ronnie, with his other hand, pulls open Kenny's shirt. And, fuck me, Kenny's wired up like the national fuckin grid.

  The words of Kenny's diary hit me right in the face, harder than Brooksy's metal pole.

  Mr Wilkins said to help him.

  Old Bill's swarmin all over the gaff, and I'm tryin to get so I can take Swordfish down cos he's lifted that sword up again, but I can't move me legs. Then I see the look in Kenny's eyes. There ain't no glue no more. And his eyes are big and soft and shinin and meltin all at the same time. And Ronnie's seen it and he don't know what to do. He's hesitatin. With everything I g
ot, I go for his legs.

  I'd die for Kenny right now. I'd die for his courage and his kindness and his grubby tracksuit bottoms and his brown fuckin shoes. And for that look in his eyes, I'd die a thousand fuckin times.

  But me legs is gone, and Ronnie's face is all squeezed tight and he's roarin like a fuckin animal. He brings his sword down like he's tryin to chop the whole world in half. There's an Old Bill gets there just too late, takes Swordfish down and he's fightin with him in the dirt. When he gets up, his helmet’s off and he's got Ronnie in handcuffs. And who'd have thought it? Harry fuckin Wilkins. No wonder Terry didn't wanna talk about him.

  Harry's draggin Ronnie away backwards. Ronnie's still roarin, and Harry's got tears runnin through the dirt on his face and he can't take his eyes off Kenny lyin in the mud.

  ***

  Turns out Harry Wilkins weren't a bad sort. Said some nice stuff at Kenny's funeral, all in his uniform and everything. Went right back to school, he did. Didn't leave nothing out.

  Really fucked him up when Kenny sorted him out in the canteen all them years back. Even went to visit him in the nut-house. When Harry saw Kenny goin down the bins when he got out, he felt right bad, thinkin it was him that done it to the poor bastard. Wanted to make it up and thought he could get even with Terry at the same time. See, Terry'd beat the shit out of Harry from the day he was born. All body stuff, you know, like the old man taught him. No wonder the poor fucker got like he did with Kenny. Had to take it out somewhere.

  Harry sorted Kenny out with the house and his mum's funeral, and stuff. Was really good to him, you know. His Governor was after Swordfish, but it was Terry what Harry was after. In the end, what with Kenny's diaries and all the other monkeys on the Firm grassin each other up left, right and fuckin centre, not a one of em got away with less than a fifteen stretch. And Swordfish, he won't see the light of day the rest of his fuckin life.

  They buried Kenny with his mum in Barking Cemetery. Place was packed. People said they never see nothing like it.