JUDAS PIG

by Horace Silver

  ‘Who wants him?’ says Big Mac.

  ‘Well here’s a fucking clue,’ says Frankie. ‘It ain’t Ronald McDonald.’

  ‘You got a dog belongs to a pal of ours,’ says Stevie.

  ‘From the RSPCA then, are you?’ says the silly big prick, breaking into a watermelon grin.

  Now if there’s one thing I hate it’s people that laugh at their own jokes. Danny casts me a sideways glance and I’ve seen the look plenty of times before. What it says is, let this cunt know the score. So without further ado I take a single step forward, swinging the two barrels of the Dick Turpin out from under my smother as I do so. As I move forward Big Mac turns his attention to me. At first he’s still all smiles. Then he gawps down at the two protruding gun barrels staring him back in the face, and his mooey drops, twisting into a strange grimace of disbelief, like constipation giving way to diarrhoea. Then, moving extremely fast for a big man, he turns on a sixpence and dives back into his van, hitting the floor with an earth shattering thump.

  Now for all I know he could be diving for a tool, so I take one more step forward and let off both barrels into the side of his hovel. BLAAM! Both cartridges hit the side of the van in unison, peppering it with burning buckshot. The bricks holding it up begin to crumble like cookies dipped in coffee, and the whole shitheap shudders, then crashes over on its side in a bellowing, puffing smokescreen of dust and flying debris.

  Inside, Big Mac is screaming like a hungry baby at tit-sucking time. As the dust starts to settle, a goat that was tethered to the rear of the van seizes its chance and makes a break for freedom into the nearby woods. Then all is still.

  ‘All right, all right, no fucking more!’ comes the strangulated screams from inside the caravan, as after a minute or so Big Mac’s ugly mug works its way out of the open doorway, almost unrecognisable under a black mask of dirt and choking dust. I love it when old adages are proved true. The harder they come the harder they fall! Same with reputation. Toughest man on the cobbles and all that old bollocks. It’s come on him and he’s folded like a bit of shitty toilet paper. Stevie and Frankie both step forward, and Stevie grabs Big Mac by his haystack hair and pulls him, bleating like a lamb, from out of his van. Without saying a word Frankie shoves a revolver deep into his mouth, and together they drag him a few feet before laying him face down in a shallow puddle of oil and rainwater. Through gulps of mud and filth he manages to shout out for someone to bring out the dog. And in less than a minute, a tall, scrawny pikey appears with Perry Pomfritter’s greyhound.

  After relieving scrawny bollocks of the dog I lead it back to the Mercedes where I usher it onto the back seat. His prize fucking dog, I’m thinking, and it’s tied up on a bit of old string without a fucking clue as to all the grief it’s caused.

  ‘What we going to do with this slag?’ Stevie shouts to Danny, who’s now also making his way back to the car. Danny looks down at his ruined Gecko skin loafers, then up at me, and I shrug, ‘cos it don’t matter what I think or say. I can tell by Danny’s yocks that his mind’s already made up. And his yocks scare the fuck out of me. They’re fucking horrible, soulless pools of mindless killing, like those of a great white shark. If you’re close enough to peer into their pitiless darkness, you know your time has come.

  ‘Make him a fucking sergeant!’ he says.

  So, as me and Danny climb back into the motor, Stevie holds Big Mac down while Frankie gives him three deep stripes across his mooey with a razor-sharp machete. Three lovely, deep, stewing-steak gashes that penetrate the bully’s pockmarked face all the way down to his cheekbones. And all he can do is scream the birds out of the nearby trees. As would you or me if we were having our face turned into a scarecrow, which is the only job he’ll be fit for after Frankie and Stevie have finished with him. But then thinking about it, standing in a field shooing away birds ain’t a bad job to do for a living, if you’ve got a fucked-up face. To be honest he’s got off rather lightly for a big fat horrible bully cunt. If Danny was in a real bad mood the back of his head would be hanging off by now. Job done, Frankie and Stevie climb back into the motor. As we start to pull away I take a glance back through the car’s rear window and it’s funny our man don’t seem so scary anymore. Less of a Big Mac, more of just an ordinary cheeseburger dripping with lashings of tomato ketchup. Danny hits the gas hard and we motor out of the site, scattering shit and pikeys as we go and leaving Big Mac’s face and reputation in tatters.

  FOLSOM PRISON BLUES by the man in black himself, Johnny Cash, is pumping out the truth from the two fuck-off sized Bose speakers buried in the car’s rear shelf behind my nodding head. We hit the Dartford tunnel, Kent side but Essex bound and with me tapping rhythm to Cash’s sharecroppin’, psychobilly, redneck boogie. And every cotton-picking word of Folsom Prison Blues is burning into the back of my brain. It sets me to thinking that if I had listened to Johnny Cash when I was a kid rather than to rude bwoy reggae, then I might not be stuck in a speeding motor with three bloodthirsty boneheads and an anorexic dog which keeps sticking its tongue down my right earhole at every opportunity.

  As we reach the tunnel’s closed barrier Danny slows down and tosses the requisite coins in the slot. The automatic toll booth open-sesames and we drive on, disappearing into the mouth of the tunnel and away under the Thames. Twenty minutes from the east side we hit the tiny country hamlet of Great Hallingbury, cruising to halt outside the heavily fortified and overwrought iron gates that lead up to Perry Pomfritter’s mansion. He bought it from a faded seventies rock star who shot his bolt on coke and groupies before blowing his brains out with a hunting rifle on Halloween. But the man obviously had taste, for the gaff boasts, amongst other things, a fully-stocked trout take, heated paddocks, a guitar-shaped indoor swimming pool and a fully-loaded gymnasium and sauna. Not to mention a secret dungeon where the former occupant liked to be strung upside down by his ankles and have his bollocks used as an ashtray.

  As you might have sussed, Perry Pomfritter’s not my cup of tea. But I’ll tip my hat to any man that’s come from skid-pants poverty to hit the dizzy heights, and has the bollocks to take his own 24-carat gold cutlery with him when he goes for pie and mash. And though he can’t read or write, that ain’t stopped him from making millions out of illegal turf accountancy, and funding some of the biggest gold bullion swindles in the country. You name it, he’ll smelt it or lay down a bet on it. Tax-free, no questions asked. But a word of warning for any of you mug punters out there. Pomfritter’s got the principles of a politician when it comes to bees and honey, so don’t go betting on form at any of his dog tracks. He picks who wins or loses, not you. For sure, you’ll be sitting up in one of the windowed boxes overlooking the track with your scampi in a basket and your tart in a short skirt, sipping your semi-chilled house white and thinking you’re Frank Sinatra. You’ll tell her you’ve heard a whisper from a pal, odds on favourite, dead cert in the next race. Then you’ll bowl off and lay down all your hard-earned wonga, stroll back, give your tart the wink and wait expectantly for your winnings.

  But Jonny will have already weighted the odds in his own favour. He’ll have blown down the trainer’s ear and the trainer will have given the favourite a quick squeeze of its bollocks while it’s in the traps. And off they go, only your one won’t. It’ll roll in last with aching nuts, while the underdog, a real long shot outsider at 55 to 1, which will have been given a given a shot of Billy Whizz before the race, will come belting out after the hare, like it’s got a rocket up its ringpiece. The conclusion of which will leave you in the doghouse, and you and your tart on the night-bus home. And did you ever wonder why greyhounds go garrity chasing after the track hares? Simple. A trainer will blood novice dogs by throwing it the occasional live pet shop rabbit.

  After a minute or so we get the OK from a security camera, and the gates swing open. The drive is a quarter of a mile long and so Danny steers the motor slowly, hushed in reverence for the rolling, manicured lawns and their fringe of too-tidy woodland that apparentl
y houses one of the county’s finest herds of Muntjac deer. I look over at Danny and he’s almost coming in his pants.

  ‘This is the most properest gaff on the fucking planet. What d’you reckon, boys?’ he says.

  ‘Well over the fucking top though, ain’t it?’ I say. ‘You’ve got to have delusions of grandeur to live in a gaff like this.’

  ‘Make you right, Billy,’ says Frankie, adding. ‘He’s only a fucking scallywag from off the plot. A gaff like this ain’t no good for the likes of us.’

  ‘Put it right on us with Old Bill,’ says Stevie. ‘I mean, nowadays the pigs go over the tops of your gaffs in aeroplanes and take fucking pictures, see if you got swimming pools and all that.’

  ‘Fuck all that,’ says Danny. ‘What I’m saying is, it’s a proper gaff. Proper people deserve proper gaffs. We’re proper people, well at least I am. It’s a bit early yet, but in ten years’ time this is what we all should be aspiring to.’

  We reach the front of Pomfritter’s house. The door is guarded by a solid steel portcullis topped with razor sharp points. It rises slowly as we stop the motor.

  ‘Fuck me!’ I say. ‘Who’s he expecting, Robin Hood?’

  ‘You’ve got no fucking class, Billy,’ growls Danny, as we all make to get out. ‘And fuck me, we don’t all want to go traipsing in after treading all over a pikey site. I’ll take the dog in. Only be a couple of ticks.’ Now this is starting to stink more than the goat shit on our shoes. We’re being left out in the car like lepers. I ain’t fucking pleased. We do the gory and that cunt gets the glory. No doubt he’ll be telling Pomfritter that he’s the big bad wolf that just blew the little pig’s house down and got the dog back. It ain’t supposed to work like this. And these other two dipshits are just sitting here, happy as sandboys, thinking about their poxy two and half grand apiece. But I just know that something else is going down. I’m being cut out of a big deal, and I hate being treated like a fucking div. The sort of cunt that plays pass the parcel with the IRA.

  So Danny goes bowling in sparkling like a ninepin and with just a little bit of shit on his shoes. And not only has he not stopped bleating about it, but he’s yanking the greyhound behind him on the bit of string like it’s a rag doll. And that big lummox standing there with his hand out is Benny the Bull, Pomfritter’s personal minder. He looks at Danny, then looks at us in the car. Fucking minder? He’d be better off minding his own fucking business. Trying to look as tough as he can, Benny makes to shake Danny’s hand, but Danny sticks the dog’s lead in it instead and strolls in leaving Benny looking like a right fucking doughnut. Sweet, mugged him right off. The Bull’s gutted, but he won’t say nothing. He’s terrified of our little firm. He’s only a bodybuilder, anyway. I remember him when he was a nine stone pencil neck. Went down the gym for six months, got on the gear, started growling at himself in the mirror and now he thinks he’s a gangster. Well he ain’t, he’s a fucking gonkster. Show me one single bodybuilder that can have a right proper tear-up, and I’ll give you a pin to burst his biceps and send him crying back to his muscle mags.

  Danny makes his way into the indoor pool area, where Pomfritter is floating stark bollock naked as usual, inside a lorry inner tube while practising his fly fishing technique.

  ‘Hello, son,’ says Pomfritter to Danny, paddling back to the side and climbing out to throw on a personally monogrammed bath robe.

  ‘See us coming, Perry?’ says Danny smiling, and looking up at one of a number of television monitors dotted strategically about the pool area.

  ‘I see everyone and everything coming, Danny,’ says Perry, as they both shake hands. ‘That’s how I get to live in a house with a half mile gravel drive. Sounds lovely when you drive over it, don’t it?’

  ‘Yeah, gotta say, Perry, this gaff is definitely a bit of me.’

  After towelling himself down, Perry stands in front of a gold floor-to-ceiling mirror to work the front of his barnet into a Tony Curtis before smoothing the back into a duck’s arse, after which they stroll into an adjacent room, whose centre boasts a full-sized snooker table, guarded at each corner by a granite bust of the long-departed.

  ‘Julius Caesar?’ says Danny, stopping at the first one.

  ‘Liberace,’ says Pomfritter. ‘The missus loves him to death. Must say, I’m more of a Slim Whitman man myself.’

  ‘What’s that there?’ says Danny, pointing to an ornate, carved wooden throne with a large hole in the middle of its seat. ‘Looks like an old-fashioned khazi or something.’

  ‘Nah,’ says Perry, a smile spreading across his mooey, as he walks over to the piece. ‘That is an exact replica of a papal chair, direct from the Vatican. I got it from a Mafia pal. Ever heard of Pope Joan? Bird back in the olden days, made out she was a geezer and got elected pope. Got knocked up by a cardinal, popped out a sprog then kicked the bucket. So they built a special seat like this, and when a new pope came along, he’d have to sit on one of these and a cardinal would put his hand up through the hole and have a reef round. It was called “A Grope for the Pope”. Once he was satisfied the pope had bollocks he would stand up and proclaim, “Testiculos habet et bene pendentes.” Which roughly translated means, “He’s got bollocks like a pair of plums and they swing nicely.” We’ve had some fucking fun with that, me and the missus.’

  ‘How is the missus?’ says Danny, impatiently.

  ‘Good as gold! Mind you she’s entitled to be, she’s dripping with the fucking stuff. Just treated her to a new pair of tits for her birthday. Over the moon she is.’

  ‘Nice one, Perry. And looking around here I gotta say, it’s all class gear.’

  ‘That’s because I’m a class fucking act, Danny. As my old man used to say to me, “Perry, if you fell into a shitpit stark bollock naked, you’d come up sporting a gold chain and matching diamond cufflinks.” So anyway, messy job, by the look of your ones and twos.’

  ‘You know yourself Perry, it can get a bit crabby climbing up the ladder.’

  ‘Very true. Whoever the slag was, did he get the message?’

  ‘We retired him.’

  ‘Sweet, very sweet. Can I get you or your boys a drink?’

  ‘Nah.’

  ‘How about a lah-de-dah, then?’ says Perry, flopping into a large leather recliner and offering up a handcrafted silver box stocked with the finest Cuban cigars.

  ‘We’re all sweet.’

  ‘No problem. By the way, the spondoolies will be ready tomorrow. But tell me, you still interesting in having a trade with this gaff? I mean it’s a fucking big step up, Danny. A gaff like this can make a man or break a man.’

  ‘It’s got my fucking name written all over it, Perry. You still moving to Spain?’

  ‘Got to, son. Customs are so far up my bottle, I don’t know whether to shit them out or clean their teeth. I don’t need the grief. Besides, me and the old woman both love the sunshine.’

  ‘Well I’ll be honest with you, Perry. We got a couple of more coups in the pipeline, and both will be coming off very soon. Then I’ll have the first bit of the dough ready.’

  ‘Like I told you, son. You can owe me the rest. I don’t mind waiting, I know your word’s your bond. Why don’t you come to the track at the weekend, all down to me. We’ll talk further. And bring the boys. Let your hair down, and blow a bit of fucking steam out your lugholes.’

  ‘Love to, Perry.’

  DANNY’S OLD MAN’S knocking loudly on death’s door, and he ain’t happy unless the world and his friend knows about it. He’s always been a cantankerous old bastard at the best of times, cunting and fucking at all and sundry from sunup till sundown. But he’s definitely got worse since Danny’s old girl popped her clogs two stretch ago. The word around town is that her heart broke when Danny got pulled in for beating a publican and his missus half to death with a fireman’s axe. She got religion then went round telling people she’d been cursed by giving birth to a monster. Not long after she pegged it, the old man also found out he hadn’t got long left,
and it’s been downhill all the way since. Danny’s just told me on the quiet that he wants to get his hands on the family house before any of his brothers come sniffing round. Not that it’s much of a prize, being just a run-down ex-council gaff, but he knows he can nick it for crabs as the old man’s been there all his life. And where we come from, you don’t never look nothing in the mouth.

  For some reason Danny hates his old man, but he’s never told me why. Maybe it’s because he sees too much of himself in him. Like Danny, the old man’s a bigoted bastard. Always banging on about how the sun never used to set on the British Empire, as if any of us round here ever benefited from the plundering of the colonies. Great Britain? I’ll show you Great Britain! Danny’s old man fought in the trenches in the last big war, and now he’s got one hobnailed boot in the grave, and his two-up two-down don’t even have an indoor toilet or central heating. And because that cunt Thatcher decimated the NHS he’s getting no proper home care. All they’re doing is prescribing him enough morphine to keep Larry happy. So the coup’s on, and me and Danny slip round the old man’s in the dead of night like a modern-day Burke and Hare, with the intention of ghosting him into the spare bedroom at Danny’s. Trouble is, Danny’s only been in the house once since his old girl died because he reckons he can feel her spirit haunting the place. So, he’s waiting outside in the car while Joe Cunt here has to go in and do the dirty work.

  As soon as I put the key in the lock and walk into the house a terrible mustiness hits me in the face straight away. A concoction I can best describe as death vying to get the better of decay. The hallway’s lit by only a single forty-watt bulb that casts low eerie shadows along its short length and up the bottom half of the stairs. No sooner have I wedged the front door open with one of the old man’s boots, when I hear a hacking, greasy cough coming from the front room.

  The door’s ajar, so I stick my head in and flick the light switch. Bulb blows immediately, plunging the room into darkness, save for an orange half-light emanating from the street lamp outside the window.