I Think I'm OK

by C S Kenny

  All along Lumb Lane there were plenty of derelict houses all of which had outside toilets. These were an easy target day or night. The outside toilets had lead pipes coming from the cistern down to the loo. With one good wallop at the top of the pipe with a small hatchet, it would cut the pipe and seal it at the same time so we didn’t get drenched in water. Another wallop at the bottom and hey presto, three and a half feet of lead pipe, over your shoulder and off to the next one. If I remember correctly we were getting ten or fifteen pence per pound for the lead which meant we had to hump a fair bit to make any money. Still, I made enough to keep me in food, fags and clothes and by that time, beer.

  If an honest day’s work means getting a sweat on and grafting hard, oxymoron or not it was probably the most honest work I’ve ever done.

  On a few occasions I spent the night in a small bed-sit belonging to a prostitute by the name of Carol. She was a slim woman, verging on skinny in my opinion, not unattractive but the rigours of a hard life were beginning to tell on her face. I would guess her age to have been late twenties or early thirties but it was difficult to tell. I wasn’t interested in her age and the last thing I wanted was anybody taking an interest in my age so the subject never came up. I had met her one night in the White Swan on Lumb Lane and we seemed to hit it off straight away, not in a working girl and punter way, just as two people having a laugh.

  It was a few days before I found out what she did for a living and because we were becoming friends, she was worried that once I knew I would no longer want anything to do with her. I told her she was way off the mark. What she did to survive was her business, besides; I was in no position to judge anyone’s behaviour.

  Carol allowed me to sleep on her sofa and in case you are wondering then the answer is no. I had seen some of her customers and quite honestly I would not have sat on a bar stool after they had been on it so I certainly wasn’t going to . . . well, you know.

  We did however come to a business arrangement one day. We bumped into each other on the street and she seemed happier than usual to see me. She asked if I was doing anything for the next half hour and I told her I wasn’t. She quickly handed me her spare key to the bed sit and barely taking a breath she told me what she wanted me to do. With a hand on my shoulder she was pushing me in the direction of her bed sit whilst telling me a punter was parking his car and would be with her any second. He was a new customer, she didn’t like the look of him but she needed the money.

  I was to go to her place, pick up the rounder’s bat which was under her bed and hide in the wardrobe. If the fella got heavy or wouldn’t pay, I was to jump out of the wardrobe and beat the shit out of him. She told me there would be a few quid in it for me.

  I’m not sure if it was bravado, loyalty, or sheer fucking stupidity but I didn’t argue with her. I ran to the bed sit, grabbed the rounder’s bat which was exactly where she had said it would be and climbed into the wardrobe. It took me a while to calm my heart rate down; once I had managed it I suddenly started thinking about what she had asked me to do. My heart rate shot up again. What if the punter was a big fucker? What if he was a nutter? He could be a knife wielding psychopath. I asked myself a perfectly reasonable question.

  “Steven, what the fucking hell are you doing?’’

  My hand was a fraction away from pushing open the wardrobe door and getting the hell out of there when I heard carol entering the bed sit. My bottom jaw dropped like Gordon Brown’s as I silently mouthed, “Shit.”

  I couldn’t tell you if there was any conversation or foreplay before they started to get down to business (do they do foreplay?) I was too busy giving myself a mental bollocking for getting myself into this situation. Then my mind stopped telling me off as I heard what sounded like a desperate struggle going on in the room and Carol started screaming and calling the punter a “fucking bastard,” over and over. I knew I had to do something so I took a deep breath and burst from the wardrobe holding the bat above my head and letting out my best impression of a blood curdling scream.

  What my eyes saw in the room bore no resemblance to what my imagination had seen in the wardrobe. Carol was straddled on top of the bloke who incidentally was thinner than her and she had her hands around his throat. His eyes were bulging as he stared at me in horror. Carol turned her head around sharply whilst at the same time throwing her right leg over both of his so she was now dismounted and facing me on her knees.

  “What the fucking hell do you think you are doing you daft twat?” she screamed at me.

  She was still holding the punter by the throat and he made a futile attempt to cover up his manhood. I say futile because that thing was fucking massive, for a second I thought he too had a rounder’s bat in his hands, no wonder Carol had been screaming.

  “I thought he was fucking killing you the racket you were making,” I blurted back.

  She laughed. “It’s all part of the service you silly born bastard.”

  “Well I didn’t fucking know did I?” I shouted back. Then I lowered my voice as I pointed to the punter and said, “Carol love, you might want to let go of his throat.” I could see the fella was turning purple and his eyes were bulging even more, then I saw something I really could have lived without. The kinky bastard was no longer trying to cover himself up; he was starting to have a tug.

  “Oh for fucks’ sake,” I muttered in disgust as I dropped the bat on the floor and left the bed sit even quicker than I had entered. I never saw Carol again but as you can imagine, I’ve never forgotten her.

  When I was a little older I found much easier ways of illegally making money. One of which ended up with me almost shitting myself. It involved a meeting with a Mr Barry Fishbourne. That’s not his real name by the way, it’s not even close and I really don’t want to piss him off. I have Googled him over the years and he is now a very successful and highly respected man of commerce and politics. Back in the mid-seventies he was already on his way up though it was well known that businessman or not, he was not averse to reverting to type.

  I had on occasion stolen the odd car or van to order. It was an easy way to make a few quid. Why they didn’t nick the vehicles themselves I have no idea, what they did with the vehicles I have no idea, nor did I care.

  On this particular evening I was sat in a pub with a few mates having a drink when a guy, who had in the past had a couple of cars from me, walked through the door. As he caught my eye he started frantically gesturing for me to go over to him. As I got closer to him I could see he was in a bit of a state. He was sweating profusely and out of breath, in his left hand he held two carrier bags. He opened the door and walked out, gesturing with his head for me to follow him, so I did.

  He was looking around him and acting twitchy as he asked me if I could get him a car. I asked him when he wanted it.

  “Now,” he said, still looking nervously around.

  It so happened that I had arrived at the pub in a car I had nicked from Dewsbury. I was planning on just leaving it where I had left it a couple of streets away, but if I could make a few quid from it so much the better. Normally I would have just asked for a tenner but as this guy looked desperate I upped it to twenty quid.

  “I haven’t got any money on me Chris, but I’ll get it to you, I promise, you know I’m good for it.” He was now stepping from one foot to the other as though he was desperate for a pee.

  “No,” I said, “forget it,” and then turned to walk back inside.

  “No, no, please Chris, wait, wait, I’ve got these.”

  He opened wide one of the carrier bags and showed me two small statues, they were about eighteen inches high and they were made of some sort of heavy metal, one of them being a naked woman and the other a naked man.

  “What the fuck am I supposed to do with those?” I asked him.

  “They are worth more than twenty quid Chris, honest, a lot more, please, I’m desperate.”

  He didn’t have to tell me that, I could see it for myself. I stared at his face for
a couple of seconds then against my better judgement (which, if you have been reading this carefully you would know was friggin non-existent) I said, “Oh for fucks’ sake, hang on here a minute.”

  That is how I ended up sat in a pub near the top of Great Horton Lane, a pint in front of me and a plastic bag on the floor between my feet. It’s virtually impossible to leave a pub empty handed and then return minutes later carrying a bag without one of your mates wanting to know what it was. So for a minute or so we played pass the parcel around the pub table. Somebody said that they might be worth a few bob and I replied that I hoped they bloody well were. To be honest I think I had an idea that there was a good chance I had been conned so they were just plonked at my feet.

  A while later I was stood at the bar with Skippy, (he had lived in Australia for a couple of years) getting a round in. Through the corner of his mouth he said, “You see that fella over there, in the suit?” I looked across the bar.

  “Yes. What about him?”

  I had in fact seen the Suit come in about five minutes before. At first I thought he was a copper but as I watched him walk to the bar I changed my mind. He had a really confident slow stride to him, the sort that cocky coppers have, however a coppers eyes would have been scanning the pub clocking who was in there, this guy couldn’t have given a shit who was in the place. He just looked straight ahead of him.

  “Well,” said Skippy, “he works for Mr Fishbourne.”

  “Who’s Mr Fishbourne?” I asked.

  “You’ve never heard of Barry Fishbourne?”

  “No, if I had I wouldn’t have fucking asked you.”

  “Oh well if you’re going to be like that.”

  “Who the fuck is Mr Fishbourne?”

  “All right, all right,” he said, with his eyes wide as if to tell me to keep my voice down. “If you want something doing, he’s your man.”

  “What like some plumbing or summat?”

  “No you pleb, you know, nasty stuff.”

  “Drains?”

  “Forget it, if you’re just going to take the piss. I was trying to do you a favour.” Skippy was getting the hump and went to pick a couple of pints up from the bar. I was laughing as I apologised.

  “OK I’m sorry, I know what you mean but how’s that doing me a favour? I don’t want any nasty stuff doing to anybody.”

  “What I was going to say was, if you would stop fucking about for a minute, he also buys stuff, if it’s worth his while.”

  “Ah, you mean the statues. Do you think he might be interested?”

  Skippy nodded toward the suit. “Go and ask him.”

  Tilting my head slightly to the right I took another good look at the suit. He was staring straight ahead as if he was deep in thought whilst occasionally sipping on his whisky. The saying, ‘Let sleeping dogs lie,’ came to mind. I looked back at Skippy, “Can you ask him for me?”

  “Fuck...Off, you ask him.”

  “Oh go on.”

  “Chris. Your statues, your fucking problem.”

  Skippy picked up a triangle of pints in both hands and went back to our table, I did the same. Without sitting down I took a large swig from my pint before walking casually over to the suit.

  I had always been able to get away with the ‘Cheeky little sod’ act, the trouble was that by then, though I could do the cheeky face and the cheeky banter, I was not little any more. If I tried it with the wrong person I was lucky if I didn’t get a smack in the mouth. Mr Suit looked like the wrong person. I was also able to use a few different approaches, all of which were an act, in fact I was never quite sure which one was the real me if indeed any of them were. I decided to try the casual friendly routine.

  “Excuse me mate, have you got time for a quick chat?”

  It seemed to take forever for him to slowly bring his gaze around to me. The look I got from him could not have been any worse if I had just pissed on his cornflakes. I was pleased I had stood out of arms reach. Obviously I had picked the wrong approach so decided to just go for it.

  “Is there any chance you could put a word in for me with Mr Fishbourne? I’ve got something for sale that he might be interested in.”

  The look on his face didn’t get any better as he said, “First of all, I’m not your fucking mate,”

  I’m so glad I don’t have Tourette’s because I was thinking, ‘of course you’re not my mate, you’re too ‘FUCKING UGLY’ to have any mates.’

  What I said was, jumping straight into another act, “That’s a very good point sir; however I do feel that should you not allow me to continue Mr Fishbourne may very well be missing out on an excellent opportunity.”

  It worked. The suit’s face softened a little as he looked at me for a few seconds before he spoke.

  “Are you simple?” he asked.

  There was not a hint of sarcasm there when he said it, it was a genuine question. An involuntary laugh popped out before I said, “No, but I am almost skint, and these statues that I’ve got are worth a bob or two.”

  All of a sudden he seemed interested. He knocked back his drink and told me to give him ten minutes, then he turned and did his slow, ‘Don’t fuck with me’ walk as he left the pub. I went back to the table and finished off my drink whilst listening to the other lads telling me about Mr Fishbourne. Most of it was bullshit, rumours about what he had done to people, how much he was worth and what sort of man he was. It turned out that none of them had ever spoken to Mr Fishbourne and Skippy was the only one who had even seen him so I knew it was all just hear say, they were trying to wind me up. That didn’t stop me contemplating forgetting the whole thing and buggering off. A short while later I wished I had buggered off.

  The Suit had popped his head through the door and with a twitch of his finger ordered me to join him. As I walked out into the car park I got that familiar feeling of foreboding and wanted nothing more than to just run. The Suit was stood no more than a few feet from me holding open the back door to a dark coloured Mercedes.

  “Mr Fishbourne is interested in what you’ve got for sale.”

  I held out the carrier bag and said, “Oh it’s OK, I only want a tenner for them, here you can take them to him. Just give me the tenner whenever. In fact, you know what? He can have them. Forget the tenner.”

  “Mr Fishbourne likes to know who is doing business with, stop being a twat and get in the car.”

  That foreboding feeling had now turned into an urgent need for the loo.

  I’m not sure of the area in Bradford we finally arrived at after a ten minute journey. (That is complete bollocks, I do know where it was but I’m giving away no clues, I quite like having kneecaps thank you very much). I can tell you it was an affluent area. I reckon you can tell how expensive houses are, not necessarily by the size of the house, but by the size of the gap between the houses and I didn’t see any of Mr Fishbourne’s neighbours. We drove up a gravelled drive which was lined with trees on both sides. It was pitch black save for the headlights of the car. The gravel drive veered to the right for a short while then we emerged from the trees into what seemed like broad daylight. The whole front of the huge house was lit up, as was the turning circle where four or five cars were parked. Then we were in the dark again as we drove around the back of the house.

  I was led from the car, across a courtyard and down some stairs into a basement. Walking through what looked like a storage area, I was then led along a dingy corridor that had whitewashed walls. The ceiling appeared to be there solely to hold up large central heating pipes and a number of the many ceiling lights flickered on and off. I think it would be an understatement to say I was scared.

  Eventually we climbed another flight of stairs and found ourselves in a far more opulent corridor; I was then led into what was quite obviously an office. It was a plush office, thick carpeted floors and a huge dark wooden desk with green leather on the top was making a statement.

  An open fire on one wall had a few logs that were gently burning away and scattered around th
e room were half a dozen or so high back chairs placed against the walls. I had been having a good look around before my eyes rested on the desk and then I physically jumped as I heard the door behind me slam. Even after all the bullshit tales of my mates in the pub I had no real idea of how Mr Fishbourne would look. If I had given it any thought I’m sure I would never have come up with a description of the fella that had just entered the room. At first glance he didn’t look scary; he was nothing like the Suit, not big and bulging. He was dressed in a cream suit, brown shoes and the odd bit of gold jewellery, though not enough so as to be overly flash. He didn’t speak to me until he had sat at his desk.

  “Brian tells me you have something I may be interested in.”

  He did have a Bradford accent but the rough edges had been shaved off, he reminded me of a school teacher. It took me a couple of seconds to answer him because I was thinking, ‘Who the fuck is Brian? I don’t know any Brian.’ Then I cottoned on and the name Brian did not fit with the image I had of the Suit.

  I raised the hand that was holding the carrier bag and two things occurred to me. The cheap bag looked so out of place in such surroundings and if whoever was holding it didn’t stop shaking he would drop it on to the expensive desk.

  “Yes sir,” I said.

  Where, ‘sir’ came from I don’t know but it seemed the right thing to say. He took hold of the bag as if I had just handed him some used toilet paper and took out the two statues.

  “And where did you say you got these from?”

  “I bought them from a guy in the pub tonight.”

  “Really, and what did this guy look like?”

  I was now getting more worried. I thought he would just look at them, say yes or no and tell me to go. Why did he want to know how I got them? They were quite obviously nicked. I gave him a description which was nothing like the guy who had the car from me. Mr Fishbourne then banged the desk as he stood up and I nearly jumped off the floor.