Headhunters

by John King

  ‘Get us some chips if you go for a kebab,’ Ian said, eyes bleary and his thoughts drifting. ‘A can of Coke would be nice as well. A cold one.’

  Carter made the decision and went over to the kebab house. It was different to the normal effort, a real Middle East job with Muslim girls in head gear behind the counter. Not the purdah stuff but scarves. They were in their early twenties and good-looking. Cheerful and friendly. Lebanese or Syrian maybe. He ordered a kebab and chips, two cans of freezing Coke, then sat down while the food was prepared, flicking through a magazine. Rain hit the window, Arabic script decorated the glass. It was a smart little place, big pictures of mullahs and minarets adding flavour. An old man shuffled in, smoker’s cough in his throat. Too much hashish. Carter watched him, then the girls. Even the meat looked different. It wasn’t the usual Greek-Turk effort he got round his way, a bit up-market seeing as this was Baker Street. He considered the girls behind the counter and whether there was any way he could top up his seven-point total. A couple of blow jobs out back, or at least a shag.

  The man pissed off with his sweet cakes and Carter tried to work out whether the smiles and looks coming his way were an invitation or plain friendliness. It was difficult sometimes working things out, knowing what was true and what was fiction. The food was placed on the counter and he made the right decision, dipping his hand in his pocket to pay, leaving it alone knowing that success was going to his head, that sniffing around in kebab houses was a bit sad somehow.

  ‘Cheers Terry,’ Ian said when the chips arrived. ‘I’m looking forward to these.’

  Carter rolled the window down to let some of the smoke out. The wind cleared things nicely and he got stuck into the kebab, wondering what kind of meat was in the mix, the chilli sauce packing a powerful kick. They ate in silence, Ian more concerned with his chips than changing the tape. When they’d finished, he took the paper and empty cans to a bin while Carter called Mr Malik. A man’s voice answered and they were in business, one more job out of the way. If they finished ahead of schedule they got off early. Carter would have a look in the pub, see if any of the boys were about. It would be a good evening if he could find some of the lads. He was on a roll.

  The Lager Twins were well oiled and ready to eat, a full-scale Chinese takeaway and a couple of cheap bottles of cider to polish off the evening. Balti took two plates, knives and forks, serving spoons and the mushroom soya sauce into the living room. Harry meanwhile had the containers on a tray, leaving the lids in place so none of the heat could escape. Balti remembered the glasses and went back to the kitchen for two pints nicked from the pub. He shoved one of the cider bottles into the freezer and took the other. The telly was on in the corner, volume turned down low, a documentary on the chemicals in food packaging that were believed to be affecting male sperm counts in the civilised world. Balti said they should tell Carter.

  ‘Look at those.’ Harry had emptied the spring rolls on to a plate and was prising the lid off the sweet and sour, Balti opening the other containers. ‘You get value for money down the Die Nasty. Like Carter. Value for money shag machine, always a cheap deal on offer. They’re fucking huge these spring rolls.’

  The doorbell sounded. Balti swore and Harry told him not to answer it. Balti looked out the window and saw the sex machine below. It was magic. Black, evil, twisted magic. Mention the cunt’s name and he turns up on the doorstep just when you’re about to get stuck in. Balti was starving and letting Carter in meant sharing the food, or at least offering, but the lights were on and he’d just keep ringing till they cracked. Mind you, they’d ordered enough. Gone a bit over the top in fact. He made Carter wait a minute and helped himself to a king prawn in batter, digging his teeth into the tender flesh, then poured a glass of cider and took a few gulps. It was warm and tasted like shit but at least it was wet. He banged into the wall a couple of times on the way down, almost falling arse over tit. He could think of better ways to die. What would they write on the grave stone—‘Here lies a pisshead who fell down the stairs and broke his fucking neck, the silly cunt’?

  ‘Go get a plate if you want something to eat. We’ve got a chinky on the go in the front room.’

  Once in the flat Carter made himself at home, filling his plate when the others had done, then another glass with cider. The drink was fucking horrible and he went to the fridge, into the freezer for some ice-cubes. He put them in a bowl and took them to the others. Then he was taking things easy, sitting back on the couch next to Balti, watching Harry in the chair opposite spilling food down his shirt. He was a bit stoned thanks to Ian, and had five pints inside him from The Unity, popping in to see if any of the lads were drinking there, having a chat with Eileen, asking after Denise who was off for the night. It was a shame seeing how he was moving, an honorary Dutchman in London, a fucking Orange man from Ajax of Amsterdam, part of the brotherhood. Then he was pissed off realising no-one was going to turn up, deciding to take the news on tour. But he wasn’t getting the chance to tell them about the three points because they were pissed and into their own thing, fucking up his moment of glory. He took a ready-rolled spliff Ian had supplied earlier and lit up, passing it round.

  ‘There’s opportunities for people like me,’ Balti was saying. ‘Fit and healthy men in the prime of life, too good for the knacker’s yard. I’m not thick you know. Just haven’t had the breaks so far. I could do a lot in life, anything I fucking want. You understand that, don’t you Tel? Travel the globe and create a bit of history.’

  Carter wondered what the fuck Balti was on about. He nodded, his brain misfiring all over the shop, tiredness and the drink, a heavy dinner and kebab that made him feel sick when he thought about it now. There was food everywhere, everyone ripping at everyone else, cannibalism wedged in the mind, consumer society, sex consumption, bit of blow during the day, that posh old witch he’d shafted watched by the kids. It was a nasty business. The things he did for his mates, keeping the flag flying. Top of the league. Wishing he had the woman’s arms wrapped round his back now. He noticed the screen for the first time with some boffin-type cunt and then these burning tadpoles that looked like fluorescent spunk under a microscope, tails banging away, sex on the brain. He had to clean his act up, it was taking over. There were other things in life. But nothing like sex. He loved it. Loved women. He wished there was someone at home when he got back, not an empty flat with cold walls till the heating got going, some tasty Swedish bird with legs right up the crack of her arse. Carter tried to work out what Balti was saying, clocking on that he’d given his boss a spanking and was out of a job. Silly fucker.

  ‘It’s alright,’ Balti was saying. ‘It’s alright Tel. I’m fine. Don’t worry about it. Something’ll come up. I’m not bothered. I’m better off than most blokes, those poor bastards with kids to support. Think of the pressure. If I want I can piss off. No ties mate, no fucking ties. You should’ve seen McDonald go down. Didn’t know what hit him.’

  ‘That’s living,’ Harry agreed. ‘No problems. Just keep on, full steam ahead. No surrender.’

  Carter had worked it out. They were right. Fat boys in a two-bedroom flat. Looking after each other. Husband and wife. He laughed. Husband and wife without the sex to get in the way. They argued but it never lasted long. They were good mates who watched each other’s backs. But Carter knew he’d always be the winner. He had his mates and kept his distance. He was his own man. He stood alone and preferred things that way. Dabbling like there was no tomorrow. He waited for the boys to finish their food and relax, waited till their heads were simmering, a late-night therapy programme coming on and the TV turned off sharpish. Then he picked his moment and broke the good news. He told the lads that their old mate Carter had pulled again and was on seven points. He watched their faces. Balti sunk his face into his hands and Harry shook his head slowly. Carter savoured the moment.

  Will had to admit it wasn’t a bad little place. He’d pushed himself to go down The George and Karen was right there behind the bar,
like she’d said. It was a quiet evening and she fiddled free drinks for the hour till closing. When they’d cleared up she took him round the corner for a late drink that turned out to be coffee. Like she said. She called the waiter over and they paid the bill, Will waiting for the change while Karen went to the Ladies. He was chilling out nicely now, though he’d been nervous going down the pub like that, not knowing what to expect.

  Karen was beautiful and he couldn’t believe she was interested in someone like him. She was clever as well. He remembered her vaguely as a kid with long hair that had since been cut, and of course she’d filled out and become a woman. A real woman. He couldn’t explain it properly, but it was the feeling that counted. He was conscious of mucking things up but she was easy to be with. But why him? A shabby herbert who collected punk and reggae records and made a living running a junk shop. There had to be a catch. Maybe it was a wind-up organised by the rest of the Sex Division. He sipped the coffee dregs and tried to work out the motivation. Perhaps Karen was leading him into a trap. But what kind? It could be personal. Like he could’ve been rude to her when she was a kid and she’d never forgiven him, showing her up in front of his kid sister. He wasn’t like that though. Will was easy-going. Had she seen a chance for revenge? She could be lifting herself through the bog window at that very moment and doing a runner down the back alley, straight into the arms of the Sex Division champion who would take her back to his flat and chalk up a four-pointer. It wasn’t a nice thought. He shook his head. Maybe she wasn’t interested at all, at least not that way, wanting to talk about his sister who she’d hardly mentioned.

  ‘I can’t believe I’ve met you after all these years,’ Karen said as he walked her home. ‘You know I used to fancy you like anything when I was a kid. Ruth’s big brother. You always seemed so mature. Funny we live so near each other, yet all these years have passed. I don’t know where it goes. I shouldn’t be saying this should I?’

  Will wasn’t sure. He couldn’t work out the angle. They crossed the street and nearly got soaked by a double-decker, Karen pulling him away from the kerb. They continued and she brushed against him very faintly, but enough for Will to take notice. He saw a group of youths sitting on a wall opposite, tensing as he tried to identify whether the faces were friendly, but they were talking and not interested so he concentrated on Karen. She led the way, turning down a side street, off to the left past cars parked outside a row of lock-ups, under an old railway bridge that was dark and smelt of rotten cardboard and forgotten engine oil, the kind of twilight corner where dossers slept and rapists lurked. The type of place where Batman dropped from the rafters, opened his cape and flashed his Batknob.

  ‘It’s a short cut home, but I never come down here at night,’ she said. ‘It’s too dangerous. It gives me the creeps, but it’s much faster than going the long way round. I don’t mind with you. I don’t even come through here in the day. You never know what’s waiting for you.’

  Will was a bit narked with himself, feeling a tingle, like he was the hunter-gatherer protecting the women folk, the knight in heavy armour telling the rest of the Crusaders to leave him out of the rape and pillage. He loved women. He thought about them a lot but in a different way to the rest of the lads, or at least how he imagined the others thought. He was attracted to warmth and imagination.

  ‘This is it,’ Karen said, looking at a three-storey house, the flat she lived in on the top floor. ‘Home sweet home. Do you want to come in for a coffee?’

  Will was going to say no, that he’d just had one and it had been a bit strong, that he’d be up all night unable to sleep and he had to get up in the morning for work. He realised he was being soppy and smiled again. He reasoned that coffee had to be responsible for a lot of people getting together through the years. Clichés everywhere. You couldn’t turn around without one smacking you in the mouth. He told himself to shut up moaning all the time, trying to dissect everything. What should she say? ‘Would you like to come upstairs you dirty bastard and fuck the arse off me and if you like I’ll give you a blow job so you can impress that Carter mate of yours and go back down the pub with him and the others and make yourself out to be some kind of Alfie stud.’ No thanks. He told Karen coffee would be nice. Perhaps they could listen to that Prince Far I album she’d bought earlier. He had the record himself.

  PIGS IN KNICKERS

  Mango was the only one still in the office, but was surprised to glance at the onscreen clock and find that it had already gone ten. His eyes were aching from prolonged use of the computer. He hadn’t been taking the recommended screen breaks and leant his head back, swivelling in his seat. He turned away from the machine and focused on the far end of the open plan office that covered the ninth floor of the block in which he worked. Although designed to soothe the mind and create an illusion of free space, thereby maximising potential in the work force, the inevitable kingdoms had been built with the assistance of grey dividing boards and large potted plants. Cartoons had been carefully cut from The Times and Economist and pinned up for general appreciation. During the day there was the tangible thrill of expectancy. It was the expectation of either instant dismissal or a very large commission.

  Although he appreciated the unique nature of corporate vitality, Mango, or James Wilson as he was known to his work colleagues, preferred the evenings when the majority of his fellow workers had left the office. It gave him the chance to fully relax and plough through data, pinpointing potential targets. Most of the people with whom he worked took a bit of stomaching, but he bit his lip readily enough. Compensation came in the form of hefty financial rewards. This in turn allowed him to leave the poverty of his childhood behind. Mango was good at what he did, very good in fact, which couldn’t be said for many of his expensively-educated colleagues who were nonchalantly trying their hands in the world of fast-turnover commodities, little resting on their success. But results counted at WorldView, a model of multinational free-enterprise, and public-school education or otherwise, failure was not tolerated. Maggie would have approved. Mango owed the great lady a great debt. He was fortunate enough to work for a cut-throat company where weakness was erased with the punch of the delete button, and he firmly believed that the WorldView set-up was at the cutting edge of contemporary economics. He had made himself competitive and was reaping the benefits. James Wilson had ambition. He was forging ahead, making money, bettering himself.

  Mango pinpointed a yucca plant. He concentrated on the exotic outline, trying to readjust his eyesight to the relaxed mood of the tropics. It was the biggest yucca he had ever seen and must have cost a hundred pounds minimum. The leaves were sharp and well defined, the bark grizzled and sturdy. Each leaf had been individually waxed by a junior employee so that it would shine brightly under the office’s artificial lighting. His eyes gradually adapted. It was a lot to pay for a plant, but he was quick to put things into perspective. WorldView had enjoyed record profits during the previous financial year. Talk about wealth distribution. There was no such thing in Britain. He had learnt that growing up and it was this realisation that had made Mango determined to live in a flat where there was no damp and no chance of vandalism. He didn’t want to bend his head with the continual scrimping and worry that had haunted his parents. Nobody was going to give him a helping hand. Maggie had understood this essential fact and was a true friend of those people prepared to get off their arses and graft. She was a patriot ground in the realities of multinational commerce. He had taken his chance and embraced the classless society.

  Mango thought about his brother. Pete must’ve decided on something better as well, going off like that, though in his darker moments Mango always imagined the same thing, cruising through a red light area picturing Pete selling his mouth for a couple of quid to make ends meet. Rent boy on the game tiding himself over till he made it big, letting the politicians and financiers carry their policies through to the logical conclusion. Where was he then? Mango was waiting for his big brother to come marching throu
gh the door, part of a takeover consortium, nothing less than the top boy. Pete had been trying to get ahead. Maybe that was the true story, Mango didn’t know, and although it was the only way he wanted to think, he had strong doubts. Who was he to judge his brother? Sometimes he went a bit spastic and imagined himself grabbing hold of Pete and telling him what a cunt he was, not leaving a body to drain and bury and mourn, just pissing off, before Christmas as well, hitting the bloke then sticking the boot in when he hit the ground, kicking his head till the face caved in, taking a blow-torch and burning the features, melting wax.

  Every year Mango’s mum bought Pete a present and put it under the Christmas tree. She bought it sober, wrapped it with a celebratory glass of whisky, put it with the other presents, then got pissed. It was always the same. Every year. Christmas morning came and the family was together. The old man with the stuffing ripped out. Mango’s two sisters, neither married but wishing they were, right sad cases if he was honest. They all went through the usual routine, passing presents back and forward, delaying the moment, putting it off, scouting round for something else to open till there was nothing left, just a pile of paper with red-nosed Rudolph and shepherds tending their flocks ready for the slaughterhouse, and there it was, left at the end surrounded by shredded wrapping, as per fucking usual, Pete’s Christmas present from his mum. Mrs Wilson said nothing as she took the gift and hid it away in the back of the cupboard in her bedroom with all the other presents, tears running down her cheeks into her mouth, the salt of a mother’s misery, one more woman ground down and battered into the concrete. It was sad, so fucking sad that sometimes Mango wanted to cry like a baby.