Headhunters

by John King

  Before he knew what was happening it was four o’clock and she was nodding off and he stood up and said he’d better be off. He didn’t even try to kiss her and she gave him her number on the torn edge of an old envelope and asked him to call. He’d been tempted to phone right away but had held out until that same morning. A simple call to say thanks for the free drink and company. She’d sounded pleased to hear from him and he was seeing her Tuesday night. There was a band she liked playing in Brixton and he was going round her place at six. He was excited. Daft really. It was nice though. Spending time with a woman like that. Better than eight pints and a drunken effort that no matter what anyone told him was useless. You never got to know what a woman was really like and the sex itself was rubbish. Waiting a bit was another brand of foreplay, building up to something, making sex a bit special. He wondered what Karen thought about it all.

  ‘Carter’s on nine points,’ Balti told him. ‘It’s about time we got going. You’re joint bottom with me and Harry. Mango shafted some Tory princess from his work, the arse-licker.’

  ‘Nine? You were on four last time I saw you. How did you manage five more? I thought the maximum score was four. What did you do to the poor girl to get five points?’

  ‘I serviced this sort when I was delivering beds. It was one of those instant on-the-job demonstrations. All part of the service and no guarantee required. Three points there, and the bird at Blues last night was another two. You’d have liked her Will, but I know you’d rather get into Eileen. That Denise keeps looking over and I reckon I’ll be shagging that soon. She’s a right goer. A four-pointer, but I’ll settle for three. Depends on the table when I get to grips with it. Total football’s fine, but you’ve got to get points as well or you’re fuck all.’

  Will was going to ask Terry how the sex had been. Forget the points for a minute and consider the act itself. Still, that was Carter. He didn’t give a toss about anything, just living moment to moment without a care in the world, and if that’s what he wanted out of life then who was Will to say anything? He was happy and not hurting anyone. Will wasn’t made that way. He wished he was because it would make everything easier, but on the quiet he was looking for something a bit more permanent. At least he was being honest with himself. It would be nice to spend time with a decent woman for a change, with ideas and views about things, even a bit of politics thrown into the equation. Carter had probably pulled some good people along the way but he never got to see more than the paintwork. Then in the morning with the goal achieved he’d be out the door. Not that it was just blokes who were like that. Of course it wasn’t. Will had met enough women whose social lives and prestige among their mates revolved around how many men they’d had. It worked both ways. Anyone who thought otherwise was squatting on the moon thousands of miles into space. It was just down to people once all the decoration was removed.

  He returned to the scene outside, playing the Pogues’ Dirty Old Town version through his head. If you could find love in among the fumes and debris you were doing alright. He looked around at his mates and felt sorry for them. They were a bunch of kids despite the language and manners, playing their role in the greater scheme. At least they were a bit more settled these days, getting through the problem years and all that banging heads against brick walls. He hated all that. Will was a pacifist of sorts. He’d defend himself but avoided confrontation as far as possible. It was hard sometimes. Like in the First World War they’d shot those men who refused to fight or were suffering from shell shock. Condemned the poor bastards for not killing their own kind for the scum that sat miles away from the trenches in their polished havens. Stood them in a line and had other men shoot holes in their bodies.

  Life was short and on special offer if you didn’t work things out. He just wanted to relax, put his feet up and listen to some boss sounds. That’s what he liked about Karen. She had it sussed. There he was thinking about her again. To touch her seemed wrong. He smiled. Thinking of sin as though he’d been raised with religion. It was the princess thing they’d been talking about, Mango dabbling in the City. But a princess didn’t need money to make her royal. That was down to the adverts. All that consumer propaganda.

  ‘You should’ve come along last night,’ Carter said, pulling Will back in with the rest of the lads. ‘Where were you anyway?’

  ‘I stayed in. Had a pizza and listened to some music.’

  ‘You’ll never get off the mark sitting at home.’

  ‘I’m not bothered.’

  ‘What do you mean you’re not bothered? You’ll end up in the relegation zone.’

  Will didn’t want to get into a discussion on the subject. The idea of a sex league was shit. He didn’t know why he’d signed up in the first place. He’d have been better off giving up alcohol instead and it was the drink in his blood that had made him go along with the idea. That’s what is was. Drink was a bad drug. He’d been talking about it with Karen. It didn’t mean he was going to stop, because he enjoyed a quality pint, but it only ever led to problems. They made dope illegal and advertised alcohol because a good smoke kept you mellow while drink set everyone off fighting each other. Will was gearing up for something but didn’t know what. Maybe he wanted to settle down. Live with a woman again.

  He thought of Bev and the three years they’d had together, though it had never really worked once they’d settled into the routine of work, food, sleep. It was two-way and they’d parted on good enough terms. They’d kept in touch for a while, meeting up every two or three months, then every six months till she found someone else, and then there was nothing. He didn’t feel bad about it, but at times he missed the companionship. She’d given him something he couldn’t get from his mates. They’d been able to talk about things that he would never talk about with the lads, but they’d been too young for it to last. They were nineteen when they met. Twenty when they moved into the flat in South Acton. Towards the end it was obvious they were shifting in different directions, but they spent a year trying to con themselves. In the end it was a relief. He’d felt free again. She was a good person. He still loved her in a way. Nothing physical because that went years back, but she was a bit of the past and Will liked thinking back.

  The only other Sex Division member who’d lived with a woman was Carter. Will reckoned it was a bit funny that, because they were so different. He’d been married to Cheryl for a couple of years, before the divorce. It hadn’t worked out. He’d always boasted that with Cheryl nothing mattered and he was busy most of the time dabbling on the side. Will didn’t know the truth about that, and when Cheryl slept with some bloke Carter had gone off the deep end. He’d been well gutted when she left but had recovered quick enough. Will couldn’t live like that. He would’ve felt guilty lying and planning something. It wasn’t in his nature, though he knew everyone was ripe when they were under the influence. Carter didn’t care. He was a free man. It was his life and it was only sex and glands and nature, and he had told Will a couple of times that he should enjoy himself because that was why God had made women. Will couldn’t think like that. They were miles apart, with Harry and Balti and even Mango in the middle, yet in some ways they were similar. It was like Karen had been saying the other night about party politics, that if you went far enough one way you eventually went full circle and ended up on the other side.

  Carter and Will were the only two who’d gone all the way and moved in with someone. And Carter had gone right in and got himself married. Big wedding and everything. They’d all gone. He looked at Balti and Harry and wondered where they’d end up. Living together when they were forty? What did they think about it all? Probably didn’t know themselves, so how could Will? Living day to day. Then there was Mango. He had enough ambition for the rest of them but somehow Will felt most sorry for him. Even though he had a bit of wealth it was a dead-end world, without soul or morality. Carter had few traditional morals but was honest and no harm was done, while Will was so moral he had to admit he sometimes verged on the self-
righteous. He hated himself for that. Harry and Balti were decent blokes, but Mango lacked something, like a slit had been made and that part of the brain converting the relevant codes had been rewired. Will wondered if he was getting religious or whether that bit of blow he’d had last night had set off a forgotten circuit, turning him into a raving fundamentalist. He was smoking a lot these days.

  Will saw Mango coming out of the bookies, walking with his head up for a bit, then bent forward focused on the pavement. Like he was proud, then ashamed, then proud again. Will thought of them playing that game as a kid, it didn’t have a name, avoiding the cracks and lines, the slabs land and the cracks rapids that would drag them away. One day he’d ask Mango if he remembered. A car stopped at the zebra crossing and Mango was on his way to the pub. He often came down on Saturday to see his mum and dad, then have a pint with the lads if they were about. It was one of those loose rituals. He saw Mango stop and talk with a group of women, friends of his mum. When he stopped his face had been creased like he was thinking too hard, but now it had smoothed out, back in the community. When he left them and continued Will saw him stop by the drunks standing outside the swimming pool, begging, and hand something over.

  ‘Alright?’ Mango said, going straight to the bar to get a round in. When he’d brought the drinks to the table he sat next to Harry who shifted up a bit. Mango looked happy enough.

  ‘What happened to you last night?’ Balti asked.

  ‘I had to work late.’

  ‘On a Friday night? You must be joking. You were round that bird’s place sipping champagne with your caviar.’

  ‘Wish I had been. I was working my bollocks off till three. We had a big job going through.’

  ‘She didn’t want another portion then?’ Carter asked. ‘Once was enough, was it?’

  ‘I’m going round tomorrow night. She’s a real cracker. Seems like I’m in second place. How was it down Blues?’

  ‘Not bad. I’m on nine points now so you’d better get out of first gear, but don’t worry about these three. Will stays in these days listening to his records and these two are always so fucking pissed they can’t get it up.’

  The talk drifted back to the football while Mango started bending Harry’s ear about dreams. Mango never remembered his dreams and wanted to learn the secret. He’d tried eating cheese because he’d heard from his old man that a good bit of Cheddar worked wonders, but nothing had happened. He couldn’t get to sleep without his prescription, and then when he managed it the next thing he knew the alarm was sounding and he was getting up with nothing but a blank filling the gap. Without chemicals he would lay there for hours with his mind racing, the same thoughts that came in the day when he wasn’t busy, but which his work helped him avoid. Mango was sensible enough to know that it was only his imagination speeding, but he didn’t want to think when he was alone because the later it got, the darker the pictures became. He didn’t mention his tablets or thoughts to anyone.

  Harry thought of the siren and the bombing raid on a Mayan temple. Remembering your dreams proved you were alive, that you weren’t just a machine put on charge overnight. They’d talked about it before and Mango agreed, but he wanted a bit for himself. He liked the idea of symbolism and another part of his head working free-style. Harry told him about his dream, about the bar and Frank Bruno, the Mayan temple and the music, how the whole thing had started in colour, shifted to black-and-white while he was in the jungle, then returned to colour. The others were talking football and he kept his voice down so nobody took the piss. He was selective in his account. Mango nodded. It sounded good. He wouldn’t mind some harmless home cinema for himself rather than the late night horror shows he never spoke about. Hallucinating in the tropics would be better than running around North London with some kid next to him thinking of ways to chop her up.

  ‘Harry, you remember that Cup game against Tottenham in the sixth round?’ Carter was already getting pissed, topping up. ‘The yids were coming down from Sloane Square and the old bill pulled up. We were down by The Black Bull, remember, and then they started running horses into Chelsea.’

  ‘Course I do. I went under one but it was going so fast it didn’t land on my head. Went right over me without doing any serious damage.’

  ‘The rider didn’t even look back. Just kept going.’

  ‘I could’ve been brain-damaged. Sitting here now with a nappy on that you’d have to change for me.’

  ‘Fuck that,’ Balti said. ‘When was it? Early eighties, something like that. The pubs were packed by twelve weren’t they and everyone was looking to have a go. The Shed was full an hour and a half before the fucking kick-off.’

  ‘Only because the old bill cleared the pubs and pushed everyone inside, closed the gates so they could get Spurs past.’

  Will had to admit it had been a lively day out. Hoddle had scored for Spurs but he wasn’t going to remind them. The North Stand had been empty and when Tottenham piled on to the terrace they got a warm reception. It had gone off in a big way outside afterwards and they’d nearly got battered by the old bill as the two sides clashed. It was a long time ago. He’d gone to a few games with the others when Brentford weren’t at home, or playing a shit team. Chelsea had always been a bit of a cult side. Things were better now. Peace was better than war. Sex instead of violence. Bollocks, he was thinking along Sex Division lines.

  ‘What are you lot doing tonight?’ he asked. The drink was having an effect and he fancied a few more. It was fine meeting a decent woman like Karen, but he wouldn’t mind a decent drink as well. He was thirsty after a quiet Friday sitting at home listening to records.

  ‘Have a pint somewhere,’ Carter said, considering the options. ‘Pick up a Miss World and give her a good servicing. What I normally do. What else?’

  ‘We’ll probably come back here,’ Balti said. ‘Have a beer round Chelsea after the game and get back by eight at the latest. At least it’s a short walk home.’

  ‘What about you?’ Will turned to Mango.

  ‘Don’t know yet. Might come down here if you lot are around. I’m shooting back to Fulham first.’

  ‘You giving us a lift then?’ Carter asked.

  ‘Long as you don’t piss all over the upholstery like you were threatening to do last time I let you in the car.’

  Will left at twelve and the rest of them stayed till nearly one. Mango had a couple of pints and then stopped while the others started working their way into a session. He wanted to get back and go through some paperwork. He was toying with the idea of phoning one of those home-delivery services, a call girl in leather with stilettoes and high cheek bones. Like that bird in the Barbican. The others were pissing about pleading for another pint before they left. Mango stood up, took out his keys and the rest of the lads fell into line. It was still early enough to get down to the Hammersmith roundabout without too much hassle and then slowly roll along the Fulham Palace Road. He felt good behind the wheel. The Jag purred, though he doubted the others appreciated just how good the engine really was. They appreciated the luxury and interior, but with a bit of drink inside them the finer edges were blurred.

  ‘You shagged anything in this yet?’ Carter asked, sitting in the front passenger seat, Harry and Balti in the back.

  Mango almost answered more or less, that the bird from the Barbican had been down on him the other night, sitting in the same seat as Carter, then remembered the story, confusing the down-and-outs with those who helped put them there.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’ve got a stain here,’ the unstoppable sex machine pointed out. ‘Thought it might be spunk, that’s all.’

  Mango took his eyes off the road to look and almost went up the back of the car in front. He looked at the spot Carter was pointing to, a small blob ground into the seat. The fucking slag. He’d warned her. Fucking whore. It was typical. You couldn’t trust anyone these days. That was the problem with England, the sorry state of the industrial base. He had forked out hard cash and r
eceived a shoddy service in return. That sponging cow should’ve taken a bit of pride in her work rather than falling down on the job. He was disgusted with himself for allowing such a thing to happen. Next time he wouldn’t be so generous. He would make the woman perform in a doorway or under a tree. That’s what happened when you tried to help the less fortunate. They were rabid and quick to bite the hand that fed them. The thought struck that the girl might have infected his knob, that soon he would start frothing at the mouth and go on the rampage, biting and breaking skin until he was shot down in the street by a police marksman, shot down like a mad dog.

  When they were kids Kev Bennett had gone mental and held his girlfriend hostage with a shotgun nobody knew he had. Mango remembered it well. It was a major occasion. The neighbours had reported screams coming from his flat and after the old bill pulled up there’d been a stand-off. The area was sealed off. It had been quite exciting being a kid and that, with everyone talking about what was going to happen next, about the negotiators they would bring in to try some psychology. Bennett was nothing out of the ordinary, just went off his rocker one day. He’d been in there for ages and everyone expected a happy ending when he got his head straight. They said he was pissed up. Then there was a bang from inside the flat and the old bill shot him. It was unreal, the pop of gunshots. Nobody ever knew the reason why Bennett did it and his girlfriend moved away. He wondered what she was doing now. Whether she thought about the boy who’d threatened to kill her all those years before. It was funny how things worked out. But he wasn’t thinking of guns.