by John King
It was easier having nothing to do when the weather was like this. In the winter you stayed in and kept your head down, a hedgehog buried in leaves, waiting for better days. Staying patient. Now Balti was outside making the most of the sun. It would’ve been nicer being on a beach somewhere, like the old boy said, but beggars couldn’t choose. You took what you got and were grateful. What would the point be anyway, without a bit of cash in your pocket to go and have a drink now and then? He didn’t want to listen to George wax lyrical about the nature of the cosmos, rambling on about the beauties of nature and the sheer wonderment of it all. He was on a different frequency. Probably didn’t even hear the hammers. Balti wasn’t slagging him off, because it was fair enough if he was on some head trip. It was just he’d rather enjoy the sun without a lecture, before a cloud came along and blocked the fucker out.
‘Did you get down the bookies in time yesterday?’ he asked.
‘I lost a tenner,’ George admitted. ‘I lose a tenner a week. It’s worth the expense and it’s a hobby, getting to know the nags and the form. If I’d won I’d have been fifty quid better off. It’s a chance you take, but it means you’ve always got something to look forward to. It gives you a stake in society. If it doesn’t happen then that’s fine by me. I could as easily spend it in the pub. The money’s dead then. You piss it out half an hour later. With a horse you have a chance of getting something back.’
He moved his trolley level with the end of the bench. The contents rattled. He took out his pipe and tin and prepared a smoke. The smell of tobacco reminded Balti of McDonald. He looked at the trolley. The mesh was precisely sectioned and ordered. The old man lit up. He deserved a reward for his efforts. A patrol car slid along on the opposite side of the common, then turned into the flats. The banging stopped. Balti had noticed the old bill a lot since he’d been signing on. Like he was a crook. True, he nicked some car stereos now and then, just to tide himself over, when he was short of cash, but he wasn’t making a habit of it. Breaking into cars was kid’s stuff. If you were going thieving you should do it properly. If things got really tight, then he wasn’t going to sit back and think of England while he got shafted by the exchange mechanism. He’d line something up and fight back good and proper. He was being looked down on. An expectation of guilt fired his way, that he didn’t feel, not really, but which was force-fed and stuck in his throat.
‘You have to have an aim,’ George said, revelling in the contents of his pipe. ‘That’s what’s wrong with the world today. Too many people drifting. There’s no point coasting along hoping things will get better. They never do. That’s one thing I’ve learnt from life. You have to go out and grab the opportunities. Spend to accumulate. It’s important to try and better your situation, while at the same time doing something worthwhile for the community. Above all, though, it’s vital to remember your place and your limitations. There’s no point getting too big for your boots. Leave the more complicated problems to those with specialist skills.’
George was moving into a speech. Like he was on a platform. Balti waited in silence. It had been the same the last two days. He was worth listening to for a bit before he started losing the thread of what he was saying. It helped pass the time.
‘Look at my situation, for instance. Not that I’m blowing my own trumpet. Far from it in fact. That’s not my style. Anyone who knows me will back me up on this. It never has been and never will. I’m an average man of average means. I’ve suffered from severe depression and been treated by psychiatrists. They’ve fed me with drugs and recommended various therapies, but I feel no guilt. It happens to everyone at one time or another. Mental collapse. It’s part of the human condition. I refuse to feel guilt. But that’s because I have a purpose. And I also have hope. Always remember that young man. Whatever you might hear, I have a purpose and I have hope.’
Balti smiled as George leant forward, looking for the go-ahead. He sucked on his pipe and let his gaze scan the common, surveying the land stretching before him. There wasn’t a great deal to see. The kid’s playground and a few trees. Rows of houses to the left, flats to the right. The sound of hammers once more.
‘People look at someone like me and what do they see? What do they imagine? I’ll tell you. A well-turned-out man of middle-age pushing a trolley around. What do they think? An eccentric perhaps. An environmentalist maybe. But I don’t care about the labels people pin on me. I have a purpose. My own agenda. Simple in itself but a purpose nonetheless. My goal each morning is to fill my trolley with cans, as you can see. This goal has been achieved. Coca Cola, Pepsi, 7-Up, Fanta, Lucozade; whatever the name of the corporation involved, I will collect its cans and take them to be recycled, thereby saving resources and avoiding unnecessary exploitation of the planet’s resources. You see, it’s nothing dramatic when compared to famine and war, but it fills my time and if everyone was the same as me, doing their bit, then many of the problems of our society would be solved. Extend this attitude on to a global scale and the world would be at ease with itself. We would have an everlasting peace. I have my reasons. I move from A to B and follow a path. If everyone followed after me, what a society we could create. Just try and imagine it for a minute.’
Balti tried. He saw men in expensive suits pushing supermarket trolleys across the common. He imagined the Pope and other European leaders, mullahs and naked fakirs heaving their cargoes past the adventure playground. The dictators and owners of the multinationals were there as the kids on the slide took the piss raising their right hands in wanker signs. The arms manufacturers and monarchy. They were all there. Thousands of them. Following some nutter across the common, dodging the dog shit and squeezing over Mugger’s Bridge, on their way to the recycling bins in the swimming pool car park.
‘Serving the common good is not enough. I have learnt that. A man must have hope. Women also, in this age of equality between the sexes. One day I will strike gold. A nice winner on the ponies which is only the first part of my plan. I will spend this jackpot on the Lottery. This in turn will increase my probabilities of ultimate success. It is a simple mathematical equation. The more I spend on the Lottery, the better chance I have of becoming a winner. One day my number will come up. It is a simple chain reaction. I have calculated my chances of becoming a millionaire in this way. It is many millions to one, yet it remains a real possibility. It is a chance not to be spurned. The more I try, the shorter the odds. When the cheque is deposited in my account I will be satisfied. I will be comfortable for the rest of my life. That is how democracy works. I think you will agree that it is a fair system. We all have a chance to make a claim. There’s no need to become angry and bitter at the system. After all, we are nothing in comparison.’
Balti thought George was a sad bastard. It was true what he said, in a roundabout way. Balti had been putting more than he should into the Lottery. It did give you something to dream about. That moment when the phone rang and there was some bingo master on the other end insisting you were no longer eligible for unemployment benefit, some smarmy showbiz cunt talking through clenched dentures clogged up on jealousy. Saying that you were a multi-millionaire with the tabloids hot on your trail. Would he want to remain anonymous? Fucking right he would. A cool ten million wouldn’t make everything perfect, at least that’s what they said, but it would certainly help. If news filtered out somehow, then bollocks, Balti had what it took to handle the pressure. It wound him up hearing people who’d come into a fortune moaning that the winning millions were making their lives a nightmare. Whoever said something like that had obviously never lived on forty-six quid a week. He was ready to be a winner. No problem. But George was a nutter. He really was. Balti wouldn’t end up like that. He’d top himself first. Pushing a trolley around trying to save the world.
Balti thought about the first thing he’d do once the cheque was in his hand. He’d be straight down the bank to deposit his winnings. Wait for the expression on the face of the clerk. Next he’d be down the social to tell them he wa
s signing off. It wouldn’t piss him off standing in line wasting time because he’d make sure he got that cunt who’d forgotten to punch the button on the computer. The cheque hadn’t come through and when he’d gone to find out where it was there was no respect, no apology, no nothing. This was with him being a customer now as well. A client. With a set of aims on the wall telling him how much they wanted to help you. One day he’d work out how much he’d paid into the system. He’d get the same person. See if he could get a bit of respect that way. It wouldn’t matter how he became a millionaire, as long as he had the readies. Nobody thought that far. It was like if you had the money then there was some kind of divine justice about it all. Put a fiver in the collection bowl and you were away.
‘I tell you this in confidence,’ George shifted nearer, looking round and holding his pipe away from Balti so that the smoke from the burning tobacco didn’t get in his eyes.
‘When I was made redundant I pocketed a few bob. A couple of thousand pounds if you’re interested. This is between you and me and mustn’t go any further, because the kids round here, they’d be through the window and murder me in my bed for a tenner. Anyway, with careful management, using one light at a time at night and keeping the heating bills down to a minimum, even in the middle of winter, I’ve been able to hang on to a few hundred pounds. It’s for a rainy day you understand. It’s good to have a few hundred behind you in case of emergencies. You never know what’s waiting around the corner. Plan ahead, that’s my motto.’
Balti admired the self-discipline. George had been told by the doctors that his mood swings were related to the seasons. He’d talked quite openly about this on the first time they’d shared the bench. With the shorter daylight hours and overcast skies, he went into himself. He spoke little and remained indoors. When spring came he began to stir, his mood shifting full throttle when summer arrived. He was pure energy. Following the sun. The doctors had given their opinion. He was like the Aztecs, but without great pyramids and a need for human sacrifice. It was official.
‘Well,’ George said abruptly, after they’d been sitting in silence for five minutes watching the kids in the playground. ‘I can’t hang around here all day. There’s work to be done. Must press on. I have to deliver these cans. I’ve given myself a deadline and it must be kept. Goodbye.’
Balti watched him go. He was a squat character with a balding head that would burn if he didn’t get a hat sorted out. The sunglasses didn’t match the overall impression. Balti thought about what he’d said about energy and sunlight. It was common sense really. You always felt better when the sun was shining. You had to have a bit of hope as well. Worshipping the sun was probably the obvious thing if you lived thousands of years ago out in the country and depended on the seasons for your food. In London all you needed was money in your pocket and a bit of respect. God was redundant these days. Signing on.
He stretched his arms and wiped the sweat from his face. He was losing weight. It was cutting down on the drink that did it. Not getting pissed as much as before. He was only able to manage thanks to the stereos. He wasn’t going to hit rock bottom. If his Lottery numbers came up he’d be laughing the last five months off. Like George said, you had to invest to accumulate. He hadn’t thought it would take this long to get work. He was bored. Well hacked off. Having all that time during the day got you thinking. It got you down and his motivation had gone. Dumped on his arse by four slags from South London. He’d thought it was the IRA that specialised in hammers, not Protestant militiamen. Time to think. It was deadly. You had to keep busy. Will slipped Balti a bit of blow now and then, specially after that night. It helped keep the lid on things. It had done him a lot of good if he was honest. But Balti wasn’t going to get all emotional. He was logical. Holding back. Doing the right thing. Keeping his dignity.
Except when they got you down knocked off balance then there was no such thing as dignity because once your legs went you were another piece of shit just one more animal without a name without any say-so no tears no nothing just the violence that showed you up and when you thought about something like that like when you were tipped on your arse on your own manor round the corner from where you lived your whole life where you fucking grew up and walked and played when you were a kid so near home that if the telly was turned up loud enough or the music on it would’ve drained out the sound of the kicks and breaking bones the thud of hammers so near home kids getting murdered on the news youths going missing Pete never came home did he and it was mostly in the summer every year it seemed like it was more regular now living in the technological age when more and more you were plugged into the mains and pumped up with all that voltage pulsing through the skeleton up the backbone into the brain cracking across the room and all that radiation was deadly what was it Karen had said the other day about there being no strength in the unions any more telling him to think about the word union when they were arguing about Scargill and that and how the mines had been closed down just like Arthur had said part of a bigger plan maybe even worked out in advance a blueprint for a Britain where nobody knew their neighbours and there were no organisations to fight for your rights no solidarity with everyone scratching out their own boundaries even the street markets were being sterilised because the authorities wanted to erase community and turf the stalls off the street and they built shitty little shops and charged high rent selling mass-produced shit from China where the slave labour was cheaper free in fact so the capitalists were in bed with the communists and it was impossible to know who was shagging who and it all tied up because there was no such thing as unions in China and you weren’t safe to walk down your own streets in London because they could do you any time they wanted the outsiders waiting late at night down a side street picking their moment when you were pissed and unable to fight back and the old bill could come into your home and the bailiffs would be banging on the door because that’s what happened when you failed when you couldn’t pay your way and it wasn’t the old family firms and new-age gangsters and nutters who lost their furniture no fucking way like would the paper shufflers and magistrates put themselves out that was a laugh they were shitters who preferred the easy targets the honest people with their defences down not ready to fight just wanting to live quiet lives and it was always the small people the trolley-pushers of the world who did what they were told and swallowed their tablets and wanted to do something worthwhile give something back grateful for a bit of analysis from some stuck-up cunt who treated you like shit as he mended you but the sad old bastards never got the chance of a bit of dignity and it was the old and the young and the sick who got hammered because like Karen said it’s those cunts in the cattle trucks were the ones who ended up stripped and naked because they couldn’t fight back and Mango was right in that respect because he’d have been in with the guards looking after himself fuck everyone else like he was fucked and Balti wasn’t going to be one of the losers even if it meant doing a bank one day and he could reason the thing out play the white man and say that McDonald was out of order with the verbal but he’d been more out of order kicking the cunt in the balls head gut a bit naughty that McDonald was working for a boss higher up and had a family to support and his own pressures getting his ear chewed job on the line investment and all that nonsense and if he was honest really straight with himself and there were times to be honest and times to lie and now Balti was being honest as honest as anyone ever could be but it didn’t matter because he was telling the simple truth when he reminded himself that the thing wasn’t over, not yet, no fucking chance pal.
Balti stopped walking and looked in the window of Will’s shop. There was a picture of Jesus in a black frame. The face was dark, Arabic-looking, Jewish probably, but he knew it was Jesus because there were thorns in his head and blood gushing from the wounds. It was an ugly picture. There was no beauty. No warmth. It was cold pain and misery. Self-sacrifice the vicar would say. Balti couldn’t imagine anyone paying good money for something like that. Especially seei
ng as how Jesus looked different. You had to be able to connect. There was a bowl full of cheap jewellery, odds and sods, and some bronze ornaments that were a bit more up-market with price tags turned the wrong way so he couldn’t see what they said. He saw Will in the shop serving someone. When the woman turned to leave Balti entered. She carried a picture under her arm and he stood aside to let her pass. It was another Jesus. An identical twin in an identical black frame. They must’ve come from the same egg.
‘Religion selling well?’ Balti asked.
Will looked puzzled, then understood. He pointed to a row of frames. The first showed the same picture. They were part of a batch. He’d bought fifteen at a car boot sale in Wimbledon. Against the odds, they were selling. Once he sold two he started making a profit. He’d sold three already. It must’ve been the novelty value of seeing Jesus looking like that.
‘You always think of Jesus as a white man, don’t you,’ Balti said, sitting down in an old armchair next to the big desk from which Will ran his business.
Will went to the chair behind the desk. It was worn wood but quality all the same. One day he would sand it down and give it a varnish. There was a big mixture of gear in the shop, something to satisfy most local tastes. It was junk with a touch of quality, according to the owner. The inside of the shop was musty and warm.
‘That’s because they make the pictures in their own image,’ Will said. ‘Jesus would’ve been dark, maybe black. Who knows. He wouldn’t be Anglo-Saxon, that’s for sure. No blond hair and blue eyes for someone from the desert.’