Headhunters

by John King

  ‘Still looks odd though, seeing Jesus H looking like an Arab or yiddo.’

  ‘The Nazis used to teach their kids that Jesus was part of an Aryan tribe that took civilisation to the Middle East and that they were slaughtered by the Jews. If you’re taught that you’re going to believe it, aren’t you? We always believe what we’re told, just depends on who does the telling. But we think like that any way. Make everything fit in. Draw him like he’s a Viking or something.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, does it,’ Balti said. ‘I mean, whatever he looked like it’s what he said that counts. I know it’s supposed to be history and all that, but a lot of it’s made up isn’t it, to suit the kings and the censors. Mind you, I don’t know what he had to say anyway. There was the Good Samaritan. Dead man laying at the side of the road. Hartlepool fan comes along and eats the heart. Liverpool fan turns up and eats the liver. Arsenal fan arrives, but he’s not hungry. Remember that one?’

  ‘I remember. You still wouldn’t go thieving from a church though, would you?’

  ‘Don’t know really. Probably would if you were desperate. I was thinking that walking over. If I was really skint, right down the bottom, I’d do a bank. I think I would anyway. Maybe not. Probably bottle it. No-one wants to go down do they? Don’t suppose I’d do a church. No reason why I shouldn’t. Don’t suppose they’ve got anything worth nicking. I’ll stick to petty crime, breaking windows and thieving stereos.’

  ‘Most people wouldn’t rob a church. It’s a built-in fear of retribution.’

  ‘Fear of getting nicked more like.’

  ‘The magistrates would make sure you paid the penalty. They’re all in on it. The old bill, vicars, magistrates, lawyers, judges, journalists, big business, politicians, necrophiliacs. It’s a self-help club.’

  ‘Divine retribution.’

  ‘I reckon you can play at being God in two major ways,’ Will said, putting his feet on the desk and skinning up. ‘Either you use chemicals to get up there with the superhumans, or you’re born with a silver spoon up your arse. Trouble is, the chemicals are mostly man-made so you end up with the after effects, whereas in the old days you could find something natural and, provided there were no witch-hunts on, you could get into the flow. Now it’s different. More mechanical. Material society with a materialist religion. Trick is, you get the power, with the old bill backing you up, and you can play God that way. A certain kind of God. Lots of wrath and indignation. One that likes healthy profit margins.’

  ‘You were alright with the old witch-hunts if you were a bloke though, weren’t you?’ Balti said. ‘It was the women that got burnt and drowned. Like, which way do you want to die, darling?’

  Balti thought about it for a minute as Will concentrated on his task. When he was young he’d wanted to be part of a midfield trio that had included Ray Wilkins and Garry Stanley. That was as near as he wanted to get to immortality. To be on the pitch bossing the game with Ray and Garry. He thought about that sort of stuff even now. He supposed most blokes did. In that world it didn’t matter how old you were, or how unfit. It didn’t matter if you couldn’t kick a ball straight or you were the same age as those players approaching the end of their careers. He wondered what Harry thought about. He’d have to ask him later when he got back from work. Probably playing up front with Steve Finnieston keeping Kenny Swain out of the side. If Eddie McCreadie hadn’t been forced out of the club then who knows? Balti remembered how upset he’d been when McCreadie left. He’d heard that Eddie was somewhere in the States. A great man.

  It was the glamorous way out of the gutter. Running round kicking a ball. Either that or doing a Frank Bruno. Keeping yourself fit and building up for the big fights. Nobody pushed Big Frank about. He demanded respect. And if you were in that midfield with Wilkins and Stanley, then you were major as well. He didn’t know what career he’d choose if he had his time again. Midfield genius or heavyweight champion. Probably the football. There was less chance of brain damage that way, though he’d read something about footballers who headed the ball a lot, how it rocked the brain on its suspension. In midfield you could keep your head and play it on the deck. That’s what everyone wanted to see. Creative football. Seeing The Dutchman in action showed how far the English game had to go. The young kids coming through were lucky to work with someone like that. Funny, you got past a certain age and suddenly you looked at the young lads, the nutters and that, or the footballers, that’s what he was thinking about, and they were like school kids, all wound up doing things wrong, getting booked, getting nicked.

  Mind you, it was all in the hormones. He thought science had proved something along those lines. Birds didn’t cause the problems that men did. If women were in charge things would be a lot better. Mango was always going on about the first female prime minister. How she’d done the business, in the Falklands and for the economy. But for blokes it was a time of life. He had to admit they’d been a bit naughty till their late twenties. Then they’d slowed down and the new talent came through all larey and tearing up. But you still had respect because you’d been there already. Nobody was going to give you unnecessary aggro. That’s what it had been like at football. Things had changed a lot and the new mobs coming through were smaller in number but more vicious. He couldn’t work people like that out really. Having a punch-up at football had just been part of the Saturday landscape till the politicians got involved. The new era was fine by Balti. He wanted to watch the football again. His second childhood had come around, though he didn’t mind the odd punch-up for a classic fixture. But using knives, that was out of order. It was only a bit of fun, after all.

  When you had time on your hands you thought about the past, but he also found himself shooting off into the future. It was easy to reinvent the past, but it wasn’t so good somehow. There was always the truth nagging at you, or at least a version of that truth, telling you it wasn’t that great. It was okay playing about with history, but when you planned the future you could be anything you wanted. The more you thought, the more unreal you could become. That’s probably what was happening with that sad old cunt with the trolley. One minute he was stuck in the past ready to top himself, all the missed opportunities, dead loves, whatever, the next the sun starts shining and he’s off, making plans and marching forward. But the thing was, whatever extreme he was into, there was always the chance of a controller in a white coat lining up an upper or downer trying to bring him back into the middle. It was like Harry was saying about the colour in his dreams. The past was usually black and white but confused, whereas the future was all about new technology and crystal clear vision. It was mind games. You went through life keeping busy, getting pissed and that, doing a few substances, but once you had time to kill your mind was straight into one.

  Balti had a puff. Sweet as a nut. Carefree whoever he may be. With Will shutting up shop for a while so they could relax. They sat buried in old furniture and prints, a kid’s doll sitting on a shelf, horse brasses and rows of yellowing books. There was some good gear knocking about. If you knew what you were doing and had ambition you could make a packet. Balti wondered if his mate needed an assistant. He doubted it. Kept quiet. Business was slack. Enough for Will to keep ticking over but that was all. Will was a diamond now Balti came to think about it. He’d always had that bit extra with the music and slower pace, and now he had Karen as well. They were made for each other. He wondered if one day he’d find someone like that. It would be nice. Harry was a sound bloke, another diamond, but he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life shacked up with the cunt. There came a time when you had to move on. Find a woman and that.

  Harry had been acting a bit strange. Balti couldn’t work it out. At first he’d thought it was to do with him signing on, but reasoned it out and had even asked his mate up front. It wasn’t that. Why should it be? He wasn’t a beggar. He stood on his own two feet. There was something though. He couldn’t work it out. Maybe he was going through a change. Everyone had slow periods. It would b
e alright. He was better than a brother.

  ‘Me and Karen are moving in together,’ Will said, after they’d decided to go down Andy’s Cafe, the door locked behind them as they walked down the street.

  ‘You leaving the flat then?’ Balti asked, Will nodding. ‘Why doesn’t she move in with you. It’s big enough for both of you. Just clear out some of the shit round there and you could turn it into a barracks, you’ve got so much room.’

  ‘She wants to start somewhere fresh. You know. A new beginning. Something of our own. You know how women are. They get their minds set and they like the romance. I can see her point. I mean I wouldn’t want to move in somewhere she’s lived. You’d always feel like the lodger. It’s better off starting together, then everything’s equal. Nobody’s in charge.’

  ‘Do me a favour. She wears the trousers. Not that I’m slagging it off or anything, but Karen’s in charge. Everyone knows that. You’ve got to put your foot down or the woman will run the show.’

  ‘It’s half each.’

  ‘Alright, whatever you say. But someone’s going to be the boss, aren’t they? It’s only natural.’

  Will shook his head. Balti was winding him up. He did tend to go along with what Karen said a lot of the time, but that was because he wasn’t bothered. She was sharper than he was. He hated the idea of being hen-pecked.

  They ordered at the counter and sat by the window. The fruit and veg market was busy, Phil from The Unity on his stall outside. He waved when he noticed them, serving a couple of old women. Balti could never understand the bloke. He was one of the old-time Cockney Reds, born and bred in West London but choosing to follow Man United around the country. Where was the sense in that? His main day had been in the Seventies when Tommy Docherty had been the manager with crowds near-enough sixty thousand. There’d been regular aggro between the Cockney Reds and other sections of the Stretford End. He didn’t go much these days, being older and everything, a time and a place. He preferred remembering Old Trafford how it had been in its heyday, rather than the satellite accessory he felt it had become. He went to a few aways and slagged off the club for making the ground a home for part-timers. When the club messed up then the thousands like him wouldn’t be going back to fill the gaps.

  Two teas arrived and Balti thought of the 4–0 Cup Final. It was funny, because they’d been gutted after the game, but it didn’t bother him now. Just getting to a Cup Final had been a bonus, seeing the teams come out and everything, even though Wembley was a shit ground and thirty-five quid for a length of plastic with no back was a lot to pay. They saw you coming and shafted your loyalty. And there was no Vaseline on hand to ease the pain. At the end of the day though Chelsea had given Man U a good hiding outside the ground before the game. They’d been coming up the hill lobbing bottles at United who legged it, hid inside the pubs, or tried to have a go back but ended up getting a kicking. It was a good day out, Harry smacking some cunt with a flag, Tommy Johnson and his mates going mental. Balti was honest enough to say he’d rather Chelsea were in charge outside the ground than on the pitch. Getting a pasting off someone was the end of the world. You didn’t want people taking the piss. Chelsea had a reputation to maintain. Balti had his self-respect. That fucking cunt McDonald.

  ‘You hungry then?’ Will asked, when the food arrived, Balti’s plate loaded with sausage, bacon, beans, chips, toast.

  ‘I’m getting too thin. I’m down to fourteen stone. People will start thinking I’m dying of AIDS if I’m not careful.’

  ‘Not for a while they won’t,’ Will said as he put ketchup on his plate only for the top to come off and half cover his chips. He put the lid back on and did his best to use it up.

  ‘So what are you going to do about Slaughter then?’ Will asked, once they’d finished and ordered more tea.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘About the work he’s offering,’ Will said, seeing the expression on Balti’s face. ‘You told me Friday night when you were pissed. Dangerous talk costs lives.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Balti admitted. ‘I mean on the one hand it’s a chance to make the kind of money I’m not going to get anywhere else. On the other, I don’t fancy ten years banged up. Depends on what it is, but once he tells me I’m going to have to say yes, aren’t I? I mean, Slaughter’s not going to want too many people knowing what he’s doing.’

  ‘You should leave it alone. That’s what I reckon. Anything he does is going to be dodgy. He could tell you one thing, then the next minute you’re too far in, stuck in some bank with Slaughter waving a shooter around. It’s not worth the risk. Being skint’s not as bad as killing some bank clerk.’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe it’s worth taking a chance sometimes.’

  ‘What if he does that though. Takes his machete along and does someone. Or he gets a shotgun and the old bill turn up. It’s not just him is it? Everyone goes down. ABH, murder, who knows. Nothing’s worth going down for.’

  ‘Say I made a couple of grand, maybe more. I’d be able to live well in the summer till I get something sorted out. Maybe it’s worth it.’

  ‘You go down and you’ll crack up. What are you going to do for five years, maybe twenty, who knows. You go in and come out an old man. Eat, sleep, shit, piss, wank, get a bruising. What sort of life is that? You’d be better off dead.’

  Balti thought about it as he sipped the hot tea. He might be a bit out of order now and then, but he wasn’t a robber. Not that it was the rights and wrongs or anything like that, but Slaughter stunk of trouble. There was a kind of justice about it in a way, doing a bank or building society, because they were the system that ground you down, everyone wanting their share. They charged high interest and milked people. Going in there with a shooter would be alright. Then he thought straight. It was like McDonald. He was the small man. The representative. Those behind the counter weren’t getting anything out of the interest rates and repossessions. Just earning a crust. It wasn’t their fault. Why should they get their heads shot off? Why should McDonald get a kicking? Balti knew why. Because he didn’t show respect. There was no excuse for that. The same as the cocky bastards behind the window in a bank. Except most of them were alright. And that cunt down the social. The one who’d forgotten to punch the button. He deserved a slap but there again he was nothing. Earnt fuck all for a boring job. But he was stroppy. That was the problem. It was the arrogance that got to you. Who the fuck were these little people holding the purse strings? But he would listen to his old mate Will.

  ‘You look at the crack dealers and the bank robbers and everything,’ Will said, ‘and they’re just small-time Mangoes, except that they operate in a different field. You get caught selling crack and they’ll do you. The courts won’t hang about. There’s no glory.’

  ‘But you do a bank or something like that and you’re getting at those bastards, aren’t you?’ Balti said.

  ‘You could even dress up in green tights and pretend you’re Robin Hood. It’s not worth it. Leave it. If you want to borrow five hundred quid till you’re set up again, ask. Behave yourself in the meantime, that’s all. Poor’s in the head.’

  When they left the cafe the sunlight had faded. Will went back to work and Balti headed home. He stopped in The Unity for a pint. He was surprised to see Carter sitting at the bar talking with Denise. She gave him a free pint with Len out for the day and he pulled up a stool. Carter was pissed, his eyes following her arse down the bar.

  ‘She’s a good-looking woman,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘Looks better naked, I can tell you.’

  He winked and Balti put two and two together. The silly cunt was taking a risk. Slaughter would kill them both. Maybe start on the rest of the Sex Division as well, if he thought they knew.

  ‘Three points, but don’t tell the others. I don’t want word getting round. I put it down as that bird from Blues last week. She wasn’t interested. But I counted her as Denise. No need to let points go to waste, is there?’

  Balti agreed. Smiled. Said
nothing.

  ‘She wants me to take pictures of her. You know what I mean. But what’s the point. Who am I going to show them to? I reckon she’s pushing it. Send one to Slaughter in the post. She’s dangerous. One word out of place and I’m dead. We’re both dead. You’re the only person I’ve told, so keep your mouth shut.’

  Balti nodded. Slaughter was a headcase. There was no way he was doing a job with the bloke. There were more important things in life. You could be poor but have respect. It depended how you looked at things. Will understood that, though there were the basics to contend with. It was the fear of going down that made up his mind. You had to be a nutter to go that far. Those were the real hard men. He had respect for blokes who could push things. You had to be a bit mental and not give a fuck what the old bill did to you. That was how they kept you in line. Sheer violence kept the thing going. The old bastards who ran the show were nothing without the army, police, secret service. Take them away and any cunt could walk in, have his say, blow them in half. You were better off sticking to small scale thieving. Nobody cared about that. He’d work. Sooner or later. Earn a living and take his place in the scheme of things.

  He tried to think how long it was since he’d last had sex. Must’ve been about eight months. He had to get his leg over soon. That would do him good. Maybe he’d borrow the cash off Will and go with the rest of the lads to Amsterdam. That’s what he’d do. They said they’d chip in and pay his way, but he had his pride. At least taking a loan made the money his own.

  Carter was off to Spain for a couple of weeks in the summer, but whispered to Balti that it was only half a holiday. You might as well be at home, and the birds weren’t all that. Amsterdam was really going overseas, though they might have to put it off for a while because Mango reckoned the most he could get through his card was a trip to the seaside. They’d decided on Blackpool. Not Amsterdam. But it was better than nothing. Next year they’d go to Amsterdam. Next year Balti my old mate.