Headhunters

by John King

  It was a right royal turn-off that, and the dream came back, hitting in a massive rush, and the thought of that flabby arse made him laugh because he was relieved. He’d been wondering about that dream of his, why he’d dreamt of his mate’s arse. The experts on the telly said that you didn’t even know sometimes if you were a bum bandit. They said that social pressures made you keep that kind of thing buried. It had been on his mind for a while. Imagine that, Harry a shirt-lifter. Horrible. It had been worrying him, and Balti had even asked if there was something wrong, and now he knew it was just a premonition of this very moment.

  Everything emptied from Harry’s mind. He was in the clear and wasn’t going to end up a queer. Thank fuck for that. But Balti didn’t like performing in public; what the fuck are you doing the fat cunt said and the bird underneath him pulled the covers up, the one with Harry saying sorry, but there’s no need to swear is there love, reaching for her handbag and then turning off the light.

  She pushed Harry back on to the bed and he heard her messing about and then felt her slipping the rubber on his knob, and before he could sing IF SHE DON’T COME, I’LL TICKLE HER BUM, WITH A LUMP OF CELERY, she was on top of him doing the work, hanging her tits in his face and he reckoned that if he was going to die then this was the way he wanted to go. Her body was so warm and she smelt good, smelt of rum and perfume, pure heaven, this was the kind of dream that was better than real life.

  Downstairs in the bar Leeds was telling Carter what a great player Eddie Gray had been. A couple of younger men came over with Leeds crests cut into their arms. They were the same age. Big bastards who asked if the London boys were at the 5–0 thrashing Leeds got that year they smashed up the scoreboard and Chelsea tried to get in the North Stand. Carter remembered well enough, with the old bill steaming into the Leeds mob, Chelsea on the pitch at the final whistle trying to get in as well but forced back by the truncheons, then that time up at Elland Road when Chelsea had gone mental outside, but Mango was turning off the football.

  One of them was a mechanic and somehow they were talking about Mercs, and everything was sweet, having a good laugh, with Will getting chatted up by the old woman wondering again how a face could get that red. She loved Elvis and she’d been to Graceland in Memphis with her husband. Did he know that you could buy an Elvis model that was battery-operated and would move around? It’s true dear. Her husband leant forward and said Memphis was alright, but the black areas were very poor, the younger Leeds saying it sounded like Chapel-town because there were too many niggers in Leeds, and you went to Bradford and you might as well be in Mecca. Combat 18 would sort things out, and they asked Carter about the C18 presence at Chelsea, Carter saying he didn’t know about all that political stuff.

  Will felt sick from the drink and went to the bogs. He stuck his fingers down his throat. Nothing happened. Back in the bar he got the keys off Mango and went upstairs, banging into walls, falling into Mango and Carter’s room, nicking a pillow off one of the beds. He crashed out on the floor, felt himself spinning for a while and then everything went blank.

  Next morning when Will woke up his head was fine, and there was a narrow ray of light hitting the wall next to him, a laser threatening to burn through to the next room for a view of Harry and Balti, the sound of Mango snoring, Will turning his head and going back to sleep. A second later the curtains were open and Carter was scrubbed and ready for the day ahead, telling Will it was eleven and Mango wouldn’t budge, wanted to sleep a bit longer. Mango said he was fucked, and Carter said fair enough mate, I’m going down for breakfast. Will said he’d catch him up.

  Carter walked into the restaurant and found the others half way through a quality breakfast with two women opposite. He remembered last night, sitting down ordering orange juice, bacon, sausages, eggs, tomatoes, toast, coffee. The birds were scousers. He hadn’t realised they were from Liverpool. They weren’t bad either, the one with Harry carrying a healthy pair of lungs if he was honest. They were having a laugh going on about some techno club they’d been to a couple of nights before where they’d done well, five Es each and the neurotransmitters rioting, and maybe they’d see the lads later down the same pub tonight, about nine, because they had to meet a friend.

  They left money for the food and pissed off, and Carter wanted to know the scores. It was about time the Sex Division got into gear again, with the boys off the mark and looking well pleased with themselves, well fucking pleased. Two points each. But more than that it was a good feeling after so long wanking, and there was Carter on thirty-eight points with Mango on fifteen, or was it sixteen, they’d have to check that one, but at least they were off the mark. Carter said they should get down that boozer tonight and pick up a bonus point, who knows, maybe two, and Balti smiled and knocked back the coffee, sweet as a nut, out of the chicken run, away from London, free as the proverbial.

  Harry had slept a deep sleep without the sniff of a dream, and it was great sitting there listening to Carter, thinking how that bird had ridden him last night. She’d wanted it another couple of times as well, and he was tired. He fancied a kip. But then Will arrived looking fresh and raring, and if that cunt could do it then so could Harry, Will ordering and going to the phone again with the others taking the piss, again, coming back happy enough telling them Terry was behind the bar. Newcastle obviously weren’t paying him enough if he had to work here as well. You’d think they would’ve worked something out wouldn’t you? Next thing you knew you’d have Les Ferdinand and Peter Beardsley in black mini-skirts serving tables. Will ordered Cornflakes and toast from a bored teenage girl with chubby legs and black slacks.

  At twelve there was still no Mango so they left the hotel and walked along the seafront. The sun was sizzling and Blackpool was burning up. They went down the pier for a go in the arcade. Mango was the one for space games but the sloppy cunt was probably wanking as they spoke. Thinking of England. They’d go get him later. When he’d finished.

  There were a few anoraks at the end of the pier with their fishing rods out and Carter led the way into some dome effort where you stood holding crash barriers and an aerial film of forests in Canada passed by and the idea was you felt like a bird, an eagle or hawk maybe, fucking daft this, the sex machine said, but they were serious forests. Think of the amount of bear shit there must be in that wood, he said. It was his only comment. The others had been impressed by the size and beauty of the landscape.

  They went down the beach, strolling along taking their time, past white flab turning a deep tandoori red and kids building castles and kicking balls. With the pier and beach done they fancied a pint and found a pub further along the front, ordering four lagers. It tasted different, the water heavier, or lighter, noticing it more now without the electric soup. They should really go and get Mango, though, and Will said he’d do it and left quickly. Balti and Harry were going on about the two scouse birds like they were in love or something and Carter was telling them to leave it out, it was getting right up his nose. The Bollock Brothers laughed at him saying that’s a bit rich coming from you, all you ever think about is fanny.

  They’d finished their drinks when Mango arrived with Will, so they bought him a pint seeing’s how he’d seen them alright with the transport and accommodation. He screwed up his face. This lager tastes different, have you noticed, we should stick to bottles, you know what you’re getting, and the others told him it was the water. They had a few more with men coming in and out, one or two women, and they hadn’t heard another London accent yet which they didn’t mind really, seeing as they were on holiday.

  Mango showed them a postcard he’d bought on the way to the pub, so stupid it was funny, some fat old boy going through a tunnel on a train with a dolly bird in a short white skirt next to him, a misunderstanding involving a couple of geese, and they asked him who he was going to send it to. That bird from his work? Penny? He said no, he didn’t have her address with him, he’d keep it for himself. She was above all that, a class act. Everyone smiled
and nodded their heads.

  Mango had to admit he was the happiest he’d been for ages, having a drink with his mates, a long way from home. They could do anything they wanted to you in this world, but if you had a few good mates you’d always get through. People you’d known for years. Grown up with. Got pissed and kicked to fuck with as juveniles. Three Brummie birds came over from the bar and sat nearby, Carter giving them a line of chat and two were into the old jungle, the other preferring punk, and the jungle girls shifted over and were chatting up the Bollock Brothers, which was a turn up. Carter wondered if he was losing his touch, and before Will knew it he was the music expert and the third girl was sitting next to him as he told her how he’d seen The Jam at The Rainbow and The Clash at the Electric Ballroom.

  She was younger and well impressed, and he was tempted and knew he should stop drinking otherwise he was going to do something he’d regret. It looked like the afternoon was going to end up in another session, which seemed to suit everyone, but then Mango said he wanted to see a bit of Blackpool and off he went. Carter told the girls to get a round in, which they did, and the Sex Division were on their sixth pints already. Things were going very nicely, no cares in the world, even Carter wasn’t that bothered because, after all, even though the Brummies were fit enough, three right little ravers if he was honest, they were right old slappers. They had to be, blanking him like that. If the rest of them wanted to fuck pigs, then that was their problem. It was a free world. They all had a vote.

  Eventually the lads decided to go for some food at a curry house they’d seen earlier. They’d stopped to check the menu and it seemed alright. They left Will in the pub with the girl he was chatting with, while the other two Brummies went to the pier, saying they’d be back later after they’d been over the forest.

  Will was more pissed than he’d thought. He was giving the woman the once over and he knew he was in if he wanted. He couldn’t help playing the thing through his mind. Taking her back to the hotel. Up in the lift. A bed to himself. Stripped off and having a good time together. He wanted her, but fought hard and said he had to get back and meet Mango. He’d see her later maybe, if she was around. She looked disappointed, a bit hurt even, which made him feel bad, but said that would be nice. They walked some of the way back and he shot off and found the lads in the Blackpool Tandoori, sitting in the back near the bar with the waiters.

  The Sex Division members present stood up and clapped him in, because they knew he’d been on for a shag but had come through the test in one piece. None of them wanted to see him do the dirty on Karen. It was easy saying yes, so fucking easy to just say yes all the time. It was much harder saying no. Will had shown quality and self-discipline, controlling the beautiful game and keeping possession, showing patience and reserve, choosing the highest footballing values above kick-and-rush. It was just what they had expected, though Carter, Harry and Balti would have taken the easy option and gone for a great big yes please darling, if you could just go easy with the teeth on the helmet, but Will was his own man. He wouldn’t meet her later, even though he wanted to. It made Harry and Balti happy because it showed there were people around with morals. Not many, mind, but one or two. It was temptation and all that.

  They were single men, and Balti and Harry were interested in the Brummies, Carter reminding them of their responsibilities with the scousers, and he had a point. Bollocks did he. He just didn’t want them getting cocky and scoring too many points. Look who it was giving it all that. But it was fucking typical. You wanked yourself silly for near enough a year and when a shag came along, right away it was followed by another portion, by more sex on a plate. Like tube trains. Why couldn’t it be spaced out a bit? It wasn’t right. Did they go back to the scousers, or try and knob the Brummies? A difficult decision.

  They were soon into a feast, filling up nicely, the tikkas and vindaloos washed down with Carlsberg, and the waiters all had northern accents which was fair enough really, telling them Bradford was the curry capital of Britain. Maybe even the world. The owner had moved over to Blackpool, extending the family business, and Mango emptied the chutney dish leaving the lime pickle and onions to the others. It had started raining heavily outside so they had another pint and when it stopped they paid up, left a tip, and went back to the hotel.

  Will left for a few zeds, and the others joined Mango in the bar. The drink was making them a bit tired, delayed reactions, but Terry was pleased to see the boys, the afternoon floating past easy enough, and next thing Will knew he was being kicked awake by Mango and Carter who’d both had a bath and a shave, and were looking spick and span ready for a decent night out. Next door Harry and Balti were still trying to decide whether they should service the scousers again or go for the Brummies. Harry was thinking of the warmth of the scouser, a million miles from his dream’s harsh moorland. They were unable to make their minds up, but bollocks anyway, they just fancied a laugh. No need to take life so serious.

  They turned off the light and went next door, banging to be let in, sat on Carter’s bed waiting for Mango to hand out the Buddhas. It was pure stuff, or so he said. They were downstairs for a drink and Terry Mac was there behind the bar. Waiting patiently with his selection of lagers and beers at the ready.

  They had a couple of lagers and, giving Macca a wave, were outside in the night air, a real buzz to Blackpool now—and they watched the colours and heard the sounds and stood in a pub bumping into the Brummies more by chance than anything, having fun enjoying themselves, not expecting anything, not bothered, and they had a thirst on, Will ordering, then they were off down the road paying their money and taking their chance indoors, lights popping, everyone together in the dark and there was no North or South now and the music made sense getting inside the feel of the bass and football was a beautiful game—it really was—and there was no hatred because you realised that everyone was part of the same thing and even something as naff as sex meant nothing—what was the difference?—mostly a bird could carry a sprog in her belly, there didn’t have to be rules and regulations because slagging people off because of what they were was a nonsense—they were part of the same thing—and you could feel it now, like what was a Scot except someone who lived in another part of the country and had a different accent, a few different customs, a history that was all in the past, and if any one of them had been born in Glasgow, say, rather than London, then they’d have been Jocks as well, it was so simple, but sometimes you couldn’t see things clearly because you were in this multi-storey car park looking for the ticket machine watching the clock all the time because you had to spend your money, but when you came out into the light then it was there waiting, because it made some kind of sense that everything was connected somehow—a long line of DNA that went back to Java Man—back to Lucy in Africa—some Stone Age primitive world—and when you listened to Aboriginal music it could’ve been made in a factory so there was a connection there and they looked at the birds around them and there was no need for sex or points there was no difference now and it was all decoration like lucky charms and jewellery something to play with and pass your time and it didn’t matter if you died tomorrow or if you were dirt poor because when you got into the clearing with the lights and everything—right inside the fucking dream, that was just like life—then you could do what you wanted—if you wanted to drop your kegs—but what was the point, you could never escape the conditioning that was part of what you became and it was like the wild children you read about who lived like the apes that raised them so if someone dumped you on your arse then what was the point of killing them for it because they were the same as you (deep down inside) and there was no reason to stitch people up and use prostitutes because every porn actor was a human being as well and money meant something but not everything (it was worth remembering, it would be forgotten) and the dreams made sense (perfect sense) now they were all in the clearing together with the jungle in the background—Big Frank on the door checking tickets—and time didn’t matter with Kare
n back home and punk and reggae black vinyl relics of the past, everything was how it should be.

  The connection was obvious, but the women were tasty, maybe he (Carter) was losing his touch, they were in shorts and bra straps, something like that, but they weren’t that game, must be the effect of the Buddha, and you couldn’t be bothered talking let alone talking shit and even the Bollock Brothers were tapping their feet, big men with cropped heads, the volume seemed to be moving through the ceiling shaking the foundations but the house stayed standing no problem there with the scousers of last night and the Brummies as well, the whole of Blackpool in one place and London seemed a long long way away.

  The Buddha was breaking down their attachments and that was what it was all about really because you didn’t want to suffer and all life was suffering because you were going to die, so you did something about it and considered the problem with the pulse running through the building and there could be no regrets because history was rewritten, but for the individual it wasn’t going to matter, and who knew what would happen, only Harry the dreamer, they all had a glimpse, he was no saint no prophet, religion was a mug’s game the Buddha made that clear enough and they could’ve been in a crowd on a Saturday thinking of The Shed singing together with a rougher edge, but there were similarities, some kind of fanaticism, and where were the fascists and where were the communists?

  It was like time flashed past outside in the street with the music shut off but still echoing through their skulls, fading away, ears toasting, the lads wandering home, buying chips with curry sauce, sitting down on the beach, looking out to sea, with the Brummies and the scousers, nobody talking much, it wasn’t that cold, five o’clock, they were shagged out, wandering off home, the lads alone back in the hotel, Terry McDermott nowhere to be seen, none of them fancied a drink, sitting around having a smoke, eventually fading off to sleep.