Headhunters

by John King

  Carter opened the curtains and walked back across the room. He went into the hall and banged on the next door. Come on you lazy bastards, it’s time to get up, we’ve only got half a day left. The rest of them were taking their time getting sorted out so the shag man went for a walk along the seafront, breathing in the air and watching the gulls hover. He found himself thinking that it would be nice to live by the sea one day, when he was older. Maybe run a little shop. He shook his head. That was a soft way to think. He’d been born in London and that was where he’d die.

  When he got back to the hotel, the others had almost finished breakfast and the papers. They were quiet and thoughtful. Two days wasn’t long enough. They went down the pier and played the arcade, then down the pubs of the last couple of days for one or two civilised Sunday pints. Everything was different now. It was a bit of a disappointment.

  Mango unlocked the doors and the Jag purred. They were on the move, leaving Blackpool behind. It was the warmest day so far and no-one thought to put any music on. They were dozing or thinking their thoughts, with the driver back inside the machine enjoying the smooth ride, doing a ton in the outside lane. He pulled into the middle to let the cowboys past. Usually he’d blow them away. Thirty grand was a lot of money for a car. He couldn’t be bothered right now.

  The countryside flashed past and you could understand the road protesters, even though motorways made life a lot easier. They were early enough to miss the major jams, two and a half hours later at the Watford Gap approaching London. Nobody was saying a thing, the lads in the back asleep with Will looking forward to seeing Karen again because it was nice to have someone waiting for you. He was glad he’d had enough sense to leave that girl alone. The traffic got heavy around Brent Cross and it was a slow haul down to Hanger Lane and on to the Uxbridge Road.

  BALHAM ON TOUR

  Balti sat in The Unity with Harry and Carter. Mango had refused point blank. He had too much to lose getting involved in petty squabbles, scratching around in the gutter getting his hands cut. It was bad news Balti getting a kicking like that, but he should pay someone to do the job on his behalf. Get a whip-round going in the pub and send some hard-up headcase down to Balham. A spanking by proxy. If it came to money, simple pounds and pence, then he’d be first to dip into his wallet. There was no problem there. He was willing to back his old mate with cold hard cash, putting his money where his mouth was. Now he couldn’t do better than that, could he? But Mango was missing the point. And Balti had been spending a lot of time slagging him off.

  Will tried to talk them out of the idea. They were making a big mistake in his opinion, picking his words carefully, because he understood the logic well enough. This was fair enough in Balti’s eyes, because Will was no bottle merchant and had always been a peace-lover, though not the kind of pacifist wanker who’d lay down on the pavement and let some psycho jump on his head for fun. Will reckoned bad blood had to settle sooner or later, otherwise everyone involved would bleed to death. That it took a stronger man to walk away from trouble than it did to keep the thing going. Will was true to his nature. They couldn’t fault him, that was his belief, and though Balti and the others disagreed, thought it was bollocks if they were honest, that was his genuine view so fair dues. Mango, though, was always giving it the big one and now he was counting job opportunities instead of friendship.

  Carter and Harry sat with Balti, Slaughter staring into his glass examining the fizzy reflection, near enough care in the community that bloke, a liability in his combat fatigues. But it was better not to wind up a bloke who had a glint in his eye and a machete under his pillow.

  Mark, Rod and Tom sat at the next table. The Sex Division knew the younger men from football and the pub, and the news that it was an Irishman, a season ticket holder at Millwall no less, who’d given Balti a pasting had got them interested. Johnson owed Balti one, an incident that went back years to when he’d been a kid and Balti, Harry, Carter and the crew they’d knocked about with at the time had saved him from a kicking in Cardiff. It had been a good day out, with Chelsea going mental before, during and after the game. They’d even gone in the Cardiff seats where their main mob had been and the Taffs had needed a police escort back to the terraces. Talk about getting your noses rubbed in it, and it had made things worse when it went off outside. Balti had helped him out in the town centre.

  ‘I’m the only bloke drinking am I?’ Slaughter asked, as he necked his fourth pint, fed up with the ugly mug staring back.

  He’d been having a hard time lately and looked towards Denise serving behind the bar, raising his empty glass. She didn’t notice. She was demanding sex all the time and he’d had a lot of overtime and was shagged out. Denise was killing him, treating him like a dildo on legs. Not that he was complaining mind, but he was going to ask her to marry him and wanted to get into a conversation where he could lead up to the big question nice and easy, without having to perform like a speeding chimp. He hadn’t got the proposal worked out yet. It took a lot of bottle doing something like that. It was funny, really, because he’d kick someone’s head in but wouldn’t propose to the woman he knew and loved and trusted with his life. She was getting a bit kinky as well. Wanting him to use cucumbers and carrots. He had to be up at six-thirty in the morning and wasn’t a fucking market trader. If she wanted cucumbers and carrots she should go down the market to one of the fruit and veg stalls. Mind you, if he caught her shagging some barrow boy she was dead. Denise and the cunt giving her a portion. Slaughter loved Denise. Wanted her to be happy. But only with him. Anyone else started sniffing round her and they were history. He knew he shouldn’t complain about the sex, but he really was worn out. Least she wasn’t some old slapper though, and he wasn’t pumping his right hand like a lot of blokes he could mention. Denise was classy alright, though he didn’t think much of the cucumbers and carrots. He was a lucky man.

  ‘Right, drink up lads, and we’ll get going. Me and Harry in the motor, you lot in the van.’

  Balti knew McDonald’s habits. You didn’t work with someone like that year in, year out, listening to the non-stop patter, without learning how he lived. The habits and everything. That’s why the Irish toerag had been able to bushwhack him. Just showed up at the right time and place. The car was slow starting, but Balti pumped the accelerator and it fired up. Just his luck, the fucker. He set off for South London keeping an eye in his rearview mirror so Carter could stay with them.

  Balti was looking forward to the trip. You could say what you liked, about turning the other cheek and letting things go, that the needle had to end somewhere so why not with you, but that kind of thinking was shit. It was like at school and the first sign of trouble from another kid and you hit him hard. That way you were left alone. Show weakness and you became a punch-bag. Let McDonald get away with it, and the next thing he knew Balti would be getting a slap everywhere he went. It would take his self-respect away. It was inside him. Self-respect was even more important than respect you got from others, and the people who tried to persuade him otherwise would still think he was a bit of a wanker if he didn’t hit back.

  There was nothing you could do about it. Alright, Will was different, but that was nature and genes talking and, fair enough anyway, he didn’t want to go on about his views. Will spoke his mind and was straight. Mango, though, was nothing. He’d shag some kid and take the piss in King’s Cross, but drew the line at helping a mate. That’s where sex and violence got mixed up. It was another kind of violence, taking advantage of runaways like that, treating women like shit. It was worse than giving a bloke a kicking, shafting a frightened kid. He’d sort Mango out one day. Priorities—that’s what it was all about. Look at the blokes in the van behind. They were up for it. You didn’t hear them whining about jobs and the old bill. They understood what it was about, or at least Carter did, the others along for the ride. Never mind, you needed numbers.

  It was almost ten and the roads weren’t too bad. It didn’t take long getting down to Balh
am, taking the South Circular to Clapham Common then off down the High Road. Carter was tight behind them all the way keeping himself happy getting right up the car’s arse. The memories came back, Balti shovelling shit for slave wages, blood on his hands and the smell of concrete, dust in his eyes and pennies in his pocket, though even that was better than what he got on the social. At least you had pride at the end of the week and the hard graft stopped you thinking. He’d sell the car if he could get anything for it, but truth be told it needed an MOT and tax, and the clutch was starting to slip. Another week or two and his acceleration would be fucked. Maybe he’d torch it and pick up on the insurance. He’d take a chance and spend fifty quid on the Lottery. He’d done a tenner of his forty-six quid last weekend on the numbers game. Mental really, but the fever was everywhere. Everywhere you looked there was some poor cunt standing in line. You had to wait ages just to get a paper in the morning there were so many no-hopers going without their protein.

  Ten million in his account and Balti was taking a week to think things through. He’d sit back and laugh himself sick. Delivery pizzas and crates of Fosters straight to the front door. Enough to keep him and Harry happy till he decided on the next move. Keep the cunts waiting. Carter could come round for a big slice of the extra-large deep pan Hawaiian and a couple of chilled cans, Will too with Karen, but Mango would have to stand outside with the scum from the papers. His old girl would be there with his sister later on, aunts and uncles, everyone he knew and trusted, and when they were stuffed and went home happy he’d let the dolly birds in. Blondes, brunettes, redheads. He’d have the lot queueing up down to the end of the street and round the corner. Put Harry on the door checking tickets. In bikinis next to the telly. They’d flock to Balti with his ten million in the bank. Anything he wanted they’d do it for him. They’d be stunners, no down-and-out street girls dying from the cold and malnutrition and AIDS. He wasn’t taking those girls for a ride, no way.

  ‘Run the bath for me, will you darling?’

  ‘Right away big boy,’ Pamela Anderson said, shifting herself from the cushions by his feet, collecting the clipped toe nails and scurrying away.

  ‘Make us a cup of tea, will you love?’

  ‘Milk and two sugars, beautiful?’ Liz Hurley asked, stroking his tired brow one more time and hurrying to fill the kettle.

  ‘Get us some chocolate biscuits would you? When you’ve finished.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ beamed that scouse bird from Blackpool, speaking with her mouth full.

  Ten minutes later, when he’d fully recovered from the sheer pleasure of expertly performed oral sex, Balti tied his dressing gown together and went for his bath. He sat in the middle of the bubbles with his mug of tea while Pam shaved the stubble from his face, Lizzie massaged his shoulders, and the scouser operated the taps, making sure the bath was kept at the right temperature. He’d put on his new jeans and shirt, call a cab and steam down to Balti Heaven, leaving the crumpet at home to keep his bed warm. The lads would be there waiting and he’d get the Kashmiri boys sitting down to enjoy the feast and have Mango serving. He’d send the wanker back to warm up his kulcha nan as well. Make the big-shot bangra bastard work for his tip. Serve the flash sod right. His mouth watered. They’d drink and eat till they couldn’t move, and when Mango came round with the mints and Buddhas he’d buy the fucking lot.

  They said the Lottery was a bad thing. The old queens in their gold-crusted churches banging the holy book and the bishop, denouncing gambling as evil. But Balti didn’t see them signing on. Didn’t see them going through the rotting carrots and mushrooms on the special-offer table down the supermarket. Moral guardians said the Lottery was a sign of a society in serious decline, a culture with the threading picked bare spilling its guts, well, everybody knew that was the truth, too obvious even to talk about really, but it was still freedom of choice. You couldn’t argue with that. At least it offered you one chance in sixty million or whatever it was. He didn’t know a person who didn’t want to win a fortune. It was something to look forward to. You had to have your dreams. What else was there? Without dreams all you were left with was the reality.

  ‘Deeper, Balti, deeper,’ Pam screamed, legs wrapped round his shoulders.

  ‘Harder, Balti, harder,’ Liz begged, head banging into the wall.

  ‘Shut up will you, I’m trying to get some fucking sleep in here,’ Harry shouted from the next room, covering his head with his pillow to get rid of the horrible sound of Balti servicing the entertainment industry.

  Balti had taken the Carter crown and was an unstoppable sex machine with an industrial drill for a penis, standing on the side of the M4 by Heston Services flashing the cars in the inside lane laughing his head off, catching the startled look on the faces of the blondes in their Jags as they realised he was that multi-millionaire Balti Heaven Playboy on the front of all the papers, the one that scouse bird had found in bed with Pam and Liz but even so stood by her man and forgave him his sins, face plastered over billboards, a wealthy man who didn’t give a toss if the neighbours knew he was loaded. According to the grudging editorials, he was a winner with a heart, ploughing a cool million into homes for the homeless. It added to the attraction. He had conscience as well as soul.

  Carter had lost his way, unable to compete with the new boy, but Balti knew it could never be as good as with that scouse bird in Blackpool. He was seeing her regular now he’d got a private detective to track her down and put him in touch. It was a shame it would never happen. Mango with his Buddhas had messed things up. The chance was there for another portion and it had turned to spit with the vague image of some bald guru with big ears sitting in the full lotus position, taking sex out of the equation. It was nature. The birds and the bees. And with ten million quid you owned the fucking hive.

  When Balti calmed down a bit, he knew his ideal woman. Ingrid Bergman would meet him in Copenhagen. Everything would be crystal clear. The air would be pure and the food healthy. Even the lager would taste different. They’d sit outside by the harbour, surrounded by classic buildings, holding hands across the table. Ingrid would tell him about her life and times, and listen fascinated as Balti revealed his hopes for the future. It was a shame she was dead. But you never knew. With ten million you could achieve a lot.

  ‘Mind out.’

  Balti hit the brake just in time. Harry laughed. Balti was back in Balham doing a right and a left and pulling up thirty yards from The Carpenter’s Hammer. It was a small pub with blind windows and a dark interior. McDonald was down there most nights. Sometimes for a session, usually for a few quiet pints. He’d sat in back streets with his mates waiting for Balti, hiding in the shadows like a nonce, so Balti was going to do this in style. There was no need turning the pub over. That was asking for publicity, lining up witnesses. It would be quiet, Tuesday night, and it should be easy enough to shift things outside. He was marching straight in. Carter was behind them under a big, overhanging tree. There was nobody about. The street was dead.

  ‘Right, when I come out, you lot steam in.’

  Harry walked back to the van, everyone on the pavement. Slaughter was standing there like Action Man, having a slash. Mark was giving him a wanker sign behind his back. Carter shook his head sadly. They had a nice collection of cricket and baseball bats, Slaughter told to leave the machete at home. As Johnson had pointed out, they weren’t a posse of fucking niggers, were they? No need to go overboard. If McDonald was in there with a few mates they’d need the numbers. If not, then Balti would do the cunt on his own. Harry watched Balti walk over to the Hammer, then disappear inside. It was a shame you had to grow up. Things were easier when you were kids.

  It wasn’t long till Balti was out in the street again moving fast along the pavement, away from the light. The only sound was the bang of the pub door. There was a short pause then the door swung open and three men came running out. Balti was twenty yards off now, on a bit of wasteland, and he had an iron bar out from under his jacket slapping it int
o his hand like he was in some budget gangster production, cheap video rental, third-generation video nasty. McDonald and his mates were concentrating on the silly bastard who’d strolled in, given them the come-on, then walked out again like he owned the place. Didn’t the cunt understand? A bit slow in the head was he? The boy hadn’t learnt his lesson. He was going to get some homework for his trouble. He should be locked up, but if that’s what he wanted then that’s what he was going to get. The punches and kicks couldn’t have registered first time. It was those jungle bunnies spoiling things.

  Bill Docherty was a Glaswegian and had known Roy McDonald for more than twenty years. They were good Protestants, though Bill was more dedicated to the politics than Roy. They’d been working in Highbury and dossing along the Holloway Road when they first met up. It was a hard life and there were enough Fenians around to make you nervous, but when you were trying to earn a crust you had to put your differences on hold. They’d eaten in the Archway Cafe after work, then drunk till closing in the local boozers, many of which did lock-ins. They’d stayed mates after Bill saved his nest egg and moved into the car trade. He was an alert bloke, his eyes keen and his mind ticking, but he was getting on and the five pints of bitter dimmed his awareness, the first thing he knew about the West London boys the thud of Slaughter’s cricket bat against the side of his head. He wouldn’t feel the kicks till the next morning and then it would be aches more than pain. Alcohol was a great anaesthetic.