by John King
‘It’s funny having kids, Jimmy. One minute they’re babies and it’s almost like you blink and there they are all grown up living separate lives, threatening to have kids of their own. I’d be a granddad. Imagine that. Jackie will be getting married and getting pregnant and sitting around thinking of names for her kids just like me and your mum used to do.’
Mango bit into egg and bread. He thought of the name Jackie Wilson and how his sister shared it with a singer. He wondered if Irene had been involved. So close and yet he had never realised. Jackie had soul, he knew that now. He supposed there was a link between blues and soul. He’d ask his old girl.
‘You okay Mum?’ he said, when the old man had gone for a piss and he’d spotted her across the room. She was sitting in a chair with a glass of Coke in her hand.
‘Of course I am. Just a bit tired. Me and Irene were close.’
Mango sat next to his mum on a hard chair that rocked on unsteady legs. Her skin was pale and she was getting old. There was no colour in the face, but she was a tough woman all the same. She would live forever. He knew she’d never die and felt sad trying to imagine himself as a baby in her arms, wrapped up in the white blanket he’d seen in the photos. He hadn’t had much hair and looked like a chimp. He thought of the ape in the zoo and how Pete had got angry when that kid started winding it up. Pete was always ready to help the underdog. He missed his brother more and more. You’d think things like that would dim with time, but they didn’t. Pete had been close to his Auntie Irene as well.
Jimmy listened to his mum as she told various stories about his aunt. She emphasised the fact that she hadn’t been feeling well and that was why she hadn’t gone to the funeral. It had nothing to do with drink. Mango nodded his head and offered a few encouraging words, while around him everyone drank and told stories, voices merging together into a wall of noise that grew louder and louder. He saw Ted patting his eyes, trying not to cry. Mango’s cousins stood together pouring lager down their throats, the language straying now, and he hoped they’d remember where they were. There was no reason starting a punch-up at their mum’s funeral.
Mango stayed till after eleven, feeling more sober as those around him slurred their words and spilt their drink on the carpet. Debbie came to talk with him. His other sister didn’t have anything amazing to say, no coming marriage, but as they spoke he realised she was okay as well. He smiled and she seemed happy enough given the circumstances. He looked at her eyes, and though they were blue like Jackie’s he couldn’t find the fire. That’s what love did for you. He felt bad for Debbie. Everyone should have that fire. Something extra. He thought about that bloke she’d been set to marry. Years ago now. He’d let her down. A week to go and he called it off. Joined the merchant navy. Wanted to see the world. She never heard from him again, or at least not as far as Mango knew. He wanted to hug Debbie and tell her it was alright. He wondered if it still bothered her. He couldn’t ask.
When Mango left he did the rounds and was hugged and breathed on, his hand shaken by the men and his cheek kissed by the women. Jackie hugged him and said thanks.
Outside he was alive and free. The sky was heavy and the glare of the city meant the stars were invisible, but he felt happy. He was suddenly relieved to be away from everyone, yet glad he’d spent time with his family and spoken with Jackie and Debbie. Somehow everything had worked out fine. He walked towards the car juggling keys, flicking the electronic lock and buckling his belt. The engine started first go and Mango marvelled at the smoothness of the Jag as he reversed and then straightened up. The interior smelt clean and was revitalising after the smoke and alcohol. He was moving in different circles now.
It was a short drive back to Fulham and he watched the drunks on their way home stumbling over broken pavements, kebab houses full of customers, a tall woman in black leather trousers and a red jacket standing at a bus stop. Her hair was swept back and she had thick lipstick that matched the jacket. She was a real cracker and shouldn’t be hanging around late at night on her own. He pulled over and reversed. The window opened automatically. He leant across the passenger’s seat and asked her if she wanted a lift.
‘No thanks.’
He asked her if she was sure. It was late at night and London was full of muggers with their eyes on her handbag and men who would follow a woman home and cut her to ribbons.
‘I said no thanks.’
Mango wanted to help and told her that it was okay, he’d just been to a funeral, and did she understand that there were some very sick people around. She shouldn’t be travelling by public transport because it was dangerous and the buses were full of perverts with skinning knives tucked into their coats.
‘Why don’t you just fuck off,’ the woman shouted, her face contorted.
He was shocked by the strong language and about to respond when he noticed a bus approaching in his mirror. The Jag eased forward and Mango shook his head sadly. Perhaps he was being a little naive, because after all the woman didn’t know who to trust. She didn’t know that he was an upright citizen who earnt a decent wage and had helped pay for a first-class funeral. How could she know? But the language really was a bit much and the woman needed a lesson in manners, though he blamed it on the parents really, because if sound values were applied early enough in life children grew up to be decent citizens able to contribute to society. It was too late for the woman, and he mustn’t really blame her because he read the papers every day and there were so many cases of people going missing and unprovoked assaults on ordinary men and women just trying to live honest lives, on the way to the cornershop for a carton of milk when they suddenly found themselves covered in blood, slashed across the face, cut to the bone. It should have been obvious from the suit and car that he was safe.
Pete should have been more cautious. If he’d been determined like that woman then perhaps he’d still be alive. It was a fine line between trust and plain rudeness. It was better not to take chances and they’d had a great day at the zoo. Pete had been amazed by the polar bears. A man standing next to them said the bears loved to travel big distances. They roamed for thousands of miles through freezing conditions. It must’ve been hard for such a proud and powerful creature to be confined in such a small artificial world.
Back in the flat Mango turned on the TV and moved through the channels. There was a documentary he’d seen before. Johnny Rotten was snarling through the screen and then Joe Strummer was talking to the camera. It was old footage and the narrator was telling the story of punk. Mango wondered whether Pete was in one of the crowd scenes. He’d never shared his brother’s interest in the music, and it was a shame really because Pete had taken Will along to quite a few gigs. Maybe he’d missed out, but he’d still been close to his brother. He missed him so much. It was like Jackie said. It was always the good people that died, or went missing. Everyone had their story. Those kids up in King’s Cross had their lives and he knew he was a bad man and wanted to do something to make things right, but didn’t know what, and soon the natural chemical balance would shift and he’d be working to another agenda.
He made up his mind that he’d give Pete the best send off possible if they found the bones. He’d spend thousands of pounds. People said it was a waste splashing out on funerals, because the person who’d died was gone, but ceremony was important. If you couldn’t do things properly then, when could you? It made him feel better and he was listening to a girl with jet black hair and heavy mascara and she seemed very young and sincere, so he switched channels to a mindless Miami cocaine-smuggling story where the men carried Uzis and wore pigtails and all the women were blonde-haired beauty queens in tiny bikinis that showed off their perfect figures and their sparkling dead eyes.
PART THREE
SKIN-BONE-DRUM-BASS
The brown sauce bottle was empty, so Balti leant over the back of the chair to the table behind. Nice and full, he squeezed the plastic container and added a generous helping to his plate. A full English breakfast with chips for
two-pound twenty, and Andy the Turk always gave his regulars an extra cup of tea on the house. You couldn’t beat it for value. Balti only came in two or three times a week, but it filled him up for the rest of the day and probably saved a few bob in the long run. It was tasty food as well. Freshly cooked and served with a chat and a smile. Sausage, bacon, beans, egg, two slices and the chips he always ordered on top. Andy’s was a good place to start the day, watching the world yawn and stretch and get itself in gear as he sat on his arse going nowhere. Least he could let his breakfast sit. He was in no hurry watching that Cockney Red bastard outside selling tomatoes and peppers on a fine August morning.
Balti’s paper stayed at the back page as he got stuck into his breakfast. Funny thing was, not working he thought he’d be eating less, but found he was as hungry as when he was grafting for McDonald. It was the boredom that did it. He’d never realised how much he relied on work to fill the gaps. Going home knackered had its benefits. When he finished he leant back and savoured the warm glow in his gut, reaching for the tea. He sipped the magic brew and turned from the back page focus on an Italian international who’d reportedly soon be earning twenty grand a week in England. The star striker was said to be collecting an undisclosed signing-on fee, moving expenses and a loyalty bonus if he could be bothered to stay with the club for more than two years. His agent was earning his cut and the player a crust. More like the fucking bakery. It was crazy money. He flicked through sports pages filled with cricket reports and athletics meeting results. When he hit the racing results he flipped to the front page and another sex murder. They all came out in the summer. All the nutters and pervs. He skimmed through outraged tales of sexual violence and violent sex, past the saucy photos featuring well-endowed blondes who loved holidaying in the sun, looking for something to get his teeth into.
When he was working he wanted a paper he could flick through and laugh at, but signing on he was looking for a bit more. A few articles that would hold his attention longer than five minutes and help pass the time. There was fuck all here. He gave up and stared out the window waiting for something to happen, Phil the Man U fan rearranging his yams and cabbages. After another slow cup of tea Balti paid Andy and left. He walked through the market and turned down a side street, past the construction yard towards the common. He’d sit in the sun for a while. It was going to be another scorcher and Balti was already sweating. It was the car fumes that did him in. Down a back street it was better. When he came out of the shadows he was hit by the fumes. He waited for the lights to turn red and crossed with the mums, kids, pensioners, unemployed men and women using up time.
The billboard overlooking the zebra crossing was new and boasted a blonde in a short red skirt. She was young, or at least made up to look young. She must be ill. Almost a child when he concentrated on the picture. The advertising industry seemed obsessed with thin, pale-skinned girls as it flirted with anorexic child-sex. The girl was so skinny that at first he thought it was part of an AIDS warning. It took him the length of the crossing to see that the billboard was promoting a fashion house. Fucking horrible. AIDS and bulimia. Like shagging a fucking skeleton.
The girl reminded him of the kids you saw in TV documentaries on child prostitution in the Philippines, Thailand, Cambodia. All around the world. Virgin life-savers. Anywhere but England. Nepalese girls drugged and shipped to the knocking shops of Bombay, and the television crews went undercover and recorded eight- and nine-year-olds on sale to sick old cunts on their way home from work. The yanks were another favourite target, because though they filled up the viewing schedules with shit sitcoms and the music charts with middle-of-the road tunes, the researchers still liked having a go. The big shock, apparently, was that middle-class kids were on the streets, lining up outside the shopping malls and drive-in takeaways. It was a big bad horror show and there was a happy, warm feeling that England was in the clear. That it didn’t happen at home. Until a crew zoomed in on Bradford and Leeds and even London itself.
Balti thought about Mango. It made him sick, all that sort of thing. Undercover video shots of small girls in a windowless Bombay whore-house. He didn’t know how a bloke could fancy girls that young. It was unnatural somehow. You had to have standards.
Balti sat on his usual bench and skinned up. Will had passed a bit of blow his way the week before and he was making it last. Taking things nice and slow; clock ticking, detonator disconnected. Mind you, he’d nicked five car stereos and sold them down Audio 5 the week before. This was an easy place to dump nicked gear. He was thinking ahead and hitting the jackpot. Fifty quid on the Lottery and he was a winner. He’d soon be laughing. No more sitting on park benches rotting away. No more haggling with that slimy old cunt Stan in Audio 5. He’d be straight down Heathrow and into the departure lounge, sitting at the bar sipping a bottle of Becks waiting for take-off. A month in the sun and when he got back he’d hire some posh financial adviser and invest wisely. A month in the sun at a classy resort. None of your everyday Ibiza packages. Fuck that. No, he’d go somewhere in the Caribbean. A real luxury hotel that looked after your every need. He fancied Jamaica. One of those paradise hotels in the brochures where you could eat and drink as much as you wanted and then swim it off in a crystal-clear ocean. There’d be no radioactivity or sewage eating into his skin. No candyfloss and processed chips to weigh him down. He’d trudge back up the beach and crash out on a sun bed. He saw the massage girl rubbing coconut oil into his back, easing the tension and getting rid of the knots in his shoulders. Heaven on earth with nothing to worry about. No dole queue, bills or loonies. Pam and Liz would have to wait till later. Maybe he’d blow them out. Fuck it, he had the readies so he could do whatever he wanted.
Balti inhaled deeply and watched George on the far side of the common pushing his trolley. The old boy had a goal in life and was serving the community, but Balti was no mug. He was playing the numbers game and confident of his chances. He deserved a bit of luck. It would make a change. Life had to get better and when he was in the West Indies he’d be strolling along golden sand and turning off into the jungle. Through the palm trees to a natural waterfall where he’d buy best quality herb from a local rasta. A day in the jungle wandering back to the hotel for his evening meal of lobster and sweet potatoes. A few chilled Red Stripes to wash it down. He’d sit on the verandah and get talking with the massage girl. A Kingston woman training to be a doctor, using her knowledge to earn a living. She’d sit on the porch and they’d talk till midnight and then she’d leave. They’d meet the next day and romance would blossom. Maybe he’d invite her back to England when he returned to face the press. No, he didn’t want to spoil things bringing her to London. He could see the scene now. Pam and Liz at the airport throwing themselves at his feet. He didn’t need it. What would she think seeing him in Jamaica and then back in London? It would spoil the image. He’d get things sorted at home and move to JA. Spend the rest of his life in wedded bliss growing pumpkins and sitting on his porch. Natural respect and no aggro.
Balti inhaled again. Will was a good man. So was Karen. A good woman. They were good people. Diamonds. It was all about people. Men and women were from the same egg. Different chromosomes and he would’ve been a bird. He laughed at the thought. That was all it came down to, the difference between X and Y. He was glad he wasn’t a bird. It had been a narrow escape. It was bad enough being a bloke, let alone a bird. Or a black woman from Kingston fighting the prejudice. That would be harder. He’d move to Jamaica and tell them all to fuck off, McDonald and the social and the old bill in their crawling patrol car watching George on the other side of the common, but he wouldn’t forget his mates. He’d set up in business with Will and Karen. They’d come over and get into the import-export game. Shifting old reggae and ska over to London. They’d fucking love it. And he wouldn’t forget Harry. He could come over as well. He’d buy him a nice little place on the beach, something with a swimming pool, a couple of miles away so Balti had a bit of breathing space. Carter could vis
it, but he couldn’t have him staying, because he wanted to get away from all that competitive football, the dog-eat-dog of it all. Strictly for fun in Jamaica, and anyway, he was a married man now with pumpkins and responsibilities. Sitting on the porch breathing fresh air, a different world to London.
He’d come back regular. Especially for the big games. He could see it easy enough, a sixth round Cup game against Spurs. Land at Heathrow at ten, meet the lads by eleven, a few beers and then turn the bastards over 5–0, with Ruud at the controls and Johnny Spencer scoring a hat-trick. Chase the yids down the Fulham Road after the game, then round off the day with a full session and a curry down Balti Heaven. England at its best. Welcome home Balti. But he knew the reality was different. Tony down the pub had been back and forward between Kingston and London since he was a kid and he reckoned it was well rough. That the poverty made England look rich. It could be a violent place and even music-wise ragga and jungle were more important than reggae and rocksteady these days. So maybe he’d have to go somewhere else. How could he know? He was waiting for pay day, when the numbers would rack up right and give him his due. He saw George catch sight of him and change direction, glad he’d found someone to talk to, and Balti didn’t mind his company these days. With an Andy special tucked away and a nice bit of blow, everything was sweet. He had his dreams and the chance to make those dreams come true. He was used to George now. He was a sound enough bloke, even if he was a nutter. Least he was harmless. The world was full of nutters.