Headhunters

by John King

  The water stopped spinning and he remembered Hetherington telling him to thrash her but treat her with respect, telling him about a cheap whore he’d picked up with a friend, how they’d fucked her both ends and how Hetherington had lubricated her and tried pushing his fist up the slut’s arse. She’d screamed and his friend had helped secure her, Hetherington stretching her sphincter until he had three, four fingers inside, easing the pressure, then inserted a full fist. The dirty fucking whore. His eyes and smile widened as he explained things to Wilson. The only way to treat the workers was to bend them over a barrel and fuck them rigid, then shove your fist in and pull out their guts. The women were the easy targets, but they’d do the men as well, but in a roundabout sort of way so half the time they didn’t even know what was happening to them. That was the beauty of democratic politics and people like Wilson were there to be educated.

  Mango was lonely. To be reduced to sadism was the end point as far as he was concerned. He knew he had been thinking mental thoughts with under-age kids and that he was scum taking advantage of them, but faced with a willing victim he didn’t want to know. Loneliness must have driven thousands to perversion. He was sure of this. He understood the difference between right and wrong. He wasn’t some misfit freak without morals or decency. He wasn’t like Hetherington and Ridley, however much he tried and listened to their bragging, because he understood what it was like to be part of the majority. He knew what it was to struggle and have those you loved taken away. But he’d been taught to respect his betters. He couldn’t hurt the woman with the clipped tones. He needed his own kind because they were rubbish and he was rubbish.

  Mango puked again until the tears stung his eyes. He was sorry for everything wicked he had done in the name of his brother, in the name of himself. He could blame things on Pete but it was a con. He was okay. He would be alright soon. With his brother back everything would be like it was when he went away. Life would be simple and bursting with youth and vitality. It didn’t matter if he was rich. Mango could open up again. He flushed the toilet and watched the water twist away with the sickness. He straightened himself up and brushed his teeth, rinsed his mouth with mouthwash. He was fine. And when he went back to the chair by the window for some reason he thought of his first serious curry with the rest of the lads when they were teenagers and how he’d been cocky and ordered a prawn vindaloo. He was pissed and went straight into the food and was halfway through when his mouth caught fire. He’d knocked back a pint but it only worked for a while and then he’d steamed into the mango pickle and emptied the tray trying to cool the fire in his mouth. He still had the nickname today, after everything that had happened. He had a good job in the City, a posh flat in Fulham, and he drove a £30,000 XJ6 3.2 Sport with six in-line cylinders, which did naught to 60 in 7.9 seconds, yet his mates still called him Mango after a night in the long-closed Ganges. His mouth had tasted of curry and mango for a couple of days after. Now mouthwash and toothpaste masked the sickness.

  Pete stood at the end of the road and prepared himself. So far everything had gone according to plan. He had spent the afternoon with his mum and dad, and then his sisters when they arrived. There had been tears and kisses from his mum and arms thrown around his neck, squeezing him tight, and then a firm handshake and watery eyes from his old man. Debbie and Jackie ran at him and almost knocked him down they were so excited, crying and laughing at the same time. He felt the tears in his eyes, but men didn’t cry. The words came fast and he sat everyone down and slowly explained the amnesia. It made all the difference. He knew he was doing the right thing. He was letting himself off the hook, true, but at the same time sparing them the truth. They didn’t want to know that he was shit. Lies were important sometimes. They kept things going. Pete wanted to see his brother alone. After all, it was Jimmy who he’d been supposed to meet in the playground.

  What did the kid think as the minutes and hours passed and night began to draw in? Why hadn’t he returned? Pete knew why well enough, the drink he’d shared with Kate and a heavy mating session that took them well into the night. It was easy to run away in the short term, but long term he had made things worse for everyone. He had hated himself, and maybe deep down he still did, but he couldn’t think that way any more. He had to make amends. Had to see his kid brother on his own and try to put things right. Just thinking of Jimmy on the swings, going up and down the slide, getting worried by his brother’s absence, looking into the shadows as the darkness came down, scared as he ran home. What had his mum and dad told Jimmy when he got in? That maybe Pete was out with a girl or had met someone and gone down the pub? His dad would’ve told Jimmy not to worry, that Pete was a growing lad who was late for everything.

  Pete didn’t want to think about it now. There was a stack of Christmas presents that his mum had brought out and she said that tomorrow they’d have Jimmy round as well and they’d all sit down and have a proper dinner together. Pete could open them then and Jimmy could watch with the rest of the family because every Christmas that boy had wanted to know what his brother was getting. He was a big kid at heart, though he’d done well for himself. He’d done them proud. Pete sat with his cup of tea and listened and didn’t really notice how much his parents had aged, though his sisters were women now rather than kids.

  He walked down the Fulham street with its precisely spaced trees and top-of-the-range, polished cars. The pavements were clean and small patches of grass well maintained. He was hot and the fumes filled his head. He stopped outside the address he’d written down and looked up to the floor where his brother lived. He thought he saw a face move back from the window, but couldn’t be sure.

  The Wilson brothers sat in a corner of the pub. They were on their fourth pints. Mango drank Fosters, while Pete had opted for London Pride. He found the prices high and the beer lacked the flavour he was used to in Norfolk. Still, he wasn’t concentrating on the quality of the drink. He had avoided his brother’s eyes at first, but with the Pride inside him he was able to look Jimmy in the face. His kid brother was all grown up and filled out, and while it was obviously going to be the case the reality took time to absorb. It was the same with Debbie and Jackie. They were adults. Jimmy’s features had filled out but the bone structure was how he remembered. He certainly dressed well. Pete felt scruffy, despite the new shirt he was wearing. But it was good to see Jimmy again. Pete was glad he had decided to meet him on his own.

  Jimmy was floating above the clouds. Amnesia meant there had been no rejection and his brother was a victim without the degradation he had feared. They were together again. Pete was late coming home, but had made it in the end. One more pint and maybe they’d go for something to eat. Anything his brother wanted was going on the Gold Card. Life was good. Life was fucking brilliant. Feeling the drink at the back of his throat and studying his brother’s face. He had really aged. Looked older than his years with a bit of a receding hairline, creases in his skin, and a weathered face. He looked healthy enough, but tired. Exhausted more like. It must be the hard living. That and the strain of not knowing who you are.

  Pete wasn’t bothered about food so they stayed in the pub. The more they drank the more the barriers faded and it could have been yesterday when they’d seen each other. Even so, Mango couldn’t ask too many questions. He was pissed but still bottling things up. The details would come later. They drank until closing and were the last to leave the pub, swaying as they walked back to the flat. Pissed-up brothers strolling home at peace with the world on a perfect summer’s evening. Mango’s thoughts were jumbled and simmering while the Pride that had at first made Pete confident now kicked back and made him ashamed. Their emotions had been chopped up and put through a liquidiser.

  Pete couldn’t get over at how much Fulham had changed. It was really posh now. Not how he remembered it when he was a kid. He heard his name.

  Mango hit his brother in the side of the face and Pete rocked back against a parked car. His kid brother followed up with a kick that bounced
off his thigh, then a flurry of drunken punches that either missed their target or half-connected. They staggered in and out of the cars. A wing-mirror smashed. Pete didn’t respond, just staggered back from the impact. He wasn’t even that surprised. It seemed right somehow. There was nothing he could do. He faced up to Jimmy and the London Pride made him keep eye contact as he felt the fist connect with his nose. The punch was straight and it hurt. He wondered if his nose was broken. There was a lot of blood. It pumped from his nostrils and spilled over his shirt. A white Fred Perry he’d been given by his mum as a Christmas present. She’d even got the size right. She’d let him pick one present to open now, but the rest would wait for Jimmy. It fitted him, but there was no way of knowing when she’d bought it. She hadn’t bothered putting dates on the tags. He would have to ask. It would need a good wash. He hoped the blood wouldn’t stain.

  ‘Mum gave me this shirt,’ he said.

  Mango stopped. He blinked as he focused on the shirt, his vision hazy. He saw the red pattern covering his brother’s chest. Pete had always liked Fred Perrys, but they were expensive.

  ‘Mum gave it to me before I came round. It fits perfect. She let me open one present without you and this was it. All the rest I’ve got to open when you come round for dinner.’

  Mango stared at the shirt. It was a good fit. His mum was a smart woman. He started laughing. Shook his head. Looked at the pavement for a bit and turned. The brothers continued walking back to the flat, Pete laughing as well.

  BURNING RUBBER

  Will had said little all night and the rest of the lads were starting to notice, though Carter had been keeping their attention as he entertained the Sex Division with his latest exploits. It was hot and humid and he was talking as much to himself as the others, trying to forget about the aggro he’d had with Denise the previous week. He’d been looking to wind things down, regular sex breeding contempt and an appreciation of the finer things in life—such as freedom from hunger, poverty and the fear of Slaughter’s machete. But Denise wasn’t taking hints. She was acting strange and Carter was worried. There was something about sickness in a woman that turned him right off. All that pervy sex stuff was okay, something you had to laugh about otherwise you looked soft, but insanity he didn’t even want to consider.

  Slaughter had asked Denise to marry him and it had done something to her head seeing the bloke on one knee acting the poet, with a bunch of roses in his hand and a tear in his eye. She told him she’d consider the proposal and seemed to think Carter was planning something similar, as though she had a choice to make between the two men. A decision that was going to stay with her the rest of her life. That moment when she’d reached the crossroads and had to go one way or the other, all that destiny nonsense. He was shitting it because she kept telling him she was a single girl and staying that way, that life was too short for major attachments, which was fine by Carter, but he didn’t like the new way she was looking at him. He’d turn his head and her eyes would be drilling into him full of possession. It was like she was trying to convince herself. Then there’d been that business when she’d gone off her trolley, smashing plates in his kitchen and punching him in the mouth. For no reason. Well out of order. He’d pulled his fist back ready to drive that pretty little nose into the slag’s brain, then stopped. He’d never hit a bird before and wasn’t starting now. End up like that and they’d done you good and proper. Made you into a prize wanker. It was a load of bollocks and he was bailing out soon as he saw his chance. These things needed timing and tact, especially when you were dealing with a headcase who could put a word in the wrong ear and cause you some serious grief. Women were dangerous. Never mind all that weaker sex propaganda.

  He must’ve been mad getting involved in the first place. He was a relaxed bloke and wanted a simple life. But that’s what happened. You followed your knob and ignored the messages coming through from the brain, and then it ended in tears. His fucking tears. Even so, he’d given her one up against the fridge for good luck after she’d calmed down and said how sorry she was about hitting him, that she’d replace the plates and was his lip alright? She was mad enough to get the hump and tell Slaughter. He had to be careful. If he wanted Denise then he’d be up front with Slaughter and get it over with, but the thing was he just didn’t care. All he wanted was to get his leg over. He felt no guilt about shagging Slaughter’s woman. He didn’t give a toss. Guilt was for wankers.

  ‘That bird last night was pure class,’ Carter said, trying to wash away the problem of Denise and concentrate on the football. ‘She worked as a bouncer for a while in King’s Cross, but you wouldn’t believe it looking at her. She’s tall, but not exactly made of muscle. At least she doesn’t look that way. She’s got a black belt in karate and keeps herself fit. I met her down Blues when I lost you lot. Very nice. Anyway, we had a good chat and everything and then she invites me back, and there I was with a smile on my face lining up a few more points. That’s the mark of a champion, the ability to keep churning out results even when faced by quality opposition. I only managed a swift one off the wrist though, because she doesn’t drink and eats healthy and doesn’t put poison in her body unless she knows where it’s coming from. That’s her words, not mine. Like my duff’s toxic or something. Still, can’t blame her I suppose. Anyway, I’m on for another point tomorrow. I’ve got these curry-flavoured rubbers from The Hide. I’ll be unstoppable with these beauties.’

  Carter dipped his hand in the right pocket of his jeans and held the condoms up for inspection. The pack was a mass of colours and Balti leant over to sniff the wrapping.

  ‘Doesn’t smell of anything to me. What kind of curry is it?’

  ‘It just says curry flavour.’

  ‘What one though.’

  ‘How do I fucking know? What do you expect, a recipe on the back and a couple of chapattis chucked in for free? It’s the thought that counts.’

  ‘It could be a jalfrezi or something. She might not like jalfrezi, all that chilli up her snatch. Or what if it’s vindaloo? She’s not going to want a chicken vindaloo tickling her clit is she?’

  ‘It’s not going to be a jalfrezi or vindaloo,’ Harry said. ‘It’s not like they dip it in a cauldron. It’s more likely a korma. It’s all fake anyway. Like crisps. I mean, you bite into a bacon crisp and all you’re getting is a load of Es.’

  ‘Can’t be bad, can it? Fried MDMA for less than a quid. What do you mean fake?’

  ‘It’s chemicals mixed up to taste like bacon. It’s cheaper.’

  ‘Fuck off. You telling me there’s no pork in a bacon crisp?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You’re winding me up. No pork in a bacon crisp?’

  ‘God’s truth.’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘Swear on the old girl’s life.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Straight up.’

  ‘Bunch of cunts. They should do them for that. Trade’s Description Act.’

  ‘Fucking hell lads,’ Carter was getting wound up, with Denise on his mind and Slaughter coming towards the table, and the boys going into one about a packet of fucking crisps. ‘These rubbers aren’t going to burn a hole in her. It’s just a laugh. That’s all. A bit of fun. And what’s the matter with you, Will? You look like you’ve just had your bollocks coated in pharl sauce and found that Mango’s been at the pickle tray again. Smile, for fuck’s sake.’

  Slaughter nodded on his way to the bogs and Carter felt the tightness in his gut ease. His balls were lighter as well. No additives there. Hundred per cent quality. They’d been given room to expand now the danger had passed. It was like he was in the ocean with a shark circling not sure whether he was there or not, knowing that once its brain made the connection he was going to be dragged down and would have to be ready to go the distance. But he was getting to the best part and needed the distraction of story-telling to help him forgot about nutters and their psycho birds. And what was Slaughter doing walking around in his leather coat i
n the middle of summer? It was a hot night and he had his coat on. Mental that bloke. Fucking mental. Should be locked up where he couldn’t do any harm.

  ‘The best bit was when we’d got off the night bus going round her place, coming out of this kebab house with a bit of pre-sex nourishment. There’s this big bastard standing there eyeballing us and I ask him what the fuck he’s looking at. There was another geezer with him who I didn’t see I was so pissed and he hits me and I was so fucking surprised I went straight down like I was Arsenal. Right embarrassment it was, though the cunt was dead once I got up.’

  Eileen came to the table, picked up the dead glasses and emptied the ashtray. Carter stopped talking and asked her how she was. Even Will took a bit of notice, because Eileen was looking good, full of herself off on holiday to Ibiza the next day. Then for some reason he thought of her flat on her back with the rest of the girls who trooped over to Spain and Greece, and he was hacked off by women in general and Karen in particular, and all that respect and everything seemed like just more bollocks.

  ‘So there’s this freeze-frame moment,’ Carter continued, after Eileen had moved on to the next table, ‘when I’m on my arse and there’s kebab meat and chillies in the air and some wanker coming through to shove his trainers down my throat … and then it happens.’

  He paused for silence and Will raised his eyes into his head. Carter was so fucking dramatic. He belonged on a stage as he prepared to deliver the punchline. He got right up Will’s nose at times like this. Why didn’t he get on with the story?

  ‘I’m on my arse and this bird just piles in. Doesn’t say a word. A couple of kicks and the first bloke is crouched over, then finished off. Another one and the other bloke’s down. Fucking magic. She wasn’t screaming or carrying on, just did the business. Hauled me up and there’s these two cowboys moaning on the pavement. Never seen anything like it. Cold and calculated and at that moment she was the most beautiful woman in London. No grannying around. Everything in one: good-looking, interesting conversation and a minder as well.’