by John King
HAPPY HOUSE
It was a nightmare. A fucking nightmare. Worse than anything so far and Harry was taking it seriously. He was paying attention because he had the gift. He could see the future and prophesise events. It had happened so many times before that he couldn’t bottle out and dismiss last night’s dream as meaningless. He was walking up and down, stopping halfway, sitting in the condemned cell waiting for the hangman to arrive, handcuff his hands and slip a hood over his head, string him up from the gallows, cut him down in the nick of time. Dragged screaming to a club full of clones with Saddam tashes. He felt like topping himself. Why him? Why? Bath houses full of queers taking turns banging out the primitive four-bar beat of the swamps on his arse. No fucking way. He’d rather die. No way was he living the life of a shirt-lifter.
‘You coming or what,’ his best mate Balti shouted. ‘What are you doing in there, having a wank?’
Like a fucking wife.
‘I’m having a piss. That alright with you?’
Harry finished brushing his teeth and left the bathroom. Thing was, looking in the mirror, he didn’t look like a bum bandit. Maybe you didn’t. Ken Davies, now, he didn’t look like an iron, but he was bent as the proverbial. A nice enough bloke who kept his interests to himself and never got any grief. Thing was, everyone knew the bloke. That was the difference. It wasn’t like he was some stereotype off the telly emerging from the bushes in a G-string.
‘My knob’s still sore from that bird up in Archway,’ Balti said, once they’d left the flat and were walking down the street. ‘What a night. Don’t think I’ll ever be the same again.’
‘Where’d you say you met her?’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Well, where’d you meet her then?’
‘On the tube.’
‘On the tube? What were you doing, touching up office girls in the rush hour?’
‘She asked me what platform she was on and we got talking, went for a drink, and before I know what’s happening she’s inviting me back to listen to her CDs.’
‘Those three points you got mean I’m bottom of the league. I’m not even joint bottom now that Will’s given up.’
‘Relegation mate. You’ve still got tonight and then you’re off on holiday and the season ends. You’ll get your end away over there no problem. Unless you’re a pillow biter. But it won’t count will it? Birds don’t count in Spain. You could still catch up tonight. Never know, I might get lucky and give Carter a run-in myself. I can feel the old confidence returning. Surging back more like. What a fucking night. First wage packet in my pocket and three points in the bag. Dear oh dear, she didn’t just swallow, she fucking gargled first like she was on the Listerine. I’m back in the land of the living and showing some form.’
Balti was full of himself and Harry couldn’t help laughing at the thought of his mate making up the massive points difference in a single night. He’d have more than a sore knob the amount of work he had to do. They’d be carting him off in an ambulance, but at least he’d die happy, which was more than Harry could say for himself. They didn’t bother with calculations as they turned on to the high street and hurried towards the pub. Carter was the undisputed champion waiting to be crowned. The shag machine was pure Dutch quality and had played the game as it should be played, using the wings and knocking the ball through the midfield with a deft touch born of practice.
It was Friday night and Balti had money to burn. It was going to be a good one. His first week’s wage and it was a great feeling. Welcome back to the human race and all the bother and mind games were over. He could feel the tingle in his bones, even though his knob was aching. That Suzie was a right goer. She couldn’t get enough. She fucking loved it and was moaning her head off all night. It made him feel big. He’d made her happy. Things were definitely looking up. It was just a shame it was a one off. She’d made up her mind and he knew there was no going back for seconds. She’d taken what she wanted without complications. But Balti was grateful. It wasn’t every day a bloke like him ended up in bed with a bird like that. Northern soul. Catchy songs, though he’d never been into that sort of music. Truth be told, he’d always found it a bit weedy. Suzie was making the effort playing the part and said northern soul was a much rawer version of the weak stuff that you usually heard. It was soul mingled with RnB. Wigan Casino hadn’t served alcohol and the all-nighters had functioned on speed. It was part of a culture that had eventually progressed to acid house, techno, jungle and all the other strands of a basic theme. Suzie said she’d always preferred old platters though. Frank Sinatra, Ella Fitzgerald, Dean Martin. Silver-screen Hollywood romance and kiss-and-cuddle music, and while it was a mechanical kind of sex she enjoyed he could understand her reasoning. She was a romantic, whatever he’d first thought about her being a nutter decked out like that posing for contacts columns. The songs were sad though. Love didn’t seem to exist, however much the soul singers tried to persuade you otherwise.
Balti went into the newsagent’s while Harry waited outside with his head down staring at the pavement. The bloke had a far-off look that Balti couldn’t work out. He bought fifteen quid’s worth of Lottery tickets. His woman was waiting over the Atlantic and she didn’t appear in dodgy magazines. He could feel the oil soaking into tired muscles and see the fireflies dancing near enough to grab. A coal black night on the verandah with the perfect woman skinning up. He was on his way to paradise while Carter and Harry were jetting off to The Coast Of A Thousand Slappers.
‘It’s a mug’s game you know,’ Harry said when Balti came out of the shop waving his investment in the air. ‘A fiver’s alright now and then, but fifteen quid’s throwing it away. You think how much that adds up to if you do it every week. You’re a fucking junky.’
‘I’ll remember that when they come knocking on the door with the cheque. I wish you’d cheer up you miserable cunt. Fuck me, you’re going on holiday tomorrow.’
Harry wasn’t bothered about getting rich. Last night was enough for him. Tossing and turning unable to breathe half the time let alone sleep, with the window wide open wishing it would rain. A nice electrical storm would have done him. Thunderbolts and lightning and a monsoon downfall to break the spell. A terrible night. The atmosphere heavy and sky overcast blocking the moon, drifting in and out of his dreamworld dungeon and the steaming concrete of a Turkish bath. Sweat on his skin brushing against the sheets sitting on his own back to the wall, dripping water running down from the ceiling following his spine. His rucksack was in the corner and Balti sat by a pool. Five fat Arabs in white towels were sipping mint tea. The mist was thick like he was back on the moors and then it began thinning, swirling and vanishing so he could see the room clearly, a thin masseur with a skull on his neck working an old man’s back and shoulders, thumping white flesh. There was a faint hum in Harry’s ears, Turkish music drifting in from outside. From a London roundabout, mixing Irish and Turkish strings along the echo of a spraycanned tunnel. He could see through walls and into the street outside. It was dark, drab, depressing; full of lepers and orphans. Beggars sat outside a tube station. There was a faint smell of hashish in the subway.
Balti was with a beauty queen tapping his foot to the dull thud of a rapper calling for respect, red cap pulled over his mate’s bloodshot eyes. The kebab house on the corner serving closing-time drunks. The mosque with its blue dome and sound system broadcasting white noise. Balti led into a doorway by the she-man actress-actor humming sweet soul music, just a sex machine James Brown, sex machine Carter, big blue eyes and dungarees playing a role, travelling on the Northern Line with the pissheads and bandits heading for Hampstead Heath. Harry shaking his head and blocking out the vision, calling for a cup of PG Tips, making a stand for the English way of life, leaning his head back against the wall and allowing the heat to melt his gut, sweating out the poison, cleaning his pores and clearing his head.
The smell of shit. Ancient sewers breaking down and flooding the tube. The radio said that tens of thousand
s were feared dead. Buried alive deep underground. Quick-drying sewage clogging the system as dancing girls danced around their handbags. Shit flowing from the telly, from the mouths of preaching hypocrites, their faces outraged and purple as they held court, theatrically running from the studio to a waiting Rolls that rushed them to Ms Party Discipline in Mayfair, a special kind of lady who would make them obey the whip. The fuzzy logic of the Turkish bath fizzing and splashing piss over tiles. Harry feeling sweat in his eyes, salt poisoning the blue pools. Travelling the planet with Balti only to find himself back in London, watching his mate drop his jeans and flash his arse, all the time the words SEX SEX SEX beating out from a red neon display above the toilet door.
‘Fucking hell,’ Harry said out loud, shaking his head.
‘What?’ Balti asked, turning as they entered The Unity. ‘What’s the matter now?’
‘Nothing. It’s alright.’
‘What’s wrong with you? You look like you’re sick or something. Come on, have a drink. Life’s not that bad. You’ve been miserable all day. I wish you’d cheer up.’
Carter and Will were sitting at the bar. Balti eased his way through the packed pub and ordered, flashing a twenty. Denise took one for herself and handed back the change. Balti was rolling, with money to spend and his balls well and truly emptied of the pressure that had built up over the last eight months. He’d wanked himself silly while he was signing on, but it was more than that. Porno mags and dirty videos were alright, but there wasn’t a lot of variation once you’d gone through the various combinations. The tension had to come out some way. A few more days and he’d probably be sniffing again, but for now he was satisfied to get pissed out of his head. Harry and Carter were off tomorrow but he didn’t care. He was back in the swing of things. London was the best city in the world. Who wanted to go to Spain? London pissed all over Paris and Rome and Berlin, even though he’d never been to any of those places. If you were happy inside your head then you’d be happy wherever you were. West London was the place to be. Centre of the universe. Hammersmith, Shepherd’s Bush, Acton. Home was where the heart was. West London was top of the tree. Fucking class as the lager-lager-lager soundtrack on the jukebox belted out and the Chelsea boys drifted further West through Hounslow and Feltham and Hayes and Harlington, out to the satellite towns burning bright on the horizon. He felt brilliant, dipping his finger in the whizz Carter offered.
Will was smiling and making the announcement that he was going to be a dad. Him and Karen were going to get married and he wanted the rest of the lads to be ushers. His brother would be best man. Nothing too flash mind, but they’d do it nice. They’d get a decent band for the reception and someone who’d play their favourite records. He wanted his daughter, or son if it was a boy, to have the best start in life. It would give the kid security. He asked whether the rest of them understood and they nodded their heads. They were pleased for Will. Karen was a fine woman. They all loved the opposite sex, Harry especially as the lager soothed his fears. His reaction to the nightmare was healthy enough. The sheer horror he’d felt was reassuring. He was happy like the rest of the Sex Division because Will would make a good father and who knows, maybe one day Harry would have kids of his own and get a place somewhere further out where the property was cheap and you could buy yourself a bit of space.
Balti looked at Will and knew he’d make his own dad look like the scum he was, but he was doing okay now and there was even room for a few seconds of understanding. Times had been hard and his old man had taken the easy way out blaming his nearest and dearest, like all cowards, picking on those who couldn’t defend themselves. Balti supposed he understood why the old man had been a cunt. He understood but would never forgive. Everything around you was geared up towards competition, and there always had to be a scapegoat. Some blokes hammered their women and kids. Others kicked the shit out of strangers. He wondered how much of it rubbed off, how much you could decide things for yourself. At least he was sound, and so were his mates. The real scum, the wife batterers and child abusers were usually out of sight, round the corner. When you found one you kicked seven shades of shit out of the cunt. Them and the rapists and muggers and other perverts. That’s why his old man deserved a kicking. He’d brought the headlines home with him. He didn’t care. Not now. Of course he didn’t care. The Sex Division drank up and Harry ordered.
Will and Karen had sat down and talked the thing through. Will said he was sorry. Karen said she was sorry. It was a tense time full of surprises. Karen told Will that she had decided to have the child. She had been scared at first, but now she was used to the idea she didn’t want an abortion. It would be okay. After all, they would be together for the rest of their lives. She said it was their decision. Will didn’t think this was strictly true, but the result was what he wanted so he kept quiet. Everything was sweet. The important thing was that they were going to have a baby. They would be happy after all. It showed that stories could have a happy ending, even if it was really the beginning. They hugged each other for a while and then Will asked Karen to marry him in a rush of excitement. He was surprised when she agreed. In the end, he supposed, you all ended up just like your mum and dad. So it was agreed, and they’d plan the marriage and wait for the birth. Will felt a deep sense of relief. The rest of his life was mapped out and the security erased any self-doubt or irrational fear. He knew exactly where he was going.
The Sex Division raised their glasses and toasted the father to be, and then Carter was asking Will if he wanted to sit down, or did he have any strange cravings. Maybe he wanted some coal to eat or deep friend soap because, after all, that’s what happened when you were in the club, and Balti reached over and placed his hand on Will’s stomach and said he could feel kicks, and Harry fell into the joke and asked Will when he’d start showing. And Will was as happy as he’d ever been, thinking for a second or two about Bev and how lucky he’d been to find Karen because it showed there really was something called love. He couldn’t have had this with anyone else. He didn’t care what the cynics said. Love could be personal.
There was family love, where you didn’t have much choice, and then you had the kind of love you had to discover, more down to luck than anything. A lot of people never found that. Will thought about Mango last night on the phone telling him he’d taken a couple of weeks off work and was leaving at midday to stay on Pete’s farm. The brothers were driving up together and the rest of the Wilsons were going up on the train the following Friday night for the weekend. Pete wasn’t sure what he’d do yet, but they’d been getting on well—apart from a couple of pissed punches that didn’t mean anything—and there was a good chance he’d move back to London. Pete was older, but the same person. A diamond. The bloke had suffered, like the rest of them. It wasn’t his fault. Mango was amazed how the years had fallen away so quickly. Family love rarely died, whatever happened. Mango said everything had changed. His mum and dad were born again, sisters crying all the time, but he wasn’t bothered as they were crying because they were happy. Mango said life couldn’t be better.
Will knew he was the other extreme from Mango in many ways, but they’d both found something special. The bloke sounded good, and though Pete hadn’t been seen by Mango’s mates yet it was something that would come. Will thought about the amnesia. It was as though for all those years the real Pete hadn’t existed, but had been left dangling. Then he returned and that time didn’t matter any more because the relief and happiness outweighed the sadness, and the happiness was current and the sadness in the past, another memory. He hoped Mango and Pete would get on alright in Norfolk. Somehow he knew it would work out. He told the rest of the Sex Division what was happening with Mango and how it was a good idea getting away. They all drank thoughtfully, not exactly toasting the Wilsons, but pleased all the same.
‘Wait till we get over to Spain,’ Carter shouted, trying to make himself heard over the noise of the Friday night drinkers and the music which had suddenly cranked up, easing the emot
ion. ‘Me and Harry are going on the pull big-style when we get over there. Stick with me Harry my son and you can have the leftovers, all the old heifers I don’t want. The Sex Division king is off on tour and the birds are in for a treat.’
‘You haven’t won yet,’ Balti said.
‘I’m on fifty-seven points and you’re my nearest challenger with five. Will’s given up, Mango’s down on the farm building scarecrows with his brother, and Harry there’s fallen in love with his right hand. I’m the winner. All fair and square.’
‘There’s still tonight. It’s not over until the ref blows the final whistle. Till you take off tomorrow there’s still a chance for one of the outsiders to come through with a late surge. That’s the problem with the big clubs, they get too cocky. It’s a funny old game, shagging.’
Carter smiled indulgently, but he’d lost interest and was watching Denise at the other end of the bar serving Slaughter. He was looking forward to the two-week break. She’d come round last night and it had all got a bit serious, when after giving her a good servicing he’d told her she should make an honest man of Slaughter. She couldn’t keep the bloke hanging on forever. Denise said she knew she had to tell him something. She would miss Terry when he was away and she started going into one about how she could piss all over Slaughter any time she wanted because she had him eating out of her hand, but with Terry it was different because he would go his own way and she had to understand that. She would think of him when he was on holiday with all those randy girls chasing after him and she hoped he’d behave himself. He looked at her a bit surprised and said nothing.
‘We going down The Hide then?’ Harry asked. ‘Let’s have a drink down there.’