by John King
–That’s Tony’s mate over there, isn’t it? Dave asks Smiles.
We look where he’s pointing and it’s Billy, from Tony’s car the other day. He recognises Smiles and Chris, maybe me, I’m not sure, stops with this half-caste mate of his and says a few words to Chris, who he seems to think is in charge for some reason, maybe because he’s taller or something. Chris laughs. They stand close together, something passing between them, and I realise that’s where he gets the speed. Billy turns back and nods to Smiles, on his way towards the table football. He looks at me and clicks.
–Alright mate. You still picking cherries for a living?
He seems to think this is funny.
–Couldn’t knock us out some special rate, could you?
He laughs again.
–You won’t get rich doing work like that.
They leave and we huddle round Chris.
–This is for later on, he says. You’ll have to chip in. I only got a bit. It’s cheap, but not that cheap.
Never mind the speed, someone has to get in at the bar, people four-deep waiting to get served.
It’s nearly nine when we leave the pub, gobbing at each other as we cross the road under the bridge, taking the piss, six light and bitters setting us up nicely, snapping our hands as we go, clicking the fingers, Dave cracking away loudest of all, Billy and Leon walking behind well impressed, tell Dave he should be on a stage, must be double-jointed, and the road follows the curve of a massive brick wall and Billy and Leon go up some steps into this big building called the Roundhouse while we follow Chris into this takeaway that has a cone of meat hanging in the window, Chefs Brother standing behind the counter with a sword in his hand, a long thin skewer with a razor-sharp edge, and Chris is hungry as usual, starving, orders a large doner kebab, whatever that is, Chefs Brother slicing slivers of meat off the cone and sticking it in this doughy bread, adding cabbage and slices of onion, asks Chris if he wants chilli sauce, and Chris loves his food, dining out in style, exotic new dishes in exotic new places, pleased with his driving, Slough to Camden in thirty-five minutes, says why not, asks for more, another helping on top of that, and Chefs Brother looks at him funny, says the chilli is hot, very spicy my friend, and Chris says no problem, and he’s feeling good, doing his hard man routine as Chefs Brother adds a healthy spoonful of pink mush to the meat and veg, and as we leave I see a map of Cyprus on the wall, next to it a poster showing some ruins, TURKEY written in red letters, so Chef is no brother of Chef after all, he’s the man on the other side, the enemy, the man on the other side of the counter sharpening his blade, and back in Slough our Chef is in his van with a pickaxe handle, and I wonder if the stories are true, the chopping and hacking, it doesn’t make sense to me, and we stand on the pavement arguing whether we’re going in the Roundhouse, Dave’s realised we’re going to have to pay, and we could always go back to the pub and listen to the jukebox for nothing, but Smiles is keen, says it must be a proper punk club looking at the people going up the steps, and Dave’s eyeing the girls, reckons it’s worth a go as well, and anyway, everyone was leaving the pub to come here, what’s the point coming to Camden if we’re going to stand around in an empty pub, we could do that at home, and all the time Chris is biting into the kebab, munching away, the first kebab any of us has ever had, never seen one before to be honest, and he says it’s tasty, shovelling it down, almost finished when his brain catches up with his teeth and he goes quiet, says his mouth is on fire, passes the rest of the kebab to Dave who has a sniff and lobs it down the road where it splits open and splashes cabbage across the pavement, and it looks like we’re going in, looking for music, looking for girls, looking for a sink filled with cold water for the tall skinny boy who’s always eating, Chris suffering now, hands stuck over his mouth, eyes scared, face covered in sweat, and once we’re inside he goes looking for the bogs while we suss out the bar, buy four pints of cider in plastic glasses, stand together sizing the place up, and I reckon it was well worth the money for the music alone, never mind the girls, because there’s this reggae shaking the ground under our feet, one or two kids dancing with their arms stretched out, as if they’re ready for take-off, gliding along the Westway, and it doesn’t take long for us to work out that there’s a band playing soon, people facing an empty stage, and even though I’m into lyrics, words that tell a story, it doesn’t matter with this reggae, it’s pure sound, gets inside my head, everything slowing down, giving me time to think, and we get a bit of reggae at home but this is different, can’t explain it, and because there’s no words it’s easier to get into, we’re satellite white boys not inner-city dreads, the Rasta lyrics don’t have anything to do with us, and against the speed and anger of punk this balances things, suppose you can’t keep racing along all the time, have to stop and have a breather now and then, slow your thinking down, but it’s hard sometimes, sorting out everything floating around your brain, making decisions, deciding what you believe in, Billy and Leon standing nearby sipping their drinks, and Smiles starts slagging them off in my ear, says Billy’s a headcase, but he seems fine to me, doesn’t have to be friendly with us younger lads, a lot of older boys won’t bother if you’re a year or two behind, and even though he takes the piss it doesn’t mean anything, it’s a way of being friendly without acting poofy like a smelly hippy, and Smiles isn’t his usual self, not surprising with a baby on the way, noses to clean, nappies to change, bums to wipe, Chris coming back with wet hair and taking the cider I’ve been holding for him, says he’s burning up, the sauce has done his guts in, says he’s got the runs, shitting piss, maybe the meat was rotten and he’s been poisoned, he lifts the cider to his mouth and drinks half in one go, throat swelling as it pours down, Dave says Chris is looking thinner than usual, starts taking the piss, and I tell Dave to fuck off, it’s obvious Chris is suffering, and Dave has a go back, can’t be bothered with him sometimes, Chris brings the cider back up to his mouth and finishes it off, drops the plastic on the ground where Dave breaks it with his foot, and Chris smiles, frowns, turns, legs it back to the bogs as the lights dim and people start cheering and moving towards the stage, and none of us has a clue who’s come out and started with the guitars and drums, a surge forward same as on the terraces except there’s some girls and there isn’t the same edge, a different sort of excitement, and we’re a bit higher up and can see the crowd moving, a V-shape coming through from the back, a thirty-strong football crew doing a boat impression right into the middle of the dance floor, and Dave reckons they’ve got to be Arsenal, seeing as this is Camden Town, and he might be right, but it could be anyone, and there’s a good buzz, and the band’s okay, but I don’t know the words and make do with the atmosphere, and because the dance floor is flat and we’re on a wooden terrace we can watch the crowd moving, on the edge looking in, and there’s some gobbing, but not much, not like they say in the papers, and this is a real-life proper punk gig here, the first one we’ve ever been to, and it’s by chance, a lucky dip, read the papers and you’d think it was all fashion dolls, but it’s not, it’s mostly everyday people same as us, and that’s what makes it for me, it’s not like we’re in a hall full of long-haired students listening to Genesis and Pink Floyd, cross-legged on the floor smoking ganja, and a gap opens in the crowd, at first it looks like a punch-up, someone down on the ground, but instead of the boot going in the mob stops being a mob and backs up so the bloke who’s landed on his arse can get up before he’s trampled to death, and I sip the cider, rinsing my teeth and gums, wonder if Chris is alright, not much we can do for him, probably wants to be alone if he’s on the bog, and the songs bang out one after the other, and the band aren’t heroes or anything, that’s a load of shit, our heroes are the bigger kids down the pub and fairground, local lads with a reputation, and on a bigger scale it’s the names at football, those are a boy’s heroes, how can someone in a band be a hero, the stage somewhere to face, and I suppose that’s why there’s some gob flying, putting them in their place, and whenever yo
u see a picture of one of these cock rockers with long hair and leathers you piss yourself because they’re all weedy-looking wankers acting hard for a camera, and the new bands are different to that, they dress up but take the piss, so we let them off, maybe some people take themselves seriously, think they’re something special, and if they do then they’re wankers same as the cock rockers, and really, the secret is not to have any heroes at all, to do your own thing and go your own way, otherwise you’ll end up doing things you don’t want to do, just so you won’t get left out, and more of the crowd are moving with the music so people surge back into us, and three girls end up between me and the others, and the first one I look at is a chubby bird with a dog collar, five earrings through her ear, I count them, one-two-three-four-five, behind her a small girl with smeared lipstick and eyes that have been pecked out by crows, or if not they’re buried in her skull somewhere, fuck knows, and when the other one turns and smiles at me I almost spunk up in my pants, Gran was right, there is a God, and this is heaven right here, the beauty queen from the pub standing next to me, with her peroxide hair and red lipstick, her arm brushing me, and she’s even better close up, easy on her feet, no body to pull me away from the shape of her head, the bone under clear skin, she doesn’t have acne or anything, and the light just nicks the tips of her eyelashes, the same black make-up’s in there as well, and I start thinking about the smile and remember walking down the canal and how you have to understand who you are, what’s possible and what’s not, otherwise you’ll make a fool of yourself, you have to know your limits but not give up, and this girl is older and wiser and I’m just a kid trying to get by while she’s working and living in the grown-up world, and when she smiles a second time I smile back to be polite, wish I was a few years older, better-looking, and I stay here till the end, look at the girl’s ears and neck, each hair standing out, least at the front where the light hits, waxed or something, I don’t know, and before the end she turns and I see into her eyes and know she’s the best-looking girl I’ve ever seen, feel bad that after tonight I’ll never see her again, maybe this is what they call love at first sight, and punk is good because it blows away the sadness, gets on with things, goes straight in on a search-and-destroy mission, you’ll never hear a punk love song, you can’t sit around moaning, feeling sorry for yourself, have to get lost in the speed and anger, and this is one of the best days of my life, I want it to go on for ever, know it’s never going to get any better than this, just hope the feeling stays, and when the band goes off the girls leave, I watch them fade into the crowd, and we go to the bar, Smiles thinking ahead and in already, passes the drink back, and I’m hot so it slips down, the reggae back again, calming things, the smell of sweat taking over from the smoke and drink, Chris nowhere to be seen, and we’re wondering if one of us should go looking for him, I keep my eyes peeled, watching out for the beauty queen, Dave more pissed than me and Smiles, telling us not to worry about Chris, fuck him, there’s nothing we can do about Chris, nothing we can do as Dave leans over to one of the two girls behind us and says something, and she smiles, listens so it looks like he’s in, till she lifts her pint and tips it over his head, and me and Smiles crease up seeing Dave soaked and looking like a rat, wonder what he said, even he starts smiling, the girls walk off, Chris coming over eyes wide open, he’s seen Dave get embarrassed and has enough strength to knuckle the back of the boy’s head and call him a cunT, all of us laughing, and the three of them are shoulder to shoulder in front of me with this space music booming in the speakers, and I have to admit that we’re a bunch of tossers, young and broke and without a decent chat-up line between us, wanking our lives away, miles away from the action, no fucking chance, we’re useless, but at least we’re making the most of things, know how to laugh, and maybe that’s what it’s going to be about for us, the failures of life, and at least we don’t take ourselves too seriously, Chris polishing off his drink in one go, says he’s going home, he’s sick, been on the bog shitting his life away, he can’t hang around, and Smiles says he’ll go back with him, doesn’t want to risk getting in after midnight, his old man will do his nut, he’s in one of his moods, as per fucking usual, and it’ll take them time to get down to Paddington, unless Chris nicks another car, and me and Dave decide to stay a bit longer, Smiles hurrying after Chris who’s already on his way.
Billy pushes through the winos outside Camden tube and we follow him down the escalator, Leon holding the doors as we jump on a train to Leicester Square, the carriage packed. This is the first time me and Dave have been to Leicester Square, and Billy says there’s loads of cheap Chinese restaurants there, and we’re going to get something to eat, have a look around, then get over to Paddington. We’ve heard of Leicester Square, we’re not farmers. We pay last stop and follow the older boys, and even though it’s after eleven the streets are busy. When Dave sees an alley he goes and takes his T-shirt off, twists it like Mum does, tries to get it dry.
–Come on Dave, you’re alright, Billy says.
His Martens are a couple of sizes bigger than mine and worn in, the sort of boots that get used on a regular basis. Tony goes up the North Stand, and knows Billy and Leon because they drink in the same pub, the Britannia. They live somewhere in London.
–How much money do you make a day picking cherries?
I tell him.
–Not much is it, for all that work.
It’s alright.
–There’s money around, you’ve just got to know how to get hold of it. There’s people around who spend what you earn in a year on a meal in a restaurant.
Grand buildings tower over us, human faces and crests carved into the red stone, day trippers crowding the tourists, the smell of boiled rice drifting down the alleyway. There’s food everywhere, different smells mingling together, and you don’t get this at home. We’ve got our chippies, the hot-dog van, a Chinese takeaway, an Indian. There’s all these cinemas big as a multi-storey, and I realise what really makes London different. It’s not even the age of the buildings, most stuff in Slough new, no, it’s the height. At home everything spreads out, the town low-lying so you can see the sky and feel the cold blowing through, while here the concrete rises up and closes out the light. If you were stuck on top of a big wheel here you’d be still staring up at the rooftops. I’m looking forward to the Chinky they’ve been talking about.
–Let’s go down here, Billy says, gobbing at a couple of scruffy students coming the other way.
–Fucking wankers.
He leads us off the main square towards an amusement arcade. Leon gives us some coins and tells us to go and play one of the machines, and suddenly they’re treating us like kids. We ask why, what happened to the food, but they tell us to go on, it’s part of a plan they’ve got to make some cash, then we can order the works, get some king prawns in batter. We’re playing for five minutes when these two blokes come over. They act poofy and talk funny, and I’m looking for Billy and Leon, see them at the end of the row making signs at us with their hands. The men give me the creeps, ask us where we live and do we fancy something to eat. We soon get fed up with this and are about to tell them to fuck off and leave us alone when Billy strolls up. He chats to the two men, one of them resting his arm on Billy’s shoulder. He tenses, but the bender doesn’t seem to notice, his bum chum smiling at Dave. Billy steps sideways with the poofs, and I tell Dave we should leave. We’re missing something here. He looks worried. Thing is, we don’t really know where we are, down this side street somewhere. The two men piss off and it looks like we’re alright.
–Come on, boys, we’re going over to Kensington, Billy says, an edge to his voice.
I ask why we’re going there and he says to get some money. I ask him how we’re going to do this.
–How do you fucking think? You thick or something?
–Leave it out, Billy, Leon says, turning to me. Look, those two blokes are bent, right, and they’re loaded. Nothing bad is going to happen to you. We go round their place for a
chat, maybe have a drink, and then they give us some money. It’s simple. They’re rich and we’re not. We talk to them and they give us some pocket money. Did you see the cuff links the tall one was wearing? They must’ve been worth twenty quid on their own. That’s how it works, boys. We all live happy ever after and have the biggest Chinese you’ve ever seen.
It seems easy, but doesn’t make much sense. Don’t want to get back too late either.
–Kensington is right by Paddington, Billy says. It’s on the way home.
We won’t have a Chinese then.
–Look, there’s nothing to it, Leon says. Nothing bad is going to happen to you. It’s just for a little chat. Poofs get lonely on their own.
Billy laughs. He’s got a strange look in his eyes. Maybe Smiles was right after all. It’s doing my brain in thinking about all this.
–You get ten pounds each up front, and you don’t have to stay more than half an hour. You’ve only got to talk to them. Come on, lads, there’s nothing to it, nothing at all. You’ll get another tenner after we’ve had a drink, if everything goes well.
Twenty pounds is a lot of money. I could buy eight or nine albums with that, and records aren’t cheap. Billy hands us a tenner each, and Leon waves down a taxi. We travel in style, a proper black cab with leather seats. We pass through streets lined with big white buildings trimmed by black railings, finally stop outside a red block. Billy presses the buzzer and talks to the wall. I have to say hello before the door is unlocked automatically. There’s carpet in the hall, and a vase with roses. We get in the lift and whizz right up. Leon is quiet and thoughtful, Billy tapping his DMs on the steel wall. The lift stops and one of the bum boys is standing at the end of a corridor, next to an open door. We go inside and the tall bloke is sitting on a couch. There’s some music playing quietly. They’re old and boring, don’t know what we’re going to talk about, but it’s true what Leon says, they’ve got money alright. The flat is plush and looks like it goes on for ever. I think of the peroxide girl from earlier on. Shame this isn’t her place. I imagine her inviting me back.