Human Punk

by John King

  I only do one box before I give up. I’m tired and can’t get last night out of my head. I take the box over to the sheds, glad Roy’s not around. I don’t want to talk to anyone.

  –What happened to you? the woman in the shed asks. You look like you’ve been up all night.

  She’s right.

  –You’re too young to be drinking and staying out.

  I wasn’t drinking.

  –I can smell it on you. And look at this box. It’s not even full.

  She stares into me like she can see everything that’s happened, and I say I’m off home. Ask her if she’ll add the box on to tomorrow’s list.

  –Go on then.

  The farmer’s outside, shifting a trailer of horse shit, and I stand back to let his tractor pass, the wooden butt of the shotgun next to his leg. I follow the tractor, go through the apples, a man and woman hard at work, the woman holding the ladder and the man right at the top of the tree. There’s a pile of bad apples next to the path, big holes where the maggots have got in and hollowed out the core, a sour smell of cooking fruit, same as when Chris nicked a home-brew kit and tried to make his own lager. Don’t know how he got it out of the shop, but he’s got the knack, even if he gets caught sometimes, and he added the yeast and that, then forgot about it for a couple of months. The bucket stank so much his mum went and opened the lid, and there was three inches of this cheesy fungus on top, with blue and green patches. He showed me before he got rid of it, proud of the pong. Out here, the apples boil down in the sun, mouldy white pimples dotting the brown mush. It’s a rotten smell, but sweet as well as sour. You get some brilliant mushrooms in the shade, keeping out of the spotlight.

  I climb over the fence and walk up to the main road, go along to the bus stop, looking over my shoulder.

  Mum gives me a bit of stick when she gets in from work, but nothing like I expected, hopes I haven’t been with any girls, makes me my tea early, Dad out, and it’s good to be home with some proper food on my plate. She says she wants Dad to have a chat with me, about the birds and the bees, so I understand how babies are made and don’t get caught out. I tell her I knew about all that stuff years ago and she seems surprised. I’ve forgotten the cherries, but don’t need them. When I’ve finished eating I go round to see Chris, find out if he’s alright. His mum lets me in and starts having a go, thinks we’ve been fighting, has one of her turns going on about how we’ll end up in borstal if we’re not careful, how do I think she feels having the police round the house accusing him of all sorts, she remembers when we were five and six years old, no trouble, no trouble at all. But she’s getting upset about nothing. I tell her Chris had some bad food, that’s all, and she wants to believe me but can’t, doesn’t want to be made a fool of, and I can understand that, specially after last night, and she’s off again, knows it’s drugs, thinks we’re going round sniffing glue, and it’s going to give us brain damage, look how thin her boy is, that’s what drugs do to you, make people skinny and weak. She doesn’t know what’s going on these days, the whole world’s gone mad. I tell her it isn’t like that, Chris is fine, and it takes a while but she calms down, believes what I’m saying. We haven’t been doing anything wrong, and it’s true, the only thing that was our fault was the car, and I don’t tell her this, just know it was wrong nicking off someone who’s worked hard for what he’s got. I feel guilty about that, but at least we didn’t wreck it, and he should get it back soon enough. Chris’s mum smiles and seems happy now, says she’ll make us some tea. I go and sit with Chris out back, and he looks bad, like he’s shrunk. He laughs when I tell him we’re made mostly of water, and if he was shitting non-stop he better get some medicine or he’ll disappear. He laughs, but says it wasn’t funny, calls it the worst night of his life. The Gents was shut at Paddington and he couldn’t hold it in any longer and had to go outside, behind a wall. These kids saw him and started throwing bottles. He says he’ll never eat foreign food again, specially chilli sauce. He knows that’s what did him in, not the meat, he’s eaten worse than that, look at the tripe his mum makes, that’s guts, bollocks, all sorts. Meat is good for you, no, it was that other stuff. He asks what happened after he left, and I say not a lot, ask if he’s still got the speed, and he nods quickly as his mum brings me a mug of steaming tea, and she asks after Mum and Dad, says my sister’s growing up fast, goes back indoors. I stay for an hour, then go round and see Smiles. His old man is working, and Tony lets me in. Smiles asks what happened last night, after they went home, and again I say not a lot, I’ll have to make up a story with Dave, don’t mention the queers. Can’t believe any of that happened, just hope they didn’t die. It’s like a bad dream now. Smiles seems more cheerful than last night, and when I tell him there’s another single from the Clash coming out soon he’s even happier. We’ll have to find out who was playing last night, the name of the venue, and when the Clash are in London we’ll go see them. It was a good night, the first part, and he’s wearing his new badge, even though he’s at home. I stay for half an hour, start getting tired, go round Dave’s and knock on the door, and when his mum opens up she tears into me, and I listen to it for a while trying to work out what she’s on about, ask if I can see him or not. She calls me a dirty little bastard and tells me to piss off, she’s not having my sort in her house, and she’s got this mental look on her face, real hate. I can’t be bothered with a mad old slag like that and head off home. A few minutes later Dave catches me up and says sorry about his mum, but he hadn’t bothered thinking of an excuse when he got in, and since the coppers brought him home the other month, when he got caught thieving with Chris, she’s been touchy. I don’t see why she’s having a go at me. He says no, it’s not my fault. And he’s got that look on his face. I’ve known him for years. I ask him what? What is it? He doesn’t want to say, and I keep on at him, promise I won’t get angry, and he checks my fingers to make sure they’re not crossed, tells me to cross my heart and hope to die. And when Dave got in she was right on him, and it wasn’t just because he didn’t come home and she was worried, she’d only been making his bed and found the animal porn, and there was his mum standing in front of him holding out these photos of women sucking off donkeys and riding pigs. She rubbed them in his face. What was he supposed to say? I look at him, and he smiles, fights to cover it up. His head was spinning and he was knackered, had to think quick before she kicked him out of the house, he didn’t want to spend the rest of his childhood sleeping rough, so it just came out of his mouth, how the magazines belong to me and he was looking after them, that he hadn’t looked inside so didn’t know what was in them, and the reason he was out all night was I went in a sex shop to get some more and we missed the train. He told her it was an accident I got animals in the first place, that I wanted some proper men-and-women porn, and could only get the hard stuff in Soho. He tells me he’s sorry, but it was the best he could come up with at the time. He couldn’t have his mum thinking they belonged to him, could he? She’s family after all, his own flesh and blood. I suppose not, but it’s not nice. Dave smiles and says he owes me one. His face twitches and then he starts laughing his head off.

  KICKING FOR KICKS

  The woman at the next table asks a lot of questions and gets all the right answers, sipping a pint of Guinness as she talks to herself, frowning when she finds a hair in her drink. She’s fifty if she’s a day, but doesn’t care about the creases, decked out in a polka-dot skirt that shows off her wrinkled legs and ironed panties. She turns and winks, holds a long red nail in front of her mouth and says she won’t tell the barmaid we’re too young to drink. When this Ted with a squashed Henry Cooper nose and thick brothel creepers strolls over, balancing a plate of food in each hand, her dentures flash and we’re forgotten. She takes her tea and sniffs the pie and chips. She cuts into the pastry and smoke curls out, the smell of thawed steak and kidney filling the air. Her boyfriend slips in next to her and tips more pale ale into his mug. She’s a stroppy cow, putting us in our place like that.<
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  –I’ll get another drink, Smiles says, counting his change. I’ve just got enough.

  He goes to the bar, walking tall, that pub in Camden fresh in his head. Smiles is buying me a drink I can’t get back, and it’s like I’m poncing off him, but we’ve had six pints and need another. I’ll sort him out next time. I’ve got money at home, didn’t plan on coming down the club, that’s all. Smiles has made his mind up about Linda. There’s not much he can do really, except either help her or try and get out of it, and it’s as much down to him as her. He’s thought about it and reckons it’s only the outsiders who are going to make things hard. They don’t have to get married, live together or anything like that. It doesn’t have to be the end of the world. He leans on the bar and waits for Stella to fill our glasses. She’s in her twenties and pretty, everyone fancies her, but she’s married with a baby so doesn’t get the chat-up lines she deserves. People respect mums. Normal people anyway. Don’t see why it should matter if they’re fifteen or twenty, single or married.

  –Here you go, Smiles says, sitting down. I’m pissed. Didn’t realise until I stood up. My head’s spinning. Shouldn’t have got so wound up about everything. It’s going to be alright. Worse things happen in life. Look at Mum and what she did to herself. Nothing can ever be worse than killing yourself.

  This is going to be our last drink, and we take our time, drinking a new lager, and it’s alright, extra bubbles and very refreshing. Don’t know how that woman can drink Guinness on a day like today. Don’t know how she can drink it any time, even in winter. The club’s quiet tonight, and last time I was in here Smiles was stuck indoors, Fisher and the Shannons kicking lumps out of each other down the road.

  –What do you think’s a good name for a boy? Smiles asks, going back to the baby. If it’s a girl we could call it after my mum. It would be better having a girl, but don’t suppose it matters. Whatever’s going to happen will happen. There’s nothing I can do to change things.

  He rambles on for a while, repeating himself. Time will sort it out, and it’s true what he’s saying, but he’s pissed and it could be the drink making him look on the bright side. I’m feeling the effects as well, trying hard to concentrate. After half an hour talking bollocks, we drink up and leave the old-timers snogging. The Ted’s running his hand along the woman’s legs, knickers out on show. It’s a fucking disgrace. Makes me feel sick. It’s horrible seeing grannies behaving the same as school kids. How they can call an old geezer like that a Teddy ‘boy’ I do not know. Least we have an excuse, can’t handle our drink because we’re young, allowed to make mistakes, but these two should know better. We head back, walking slowly, running through the lyrics of ‘Anarchy In The UK’, trying to work out what anarchy means. It takes us ages to reach the bridge over the canal, four shapes appearing out of thin air, spreading across the pavement. Gary Wells is at the front, a gold crucifix dangling from his left ear. Right away I know we’re on for a kicking.

  –You fucking wankers, he says, grabbing Smiles’s collar and ripping the Sex Pistols badge off, punching Smiles hard in the face with the same fist.

  –What’s this then, boys? he asks, lifting the Queen’s face up in the air, into the light coming off a street lamp, Smiles holding his nose, blood seeping through his fingers.

  One of the others steps forward and thumps me in the face. I swing back but miss, too drunk to defend myself. All four of them jump in. We don’t have a chance. They’re bigger and older and better fighters, proper ruckers who love a knuckle same as we love music. We’re halfway up the bridge and run forward, try to leg it, Smiles hitting the ground as Wells trips him over. I do my best to pull Smiles to his feet, but his head has gone floppy and next thing I’m on the floor as well, the kicks bouncing off me. I’m down for the count, brain spaced out, not feeling anything after the first few blows. The kicking goes on for a bit, then stops. Through the static I can hear laughing, Wells’s voice the loudest, the only words I can make out.

  –Come on then. One … two … three … four.

  My arms and legs are being held out in the shape of a star and for a second I think of Jesus Christ nailed to the cross, but I’m not religious, never go to church, instead think of that exercise we do at school, and I’m moving back and forward, and on the fourth swing they let me go, and I hang in the air waiting for the pavement to smash into my back, but time freezes and I’m hovering, a real nutty feeling, and it’s mental, my head and body floating, the clock stopped, and I don’t know what’s going on, doesn’t make sense, drifting over the surface of the moon, between craters and rocks, my spine exploding as it finally hits the concrete, except the pain doesn’t race into me, and I suppose one of the kicks has dented my brain, loosened the rockers, and I keep going, sink down into this gooey wet concrete, another set of roadworks railed off and signposted, dunce’s caps and blinking bulbs, the non-stop pounding of drills cracking tarmac, tin hats searching for broken pipes and worn-out cable, laying foundations for a new row of houses, another terrace, more homes, more people, the concrete thin and slimy, sucking me down, ears popping as I keep sinking, down and down, the voice of Wells fading into the past.

  –Fucking cunts.

  It takes a few seconds to realise they’ve gone and chucked me off the bridge and into the canal, and it’s funny at first, an easy way out, but I’m only glad till I try to breathe and the sludge comes flooding in through my nose. I open my mouth and half the canal chugs down my throat.

  But there’s no time to float around feeling sorry for myself because I have to sort this out right away, but don’t know which way is up, there’s no street lights or stars reaching into the slime, the canal full of rotten plants, face smothered in grease, back in my mum’s belly knowing something has gone wrong, pressure in my head, like I’m going to die, and I spin around in the water trying to work out which way to pull, choking on the water, gagging on oil, my lungs heaving as they fill up, and realising there’s no air starts me panicking, forces me to take a chance and dig into the water, stretching my arms out and pulling hard, forcing my head forward, bending my legs same as a frog, those primary-school lessons stuck in my brain, the canal full of long rubber arms that grab and pull me back, ropes curling around my legs, a noose round my neck, DMs heavy in the water, weighing me down, polished leather soaked, all that hard work pricing tins, don’t want to end up drowned before I’ve lived my life, the water packed with drowned kids, dead babies, unborn lives, never had a chance, could’ve done anything, ears buzzing as the rope tightens, a rubber cord holding me back, thrashing around trying to escape, the end buried in my belly button. And I see a white dot in the distance, know that I’m swimming the right way, reaching out, finally blowing out of the water and sucking at the air, dipping back under, mouth open, swallowing more water, gagging, breathing, swimming to the side of the canal where I heave myself on to the bank, arms weak, coughing, spewing, boots full of water, clothes heavy, born all over again.

  I lie on the ground and breathe deep, smell the grass and feel the warm air on my face. I look away from the gasworks and into the sky, see the stars billions of miles out in space, the darkness clean and fresh, a lot different to the canal, sucking into my throat to spit out the dirt inside me, spewing up all over the towpath. And it takes me a while before I think of Smiles and wonder why they didn’t chuck him in as well, look up at the bridge. There’s no one there, and a sharp pain shoots across my chest as I realise they threw him in as well. I stand up and look along the path, over the water. I call his name, but there’s no answer. I try to undo my laces but they’re stuck, so I jump in with my boots on, sink down and open my eyes, can’t see a thing. I come up and swim around best I can, see a lump further along the canal, stuck in weeds. I swim over, panicking again, boots nailed to my feet, and Smiles is face down in the water, back arched, clothes slimy from rotten plants.

  I turn Smiles over so his face is in the air, except there’s no face, just a black outline, start pulling him towards the
side of the canal. He’s heavy, and I’m pissed, tired, fucked, can hardly keep us both up, water seeping into my mouth, dead brambles scratching my neck, and I get to the side, hanging on with one hand and trying to get him out with the other. I’m struggling, can feel myself getting weaker as two arms reach down from above and tug Smiles away. I look up and see the broken NHS specs of the Major, who spreads Smiles out on the ground and comes back for me, grabbing the back of my shirt and heaving me into the air.

  –I’ve got someone phoning for an ambulance, he says.

  The Major puts his ear to Smiles’s face and starts giving him mouth-to-mouth, while I lean forward and cough up more water. The Major bangs Smiles’s chest, where his heart should be, talks to himself, lowering an ear to Smiles’s mouth several times, going through the routine, sits back and nods as Smiles starts puking.

  –Thank fuck for that.

  And I’m surprised to hear the Major swear.

  He doesn’t hang about either, bends down and lifts Smiles up, carries him as if he’s a child, and I stumble after them, the pity I used to feel for the Major gone. I’m useless and he’s in charge, my throat full of muck, the Major striding up the steps and back on to the bridge. He gently lays Smiles on the pavement and cradles his head in his hands.

  –They deserve locking up, he says.

  I sit down against the wall and stare at Smiles, his face bent and twisted, eyes shut, clothes black from the dirty water, dead leaves stuck all over. I look at the Major, clothes damp and glasses crooked on his nose. He’s upset, I can see that, but he’s saved Smiles’s life and is in control.

  –Where’s the fucking ambulance, he says, jumping to his feet, but only after he’s eased Smiles’s head on to the pavement.

  I see all his face now, and the Pistols badge is on his cheek. It takes me a few seconds to realise that Wells has bent the pin back and stabbed it in. I go over and pull it out, have to give it a tug. I put it in my pocket and search for the mark, but Smiles’s face is too dirty. Can’t believe they did that to him. Must be about an inch long as well. Stuck right in his gums, between his teeth maybe.