Human Punk

by John King

  He’s not bothered about me, and I suppose I’m just nervous after the canal. Stan heaves himself up and asks what I want to drink, a big round it’s going to be hard to match, and he must read my mind.

  –Don’t worry. It’s special tonight.

  He goes to the bar and comes back with a tray full of drinks. Stella brings another one over and we sit in this little corner of the world raising our glasses to this good old boy from Mississippi, and I’ve gone from birth to death, from ham paste to lager. This is my first time back in the club since the night we went in the canal and I can see Henry Cooper over in the corner with his old woman, and there’s loads of Teds down here, a few rockers with greased hair. Teds are the past, punk the future, but I drink to Elvis anyway, seeing as it’s part of my history.

  –I’m going to Graceland one day, Stan says. Elvis did his house up, every room different. One’s done up as a jungle. He died young, but had a good life. He’s done more than most people and he never lost his roots. He made a lot of money, but he was still a hillbilly.

  Rock ’n’ roll was rebel music, same as punk is today, except the difference is that the best punk has lyrics to go with the sound.

  –He was just a good old boy.

  He was. A good old boy. Mum and Dad should’ve come down, but there again, listening to the singer, maybe not.

  –People slag him off for living it up, but what’s he supposed to do with his money? If he wants to buy Cadillacs and swan around Memphis, why not? I wouldn’t mind a Cadillac, pink with fins, except some little cunt would let the tyres down round here.

  A Cortina would do me fine. That one we nicked and drove up to Camden would be perfect, the Cortina that belonged to that big ugly fucker standing at the bar drinking Guinness, the one stabbing at the window, the carpenter with his tool kit, and he turns and looks over, eyes zooming in on me. I lean forward and sip my drink.

  –What would you do if you had a million pounds? Bet you’d buy yourself a big house, cars, drugs, girls, a Wurlitzer. I would.

  I nod. Never thought about it really. I look at the bloke at the bar and he’s checking his watch. I wonder if he’s got his car back. He finishes his drink and leaves, and he’s looked at me and nothing’s happened. He doesn’t remember. I don’t need any more aggro, not right now.

  –Come on, what would you do with a million quid? Stan asks.

  It’s hard to say. Can’t think of much. I wouldn’t mind a proper stereo. I’d buy all the records I can’t afford. But it’s a stupid question. It’s never going to happen. A stereo would be fine. I’d give some to Mum and Dad, to my sister. I’m alright as I am. Wouldn’t mind people leaving me alone, but if you had that much money it would probably be even worse, everyone tapping you for 10p the whole time, just to tide them over. Don’t really know.

  –You’ve got no ambition, mate, Stan laughs. No ambition. That’s punks for you. Don’t care about anything.

  Debbie leans over and rubs my bollocks under the table. She smiles sweetly and licks her lips.

  It’s painful sitting down on the ground but I make it okay, pull the stem off a cherry and pop the red bullet in my mouth. It’s nice and ripe, sweet and refreshing, the sun building up a thirst. It’s a perfect cherry. Perfect day. Life is sweet, even if my back’s sunburnt after two hours hunched over picking strawberries, bright red where the T-shirt rode up. Thought I’d give it a go before the holidays end and I go back to school, see if I could make more money, but they’re harder work than cherries, the rows long and dusty, and you’re right out in the sun. I did a box and took them over to the shed, and the farmer was there, showed me all these little nicks, bite marks from field mice. The rows are crowded, people chatting away as the sun beats down, and it’s better getting lost in the orchard, an easy life under the branches, the cool corners and sweet smells, filling five or six easy boxes a day. I’ve given up now, gone back to the cherry trees where I belong.

  It’s mostly women picking the strawberries, tough old hags off the sites in Denham, Colnbrook, Burnham, scrap-metal witches who go door-to-door selling heather, chase you through the arcade going on about good and bad luck. Makes me laugh the amount of people who get scared when they have a curse put on them. These women fill their boxes fast, move quick, shifting down the line, scratching in the dirt, fingers hard, one of mine bleeding from a stone. Black hair sticks out of thin black scarves, long creases in outdoor faces. Their rings sparkle, don’t seem to get dirty. Small boys and girls motor past me while their mums and grans take the piss. In Queensmere they’d be hassling me, but up close they’re softer, nice people, and I can see how they trade on the reputation.

  I don’t care if I’m the slowest strawberry-picker in the world, don’t mind if a seven-year-old pikey can piss all over me, don’t give a fuck to be honest, because it’s my first go and every job is a skill that has to be learnt. They’ve got a radio going, official voices rambling on about the state of the nation, law and order, sex and drugs, but I’m not listening, don’t care about their arguments, everyone having a go at everyone else. It’s quiet in the orchard, and I pick the stem off another cherry and split the skin with my teeth. This is the life, being left alone, doing your own thing, nobody around to give you grief. It’s been a funny time. A lot has happened in the last few weeks. These things can get in your brain, mess up your head so you start worrying, and the only way round it is to take the piss, tell people you don’t care.

  –Alright, mush?

  Roy comes and sits down. He pulls off one of his boots and takes out a stone, puts it back on, digs out his tobacco tin, opens the lid and starts rolling up. He concentrates hard so he gets it right. Part of him is carefree, easygoing, the other serious. The things he cares about he makes sure he does right. I don’t really know him. Maybe I’m wrong. He lights up and sucks the smoke down, looks at me for the first time.

  –I was down here last night and the farmer turned up. Almost caught me red-handed. Turned his lights on and I was standing right there in the beam, out in the open, but I was facing the other way and just ran straight ahead so he couldn’t see my face. He chased me in the car, but I went in the trees and he had to stop. What does he think he’s going to do if he catches me?

  Don’t know why Roy doesn’t put a bag over the fence, same as I do with the cherries. Seems like a lot of bother wandering around in the dark for a few apples. I wouldn’t come down here at night. No chance. Can’t think of anything worse than being stuck in a wood at night.

  –Apples are too big, and you’d get seen. Anyway, I was after more than a snack and had the car parked down the lane. He must’ve been sitting here for hours, hanging around in the dark. Can’t see it’s worth the effort. What does he think he’s going to do?

  Maybe he had his gun with him and was going to shoot Roy and bury him in the woods. Use his body to feed the land and give him more tasty cherries. Roy stops what he’s doing and thinks about this for a while. I was only joking. His roll-up burns, ash building till he flicks it off.

  –No, he wouldn’t do that.

  Goes back to his roll-up.

  –You never know though.

  We sit in the sun, not saying much, and Roy has done a lot in his life, a proper man of the world, while I’m just a kid starting out, without much to say. His life is exciting, a single man who moves around, and he’s always going on about travelling, and every time I talk to him he wants to know what I’m going to do when I leave school. He keeps moving because he thinks that if you don’t you end up with a stake in the system, get lumbered, same as a peasant in the olden days, who belonged to the lord of the manor. If you’re moving, working day to day, cash in hand and outside the system, making the rules up as you go along, the government gets worried, can’t keep tabs on you. He says that one day they’ll get rid of the gypsies, have a crackdown on travelling people. There’s changes coming, and he says as you get older you think about these things, but I shouldn’t worry, I’m young with my whole life ahead of me.
Right now he’s quiet, but I’m playing old conversations in my head.

  –Wouldn’t you like to go on the road one day? he asks. See the world. Travel through France to the Mediterranean, go over to Ireland or up to Scotland, see the Highlands. You can stand in a field up there, keep still and in minutes it’s full of rabbits, hundreds of them running around. You could join the merchant navy, go round the world on a tanker, get pissed and chase the girls in Rio instead of Slough.

  I’ve never thought about going anywhere. I’m happy where I am. Wouldn’t mind a week at the seaside, but I’m not interested in seeing the world. I’d miss home too much. Next year I’ll leave school and find a job, and with some decent cash in my pocket things will pick up. I’ll save and buy a car. There’s pubs to drink in and bands to see. I can’t wait. It’s all here and I tell Roy that I won’t ever go anywhere for more than a couple of weeks on holiday. I’m not interested. I’m happy. Simple as that.

  –What about that plane up there, he says, pointing to a jet, so far up it’s quiet, a silver speck of tinfoil. Don’t you ever look at the aeroplanes and wonder where the people have been, where they’re going?

  It would be a laugh seeing what it’s like flying, but that’s about it really. I don’t worry about the future. To me it’s another record to look forward to, and I tell Roy no, I don’t wonder about the big wide world. That’s the truth. Life is good, and the worst thing that could ever happen has happened already. I tell him about Smiles and how we got a kicking, these older boys chucking us in the canal, how Smiles was in a coma and I was under the water thinking I was going to die, give him the whole story. It’s already drifting into the past, so I tell the story in a different way, can’t believe how quick things move on, and I have to force myself to tell him how it felt, and it’s not that I’ve forgotten, I’ll never forget, it’s just that putting it into words is hard. It’s not a big thing. I want him to know I’m not some sad case. I want to be my own person, do what I want, but I can do it right here.

  –I thought something was up with you, he says, puffing away. A holiday will do your mate good. Nothing that bad’s ever happened to me. I’ve been in punch-ups, stuff like that, but I’ve never nearly died, or had my best mate go in a coma. It’s a big thing to happen to someone. Specially at your age.

  When he’s finished his smoke, Roy goes off, and I climb the ladder and start on the cherries. My back’s baked and it’s starting to tighten up and really hurt. I fill the box and take it to the shed, ask the woman to put it on the tab for tomorrow. It’s starting to get dark earlier, and summer will be over soon. I’ve got another year at school and I can’t wait to get out. I’ll start looking for a Saturday job soon, but I’ve got nearly eighty pounds saved so don’t have to rush. I’m sitting pretty. Doing well.

  But if I get my finger out I’ll beat the bus to the stop and wipe that grin off the driver’s face, be home inside twenty minutes. Mum will have my tea ready, and I’ll have a wash and put on some clean clothes, nick some of Dad’s Brut, polish my boots and go and knock for Chris, meet Dave on the corner, keeping away from his mum. Tracy Mercer’s having a party tonight and we’ll have a drink before we go round, down the club probably, and this party should be stacked out with crumpet, I can see all these beauty queens lined up waiting for us to arrive. Tracy’s alright, a friendly girl, and best of all she has some tasty mates. I’m taking some johnnies with me just in case. I don’t want to get caught out like Smiles. Linda’s phoned him and said she’s had an abortion, so he’s off the hook, but you have to be careful. Seems a shame in a way. And Tracy will let us play some records, I know she will. Smiles will be gutted he missed out, but he’s probably having the time of his life with his dad and brother, a proper family living it up in Bournemouth, Arthur, Tony and Gary sitting on the pier eating doughnuts, playing the machines in the arcade. Things have worked out well. It’s going to be a good night. I can’t wait.

  ASYLUM

  Beijing, China Autumn 1988

  Gary died at home, but it was no peaceful exit, no tearful farewell with his family gathered by a warm bed, united in grief, cherishing the happy memories, holding the boy’s hand praying he’s off to a better place, the ghost of his mum waiting in the shadows, spirit guides ready to calm his fear, some sort of spiritual affair. It was nothing like that. Nothing at all. Gary was on his own for a start, and he didn’t gently slip away. He climbed into his dad’s loft, pulled the ladder up behind him, tied one end of the rope he’d bought to a beam and the other around his neck, then jumped back through the hole. It took him time to die as well. The doctor told Tony there was nothing instant about this suicide. Problem was, Gary was too light, and the knot wasn’t professional. He weighed less than nine stone and his neck didn’t snap with the jolt. Instead of a quick death and painless release from the horror ripping through his brain, he hung over the stairs and slowly choked to death, twisting in circles as the rope cut into his throat, noose tightening as it squeezed the breath out of his body. The doctor could’ve lied, eased the pain and told Tony and his old man he didn’t suffer, that he died in a split second, but no, he had to go and tell the truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth. The doctor gave them all the grim details, really went into things, what the burn marks on his neck showed, the dried piss down Gary’s legs and the shit filling his pants. He told them everything they didn’t want to hear.

  I’m sitting on the steps outside Beijing’s main post office reading Tony’s letter, the Queen’s face on the stamp reminding me of an England I haven’t seen for three years. I feel sick inside, read the letter again, stuff it back in the envelope, head down as the decent citizens click past, the military beat of Communist China, big-time city living, big-face party members, the peasants stuck out in the paddy fields, locked away in stone compounds. England’s a long way away right now, but I think of Gary, not England, Slough, anywhere, anyone else. Just his eyes bulging in the sockets, skin turning blue as he slowly chokes, blood vessels popping. I think of him getting kicked black and blue at closing time, unconscious on a dirty bridge crossing a dirty canal, flicks of moonlight skimming the steel pipes of the gasworks, catching the whites of his eyes, the outlines of rusty tanks, frogs croaking by the water, hiding in the undergrowth. I run a song through my head, can’t help it, ‘Down In The Tube Station At Midnight’ by the Jam, talking about the smell of brown leather, except it was soulboys sorting us out that night, plimsolls not DMs. Stupid games you play when you’re a kid. And that’s all we were. Fifteen-year-old boys who thought we were grown-up. The splash of two kids hitting the water, sinking down, and one came back up for air, the other didn’t.

  Poor old Gary. He was in such a state by the end he couldn’t even kill himself properly. I wish I knew what he was thinking when he did it, what was going through his brain as he set the thing up, decided life was shit and not worth living, that he didn’t want to see what was going to happen next, just couldn’t be bothered. He lost his curiosity and didn’t care about the future. The doctor told Tony suicide isn’t something that happens in a split second. Gary had to go out and buy the rope. Had to do his research and find the right shop. Get hold of a ladder and work out how he was going to arrange things. The length of the rope had to be right or he’d bang into the stairs and break his legs, paralyse himself and spend the rest of his life stuck in a wheelchair. I suppose nobody will ever know if he changed his mind while he was hanging there, if he had second thoughts and reached for a knife that didn’t exist, wished he could cut himself down and give it another go, start all over again. I could never kill myself like that. It’s another sort of madness.

  Tony says Gary was hanging there for two weeks. I know it doesn’t matter, not really, it was only the leftovers, skin and bones, but it seems worse than the actual dying somehow. Nobody missed him till Tony and his dad came back off holiday. Two weeks in mid-air, stuck in limbo when he should’ve been in hospital. He felt alright on the unit. Drugged and safe. Tony reckons he was let out so
the government could save money, Gary sent home to an empty house, something called care in the community. He was on his own, and I try to get inside his head, imagine his brain racing as the paranoia set in, ignoring the drugs that levelled things out, nobody there to spoon-feed him, the sound of taps in the bathroom and a picture of his mum dead in the bath, the voices coming back, eating into his soul, and I’m almost there for a few seconds, wash back out into a blank Chinese street. Tony doesn’t blame the actual nurses, says they did their best and had to obey orders, and he knows what Gary was like, how the sickness changed him, how he learnt to lie and con people, manipulating them same as a politician.

  I stand up and stuff the letter in my pocket, start walking back to the hotel. I don’t see much of what’s going on around me as I follow main roads, edges filled in with ink, racehorse blinkers, eyes dead ahead. I don’t smell the smells or hear the sounds, don’t see the faces or feel the bustle of busy lives, people laughing and arguing about the little things that are vital but right now seem like nothing. I know the way well enough to take a short cut, the streets here smaller, watching my step, eyes moving again, passing the hawkers and noodle-makers, the money-changers and chess players, ancient witches and newborn babies. Tarmac runs to stone as I cross a road and follow the pavement, broken slabs softening as I turn down an alleyway. Women wash clothes in bright plastic bowls and splash the earth with suds, soapy water quickly sinking away leaving dark patches of sweat, more memories, bloodstains, and the space is tight so I have to concentrate, the smell of charcoal and boiling vegetables stuck in a narrow corridor, planks of wood and patches of iron, voices darting out of glassless windows. I’m passing along a strip of life, all these connected generations I know nothing about, and I’ll be gone in a couple of minutes, feel as if I’m trespassing, leave the alley and return to the bigger outside world with a gush of wind and the roar of a loaded bus flashing past my face. One second earlier and I’d be dead as well.