Human Punk

by John King

  Dave’s well pissed, rambling off in different directions. His hand is bandaged up, and he’s keeping it under the table. Too much wanking.

  –Cheeky cunt, he laughs. There’s nothing wrong with my hand.

  He’s looking sheepish, never mind the bluff.

  –He got carved up, says this bloke Mo, who stops on his way out. Carved up and stitched up.

  –Other way round, says his mate. Stitched up and carved up.

  –Stitched up, carved up, stitched up again.

  They laugh and I sit still, doing my best to look blank. Mo leans forward as Dave eyes up a couple of teenage girls passing by the window, long stick-insect legs clicking down the road, a layer of china-white skin coating brittle bones. They can’t be more than fifteen, and Dave shrugs when he turns back.

  –He got stitched up buying drugs off this Paki in Reading, Mo says. Then he got carved up. He drove back and went down Wexham Park, where he was stitched up by a local nurse from Bangladesh.

  I look at Dave. He’s wearing another Stone Island top, different colour and style. Don’t know how he does it. I ask Dave who it was, if the man used a knife or a razor.

  –Don’t worry about all that. It was a flick knife. He’s been watching too many films.

  –Fucking Pakis, selling drugs and working in the hospital. They’re everywhere.

  If I was buying a round I’d sink a mouthful of gob in the head of Mo’s pint. Nurses are important, part of a welfare system mugs like Mo would close down if they had the chance, so they could have an extra five pence in their wage packet. The bloke’s a cunt.

  –It was nothing, Dave says. I was pissed, that’s all, and I started mouthing off. Too much whizz mixed with the drink, too much coke. It was my own fault. I only had two stitches. It looks worse than it is.

  –Thought you said eleven, Mo says. Eleven fucking stitches off some smelly Paki.

  Mo and his mate leave, laughing. Dave looks out of the window and watches them go.

  –Wankers.

  We sit quietly sipping our drinks, looking into the street. I ask him if he remembers when this pub was called the Grapes, before they gutted it and put in a big screen.

  –That’s right, he laughs, sitting back in his seat. We had a punch-up outside in the street. We ended up rolling around in the gutter like a couple of tarts. Chris stepped in and sorted us out. What was it about?

  Fuck knows. I knocked Dave out when we were back on our feet. He forgets that. I walked off, next stop Hong Kong. Probably wasn’t about anything in particular, just a feeling, settling old scores. Least he doesn’t remember me knocking him out.

  –You knocked me out, he says. You always had a good right hook. Mo was right about the stitches as well. Eleven of the fuckers. They’ll leave a scar. My hand’s killing me.

  I made up for it when I came back, helped him out on that same patch of concrete and did six months. I tell Dave I’ll go down to Reading with him if he wants to sort the bloke out. It’s out of order using a knife like that. Dave’s not a shitter or anything, but he’s no nutter either.

  –It doesn’t matter. I was giving the bloke too much verbal at the time. You’re right what you said that time, when we were pissed and wanted to smack up that geezer who lobbed you and Smiles in the canal, right after you came home. Revenge is for mugs, specially if they never really meant it. Mind you, the bloke who cut me wasn’t worried about all that. Fresh off the train from Russia and we had a row. How long was it till we had a drink? Didn’t talk to each other for a long time.

  It was six months more or less. Something like that. Six-month sentences everywhere you look.

  Luke comes over and Dave shifts, hardly noticing till Luke places a drink in front of me and sits down. Dave’s in trouble, a mixture of drink and drugs, prescription now as well as recreational, head floating outside his body, except it’s no hippy trip this, just another night down the pub. He’s got to sort himself out, but if I try and talk to him he doesn’t want to know. He’s floating in and out, making sense, talking shit.

  –Thing is, I didn’t go tooled up. That was a mistake. It was you giving me looks after that barney outside the chip shop that made me leave the knife at home. I thought I was paranoid, like you said, but I was right all the time. There’s always some cunt after you. I won’t be making the same mistake again.

  And Dave’s rabbiting away, at the same time sneaking a look at Luke who’s got his pint glass wedged in his mouth. Something’s ticking away in Dave’s nut, but he’s too far gone. He shakes his head.

  –I’ve got to go home, he says. I’ve had enough.

  He looks at Luke.

  –Don’t I know you from somewhere, mate?

  –Don’t think so, Luke answers.

  –You look familiar, that’s all.

  Dave leans over and whispers in my ear, nice and loud so Luke can hear, his volume control gone.

  –Who is he?

  I catch Luke’s eye and know he doesn’t want the hassle, tell Dave he’s a mate of Charlie Parish.

  –Parish? Who the fuck’s Charlie Parish?

  He knows who Parish is, he’s drunk with him enough times, maybe doesn’t know his second name so I fill him in and he nods again, makes a big deal of shaking Luke’s hand. He goes quiet and gets up to leave, his pint still half full.

  –I’m off home.

  When he reaches the door he stops and looks back, frowns, wanders off into the night. Dave’s confused, and Luke’s face is going to spin around in his head. I wonder if he’ll remember any of this tomorrow.

  –He’s a bit of a state, Luke laughs.

  I tell him that was Dave Barrows, punk, rude boy, soulboy and casual, who loved his clothes when the rest of us didn’t give a toss, but came along anyway, what we used to call a part-timer. But if I’m honest, Dave has all the same angles as the rest of us, knows the music and shares the feeling, it was just that when push came to shove he was more interested in getting his leg over. He’s alright. Dave’s a good bloke.

  –You ready for another?

  Luke hurries back to the bar with the fiver I give him, seeing as it’s my round. He’s either got a thirst on or he’s a pisshead. And I look at the barmaid and she’s flat-chested, so I don’t know what Dave was going on about. Funny thing is, we’ve argued since the day we met, kicked lumps out of each other a few times, but I’m worried about the bloke. It’s a funny thing to admit, and maybe Sarah’s opened my eyes. She’s got a point. Maybe the people you fight with are the ones you’re closest to, otherwise you wouldn’t bother. Sarah’s in my head a lot now, and she’s the sort I should be keeping away from, with her kid and everything.

  –That barmaid’s flat as a pancake, Luke says. Nice arse though.

  We sit drinking till closing time, Luke lagging after his third pint, a quick start then runs out of stamina early doors. We get home with five minutes to spare, and Luke’s visit has to be polished off in the proper way. I’m quickly on the phone and the usual soothing voice is waiting, full of understanding and a willingness to help, the same face I’ve never seen, chiselled old features and misty brown eyes. When this man is in a good mood, with time on his hands, he loves a joke, enjoys some friendly banter with his callers, but now it’s late and he wants to get off home. Can’t blame him either. He’s polite but firm, listens and reads back what I’ve said, adds a tub of lime pickle, takes my address and says the boy will be here inside half an hour. I put the phone down and imagine him at the end of the Chapatti kitchen, keeping tabs on the lads working in hot conditions, the chefs lording it like chefs do, treating the washer-up to a pint of lager from the pub across the road. I can see the kid stuck over a sink, scratching at the balti dishes, trying to get rid of the grime.

  –Tell me about the canal, Luke says. Mum said you and Dad were chucked in a canal and he ended up in a coma. She went to her auntie’s when he was in hospital and never saw him again.

  We’re both pissed, and because he’s leaving tomorrow I tell him
how we got beaten up by this bloke Gary Wells and three others. I tell him how Smiles was face down in the water, how some people blamed his suicide on that. There were other things that could’ve affected him. He nods. Smiles told Linda a lot about his life, and it’s strange as he didn’t really know her, but maybe he found it easier talking about those things to a girl. Suppose we all need that at the end of the day.

  –Mum says Dad used to get slapped about by his grandad. That’s why I never want to see him. She thinks that really upset him, with his mum dead and everything. Life just went wrong for him, finding the body and then getting beaten up like that.

  It’s true. Smiles didn’t have much luck.

  –That was bad enough, and then one day his brother tells him the reason their mum cut her wrists was because the old man was shagging a woman he’d known before they were married, in their bed as well, on and off for a couple of years. Imagine that. The old cunt was doing the dirty on her, and then when she tops herself he takes it out on his sons. Fucking cunt. My uncle should’ve kept his mouth shut as well. Dad didn’t need to know. There’s some things you should keep to yourself.

  I never knew that, and it takes a while for the shock to wear off. I listen to Luke talk until the bell rings. I open the front door and take the plastic bag, put it down on the carpet in the living room, get some plates, spoons, knives, forks from the kitchen. Luke’s quiet as I open the lids, peel them off the cartons and spread the food out. I get stuck into my pharl, the sort of heat that melts your mouth, makes your nose run, burns all the badness away. Luke has a Madras. I’m tired and go to bed when we’re finished, my head spinning trying to get to grips with what he’s said, leave him sitting on the couch watching a Jerry Springer show, sex-change couples battering each other for a screaming audience, poor blacks and white trash chanting JERRY JERRY JERRY. Some old bollocks like that. I think of Stalin and maybe I should’ve guessed what happened, that there had to be something more to it, try to imagine the guilt he must’ve felt.

  AGAINST THE GRAIN

  There’s a million different truths, and I reckon Luke’s got one of the best versions going. His face is bruised, but he seems alright. That shouldn’t have happened. He should’ve stayed home instead of going out early morning, stirring up trouble. The anger firms up in my knuckles and what’s happened to him is wrong, right down the line. It’s out of order. Bang out of order. But I’m keeping quiet, least till he’s left. And Luke’s got his whole life ahead of him, a cheap room and a sea view, his mum nearby, dreams to chase. He swings his bag as we cross the high street and go into the arcade, rockets exploding inside computer shops, kids bunking off school, roaming the racks, and we leave the warm glow of the shops behind, the pad of rubber soles on subway steps, the click of a teenager’s high heels in this long grim tunnel with the tiny dot of light at the far end, conversation dipping as our words are punched back from the sort of grimy walls you normally find in a train-station bog, the stink of old piss and sweat swamping the disinfectant, the babble of police radios fading as the biggest boy in a crew of crop-skulled wannabes fizzes up a can of Coke and sprays the runt. The kid shrugs and tries to smile, walks taller. One of the boys. Fitting in.

  We swing through new perspex doors and keep going past the ramp leading into the bus station, the smell of trapped fumes making my eyes water, some loony on the prowl with a bottle of ammonia, bright hip-hop graffiti and markers covering the tiles, blazing colours showing off cartoon characters, flashy designs without a message, a long hike to the end of the tunnel, that prick of light growing and turning into a beam as we get nearer the exit, a big punch of energy when we come into daylight. We keep going to the train station, past the taxi rank packed with Estuary skins, engines revving as a train glides in, heading west. I buy Luke a one-way ticket to Paddington and push his hand away from the glass when he pulls out a tenner, CCTV digging into a friendly row over which one of us is going to pay the fare. The girl behind the glass looks up from her computer screen and clocks Luke, surprised by the bruises, deep patches of red and black, the tape in the camera and film in her head recording his battered face.

  We cross the bridge and wait on the Paddington platform. The monitor says the next train is due in four minutes, blinks, shuts down. And after talking so much over the last couple of days we wait for the train in silence. It would sound empty going on about the weather, or the trip ahead, even the look on the girl’s face. I check the bruises and Luke’s right eye has swelled up so much he can hardly see out of it. It makes me sick seeing him like this, but I keep a lid on things, want to wave him off, make sure he’s safe and sound, out of harm’s way. There’s no point making a fuss. CCTV keeps on ticking, indexing two men on a platform, rocking foot to foot as they stare down the line, a friendly Big Brother making sure one man sees his friend off in safety, the easy flow of everyday life, time recorded, the routine of a normal existence, every curve of our faces burnt into the memory banks.

  –Thanks for letting me stay, Luke says.

  I nod and tell him it was a pleasure. It was an honour to meet him. He’s always welcome, and I hope he comes back one day. He should come and stay at Christmas. We’ll go round the house I grew up in and he can eat Dad’s sprouts. My sister and brother-in-law are always there, plus their three kids and dog. Christmas is a good time. It doesn’t have anything to do with religion, it’s just a chance for people to be together.

  –I might do that, he says.

  Maybe he will, maybe he won’t. Can’t force him. Christmas is a time for family, and it couldn’t have been much fun stuck in care. Mind you, he’s got his mum now, and he should be with her.

  –I’m glad I came and saw where Dad lived. It was a mystery before. I used to think all sorts when I was growing up, specially at night lying awake in bed, putting Dad in films off the telly. I look like him, don’t I? I wish I had a photo. Least I saw where he lived anyway. Dad was lucky to have a friend like you.

  It’s the best compliment he could give me and means a lot. I look at the ground and say thanks. I lived, Smiles died. It could’ve been the other way round. I lived and my twin brother died. There was nothing I could do about him, but I’ve spent my whole life wondering why. If I was quicker, maybe Smiles would be alive today. Luke doesn’t know how much I’ve thought about that night over the years. I don’t know if he’s right about Smiles being lucky, but it’s a nice thing for him to say. I did my best.

  –I’m not just saying it.

  We both look away for a second. I’ve tried to give him the good memories, done my best to show Luke what Smiles was like before he got sick, going back to when we were little boys in primary school. Maybe Smiles was dead when the Major pulled him out of the canal, the rest of his life twilight years where he went through the motions. I’ve tried to cut out the dark frames, except for last night when I was pissed. That was a mistake, but overall I think I did alright. I should’ve kept my mouth shut last night.

  There’s no point making things worse, adding another layer to the years of loneliness, the tragedy of suicide. Luke is going to think he missed out on the chance to grow up knowing his dad, and that can’t be changed, so it won’t do him any good hearing how Smiles used to go on about dictators living in the community, the mass murderers lurking in the corner shop, shoplifting cartons of milk. He’s had enough bad luck for one lifetime.

  The tracks ping and Luke’s train is on its way. The sound firms up and becomes more steady, the rumble of carriages taking over, the engine reaching the platform, stopping, doors swinging open.

  –Thanks.

  We shake hands. His grip is firm and we’re both emotional. We control ourselves and he gets on, slams the door and pulls the window down. He leans out and smiles. This is the modern world and soon he’ll be plugged into his Walkman, the sounds of Britain pumping into his brain, the clanks and blips of the machine. I look along the platform and an old man blows a whistle, the light catching the backdrop just right turning it into a scene of
f an Indian film, breeze blocks lining one side of the tracks, the light dimming as I look further along to the dirty bricks of the bridge. The train sucks in air and starts moving.

  –Good luck, Luke shouts. Good luck, Joe.

  I laugh and wave, wonder why he thinks I need luck, watch the train pull away from the platform. Smiles leans out with a big grin on his face, old beyond his years, as if he knows something about me I don’t know myself, feeling what the other person feels, Smiles in a jean jacket with the sleeves ripped off, bleach worked into the denim, and I know his Martens will be polished up special for the trip into London, satellite boys on the prowl. Luke in his sweatshirt and trainers, a kid moving on.

  The train picks up speed and shrinks into the tracks, flashing under the bridge and vanishing. I stand on the empty platform as the sound in the rails fades, imagine Smiles shooting into the distance leaving crumpled tin cans and sweet wrappers flapping behind, the dead hair of thousands of people passing through, dead hair in the bath, blocking the plughole, just passing through and going nowhere. I think of that stuck-up cunt John Betjeman and his poem asking German bombs to come and fall on Slough, saying it’s not fit for humans now, and what did that wanker know, sitting in first class, cruising through and passing judgement, slagging off thousands of ordinary lives. Fucking cunt. Places like Slough get caned by these self-appointed experts, one of thousands of places where the social commentators never stop, flashing past in a train or on the motorway. It takes time for things to grow, for a culture to sink roots and flower, same as in America. Over the years life has spread out, the local markets and pubs as well as the houses, roads, depots, shops, jobs. Betjeman rolled on through and didn’t even bother to get off. He sums up the condescending attitude of this country’s Establishment, who look at the housing they’ve forced people into and turn up their noses. Everyone and everywhere has a culture, and if someone can’t see it then it’s because they can’t be bothered. The best thing about life is that there’s always something new coming through.