Human Punk

by John King

  Micky Todd comes back out of the bogs, smiling, chatting to people he knows, looking pleased with himself, like he’s one of the royal family out pressing flesh, filling up on cucumber sandwiches instead of coke, thinks he’s at a garden party full of lords and ladies instead of a pub packed with dodgy geezers.

  –How do you know all this? Chris asks after a while. When did Alfonso tell you?

  –He never told me. I heard the story off this Sharon bird, who knows Lizzy.

  And there was me thinking Dave was in the room, under the bed, sitting in the corner stroking the dog. Clem’s thinking the same way.

  –You fucking plum.

  Dave laughs, more relaxed tonight, giving the charlie a miss. He’s had the stitches taken out of his hand and shows me the scar. Didn’t want to earlier, but now he’s had a drink it’s out of his pocket and on display. Getting done like that has made him sit up and take notice of what I was saying. He has to watch himself. The scar crosses his life line and I tell him he should keep away from fortune tellers.

  –My whole hand aches, he says. There’s a lot of nerves been cut. The doctor says I’ve got to take it easy. Imagine slicing me up over something like that. Micky’s sending a firm over to Reading. I told him to leave it, that it was my fault and up to me to sort out, but you know what he’s like. Said it was bad for his reputation.

  I tell him what Dad was saying about the Major, how he went over and there was all these slugs lined up on his work table, and the Major was cutting them up for his compost heap. I can almost see the slime oozing out of their pimply bodies, feelers twitching from the pain.

  –I always said he was a psycho. You never believed me.

  The slugs were dead. It makes a difference. It’s only meat. People get more upset by mutilation than the actual death. We all do it. You think anyone who carves up the dead has to be mental, but really, it doesn’t matter.

  –You’re right, I suppose, it doesn’t make any difference, but it’s not nice, is it? It’s not exactly normal. You’ve got to be a headcase to go round chopping up dead bodies.

  We’re quiet for a bit, thinking about the madmen who come in the night and cause chaos, move on before the sun rises, and it’s the same as when there’s a riot and the Old Bill blame outsiders. It’s an easy way out, pinning the blame on an unseen enemy so you don’t have to look too close to home.

  Dave nods, looks at the empty glasses and presses into the bar, orders when his turn comes, and I suppose I did alright by Luke, gave him a place to sleep and showed him round. It was long enough. There’s only so much you can say. And I said too much, when I was pissed and should’ve kept my mouth shut, telling him about Wells, so Luke only goes and looks him up in the phone book when I’m asleep, calls Estuary Cars and goes round his house. He knocks on Wells’s door and wakes him up. Luke’s half-cut and wants to talk to him, except there’s nothing to say. Wells laughs in the kid’s face. Knocks him down and kicks him in the head. Says he chucked some punk in the canal, so fucking what? Heard he topped himself and reckons it’s a good job too. Steams in and gives the kid a pasting. Kicks the shit out of him.

  –You want lager or Guinness?

  What sort of man does and says those sorts of things about someone who’s killed himself? Everyone should be humble now and then. Learn from past mistakes.

  –Can you hear me? What’s the matter with you? Do you want lager or Guinness?

  The Guinness is going down a treat.

  –Cheer up, will you.

  Claret and his mates come in the pub. They don’t like it round here, reckon Slough should be renamed Paki Town and twinned with Calcutta, most of them from the surrounding towns and villages. Claret is handy with a knife, part of a new generation of football hooligans who’d rather have a toe-to-toe halfway across London than bother with the game. Even Micky Todd treats him with caution, waves the bloke over.

  –Todd’s sending Claret down to sort those blokes out, the ones who cut me up, Dave says. He won’t let me go. Says I’m a liability, the amount of charlie I’ve been doing. Still, I’ve got a handle on things now.

  I hope so. It’s alright for rich people who get addicted, but if you don’t have the money to either feed your habit or go in a clinic and sort things out with the help of professionals, same as these pop and sports stars, then you don’t stand a chance.

  –It’s a load of bollocks, Clem says, turning his back on Todd and the others. Don’t understand this fighting bollocks.

  He sips his pint, and Charlie leans over, starts talking to this girl he knows, big hoops through her eyebrow.

  –Do you remember that holiday we had at the seaside? Clem asks Dave. When we stayed in your caravan.

  Dave nods and laughs.

  –Didn’t get much sleep either, and it wasn’t the shagging keeping me awake, because there wasn’t any. It was you snoring.

  Clem smiles. He’s thinking about the photo I borrowed off him. I try and think of something to take him off the subject, don’t want Dave and Chris wondering what I was doing. Charlie steps back in, the girl blowing him out, saves my life.

  –We’re going over to Ibiza in the summer, he says. Never mind caravans in Bognor. What do you want to stay in a caravan when you can go to Ibiza?

  –Bournemouth, Dave says. We don’t have it any more. It rusted away. And it was Bournemouth, not Bognor.

  –Bournemouth, Bognor, what’s the difference.

  Dave smiles.

  –You should come over to Ibiza, Charlie says to me.

  I tell him no, I don’t fancy it, all that sun, wine and disco house shit driving me mad, brain-dead music pushing me over the side. If I go on holiday I prefer a bank holiday at the seaside, a week in Amsterdam or Berlin, a few days in Dublin pissing it up, catching the EuroStar over to Paris when there’s a decent band on, buying a cheap flight to Stockholm or Oslo and staying in a youth hostel for a week, dipping into the scene over there, a week in Lisbon or Barcelona. But I don’t say anything, don’t want to start an argument. It’s different tastes, and when I was younger I’d have taken the piss something rotten, because that’s what we did, and I used to give Dave a lot of stick when him and Chris went off to Spain for two weeks dancing with Donna Summer, just so they could get their end away, and they did the same with me. They’re welcome to their resorts. Mind you, if they played some decent music I’d think about it, but if I spend big money going anywhere it’ll be New York. But I’m not bothered about that right now. I’ve got other things planned. Bigger fish to fry.

  –I could do with some sun, Dave says, turning to Chris. What about you?

  –We’re booked up. Two weeks in Cornwall. Can’t wait. The kids wanted to go to Disneyland, but we can’t afford it. Maybe next year.

  There’s always next year. Things to look forward to. New music, places, ways of doing things. I put my hand in my pocket and feel the toilet paper wrapped tight, the strip of harder tape.

  –You’ll be off with that Sarah bird, Dave says to me. It’s love, mate, fucking love. It’s in your eyes.

  I haven’t known her long. Can’t think about things like that right now, and anyway, I’d never settle down and live with someone. Death on wheels. No offence, Chris.

  –None taken, he says, grinning.

  It was funny meeting Sarah’s boy Jimmy like that, at the fair. I thought it would put me off her, but it doesn’t, makes me see her as stronger than ever. I’ve always liked strong women. Some blokes go for looks pure and simple, something out of an advert, but it’s the personality with me. She’s a good girl.

  –Did you hear about Baresi? Dave asks.

  Everyone shakes their heads.

  –You know the other night, when he was supposed to have that stripper coming down to suck him off onstage?

  –The Beautiful Belinda.

  –From Barbados?

  –Brixton more like. Well, someone called her up on Baresi’s mobile and told her not to show, then left it on. His phone was on for four days
till the cleaner found it by the bog door. It’s going to cost him a fortune.

  We all laugh. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer bloke. Well, it could, but he deserves everything he gets.

  –I’m starving, Chris says.

  –Have a roll.

  So Chris has a roll and we do what we always do, stay till closing time, have a laugh, feeling good together, and I’m measuring my drink, not going overboard. One or two people can control a session, by either drinking fast or going slow, and with Dave struggling it’s not hard to come out of the pub fairly sober.

  –See you, boys.

  I walk some of the way with Dave. We go in the chip shop and the bloke behind the counter nods when he sees us. Don’t know why he’s being so friendly, then I remember the other night when we came in pissed, the punch-up with those muppets. We buy some chips and walk down the road, sit on a wall stuffing our faces. A police car steams past, its light flashing, faces staring straight ahead, gagging for some action. We eat slowly. I’ve forgotten to put salt on the chips and I have to force them down. I’ve got other things on my mind, gearing up for the night’s work. The KFC and McDonald’s windows are safe tonight, and Manors is out of the picture. Sarah’s face flashes in my head. Tonight’s a special night. I finish first and lob the wrapper into a rubbish bin. It’s a good shot. But I’m still hungry. Should’ve bought something to go with the chips, and I could go back to the chippy but can’t put this off any longer. I fancy a samosa now I’m thinking about it, some spice, an onion bhaji or something, push the images away, tell Dave that it’s been scientifically proved that cocaine is worse than wanking, really does make you go blind as he lobs his paper and misses. I tell him I’m off. I’ll talk to him later.

  –Where you going? Dave asks. Your place is the other way.

  I tell him I’m going for a wander.

  –Where you off to? Come on, Joe. What’s the matter with you? You’ve been acting funny all night. What’s happened?

  I’m fine, but he’s got to go home.

  –I’ll come with you. Something’s wrong. I know you.

  I turn round and square up to him, tell him to fuck off and leave me alone. He stops and stands on the corner looking confused. It’s for his own good. He watches me go and I turn the corner. Take my time walking through the streets, eventually find the house I want and plot up across the road. Stand in the shadows. I watch Wells in his living room. He’s on his own, just back from the pub, or been watching a video maybe. I can see right through the house, the living room going from front to back. He comes over to the window and looks out, pulls the curtains. The rest of the house is dark. I can’t believe he gave Luke a pasting like that, slapped him up in the air and kicked him down the path next to the house. But what really gets me, worse than this, is that he doesn’t even know Smiles’s name. He almost killed the bloke, almost killed me, and there was me thinking it was an accident, believed all that stuff he said in court, kids going too far, can’t sleep at night, feels so bad about what happened. I did my best to think how the other bloke was thinking, but the thing is, I was putting my thoughts in his head. If that was me I’d be cut up about it for the rest of my life. He doesn’t call Luke’s dad Smiles, or Gary, or even Dodds, just labels him ‘some fucking punk’. That’s what really gets me.

  I reach in my pocket and feel the badge wrapped in toilet paper, held together with Sellotape. I walk across the road, face down, feeling like something out of an old black-and-white B-movie, the assassin who comes in the night, faceless, collar up, except I don’t have a collar, and this is personal, doing my best to keep the anger under control. I ring the doorbell and wait. I haven’t set eyes on the bloke for years, and he’s got the same sneer on his face, a pile of change in his hand which goes flying as I move forward and catch him in the face so he staggers back down the hall, reaches out and grabs the banister, stays on his feet. I hit him again, close the door behind me. I hold back, don’t put all my force into the punches. Have to be careful. Wells doesn’t have a clue who I am. I can see it in his face. So I tell him. Hold up the ‘God Save The Queen’ badge he ripped off Smiles, and which I’ve kept all these years. He knows now, but it’s a tiny part of his life, not one of his priorities. And I’m in his house, in his hallway, trespassing, blood down his shirt from my fist. I stand back and he comes at me, so I punch him again, and this time it’s textbook but packed with anger, and I know I’ve done some damage. He hits the floor and rolls over. Then he’s still. I remember this from before, and don’t worry too much.

  The bell rings and I stand still. The hall is dark, light creeping in under the living-room door. I crouch down, look at Wells’s face inches away, the features hidden. I take the badge out of my pocket and open it up. Pull the pin out so it’s straight and push it into his cheek, just like he did to Smiles all those years ago. The skin resists, then pops. I push harder so it goes right in. Same badge, same action. He doesn’t move. There’s a trickle of blood. I wipe it with my finger, stay crouched as the bell rings again. Once, twice, three more times. Don’t know who’s on the other side of the door, but I wish they’d fuck off. I stand up and go to the kitchen, look out of the back window, move around in the darkness, past a rack full of dishes, spotting the silver blade of a carving knife. I hear someone come down the side of the house and move back into the hall. I think of Alfonso with a knife in his hand, surprising burglars, except I’ve got no argument with whoever’s out there. I’ve come for Mr Wells.

  I can smell curry and realise he’s only gone and called Chapatti Express. They must make a mint down there. Everyone’s tucking in. I can hear the kid round the back of the house knocking on a window. He probably thinks Wells has fallen asleep, pissed and tired. Maybe he’ll try an open door and waltz right in, and I’ll have to stand and face a boy earning pennies ferrying lumps of chicken tikka around. Just doing his job. The chicken skinned and diced. Pink meat and Bangladeshi spices. It’s the little people who get blamed for everything and end up in trouble, and I always thought that was true about Wells, that he made a mistake, but the truth is he never learnt his lesson and kept picking on easy targets. I stand over him, looking down, in charge now.

  A minute later I open the front door and go outside, click it shut. The street’s empty and I step forward, knock into the Chapatti boy’s plastic bag. I look inside and see a familiar greaseproof bag on top of the silver containers. I grab it and quickly walk along the path, head down, start running when I’m in the shadows, run till I’m out in the lights again, open the bag and take out an onion bhaji, rip into it, my hands covered in grease, a strange blood-like colour under the lamps, keep my face hidden as I hurry home.

  I get up early and go down the cafe, order my breakfast off Tracy Mercer who runs the place with her boyfriend Terry. She’s looking fit in Umbro tracksuit bottoms and a loose T-shirt struggling with the fading smile of Diana, wrinkles creasing the face of a dead princess, the Union Jack logo on Tracy’s trainers smudged with oil. We have a chat about nothing in particular, and when she mentions the mutilated body that’s been on the news I stare at the counter. She says the police have questioned a youth who works for a local takeaway, but he’s been released without charge. I shrug my shoulders and tell her I don’t watch telly much, can’t stand all that doom and gloom, nasty little back-stabbing reporters shit-stirring for a living, stitching people up for a handful of silver, making up stories. She frowns and says she knows what I mean, don’t they have souls, don’t they ever think what it must feel like having your life spread over the front pages, but according to the news the head was cut off.

  I feel sick, see my order scribbled on her pad, and when I say I’m starving she smiles so her teeth catch the light, sparkle they’re that clean, a perfect line off Baywatch. She pops a tea-bag in a mug and covers it with boiling water, takes a spoon and presses it against the side, counts to ten and flicks it in a saucer. There’s a small stack there, colour fading as they dry and show the pores, bleeding dry. Tracy lean
s through the hatch and passes my order to Terry, and I choose a table by the window where I can sit and watch the street pick up, adding sugar and stirring well, creating a whirlpool with my spoon, the tea spinning faster and faster. I take my spoon out and the mixture keeps twisting, slowing down.

  I place my hands around the mug and see how long I can keep them there. I want to burn my fingers off, show I can do anything I want and get away with it, believe that I’m invincible and will never get caught out. Rain dots the window as a bus accelerates towards a puddle, splashing three boys in black puffa jackets. They hop back, kicking against the water soaking their jeans, shaking their heads and shouting after a bus that’s quickly gaining speed, on the run, the bulldog jaw of the bald driver fixed in a big grin. I have to smile, can’t help it, laugh out loud so Tracy looks over and nods, goes back to the paper she’s reading. Now the boys are laughing, seeing the funny side of things as they push each other into the puddle, sunlight warming the pavement, mist rising from tarmac. And I was back in the tropics last night, with the rain hammering on the roof, sheet lightning cracking the sky apart, rain taking the hard edge off life, easing the pressure with a quick monsoon rinse. In summer it’s even better, when car fumes hang in the air and people are tense, and those storms they had in Hong Kong were so special I used to go up on to the roof of Chungking Mansions and watch the sky light up, killer blades stabbing into the city, chopping and hacking away at the skyscrapers, showing where the real power lies.

  The smell of cooking food starts my mouth watering and I think about ordering an extra round of toast. Money in my pocket means I can have anything I want. The person before me has left a paper behind, the front page taken up by a story of a public face being gay. I laugh and look outside, watch the people pass till Tracy brings me my breakfast. This woman is an angel, a girl from another planet, from Planet Reebok. Steam hisses behind the counter and Tracy tells me to enjoy my breakfast as I add salt, and looking out of the window there’s this rush as I realise life doesn’t get much better than this. It can’t do, sitting in a hideaway stuffing your face, in familiar surroundings, everything sorted, justice done, in among the houses, pubs, shops, patches of grass you know and love, miles away from the scum who try to control us. Fuck them. I’m topping up on life, buzzing like I’ve been at the charlie with my old mate Dave, except I’m not on anything, trying to slow down and stay in control, riding the old dodgems of life, electricity cracking right there above my head, tapping into the generator that keeps the light shining.