by John King
They hear our accents and know we’re from London, but it doesn’t faze them. They’ve been down a few times themselves but reckon it’s a shit town full of posers. It’s expensive and the clubs are full of silly little kids. The girl with the strong perfume and willing nipples will be no problem and Steve’s straight in with her mate. Doesn’t waste any time, I’ll give him that much. He’s giving her some nonsense about how much he loves Manchester. How London’s a dump and even though I should be concentrating on the bird next to me who’s flashing her eyes in that way pissed girls tend to do, he’s winding me up without knowing it, all in the cause of getting his end away.
I can take a bit of a pisstake from the girls because at the end of the night I’ll be doing the business and it’s all in good fun. But Steve’s got nothing to offer. I mean, if it was a mob of blokes in a pub I didn’t know and they were taking the piss out of London, or worse than that, Chelsea, then we’d just steam in without a second’s thought. But with the girls I can take the joke, basically I suppose because they’re women and there’s some kind of inbred respect deep down inside, buried under all the insults and jokes. Steve’s a relative of a mate so I have to play the game, but he can go too far with the slagging. He’s a bit of a smarmy cunt, but he’s Mark’s cousin so I keep my mouth shut.
—I was glad to get out of London and move up here. The people are more genuine and you don’t get so many madmen walking the streets. Up here people talk to each other and everything costs less so you can afford to go out more. The people are real. They’re not so bothered with their image and how much they earn.
I notice Rod giving Steve the eye, picking up on his line of chat. He looks my way and I know we’re thinking the same thing. I mean, he might have a point about some of the things he’s going on about, but at the end of the day you don’t slag your own kind. The truth’s often hard to swallow but you don’t abandon your culture whatever anyone tells you. Steve might have lived in Manchester for the last six years, but he was born and raised in London and he’s always going to have a bond with the place.
It’s like the Indians in Southall. You might take the piss occasionally but they’re not just going to come over and ditch everything because they’re in England. They’re not going to give up their curries and start eating beans on toast every night. They can mix respect with their own ways. You’re always going to push your way of life, but deep down you understand what’s what and Steve’s just making a cunt of himself in my eyes. He’s like those wankers who are always slagging off the Union Jack. Say it’s a symbol of fuck knows what. They all have the same accents. All follow the same kind of politics. Posh accents, posh politics. Intellectuals they like to call themselves, but they’re just outsiders who don’t belong in their own culture.
Maybe Steve’s one of those misfits, but he hasn’t got the accent and I doubt he’s got any politics other than the politics of dumping his load. But that’s just as fucked as the tossers who deliver lectures on something they’ve never experienced. Steve’s following the politics of promising anything and slagging everything off just to shaft some pissed bird who’ll knob anything she can get hold of because it’s Saturday night. Steve’s just fulfilling a social obligation. Saturday night. Bloke shags bird. Girl shags bloke. Says anything to achieve that goal. Basically, the man’s got no pride. No self-respect. No nothing. He’s one of those people you meet who needs to impress and has no solid foundation. He’ll say anything, do anything. Another cunt in a world jam-packed with them.
I finish my pint and Mark’s at the bar ordering. I think his cousin’s a wanker and I’m wondering whether to let him in on the secret, but we’re not pissed enough yet. Steve’s like a fair weather football fan. He’ll go along with the atmosphere when the team’s doing well but you won’t see him for ten years when they’re losing. He’ll come along to Anfield because it’s a short drive down the motorway, and he’ll rant and rave because everyone else is doing it, but that’s as far as it goes.
—The worst thing about London is places like Brixton. You go down there and you might as well be in New York. It’s a dangerous place not safe for a woman to walk around once it gets dark.
I’m looking at the back of his head as he rambles on and he’s giving her a long line of shit because he’s been slagging off Moss Side and Hume for the same reasons when we were at Anfield. I don’t know, maybe I shouldn’t get so wound up about things. Maybe it’s just me. He’s pissed and talking shit. I should let it go. Not worry about what Steve has to say to shag a tart. But then I think of football and how you go everywhere through thick and thin and it represents something, like being faithful maybe, but he just doesn’t understand the notion. I go for a piss.
I’m standing with my head against the wall pissing away the lager. I think of that smarmy wanker in the last pub. Must be down the hospital at this very moment. I could have killed the bastard and I start thinking what it must be like to go down for twenty years. To find yourself banged up slopping out every morning. Shifted around the country from prison to prison, trying to keep your nose clean so you can get time off your sentence, but the whole time bottling everything up just wanting to kick fuck out of someone and release the tension. I do my buttons up and wash my face in the sink. I’m wound up worse than normal and I don’t know why. I’m on for a shag, seen Chelsea, even though we got beat, and I’ve had the bonus of smacking some wanker already tonight. Even so, I want to nut Steve, but know it’s not on because he’s Mark’s cousin and Mark’s a good mate. A diamond. We go back years. Same with Rod. Another diamond. Both do anything for you. We stick together and help each other out. I let the cold water wake me up and I feel in control again. Go back in the bar and take the drink Mark’s just bought.
—Are you coming back then? The girl I’ve been chatting with leans into me, rubbing against me. She’s already sorted things with her mate. We could go on somewhere if you want, but I’m pissed.
—You can come back to my place, Steve says, interrupting. It’s not far. We can get a cab. I’ll pay if you’re short.
—No, I don’t fancy odds of four onto two. I look at the woman wondering if she thinks we’re sick or something. Rapists or gang-bangers.
—Nothing personal. She looks me square in the eyes, a serious expression on a nice face. A girl’s got to be careful these days. There’s a lot of weird men around. Make the wrong choice and you could end up hacked to pieces with bits of your body scattered around Greater Manchester.
Steve shakes his head and turns away.
—You coming or what, and the woman’s on her feet leading me to the door. I tell the lads I’ll meet them tomorrow at twelve at the train station. Follow her outside.
She bundles into me and we start walking. It’s a cold night and I forget about the rest of the lads and she’s not bothered about her mate either. Too pissed to think. Too pissed to argue with another drunk. We walk for what seems like ages, but it’s only ten minutes and I’m climbing up two flights of stairs in the dark. The light doesn’t work, but when the front door opens we’re in a warm flat with nice wallpaper and purple carpet. I don’t have much time to enjoy the surroundings, though, because the woman’s leading me into the bedroom without bothering to offer me a drink or go through the normal routine of coffee and dull background music. We strip off and before I stop spinning from the excess lager flooding my brain we’re banging away with the bed threatening to cave the floor in.
She’s a good ride, no doubt about it, which is unusual when you’re pissed and maybe the lager has an effect because it’s a fair old while before I finish and collapse in a sweating lump of rubble. We’re both fucked by drink and sex and next thing I know it’s morning and she’s handing me a cup of coffee. Tells me I’ve got to drink up and get out in fifteen minutes. Nothing personal, her mum and niece will be round soon. I’m not feeling bad and, to be honest, wouldn’t have minded another pop at the girl with a clear head, but you can’t have everything in life and it was a good
bit of sex last night so that’s a bonus over the usual drunken effort.
I’m sitting on a bench, reading the football in the papers for half an hour before Rod and Mark turn up. They look rough and eye me with suspicion. Must have got rid of something more than the standard with that bird last night I feel good. Set up for the trip back to London. Rod goes to get a cup of tea and Mark sits on the bench next to me. He’s shaking his head. Doesn’t look too happy with life.
—I’m fucking dead when we get home. He stretches his legs out and kicks at an empty fag packet. Misses and stubs his toe. He swears.
—My cousin, Steve. Fucking did the bloke last night. He only persuades that bird, the one whose mate you went off with, to come home with him. Me and Rod kip down in the living room and then he comes in about three in the morning with a towel round him, wakes us up and tells us to come in his bedroom and fuck her.
—I tell him to piss off. I’m not some fucking pervert. Anyway, I think he’s joking but then I hear this crying, like a kid, and I get up to have a look and he’s only battered her. She’s shivering in bed with bruised eyes and blood on the sheet. He’s shouting that she’s a fallen angel and deserves everything she gets.
—I just went mental. Kicked the shit out of him. I hate that kind of thing. I mean, the girl was suffering. He was a wreck the time I got through with him and we just sent the bird home in a taxi. Left Steve this morning and told him to get himself an ambulance. I’m not helping the cunt. If he comes round my place again I’ll kill him. Talk about bad blood in the family.
Rod comes over and sits down. Sips at his tea blowing the steam away. Looks my way to see if I’ve heard the story. I raise my eyes. I knew there was something dodgy about the bloke. Makes you wonder what else he gets up to if he goes that far when he’s got witnesses around. The first time I’ve met the bloke and hopefully the last.
—You missed a bad night, Rod says.
—I’m history when I get back to London. He won’t tell the old bill but I wouldn’t put it past him telling his mum. Maybe he won’t, I don’t know. It’s sick though. I’ve known him since we were kids, though we didn’t exactly see a lot of each other. I never had a clue. I hope he keeps quiet about me having a go at him. My aunt Doreen’s a strange woman. She’ll set God on me if she finds out I touched her Stevie.
SWEET JESUS
She kept her mouth shut most of the time and just spoke when she was spoken to, which was quite often really, considering, what with people wanting to leave their washing and needing change for the machines, maybe poking their heads around the door to ask what time the launderette closed. And this suited Doreen fine because it meant she didn’t have to talk about the weather and how bad the Government was unless she wanted, though working in the launderette meant being discreet and knowing when to speak and what to say to a particular person at a particular time, judging their moods, but generally life panned out fine, only now and again one of the old girls, older than her, would come in and spend her time getting in the way, talking to herself or some invisible friend, more mumbling really than talking, they’d gone a bit dotty and, because they’d been through it all, the war and everything, they thought they didn’t need any answers, so Doreen had to bite her lip when she wanted to warn them of the Devil’s influence, of the salamanders in the heat spitting fire, salvation a short walk away at the altar of the Protestant church she attended twice a week.
It was too much time on their own that did it. Usually their husbands were dead, a lot of them killed by the Germans in France, or else run off with a younger woman though, to be honest, the state of most of the men around the neighbourhood you wouldn’t think they’d be able to attract anyone decent, but life was full of surprises, none of them that surprising. Like Walter, wandering around the streets on his own all day, then he’d visit the launderette on Friday afternoons with his plastic bag, the same plastic bag which gradually fell apart until by the end of the month Doreen had to give him a new one from the supermarket, one that they used to make you pay for, stronger than the rubbish given away free, but they wanted to switch back again, or so she had heard, nothing was free in a man-made world, only the air and sunlight, and they belonged to God. She would tell Walter that the bag was sitting around forgotten, doing her Good Samaritan act, not letting on that he was in her thoughts and he should think about a conversion for the good of his soul.
Walter did his own wash and whistled old Dubliners tunes, and occasionally he would shout out loud about the tears of Ireland and how the Catholics had been downtrodden for centuries, mourning those who had died fighting the English. Then Doreen would have a quiet word because nobody wanted politics in the launderette, it scared the mothers in with their kids, or at least she imagined it did, and there might be a man in reading his paper who would have his own views and then there would be a fight, and blood, and damnation. Politics worried Doreen. It was a bad word and life was hard enough anyway thank you very much. God was watching his flock and the men in new suits kept getting in His way. But once she’d had her say, smiling all the time and talking in a soothing voice, Walter was quiet and she would hear nothing more from him. He just kept his head down looking a bit embarrassed and sometimes Doreen would feel uncomfortable, that she should have let him get the ideas out, that he was from a different people who didn’t have the ability to bite their lip and take everything on the chin. When she felt this kind of guilt she was stern with herself and knew she had to enforce some kind of standard.
Walter couldn’t come in ruining things for everyone else, making the launderette an unpleasant place to visit. Business would fall off and Mr Donaldson might be forced to close down or cut back and that would be Doreen on the dole with her begging bowl pleading for charity. She paid her taxes and gave generously when the collection came round at church. Calm was restored and it was always the same youngsters who came in with the family wash, because their mums and dads were saving pennies and didn’t put it in for a service, and boys sulked and girls talked too loud, really irritating it was, swearing sometimes because they wanted to be noticed, but they were seeing things through their own eyes only and hadn’t learnt about other people’s feelings, not yet anyway, and when it got too bad Doreen had to put on a stern voice and tell them to watch their tongues or they would be banned.
Most of them were fine though, like young Ronald who came in every Saturday morning, only eight or nine years old, and he shouldn’t have been doing the washing, but he always had a smile on his face, like a lot of darkies, though not the youths with anger in their faces and shiny cars with that music all tinny through open windows, but real darkies, the ones that came over when she was young, guest workers from the Caribbean, and Ronald’s smile was the same, real ray of sunshine whatever time of year it was, summer or winter, and Ronald came from a good Christian family who went to church regular as day followed night. He wasn’t aggressive like some other children she could mention and Doreen would tell him to leave the wash for her, to go and play on the swings but watch out for the older boys selling drugs, remember to avoid temptation, and he would go off and she would do the wash for him, it was a pleasure, no charge, a labour of Christian love, just did it along with the rest. And when he returned he was always nice and polite and said thank you Mrs Roberts, it’s very kind of you Mrs Roberts. Off he would go to his mum and dad, and children should play more, like she had done when we was a little girl.
Things were different now and some of the things she had heard about, the stories she read in the newspaper, all these men who molested children and mutilated their bodies. That monster who killed a child and buried the body in Epping Forest, then went back and dug the poor little thing up, took photographs, it was so hard to understand that kind of thinking. It proved what the vicar said, that there really was a Devil lurking in the shadows, in the dark recesses of the human mind, a monster preying on the defenceless, the old and the young, small boys and old ladies, the raving lunatics turned onto the streets for some
care in the community. It was really shocking, as though the world was going mad, people turning in on themselves and falling prey to wicked thoughts. Doreen hadn’t slept properly for months. She just didn’t understand the frantic scramble that surrounded her.
Children had forgotten how to enjoy themselves and they shouldn’t need lots of computerised toys to be happy, video games and cartoon superheroes, and their parents were to blame dressing the girls up like painted dollies and the boys were turned into miniature soldiers. But there again their mums and dads were copying what they saw on television, in the adverts and shop windows. Some of the things Doreen saw in the windows of toy shops made her wonder where it was all going to end, how far God would let His children go before He lost His temper. All that money spent on plastic guns when so many of the people who used the launderette were dressed like scarecrows. Doreen never got near their clothes because they did their own washes, but it was obvious, the colours gave it away. Drab and worn out colours faded because they’d been washed too many times. But it was their own business and during the winter it was a good job in the launderette, with the door closed and the radio going and the machines and dryers working flat out.
It was so warm, it was a job, and Doreen felt sorry for the down and outs living on the street at this time of year, the boy who slept in the Post Office phone boxes at the end of the high street. The first time that she saw him she’d thought he was a bundle of rags, a pile of lost washing, but then the legs moved and he couldn’t be more than twenty or so, poor little lad, and she’d seen him the day before sitting there in the twilight with a pair of sunglasses covering his eyes, staring at the wall. In winter the launderette was a haven and every time the door opened and a gust of cold wind came in she remembered how lucky she was to be inside out of harm’s way, the Lord watching over her. The window dripped with condensation and the heat from the dryers made her perspire, those tumble dryers spinning round and round, with the clank of motors and steam from the washing machines and the strong smell of powder. In the summer, though, when it was really hot outside the windows sweated as well and Doreen wished that her customers would take their wash home and hang it out to dry instead of wasting good money on the dryers. It became so hot in the launderette at this time of year and it would be better for the ozone layer and the polar ice caps wouldn’t melt, bringing on another Flood. It would save energy as well, but they still got the dryers rolling and Doreen had to go to the door and stand on the pavement for some fresh air, but when there was a lot of traffic the carbon monoxide fumes were over-powering and her skin itched, though it could have been the powder she was using, but most likely it was the poison in the atmosphere.