by Randal Eliot
Chapter Five
At the same working men's club, two days later, Johnny Jacks - unemployed, ex-union rep, forty-something husband of Marie, father-of-two, Kelly and Blake - stepped out of the gents by the front entrance still tightening up his belt.
'My word, Trev, I can smell that icy wind on you,' he declared to a cleft-lipped man in a bitty, black duffel. The man was rubbing his numb, blue hands as he came in from the cold. 'And you want to watch poor circulation when winter's…'
'Anybody else in?' The new arrival cut Johnny off. His duffel's hood remained up like he'd immediately volte-face and shift it should Johnny be the only company he'd find.
The shouts of kids outside, probably truants, were carried to them and then snatched away by the gale's bluster.
'Old Arthur, Mick, Dave, Wolfie, Hobbsy, Ken. Ian Randall…' Johnny paused, as if he had a bad taste in his mouth that he wanted to spit out. '…The good for nothing shyster is already out of his head.'
'He's taking the break up of his marriage hard. I don't expect he'll get much sympathy from you.'
The strip light above the men buzzed like it was about to go on the blink.
'It's the way he goes about things.'
Trev couldn't hold Johnny's clear blue stare. Edging towards the tap room door, he sniped, 'Nothing to do with the axe you've to grind, then?'
'I only cut my hair down to the wood.' Johnny rubbed a palm over his bristly, recently shaved scalp. 'But I'd be justified in chopping down our mutual friend.'
When the first rumblings about a major restructuring had shaken up the workforce, Ian Randall had withdrawn from the union and badmouthed it like he'd swallowed too many tabloid editorials. But it wasn't just that. Randall was likely the snake behind the venomous smear that Johnny had taken backhanders from the bosses. The more desperate things had got, the more the slur had poisoned Johnny. Now it was all over, the ex-rep cursed himself for so hopelessly, naively placing his faith in his fellow working man. In his blackest moods, he'd seethe that Randall's ilk needed putting down like stray, rabid dogs, before chastising himself for not doing something differently. What? The union reps - Johnny especially - had run themselves into the ground chasing down meetings that the company forever cancelled and rescheduled, stalling tactics that successfully undermined opposition before its roots took hold. That the scandalmongers had supported any unsubstantiated rubbish by claiming 'there's no smoke without fire' hadn't helped to save jobs, either. The GMB had been left with the mobilised power of a bus burnt out by joyriders because so many workers could so easily be persuaded that Johnny was the one torching their backsides. Since the plant's closure, Johnny's ex-workmates had regarded him like some treacherous arsonist, which more than explained Trev's hostile attitude.
In his faded denim shirt, jeans and scuffed trainers, Johnny followed Trev through to the tap room. A small assembly of men in their mid-thirties to late-forties and one old-timer were sitting around two tables in the far corner. With his palm, Johnny frustratedly sent the cue ball bouncing round the otherwise empty snooker table as he strode over to them. Trev slipped out of his duffel, hung it on a peg amongst an assortment of coats, and put on his round glasses, having slipped them from the pocket of his red and blue checked shirt. He faffed with his thinning brown hair. Acknowledging the men in the corner with a solemn nod, Trev puffed out his chest and stepped to the bar. 'Afternoon, Sandra. Pint of the usual.'
'It's gone up tuppence,' the brunette-with-grey-roots hoarsely replied as if she was losing her voice. With her back to Trev, Sandra leaned on the worktop and scribbled out a note to put in the till. The rolled up sleeves of her white blouse gave breathing space to a blurry angel tattoo on her left forearm, just above a mole that resembled a blessed dump. So her ex-husband used to say, or words to that effect.
'Again?'
'You heard me right.'
'Your prices will be going up as predictably as gas and electricity before we know it.'
'And then the rest of it. It's the world we live in.' Sandra reached for Trev's pint glass.
'The barmaid's eye-watering charms keep me coming here,' Trev acidly remarked as she turned round. He started counting silver and copper into small stacks on the bar.
Self-deprecating Sandra often opined she was a wrinkly cow with saggy udders way before her time, yet her humour also had a point like a corkscrew sabre that popped open anybody who wasn't to her taste. She'd poured many a man's sour grapes down the drain. Trev's acrid homebrew remained bottled up simply because Johnny dropped his elbows on the bar. 'A cloth, Sandra, love. Guess who's had one over?'
'Let him carry on like he did on Friday and somebody will be knocking him over, mark my words.' She tossed Johnny a dry cloth from under the bar. 'It doesn't look like he's stopped boozing all weekend. I'd be surprised if he knows what day it is.'
'Trev, here, seems to think he's justified,' Johnny said, sardonically.
'He'll swear the world is flat if you stand round long enough listening to his lip.' She whipped up Trev's money stacks and spun round to the till, knowing without looking that he'd impulsively touch his disfigurement.
When Trev got to the men with his pint of bitter, Johnny was mopping up the fizzy swamp. A chipped glass had been stood upright. Scruffy and stinking musty, his nascent, brown-grey beard making him look closer to fifty than forty, the culprit had moved away from the group and was lolling across the patched-up, red, fake leather seating under a large, rectangular window. It looked out onto a creosoted, high fence with a broken panel, through which could be seen a brick wall on the other side of an alley. The bricks were momentarily blocked from view by a passing baby's buggy and a woman in a black coat. Facing inwards, his eyes closed, Randall muttered about knowing who'd done it.
'We fucking saw who did it,' snapped curly, blond Mick Weevil, wiping his knee with his woolly, white, blue and yellow Leeds United hat. Lager had dripped from the table top onto Mick's tracksuit bottoms, clean on that morning.
'How do, lads?' Trev mustered a sociable smile.
So, I'm right, Johnny thought; he's another who thinks I'm bent. Another who measures me as an enemy.
'I'd be swimmingly fine if it wasn't for Randall,' grumbled Mick, affectedly, like a character from a cosy sitcom who'd found himself in the wrong world. 'The daft fucking lummox,' he added, reverting back to type.
The others chuckled as they greeted Trev.
'Now, now, neither spilled milk nor beer,' said bald Arthur. The OAP tapped his fingers on his walking-stick resting across his knees. Nobody had been surprised to see the old trooper's slightly flabby frame shuffle in through the door, despite the appalling weather. Indeed, he'd taken the opportunity to boast that the thick, baggy brown jumper under his overcoat had cost just three pounds from the Heart Foundation. 'Randall's in a bigger mess than he could make crashing a brewery van,' the old fellow speculated with his peculiar, vaguely owl-like charm. 'A pint is nothing in the grand scheme of things.'
'And Arthur has got a direct line to the great brewer in the sky. Amen.' Tubby Hobbsy crossed himself.
'You're not funny, lad. Wipe that snotty nose of yours.'
Sitting down on a stool, Trev put his lips to his bitter's frothy head. 'There's a hint of the pipe cleaner in that,' he moaned, with an expression like he'd licked a battery. He got back up. 'I'll see what Sandra has to say about that!'
'Same fucking thing as she did last week.' Wolfie had been rolling a cigarette and cussing the wind that had nearly turned his moustache to icicles on his short trek to the club. It'd be a devil to light up, even in the smoking shelter. Sticking the cigarette behind his ear, he said, 'Drinking like that on a morning isn't going to put anything right, Ian. Don't you think your bender has gone on long enough? We lost our jobs that day, you know.'
'That's not it, though,' Hobbsy muttered under his breath so the scorned husband wouldn't hear him.
'Pfft!' Ian's bleary eyes came unstuck. He peered rou
nd at his friends as if they were strangers in a bad dream. 'I…Pah! Pfft!'
'That's exactly your problem, Randall,' said Johnny Jacks. 'You're a cunting windbag with nothing else to offer.'
'Give him a break, Johnny,' said Hobbsy, squinting.
'Like the break you lot have given me with your slander? I think we need to have this out, once and for all.'
'It's finished, Johnny. We realise you did your best.'
'We do?'
'Nobody said his best is good enough.'
'Don't you start, Ken! You contradicted everything I said at the time…'
'I still want to know…'
'I've told you everything there is to know. You needed a ballot and a strike. I walked all over the plant and discussed it with everybody. A union is as strong as the will and the bond of its members - don't blame me for every weak link!'
'You were the fucking weakest link.'
'Oh yeah?'
'Look at how they gave you the runaround.'
'And I want to know what good a strike would've done?'
'What good did not striking do?'
'Shafted if you do, fucked if you don't!'
'Remember what they did with our holiday pay the year before last?'
'A job with dire holidays is better than no job. What were we paying subs to the union for?' Wolfie licked his lips, anticipating a feast of provocative dishes served cold, just for the hell of it. 'I bet Johnny got a little extra on his redundancy cheque, didn't he, Ian?'
'Do you see this?' Johnny held up his fist. 'I'll put it right through your teeth one of these days, Wolfie.'
'Typical union bully boy,' said Wolfie with a goading smirk.
'Easy, easy, chaps,' old Arthur interrupted. 'Johnny did more to save your jobs than the rest of you put together. As it happens, I've seen the details of his redundancy pay. Most of you got more than he did. So, according to your way of thinking, what does that say about you?'
'We're not talking about us. We're talking about him.'
'We had to do our worst!' Johnny shot up onto his feet, his fists clenched by his sides.
'Something bothering you, Jacko? Guilt, by any chance?'
Johnny angrily finished off his pint, beer spilling from the sides of his glass onto his denim shirt. 'Anybody else got anything to say? Then say it outside!' His nicotine-stained finger pointed to the door.
Silence fell over the room. Johnny's worst critics knew they'd let him do their fighting in the plant while tying his hands behind his back. It was true; they should have gambled on a strike ballot. Their wishy-washy stumbling along with fingers-crossed had been a certain loser. And shouldn't they really pity Johnny? His sideburns had turned white as the most delirious allegations about him spread like an infection, jaundicing everyone's view. But someone had to be blamed and who else fit the bill? They'd never set eyes on the real perpetrators, who'd bossed everybody from overseas.
Just old Arthur escaped Johnny's menacing glare. All but Wolfie and Mick looked sheepishly into their drinks. The strapping six-footers had once spent half an hour trying to kill each other over a card-dealing dispute, only to discover they were so tough and handy they cancelled each other out. In the end, exhausted, they'd dropped to their seats as if the clang signalling last orders was the final bell ringside. No one moved to raise a victor's hand, and as soon as the combatants got their puff back, they'd jested about their bust noses, split lips and black eyes. Supping up, old Arthur, who usually had no time for bar-brawling, had commented that their contest had been worth a twenty pound ticket. And they were damn lucky a pile of contraband tobacco had been delivered behind the bar an hour earlier or someone would have been on the blower to the law. But whether any of the assembled men now threw or pulled punches, they had to admit it: despite everything they'd said and his tiresome political waffle, Johnny meant well.
Even Randall, as wrecked as he was, sensed the tension was dangerously close to breaking point. His final confrontation with Cathy had been enough to last him for the rest of his life. Unsteadily getting to his feet, slapping his arse to keep a beat, he tunelessly sang, 'You have been courting Mary Jane/You are bound to catch your death of cold…'
'Don't be dancing over here and tipping our drinks over!' Mick shouted, mightily relieved at the distraction.
'Then we will have to bury you…'
'Get out of it!'
'Then the worms will come and eat you up/Then the ducks will come and eat up the worms/Then we will go and eat up the ducks…'
'Jesus wept. Just look at that.'
'I'm trying not to listen to it!'
'Then we will all have eaten you…'
'Give over, you great clot,' Wolfie laughed, figuring Johnny's bemused mush meant the critical moment had passed.
Wolfie skimmed a beer mat at Ian while he bowed at non-existent applause. He flopped down onto his seat among the men with an inane grin, as if he'd crooned away his worldly cares into the bargain.
'Hey Randall, Ken was telling me your Alicia did a turn over the weekend. Isn't that right?'
'She wasn't too bad. Don't know where she gets her looks from though.'
'My cheating, no good wife! She can…' Ian's face scrunched up as he struggled to overcome the boozy mind-fog he'd created to dull his pain. 'She can drive herself to bankruptcy, yes, that's what she can do. I'm not going over the edge.'
'Don't bank on it - the state you're in.'
'Bankruptcy? What's this?'
'The crap…' Ian said with a curt flip of his wrist, as if it was so obvious questions only deserved waving away.
'You're not telling us she's got that stuff in the house on credit?' Hobbsy was on the edge of his seat. 'Chuff me! We thought you'd been keeping a lottery win quiet. Wait until my Colleen hears about it!'
'You can't just blame Cathy,' piped up Wolfie who, from time to time, felt a rekindling of hostilities from back in the day. It could still rankle him that Cathy had made the mistake of preferring Ian's affections. 'How many times have you bragged about deals on this, that and everything else? You've been in a position to…'
Ian wasn't listening. He'd decided his laces needed tying and, resurfacing, banged his head on the underside of the table top. The others had grabbed their drinks the moment he'd bent down. His upturned empty rolled along the table and fell to the sticky carpet. Luckily, it didn't smash. Laughter erupted when the whimpering drunk clutched his skull as if he'd knocked a hole in it. Arthur wasn't amused, though. 'Those bloody plastic cards,' he protested, 'getting the young up to their eyeballs in it for junk they don't need.'
'Some of them can't live without plastic,' said Johnny, eyeing Randall with the embarrassed contempt reserved for jokers you sometimes laugh at, but never with. 'These young kids who are paid next to nothing, I feel for them. They have to get up to here in debt just to set up a place to live. And it's deliberate - an ideological design. They get such a fear of losing their jobs, they're practically enslaved. But these folks,' he said, glancing at Ian again, 'who get the next gadgety bull after the last new fangled claptrap, well, they're the gluttonous dupes of a bent system.'
'Don't fucking start with that talk,' Wolfie growled. If it came to fisticuffs, so be it; Johnny's politicking got too complicated, especially when you'd had a few. As long as they paid their bills, put some snap on the table, could drive a motor, and had some beer money, then that was good enough. True, the inflated cost of living meant it was getting more difficult with each passing week… 'We paid union subs, and you did nothing. Now we aren't earning to pay any subs, you start telling us you want to change the world. I suppose you'll do it out of the good of your heart.'
'Wolfie, whether you like it or not, you've got to learn to let a man have his say', said Arthur, hammering the rubbery end of his walking-stick on the floor like a judge with his gavel.
'Don't encourage him, gramps. And I'm having my say.'
'There's some truth in what he says, and I've always
dealt with the truth. My grandson, James, and his young lass, they've had to…'
'We know the world is full of shit and it always has been. But we've come out to whet our whistles.'
'But, don't you see?' asked Johnny, warming up for his favourite subject. 'That's why nothing changes anymore. People don't get involved.'
'It's a waste of time. They're all out to line their own pockets. Expenses and bonuses, that's what it's about.'
'And that's exactly why people have to do something. Corruption will rule as long as people are apathetic…'
'Oh Jesus! Not this lecture…'
'Look at the bankers and the free-market Muppets! Thought they were the masters of the universe and bang! The global economy crashes down. Wealth never really trickled down, oh no! But the bloody tab is passed down.'
'Look,' said Wolfie, 'it's me - Dave Wolfe - that's called Wolfie.'
'And?'
'He thinks,' chortled Arthur, 'that it makes him the real law-abiding, tax-paying citizen who can snuff out power to the people baloney. You watch too much stuff on Gold, Wolfie.'
'Enough of this gobbledygook. What they need to do is sort out immigration. Simples.'
'And cause a shortage of doctors and nurses…'
'Kebab shops, corner shops, taxi-drivers, filthy scroungers…'
'That's the point! They're paying tax into our coffers.'
'The filthy scroungers?'
'Some of you need to change the paper you buy.'
'I don't believe a word I read.'
'You've a habit of repeating it though. And any rubbish you hear on the television.'
'What rubbish?'
'Yesterday you claimed my doctor is an illegal immigrant.'
'I've heard that he is, but not on the fucking telly!'
'An illegal wouldn't be able to have a surgery, fool! Besides, no human being is illegal.'
'What are prisons for?'
'For people who commit criminal offences. It's their actions…'
'You'll be telling us that murderers and terrorists are misunderstood next.'
'You have to resort to putting idiot words into people's mouths.'
'As Johnny says,' Arthur said, commandeering everyone's attention by rapping the crook of his walking stick on the table, 'there's far more to it than the issue of immigration.'
'Arthur, I'd have thought you'd have learned your lesson from the miners' strike. Where the fuck did that get you?'
'We won the previous one,' Arthur said, belching. He'd have liked the support of his own generation - they knew more than these jessies - but the ravages of time and the bitter wind had seen off all survivors but one. His arthritis was quietened by the grass that the kid next door sold him on the quiet. 'One loss shouldn't mean you're finished for good. And a loss doesn't mean we were wrong about everything. It remains the case that working people don't get anything by relying on the goodwill of the rich.'
'Some people have things these days.'
'Aren't they lucky? All the technology and wealth in the civilised world, and some people have a few things. Mostly on credit.'
'Be as sarcastic as you like; the same old story won't ever change. The rich will get richer, and the poor will get poorer. You just get on and make the best of your lot.'
'Some lot you've got right now,' said Arthur.
'And that's not the point,' Johnny forcibly stressed.
'So what is?' Wolfie asked, incensed, his nostrils flaring.
'Another same old story and then some.'
'Huh?'
'Look, for example, Ian and his family represent donkeys…'
'Hee-haw!'
'Ha ha!'
'You're too quick to resort to personal insults, Johnny.'
'It's nothing personal.'
'Calling him a donkey is a compliment?'
'Hear me out. The carrot is the materialistic dream they've been chasing…'
'Get to the point quicker than you did last time.'
'Ok! Hold it! A question: after chasing the dream sold to them by the moneymen and their politicians, where do the Randall family find themselves?'
The men fell silent. This was a subject too touchy for throwaway quips.
'Go on. Get it over with,' Wolfie ordered, after taking a draught of beer.
'A dead end street.'
'Aw my gawd…'
'He's a laugh-a-minute, this one.'
'Why lead donkeys down a dead end street? Idiot!'
'The elite…'
'Oh, the elite! I suppose you've met them. Did they tell you they've a grudge against Ian because he said you were fiddling?'
'That's what it's about!'
'Don't be ridiculous. Johnny doesn't have to meet them…'
'Arthur, I wish you wouldn't encourage him.'
'Arthur's as bad as he is.'
'I was saying,' insisted Johnny. 'While everybody has been distracted…'
'You say it every fucking time we come out, distracting us from our beer!'
'So tell me what playing by their rules has done for Randall?'
'Shut it!'
'Answer me!'
'Give it…'
'Answer me!'
They grudgingly studied Ian who'd been busy wallowing in self-pity. Realising he was under the microscope, he grunted something obscene, glanced over at the bar, and furtively produced a small bottle of vodka from inside his denim jacket. 'Cheers monkeys,' he said, and took a swig.
'Ian's problems are nothing to do with any of that stuff.'
'Don't be so sure. Life is one big web, and everything is connected. In this world your economic status influences everything you can and can't do. Nothing is entirely unrelated to money.'
'So now you're blaming an enormous spider?' Mick facetiously sneered, playing to the gallery. 'Or just telling us, yawn, that money makes the world go round?'
'I'm saying that, if you live by the rules on our side of the fence, you're always going to be cheated or struggle. Ian's arrived at bloody obliteration because he was never destined for anywhere else.'
'He stinks like he hasn't had a wash in a week,' said Hobbsy, 'I'll grant you that.'
'Obliteration's never a bad place to be, with or without soap and water,' laughed Mick.
'I second that!' Trev raised his hand.
'I'm heading to obliteration before I walk out of here today,' grinned Wolfie.
'I've got my ticket,' chuckled Hobbsy.
'If, as you say,' Mick went on, buoyed by their support, 'the odds are stacked against us - and I agree, they've always been against us - what are you and Arthur going to do about it? Put up or shut up.'
'Hear, hear,' Hobbsy thumped the table. 'There are so many anti-union laws they've practically banned working people from politics. Parliament's always been about ripping us off. It's no good going on while we're supping.'
'And what's the point of getting chucked in prison? You've got some harebrained ideas, Johnny Jacks. And you're avoiding my question. I said, what are you two going to do about it?'
'Nothing can be done by people in isolation.'
'And what if we can't be bothered to do anything because it's a waste of time, whatever your cause is?'
'Occupy Shit Street.'
'More will participate, the more that set an example.'
'There. We've sorted it. There's nothing you can do. Let's change the subject.'
'The horse racing is due on. Get the remote from behind the bar.'
'Changing the subject doesn't…'
'There's fuck all you can do! Forget it!'
Johnny snatched his tobacco pouch from the table. The debate always, always, always went the same way! It got him so he could barely tolerate the sight of them. The worst thing was that he'd read up on it, and understood it, but he could never break from the same simplistic circles whenever he tried to explain. And it didn't make him feel any better to concede that they were partly right; he understood their sense of
powerlessness. Hadn't he witnessed the impossibility of securing negotiations with the company? Hadn't he walked through Knightsbridge after a protest march against government cuts and witnessed police cars everywhere, ensuring that austerity never touched the occupants of the establishment houses who nobody had threatened in any case? And yet think of the mines, mills and factories of just over a century ago! Working conditions hadn't improved without pressure. Yes, progress is always possible if people understand they can never afford to stop pushing. Everything had slipped far enough when inequality rivalled that of the Victorian mire. Get lost sirs, we don't want any more of that! Johnny thundered round the snooker table towards the exit. He needed a cigarette in the solitude of the shelter outside or else he'd go up in flames!
'Don't forget your coat. It's fucking freezing out there.'
Johnny disappeared through the door without looking back.
'Bloody waste of space,' Wolfie said, shaking his head.
'I'm not sure that doesn't more apply to you.' Arthur got up with an empty glass. 'Some of us need to take a long, hard look at ourselves.'
'And what's that supposed to mean, old-timer?'
'It doesn't take much of a man to talk defeat over a pint. If everything is hunky-dory, why don't you get up off your arse and get a job? I always worked before I retired.'
'Give over, old man. You know the state of things out there at the best of times.'
'Remarkable! It's different now.'
'I've been redundant for about a fortnight. I've always worked to keep my family. You don't begrudge a man a drink, surely?'
'I don't, as it happens. But I begrudge you calling a man who stuck his neck out for you.'
'We love Johnny, relax. We just wish he wouldn't talk so often.'
'Bah!'
They insisted on chipping in for a taxi when the retired coalminer and odd-job man had downed his customary four bitters. He left licking his lips at the prospect of a tin of Irish stew and a crusty bread roll. 'You're in union with yourself now, Jacks,' Wolfie laughed, blackly.
'Why do I get the feeling you like it that everything went wrong?'
'Me?' Wolfie opened his arms as if pleading his innocence. 'Never, guv'nor.'
He'd overcooked it. Not a smile cracked amongst the men. One day, thought Johnny, me and you, Mr Wolfe, will have more than words.
'Get away with you all,' Wolfie said, sniggering uncertainly. 'You know I'm winding Johnny up.'
'Let it drop,' said Hobbsy, quietly. 'Watch the race.'
'Well said.'
'Yes indeedy!' Wolfie rubbed his hands together. 'Let's have some winners for the boys.'
For the sake of his sanity, Johnny shut out the commentary from Chepstow and the men's accompanying blather; he became ever aware of the chilling wind whistling through the gutters on the club's roof. One more creamy pint led to another. His thoughts became darker, so that if they could be visualised, a leaden, sub-zero sky would extend from horizon to horizon, sending snow that might never thaw tumbling onto the lives below. Every winter was one of discontent, somewhere. The sight of Ian Randall clumsily smiling as he slipped his bottle of vodka from his jacket put the temptation of whiskey Johnny's way. He quietly, moodily sipped each measure, savouring its fire, while the men caroused, keeping loneliness at bay. The day had no other meaning, and it began to blur.
Ken Pryor jumped up, rocking the table, sloshing more beer and whoop-whooping. A Bridge Too Far had left the favourite of the 4-30 for dead. 'Get the boys a round, Sandra. I'll be back shortly.'
With admiring wonder, they watched Ken wobble along a straight line to the coat rack. Bill Hill's wasn't five minutes down the road.
'What did he have?' asked Mick, several screwed up betting slips beside his half-empty lager.
'A pony at fifteen to one.'
'Where does the fucker get his luck?'
'Your guess is as good…'
Thud! All heads turned. Ian Randall was flat on his face. Trev and Johnny were the first to the groaning sot, pulling him to his feet. When they plonked him on a seat he wiped his nose and stared uncomprehendingly at the red smear on the back of his hand. A bloodied nose seemed to be the worst of the damage.
'You didn't do that, Johnny, did you?' Wolfie rolled his shoulders intimidatingly. 'Full of spirits as well as your usual spirit.'
'I was sat down, you fool,' Johnny replied, tottering.
'Anyone see it?'
'I didn't see Randall go over, but Johnny was as he says,' said Trev, reluctantly.
Johnny tried to pat Trev's back but he took a step back.
'Anything else you're going to accuse me of?'
'Take it easy,' Wolfie grinned. 'I knew you hadn't done it really.'
'Really?'
'Jolly good company and all that…'
Trying to stand up, Ian floundered into Johnny's arms.
'He needs to go to the crapper,' Mick explained.
'And then he needs a taxi.' Trev put an arm round Ian so he could lead him to the gents.
'Where's he living?' asked Johnny.
'His brother's place over, god, where is it?'
'I know it.' Johnny had just enough to cover a ride to the next town. 'I'll book a cab.'
It took three attempts to get the correct number on his mobile. Frigging thing. Bloody booze.
On his return, Ken announced, 'There's a taxi for Randall outside. His skin is full, I take it.'
'More than,' said Johnny, slugging the whiskey from Ken's celebratory round. For a few seconds, Johnny went dizzy and he lurched into Ian, who somehow managed to keep them both upright. 'What a pair we make,' Johnny mumbled resentfully, untangling himself from Ian's limbs. Ian continued to press a toilet roll swab to his hooter.
'Cheers for the whiskey, Ken.'
'You leaving?'
'Breaking your heart, am I, Wolfie?'
'Whatever will I do?' Wolfie amiably laughed but his eye was hard, like a diamond on a dagger's hilt.
Still swabbing his nose, Ian uttered gibberish as Johnny packed him into the back of the taxi. 'How much is it?' he asked the driver. 'I'll pay up front.'
'Six quid. I'll want money to clean the cab if he bleeds everywhere or if he's sick.'
'See his brother at the other end.'
'That's not how I operate.'
'I'm not paying for something that hasn't happened. He's in the back now. Are you going to haul him out?'
'Tosspot.'
'Laters,' said Johnny, unsure whether the insult was directed at him or Ian, and, what's more, he didn't care either way.
The black hackney accelerated down the street as Johnny zipped up his brown, leather bomber jacket. He started to walk into the biting wind, swaying from side to side.