He didn’t want to talk. Mean frown on him and this hard stare through his lenses. He handed me the change and waited for me to leave. Didn’t trust me. Didn’t look like he trusted anyone.
I said bye to him as I went out the door. Well, that went well, spy lad. Same time tomorrow?
Someone told me the way to a gym down on Ullet Road. I smiled to myself when I walked past the road sign. Someone had spray-painted a B at the start.
I spent the rest of the afternoon there pumping away, thinking about the feller in the shop. Had to get him talking somehow. Get to know him. Catch his eye.
I had a Somali kebab for tea up by the Pivvy bingo. Went home and watched the news.
I headed back to the shop next morning. Skulked around a bit outside the window. Still no job ad. No one in there but the feller at the till.
I hung around a bit. Smoked a fag and pretended to listen to my voicemails. After half an hour these two lads showed up. About 16, in trackies.
I followed them into the shop. They nodded at the till feller and walked round to the far aisle. One of them picked up a golf mag and started showing it to his mate.
I went past them to the fridge in the corner, grabbed a can of Red Bull and took it back to the till. The feller had his eyes down on a newspaper.
“Alright, mate,” I said.
He looked up.
“The jobs out today then?”
He pointed to where the papers and mags were. Far side, across the second aisle. Two lines of shelves in between. I could see the tops of the two lads’ heads.
I went round and stood in the aisle beside them. I moved quietly. They didn’t spot me. As I bent down to pick up the paper, I looked across at the one with the mag.
“What you got there, lad?” I said.
He shrugged and showed me the cover.
“Yeah, I can see what it is,” I said, louder. “Why was you putting it in your jacket?”
“You what?”
“You heard. Who do you think you’re stealing from?”
He turned red.
I looked over my shoulder to see what the feller at the till was doing. He’d not said nothing. Not moved. He wasn’t even looking at the lads. He was looking straight at me.
The lad’s mate piped up. “Leave him,” he said. “He wasn’t doing nothing.”
“Not what I saw.”
He wasn’t scared, the mate. Not yet. He turned to the other one and muttered something. They both smirked.
I barged towards him. “What did you call me then?”
“Nothing.”
“You call me a Paki?”
I was getting close to him, staring him out. He muttered again.
“You what?”
He raised his voice this time. “I never!”
“What’s your name?” I said. “Both of you?”
“You knob,” the mate said.
I had the paper rolled up in one fist. I raised it like I’d hit him with it. They scuttled down the aisle towards the back. I ran after them, round the corner and back down the middle as they went crashing out the door.
I yelled and kicked it shut behind them.
The feller at the till was still staring at me. I handed him the paper and reached in my pocket for change.
“Sorry mate,” I said.
“Welcome to Toxteth.”
“You get that all the time?”
“They trashed the place a few summers back. Crowds of buggers like him.”
“What did they do?” I said.
“Broke stuff. Nicked stuff.”
I didn’t tell him I’d been out them nights too, robbing myself some cooking pans.
“They hate us, don’t they?” I said. “That’s why I lost my job.”
He put my paper and can in a placky bag together. I pulled the paper out again and leafed through it.
“I heard there’d be jobs round here,” I said. “How much do you get for walking some old lady’s dog?”
He was quiet for a bit. Then he spoke.
“Can you drive?”
“Yeah. I can ride a scooter an’ all.”
“You’re fancy, you, aren’t you?”
“I went to a posh school.”
He smirked at that, just for a sec. I opened the Red Bull and slurped half down.
“Why do you ask if I can drive?”
He didn’t answer. I stuck my hand out. “Azo.”
He didn’t shake it. He stared at me, then said: “Mossie.”
“Where you from, Mossie?”
He gave me this suss look. Wondering what I was after. I’d gone in too hard.
“Sorry, Mossie, mate,” I said. “I’m a nosy twat. As you saw.” I looked over at the magazine rack where the lads had been.
I opened the door and headed out, pinging the bell. I walked to the corner and looked back at the shop. Two floors. A window on the upper one.
A light was on behind the curtain. I stood staring at it. A hand twitched the curtain and a chink opened at the side. I strained my eyes to try and make out a face. Couldn’t. Just a set of big pink knuckles.
8
I kept working out at that gym. Talked to anyone around Toxteth who’d listen. Padded out my hard luck story, hoping some of it would drip back through to Mossie when people came in the shop. I helped folks out with odd jobs. Carried shopping for mums. I bought kebabs and cups of tea up and down Lodge Lane and had my head shaved in the Yemeni barbers, gobbing away the whole time.
I popped into the shop every morning that week for Red Bull. Tried to get Mossie talking, but he was hard work, that lad.
“You sure you’re right about this bunch?” I said to Paterson on the phone. “He asked me if I could drive. But he’s not acting like they want to hire anyone.”
“Trust me, lad,” Paterson said. “They’re just looking for the right man. An angry young one like you.”
“They’re taking their time.”
I snooped around the shop as much as I could. The upper windows stayed curtained. The back door was in a yard behind a locked gate and a wall with broken glass on top. I’d watch Mossie closing up and opening. He’d talk to the greengrocer and the man in the phone store. I chatted with them too and made sure they remembered me. Mossie drove this red Honda to and from the shop. I didn’t have any wheels myself so I couldn’t follow him home. Didn’t dare ask one of the fellers from the cab firm in case word got back to Mossie. So I just called Paterson and passed on the car reg number.
I was running out of chatter to try on Mossie. I lost sleep worrying I’d smegged up my chances by being too nosy that first day. Nothing for it though. I kept popping in. By the seventh day my banter had dried right up. I’d have to sit off and think about how to play it with him. I picked up my Red Bull from the counter and was turning for the door when he spoke.
“Where you from?
“Eh? Bootle.”
“Where further?”
“Why?”
He didn’t answer.
I sighed. “My dad just left, didn’t he.”
“Four fifty an hour,” he said.
“Eh?”
“He’s told me to offer you a job.”
“Who?”
“Boss.”
“Why?”
Mustn’t look too keen, like.
“Had a better offer?” he said.
I stared at him.
“The boss might ask you to do odd jobs for him. He pays overtime.”
“Is he queer?”
“Better not let him hear you say that.”
“’Cos for four fifty an hour, he can suck my knob.”
“He’ll come down and wash your mouth out for nothing.”
“He can try.”
He gave me that quick smirk. “I told him about you, Azo. He liked the sound of you. Said to give you a chance.”
“Does he want to see my CV?”
“No. Just one thing. Did you vote?”
Second time in my life I’d been asked th
at.
“When?”
“Ever.”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Why?”
“Because you can’t let people run things, Azo. They’re too thick and greedy.”
“I agree with that.”
“Good. Only God can run things. If people get in his way, you have to stop them.”
“How do you do that?”
He came out from behind the till with something in his hand. A Stanley knife. He held it out to me.
“You’ll not find any other jobs round here,” he said.
He took me in the back, through a doorway hung with long placky ribbons, into a dingy old hallway. Boxes of Monster Munch, floor to ceiling. Red ones and purple ones. A patch of green carpet and a back door. He pointed at the boxes. Told me to slash them open and lay out the packets on the shelves.
I tried to hide how made up I was. Paterson would cream himself.
Steady, Azo, lad. One step at a time.
I took a stack of boxes through to the shop. Looked at the placky knife in my hand. I switched out the blade.
I called to Mossie. “Does this mean I have to start praying too?”
“Are you a believer, Azo?”
“My mum was. Maybe my dad was. Me, I don’t know what I am.”
“Maybe here you will find out.”
9
I was a boss shelf-stacker, me. Monster Munch. Skittles. Jars of Marmite. You should have seen me line up them Scotch eggs in the cold bit.
It didn’t feel like being a spy.
Bit by bit Mossie started looking more me in the eye. He told me he was from Wigan. I wasn’t getting any juicy leads from him though. And no sign of the beast in the attic. Mossie wouldn’t let me go up to see him. Wouldn’t tell me nothing about him. Not even his name. Told me the boss would come and say hello if he wanted. When he wanted.
“Trust me, lad,” Paterson said. It was two weeks after I’d started. “They’re just checking you out. They’ve got to be careful who they let in.”
“They don’t seem very sure about me.”
“Perhaps you’re not being evil enough.”
Another week later I was on my knees stacking tins of oxtail soup, still thinking about that. I heard a voice.
“’Ey. ’Ey, lad.”
I turned and stood up.
Lad my age but taller. Lanky, white. He was standing facing me with his back to the till. Mossie was watching.
I cacked myself. I’d been waiting for this. For that lad from The Grace to track us down. The one I didn’t kill. This wasn’t him, though. One of his mates, eh.
He came up to me dead close, looking down in my face.
“Did you start on my little bro’?” he said.
“You what?” I said.
“He wasn’t doing nothing.”
I felt better already. It wasn’t about The Grace. Just the lad with the golf mag. All my chirping around had got me known. He’d worked out where to find me. It had taken him a month to track me back to the same shop where the whole thing started. He was hardworking, this lad, as well as clever.
Out the corner of my eye I saw Mossie look up, all grumpy. I’d better see to this quickly.
“Get lost,” I said to the lad.
“Come ’ead then.” He shoved me. I fell sideways, knocking tins on the floor.
Nice one. Just when I thought things were starting to thaw with Mossie, now I’d be trashing his shop in a scrap with some scrote.
No choice though, eh. I steadied up, balanced, breathing. Ready.
“He’s a thieving racist little knobcheese,” I said.
The lad shoved me again. “He’s fifteen. How old are you?”
I stood on tiptoes and put my face right up to his.
“Fuck well off.”
He shoved me a third time. “Come ’ead then, I said.”
I glimpsed Mossie reaching over the till to the door. Turning the sign round to Closed.
I slapped at the lad. Wound him up. Called his mum a slag. Always worked. He swung at me.
I caught his wrist and twisted it behind him the way Ralph taught me. So he couldn’t move an inch without feeling like it would snap. Shoved him to the floor face first and sat on him. He lay there breathing deep through his nose, taking it without a word. I rubbed his face around on the lino. Old chewies there, stamped in.
I got my free hand to his neck and pressed my thumb on the spot Ralph showed me that first day. All the squishy, crunchy bits of flesh and windpipe. He stopped groaning and went quiet.
I held him steady and glanced up at the till. Mossie was leaning over to look. Calm. Well into it.
I squeezed harder with my thumb. The lad gurgled.
“What’s that, lad?” I said. “Can’t hear you!”
He spluttered and growled.
Harder.
He was going purple, hitting the floor with his palm. I turned my head and smiled up at Mossie. Squeezed harder again.
Mossie piped up. “Come off it Azo, lad. You’re going to kill him.”
“Kill him? Now there’s a thought.”
Mossie frowned.
My mad act now. I screwed up my face. Spit flying as I yelled. “And what’s anyone going to do about it? Slag us off till he comes alive again?”
I eased off a tad. Heard snatches of air in and out of the lad’s throat. I squeezed it again. He gripped my arm, trying to tug it off him. His fingers turned white and slipped away. I bashed his head against the floor, printing a red mark all down his cheek.
I let go and got up off him.
He rolled away, wheezing. I grabbed the waist band of his trackies. Shiny cloth tore under my nails. I peeled them off, tugging hard to get them over his trainies. He twisted and flipped about on the ground in his boxies. I balled the trackies up in my fists and chucked them at him.
“Come ’ead then,” I said.
He crawled away half naked, coughing and spitting, towards the door.
I’d made myself some enemies in Toxteth, then. Bit much, using my training to batter some poor scrote. I was meant to be watching over my fellow countrymen. That’s what Paterson said spies were for. I had to know whose side I was on, he’d said. He was good at messing with my head.
The door rang and rattled shut as the lad slipped out. Then another noise came from the back of the shop. Rustling of the ribbons. I looked over. Saw his back as he passed through to the stock room. A big feller in a blue vest.
He’d been stood there. Watching.
Mossie stepped from behind the till. He left the Closed sign facing out.
“The boss,” he told me.
“He’ll have it in for me then.”
Mossie smirked. “I think he likes you.” He patted my shoulder. “If you see any more little bell-ends thieving,” he said, “you know what to do.”
“Welcome to Toxteth, eh?”
“Ay. A godless place in a godless land. Just the homeland they deserve.”
“Eh?”
“The British,” Mossie said. “For carving up our lands and leaving them in pieces. You should know all about that.”
I didn’t know what to say. Felt his stare on me. He meant it. And he wasn’t done.
“The souls of the dead from their murderous empire are coming back to haunt them. They will not be put to rest.”
My God. Who was this spod? He’d got well wet from seeing me scrapping. I tried kissing his arse a bit, to see if he’d loosen up some more.
“You sure you’re a wool?” I said. “You sound well too clever.”
“My forefathers were from Syria.”
A noise came from upstairs. Footsteps crunching back and forth. Someone yawning and clearing his throat. I stood up and went in the back for some jars of pickle. This narrow staircase there, leading up between two stacks of boxes.
At the top of the stairs, the door opened.
10
He came crunching down the steps.
It was gloomy
in the back there. I couldn’t see his face. He found a space between two stacks of boxes and squatted on his heels with his back to the wall. Nimble move for such a big twat. His knees didn’t seem to give him any gyp.
He waved for me to sit. I sank to the carpet and rested my shoulders against the wall.
He cracked the knuckles of each hand and rested his elbows on his thighs.
He had this baggy vest on. Tattoos all down both arms. Old black ink turning blue and green. All kinds of cheesy shit. Anchors, mermaids, treasure chests. Welsh dragon. Irish harp. Liver Bird.
Big, he was. But not a fat knacker. Tall and thick in the arms and legs. Barrel chest. Knuckles. I couldn’t see his face yet, just this old green baseball cap on his head. Peak down, eyes on his lap. He reached up and plucked it off with two meaty fingers.
I got a good look at him now.
These light green eyes, huge and wide with tiny pupils, like a stoned cat.
Where was he from? Couldn’t tell much by looking. Dark red face, sunburnt and weathered. Chunky forehead. Shiny red cheeks. Big mouth with one tooth sticking out skewiff. Hair on his head browny red and clipped close. Shine of grey at the temples. Straggly ginger whiskers on his chin.
He must have been at least fifty, but he dressed like he was half that. Baggy combats, trainers, blue Adidas vest. Two rings in each ear. Black placky digital watch.
He held his cap in one hand and flicked it against the palm of the other. Looked at me with those misty green eyes. They didn’t move together. Didn’t quite point the same way. The left one had a lumpy scar by it. I tried to look at him in that one, but kept switching.
He smiled again.
“Azo mate,” he said. “I been looking forward to meet you.”
Scouse in his voice, but there was more to it. Like he wasn’t from Liverpool in the first place. Or was, but he’d been away so long he’d forgot how to talk.
“I’m Raz,” he said. “Your boss.”
He held out a hand.
I got up, leaned over and shook it. He crushed my fingers in his rough palm.
“Sorry about the fight,” I said.
House of Lads Page 4