Deadfolk (16 page)

I were feeling good when I walked back out on the street. It were nice out. I reckon it’d been a nice day all along, but I hadn’t been up to appreciating it before. I had the taste of Rachel on my tongue, paper in me wallet, and the prospect of a new life as a respected pillar of the Mangel bar-owning community lying before us. Life were looking smart. The happy wagon were coming round our way for once, and stopping right outside my door.

And all I had to do were sort out one or two trivial matters.

I walked round town for a bit, smoking fags and nodding at folks as I passed em. Most smiled back, and I found that I could read their thoughts if I looked close at their faces.
There’s that Blake. He owns Hoppers. I wish I were just like him.
That were the fellers. The birds was thinking more like:
I wish he’d shag us. I heared he’s smart at shagging.

Or maybe I were wrong there. Perhaps it were more like:
Fuckin’ hell. Royston Blake, the cunt who topped his own wife.

I peered into all their eyes, searching for clues as to what were really behind em. They was all merging into the same swede, see. If one of em were thinking a thought, they all was.

Hear about him, did you? It were him kicked his old man down the stair.

Aye, but he’s lost his bottle now.

Fucked Mandy Munton he did. On her brother’s pit.

I heared he done her when she were a youngun.

I broke into a jog, shaking my head to get all them words out. But they wouldn’t budge. I ran faster, shaking my head harder and harder and smacking it with me fists.

Hear about his new tattoo?

Treats his Sally like dirt. Hit her, he did.

Coppers is onto him, mind.

‘Look at his head.’

‘Nasty, that is.’

‘Looks like a big hairy knacker.’

‘Don’t laugh. Hurt hisself, ain’t he.’

‘Fuck knows how he done that, mind.’

‘Fell over, didn’t he?’

‘I knows that. But he never landed on his head.’

‘Didn’t he?’

‘Nah, sorta floated to the ground. Like he were actin’.’

‘Reckon he’s puttin’ it on? Fer attention an’ that?’

‘Wouldn’t put it past him.’

‘Royston Blake, ennit?’

‘Looks to be.’

‘Hear about him did you?’

‘Aye.’

‘What a cunt, eh?’

‘Aye. Cunt.’

‘They oughta of kept him locked up, you asks me.’

‘Aye. Straitjackets and barred windows, s’what he needs. Why’d they let him out, then?’

‘Don’t rightly know.’

‘Nah, nor me neither. Funny that.’

‘Straitjackets and barred windows if you asks me.’

‘Juss says that, didn’t I?’

‘Woss that on his arm?’

‘Less have a gander. Says C—’

My head were throbbing and me arms was flapping about. I were fighting for me life, see, fighting off all kinds of nasty folk coming at us out of the dark. Only now my eyes was open I could see things was a bit different. It were light, for one. But I still had two bad uns bearing down on us from above.

‘All right, Blake.’

‘All right, Blake.’

I squinted up and saw they wasn’t nasty folk at all. I knew em. There weren’t a soul in Mangel I didn’t know. ‘All right, Don. All right, Burt.’

‘Took a fall there.’

‘How’d yer head come to be like that?’

‘Ah, fell down stairs. Got a fag?’

‘Don?’

‘Aye. Here.’

They helped us up and Don lit us a fag. Then I thanked em and went on me way. Had all sorts on my mind, I did. Like how I’d come to be on the deck back there in the High Street. And what’d happened to me fags? The kip had done us good anyhow, and now my mind were good and sprightly. I thought about what I had to do. I had it all worked out. It’d go all right. I just knew it would.

Being early on only three punters was in the Paul Pry when I strolled in. But Legs and Finney’d be along just now. Never late, them two. Folks in Mangel never is, nor ever was, nor would be. It’s just the way round here. Everyone knows what he has to do next and sticks to it. It’s a simple way of life, and one that allows a man to get the most out of his simple pleasures, without cluttering up his swede with plans stretching too far hence. ‘All right, Nathan,’ I says.

‘All right, Blake. Usual, is it?’

‘Aye.’

‘Gat summat fer us, have you?’ He didn’t even look up.

‘I can pay you for the drink, aye.’

‘Thass good, Blake. Always likes my customers to pay up. Summat else fer us?’

‘Bit o’ chongy here if you wants it.’

‘Not just now, eh? I’m hankerin’ after summat, mind. An’ I’ll tell you what, if I don’t gets it afore first thing the morrer I don’t know what I might do. Ever get that feelin’ yerself, Blake, that hankerin’?’

‘All the time, Nathan. All the fuckin’ time.’

‘Well then you’ll understand.’

He were staring at us, trying to catch my eye and hold it. But I weren’t playing that game. I knew what were what and what’d be where come the next day. I looked at the peanut rack instead. When that got boring I looked at the pint he’d plonked before us. Then I drank some of it. He were still talking, far as I knew. But I’d managed to tune his words out so’s they meant no more than the sounds coming from the fruit machine. It stayed like that for I don’t know how long. And I quite liked it.

It were a shove in the back what brung us to. That and a sudden stink. ‘All right, Blake.’

‘All right, Fin.’

‘Pint please, Nathan.’

‘Had a bath lately, Fin?’

‘Eh? No. Why?’

I sniffed. ‘Hums like a ferret crawled up yer trouser and died in yer trolleys, you does.’ He looked a mite uneasy at that, so I left it. Sometimes a feller can’t help stinking. And the last thing he needs is a cocky cunt like meself pulling his plonker on it. ‘Legs not with you?’ I says.

‘No, he’s…Ta, Nathan. Aye, Legs. He’s, well…’

‘I were only askin’ where he were, fuck sake.’

‘Aye, well. As you can see he ain’t with us just now. How about you? How you been keepin’?’

I looked him up and down. Dirty denim jacket. Faded England footy top. Jeans. Manky trainers. Same old Finney as ever. ‘Not too bad, Fin. I been keepin’…not too bad.’

‘Smart.’ He drank some of his pint and looked around the bar. ‘Summat up, is there, Fin?’

‘Nah. I’m all right. I’m always all right, Blakey. You knows me. Keeps me head down an’ looks out for me mates. Listen, Blakey. Has you…you know, has you had any trouble like?’

I were getting worried now. Then a little squirt of pain shot through my head. ‘Oh, you means this,’ I says, pointing at me bump.

‘Aye. That.’ But I could tell he were lying. Otherwise he’d be asking us how’d I got it. Instead he says: ‘Sit down over here, shall us?’

I followed him to a corner table. You had to sit on benches in the Paul Pry, and they was a fair bit short of comfortable. Bit like church pews, I reckoned. Not that my arse had had much experience on such holy surfaces. But my guess were that God wanted to punish his flock before he were nice to em, by way of making em sit on shite furniture. And it were that way with Nathan and all. ‘Fin, why the fuck is we sat down here? We always sits at the bar, fuck sake.’

‘Blake…’ he says, like he were struggling with the name. He craned his neck out to us and whispers: ‘Blake, I gotta come clean about summat. I been meaning to for a while, but you been hard to get hold of. An’ I didn’t wanna tell you over the phone like, cos…’

‘Spit it out, Fin. Spit the fucker out an’ have done with him.’

He swigged his pint and pulled on his fag. ‘Baz Munton,’ he says. ‘I got him, like.’

Finney’d always been a cunt. Far back as recollection went he’d been sticking his nose into good business and turning it to shite. He were one of that sort, see. I reckon there’s one of em in every town. Like as not more than one, but one at a time is all you ever gets lumbered with. Which is a blessing, I reckon. But it didn’t make Finney any less of a cunt.

Thing about them types of folks is they always means well. He wants to help you, cos he’s your pal. But it never turns out that way do it. Folks like Finney’ll always fuck it up in the end. Their hearts is full of goodness, but their heads is full of shite. And there’s nothing you can do about it. Don’t matter what your business is. Don’t matter how hard you tries to keep him out of it. He’ll always shoot your pigeon out of the sky and land him in the muck heap.

Mind you, life’s made of such challenges. Things’d get too dull without em. That’s one way of looking at it anyhow.

But Finney were still a cunt.

‘You fellers all right over there?’

‘Aye, Nathan.’ Fin waved with his pint arm, slopping beer across the table. ‘Discussin’ the footy an’ that.’

‘Right you are, Master Finney. Juss mind you keeps the cursin’ to a minimum, ladies bein’ present.’ He looked over at us a bit longer then turned back to his tankard polishing.

‘Outside,’ I says to Finney. I were calmer now. I went on out without waiting for him. I stood out there in the car park. I dropped my fag and crushed it underboot.

Finney had gone for a piss or summat. I knew he were nearby cos I could smell him. It were stronger than ever out there in the car park, which I reckon were down to him opening his trolleys and the bog window being open not five foot from where I were stood. I waited and waited, smelling that smell that were somehow shitey and meaty and sweet at the same time. I lit another fag and stubbed it out. I coughed up a chewy one and sent it skyward. It came down on the windscreen of an Austin Maxi and slid slowly down, leaving a trail not unlike that of a slug. I liked that. But it didn’t make us smile. Finney came out.

He started to say summat as he came forward, but I swung my right at him. It landed square on his nose and knocked him on his arse. He sat there with shock on his face and blood dripping nose to mouth. That got my back up even more. I kicked him in the guts, winding him and perhaps breaking a rib or two. He went over. I stepped back so’s I could get a good run-up at his back to finish him off or puncture a lung at the least, but I couldn’t be arsed. I’d done what I wanted to do. Instead I knelt down beside his head and says: ‘Where is he?’

He were crying like a babby. That were good and bad. I’d wanted to fuck him up and leave him ragged, and him crying were a good sign that I’d achieved that aim. But if there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s folks blubbering. I’m a soft touch, see. Turn on the waterworks and I’m putty. ‘Come on, Fin,’ I says. ‘Stop that, eh?’

‘I were only helpin’. I were only lookin’ out for you, Blake. Mates is all I got, see. I knowed you was in the shite with Baz, an’…an’ when I calls round yours t’other day and finds yer door unlocked I thinks aye aye, woss up here then? Blakey leavin’ his drawbridge down? An’ him a master burgular and all?’

‘I ain’t no master burglar. Where’d you put him?’

‘Like I says, I goes in and has a goose about, findin’ the cellar door to be open.’ Spit and blood was flying out his mouth as he spoke. You’d never have knowed he’d been weeping like a newborn a few seconds back. He looked to be enjoying himself now. ‘Now, I thinks, why is this here door open? Maybe Blakey’s fallen down the stair and broke his neck, like? You see, Blake? Always thinkin’ of me mates. An’ you an’ Legs is all the mates I g—’

My fists was clenching up all over again.

‘All right all right. So I goes down the stair an’…Well, fuck me if it ain’t Baz Munton sat there in that corner, dead. Fair play on Blakey, I says to meself. That’ll learn the fucker not to mess with our Blakey. Heh heh. But then me brain gets crankin’ an’ I says hold up a minute there, Finney. If
I
can walk right in here an’ find Baz, woss stoppin’ some other cunt doin’ same? Woss stoppin’ the coppers? Can’t have that, can us? So I hauls his lardy arse up the stair and into the back o’ me Allegro. An I’ll tell you what, lucky iss an Estate, ennit? That Baz were a big—’

‘If you don’t tell us where you put him, I’ll—’

‘Right you are. So we—me an Baz, that is—we drives about town for a bit, wonderin’ where best to plonk him. An’ iss hard, see. Sun’s shinin’ down on us an’ folks is walkin’ about with smiles on their faces, an’ here we is sweatin’ an’ frettin’ over nuthin’. See, the danger were over. Baz weren’t in yer house no more. I had him. An no bastard ever pays no mind to my old Allegro. Shite brown, see. That were never a popular colour on yer Allegro. So…’

I left him to his talking, which were beginning to make the bump on my head throb. His car were in the corner of the car park, spread askew across two spaces like it always were. Everyone parks that way in Mangel. A civic duty, you might say. I went to get the boot open but the handle were gone, leaving nothing in its wake but a pair of rusty holes. Through the window you could see summat large heaped up in there under a stretch of black sheeting. You couldn’t tell it were Baz just by looking at it, I supposed. Could be a heap of earth or a pile of old clothes or summat. The smell were making my eyes water.

‘Ah, see?’ Finney were up on his feet again and limping Blakeward. ‘Thass the beauty of it. Fuckin’ handle’s bust off so no bastard can get in there.’

I ignored him. I reached in my leather for the monkey wrench.

‘Blakey, don’t open it here. Folks is about. Some cunt’ll see you.’

‘So what? Every bastard in Mangel’s got a whiff of him by now.’

‘Aye, well. He do hum a bit. Reckon it’ll be time to bury him somewhere soon.’

I raised the spanner and swung it at Finney’s head. He yelped and ducked. That got him away from us for a bit. I rammed one end of the wrench under the boot and started levering it. Plumes of green smoke fizzed out the cracks. But that might have been my imagination. Sometimes it’s hard to tell what is and what ain’t. The stink were getting worse anyhow. So bad I thought I might pass out if I…

The boot popped open.

‘Woss that almighty hum, fellers?’ Nathan were standing over by the doorway. He started slowly toward us. ‘Gat folks complainin’ back there.’

‘Shut the boot, Blake,’ whispers Finney. But it weren’t much of a whisper. More like a feller with a bad cold hollering.

‘I’m tryin’.’ And I were. But the bastard wouldn’t stick. The wrench had knacked it good.

‘All right, fellers.’ Nathan were standing a little ways off now.

I pushed the boot down best I could and propped my arse up against it. ‘All right, Nathan.’

‘All right, Nathan.’

He didn’t say nothing for a bit. Just stood there licking his tash and scratching his hairy belly. It struck us as strange how a man with such a hairy belly should have problems growing a proper tash. Hairy is hairy, I’d always reckoned. You’re either hairy or you ain’t. Well, Nathan were a bit of both. ‘Woss you gat in there then, eh? Smells like a butcher shop a week gone doomsday.’

I slied the wrench inside my leather and opened me gob to say summat, though I weren’t sure what. But Fin got there first. ‘Ah, nuthin’. Juss some…er…Blakey, what were it you had in there?’

You could tell from the way his eyes was set in his head that Nathan knew exactly what were what. Like I says to you just now, he knew every bastard thing that ever came to pass in the Mangel area. Don’t ask how. Folks had been joylessly asking about that un for yonks. Just like in every town there’s a cunt like Finney, there’s an oracle along the lines of Nathan the barman and all. ‘What can I tell you, Nathan,’ says I. ‘Secret, ennit.’

He laughed. A real belly laugh like only a portly barman can do. Then he stopped. Just like that, as if he’d never been laughing nor ever had been nor would do. ‘Don’t you recall, Blake?’ says he. ‘I already promised to help you out. Gatta trust us now. Keepin’ secrets from us don’t make us feel right trusted.’

No one spoke for a bit. Seemed like no one in the whole of town were speaking. There were no noise at all, come to think on it. Not even cars and that. Then it all started up again.

‘Only one way to make old Nathan feel trusted now. What you say, Blake? What were that thing you was plannin’ on deliverin’ to us?’ He turned to Fin. ‘Reckon he owes us a favour, Finney?’

Fin said summat. Ain’t sure what. I were concentrating on meself, slipping my hand back in my jacket and wrapping me fingers around the greasy monkey wrench. My eyes was on Nathan’s head, picking out the best spot to plant the heavy end. I were weighing up a knobbly bit round the back just above his hairline when Finney says: ‘Ain’t that right, Blakey?’

‘Eh?’

‘Thass a big wrench.’ It were Nathan this time. I looked at my arm. On the end of it, at about head height, were the wrench. ‘Woss that fer, then?’

‘The boot,’ says Fin. ‘Gettin’ it open. Boot’s knackered, ennit?’

Nathan looked at Finney, then back at meself and the wrench. ‘That right, Blake?’

They stood there like so for a minute or two, watching the wrench. I reckon even I had me eyes on it, wondering if any second it might jerk out of my grasp and stave Nathan’s head in. ‘Aye,’ I says at last. ‘Boot’s knackered.’

‘Well, you’d best fix it,’ he says, wandering off pubward. ‘Otherwise folks’ll be catchin’ on you’ve got a dead man in there.’

‘Shite.’

Finney’s motor were a 1976 Austin Allegro 1300 Estate. Weren’t a bad model as Allegros went, but I’d always reckoned if you went for the Estate you’re better off going with the 1500. I’d told Finney this time enough, but he were happy with what he had and content to shunt along at whatever pace he could get out of her. Like Finney says just now, she were mostly shite brown on the outside, with the bonnet and parts of the roof in grey primer and plenty of rust and filler elsewhere. The interior were the standard black vinyl and worn through here and there. In the middle of the sports steering wheel were a shiny Leyland centre cap. For a little car your Allegro Estate were quite roomy, and if you put the rear seats down you had ample room for a dead body.

‘Shite.’

We was headed north out of town. Before we’d left I put the Capri in the car park behind Strake Hill. It weren’t the best of places to leave her. Cars was filched from there most every week. But there weren’t many safe places to park in Mangel at the best of times. Anyhow, I jumped in with Finney and we headed north, like I says.

‘S’fuckin’ matter?’ he says. His nose had stopped bleeding now. Lips and chin and backs of his hands was all plastered in dried blood. But blood never bothered Finney much. Which were just as well, him working in a slaughtering yard and all.

‘Legs,’ I says. ‘We was meetin’ Legs back at the Pry.’

‘Nah.’

‘You what? “Nah”?’

‘He ain’t there.’

‘Says who? You knows how he’s late sometimes.’

‘Ain’t late. Ain’t comin’.’

‘Why not?’

‘Cos…’

I weren’t really bothered about why he were or weren’t there. Maybe he’d crashed his milk-float. Or dropped a barbell on himself and bust his neck. And I dunno why such nasty thoughts brung a smile to my careworn face, but bring one they did. It’d always been that way between meself and Legs. We was mates, but we still thought of each other in cuntish terms. He weren’t a cunt in the Finney mould, course. His head weren’t full of shite. But he were always trying to get one over on us. In a friendly manner, like. ‘Why not?’

‘Oh…’ says Fin. ‘He, er…rang us before I left. Says he were tied up with his motor, like.’

‘Oh aye? Woss up with it?’

‘Erm…head gasket.’

I knew this were shite and bollocks. Legs drove an Escort Mexico. Everyone knows you can bet your pecker on them Mexican head gaskets. But a passing black mariah reminded us of matters more pressing. I looked at me watch. ‘We can’t just drive around all night like bastards.’

‘Aye,’ he says. But I knew he’d be happy as a pig in shite to do just that.

‘Turn left up yonder,’ I says.

‘What for?’

‘Cos we can’t just drive around.’

We stopped at the end of the road. Nothing but thirty yard of scrub lay between us and the River Clunge, which were tree-lined along this stretch and frequented by angling types. No one were about, far as I could see. No cars was parked anyhow. And unless they’d come on foot and was down on the bank, no anglers.

‘Tell you what, Blake.’

‘What?’

‘Thass a fuckin’ smart plan. Lob Baz in the river. Wish I’d of thought o’ that.’

‘Ta.’

We fell quiet. I lit a fag and froped it for a bit, thinking about being boss of Hoppers. After a while I says: ‘Well, go on then.’

‘What?’

I nodded at the river. ‘Lug him yonder.’

‘Me? Why me?’

‘In your car, ain’t he?’

‘He were in your cellar.’

‘Aye, but you took him without askin’.’

‘But I were helpin’ you.’

‘Wants to help, does you? Lug him yonder and chuck him in then. Push him out a bit an’ all, catch the current. Don’t want him washin’ ashore ten yard downriver.’