Deadfolk (3 page)

Round in circles and up my own arse.

I lit another smoke and turned into Cutler Road. My head weren’t working. Must be somewhere I could go to get me mind off things and relax a bit. And then I thought of a place.

There were an offy halfway down Cutler Road. I went behind it and looked for lights on in the flat above. Kitchen window were glowing yellow so I climbed the fire escape and knocked. Grey and blue from the telly flickered through the knobbly glass of the front door. A familiar shape blocked it out and opened the door.

‘All right, Legsy.’

He looked at us funny for a bit, weighing us up no doubt. I wondered if it had been such a bright idea to come up here after all. Perhaps I oughta have left it a day or two, case he bore any quiet grudges regarding the headbutt. But I forgot all that when he said: ‘All right, Blake.’

He shambled back, leaving the door open. I followed him into the living room. It weren’t a bad flat, and I’d always liked going up there ever since he’d moved in. It were a feller’s flat, with no outside fiddling of the female variety. That’s why I spent so much time up there after I got wedded, like as not. I’d go up there when Beth were getting on at us about summat, or just when I couldn’t face going home and looking at her sour face. I’ve already told you about Legs being a good talker. But he could listen and all. We’d crack open a couple and I’d start joshing about this or that. And somewhere along the way I’d always get to Beth, and the way we didn’t always get on so well. Course, they wasn’t all bad times with Beth. There was good uns and all, else we’d never have got wedded in the first place. And I told Legs about them as well, sort of things Beth wouldn’t have wanted airing outside of our bedroom like as not. But like I says, Legsy’s flat were a place where you could talk man to man with a feller.

‘Lager’s in the fridge,’ he says, collapsing lengthways onto the sofa and sending out a little cloud of bachelor’s dust from the cushions.

I got meself one and sat down in the same armchair I always sat in. It were a recliner and kicked back just far enough. It were a big chair but fit us perfect, me being generously proportioned all over including my arse, and after a bit of creaking and buttock shifting I always found a nice position.

I chugged beer and watched the telly. A film were just finishing up. The feller stood there with blood on his beefy arms and what looked like old motor oil striped across his cheeks. He tossed down his carbine and took the belt of shells from around him. A bird with blonde hair and big tits threw herself at him and buried her face in his neck. I couldn’t see how she could let herself do that, her being all nicely made-up and fragrant and him looking like he’d rival a pig farm for smelling bad. ‘Is it all over?’ she says breathlessly.

‘It’s over,’ he says in a voice coming from somewhere near his size thirteens. ‘For now.’

And then the credits rolled past and the adverts came on. I drank some more beer and put my fag out in an ashtray on the little table next to us. It were one from Hoppers, from years back, well before Fenton had took it over.

‘Legsy,’ I says, looking over at him. You never could tell what state of mind Legsy were in just by looking at him. But I looked anyhow, out of habit. ‘You all right, mate?’

He picked his nose, looked at it, then flicked it into the darkness. I heard it land somewhere behind the telly. The cut on his face looked nasty in the telly’s flickering light. The plaster covered up the worst of it but the area all around were purple and swollen. ‘Aye,’ he says. ‘You?’

‘Aye. Soz about earlier.’

‘About what earlier?’ He lifted his arse up to get a pack of Regals out his pocket.

‘You know. The, er…in the Paul Pry.’ I looked at the screen. The adverts ended and the news came on. I didn’t listen to what the feller in the tie were saying. No one ever did. And if they did they couldn’t understand it anyhow. After a bit he shut up and they put on some pictures of the war. A line of tanks ploughing into a village, birds and nippers looking on. A missile tearing down a street in the middle of the night. ‘I were just havin’ a laugh, like. Never meant to—’

‘I knows that.’ There were a touch of the narky in his voice, which put us on edge a bit, us being mates and me trying to set things straight between us and all. But then he says, more friendly: ‘I knows that. Take us for a fool, do you?’

‘What, you? Heh, nah, I knew you knew it. Juss makin’ sure like.’

We watched telly a bit more. Still pictures of the war. Bunch of soldiers taking aim out of a window. Shot of a bomb sitting in a silo, feller with a broom sweeping the floor around it like it weren’t there, like it were a lamppost or summat.

Legs rubbed his nose and says: ‘Gonna tell us woss really on yer mind?’

‘Who says there’s summat else on me mind?’

‘Blake…’ He smiled. He had a full set of teeth but one at the front was grey and dead. ‘How long we knowed each other?’

‘Long time. Years. Too fuckin’ long.’

‘Right. Too fuckin’ long. And ain’t we always been mates?’

‘Aye.’

‘Well don’t you reckon a mate gets to the point where he spots things?’ He hauled himself upright and sat elbows on knees, fists under chin, eyes on me. ‘Like when there’s summat on yer mind?’

Truth be told I were finding such talk a mite awkward. I mean, he were one of me best mates and all. And like I says, I’d told Legsy all kinds of things of a personal nature at one time or other. But you don’t let on to anyone that you’ve got a bottle problem. Feller can’t stick up for himself, feller don’t get respect. ‘All right, there is summat on me mind. But it ain’t a problem. I mean, iss summat I can deal with. Right?’

‘Muntons on yer back? That it?’

‘How’d…?’

‘Heared things, ain’t I?’

‘Who off?’

‘Don’t rightly recall.’

I could feel my face turning a nice beetroot. It didn’t do for such matters as these to be out in the open. ‘All right, I got a spot of bother with the Muntons. But I can handle it. All right?’

‘Right you are.’

Legs got up and went into the kitchen. He came back with two cans and two meat pies. He lobbed one of each at us. I tore the plastic wrapping off the pie and started munching on it. After the pie I chugged half the can and lit a fag, tossing one to Legs. I let out a smoky belch that lasted about five seconds.

‘Right you are,’ says Legs again, lighting up. ‘But you need help with summat, you come to me. Right?’

I could feel me cheeks burning more than ever. I necked the rest of the can, hoping it’d cool my head down, and then rattled off another five-second belch. ‘Ta, mate.’

Legsy winked at us. ‘What mates is for, ennit.’

It were a bit like waking up next to a marquee the next morning. I ain’t bragging nor nothing, but my tadger were good and tall and pushing up into the covers like a tent-pole. That’s from sleeping on a full bladder, that is. A bit odd when you thinks about it, seeing as when you finally wakes up and hobbles along to the bog you can’t piss anyhow on account of your tent-pole.

Still, nothing’s impossible. I kept trying, bending meself double so’s to ease the pressure. That got some of it out, but not where I wanted it. Feeling that this were getting silly, and with piss all over the tiles and everywhere but down the pan, I stood up, closed me eyes, and thought about the Muntons. Sure enough the tent-pole packed itself away and left me hanging limpish. I pissed for a long time, sighing with the joy of it all. There ain’t many feelings to rival that one. Two others that I can readily think of, in fact. And soon as I started thinking of one of em, up came the tent-pole again.

I went back to me bedroom thinking that it’d been a couple of days since I’d last had my end away. If I didn’t empty me sack soon my bollocks’d pack up on us. That’s what happens with monks, I once heard. Their knackers ain’t called upon, so eventually they stops producing the goods. Well, I’d hadn’t fathered no nippers, far as I knew. And I had no plans of spawning none. But nor did I plan on becoming no monk neither. So I had a choice.

Pull meself off.

Or go round Sally’s.

I climbed into the car and bombed across town. I loved that car. Far back as I could recall, all I’d ever really wanted were a Ford Capri. There’s summat about that long bonnet and low-slung chassis that makes angels sing in your ears. When I were a youngun I used to stop at every Capri I walked past and feel her all over, drawing grim looks off passing grannies and arsey shouts from Capri owners. I couldn’t help it.

So as soon as I started earning—from robbing mostly—I started saving up. By the time I were eighteen or so I had enough to get meself one. Only problem were that the standard of Capris on the market had dropped a bit by then. And it’d been dropping ever since, same as the standard of everything else. You only gets what you’re offered, and if shite is all they offers, shite is what you gets. Still, my Capri were a good un. Best one in Mangel, I reckoned. And long as I could keep her going all right, I were happy.

And happy I were, as I overtook a bus and stuck him two fingers in the mirror. All my worries seemed to have up and left us during the night. It were as if I’d worried meself round the clock and started at nought again. Or maybe I were just seeing things more clearer now. Things blow over. Folks move on and leave their shite behind. Just cos Finney and Legs and a few others knew about me and my problems with the Munton boys don’t mean everyone knew. Or maybe I’d got the Muntons all wrong. Maybe they was just pissing us about and not intent on harming us at all. Aye, that were it, like as not.

And besides, I didn’t fancy worrying no more. Life were for living, not fretting. Right?

No one were answering when I buzzed. But that didn’t mean much. She liked her sack, did Sal. I reckon she liked it best when she had a feller in it, but she were partial to a bit of kip and all. Specially after a night on the pop. I buzzed again, holding me thumb on the button for half a minute.

Still no answer.

Then I remembered walking home with Finney last night and thinking I’d seen Sal with a feller in the back of a cab. I looked at me watch. Half three. If she had someone in there he’d have pissed off by now. Sal weren’t the sort to let fellers hang around after she’d had her fun. Only I were allowed that privilege. And that’s cos I weren’t just a feller. We had a special arrangement, see. When she needed a bit of protection, she came to me. And I went to her when I wanted…well, a shag.

I heard a motor starting up round the corner. Noises like that don’t as a rule catch my attention, but this were a deep rumble—summat powerful, like what you don’t often hear round these parts. I leant back to take a gander. But that were when Sally’s voice piped up on the intercom.

‘Who the fuck is that?’ she says in her best telephone voice.

‘All right, sweetheart.’

‘Oh, hiya.’

The door clicked. I pushed it open.

I walked up the stair feeling nice and easy. Halfway up I stopped and lit a fag. All right, she’d had a feller last night. So what? Weren’t the first time. And I were no monk meself. Weren’t like we was married neither. Not even close, mate. She liked a slap and I liked a tickle, and between us we had an all right time when it suited us. Healthy feller and a fit bird—nothing wrong with that. But it didn’t mean anything else, right?

She were still in her dressing gown. But it weren’t that what set us on edge when I walked in the flat. It were the smell. You know the smell you gets in your living room when your pissed-up mate kips on the sofa? A manly smell, mixture of beer, sweat, stale aftershave, and farts. Your typical feller don’t notice it much round his own house, it being the normal way of things for him. But in a bird’s place he will notice. ‘Who were he?’ I says, all cool and can’t give a toss, like.

Sally had flopped onto the couch and lit a fag. She took a long pull on it and says: ‘Don’t you go gettin’ jealous on me, you daft bastard. You knows you ain’t meant to mention things of that sort.’

‘Things,’ I says, looking at the floor. ‘Things of what sort?’

‘You know. Things…Oh, Blake, I turns a blind eye to what you gets up to and you does same for me. Iss the way we is, Blake. I don’t tell you what to do an’ you—’

‘Who were he is all I asked,’ I says. I shoved my hands in me pockets, where they clenched into fists. ‘Go on, who?’

‘You never asked before,’ she says, snatching up her dressing gown around her chest. Bird can’t show her wares when she’s got a mood on. ‘You never asked before because that’s the way it suits you. Gets to shag yer way through every little slapper in town, you does.’

‘I never asked before cos I never had to sniff the fucker’s farts before. Now answer us. Who were he?’

‘Leave us alone. I hates you sometimes.’ She picked up her fags and lighter and cleared off into the bedroom, leaving us standing there like a twat.

Just because it were the way it were don’t mean I liked it. I did know about Sally’s dalliances. And so did half the town. Sally’d always been that way. Specially when she had a few Pernod and blacks inside of her. Scrumpy did the trick and all, but it took longer and gave her wind. She’d been that way at school, popular with the fellers and vicey-versa. She’d carried on that way when she left and got a job cutting hair. You couldn’t blame her for craving a bit of male company after crimping all them old ladies’ barnets all week and listening to their gossip. It’s a fair bet she got even more that way after taking up stripping, what with all them fellers seeing what she had on offer. And she were still that way when I bumped into her in the job shop a couple year back. Sal were Sal. And like I says, I didn’t always like it too much.

But it weren’t my place to complain, were it.

So there I were sniffing some feller’s farts. And suddenly it weren’t right. It just fucking weren’t. And don’t go pestering us about the why neither. Some things just is what they is or ain’t. There’s right and there’s ain’t right. And this weren’t right. All right?

I opened a window and wafted the curtains around a bit. Then I went and knocked on the bedroom door and gave it some more of the cool and can’t give a toss. ‘You tell us who this bastard is, right? You tell us now. And why’s he still here at half three in the afty?’

‘Ain’t still here.’

‘Ah, so he
were
here. Come on, woss his name?’

‘Ain’t tellin’. You don’t know him.’

‘Come on. Tell us, you dirty little slapper.’

‘Stop shoutin’ at us. And don’t call us slapper.’

‘Why? What you is, ennit, a slapper?’

‘Least I ain’t no bottler.’

My heart stopped beating. I thought, that’s it. That’s me finished. Thirty-year-old keels over of heart attack in his bird’s flat in the middle of a row.

But then he came back, beating like a bad un and making up for all the beats he’d missed. And I were alive and breathing and standing at Sal’s bedroom door with her on the other side screaming at us. And she’d just called us a…

‘What’d you call us?’

‘Bottler.’

‘Now Sally, you just can’t go—’

‘Ah, ain’t so tough now, is you? Ain’t so big now I’ve found out yer little secret.’

‘Come on, tell us what—’

‘Bottler bottler bottler.’

Sal had jammed a chair up against the handle. But it weren’t a problem. I just kicked the door a couple of times and the chair fell away. Meanwhile Sal were still shouting. She weren’t calling us bottler no more. I were a bastard now, in her book. Bastard were all right. But I couldn’t have the other. No fucker had ever called us bottler face-to-face and got away with it.

She threw herself onto the bed when I came in. That were summat of a trademark for her, throwing herself at things. Any other time I would have thrown myself on there with her, seeing her dressing gown come away like that and flashing her arse cheeks and a bit of hair. But this weren’t no normal occasion. I had other priorities.

I stood over her. ‘Who’s callin’ us bottler?’ I says. I were calm. Aye, I were calm. I fucking were, all right?

‘Call yerself a doorman? What doorman gets slapped in the face and does nuthin’ about it? What doorman lets a feller in after pushin’ him round an’…an’…callin’ him names?’

My poor heart couldn’t take much more of this. I had to do summat, say summat. But no words came. I grabbed her ankle.

‘Get off me, bastard.’ She flipped herself over and swung a foot at me knackers. I fell to me knees. She sat up, panting. ‘Oh, I gets it,’ she says. ‘Thump a woman, would you? Can’t stand up to a man, but a woman? Well…’

I stayed where I were. Not cos she’d landed one in me spuds. They hurt a bit but I could handle that. It were because she were right. You shouldn’t touch a bird in anger. Even if it’s just grabbing her ankle. Even if she’s hoofing at your bollocks and doubting your manhood. I fell forward onto the bed and buried my head in me hands. That were all I could think of to do. And as it stood it were the right thing to do.

I felt her arm creep around us. That’s the other thing about our Sal. That little heart of hers were made of gold. ‘Oh, Blake, I…you…’ She massaged my shoulders a bit and pressed her tits against my back, filling up the silence with her body. ‘It’ll be all right.’

But I’d spotted summat on the floor next to her bed. And I knew it wouldn’t be all right. I had a feeling that it wouldn’t ever be all right again. I reached down and picked it up. ‘Woss this?’ I says. But I could see what it were. I just wanted to hear her say it.

‘Dunno. Lob it in the bin.’

‘How’d it get here?’

‘I says I dunno, didn’t I? Room’s a tip, ennit? Might of been hangin’ round for months—’

‘Room ain’t a tip. Carpet’s tidy except for knickers and this little card. Now you tell us what it is.’

‘I…I dunno. Looks like a tradesman’s card or summat.’

‘What do this say?’

‘Ain’t got me glasses on.’

‘Wossit fuckin’ say?’

‘All right. It says Munton Motors.’ I knew all Sal’s ways. There were nothing she could hide from us. When she got nervous she got lairy. When she got scared she went all sweet, like she were trying to flirt her way out of her troubles. Right now she were being a bit of both, massaging me shoulders with her fingernails. ‘So fuckin’ what?’

‘So fuckin’ what,’ I says and all, grabbing her gently by one wrist and pulling her round to where I could see her. ‘So fuckin’ not much, I reckon. Just you has a feller up here not ten minute ago, you calls us bottler, then I finds a Munton callin’ card next to your trolleys. How long has it been goin’ on?’

‘I fuckin’ hate you,’ she yells, spit flying all over my face. ‘Let go me arm.’

‘Come on. How long you been seein’ Baz again? Couldn’t stay away from him, could you? Or perhaps it weren’t Baz. Perhaps you’re tryin’ out Lee and Jess now. Eh?’

‘Piss off.’

‘Which one were it, you dirty slapper?’

‘Fuck off. It were Baz. Baz were here with us. An’ I’ll tell you what…I’ll tell…I…’

‘Aye? What? What you gonna tell us about Baz Munton?’

She touched my arm and moved her hand up to me face. I let her do it. She’d shagged one of the Muntons. Baz Munton, for fuck sake. But I still loved it when she put her fingers on us. I could feel my anger draining away. Weren’t much I could do about that. She had us by the knackers, in a way of speaking.

She put her other hand on my trouser front, just to drive the point home. ‘Come on, Blake,’ she says all soft. ‘It were just a shag. Nuthin’ else. A shag for old times. Didn’t mean nuthin’.’

‘So why’d he leave his card?’ I says, suddenly feeling sulky like a youngun who knows what’s what but don’t like it.

She shrugged. ‘Must of dropped it.’

‘And what’d he say about me?’

Her hand left me. The look on her face changed. It were hard to describe how. I hadn’t seen her like this before. She’d always treated us like I were lord of the fucking manor. Even when she were calling us a cunt. ‘Don’t matter, Blake.’

It don’t matter. ‘It don’t fuckin’ matter? Tell us.’

‘Oh, Blake…’

‘Tell us.’

‘All right all right. Get off me arm. He says you’re a bottler cos he went down Hoppers and everyone knows the Muntons ain’t welcome in Hoppers and he slaps you round the chops and calls you a cunt and pushes you out the way an’…an’ you stands there like a lemon and lets him get in. And that ain’t no way for a proper bouncer to be behavin’, he says an’ all.’

I stood up and walked over to the window. Outside two younguns was poking and prodding my Ford Capri. I opened the window and shouts: ‘Hoy. Get off me Ford Capri, you fuckin’ little bastards.’

They was about ten year old, I reckon, and they started off pretty swift when they heard us bellowing out of Sal’s window. Then one of em stops and looks up at us. He says summat to the other, who stops and all. Then the two walks up to my motor—my Ford fucking Capri, for fuck sake—and sits on the bonnet. ‘Piss off, old bottler,’ shouts the one of em.