Monkey Wrench (15 page)

‘May I join in tomorrow?' Justin asked.

‘You?'

‘It sounded really interesting.'

‘You ain't a sI … a woman.'

‘Guys get picked on too, you know.'

Which is true. I s'pose. Especially if they're young and pretty like Justin. Everyone pretty gets picked on. Actually, come to think of it, you only need to look out of the ordinary, one way or the other, and people think you're up for grabs. I used to get picked on myself when I was young. And it wasn't 'cos I was pretty.

‘Money!' I said. I'd forgotten – which wasn't like me at all. ‘I'm not doing this for free, you know.'

The market was packing up. It was dark. I decided to go to Hanif's because I was running out of food at the Static. I'd only gone a couple of steps when someone in the shadows said, ‘Oy, Bucket Nut!'

I didn't stop. Why should I? Do you stop whenever any Tom, Dick or Harry says, ‘Oy'?

‘Oy, you!' he said again.

‘Oy you yourself,' I said, and I went on.

‘I'm talking to you,' he said, coming out of the shadows.

‘Talk to yourself,' I said. ‘I'm busy.'

‘I
know
you're busy,' he said. ‘I been watching you.'

He had a sneery stoatish way of talking so I stopped to take a look at him. He was about my height – which is not short – but he wore his trousers at half-mast with a belly-roll oozing over the belt. His cap sagged over his little eyes and his nose had woodworm.

‘Yeah,' he said, ‘I been watching you. I seen your little set-up. And I reckon you could do with a partner.'

‘You what?' I said. ‘You seen nothing I want a partner for.'

‘I ain't offering,' he said. ‘I'm telling. You need a partner. Fifty-fifty, and that's being fair – I could cut you right out. But I won't.'

‘No you won't,' I said. ‘And shall I tell you for why? It's because if I see you stoating round my door just one more time I'll spread you flat and butter my bread with you. I don't like you.'

And I walked off. I mean, what did a bloke with a belly-roll know about self-defence? What right did he have muscling in on my patch? I'd show him muscle he never even heard of.

‘You better listen when I talk,' he shouted after me. ‘I got mates.'

‘You need 'em,' I shouted back. ‘But I don't believe you.'

If he had mates, they'd have herpes. They'd be creepy-crawles like him. They'd be miserable old blokes who never had a single idea in their lives except to make money off the backs of others.

I've said it before but I'll say it again – if you got something, stick to it like shit to a blanket. Because, no matter what it is, even if it's only a dirty old shop-front gym and a self-defence class, some miserable stoat will want to take half. Half he hasn't earned.

And let me tell you – Eva Wylie, the London Lassassin, did not come into this world just to make things easy for stoats.

It's not that I'm bloody-minded – I'm a helpful sort, really. I mean look what I'm doing to help Crystal and Bella and that crowd. It ain't for free, granted. But I work for my gelt. I put up with a lot. And, ask yourself, do
I
want anything for free? Do I complain? No I do not. There should be more around like me, and the world's be a better place.

At Hanif's I bought bread and bananas. I bought tins of beef stew and a couple of pork pies. Then I went back to the Static to sort myself out and check my gear.

I let the dogs out. I changed their water. I dusted their bedding with flea powder. And that reminded me. I needed a bath.

Normally I shower at Sam's Gym. But these wasn't normal times. There is a little shower stall in the Static but it works off electricity. The Static is not connected to mains electricity. It could be. It once was. But not any more. No electrics. No electric bills. Simple.

You think you need electricity, don't you? Well, you don't. That's what the electricity company wants you to think. They want you to think you can't do without. And when they've got you thinking that way they put their prices up. And up and up and up. And you suckers, who think you can't do without, pay. And pay and pay and pay.

Not me. I've got candles and torches for light. I got wood and paraffin for heat. I got gas cylinders for me stove.

What I ain't got is meters, or someone with his nosy little
calculator totting up how much I use and how much I owe. I don't rent his equipment. I don't need him or his goods. I'm free. Hand on heart, can you say that?

I put a pan of water on the stove and ate a pork pie while it heated up. I like a nice hot shower – true – but I can get clean without.

After that, I checked my gear. I hung my black costume up to air, I made sure my boots were sound and the laces were strong, I inspected the straps on my kneepads. I don't want no broken straps or laces when I'm in the ring. I want to be perfect. Imagine a wrestler with her costume held together by safety pins! I don't want to spoil my image, do I? I'm a villain, and villains and safety pins don't mix. Mean hard villains got to have mean hard gear. I couldn't believe in myself if I was falling out of my gear.

I ran my black belt through my fingers, and tugged at the buckle. I like that belt. It looks like power and control. It's hard, and it's supple. Like me. I'm hard and supple. I can dish it out, and I can take it. I just wish there was more competition around so I could prove it to more people.

I just wish I could fight on TV like they do in America. Then everyone would know. I'd be mega-famous and filthy rich and no one,
no one
, would mess me around. There'd be no stinking stoats popping out of the shadows going, ‘Oy Bucket Nut.' No – it'd be ‘'Scuse me, Ms Wylie, might I take a few seconds of your precious time?'

And I'd say, ‘Make it quick, my good man. The chauffeur's waiting.'

I'd have all the erks and bims grovelling. Believe me, I would!

I'd have a proper trailer with a proper shower in it. The trailer would be made of reinforced stainless steel and polished up like a silver bullet. The trim would be black and it'd have ‘The London Lassassin' painted on the side so everyone'd know I was there.

I'd have a black and silver Rolls-Royce to pull the trailer.

I could go anywhere I liked and still be at home.

Ramses and Lineker could have a small trailer of their own. We'd be the Mobile London Lassassin and Her Hounds from Hell.

Crystal would have to make an appointment with my receptionist if she wanted to see me.

‘Ms Wylie'll see you now,' the receptionist'd say. ‘Knock before you enter. Oh, and take this mug of tea and plate of doughnuts through when you go in. Ms Wylie likes a little something this time of an afternoon.'

And Crystal would knock and come in, and she'd see Mr Deeds on his knees begging me to be top of his bill. He'd be arranging a fixture at the Albert Hall, and the only one who could fill the Hall would be the London Lassassin.
Me
.

He'd say, ‘Oh Eva … sorry, I mean Ms Wylie, I'll be ruined if you don't agree to make a guest appearance. There ain't no one more popular than you.'

And I'd say, ‘I'll have to look in my diary. You don't want me to fight in a mask, do you?'

And he'd go, ‘I must've been bonkers to suggest that. It was all the fault of those two twats Gruff Gordon and Pete Carver. I fired them ages ago. They're sleeping at the Salvation Army Hostel these days. I'll go down there and pour battery acid on their beds if you like.'

‘Suit yourself,' I'd go. ‘Pete who? Gruff who? I been too busy signing autographs to remember them.'

And then, see, I'd notice Crystal. She wouldn't just pop up and grab my elbow like she does. She'd be standing there waiting to be noticed. So I'd notice her. In me own time. And I'd say, ‘What you want, monkey face?'

But I'd know what she wanted. Because I'd of just done this self-defence video. Y'know? Like Jane Fonda only serious. And Crystal wants to sell it on her stall. ‘Be Tough The Eva Wylie Way', that's what I'd call it. Or ‘The London Lassassin's Secrets of Personal Security'.

‘Oy monkey face,' I'd say, ‘the deal's this – ninety-five per cent to me, five per cent to you. Take it or leave it.'

And she'd go, ‘Oh thank you, Ms Wylie, thank you. Five per cent of what you make will keep me for a year.'

And then Mr Deeds'd say, ‘Please, please, please, Ms Wylie, can I put your picture on my posters for the Albert Hall?'

‘All right,' I'd say, ‘but there's conditions.'

‘What?' he'd go. ‘Anything. You only got to say.'

‘I'm top of the bill. I get me own dressing room with a lavvy and a shower. I pick me own opponent. I pick the music. I don't want none of that sugar stuff like “Three Steps to Heaven”. I want proper music. Maybe I'll get Axl Rose to do it live. I'm fed up coming out to “Satisfaction”. Why should I come out to a song so old it was a hit before I was born? And I want gold chains for Ramses and Lineker.'

‘It's yours,' Mr Deeds says. ‘Everything.'

So I go, ‘Don't you want to know who I pick to fight?'

‘Who?'

And I wait and wait till his knees hurt – he's still kneeling – and then I say, ‘I think, seeing as it's the Albert Hall, and all the telly cameras will be there …'

‘Yes?'

‘And all those millions of fans will want something special …'

‘Yes? Tell me.'

‘Maybe I'll do something different.'

‘What?'

‘I think I'll fight …'

‘Who?'

‘I think I'll fight California Carl!'

He gasps. Crystal faints.

‘But,' he says, ‘you can't. You're a woman. It's never been done before.'

‘So much the better,' says I.

‘But California Carl is a maniac,' he says. ‘We can't risk it. It's too dangerous.'

‘
I'll
risk it,' I say. ‘We got a score to settle – California and me.'

‘But he's in chokey. He's banged up for seven years, for Grievous Bodily Harm, multiple murder and cruelty to animals.'

‘Get him out,' I say. ‘Clean him up and bring him to me. Midnight at the Albert Hall. I'll show you how dangerous he is. Do it, or I won't be there.'

So he does it.

Meanwhile, I've gone into strict training with Harsh as my personal trainer. We go to an island. Just the two of us. And while we're there he teaches me The Secret Eastern Method of Ultimate Strength which he is only allowed to tell someone as worthy and pure as what I am.

And that's how – at the Albert Hall, in front of millions of punters and viewers – I meet California Carl in a Titanic Struggle. Axl Rose is there in person, and the Royal family, and I see them standing up and hissing California. But they're cheering for me.

I've never actually been to the Albert Hall so I don't know what it looks like, but I expect it's all gold and red. I'd be in black, so I'd really stand out under all them spotlights. And I'd have a black and silver satin cloak made specially for the occasion. And Harsh would hold it for me when I stripped down in the ring.

Oh, I was in a lovely mood when I went to bed that morning. A good mind-movie can keep you going for hours if you're lucky enough to get one.

The other bit of luck was that I didn't have any erk or bim spoiling it. I did my rounds, and went to The Enemy's places without seeing a single soul.

So I woke up feeling exactly as I ought on the day of a fight. Fight days are special days. I suppose they wouldn't be if I was on as many bills as the blokes are. But I'm not, so they are. A fight day is
my
day. Like a birthday. So I'm very particular about it. I'm particular about what I eat and how I train.

I had a few banana sandwiches and tea for my breakfast and then I went to the Premises to work out. All I need is a spot of light training. I don't want to tire myself out or cop an injury, but I want to be toned and sharp. And I want my brain to run on the right road. Harsh says if you can imagine moves right, you're half-way to doing them right.

The first thing I saw when I got to the Premises was Crystal with her stall parked outside the door like yesterday. The second thing I saw was Crystal had a face like a funeral.

Straight away she says, ‘Queenie died.'

‘Thought she would,' I said. But it was a pity all the same.

‘Justin doesn't know,' she said. ‘I couldn't tell him.'

‘But you could tell me,' I said. ‘Great.'

‘She ain't your dog. And then there's her babies.'

Why can't she use the right word for things? Calling pups ‘babies'! She just makes things worse than they are.

‘Pups,' I said. ‘They're puppies. Not babies.'

‘They ain't doing too good neither. The vet says we may lose both of them. The littlest one's in a bad way.'

‘What you telling me for?'

‘The vet says it's 'cos Queenie was old, and when she mated, she mated with a big dog with a big head. Like a boxer or a … a Rot-something.'

‘Rottweiler.' Ramses has a lot of Rottweiler in him, so I know.

‘So it killed her,' Crystal said. ‘Who'd be female? Eh, Eva? If you don't get a hammering one way you get it another.'

First she muddles up puppies and babies, now she was muddling up bitches and women. She probably still had Dawn on her mind. She was spoiling my special day.

‘I got to go,' I said. I hate it when Crystal gets soppy.

‘So I was thinking,' she said.

‘No,' I said.

‘I was thinking, could you …'

‘No!'

‘Oh all right,' she said. ‘But would you be
nice
to Justin?'