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  BOOZE AND BURN

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  This book was previously published by Serpent’s Tail under the title “Fags and Lager.”

  Text copyright ©2010 Charlie Williams

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by AmazonEncore

  P.O. Box 400818

  Las Vegas, NV 89140

  ISBN: 978-1-935597-48-3

  CONTENTS

  1: ONE NIGHT, FIVE BURGLARIES

  2: OLD LADY MUGGED

  3: CRIME WAVE CONTINUES

  4: DRINK MORE, SEE MORE

  5: TWO HELD FOR CRIMES

  6: SWEETS DEFY SCIENTISTS

  7: A MOTHER SPEAKS

  8: INTO THE LION’S DEN

  9: WHAT IS WRONG WITH MANGEL YOUTH?

  : SWEET TEST INCONCLUSIVE

  11: HOPPERS: AXIS OF EVIL?

  12: READERS RESPOND

  13: LOOKING FOR JOEY: PART ONE

  14: LOOKING FOR JOEY: PART TWO

  15: HOPPERS DOORMAN SLAUGHTERED

  16: INFORMER REPORTER BUTCHERED

  17: DRUGS AND CRIME: THE CHIEF SPEAKS

  18: THE OUTSIDER WITHIN

  19: MANGEL’S WAYWARD SON

  20: DOWIE KILLER CAUGHT

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  1

  ONE NIGHT, FIVE BURGLARIES

  Steve Dowie, Crime Editor

  The recent spate of burglaries came to a head yesterday as five households were reported broken into. None of the perpetrators was apprehended, although Mrs. G. Fulley of Grape Lane disturbed two youths in her bedroom.

  ‘Just lads they was, dressed in them silly big clothes they all started wearing just now,’ she said from her doorstep last night. ‘There were summat odd about them, mind, summat in their eyes. I ain’t ever seen such a look before. It were like…’

  Mrs. Fulley gazed into the overcast sky, searching for the word. Then the dark clouds seemed to enter her mind and she stepped inside. ‘I ain’t saying no more,’ she said, closing the door. ‘They’re still out there somewhere, ain’t they.’

  I had my eye on her the minute she stepped around the corner up yonder and began wending her way Blakeward. She’d taken a fair old stretch of time to get as close as she were now, I can tell you, but she’d made it and now I were honour-bound to give her summat for her efforts. Namely letting her into Hoppers.

  But I never.

  Like I says, she were up close. Close enough so I could kiss her without shifting on me feet, though she were a foot shorter than meself and not my type anyhow, what with that skinny arse and all them freckles across her nose. But I couldn’t smell nothing on her breath. And by rights I ought to be whiffing the pop fumes from a couple of yard off, going by her unsteady gait and that. So if she weren’t pissed there were only one thing she could be. And we don’t let them sort in.

  ‘Not tonight, love,’ I says, blocking her way. I thought about adding, ‘No mongs in here,’ by way of explanation, but to be honest she didn’t look capable of taking it in.

  She pushed on anyhow, not caring that her tits was squashed up against my outstretched arm. She gave us a look and all and I didn’t much care for it. There’s two kinds of looks I’m used to getting from birds: special and aggro. Most birds will go for the former, and I can’t say I blames em. I’m Royston Blake, Mangel’s top doorman. I got class and I carries meself well, and the birds knows it and appreciates it. But you can’t keep em all happy, and there’s always one or two don’t like being loved and left. That’s where your aggro look comes in. But this one here weren’t even giving us the aggro. She were peering up close with a little smirk on her chops, like I were a ladybird crawling up her arm or summat.

  And like I says, I took umbrage to it.

  ‘Deaf or summat?’ I says, politely pushing her back.

  She went roadward a bit faster than I’d intended. Arse over tit to be precise. I checked left and right to see if anyone’d clocked us. A doorman’s gotta do what he’s got to, which sometimes can entail a spot of light physical. But it never looks good when a bird’s involved. No matter how much grief she’s doling out.

  But no one spotted it, so I were all right.

  I trotted up to her and offered my hand. I might be a cunt now and then, but if I knocks a bird down I’ll always help her up again. ‘Blip,’ she says.

  I waggled my ear with me free hand, reckoning quite reasonably that I’d heard her wrong. ‘You what?’

  ‘Blip.’

  I pulled back the other hand, which she hadn’t took up the offer of anyhow. Some folks was coming out of Hoppers behind us, a feller and a bird as it turned out. I went to salute em on their way but they was tonguing each other ragged and beyond saluting. I turned back to the girl on her arse, scraing my head. ‘I reckons you just said “blip,” or summat,’ I says. ‘That right?’

  ‘Blop.’

  I scratched my head again, looking northwards at the corner she’d walked around not but three minutes prior. I were in a bit of a quandary, see. By rights I ought to leave her be and piss off back to my door, me being head doorman and manager of Hoppers, and a doorman’s job being to keep door at all times and never ever leave it. Unless there’s a spot of nearby argy-bargy that needs sorting, of course. But there weren’t no argy-bargy. There were a right odd bird sat atop the hard stuff and fuck all else besides.

  Like I says, I were looking up yonder, scratching me swede, when a feller comes haring around the corner like a cat with a banger up his arse. I stood up tall, sensing aggro in the air. No one hares that way in Mangel unless bother’s up. And a finely tuned doorman such as meself can sniff bother from three furlongs off.

  When he clocked us he slowed up and started walking all casual like, setting his floppy hair to rights and pulling his top straight. He were about twenty-five, I reckon, with lank blonde hair hanging over his ears like a pair of old curtains. Going by his physique he didn’t seem one for big eating nor heavy lifting. At about shoulder-high to meself he weren’t a tall feller neither. Bit of a streak of piss all in all. And he were dressed like a cunt: jeans and hooded jogging top, the both about eight sizes too big for him.

  He stopped five yard off and spread his arms wide, like he were showing us how long a yard were. He had a big smile across his chops and all, and I didn’t much care for it.

  ‘Who the fuck do you reckon you is?’ I says, looking him up and down. I had a good mind to smack him, acting like he were somebody when any cunt could see he were fuck all. I’d never clocked the bastard before in me life. And that ain’t summat you’ll often see in Mangel—a face you ain’t seen fifty times already. If you really wants to know—and I reckon you does, else you’d have fucked off by now—the feller looked like an outsider. Weren’t just his togs neither. Everything about him gave it away, right down to the way he walked. Sounded like an outsider and all:

  ‘Well,’ he says.

  See what I mean? Pure big city. Bit posh and all. Here’s a bit more:

  ‘Well, I’m not saying—’

  ‘Ain’t sayin’ much, is you?’ I says. ‘I was you, I’d keep it that way and all.’ Cos if there’s one thing I hates it’s a cocky outsider.

  His face fell like a pissed-up blind feller near a cliff edge. But he had it up and running again sharpish. Bit too sharpish for my liking. But it weren’t so cocky now, to be fair to him.

  ‘Nah, man,’ he says, putting his ha
nds up. I don’t like folks who put their hands up when I ain’t even threatened em yet. Presumptuous, it is. ‘I’m no one special. Just looking for my girl here. She ran away back there. But, you know, girls do that sometimes, don’t they? Attention seeking, yeah?’ He winked at us.

  There’s another thing I don’t like and it’s a feller winking at us. So when I piped up again there might well have been a touch of the narky in me voice. ‘So this un’s with you, is it?’ I says, nodding at the bird. ‘Gonna say woss up with her then?’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with her, man. Honest. Just the drink.’

  ‘Blip,’ she says, staring into the black sky.

  I looked up. No blips up there, far as I could see. ‘This bird ain’t been drinkin’,’ I says, with the confidence of one who’s spent his working life sifting the bladdered from the borderline.

  ‘She has, man. Honest. Tequila. You can’t smell tequila on breath.’

  ‘Tequila? Who the fuck drinks tequila round here?’

  ‘Oh, you’d be surprised. You can get it. Listen, I’m gonna take her now, all right?’ He leaned over to haul her up, never taking his eyes from off us.

  ‘No you ain’t.’ I pushed him back with the tip of me boot. ‘I ain’t satisfied yet. How does I know you ain’t a stranger aimin’ to have away with her, poor and helpless like she is?’

  ‘Look, I’m all right. I’m not gonna hurt her.’ He held his hands up again like I were meant to read his palms or summat. Now he were up close and I could get a good gander of him I reckoned he were a bit older than I’d first judged him to be. His face were quite smooth, but there was a few lines here and there and the odd bust vein. It were hard to put me pointer on how old he were, but I’d say somewhere between twenty-five and fifty. ‘I just need to get her home. She’ll be ill.’

  ‘Well she’ll go sick then, won’t she. Cos I ain’t lettin’ you have her.’

  He stood up and stuck hands in pockets. ‘OK, what am I supposed to do to convince you?’

  I folded my arms and kept me gob shut. You ain’t meant to talk of such matters in the open, after all. There’s certain signs you can give that gets the job done for you. Hand signals and that. I rubbed thumb and pointer of my right hand together.

  ‘Oh, I get it,’ he says reaching into his pocket like a good boy. He counted out a few sheets, shaking his head and smirking down at his wallet.

  ‘Got summat to say, have you?’ I says. Like most folks in Mangel I’ll tolerate an outsider, but I won’t stand for cheek from no streak of piss. If he’s giving us lip I don’t give a shite where he’s from—I’ll fucking have him.

  ‘Just chill, man,’ he says, proffering three notes and a nervous smirk.

  I unclenched me paws and took the notes, staring him down until the moment came to count em. They was fivers, which were a bit of a blow. But fifteen pound weren’t bad for a spot of free-lance. ‘Go on then,’ I says, turning me back and filing the sheets in me pocket. ‘She’s all yours.’

  The rest of the night were piss easy, Mondays being quiet by tradition and the damp autumn air putting an early stopper on any thoughts of aggro folks might have been harbouring. I sank a pint of lager, chted to Rache for a few minutes while sipping on another, knocked back a couple more for the road, says goodbye to Rache, taxed a bottle of whisky from behind the bar, pulled meself another pint cos it were the end of the barrel, locked up, had one for the road, and got in me car.

  Seemed like only a couple of minutes later I were pulling up in front of my house. You can put that down to the superior engineering of your Capri 2.8i. Running like a thoroughbred them days, she were. I had the power steering sorted and everything. Stuck sometimes when you wrenched her too far to the right, but anyone bar women and children could haul her straight with a bit of elbow. And your 2.8i ain’t meant for birds and younguns anyhow.

  When I got in I loosened me dickie bow, kicked off me boots, and plonked my arse down on the good kitchen chair, the others all being a bit shaky. I’d forgot to get meself a glass, knackered as I surely were, so I opened the whisky bottle and stuck him to me lips. I held him there for a goodly while and it were a sweet moment while it lasted. I were a hard-grafting feller and I’d come to the end of another working day. But sweet moments never last long. Not in Mangel anyhow.

  ‘All right, Blakey.’

  I reckon you knows all about Finney. I’ll not be trotting out all the old stories about him, so don’t fret. Suffice to say he were a useless cunt.

  ‘All right, Fin,’ I says, politeness being the rule in my house.

  ‘Sally called for you again,’ he says, wheeling himself over to the table. He poured some whisky into a dirty mug without so much as a glance at us then sat there slurping, sloshing it round his mouth and between his teeth. Then he says: ‘What you been up to, then?’

  I tapped me finger on the table for a bit, wondering whether to have a smoke or no. I’d been thinking about giving up of late. Fags just wasn’t same as they used to be. The baccy was all dry and manky and the filters seemed to hold onto half the goodness no matter how hard you sucked on em. Aye, I were wondering if it weren’t time to pack em in and move up to cigars full-time. ‘What have I been up to?’ But I only had smokes on us right then so I lit one up. ‘What the fuck have I been up to?’

  ‘All right, Blakey, don’t start on us. I were just—’

  ‘“All right, Blakey”, is it? I’ll tell you woss all right Blakey…it’s all right Blakey for you to sit on yer arse all day watchin’ my fuckin’ telly, eatin’ my fuckin’ scran, smokin’ my fuckin’ smokes, and swillin’ yer fuckin’ gob out with my bastard whisky. Thass all right Blakey, ennit?’

  We stayed like so for a bit, drinking and smoking and trembling and fuming and not talking. After a while I couldn’t stand it no longer. ‘All right,’ I says, going to the sink. I stood there for a bit with me back to Fin, then says: ‘I didn’t mean it like that. You knows I fuckin’ never.’

  He said nothing to that. The cunt. I’d apologised, hadn’t I? He could at least say summat. I counted the dirty mugs in the sink and waited. There was eight of em. ‘Look, I’ve had a hard day. Aggro all night long at Hoppers, there has been. One ruck after another, me expected to wade in and win every one of em. Poor knuckles is hurtin’ us chronic, they is. So you ca8217;t blame us for havin’ a little pop. All right?’

  Still the cunt said nothing. I wanted to turn about and see what kind of a look were on his face, but I couldn’t. Not until he made his move. But no such move looked to be coming. He were silent as a kitten in a freezer. I couldn’t even hear the whisky sloshing through his teeth no more.

  ‘Fuck sake, Fin. I’m fuckin’ sorry, all right? Happy now?’

  There was about ten plates in that sink besides the mugs. And a half-empty tin of beans. And a dozen or so old teabags. And some eggshells. He started talking just as I got to counting the cutlery.

  ‘I knows how it is, Blakey,’ he says, not sounding much like himself.

  I could turn about now he’d made his move, so I did. He were looking into his mug, a frown on his face like a downturned horseshoe. Anyone’d think he were homeless, destitute, and friendless rather than living keep-free under his mate’s roof. I had a good mind to slap him around a bit and make him see how good he had it. But hitting Fin hadn’t seemed right ever since he’d come out of hospital a couple of year back. And it were no different now.

  ‘Yer a young man, compared to some,’ he were saying. ‘Whole life ahead of you. Got a good job. Birds flockin’ round you. You got a strong body and you knows how to use it. Last thing you wants is a cripple hangin’ about.’

  Finney were more than a useless cunt. He were a fucking bastard, weren’t he? ‘Fin…’

  ‘I wouldn’t wanna be lumbered with meself neither, if I was you. Ain’t just the wheelchair getting in the way, is it? Who’d want to see my fucked face every time they gets up or comes home from work? Can’t even bear to look in the mirror meself. Not even if
I could stand up to see in it, which I can’t.’

  ‘Fin, come on…’

  ‘No, I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again: don’t go blamin’ yerself for my ills. Can’t be helped now. An’ it weren’t like it were your fault. No it fuckin’ were not. Not even if folks says it is…’

  ‘Who—?’

  ‘Don’t matter who says. Matters is it ain’t true. You knows it and I knows it. I’ll always know it, Blakey, wherever I ends up.’

  He plonked his mug down and backed away from the table, then wheeled himself into the hall. Couple of seconds later the door shut on the front room, which were the one he dossed in, being as he couldn’t get up the stair. I sat at the table and got back on the whisky and fags. Long as I had me smokes and pop, I knew I’d be all right. All right as I had right to hope for, anyhow, I reckoned.

  I were still all right when the front door slammed a bit later. Weren’t too sure how much later, mind, cos I might have dropped off there a moment or two. Anyhow I righted the nigh-empty bottle and brushed the fag ash off me shirt front, then went for a gander.

  Fin always had trouble with that bumpy pavement outside my house. Once wheelcre on tarmac he were all right, but until then he struggled. ‘Hoy,’ I says, between a whisper and a holler. ‘Where the fuck is you off to?’

  He slowed and sort of looked sideways. Then he pressed on, grunting with the effort of it all.

  ‘I says hoy,’ I says, catching up and holding the back of his chair. ‘Hoy means stop. It don’t mean slow down a bit then piss off again.’

  ‘Leave it, Blake. Ain’t worth it.’