Booze and Burn Read online

  ‘What ain’t worth what?’

  ‘Just let us go. For the best, it is.’

  ‘Woss for the best? Where you off?’

  ‘Don’t matter. I’ll find somewhere.’

  ‘Somewhere for what?’

  ‘Blake,’ he says, stopping his struggling but turning his face from us. ‘I’m grateful for you lettin’ us stay in yer house and that. Surely I am. An’ I dunno what I’d of did if you hadn’t of done. But I knows when me time is up. Just let us go, Blake. Let us go.’

  I thought about it for a bit, the words he were saying and the situation we was finding ourselves in out here in the street at fuck knew what time in the smalls. I actually did think about it. Then I shook my head and started to turn the chair about. Only it didn’t turn proper. Nothing ever turned proper with Finney. He started pushing the wheels the other way. So what you had, right, were him versus meself in a battle of wills at dead of night, outside my house and a few yard up the way.

  Now, it’s a well-known fact that Finney, despite his skinny arse and that, were not short on elbow. Legend down at the slaughtering yard had it that he could haul the better part of a cow over his head when such were called for. But then he’d gone lame and his strength soon went to shite. You might reckon that him being in a cripple chair would make his arms even stronger what with all that pushing up hills, only Finney didn’t do much of that. Longest trek he done on a typical day were from the front room to the outside crapper, for which I’d put down some bits of wood to help him up the step. Now and then he’d drag himself along to the bus stop and head into town for his cripple money, but nothing else could get him out the door. Not even a night out at the Paul Pry tempted him. And that’s with me driving him down there in my Capri. So when it came to him against the rockest doorman in Mangel in a struggle over the direction of his wheelchair…what do you reckon?

  Only you’d be reckoning wrong, wouldn’t you.

  See, he fucking put the brake on, didn’t he, tipping the cart and sending him onto the hard stuff, swede-first, arse-second.

  I scratched my head for a bit. Then I stopped that, remembering how sparse things was getting up there. Bedroom lights was coming on up and down the street, and I knew I weren’t too popular amongst the neighbours on account of the shame I’d brung em in the past what with my address being printed in them articles about us in the paper. So I squatted down to get a good grip under Finney’s rank armpits.

  He were light as your proverbial and I had him stretched out on the floor of the front room without too much fuckin about. I went back out and got the chair in before the curtain twitching started for proper. I went to kick the door shut behind us but me leg froze.

  There were a motor out there.

  I’d clocked summat turning into our street as I were dragging the chair in, but in all the fuss it hadn’t hit home to us how it were such a rude hour and folks tending not to come up this street at unsociable times besides meself. And here she were now, pulling up right outside my door and turning herself off.

  I stayed like so, leg out, while I thought about how that engine hadn’t sounded like one you’d likely hear in the Mangel area. Then I got cramp and had to put me leg down and hop around for a bit. When I were all right again I poked me swede out the door.

  I were right about the motor—she weren’t from local. Shiny and new she were, and about as pretty as a bulldog in a bonnet. Had none of the style and panache that made your Capri the work of art she surely is, lacked the sumptuous lines of your Mk. III Cortina, and even made that Avenger down the road come across all erotic. To be frank with you it were a shite motor, and I got a queasy ache in me gut just looking at her. But look at her I did, for a bit longer at least, wanting to know who the fuck were behind the wheel.

  It were hard to see at first, our street boasting only the one lamp between the lot of us, but when me peepers adjusted I got a good look at him. And he clocked me and all, perhaps even nodded his head at us a tad. But it were only after he’d pulled away and slipped into the main road that I recognised him.

  Feller from outside Hoppers, wernit?

  The one who’d bunged us fifteen pound just now.

  2

  OLD LADY MUGGED

  Steve Dowie, Crime Editor

  Mrs. J. P. R. Plugham of the Muckfield district was attacked yesterday by a youth as she pushed her shopping trolley home from the town centre. The unidentified youth got away with a purse containing four pounds and change. Seventy-one-year-old Mrs. Plugham got away with her life. Just.

  ‘It’s me ticker, see,’ she told me from her hospital bed yesterday evening. ‘You gets to my age, you just can’t take a shock like that. Frightened the life out of us, it did. I fell right on my backside.’

  At this point a nurse came to mop Mrs. Plugham’s fevered brow. When she had recovered I asked her what the world is coming to, that an elderly woman cannot leave her home without risk of violence. ‘Coming to? World ain’t coming to nothing that it ain’t been already long enough. I been getting mugged far back as I recall. Aye, fifty year ago it were when that feller there…What were his name? Anyhow, he…er…’

  But what of the fear, I asked her. What of the terror that had pushed her old heart to its limits and left her wired to a drip in Mangel Infirmary? ‘Oh, it weren’t tht he were mugging us. To be fair on him, he didn’t so much as touch us. Just handed me goods over, I did, same as always. No, it were summat else had us quaking. Summat about his eyes, like…’

  Her eyelids flickered, her breathing faltered. Soon the nurse came back and the curtains were drawn. It was dark and wet outside on the streets of Mangel.

  This reporter went to file a story.

  Well, I were as surprised as you would be to see the feller there in his motor. What he were doing up my way were a source of great concern to us at that minute, me having not so long back lightened him of fifteen pound. Feller collects his dues off another feller he don’t want to hear no more about it. And if he’d gone to the trouble of finding out where I lived and coming along at such a filthy hour to have a gander—what the fuck for?

  I made a note in me swede to have him up about it next time I seen him, slap him about a bit and put the shite up him proper. I didn’t give a toss if he were an outsider. I’m Royston fucking Blake, and every cunt knows where I stands on outsiders. They don’t scare us and I ain’t fooled by their ways.

  Anyhow, I put it out me mind as soon as the door were shut and the cruel world were safely t’other side of it. I went into the front room.

  Finney were lying where I’d left him, fast akip. I knew just how he felt. I were dog arse tired meself and wanted nothing more than the comfort of clean sheets and a firm mattress, though I hadn’t changed me bed linen in fuck knew how many weeks, and the mattress were about fifty year old and as firm as an old man’s tadger.

  I knew it weren’t easy for Fin being the way he were. Kip were the best place for him, like as not. He’d be able to walk and run in his dreams. He’d look in a dream mirror and see a face like it used to be, before it had got scarred to fuck by a chainsaw. He might even tap off with a bird if he were lucky. But that were stretching it a bit, seeing as he couldn’t even do that before the accident.

  I fished a fiver out me wallet and set it beside him. Then I set another atop that one.

  Then I went upstairs to me pit.

  I got up next morning at one in the afternoon, guts fairly raging with hunger. Downstairs I put the blower back on the hook, wondering how many times Sal had rung us but not really giving a toss either way to be honest. I opened the fridge door and cursed my bastard luck aloud. There were fuck all inside but an inch of cheesy milk, an old bag of sprouts, and one can of lager.

  I cracked open the can and sat at the table, wondering what to do for the best. I needed scran. All workingmen need scran of a morn. And I couldn’t be arsed to trek to Butcher Fred’s in town. So the answer were clear:

  Finney could pop to Doug’s corner shop.r />
  Do him good to get some exercise. Building up his strength’s what he needed, none of this lying on the floor wailing your eyes out. But when it came to knocking on his door I didn’t have the heart. Let him kip, poor old cunt. Life couldn’t be easy in a wheelchair, even if he did have a fucking slave to wipe his arse for him. Not that I truly wiped his arse, you understand. Royston Blake don’t wipe arses for no fucker. I’m just being meta…you know, meta…I’m just saying, like.

  A rumbling in me belly reminded us how urgent matters was getting. I emptied the lager down me neck and went up the stair.

  I were turning them matters over as I pulled me togs on. I didn’t reckon I’d last if I went into town. Perhaps I could borrer summat off a neighbour. Not likely, mind. Them days I were lucky if one of em walked on the same side of the street as us. It were time to face facts.

  I had to pay a visit to the corner shop.

  Feller’s belly comes before his dignity after all, right?

  I walked slowly down the road, wishing it hadn’t come to this. Been a right cunt to me, Doug had. Stopped me credit and told us to piss off last time I’d been in there, after which I’d vowed never again to give him my custom. But that had been fucking ages ago and the world moves on. Aye, it were time to forget grudges and concentrate on the important things in life, like sausages and eggs and bacon and mushies. And black pudding. And fried tommies and baked beans.

  And lard.

  The bell started tinkling as I pushed the door open. I cursed it under me breath and strode in with my head held high, ready to meet whatever confrontation Doug had in mind. He weren’t behind his counter, which were the first thing to throw us. Always behind that counter were Doug the shopkeeper. Counting coinage or scratching arse or doing what, I dunno—but he were always there, ready to meet a punter with a smile or a scowl or whatever befitted em.

  The other thing to throw us were the state of the shelves. They was half empty. I’d never seen Doug’s shelves nothing shy of fully stocked.

  I stayed put, not making a sound. You never knew, after all. I played me cards right and I could get what I needed plus a bit besides and have away unnoticed, thereby preserving my dignity and saving on much-required wedge, which only amounted to a fiver anyhow.

  I started tippy-toeing around, picking up a packet of this and a tin of that. There were no bacon so I got twice as many bangers instead. And there was only half a dozen eggs in the shop, which were a few short of what I had in mind. To make up for that I filled me coat pockets with as many cans of lager as I could fit in em, then slipped behind the counter for some fags. There weren’t much room left on us so I sucked me gut in and stuffed the last few packs of Number One down me trolleys. It weren’t too comfortable but a bit of hardship were worth it for all them smokes. I went to the door, enjoying the warm feeling inside you gets from striking a bargain.

  ‘Afternoon, sir,’ comes a voice behind us just as I were reaching for the door. It were all right, mind—you could tell he hadn’t clocked us robbing. But he’d like as not suss if I just walked on out. I turned.

  ‘All right,’ I says. ‘Doug.’

  ‘Ah,’ he says, pulling his white coat tight around his skinny middle, which along with his faded brown work trousers left him looking a bit like a filter-tipped smoke. ‘If it ain’t Royston Blake.Ù

  ‘Aye?’ I says, feeling a few hackles rising. It fucking weren’t on, him using that tone of voice after I’d swallowed all that pride by coming in. ‘That’s me name. What of it?’

  He kept on with his granite eyes and arsehole mouth, then smiled. Aye, Doug fucking smiled at us—a sight I’d not seen in fuck knew how many years of patronage of his shop. You’d not have even thought his mouth fit for it, all tight and pinched like it were. But he managed it somehow, pulling up the corners with cheek muscles that couldn’t have ever seen usage before. They must have started cramping up on him cos the next minute the smile were gone and he says: ‘Been wantin’ a word with you, actually.’

  ‘Oh aye? What about?’ I shuffled a bit in me boots, feeling the corner of a fag packet pressing on me left knacker. I wanted to adjust meself down there but I couldn’t hardly do that with him looking on. So I sort of shifted my weight into me left leg, taking care not to clink the tinnies. ‘Ain’t seen you in yonks,’ I says, ‘and now you wants a word with us of a sudden?’

  ‘Thass right, thass right. Will you come out back, please? Bit personal, like.’

  There was stories about Doug the shopkeeper. Come to think on it, there ain’t a soul in Mangel who ain’t got stories floating around about him or her. But the ones about Doug was what you might call nasty. You might have heard some of em, you with your big ears and all. You might have even heard the one about the sausages. Well, let me tell you summat about the one about the sausages:

  It’s true.

  How does I know it’s true, you says? Who the fuck’s you to ask how I knows? But since I’m in a chatty mood I’ll tell you how I knows:

  I were there.

  That’s right—I were one of the younguns lifting joes in his shop that day many a moon back. We’d crept in nice and quiet and reckoned we’d got away with it, see. Joes was them sweets he had in that little trough under the counter, and if you stayed low and didn’t make a noise coming in you was all right to swipe em usually. But not this time. Doug popped up behind the counter like he’d known all along. We all pegged it, dropping joes everywhere and fighting to get out that door. All of us made it except this one lad. What were his name…? No matter—come to us in a minute, it will. Anyhow, the reckoning later on were that he’d slipped on the joes, hard little round fuckers as they was. The rest of us had away up the road and then crept back, nosiness being the better part of caution. We spied through the window, wondering what were coming to pass with our sad little comrade whose name I can’t recall and don’t matter anyhow, seeing as this here’s a story about Doug and not the youngun.

  Anyhow, we couldn’t see the neither of em. Doug had him out back, like as not, telling him off or slapping his wrist or summat. Or so you’d reckon. Ages we waited out front watching punters go in and Doug come out and then disappear again. Time came when all the mams started shouting for sprogs to come in for tea, so off we all pissed, still scratching swedes over our missing mate. Sammy, his name were. That’s it—Sammy Blair. Told you it’d come to us. Always do if you asks yourself the right way. Aye, Sammy the Sausage Boy as he came to be referred to in hushke.es. But I ain’t told you what came of him yet, have I?

  It were me who found out. Next morning, off on me way to school. I stopped to spark one of me old man’s fags up and noticed someone across the way. It were Doug himself, putting up a bit o’ paper in his shop window. He winked at us without smiling, then disappeared. Fag had gone out so I sparked him up again and went over for a gander. THIS WEEK’S SPECIAL it said along the top in slanty writing. And under it, in big letters: SAUSAGES.

  How does I know them bangers was little Sammy, you says? I’ll fucking tell you why: he were never seen again. Not at school, not in the street, not nowhere. Unless you went into Doug’s that week and bought some bangers. Then you’d have seen him on your plate.

  ‘Summat the matter, Royston?’ says Doug back in the here and now, hovering in the dark passage behind the counter that led no one knew quite where.

  ‘Course not, Doug,’ I says. ‘Only I’m in a bit of a hurry, like. So—’

  ‘Well I’m sure we can sort you out for groceries,’ he says, squeezing out that constipated smile again. ‘Then you can be on yer way.’

  I grinned back. But not in a constipated way like Doug. Quite the other, in fact. I didn’t want to move, especially not in his direction. Sussed the goods I’d stowed on me personage, hadn’t he? That’s why he wanted us out back. And now that hadn’t worked out for him, he wanted to trap us some other way. Aye, that’s what his smiling were for. He’d always hated us and now he had us on a rope. Or so he reckoned.

  I looke
d around the shelves and says: ‘I were after some rashers actually. Only it looks you ain’t got none. So…’ I reached for the door handle.

  He came out from behind the counter. My heart started thumping hard, rattling against three tins of beans and one of chopped tommies. He walked towards us slow, shoulders hunched and elbows bent like a spider’s legs. I wanted to pull the door but I couldn’t. He had us in his web, just like he’d had Sammy back then. He stopped a yard from us and cracked his fingers. If I pulled the door the bell would go and…and…

  ‘Been thinkin’ on you, Royston,’ he says. ‘Been thinking on reinstatin’ yer credit.’

  I wanted to scratch me swede, naturally. But if I did I’d lose the eggs and lard. ‘Me credit?’ I says. ‘But…’

  ‘I know, I know,’ he says, showing us the palms of his birdy hands. ‘But life’s a long and arduous undertakin’, so it is, and grudge-bearin’ only renders it more so. Don’t you reckon?’

  ‘Aye, course. Er…nice one, Doug. I’ll be along regular again, then. But I gotta—’

  ‘Ah, but, Royston, there’s summat else. I got a problem.’

  ‘I’m a bit rushed, mate.’

  ‘It’s about my Mona.’

  I let go of the door handle. ‘Who?’

  ‘Mona. My little girl.’

  Not many folks knew Doug had a wife and youngun. Kept em shut up, he did, in the flat above the shop. Never needed to go shopping, course, being as they was in a shop already. And the little girl got her schooling off her mam, so everyone thought. I’d clocked the youngun once or twice in me time, all wrapped up and off somewhere that can’t be avoided. Plain little thing in thick-rimmed glasses and a ginger fringe that half hid em. ‘Ah,’ I says. ‘Mona, eh?’

  ‘Aye. My little girl.’

  ‘She must be…what…?’

  ‘Fourteen.’

  ‘Fourteen, eh?’ I were interested for a moment, then remembered the little speccy ginger bint. ‘So what do you want us for?’