Deadfolk (2 page)

You knows how sometimes you needs a kebab so bad you’re willing to walk thirty mile across rough country, long as there’s a large doner with chilli sauce at the end? Well that’s how I were feeling. And Fin indicated he were getting that way and all. Luckily enough, Alvin’s Kebab Shop and Chippy were only hundred odd yard up the road from the Paul Pry. Used to be called plain old Alvin’s Chippy, course. Ain’t sure when the kebab bit got added on and I don’t reckon anyone is. Just happened some time a few year back. Bit like the kebabs emselves. No one knows for surely what the stuff they puts in em is. Some says it’s sheep, some says goat. There’s them who reckons doner ain’t meat at all. But no one cares much. If a thing tastes all right, folks’ll eat it.

We walked and ate for quite a while. Only sounds was taxis, footsteps, and the chewing and swallowing of scran. I had extra large doner with a bag of chips bunged in, the lot swimming in enough of Alvin’s special chilli sauce to kill half a dozen younguns and old folk. Fin had same, but with mint sauce atop his. I’d long since given up trying to make him see that it just ain’t right for a feller to be selecting mint ahead of chilli. Some folks’ll just never learn. Still, none of us is perfect. And I had my own fair share of imperfections. You’ll be hearing about them soon enough.

Fin belched, farted, and chucked the empty kebab wrapper at a passing cab. The driver honked his horn. ‘Know what, Blakey boy,’ he says. ‘You oughtn’t to of done that.’

‘Done what?’ I says. A big slice of doner flapped onto my chin. I sucked it up, leaving a bit of chilli sauce that burned me lips even after I licked it off.

‘Butted Legsy. Oughta of been more careful.’

I hadn’t thought about that for a bit. It’d all been a long time ago far as I were concerned, water under the bridge and that. Plus I’d had ten or twelve pints since then and done me best to get on with it. Legs seemed like he’d forgot about it himself after a bit. And rightly so. An accident is an accident after all, and a grudge between pals is like drinking beer out of a teacup, as they says. It don’t feel right and there’s no point to it. Aye, he’d cleared off a bit early, before the night had got into the full swing of itself. But Legsy were a milkman, so you had to make concessions for him on that score. ‘Legsy’s all right,’ I says. ‘It were only a scratch anyhow.’

‘Ain’t the point, is it. Legsy don’t like being made a cunt of, he don’t. You oughta know that.’

‘Nah, he’s all right.’ I rammed the last handful of scran into me gob and started chewing. Like Finney, I screwed up the paper and went to lob it at a passing vehicle. Only it were the Meat Wagon, so I didn’t.

‘Fuck,’ says Fin. ‘You almost done it there.’

For a second the Meat Wagon looked like carrying on up the road. The Muntons had already bothered us that day and it weren’t their practice to harass us more than the once the same day. But it slowed anyhow and pulled in a few yard up the way.

The two of us stopped, then started walking again, slowly. ‘Woss up here then?’ whispers Fin.

‘Dunno.’

‘You must know. Iss you they’m after.’

‘Says who?’

‘Never bothers with me, does they? Must be you. Always botherin’ you, they is.’

‘Fuckin’ shut up.’

We was getting closer and closer to the van. The back doors was filthy but no one had written in the dirt. No one ever wrote in the dirt of the Meat Wagon. The only words on the body was the MUNTON MOTORS painted black and red on the side. I were starting to get a bad feeling about it all. Fin were right—the Muntons was always bothering us. For the past two years anyhow. But all they was doing were keeping us in check. They never had cause to fuck with us and never would have. No, there were summat different about this, though I couldn’t rightly say how so.

As we passed the front end I couldn’t bring meself to look at the windows. They was blacked out anyhow so there were no point. But you could be sure Jess’d be on the roadside, Lee behind the wheel, and Baz like as not between the two of em if they could fit him in. And they’d all be looking for the whites of my eyes. I stopped.

Ain’t sure why. I stopped right there next to the window. Fin stopped and all, though I could feel how hard it were for him. I turned and looked at the black window. Aye, it were blacked out all right. But if that weren’t a face pressed up against it I don’t know what it were.

I wanted to run. I wanted to peg it like billy-o and not stop until the front door were bolted behind us.

And me a doorman.

Aye, I’ll admit it. I were scared shiteless right then, hard as it might be for you to believe knowing my profession and reputation and all. But like all professionals I put on a straight face. Even managed a bit of a smile and nod. Then I set off again, nice and casual.

Finney bolted a few yards but slowed when he saw us still walking. ‘S’all right,’ I says. ‘They’m shitin’ us up is all.’

‘Aye, they am that.’

‘Ain’t follerin’, is they?’

Fin looked over his shoulder and shook his head. We walked for another two or three minutes before Fin spoke. ‘What you gonna do?’

‘About what?’

‘About what? Fuckin’ Muntons is what.’

I shrugged and flobbed into the gutter.

‘Gotta do summat, Blakey. Muntons is after you.’

‘Muntons ain’t after us.’

‘Looks to me like they is. Looks that way to most folks.’

I stopped. ‘All right, woss folks sayin’?’

‘Nut’n. What I just said, is all.’

‘Woss you heared?’

‘Nut’n, like I says.’

‘Tell us.’

‘Get off us, Blake. You’ll rip me shirt.’

I let go of him but kept my face up close.

‘All right all right,’ he says. His breath smelt of spew. Finney weren’t built like the rest of us. It were his habit to sly off to the bogs for a quiet chunder after eight pints or so. ‘Folks is sayin’ that…that the Muntons is after you.’

‘Bollocks. Spit it out, you cunt.’

I watched him get up off the floor and brush the dust and dead leaves off his jeans. I reckon I must have pushed him a bit hard, him being steady on his feet even when pissed and never one to fall on his arse of his own accord. But I couldn’t recall doing it. His elbow were bleeding a bit, and I’d feel a bit bad about that on a normal day, same as I’d felt bad about nutting Legs. But this weren’t a normal day. This were the day when everything started turning to shite.

‘They’m callin’ you a…’

‘Come on, fuck sake.’

‘They’m callin’ you a bottler. Blake. Blake, you all right?’

I got a fag out, lit it, and smoked it quarter way down in one pull.

‘You all right, mate?’

‘Aye.’

‘Looked fit to topple there a minute.’

‘Well I’m all right.’ I started walking up the hill. It weren’t so easy now. The talk had sucked the sap out me legs.

‘You knows what folks is like.’

‘Aye.’

‘Says things cos they don’t understand. Summat about you and Baz Munton is all I knows. I mean, I weren’t there so I dunno what happened. But I knows you ain’t no bottler.’

I flinched. I wanted to change the subject but there weren’t much else to talk about.

Fin licked his thin lips. ‘So is you gonna tell us what happened or what?’ I’d known him since before either of us cares to recall. Went to school together, me and him and Legs. The three of us bunked off together, played in the road together, swiped our first handbag together, done our first house together. The first night I spent in the cells, Finney and Legs was right there beside us. Even bust our cherries together, we did. Not
together
, like. But with the same bird. One after the other. One feller climbs off, next climbs on. Debbie Shepherd her name were, from the flats behind the old Coopers Tannery. Cost us a tenner each and a bottle of voddy between us.

Aye, Finney were a mate.

But just being a mate don’t mean you can trust a feller, do it? Telling a mate your innermost thoughts is like getting out your knackers and asking him not to kick em. Why put temptation under his nose? Ain’t doing him no favours. And it weren’t doing me none neither.

‘Don’t you go frettin’ over me,’ I says. ‘I’m all right. Iss you I worries about, walkin’ around with only half a brain in yer swede.’

He looked at us for a few seconds, walking along as we was. Perhaps he were trying to read me thoughts. Some folks can do that, they says. Stare hard enough and they can look right through your skull and into the bit of your swede what does your thinking for you. Dunno if it’s true. Maybe it is. But if anyone can do it, that person ain’t Finney. Finney couldn’t find his own arse if you stuck a Christmas tree up it.

After a bit he shrugged and shook his head. He shook it for a few seconds, like as not trying to shake off all the thoughts that had taken root there but come to nothing. Then he started talking about footy, and how he were secretly hoping to take Legsy’s place on the Paul Pry squad on a permanent basis. In truth, I didn’t think he could do it. Them two players was just too different. Fin ran like a greyhound and dribbled like a newborn baby. He were skill. But Legs were the heart of the team. Passion, commitment, courage—he had it all. He’d break your legs if it meant victory. That’s what’d got him in bother with the ref. Knacked a feller’s ankle under the whistle-blower’s nose. And shoeing him in the knackers couldn’t have helped neither. Looked like a season-long ban at the least.

Course, I used to play a bit and all. I were goalie, and not a bad un if I says so meself. When I let one past us it hurt. Hurt us more than any kick could. But that were in the old days when Beth were still around. Soon as she weren’t there no more I stopped caring about goals. They could fly past us like ping-pong balls in a gale for all I gave a toss.

This were what I were thinking while Fin carped on about how this were his chance to make that number nine shirt his own. I weren’t listening to him. It’s easy to switch off to Fin’s voice when he starts talking his bollocks. Which is why I weren’t exactly prepared for what he said next.

‘You what?’ I says, thinking I’d heard wrong.

‘Hoppers. How’s it goin’ down there?’

‘What?’

‘Hoppers. You know. Fuckin’ place you works at.’

‘I know what Hoppers is. Why you askin’ about it?’

‘Fuck sake, can’t I ask about yer bastard job now?’

‘Aye, well. Goin’ all right, like.’

‘Oh aye?’

‘Aye.’

‘Thass good.’

We walked on a bit. I were hungry again, despite the kebab. Either that or the odd feeling in my guts were summat else. A taxi rolled past. I looked at the couple on the back seat. The bird looked a bit like Sally. She’d said she weren’t going out tonight. But she always had been a fucking liar. I ain’t saying that in a bad way neither. Her lying were a part of her character, like. You took it or you fucked off.

I wished I were in the cab with her, mind. Even if she were with some pissed-up feller who had his paws on her tits and his tongue down her gullet. Suddenly I’d rather be in there than yomping up the hill with Finney. Why did me and him always end up walking home anyhow? Weren’t like he couldn’t afford the taxi fare. I turned to ask him just that question. But he got one in first.

‘So what you gonna do about them Muntons, then?’ he says. ‘Hey, where you goin’? Blakey? Woss I said?’

A while later I were back in town, and Finney’s whining were far behind us. To be fair it weren’t just me wanting to get away from Finney. I knew he meant no harm by his verbal twattery. Truth were, I weren’t ready to go home. There were nothing for us there no more, since Beth had passed on. No one to give us a boot if I’d fell akip in front of the telly. No one to open the windows when the room got too full of fag smoke and farts. No one to pick up the empties and tip the ashtray. It were them things I were remembering these days. The good things. I knew there’d been bad stuff and all, shite that brung us down and made my head boil. But I didn’t like thinking about that. And I couldn’t go home.

I yomped up the one road and down the next. Getting away from Fin had done us no end of good. My feet was tingling, itching to keep going all night. The beer had mostly worn off, leaving my head nicely clear despite it being gone midnight. But I couldn’t roam the streets forever. Folks’d see us and wonder what I were up to. Perhaps they’d start wondering if I were all right in the head all over again. No, I had to go somewhere. But nowhere were open this time of night, unless I wanted another kebab. And I didn’t. So I carried on walking. Had some thinking to do anyhow.

Truth be told I’d been doing some thinking for a long while now without getting nowhere with it. The thoughts never went nowhere besides round in circles and up my own arse. But suddenly things was different. The goalposts had moved. And it were Finney who’d moved the bastards. It had been my problem alone before. A little arrangement between meself and the Muntons. They’d started it. I had to put up with it.

But now Finney and every fucker in town knew. And that meant it weren’t a problem no more. It were a fucking crisis.

And it were for me to sort it out.

I walked down a few streets and scratched my head and thought hard. I tried to think crisis thoughts, not just problem ones. That seemed to do the trick. Soon they was in my head, big loud thoughts with flashing red lights around them. And then they got moving.