As you may recall my debut novel 'Maxwell's Silver Hammer' was released back in 2010 to much critical acclaim and fanfare (or maybe not...) and since then it's had a steady trickle of positive reviews and comments from satisfied readers.
What's that? You don't believe me? I'm outraged...here, take a look at this latest review from the mightily well respected 'Crime Fiction Lover' website and eat a big slice of humble pie...
Maxwell's Silver Hammer
Showing posts with label Extracts and Stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Extracts and Stories. Show all posts
Tuesday, 7 February 2012
Friday, 15 August 2008
The Club Men Chronicles
Morning All,
Nowt to report today - so I thought I'd treat you to this little known gem.
On the Byker Books site I noticed this feature which has been added with no fanfare or drum roll so I thought I'd shout about it as it's funny.
The Club Men Chronicles
There are certain characters in there that remind me of certain people I know but I'm saying nowt.
Give it a look anyway.
Have a good weekend
FH
Nowt to report today - so I thought I'd treat you to this little known gem.
On the Byker Books site I noticed this feature which has been added with no fanfare or drum roll so I thought I'd shout about it as it's funny.
The Club Men Chronicles
There are certain characters in there that remind me of certain people I know but I'm saying nowt.
Give it a look anyway.
Have a good weekend
FH
Tuesday, 29 April 2008
Writing News...
Afternoon boys and girls long time no see,
I've been busy lately hence the lack of posts but it's been for a worthwhile cause...basically me.
I'm starting to edit the fourth and final draft of the seminal and definitive working class autobiography 'I'm Rivelino - A life of two halves' and thanks to focussing all my time and energy on it lately it's got to this stage right on the deadline I set myself originally.
Anyway, if you want to read some extracts before the world goes mad for it and you can't get a copy then have a look here (it's my proper website) :-
Rivs proper website where he doesn't use the C word much
Let me know how you get on.
Rivs
I've been busy lately hence the lack of posts but it's been for a worthwhile cause...basically me.
I'm starting to edit the fourth and final draft of the seminal and definitive working class autobiography 'I'm Rivelino - A life of two halves' and thanks to focussing all my time and energy on it lately it's got to this stage right on the deadline I set myself originally.
Anyway, if you want to read some extracts before the world goes mad for it and you can't get a copy then have a look here (it's my proper website) :-
Rivs proper website where he doesn't use the C word much
Let me know how you get on.
Rivs
Tuesday, 20 November 2007
Mad Darren - Terrace Legend.
There are frequent accusations that football these days has sold its soul, that formerly noisy tribal bearpits have become sanitised shadows of their old selves and that baying, committed supporters have become demanding, fickle consumers. I agree with all of that to a certain extent, as I think many supporters, whatever their affiliations, of a certain age would.
With this in mind a group of like minded supporters set up the Toon Ultras in a bid to bring back the noise at St. James. It’s a worthy aim and I for one hope it succeeds as it seems to me that grounds these days are sterile, americanised enviroments where the main aim is to extract as much cash from the fan/consumer as possible.
But…It wasn’t always like that. Back in the eighties St. James Park was a crumbling, old fashioned relic of days gone by. The two main ends were uncovered, seats were a luxury and the toilets were unspeakably bad. The catering would give you botulism, the turnstile operators were bent and todays Health and safety police would have a seizure if they witnessed the steps you went up to get to the terraces.
And do you know what…we fucking loved it.
The home end then was the Gallowgate End and all the boys massed up behind the goal there in one of two sections, The Corner or the Scoreboard. On slow days when the opposition didn’t bring many fans we’d amuse ourselves by taunting the residents of whichever section we weren’t in and proclaiming our superiority over them. The Scoreboard was so named because of the giant, subbutteo style scoreboard that was erected above the terracing and was visible from all areas of the ground. This used to be climbed by ‘over-enthusiastic’ fans and the letters re-arranged on the rivals teams section to read something abusive.
The amount of times we played ‘C U NT S’, ‘W A N KE R S’ and, ‘B A S T A R D S’ were too numerous to mention but it was very funny, no matter how many times you saw it.
The Corner, so named because it was the corner of the end and led onto the East Stand had a flag planted right at the top of the terracing and just along from it was little hot dog stand that was robbed left right and centre every other week. It tended to be the preserve of ‘blokes’, thickly muscled gadgies who had graduated from from their teen years in the scoreboard section and held us teenage youngsters in amused disdain. Shaking their heads at us… like you do a drunken nephew who’s just made a play for the local bike.
To stand on the Gallowgate End on a sunny day, full of beer with thousands of other like minded souls was nearly as good as it got. If the toon were winning or even just playing well then your day was complete.
If it was all going wrong though, if you were on the open terracing in the rain and we were getting a hiding you could always rely on one man.
Mad Darren lived and breathed Newcastle United. You could travel to any game, on any day, in any part of the country and he’d be there. He was the type of bloke who planned his life around the fixture list and, once he was at the game, put his heart and soul into it.
I didn’t know him to talk to; I didn’t even know his real name. I just knew he was Mad Darren and I knew who he was, that was enough. You’d have some beer before the match, get through the turnstile and hurry up the steps; maybe stopping halfway up for a swim in the Gallowgate bogs, then the singing would make you run the last few steps to get in amongst it. You’d hit the scoreboard end and there he’d be, stood on a barrier, swaying drunkenly with the undulations of the crowd around him and you’d join them singing lustily as Darren kept all the terrace favourites rolling off the tongue.
To hit a strange town on a dark wintry Saturday or a wet Wednesday night, knowing you’d probably get beat and the locals would be quite keen on re-arranging your face was a daunting task. Sometimes just getting in a bar, having a few pints and then getting to the ground without having to do your Rocky impression was like mission impossible.
But… getting into the match, counting up your fellow travellers in the gloom all the while being taunted by the pig fuckers from whichever crap little town you were in was made worthwhile when, a familiar looking figure staggered onto a barrier and proclaimed he was proud to be a geordie. You knew then it’d be alright and you’d laugh about it later, in fact you might even write a book about it much later!
Mad Darren probably single handedly kept many of us interested during the late eighties, he was probably responsible for imbuing in many of us the terrace culture and the love of making a day of it following the mags.
Sadly, he died in 1989 in London following Newcastle at Wimbledon, there was a scuffle with some Wigan Rugby League fans, and while the circumstances aren’t fully known, the story at the time was that they were mob handed and he was alone. It was a sad end to a young life but, trite as this may sound, he had died as he lived – following his beloved Mags.
No book about Newcastle United would be complete without a tribute To Mad Darren, I was proud to know him, however indirectly, and believe that in a few short years he influenced the lives of more people than many of us will ever meet.
He was the original Toon Ultra.
With this in mind a group of like minded supporters set up the Toon Ultras in a bid to bring back the noise at St. James. It’s a worthy aim and I for one hope it succeeds as it seems to me that grounds these days are sterile, americanised enviroments where the main aim is to extract as much cash from the fan/consumer as possible.
But…It wasn’t always like that. Back in the eighties St. James Park was a crumbling, old fashioned relic of days gone by. The two main ends were uncovered, seats were a luxury and the toilets were unspeakably bad. The catering would give you botulism, the turnstile operators were bent and todays Health and safety police would have a seizure if they witnessed the steps you went up to get to the terraces.
And do you know what…we fucking loved it.
The home end then was the Gallowgate End and all the boys massed up behind the goal there in one of two sections, The Corner or the Scoreboard. On slow days when the opposition didn’t bring many fans we’d amuse ourselves by taunting the residents of whichever section we weren’t in and proclaiming our superiority over them. The Scoreboard was so named because of the giant, subbutteo style scoreboard that was erected above the terracing and was visible from all areas of the ground. This used to be climbed by ‘over-enthusiastic’ fans and the letters re-arranged on the rivals teams section to read something abusive.
The amount of times we played ‘C U NT S’, ‘W A N KE R S’ and, ‘B A S T A R D S’ were too numerous to mention but it was very funny, no matter how many times you saw it.
The Corner, so named because it was the corner of the end and led onto the East Stand had a flag planted right at the top of the terracing and just along from it was little hot dog stand that was robbed left right and centre every other week. It tended to be the preserve of ‘blokes’, thickly muscled gadgies who had graduated from from their teen years in the scoreboard section and held us teenage youngsters in amused disdain. Shaking their heads at us… like you do a drunken nephew who’s just made a play for the local bike.
To stand on the Gallowgate End on a sunny day, full of beer with thousands of other like minded souls was nearly as good as it got. If the toon were winning or even just playing well then your day was complete.
If it was all going wrong though, if you were on the open terracing in the rain and we were getting a hiding you could always rely on one man.
Mad Darren lived and breathed Newcastle United. You could travel to any game, on any day, in any part of the country and he’d be there. He was the type of bloke who planned his life around the fixture list and, once he was at the game, put his heart and soul into it.
I didn’t know him to talk to; I didn’t even know his real name. I just knew he was Mad Darren and I knew who he was, that was enough. You’d have some beer before the match, get through the turnstile and hurry up the steps; maybe stopping halfway up for a swim in the Gallowgate bogs, then the singing would make you run the last few steps to get in amongst it. You’d hit the scoreboard end and there he’d be, stood on a barrier, swaying drunkenly with the undulations of the crowd around him and you’d join them singing lustily as Darren kept all the terrace favourites rolling off the tongue.
To hit a strange town on a dark wintry Saturday or a wet Wednesday night, knowing you’d probably get beat and the locals would be quite keen on re-arranging your face was a daunting task. Sometimes just getting in a bar, having a few pints and then getting to the ground without having to do your Rocky impression was like mission impossible.
But… getting into the match, counting up your fellow travellers in the gloom all the while being taunted by the pig fuckers from whichever crap little town you were in was made worthwhile when, a familiar looking figure staggered onto a barrier and proclaimed he was proud to be a geordie. You knew then it’d be alright and you’d laugh about it later, in fact you might even write a book about it much later!
Mad Darren probably single handedly kept many of us interested during the late eighties, he was probably responsible for imbuing in many of us the terrace culture and the love of making a day of it following the mags.
Sadly, he died in 1989 in London following Newcastle at Wimbledon, there was a scuffle with some Wigan Rugby League fans, and while the circumstances aren’t fully known, the story at the time was that they were mob handed and he was alone. It was a sad end to a young life but, trite as this may sound, he had died as he lived – following his beloved Mags.
No book about Newcastle United would be complete without a tribute To Mad Darren, I was proud to know him, however indirectly, and believe that in a few short years he influenced the lives of more people than many of us will ever meet.
He was the original Toon Ultra.
Thursday, 15 November 2007
A Publishers View...
I've got a mate who works in publishing, not the kind that I'm banging on the front door of armed only with a manuscript and a manic look in my eye, but a publisher all the same.
I asked him to give my synopsis for 'Magpie Ranger' the once over and he very kindly did so, giving me a few insights into the commercial world of selling books at the same time. Here's what he said...
Firstly, a question: Is this a work in progress, or do you have a finished draft?
If it is finished, I'd like to read it. But equally understand if you headbutt me to the ground and tell me to 'feck off'. I haven't got kids, but do know the feeling of handing over a manuscript to a stranger - and imagine it is akin to leaving your kids with babysitters you've never met. 'We'll be back about midnight, Myra. Tell Ian to help himself to biscuits...'
In truth, it's difficult to provide any feedback of any depth (or use) from a synopsis. But I like the idea. I'd read it. The core elements are strong, it has regional appeal (both a good and bad thing, but I'll get onto that) and I think the juxtaposition between real sorrow (the death of a friend) and the more superficial sorrow (Toon) would provide real pathos. Plus, the Geordie-ness and humour would keep the dialogue snappy and light.
In terms of getting it published, there are certain hoops that you have to jump through - for every editorial decision a publisher makes, he makes 10 commercial ones.
So I've included below the issues that a publisher/ agent is likely to raise/ consider - some I agree with, some I don't, some are bullshit, some are valid. But all you should be aware of.
* Regional appeal - although this is often a positive, a publisher might be concerned that it will limit the market. The title for example, would be changed. If Fever Pitch had been called Love Life of a Gooner, it would've died on its arse-nal.
* Class appeal - again, this can be a real strength. But worries some publishers (and editors), who will try to re-package the working classes in a particular 'saleable' way, because...
* Publishers are obsessed with 'theme'. This should be as timeless/ classless/ ageless as possible - even if it is a period piece (capturing the 70s, 80 and 90s well could be a real strength, ain't nothing as contemporary as retro!). They also love 'an eternal truth' - which in this case, will sink in during the train ride south.
* Also, a strong narrative is important. When any manuscript is being considered for publication, the ‘rule’ for editors is to ask (as a reader) ‘why am I reading this?’ on every page. They will look for good characterisation and conflict to keep readers engaged.
And a ‘twist’ is always a hook. This can be subtle – say, for example, in the end you change your mind about publishing The Last Match. The fact that you’ve written it, is the end of the journey.
Be prepared for it to be chopped to bits too – in order to follow the rules, publishers/ editors will want to re-structure, cut out characters, add characters, even change the settings… ‘Love your work, Mr Rivers, love it. But this Newcastle that you speak of…. could this be Notting Hill? And instead of football, perhaps – amateur dramatics…?’ Their vision will never quite match yours.
Just from the synopsis – and this is just an opinion – I can see a publisher suggesting the book starts and ends with that train journey South (there is a natural correlation between the actual journey and personal journey). It’s also a classic flashback format, that clearly defines the periods, will allow you to dip in and out of the story and tie up the ‘eternal truth’ up at the end.
Or, it lends itself to each chapter be focused on, or at least starting with, a match (book-ended by introduction and epilogue chapters).
This is the difference between story and plot – which is key to novel writing. Tolstoy said that characters + conflict = plot.
I prefer to think of a story is a timeline of events – prompting no questions, or involvement. But a plot provides depth.
A bad example:
‘A man died, then a woman died.’ That’s a story.
‘A man died, then his wife was so distraught she committed suicide.’ That’s a plot.
And what did Tolstoy ever do, eh?
I asked him to give my synopsis for 'Magpie Ranger' the once over and he very kindly did so, giving me a few insights into the commercial world of selling books at the same time. Here's what he said...
Firstly, a question: Is this a work in progress, or do you have a finished draft?
If it is finished, I'd like to read it. But equally understand if you headbutt me to the ground and tell me to 'feck off'. I haven't got kids, but do know the feeling of handing over a manuscript to a stranger - and imagine it is akin to leaving your kids with babysitters you've never met. 'We'll be back about midnight, Myra. Tell Ian to help himself to biscuits...'
In truth, it's difficult to provide any feedback of any depth (or use) from a synopsis. But I like the idea. I'd read it. The core elements are strong, it has regional appeal (both a good and bad thing, but I'll get onto that) and I think the juxtaposition between real sorrow (the death of a friend) and the more superficial sorrow (Toon) would provide real pathos. Plus, the Geordie-ness and humour would keep the dialogue snappy and light.
In terms of getting it published, there are certain hoops that you have to jump through - for every editorial decision a publisher makes, he makes 10 commercial ones.
So I've included below the issues that a publisher/ agent is likely to raise/ consider - some I agree with, some I don't, some are bullshit, some are valid. But all you should be aware of.
* Regional appeal - although this is often a positive, a publisher might be concerned that it will limit the market. The title for example, would be changed. If Fever Pitch had been called Love Life of a Gooner, it would've died on its arse-nal.
* Class appeal - again, this can be a real strength. But worries some publishers (and editors), who will try to re-package the working classes in a particular 'saleable' way, because...
* Publishers are obsessed with 'theme'. This should be as timeless/ classless/ ageless as possible - even if it is a period piece (capturing the 70s, 80 and 90s well could be a real strength, ain't nothing as contemporary as retro!). They also love 'an eternal truth' - which in this case, will sink in during the train ride south.
* Also, a strong narrative is important. When any manuscript is being considered for publication, the ‘rule’ for editors is to ask (as a reader) ‘why am I reading this?’ on every page. They will look for good characterisation and conflict to keep readers engaged.
And a ‘twist’ is always a hook. This can be subtle – say, for example, in the end you change your mind about publishing The Last Match. The fact that you’ve written it, is the end of the journey.
Be prepared for it to be chopped to bits too – in order to follow the rules, publishers/ editors will want to re-structure, cut out characters, add characters, even change the settings… ‘Love your work, Mr Rivers, love it. But this Newcastle that you speak of…. could this be Notting Hill? And instead of football, perhaps – amateur dramatics…?’ Their vision will never quite match yours.
Just from the synopsis – and this is just an opinion – I can see a publisher suggesting the book starts and ends with that train journey South (there is a natural correlation between the actual journey and personal journey). It’s also a classic flashback format, that clearly defines the periods, will allow you to dip in and out of the story and tie up the ‘eternal truth’ up at the end.
Or, it lends itself to each chapter be focused on, or at least starting with, a match (book-ended by introduction and epilogue chapters).
This is the difference between story and plot – which is key to novel writing. Tolstoy said that characters + conflict = plot.
I prefer to think of a story is a timeline of events – prompting no questions, or involvement. But a plot provides depth.
A bad example:
‘A man died, then a woman died.’ That’s a story.
‘A man died, then his wife was so distraught she committed suicide.’ That’s a plot.
And what did Tolstoy ever do, eh?
Tuesday, 13 November 2007
Magpie Ranger - First Draft Extract
Here's an extract from 'Magpie Ranger - A life in black and white' - it's a first draft and it's rough but you should get the gist.
Let me know what you think.
Growing Pains
Ever heard of David Robinson? No? Well let me illustrate the difference between how good professional footballers actually are and, despite what we all claim in the pub after another nil – nil draw, why we could never be one. In 1981 I moved on to Benfield Comprehensive school in the East End of Newcastle, most lads from Welly Road went on to Walker School but I ended up at Benner. It had a good reputation then, I don’t know about now but it was well thought of back then in the days of only three television channels. The school has spawned a handful of pro footballers in it’s time, the likes of Steve Bruce (Man Utd through and through no matter what he claims), Lee Clark, Dave Roach and David Robinson to name a few from the top of my head. You’ll have heard of Bruce and Clark, Roachy played quite a few times in the first team under Ossie Ardiles before Keegan moved him on and Robinson? Well, he played once in the first team under Jim Smith before dropping down the divisions (and bear in mind, when he played for us we were shite) and the general consensus on the Gallowgate end was that he just wasn’t good enough for us at a time when we were a second division team.
I agreed loudly and vociferously with all the blokes around me at the time, well you do when you’re seventeen and full of beer don’t you, but all the while I was harbouring a guilty secret and a secret animosity towards ‘Robbo’. I’d played in direct opposition to him in a school match only a couple of years previously. He was the star striker in our years ‘A’ team while I was one of two plodding centre halves in the ‘B’ team, incidentally I think our manager just picked us both together for a laugh, his name was Fish (alright Mickey, hope you’re well) and my mine is obviously Riv.. well you get the picture. Actually there was a bloke in the squad called Waters as well, I kid you not.
Anyway, every season there was an ‘A’ team versus ‘B’ team friendly on a Friday afternoon before the big kick off, this was always well attended as it got you out of lessons for the afternoon and if you were crafty you could sneak off early to start your weekend. So, young Dave had recently cracked getting into the Newcastle United youth team and I’d be marking him, this was it, this was the year I’d be making my claim to an ‘A’ team spot and recognition from the scouts that always came to Benfield, my rightful place in the football league was assured after I sorted this big headed twat out, I couldn’t wait for kick off.
As the sun shone down brightly on the whole school and a gentle breeze casually touched the tops of the blades of brilliant green grass I went over my strategy. The ref, resplendent in his all black football league gear (he was a genuine league referee) raised his whistle to his lips and looked at both goalkeepers, I played it over mentally – hit him hard early on, beat him to the first ball every time, make him look a twat, get promoted to the ‘A’ team, get scouted, use my muscular frame to win a contract at the toon as a top centre half, live on easy street. Piece of piss.
The whistle went and I strode into battle…ten minutes later and we were three nil down, Robbo had a hatrick and he’d been told to ease off by the PE teacher. At the end they won something like eight-nil, he’d got five and never really broken sweat, I couldn’t get near him, I tried to kick him, nut him punch him, everything but was made to look a mug, maybe I should have tried kicking the ball.
Anyway, next time you’re in the boozer moaning about how Lampard’s not good enough for England and Neville’s a load of shite, just remember, they’re much, much better than Dave Robinson, he was much, much better than me…and well…I’m much, much better than you, so think on.
Let me know what you think.
Growing Pains
Ever heard of David Robinson? No? Well let me illustrate the difference between how good professional footballers actually are and, despite what we all claim in the pub after another nil – nil draw, why we could never be one. In 1981 I moved on to Benfield Comprehensive school in the East End of Newcastle, most lads from Welly Road went on to Walker School but I ended up at Benner. It had a good reputation then, I don’t know about now but it was well thought of back then in the days of only three television channels. The school has spawned a handful of pro footballers in it’s time, the likes of Steve Bruce (Man Utd through and through no matter what he claims), Lee Clark, Dave Roach and David Robinson to name a few from the top of my head. You’ll have heard of Bruce and Clark, Roachy played quite a few times in the first team under Ossie Ardiles before Keegan moved him on and Robinson? Well, he played once in the first team under Jim Smith before dropping down the divisions (and bear in mind, when he played for us we were shite) and the general consensus on the Gallowgate end was that he just wasn’t good enough for us at a time when we were a second division team.
I agreed loudly and vociferously with all the blokes around me at the time, well you do when you’re seventeen and full of beer don’t you, but all the while I was harbouring a guilty secret and a secret animosity towards ‘Robbo’. I’d played in direct opposition to him in a school match only a couple of years previously. He was the star striker in our years ‘A’ team while I was one of two plodding centre halves in the ‘B’ team, incidentally I think our manager just picked us both together for a laugh, his name was Fish (alright Mickey, hope you’re well) and my mine is obviously Riv.. well you get the picture. Actually there was a bloke in the squad called Waters as well, I kid you not.
Anyway, every season there was an ‘A’ team versus ‘B’ team friendly on a Friday afternoon before the big kick off, this was always well attended as it got you out of lessons for the afternoon and if you were crafty you could sneak off early to start your weekend. So, young Dave had recently cracked getting into the Newcastle United youth team and I’d be marking him, this was it, this was the year I’d be making my claim to an ‘A’ team spot and recognition from the scouts that always came to Benfield, my rightful place in the football league was assured after I sorted this big headed twat out, I couldn’t wait for kick off.
As the sun shone down brightly on the whole school and a gentle breeze casually touched the tops of the blades of brilliant green grass I went over my strategy. The ref, resplendent in his all black football league gear (he was a genuine league referee) raised his whistle to his lips and looked at both goalkeepers, I played it over mentally – hit him hard early on, beat him to the first ball every time, make him look a twat, get promoted to the ‘A’ team, get scouted, use my muscular frame to win a contract at the toon as a top centre half, live on easy street. Piece of piss.
The whistle went and I strode into battle…ten minutes later and we were three nil down, Robbo had a hatrick and he’d been told to ease off by the PE teacher. At the end they won something like eight-nil, he’d got five and never really broken sweat, I couldn’t get near him, I tried to kick him, nut him punch him, everything but was made to look a mug, maybe I should have tried kicking the ball.
Anyway, next time you’re in the boozer moaning about how Lampard’s not good enough for England and Neville’s a load of shite, just remember, they’re much, much better than Dave Robinson, he was much, much better than me…and well…I’m much, much better than you, so think on.
Monday, 3 September 2007
Getting away with it...
I was sent this short play by a fellow writer - he's happy for you all to see it and get your comments. For what it's worth I think it's very good but let's hear what you think.
Turkey is prowling his small holding cell at Clifford Street police station, his rage takes a hold of him and he begins banging on the cell door
TURKEY : LERRUS OUT YOU FUCKING PIG WANKERS, I HAVEN’T DONE OWT.
TURKEY : DAZ CAN YOU HEAR US? DAZ, WHICH CELL YOU IN?
TURKEY : FUCKING CUNT'S WHERE’S DAZ?
The eye slot in the cell door opens
POLICEMAN : Keep the fucking noise down Turkey and get yourself ready to welcome a new cell mate.
TURKEY : A FUCKING CELL-MATE.YOU CAN’T DO THAT IT’S AGAINST MY HUMAN RIGHTS TO SHARE A CELL LESS THAN FIFTEEN FEET WIDE. UNLESS IT’S DAZ, IS IT DAZ?
POLICEMAN : No it’s not, it’s fucking Persil, now shut the fuck up.
The eye slot in the door slams shut and Turkey continues to pace the perimeter of his cell, thinking aloud.
TURKEY : I hope it’s fucking Daz; he’s bound to have some gear stashed up his arse, saying that like the last time it was shit.
TURKEY : Whoever it is he’s on the fucking floor, this is my bed and it better not be any of those immigrant cunt’s either, the cheeky fuckers coming over here and getting all our benefits without doing any graft.
The cell door lock turns and the door opens.
POLICEMAN : Here’s your new cell-mate Turkey.
ANTHONY : Look officer, this can’t right, there must be some mistake.
POLICEMAN : Shut the fuck up and get inside.
ANTHONY : Please, at least give me my own cell for the night.
POLICEMAN : Have you heard that Turkey? He doesn’t want to share with you.
TURKEY : Cheeky cunt, I don’t want to share with him either.
The cell door shuts and the policeman shouts through it.
POLICEMAN : Just don’t ask him why he’s called Turkey.
ANTHONY : What did he shout?
TURKEY : Nothing, So who the fuck are you then?
Anthony offers his hand and replies
ANTHONY : Hello I’m Anthony, Anthony Hughes.
Turkey ignores the offer of the handshake.
TURKEY : I’m fucking Turkey and that’s my bed.
ANTHONY : Oh right, so we don’t have a bed each.
TURKEY : Does it look like it?
ANTHONY : Err okay…at least it’ll only be for a few hours.
TURKEY : A few hours, what the fuck you on about? You’ll be lucky if you get out by tomorrow afternoon.
ANTHONY : Tomorrow afternoon, I can’t stay that long. I was told I’d get to see the duty solicitor in the morning.
TURKEY : On a Sunday morning, you’ll be fucking lucky.
ANTHONY : But I must, when will I get my phone call?
TURKEY : This isn’t the fucking Bill. You’ll be lucky to get a blanket never mind a phone call. What you in for anyway?
ANTHONY : Nothing, I haven’t done anything.
TURKEY : Bollocks you wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t done anything. So what is it then? Have you and your boyfriend had a fight?
ANTHONY : I’m not gay I’m married.
TURKEY : Aye and so was fucking Barrymore. So what is it then? You better not be a nonce.
ANTHONY : What’s a nonce?
TURKEY : A nonce, a kiddie fiddler, a paedo. Is that what you’re in for?
ANTHONY : Certainly not, how dare you.
TURKEY : You’d better fucking not be, and don’t fucking how dare you me or you’re getting a hiding.
TURKEY : So what are you in for then?
ANTHONY : As I said I’m innocent so I’d rather not say.
TURKEY : Must be something to do with tax or fraud, you look like that type, not like me.
ANTHONY : I’m not any type, this is all a huge mistake, I’ve done nothing wrong.
TURKEY : Yeah course you haven’t and neither have I.
ANTHONY : So are you innocent as well?
TURKEY : Oh yeah, it wasn’t me that screwed the off license on Shields Road and it wasn’t me who lifted the computers from the hospital.
ANTHONY : Oh who was it then?
TURKEY : What?
ANTHONY : So who was it then?
TURKEY : For fuck’s sake it was fucking me wasn’t it! That’s what I’m saying you dick it wasn’t me, but it was me - and I didn’t get caught.
ANTHONY : Oh right I see, but it really wasn’t me.
TURKEY : Looking at you it probably wasn’t, you don’t look like you could turn the garden over never mind anything else. You’re obviously not a career criminal like myself.
ANTHONY : You make a career out of crime? You don’t look old enough.
TURKEY : I’m twenty three, a veteran in this game and crime does pay, don’t let anyone else tell you any different.
ANTHONY : So what sort of things do you do to earn money?
TURKEY : Everything, armed robbery, drugs, prostitution.
ANTHONY : You do armed robberies?
TURKEY : That would be telling wouldn’t it?
ANTHONY : I suppose its better that it didn’t know.
TURKEY : Yeah, I’ve got loads of shooters me and they’re not just for show if you know what I mean.
ANTHONY : You shoot people?
TURKEY : Only if I have to.
ANTHONY : So how many people have you shot?
TURKEY : Like I said before that would be telling.
ANTHONY : Okay, I understand.
TURKEY : Aye, but between you and me it’s more than two and less than four.
ANTHONY : Oh right. So what about the prostitution? You don’t exploit girls by pimping them out do you?
TURKEY : Fuck me; the state of some of them they’re the one’s doing the exploiting.
ANTHONY : Don’t you feel guilty? They’re someone’s daughters.
TURKEY : Aye but a man’s got to eat.
ANTHONY : There’s loads of legitimate ways to make money though, have you never had a normal job?
TURKEY : This is a normal job where I’m from?
ANTHONY : I can imagine, what about the drugs then? Do you sell them?
TURKEY : You’re asking a lot of questions, are you a fucking bizzie?
ANTHONY : No I’m just making conversation; you brought up your different means of income.
TURKEY : You’d better fucking not be. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d tried to fit me up, it’s the only way they can catch me.
ANTHONY : But you’re already caught, you’re in here.
TURKEY : I’m in here but I’m not caught, caught means prison, not the cell’s at the local nick, and that’s another story altogether.
TURKEY : What were we saying just before that?
ANTHONY : The drugs.
TURKEY : Oh aye, my speciality, the only line of work where you can mix business with pleasure, well that and the pimping.
ANTHONY : So you take them as well?
TURKEY : Well I need to test out the merchandise; my customers will go elsewhere if the product isn’t up to scratch and my pallet is as cultured as anyone’s when it comes to barbiturates.
ANTHONY : Isn’t selling drugs a bit risky?
TURKEY : Only if some stupid fucker decides to stray onto my patch.
ANTHONY : Does that happen much?
TURKEY : You’re asking a lot of fucking questions again.
ANTHONY : Sorry, I don’t mean to pry, I’m just interested.
TURKEY : The answer’s no anyway, they know better.
ANTHONY : Aren’t you worried about the effects of the drugs?
TURKEY : It’s the fucking effects of the drugs that everyone wants; you haven’t got a fucking clue have you?
ANTHONY : No I mean the long-term effects of the drugs.
TURKEY : What birds, money and power?
ANTHONY : I mean the mental side effects like paranoia and depression.
TURKEY : The only fucking depressing thing in here is you, I’m telling you about the life of a gangster and all you’re arsed about is some little puffy side-effects.
ANTHONY : Oh right, sorry cocksucker.
TURKEY : FUCKING WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?
ANTHONY : Err nothing, I just said sorry.
TURKEY : ARE YOU FUCKING SURE?
ANTHONY : Yes, why what did you think I said?
TURKEY : It doesn’t fucking matter, but watch your step.
TURKEY : So what the fuck are you in here for?
ANTHONY : I’d rather not say.
TURKEY : And I’d rather not be sharing a cell with some boring cunt who’s hiding things from me.
ANTHONY : I’m not hiding anything I’d just rather not say. Where did you get that cup from?
TURKEY : One of the bizzies brought me a cuppa before you were let in.
ANTHONY : Do you think I could get one?
TURKEY : Fucking no chance, even though we’re on opposite sides the bizzies respect someone of my standing.
ANTHONY : Cocksucker.
TURKEY : FUCKING WHAT!!
ANTHONY : I said I’m parched.
TURKEY : YOU FUCKING NEVER YOU JUST CALLED ME A COCKSUCKER.
ANTHONY : I never honest, I just said I’m thirsty.
TURKEY : THAT’S THE SECOND TIME YOU’VE CALLED ME THAT.
ANTHONY : Honestly I haven’t said anything like that, I wouldn’t dare.
TURKEY : You fucking better not either, In fact you better just shut the fuck up, I’m going to try and get some kip. These pills are getting all weird
ANTHONY : This is what I’m on about with the drug side-effects. People can hear and see things that aren’t happening.
TURKEY : Fuck off, I can handle my drugs, it’s me who makes other people paranoid.
ANTHONY : So have you had a lot of drugs tonight?
TURKEY : Enough to kill an elephant, but that’s fuck all to me.
ANTHONY : Maybe that’s why you think I’m calling you a cocksucker.
TURKEY : FUCKING WATCH IT CUNT.
ANTHONY : Okay cocksucker.
TURKEY : I FUCKING KNEW IT.
Turkey jumps up from the bed and tries to attack Anthony. In one deft movement Anthony throws Turkey on his back.
ANTHONY : Cocksucker.
Turkey jumps back onto his feet and tries to attack Anthony again.
TURKEY : YOU'RE FUCKING DEAD CUNT.
This time Anthony floors Turkey with a single punch.
ANTHONY : Stay down or I’ll really hurt you.
Turkey remains on the floor.
TURKEY : I slipped, I’m going to fucking kill you when I get back up.
ANTHONY : Course you are fellatio boy.
TURKEY : Who the fuck are you? Who have you been talking to?
ANTHONY : I’ve already told you, Anthony Hughes. Does the name not ring a bell?
TURKEY : Does it fuck.
ANTHONY : That’ll be all the drugs rotting your brain.
TURKEY : There’s fuck all wrong with my brain but when these pills wear off I’m going to fucking tear you apart.
ANTHONY : Not much chance of that Turkey. Tell me why do they call you Turkey?
TURKEY : Fuck off.
ANTHONY : Why does a big, armed robber, pimping gangster get the moniker Turkey?
TURKEY : Fuck off.
ANTHONY : I’ve heard it’s because you got caught gobbling another lad’s cock at school.
TURKEY : Is it fuck, it’s because I was the first lad at school to get a gobble.
ANTHONY : We both know that’s not true don’t we? Just as we both know you’re not a gangster are you?
TURKEY : I fucking am and you’re fucking dead when I get out of here, you and your family.
ANTHONY : Instead of issuing meaningless threats I’d start to think about what’s going on here if I was you.
TURKEY : What the fuck you on about?
ANTHONY : Think about it Cocksucker. How do I know so much about you and your past? And why are you lying on the floor fucked?
TURKEY : Too many pills, that’s why. Who are you?
ANTHONY : Another side-effect of drugs is that it impairs your memory.
TURKEY : And another one is you’re fucked once these pills wear off.
ANTHONY : You said you could take your drugs.
TURKEY : I can I must’ve had a dodgy one.
ANTHONY : Maybe it wasn’t a pill.
TURKEY : It must be, I can hardly move. Shit this hasn’t happened before, what if I get worse? Fuck, you’re going to have to get the on-duty bizzie.
ANTHONY : That’s the paranoia I told you about.
TURKEY : It’s not fucking paranoia, I can’t move, ring the buzzer.
ANTHONY : Not just yet, there’s plenty time for that isn’t there.
TURKEY : Seriously mate there’s something not right here, I’m
paralysed.
ANTHONY : Aah now we’re getting somewhere.
TURKEY : What the fuck you on about?
ANTHONY : Paralysis: A partial or complete loss of voluntary muscle function; a condition of helpless inactivity.
TURKEY : You’re fucking mad, who are you?
ANTHONY : All will be revealed in due course, now why do you think you’re paralysed?
TURKEY : I’ve told you I can’t move, I must’ve had a dodgy pill.
ANTHONY : Ask yourself this. Why has your paralysis only came on since I was put in the cell?
TURKEY : Eh?
ANTHONY : Come on Turkey think; how come you didn’t feel like this earlier in the night? I know you’ve been taking drugs since this afternoon because I’ve been following you.
TURKEY : You’ve been fucking following me, why? Who the fuck are you?
ANTHONY : You’re moving away from the point Turkey, what could have brought on your paralysis?
TURKEY : Fuck off, just leave me.
ANTHONY : Okay then ask yourself this. How many times in the past has a policeman given you a cup of tea or coffee?
TURKEY : What’s that got to …….. WHAT! SO YOU’RE SAYING THE FUCKING COPPERS HAVE SPIKED ME?
ANTHONY : Now we’re getting somewhere, and they say the youth of today has no intelligence.
TURKEY : THAT CUP OF TEA WAS SPIKED, WHAT WITH?
ANTHONY : Ahh so now you’re thinking that I’m involved in this.
TURKEY : Are you?
ANTHONY : Oh yes, most definitely.
TURKEY : What is it? What’ve you spiked me with?
ANTHONY : Don’t worry it’s only incapacitated you but thankfully you’ll still be able to feel things - like pain.
TURKEY : Fuck off you can’t do anything to me in here.
ANTHONY : Why not?
TURKEY : Are you a fucking copper?
ANTHONY : I’m afraid not…. and you should be afraid that I’m not.
TURKEY : Who’s sent you?
ANTHONY : No-one.
TURKEY : Look mate, its err Anthony isn’t it? I don’t know what you’re here for but you’ve got the wrong bloke. All that stuff before was just bollocks, I’m not a gangster I’m just a normal kid. I was just trying to impress you.
ANTHONY : But you said you were going to kill me and me family, how would that impress me?
TURKEY : I didn’t mean it though; I was scared.
ANTHONY : Scared and paralysed, not a nice combination is it?
TURKEY : No, look please help me.
ANTHONY : HELP YOU! My, my, now we have come full circle.
TURKEY : What do you mean?
ANTHONY : You’re lying here helpless, scared and paralysed, hoping to be saved from this nightmare that’s engulfed you.
TURKEY : Please mate, help me.
Anthony walks over and kicks Turkey in the face.
TURKEY : Aarghh, stop, please stop.
ANTHONY : Is this ringing any bells yet Turkey?
TURKEY : What’s going on please tell me, I don’t know what I’ve done?
ANTHONY : That’s the problem Turkey, you and your friend Daz don’t even know what you’ve done.
TURKEY : Daz, where’s he?
ANTHONY : He’s shall we say ‘sleeping’, that’s why he couldn’t hear you shouting.
TURKEY : Asleep? What have you done to him? This is a fucking police station you’ll never get away with it.
ANTHONY : ‘Getting away with it.’ I imagine that’s a very common phrase for scum like you.
TURKEY : Look just leave me and I’ll not tell anyone, I promise.
ANTHONY : What do you consider to be ‘getting away with it?’ One year in a youth detention centre maybe?
Anthony kicks Turkey in the balls.
ANTHONY : A driving ban and one poxy year in a youth detention centre in return for taking the life of a beautiful young girl. IS THAT FUCKING GETTING AWAY WITH IT?
Anthony leans down and lifts Turkey’s head by the scruff of his neck.
ANTHONY : DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM NOW?
TURKEY : Shit, you’re the dad aren’t you? You’re the bloke who’s daughter it was. Look mate, it wasn’t me driving it was Daz, I tried to stop him but I couldn’t… please don’t.
ANTHONY : Was it Daz who chose to pull her body to the side of the road, rob her and then drive off?
TURKEY : Yes, it was Daz, all of it. He made me.
ANTHONY : Did Daz make you drink and take drugs and steal the car?
TURKEY : Yes he threatened me.
Anthony slams Turkey’s face into the floor.
ANTHONY : That’s exactly what Daz said. So now let’s look at the facts.
TURKEY : Please… don’t.
ANTHONY : I’m locked in a police station cell with one of the murderers of my daughter.
TURKEY : I’m sorry.
ANTHONY : Some of my brothers’ incensed ex-colleagues, he’s retired from the force now, have gone to great lengths to ensure that they’re all on shift together when you and your friend have
been arrested.
TURKEY : Please, I’m begging you.
ANTHONY : They have also aided and abetted me in drugging you and even provided me with this.
Anthony pulls a large knife from the back of his trousers.
TURKEY : FUCK PLEASE MAN DON’T, FUCKING PLEASE.
ANTHONY : Recognise this Turkey? This is the knife my friends planted on you to facilitate your arrest. Now what would happen if you had two knives and the police only found one on you? That would mean that you still had a knife in the cells.
TURKEY : I’ll do anything man, please stop, I’ll say anything. I’ll tell the courts that Daz done it on purpose.
ANTHONY : And what would happen if you and Daz were placed in the same cell, with one knife? Can you see where this is going cocksucker?
TURKEY : Fuck I’ll do it for you; I’ll kill him for you man, just let me go. Please.
ANTHONY :You kill him? No need for that Turkey, that pleasure was all mine, after all you said he was the driver.
TURKEY : FUCK DAZ’S DEAD! Shit man please don’t kill me. If you let me go I won’t say anything honest. Bring him in here and I’ll take the blame. I promise I won’t grass.
ANTHONY : YOU WON’T BE FUCKING ABLE TO.
Anthony leans down and plunges the knife into Turkey’s neck. As Turkey screams the plastic toy knife retracts on it’s internal spring. Turkey lies sobbing on floor in a pool of urine.
ANTHONY : You worthless little cunt. Not such a big gangster now are you? At least your mate didn’t piss his pants.
TURKEY : I’m sorry; please I didn’t mean to kill her. I didn’t know she was your daughter.
ANTHONY : That’s the thing Turkey, she fucking wasn’t my daughter, but if she was the knife would’ve been real.
Anthony walks over to the cell door and presses the buzzer.
ANTHONY : JIMMY, WE’RE FINISHED IN HERE NOW.
The cell door opens and Jimmy, the policeman from earlier, enters.
JIMMY : How’d it go mate? I take it he never recognised you out of uniform?
ANTHONY : Nah did he fuck but as expected the cunt shit himself, I still wish we could have done it for real though.
JIMMY : Well we’ve still got the bet going; first one to be diagnosed with a terminal disease goes all vigilante.
ANTHONY : Yeah every cloud has a silver lining and all that.
JIMMY : Aye that’s right. Go and get your uniform back on and I’ll make us a brew, then we can watch it back on tape before we wipe them.
Jimmy and Anthony leave the cell, lock the door behind them and turn the lights
off.
(c) Fasthands 2007 - Remember my solicitor's watching!!!
Turkey is prowling his small holding cell at Clifford Street police station, his rage takes a hold of him and he begins banging on the cell door
TURKEY : LERRUS OUT YOU FUCKING PIG WANKERS, I HAVEN’T DONE OWT.
TURKEY : DAZ CAN YOU HEAR US? DAZ, WHICH CELL YOU IN?
TURKEY : FUCKING CUNT'S WHERE’S DAZ?
The eye slot in the cell door opens
POLICEMAN : Keep the fucking noise down Turkey and get yourself ready to welcome a new cell mate.
TURKEY : A FUCKING CELL-MATE.YOU CAN’T DO THAT IT’S AGAINST MY HUMAN RIGHTS TO SHARE A CELL LESS THAN FIFTEEN FEET WIDE. UNLESS IT’S DAZ, IS IT DAZ?
POLICEMAN : No it’s not, it’s fucking Persil, now shut the fuck up.
The eye slot in the door slams shut and Turkey continues to pace the perimeter of his cell, thinking aloud.
TURKEY : I hope it’s fucking Daz; he’s bound to have some gear stashed up his arse, saying that like the last time it was shit.
TURKEY : Whoever it is he’s on the fucking floor, this is my bed and it better not be any of those immigrant cunt’s either, the cheeky fuckers coming over here and getting all our benefits without doing any graft.
The cell door lock turns and the door opens.
POLICEMAN : Here’s your new cell-mate Turkey.
ANTHONY : Look officer, this can’t right, there must be some mistake.
POLICEMAN : Shut the fuck up and get inside.
ANTHONY : Please, at least give me my own cell for the night.
POLICEMAN : Have you heard that Turkey? He doesn’t want to share with you.
TURKEY : Cheeky cunt, I don’t want to share with him either.
The cell door shuts and the policeman shouts through it.
POLICEMAN : Just don’t ask him why he’s called Turkey.
ANTHONY : What did he shout?
TURKEY : Nothing, So who the fuck are you then?
Anthony offers his hand and replies
ANTHONY : Hello I’m Anthony, Anthony Hughes.
Turkey ignores the offer of the handshake.
TURKEY : I’m fucking Turkey and that’s my bed.
ANTHONY : Oh right, so we don’t have a bed each.
TURKEY : Does it look like it?
ANTHONY : Err okay…at least it’ll only be for a few hours.
TURKEY : A few hours, what the fuck you on about? You’ll be lucky if you get out by tomorrow afternoon.
ANTHONY : Tomorrow afternoon, I can’t stay that long. I was told I’d get to see the duty solicitor in the morning.
TURKEY : On a Sunday morning, you’ll be fucking lucky.
ANTHONY : But I must, when will I get my phone call?
TURKEY : This isn’t the fucking Bill. You’ll be lucky to get a blanket never mind a phone call. What you in for anyway?
ANTHONY : Nothing, I haven’t done anything.
TURKEY : Bollocks you wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t done anything. So what is it then? Have you and your boyfriend had a fight?
ANTHONY : I’m not gay I’m married.
TURKEY : Aye and so was fucking Barrymore. So what is it then? You better not be a nonce.
ANTHONY : What’s a nonce?
TURKEY : A nonce, a kiddie fiddler, a paedo. Is that what you’re in for?
ANTHONY : Certainly not, how dare you.
TURKEY : You’d better fucking not be, and don’t fucking how dare you me or you’re getting a hiding.
TURKEY : So what are you in for then?
ANTHONY : As I said I’m innocent so I’d rather not say.
TURKEY : Must be something to do with tax or fraud, you look like that type, not like me.
ANTHONY : I’m not any type, this is all a huge mistake, I’ve done nothing wrong.
TURKEY : Yeah course you haven’t and neither have I.
ANTHONY : So are you innocent as well?
TURKEY : Oh yeah, it wasn’t me that screwed the off license on Shields Road and it wasn’t me who lifted the computers from the hospital.
ANTHONY : Oh who was it then?
TURKEY : What?
ANTHONY : So who was it then?
TURKEY : For fuck’s sake it was fucking me wasn’t it! That’s what I’m saying you dick it wasn’t me, but it was me - and I didn’t get caught.
ANTHONY : Oh right I see, but it really wasn’t me.
TURKEY : Looking at you it probably wasn’t, you don’t look like you could turn the garden over never mind anything else. You’re obviously not a career criminal like myself.
ANTHONY : You make a career out of crime? You don’t look old enough.
TURKEY : I’m twenty three, a veteran in this game and crime does pay, don’t let anyone else tell you any different.
ANTHONY : So what sort of things do you do to earn money?
TURKEY : Everything, armed robbery, drugs, prostitution.
ANTHONY : You do armed robberies?
TURKEY : That would be telling wouldn’t it?
ANTHONY : I suppose its better that it didn’t know.
TURKEY : Yeah, I’ve got loads of shooters me and they’re not just for show if you know what I mean.
ANTHONY : You shoot people?
TURKEY : Only if I have to.
ANTHONY : So how many people have you shot?
TURKEY : Like I said before that would be telling.
ANTHONY : Okay, I understand.
TURKEY : Aye, but between you and me it’s more than two and less than four.
ANTHONY : Oh right. So what about the prostitution? You don’t exploit girls by pimping them out do you?
TURKEY : Fuck me; the state of some of them they’re the one’s doing the exploiting.
ANTHONY : Don’t you feel guilty? They’re someone’s daughters.
TURKEY : Aye but a man’s got to eat.
ANTHONY : There’s loads of legitimate ways to make money though, have you never had a normal job?
TURKEY : This is a normal job where I’m from?
ANTHONY : I can imagine, what about the drugs then? Do you sell them?
TURKEY : You’re asking a lot of questions, are you a fucking bizzie?
ANTHONY : No I’m just making conversation; you brought up your different means of income.
TURKEY : You’d better fucking not be. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d tried to fit me up, it’s the only way they can catch me.
ANTHONY : But you’re already caught, you’re in here.
TURKEY : I’m in here but I’m not caught, caught means prison, not the cell’s at the local nick, and that’s another story altogether.
TURKEY : What were we saying just before that?
ANTHONY : The drugs.
TURKEY : Oh aye, my speciality, the only line of work where you can mix business with pleasure, well that and the pimping.
ANTHONY : So you take them as well?
TURKEY : Well I need to test out the merchandise; my customers will go elsewhere if the product isn’t up to scratch and my pallet is as cultured as anyone’s when it comes to barbiturates.
ANTHONY : Isn’t selling drugs a bit risky?
TURKEY : Only if some stupid fucker decides to stray onto my patch.
ANTHONY : Does that happen much?
TURKEY : You’re asking a lot of fucking questions again.
ANTHONY : Sorry, I don’t mean to pry, I’m just interested.
TURKEY : The answer’s no anyway, they know better.
ANTHONY : Aren’t you worried about the effects of the drugs?
TURKEY : It’s the fucking effects of the drugs that everyone wants; you haven’t got a fucking clue have you?
ANTHONY : No I mean the long-term effects of the drugs.
TURKEY : What birds, money and power?
ANTHONY : I mean the mental side effects like paranoia and depression.
TURKEY : The only fucking depressing thing in here is you, I’m telling you about the life of a gangster and all you’re arsed about is some little puffy side-effects.
ANTHONY : Oh right, sorry cocksucker.
TURKEY : FUCKING WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?
ANTHONY : Err nothing, I just said sorry.
TURKEY : ARE YOU FUCKING SURE?
ANTHONY : Yes, why what did you think I said?
TURKEY : It doesn’t fucking matter, but watch your step.
TURKEY : So what the fuck are you in here for?
ANTHONY : I’d rather not say.
TURKEY : And I’d rather not be sharing a cell with some boring cunt who’s hiding things from me.
ANTHONY : I’m not hiding anything I’d just rather not say. Where did you get that cup from?
TURKEY : One of the bizzies brought me a cuppa before you were let in.
ANTHONY : Do you think I could get one?
TURKEY : Fucking no chance, even though we’re on opposite sides the bizzies respect someone of my standing.
ANTHONY : Cocksucker.
TURKEY : FUCKING WHAT!!
ANTHONY : I said I’m parched.
TURKEY : YOU FUCKING NEVER YOU JUST CALLED ME A COCKSUCKER.
ANTHONY : I never honest, I just said I’m thirsty.
TURKEY : THAT’S THE SECOND TIME YOU’VE CALLED ME THAT.
ANTHONY : Honestly I haven’t said anything like that, I wouldn’t dare.
TURKEY : You fucking better not either, In fact you better just shut the fuck up, I’m going to try and get some kip. These pills are getting all weird
ANTHONY : This is what I’m on about with the drug side-effects. People can hear and see things that aren’t happening.
TURKEY : Fuck off, I can handle my drugs, it’s me who makes other people paranoid.
ANTHONY : So have you had a lot of drugs tonight?
TURKEY : Enough to kill an elephant, but that’s fuck all to me.
ANTHONY : Maybe that’s why you think I’m calling you a cocksucker.
TURKEY : FUCKING WATCH IT CUNT.
ANTHONY : Okay cocksucker.
TURKEY : I FUCKING KNEW IT.
Turkey jumps up from the bed and tries to attack Anthony. In one deft movement Anthony throws Turkey on his back.
ANTHONY : Cocksucker.
Turkey jumps back onto his feet and tries to attack Anthony again.
TURKEY : YOU'RE FUCKING DEAD CUNT.
This time Anthony floors Turkey with a single punch.
ANTHONY : Stay down or I’ll really hurt you.
Turkey remains on the floor.
TURKEY : I slipped, I’m going to fucking kill you when I get back up.
ANTHONY : Course you are fellatio boy.
TURKEY : Who the fuck are you? Who have you been talking to?
ANTHONY : I’ve already told you, Anthony Hughes. Does the name not ring a bell?
TURKEY : Does it fuck.
ANTHONY : That’ll be all the drugs rotting your brain.
TURKEY : There’s fuck all wrong with my brain but when these pills wear off I’m going to fucking tear you apart.
ANTHONY : Not much chance of that Turkey. Tell me why do they call you Turkey?
TURKEY : Fuck off.
ANTHONY : Why does a big, armed robber, pimping gangster get the moniker Turkey?
TURKEY : Fuck off.
ANTHONY : I’ve heard it’s because you got caught gobbling another lad’s cock at school.
TURKEY : Is it fuck, it’s because I was the first lad at school to get a gobble.
ANTHONY : We both know that’s not true don’t we? Just as we both know you’re not a gangster are you?
TURKEY : I fucking am and you’re fucking dead when I get out of here, you and your family.
ANTHONY : Instead of issuing meaningless threats I’d start to think about what’s going on here if I was you.
TURKEY : What the fuck you on about?
ANTHONY : Think about it Cocksucker. How do I know so much about you and your past? And why are you lying on the floor fucked?
TURKEY : Too many pills, that’s why. Who are you?
ANTHONY : Another side-effect of drugs is that it impairs your memory.
TURKEY : And another one is you’re fucked once these pills wear off.
ANTHONY : You said you could take your drugs.
TURKEY : I can I must’ve had a dodgy one.
ANTHONY : Maybe it wasn’t a pill.
TURKEY : It must be, I can hardly move. Shit this hasn’t happened before, what if I get worse? Fuck, you’re going to have to get the on-duty bizzie.
ANTHONY : That’s the paranoia I told you about.
TURKEY : It’s not fucking paranoia, I can’t move, ring the buzzer.
ANTHONY : Not just yet, there’s plenty time for that isn’t there.
TURKEY : Seriously mate there’s something not right here, I’m
paralysed.
ANTHONY : Aah now we’re getting somewhere.
TURKEY : What the fuck you on about?
ANTHONY : Paralysis: A partial or complete loss of voluntary muscle function; a condition of helpless inactivity.
TURKEY : You’re fucking mad, who are you?
ANTHONY : All will be revealed in due course, now why do you think you’re paralysed?
TURKEY : I’ve told you I can’t move, I must’ve had a dodgy pill.
ANTHONY : Ask yourself this. Why has your paralysis only came on since I was put in the cell?
TURKEY : Eh?
ANTHONY : Come on Turkey think; how come you didn’t feel like this earlier in the night? I know you’ve been taking drugs since this afternoon because I’ve been following you.
TURKEY : You’ve been fucking following me, why? Who the fuck are you?
ANTHONY : You’re moving away from the point Turkey, what could have brought on your paralysis?
TURKEY : Fuck off, just leave me.
ANTHONY : Okay then ask yourself this. How many times in the past has a policeman given you a cup of tea or coffee?
TURKEY : What’s that got to …….. WHAT! SO YOU’RE SAYING THE FUCKING COPPERS HAVE SPIKED ME?
ANTHONY : Now we’re getting somewhere, and they say the youth of today has no intelligence.
TURKEY : THAT CUP OF TEA WAS SPIKED, WHAT WITH?
ANTHONY : Ahh so now you’re thinking that I’m involved in this.
TURKEY : Are you?
ANTHONY : Oh yes, most definitely.
TURKEY : What is it? What’ve you spiked me with?
ANTHONY : Don’t worry it’s only incapacitated you but thankfully you’ll still be able to feel things - like pain.
TURKEY : Fuck off you can’t do anything to me in here.
ANTHONY : Why not?
TURKEY : Are you a fucking copper?
ANTHONY : I’m afraid not…. and you should be afraid that I’m not.
TURKEY : Who’s sent you?
ANTHONY : No-one.
TURKEY : Look mate, its err Anthony isn’t it? I don’t know what you’re here for but you’ve got the wrong bloke. All that stuff before was just bollocks, I’m not a gangster I’m just a normal kid. I was just trying to impress you.
ANTHONY : But you said you were going to kill me and me family, how would that impress me?
TURKEY : I didn’t mean it though; I was scared.
ANTHONY : Scared and paralysed, not a nice combination is it?
TURKEY : No, look please help me.
ANTHONY : HELP YOU! My, my, now we have come full circle.
TURKEY : What do you mean?
ANTHONY : You’re lying here helpless, scared and paralysed, hoping to be saved from this nightmare that’s engulfed you.
TURKEY : Please mate, help me.
Anthony walks over and kicks Turkey in the face.
TURKEY : Aarghh, stop, please stop.
ANTHONY : Is this ringing any bells yet Turkey?
TURKEY : What’s going on please tell me, I don’t know what I’ve done?
ANTHONY : That’s the problem Turkey, you and your friend Daz don’t even know what you’ve done.
TURKEY : Daz, where’s he?
ANTHONY : He’s shall we say ‘sleeping’, that’s why he couldn’t hear you shouting.
TURKEY : Asleep? What have you done to him? This is a fucking police station you’ll never get away with it.
ANTHONY : ‘Getting away with it.’ I imagine that’s a very common phrase for scum like you.
TURKEY : Look just leave me and I’ll not tell anyone, I promise.
ANTHONY : What do you consider to be ‘getting away with it?’ One year in a youth detention centre maybe?
Anthony kicks Turkey in the balls.
ANTHONY : A driving ban and one poxy year in a youth detention centre in return for taking the life of a beautiful young girl. IS THAT FUCKING GETTING AWAY WITH IT?
Anthony leans down and lifts Turkey’s head by the scruff of his neck.
ANTHONY : DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM NOW?
TURKEY : Shit, you’re the dad aren’t you? You’re the bloke who’s daughter it was. Look mate, it wasn’t me driving it was Daz, I tried to stop him but I couldn’t… please don’t.
ANTHONY : Was it Daz who chose to pull her body to the side of the road, rob her and then drive off?
TURKEY : Yes, it was Daz, all of it. He made me.
ANTHONY : Did Daz make you drink and take drugs and steal the car?
TURKEY : Yes he threatened me.
Anthony slams Turkey’s face into the floor.
ANTHONY : That’s exactly what Daz said. So now let’s look at the facts.
TURKEY : Please… don’t.
ANTHONY : I’m locked in a police station cell with one of the murderers of my daughter.
TURKEY : I’m sorry.
ANTHONY : Some of my brothers’ incensed ex-colleagues, he’s retired from the force now, have gone to great lengths to ensure that they’re all on shift together when you and your friend have
been arrested.
TURKEY : Please, I’m begging you.
ANTHONY : They have also aided and abetted me in drugging you and even provided me with this.
Anthony pulls a large knife from the back of his trousers.
TURKEY : FUCK PLEASE MAN DON’T, FUCKING PLEASE.
ANTHONY : Recognise this Turkey? This is the knife my friends planted on you to facilitate your arrest. Now what would happen if you had two knives and the police only found one on you? That would mean that you still had a knife in the cells.
TURKEY : I’ll do anything man, please stop, I’ll say anything. I’ll tell the courts that Daz done it on purpose.
ANTHONY : And what would happen if you and Daz were placed in the same cell, with one knife? Can you see where this is going cocksucker?
TURKEY : Fuck I’ll do it for you; I’ll kill him for you man, just let me go. Please.
ANTHONY :You kill him? No need for that Turkey, that pleasure was all mine, after all you said he was the driver.
TURKEY : FUCK DAZ’S DEAD! Shit man please don’t kill me. If you let me go I won’t say anything honest. Bring him in here and I’ll take the blame. I promise I won’t grass.
ANTHONY : YOU WON’T BE FUCKING ABLE TO.
Anthony leans down and plunges the knife into Turkey’s neck. As Turkey screams the plastic toy knife retracts on it’s internal spring. Turkey lies sobbing on floor in a pool of urine.
ANTHONY : You worthless little cunt. Not such a big gangster now are you? At least your mate didn’t piss his pants.
TURKEY : I’m sorry; please I didn’t mean to kill her. I didn’t know she was your daughter.
ANTHONY : That’s the thing Turkey, she fucking wasn’t my daughter, but if she was the knife would’ve been real.
Anthony walks over to the cell door and presses the buzzer.
ANTHONY : JIMMY, WE’RE FINISHED IN HERE NOW.
The cell door opens and Jimmy, the policeman from earlier, enters.
JIMMY : How’d it go mate? I take it he never recognised you out of uniform?
ANTHONY : Nah did he fuck but as expected the cunt shit himself, I still wish we could have done it for real though.
JIMMY : Well we’ve still got the bet going; first one to be diagnosed with a terminal disease goes all vigilante.
ANTHONY : Yeah every cloud has a silver lining and all that.
JIMMY : Aye that’s right. Go and get your uniform back on and I’ll make us a brew, then we can watch it back on tape before we wipe them.
Jimmy and Anthony leave the cell, lock the door behind them and turn the lights
off.
(c) Fasthands 2007 - Remember my solicitor's watching!!!
Wednesday, 18 April 2007
Maxwell's Silver Hammer...
Here's an extract from my, as yet unpublished, debut novel, Maxwell's Silver Hammer. If all you publishers and agents could just form an orderly queue and stop jostling then we can begin the auction. Okay, that's better, I believe the bidding was starting at a quarter of a million...Yes Random House, your bid please...
Billy
Bit of a result that was, sorted everything out with the boys and got them on their way early doors. Quick time check, they should be round about Doncaster by now, Zeebrugge after dinner and home for last orders. I’ll meet them at the lock up in the morning. Job done. As a reward for my early start I’m treating myself to breakfast at the Cavern Café. It’s one of those lovely windy, sunny mornings we get in Newcastle at this time of year, the type of weather that takes your skin colour from blue back to white – smashing.
Strolling down Shields Road it’s sad to see how the place has declined. When I was a teenager, back in the eighties, there was ten bars on this road and it was lively as fuck on a Friday and Saturday night. The road was always heaving with people, the pretty boys and the muscle men; the young girls and the owld slappers; smells of perfume, kebabs and that horrible fucking poseur gear Kouros mingling as one all down the road, it was a quality night out. Me and the lads all done up in our best gear, Pepe or Le Breve jeans; Pod loafers; acid house shirts and some gel in your hair, I had some then like. I remember Donny turning up in a suit once, we fucking laughed him out of the bar, he had to get a taxi home and get changed before we’d let him come out with us.
Aye, Friday night seven o clock prompt, start at the top of the road and work your way down to Baxter’s and The Ford, the two disco bars with a late licence. Usually kicked off at some point, mind you, Big George ran the doors in them days and no cunt messed with him. I remember wor Carlos once in Baxter’s, this lass was trying to get into him and he was a bit cocky about it, he was putting it about in them days as well. Anyway, he asked where she worked and she said the Cat and Dog Shelter up the west end. He just casually turned back to the bar replying, “I wasn’t asking where you lived pet.” Me and Donny creased up and she just stood there livid. I didn’t feel bad at all about laughing at her cos she’d knocked me back the week before. Mind you it was funnier still when her mate swilled him, I’m giggling to meself now thinking about it.
Aye, the road’s changed an awful lot in the last twenty years and not for the better either. It used to be full of good shops, butchers, fishmongers and greengrocers. There was even a department store, a real one that dealt in good quality gear the old fashioned way, like Grace Brothers and that. It’s been turned into student accommodation now and the whole place is just full of second hand and bargain shops, fucking heartbreaking really. Those students get right on my tits as well. There was a squad of them in The Raby last Christmas Eve, all dressed up trying to be wackier than the next cunt. They look down on you cos you’re from a council estate and have to graft for a fucking living. Someone put the Beach Boys on the jukey and next thing you know one of the pricks is lying on the floor and his mate’s only standing on his back pretending to surf and they were all cracking up like it’s the funniest thing in the world.
“God Tarquin, you and Richard, you’re so zany.”
“Yah Imelda, In Sociology they call us the Mad Dogs because we’re so wacky.”
Crazy John in the lounge showed them what mad really was when he started nutting the pinball machine and breaking glasses over his head, strangely enough they left quite soon after that.
Wankers.
Billy
Bit of a result that was, sorted everything out with the boys and got them on their way early doors. Quick time check, they should be round about Doncaster by now, Zeebrugge after dinner and home for last orders. I’ll meet them at the lock up in the morning. Job done. As a reward for my early start I’m treating myself to breakfast at the Cavern Café. It’s one of those lovely windy, sunny mornings we get in Newcastle at this time of year, the type of weather that takes your skin colour from blue back to white – smashing.
Strolling down Shields Road it’s sad to see how the place has declined. When I was a teenager, back in the eighties, there was ten bars on this road and it was lively as fuck on a Friday and Saturday night. The road was always heaving with people, the pretty boys and the muscle men; the young girls and the owld slappers; smells of perfume, kebabs and that horrible fucking poseur gear Kouros mingling as one all down the road, it was a quality night out. Me and the lads all done up in our best gear, Pepe or Le Breve jeans; Pod loafers; acid house shirts and some gel in your hair, I had some then like. I remember Donny turning up in a suit once, we fucking laughed him out of the bar, he had to get a taxi home and get changed before we’d let him come out with us.
Aye, Friday night seven o clock prompt, start at the top of the road and work your way down to Baxter’s and The Ford, the two disco bars with a late licence. Usually kicked off at some point, mind you, Big George ran the doors in them days and no cunt messed with him. I remember wor Carlos once in Baxter’s, this lass was trying to get into him and he was a bit cocky about it, he was putting it about in them days as well. Anyway, he asked where she worked and she said the Cat and Dog Shelter up the west end. He just casually turned back to the bar replying, “I wasn’t asking where you lived pet.” Me and Donny creased up and she just stood there livid. I didn’t feel bad at all about laughing at her cos she’d knocked me back the week before. Mind you it was funnier still when her mate swilled him, I’m giggling to meself now thinking about it.
Aye, the road’s changed an awful lot in the last twenty years and not for the better either. It used to be full of good shops, butchers, fishmongers and greengrocers. There was even a department store, a real one that dealt in good quality gear the old fashioned way, like Grace Brothers and that. It’s been turned into student accommodation now and the whole place is just full of second hand and bargain shops, fucking heartbreaking really. Those students get right on my tits as well. There was a squad of them in The Raby last Christmas Eve, all dressed up trying to be wackier than the next cunt. They look down on you cos you’re from a council estate and have to graft for a fucking living. Someone put the Beach Boys on the jukey and next thing you know one of the pricks is lying on the floor and his mate’s only standing on his back pretending to surf and they were all cracking up like it’s the funniest thing in the world.
“God Tarquin, you and Richard, you’re so zany.”
“Yah Imelda, In Sociology they call us the Mad Dogs because we’re so wacky.”
Crazy John in the lounge showed them what mad really was when he started nutting the pinball machine and breaking glasses over his head, strangely enough they left quite soon after that.
Wankers.
Thursday, 12 April 2007
** FREE E-BOOK **
Afternoon all, as promised I can now furnish you all with a free extract from my play 'I no longer hear the music' in e-book form.
This link will take you to Lulu.com where you can download the extract in all it's glory.
Feel free to let me know what you think.
http://www.lulu.com/content/791872
This link will take you to Lulu.com where you can download the extract in all it's glory.
Feel free to let me know what you think.
http://www.lulu.com/content/791872
Wednesday, 4 April 2007
Blagger Extract.
I've been planning and working on a couple of new books recently, one is a crime fiction novel provisionally entitled 'Missing' and the other is a semi autobiographical novella called 'I'm Rivelino' - Class eh? Anyway, as a result of this a number of other things have gone on the back burner and could probably do with an airing. So with that in mind here's an extract from Blagger, an early, and still ongoing, project. Let me know what you think.
Blagger
They think they know me in this boozer. Think they know all about me. Wankers. Look at him selling Lynx from a carrier bag. One fifty a tin, that’s proper big time that is son. The cunt’s made about fifteen quid and he’s swaggering about like some fucking celebrity gangster. It’s not like he’s even a snotty nosed kid either, the fucker’s about thirty and scratches a living by nicking tat out of them cheap shops, you know the kind where the workers are on minimum wage and care more about their health than they do the company’s profits. Here’s another one, his sidekick, this boozer’s full of wannabe’s tonight. He’s pulling out his snide watches and giving it all the ‘I know a man who knows a man bollocks’, the twat’s walking over to me now, smug grin on his blotchy, junk food face.
“Come on Davey, live a bit dangerously, tenner apiece and I’ll even get Dodge to hoy in a free can of deodorant.”
I just smile back at him and shake my head, looking all model citizen and respectable as I turn back to my pint, hearing him mutter under his breath as his sweaty, charva frame moves away from me. Another one who thinks I’m a law abiding, salt of the earth, couple of pints at the weekend type. They know fuck all.
After last orders I normally go back to my council house on my own, I don’t go for a drink at anyone else’s and they don’t get invited to mine. Normally I’m about a tenner down on cards to some of the older lads, I don’t mind they’re good blokes. Sometimes I get a chinkys on the way home, sometimes I plead poverty and just get a bag of chips. Proper grey man me, none of this touting gear round pubs for twenty bar here and there, sticking your chest out and playing it hard. No visible tattoos, nice sensible short back and sides, no bling and no designer gear. What I do have though is an offshore bank account with seven hundred grand in it and about forty grand in cash under the bed. I work in a steel factory and everyone on this estate knows it. I live within my supposed means and record wise I’m as clean as a fucking whistle. What this means is that I’ll only ever get caught if I’m actually pulled in the act and that’ll never happen.
Taking a large gulp from my second pint of the weekend I revise the days events. The van pulled up and the guard was straight out and into the bank, first mistake mate. Company procedure is to wait in the van for five minutes and assess the area. As the company in question give them far too much to do and then bollock them when they don’t do it then it’s no surprise they all cut corners. He came back out, no helmet on, enjoying the sunshine, breaking all the rules. My hand slowly let out the clutch and the bike moved forward, he couldn’t even hear it, too busy thinking about the baguette he’d bought half an hour ago from Greggs. Smiling to myself as the lager hits my throat again I recall how he half turned and started to bend down at the hatch as I got closer, full throttle now. The engine whined as I pushed it hard into third. He noticed a noise and started to turn but by then I was on him. He tried to push the case in the slot but it was too late. I booted him over as the bike slewed to a halt, engine still running. Grabbed the case, rammed my hand round the throttle and I was off. Piece of piss.
The bizzies found the bike two miles away, they might find a nicked Peugeot ten miles north of Newcastle in a couple of days, I bet you no-one noticed the crappy Escort Van parked down the road from it though. The one I’ve just sold on Ebay for five hundred quid. Thirty grand in the case, minus the five hundred quid loss I took on the van for a quick sale plus sundries like petrol, equals a profit of roughly twenty nine and a bit thousand. Stuff it into the hiding place, show my face in here and then get to bed; I’ve an early shift tomorrow.
That’s the beauty of my chosen profession, I work alone; no one can grass me up; no one can get pissed and mouthy about me; no one can suddenly start spending money that they didn’t have yesterday. The only risks I take are when I’m doing the job and I’m very careful, preparation is everything with me. At the end of the day I’m a professional blagger and a fucking good one at that. That’s why I even make an effort to drink in here regular, blend in, be part of the scenery, I fucking hate them plastic gangsters that get in though. That Lynx selling muppet’s been a bit familiar lately as well, I can’t work out why, I think he might suspect I’m not what I seem but he can’t prove it so he just digs away. Well you keep digging son, I say fuck all me.
Then, suddenly, he’s in my face, a bit of an audience behind him.
“Davey, how come you never buy any gear off me? Everyone else in this bar takes a bit of hoisty of me, they all appreciate the bargains but you never do.”
He’s obviously had a few pints more than he’s capable of and he’s getting brave, maybe the coke’s kicked in and he just feels the need to talk, whatever it is the cunt’s voice is getting louder and he’s drawing attention to me. Not what I want. This needs stopping.
“I mean anyone would think you were some kind of undercover bizzy or one of those professional witnesses or something. You know the kind who can’t break the law or it fucks the case up.”
Shite. Too late to nip in the bud now, there’s a buzz round the bar and a couple of his gobshite mates have left the pool table and walked over, still holding their cues. I can’t have this. Instant death on this estate if I don’t deal with what he’s just said.
“I can see your point,” I say, “It must look suspicious to a charlie’d up, paranoid wanker like you. The reason I don’t buy your gear is because it’s shit and you’re a tu’penny ha’penny thief who thinks he’s a gangster. You want to remember your name’s Gray not Kray.”
The cunt is nonplussed no-one’s ever spoken to him like that before, even his tattoos look confused, he’s not gonna like the next bit then.
“As for being a bizzy and not doing owt illegal, how does this grab you?”
I welt my pint glass against the bar and ram it in his fat charva face, the blood sprays his two useless mates and they’re on their toes. Next thing I know the bar’s full of people applauding and I’m getting free pints all night, turns out they hate the cunt an all. Despite my desire to be low key I have to say I enjoy it but I know that was just the start. He was put into an ambulance telling everyone exactly what him and that Dodge prick would do to me. I’d best ring work tomorrow and ask for a few days holiday; tell them I’ve got a bereavement and I need to plan the funeral.
Blagger
They think they know me in this boozer. Think they know all about me. Wankers. Look at him selling Lynx from a carrier bag. One fifty a tin, that’s proper big time that is son. The cunt’s made about fifteen quid and he’s swaggering about like some fucking celebrity gangster. It’s not like he’s even a snotty nosed kid either, the fucker’s about thirty and scratches a living by nicking tat out of them cheap shops, you know the kind where the workers are on minimum wage and care more about their health than they do the company’s profits. Here’s another one, his sidekick, this boozer’s full of wannabe’s tonight. He’s pulling out his snide watches and giving it all the ‘I know a man who knows a man bollocks’, the twat’s walking over to me now, smug grin on his blotchy, junk food face.
“Come on Davey, live a bit dangerously, tenner apiece and I’ll even get Dodge to hoy in a free can of deodorant.”
I just smile back at him and shake my head, looking all model citizen and respectable as I turn back to my pint, hearing him mutter under his breath as his sweaty, charva frame moves away from me. Another one who thinks I’m a law abiding, salt of the earth, couple of pints at the weekend type. They know fuck all.
After last orders I normally go back to my council house on my own, I don’t go for a drink at anyone else’s and they don’t get invited to mine. Normally I’m about a tenner down on cards to some of the older lads, I don’t mind they’re good blokes. Sometimes I get a chinkys on the way home, sometimes I plead poverty and just get a bag of chips. Proper grey man me, none of this touting gear round pubs for twenty bar here and there, sticking your chest out and playing it hard. No visible tattoos, nice sensible short back and sides, no bling and no designer gear. What I do have though is an offshore bank account with seven hundred grand in it and about forty grand in cash under the bed. I work in a steel factory and everyone on this estate knows it. I live within my supposed means and record wise I’m as clean as a fucking whistle. What this means is that I’ll only ever get caught if I’m actually pulled in the act and that’ll never happen.
Taking a large gulp from my second pint of the weekend I revise the days events. The van pulled up and the guard was straight out and into the bank, first mistake mate. Company procedure is to wait in the van for five minutes and assess the area. As the company in question give them far too much to do and then bollock them when they don’t do it then it’s no surprise they all cut corners. He came back out, no helmet on, enjoying the sunshine, breaking all the rules. My hand slowly let out the clutch and the bike moved forward, he couldn’t even hear it, too busy thinking about the baguette he’d bought half an hour ago from Greggs. Smiling to myself as the lager hits my throat again I recall how he half turned and started to bend down at the hatch as I got closer, full throttle now. The engine whined as I pushed it hard into third. He noticed a noise and started to turn but by then I was on him. He tried to push the case in the slot but it was too late. I booted him over as the bike slewed to a halt, engine still running. Grabbed the case, rammed my hand round the throttle and I was off. Piece of piss.
The bizzies found the bike two miles away, they might find a nicked Peugeot ten miles north of Newcastle in a couple of days, I bet you no-one noticed the crappy Escort Van parked down the road from it though. The one I’ve just sold on Ebay for five hundred quid. Thirty grand in the case, minus the five hundred quid loss I took on the van for a quick sale plus sundries like petrol, equals a profit of roughly twenty nine and a bit thousand. Stuff it into the hiding place, show my face in here and then get to bed; I’ve an early shift tomorrow.
That’s the beauty of my chosen profession, I work alone; no one can grass me up; no one can get pissed and mouthy about me; no one can suddenly start spending money that they didn’t have yesterday. The only risks I take are when I’m doing the job and I’m very careful, preparation is everything with me. At the end of the day I’m a professional blagger and a fucking good one at that. That’s why I even make an effort to drink in here regular, blend in, be part of the scenery, I fucking hate them plastic gangsters that get in though. That Lynx selling muppet’s been a bit familiar lately as well, I can’t work out why, I think he might suspect I’m not what I seem but he can’t prove it so he just digs away. Well you keep digging son, I say fuck all me.
Then, suddenly, he’s in my face, a bit of an audience behind him.
“Davey, how come you never buy any gear off me? Everyone else in this bar takes a bit of hoisty of me, they all appreciate the bargains but you never do.”
He’s obviously had a few pints more than he’s capable of and he’s getting brave, maybe the coke’s kicked in and he just feels the need to talk, whatever it is the cunt’s voice is getting louder and he’s drawing attention to me. Not what I want. This needs stopping.
“I mean anyone would think you were some kind of undercover bizzy or one of those professional witnesses or something. You know the kind who can’t break the law or it fucks the case up.”
Shite. Too late to nip in the bud now, there’s a buzz round the bar and a couple of his gobshite mates have left the pool table and walked over, still holding their cues. I can’t have this. Instant death on this estate if I don’t deal with what he’s just said.
“I can see your point,” I say, “It must look suspicious to a charlie’d up, paranoid wanker like you. The reason I don’t buy your gear is because it’s shit and you’re a tu’penny ha’penny thief who thinks he’s a gangster. You want to remember your name’s Gray not Kray.”
The cunt is nonplussed no-one’s ever spoken to him like that before, even his tattoos look confused, he’s not gonna like the next bit then.
“As for being a bizzy and not doing owt illegal, how does this grab you?”
I welt my pint glass against the bar and ram it in his fat charva face, the blood sprays his two useless mates and they’re on their toes. Next thing I know the bar’s full of people applauding and I’m getting free pints all night, turns out they hate the cunt an all. Despite my desire to be low key I have to say I enjoy it but I know that was just the start. He was put into an ambulance telling everyone exactly what him and that Dodge prick would do to me. I’d best ring work tomorrow and ask for a few days holiday; tell them I’ve got a bereavement and I need to plan the funeral.
Thursday, 22 March 2007
The Invisible Man
My head’s banging and I’m moaning like a whore on overtime. The light from the stark lamps is bouncing off the grey walls, penetrating the defensive cover of my eyelids and eating my brain, eating the fucker it is. I can hear the whispers of the bizzies in the room with me as well, big stage ones, think they’re clever the sad, bullied as kids, twats.
‘The stupid bastard only broke in with no gloves on and then set the alarm off.’
‘Daft get, how did he think he’d get away with it?’
‘He’s a fucking pisshead man, has been since his daughter got done in a few years back.’
‘Aye you can tell like, he smells like the Fed Brewery. Stinks man.’
He’s right; I smell like George Best’s first liver, you know you’re in a state when you’re aware of it yourself.
The drunk in the corner of the bar had been quiet for some time, maybe it was the amount of alcohol he had consumed that day, indeed that week, maybe for once he had nothing to say or maybe, just maybe, the entrance of the man who raped and murdered his daughter had something to do with it. On the very day his daughter would have celebrated her twenty first birthday her killer had entered his local and left her father dumb with rage and sadness. At first the eyes of every patron were upon him but they soon tired of this as he just slurred quietly to himself and seemed to not even notice the presence of the gangland royalty that had also entered the pub.
‘They reckon he’s been on a bender for a week, done the whole of the East End from Wallsend to Byker.’
‘What every pub?’
‘Every fucking boozer on every fucking street – anniversary of the daughters death see.’
‘Why did he try robbing the paper shop then? Drink money?’
‘Probably, who knows why a useless washed up old tramp like that would do anything. He wouldn’t have made a mistake like that back in the day, his nickname was the invisible man back then, the fucker was in and out of places all night long. A proper little moneymaker this lad was, certainly wouldn’t have bothered with a shop like this one. He was just asking to be banged up. They reckon he was falling all over in the Butchers Arms, shouting about how he had a big job on that night.’
The young gangster was noisily making merry with his friends and hangers on when the barman presented him with a whisky. Assuming it to be a gift from a sycophant he downed it greedily, the drugs in his system aiding his thirst, before announcing that, as promised, he was now going to the cash machine. Anyone sharp-eyed looking over at the old drunk in the corner at that point may have noticed him pocketing a small plastic bottle before necking his pint and staggering towards the side door.
‘What happened to him then?’
‘Like I say the daughter got done in. Officially never solved and case still open, unofficially, Tommy Kinghorn, you’ve heard of him right? Inadequate, spoiled, bisexual son of Billy ‘One Punch’ Kinghorn.’
‘Aye, we’ve all heard of the Kinghorns.’
‘Well he didn’t like the way she kept knocking him back and decided to take what he wanted, her permission or not. She was found in the woods with no knickers on and her tights stuffed in her mouth. Old Tadger there lost the plot, hit the drink hard when Kinghorn got away with it and of course there was no prospect of a minor league scrote like him doing anything about it. He could’ve destroyed the skinny little twat in a square go but wouldn’t have lasted five minutes once the old man and his muscle got hold of him. He just fell apart, the wife topped herself because of the grief and Kinghorn Junior walked away laughing.’
‘Tragic enough like but it doesn’t give him the right to go burgling shops.’
The scrap yard at the bottom of Shields Road had seen some action over the years but nothing ever quite like this. Any normal person would have been horrified at the sight of a prone and unconscious man, his face full of blood and broken bones, with the hilt of a rounders bat peeking out from his distended anus. It didn’t seem to bother the dishevelled looking gentleman though; the one that was walking jauntily away as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
I moan again, sick of listening to these bastards dissecting my life, sick of having to replay the shite in my head.
‘I’ve done nowt, let us gan you bastards.’
‘Come on Tadger you know the drill, you know you’ll get a bit of time for this one. You were recorded on CCTV in the Shields Road area of Byker at 21:10 and then picked up inside the property twenty minutes later you’re bang to rights mate, why don’t you just hold your hands up.’
I lift my arms in the air just to piss them off and say ‘like this’ then my head reminds me that I’ve been drinking for seven straight days. It’s banging like that piped trance shite they play in the trendy bars these days. What the fuck ever happened to jukeboxes anyway?
‘I cannit remember nowt man.’ I shout.
‘Look at his hands shaking, proper DT’s there.’
‘Fuck it let’s charge him. He’s bang to rights and he’s going to jail.’
The jaguar pulled up outside the pub and a greying, broad shouldered and powerfully built man emerged. He could have been a top business executive surrounded by aides and assistants were it not for the tattoos on his neck and scars on his face. The figure that approached him on his journey up the Road looked startled at his appearance, as if this was not in the rules for whichever game he might be playing, and immediately started stumbling and slurring. The big man turned, half recognised the face, and stared, trying to place him. The drunk stopped and seemed to think for a second before pulling a crowbar from his pocket. The minders were a little twitchy and headed for him en-masse but he stumbled across the road where they observed him jemmying the window of the paper shop and chuckled to themselves, just another small-timer. The big man dismissed the idiot and entered the bar to find his son.
I’ve been read my rights and formally charged; I have no alibi and can’t offer a defence. They’re right; I’ll get six months. As they’re processing me I’m shaking like a shitting dog and smell like a tramp that’s been slumming it. The looks I get as I’m led through the custody suite en-route to my cell are a blatant mix of pity and contempt. Then the place explodes into life as ten riot suited pigs come steaming through, charvas and conmen alike are smashed to the side as the robocops head to their van.
“What’s going on?”
The head of the steroid squad flashes my copper a glare for being too nosey but one of his goons can’t help himself.
“Jimmy McGilligan was found in the scrapyard under Byker Bridge this morning. He had his boxers in his mouth and a rounders bat stuck up his arse. Looks like he’s been Rohypnol’d, apparently he was on the lash down Shields Road and wandered off from his pals.”
“Fuck me his brother’ll go mental.”
“Aye, he had to be sedated when he was told, he was screaming about it being Kinghorn again. With them being the type of family they are then it’s definitely all gonna kick off and I tell you what, Billy one punch as his dad or not, I wouldn’t like to be in young Tommy’s shoes.’
As they close the cell door and forget about me while they continue speculating on the bloodshed to follow I stop shaking. Sometimes you have to lose the battle to win the war and six months is nothing. By the time I’ve served three, Kinghorn’ll have died a horrible death, half the gangsters in this town will have wiped each other out and my family will have finally been avenged.
Aye, when the time comes then I’ll be fuckin drinking to that.
‘The stupid bastard only broke in with no gloves on and then set the alarm off.’
‘Daft get, how did he think he’d get away with it?’
‘He’s a fucking pisshead man, has been since his daughter got done in a few years back.’
‘Aye you can tell like, he smells like the Fed Brewery. Stinks man.’
He’s right; I smell like George Best’s first liver, you know you’re in a state when you’re aware of it yourself.
The drunk in the corner of the bar had been quiet for some time, maybe it was the amount of alcohol he had consumed that day, indeed that week, maybe for once he had nothing to say or maybe, just maybe, the entrance of the man who raped and murdered his daughter had something to do with it. On the very day his daughter would have celebrated her twenty first birthday her killer had entered his local and left her father dumb with rage and sadness. At first the eyes of every patron were upon him but they soon tired of this as he just slurred quietly to himself and seemed to not even notice the presence of the gangland royalty that had also entered the pub.
‘They reckon he’s been on a bender for a week, done the whole of the East End from Wallsend to Byker.’
‘What every pub?’
‘Every fucking boozer on every fucking street – anniversary of the daughters death see.’
‘Why did he try robbing the paper shop then? Drink money?’
‘Probably, who knows why a useless washed up old tramp like that would do anything. He wouldn’t have made a mistake like that back in the day, his nickname was the invisible man back then, the fucker was in and out of places all night long. A proper little moneymaker this lad was, certainly wouldn’t have bothered with a shop like this one. He was just asking to be banged up. They reckon he was falling all over in the Butchers Arms, shouting about how he had a big job on that night.’
The young gangster was noisily making merry with his friends and hangers on when the barman presented him with a whisky. Assuming it to be a gift from a sycophant he downed it greedily, the drugs in his system aiding his thirst, before announcing that, as promised, he was now going to the cash machine. Anyone sharp-eyed looking over at the old drunk in the corner at that point may have noticed him pocketing a small plastic bottle before necking his pint and staggering towards the side door.
‘What happened to him then?’
‘Like I say the daughter got done in. Officially never solved and case still open, unofficially, Tommy Kinghorn, you’ve heard of him right? Inadequate, spoiled, bisexual son of Billy ‘One Punch’ Kinghorn.’
‘Aye, we’ve all heard of the Kinghorns.’
‘Well he didn’t like the way she kept knocking him back and decided to take what he wanted, her permission or not. She was found in the woods with no knickers on and her tights stuffed in her mouth. Old Tadger there lost the plot, hit the drink hard when Kinghorn got away with it and of course there was no prospect of a minor league scrote like him doing anything about it. He could’ve destroyed the skinny little twat in a square go but wouldn’t have lasted five minutes once the old man and his muscle got hold of him. He just fell apart, the wife topped herself because of the grief and Kinghorn Junior walked away laughing.’
‘Tragic enough like but it doesn’t give him the right to go burgling shops.’
The scrap yard at the bottom of Shields Road had seen some action over the years but nothing ever quite like this. Any normal person would have been horrified at the sight of a prone and unconscious man, his face full of blood and broken bones, with the hilt of a rounders bat peeking out from his distended anus. It didn’t seem to bother the dishevelled looking gentleman though; the one that was walking jauntily away as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
I moan again, sick of listening to these bastards dissecting my life, sick of having to replay the shite in my head.
‘I’ve done nowt, let us gan you bastards.’
‘Come on Tadger you know the drill, you know you’ll get a bit of time for this one. You were recorded on CCTV in the Shields Road area of Byker at 21:10 and then picked up inside the property twenty minutes later you’re bang to rights mate, why don’t you just hold your hands up.’
I lift my arms in the air just to piss them off and say ‘like this’ then my head reminds me that I’ve been drinking for seven straight days. It’s banging like that piped trance shite they play in the trendy bars these days. What the fuck ever happened to jukeboxes anyway?
‘I cannit remember nowt man.’ I shout.
‘Look at his hands shaking, proper DT’s there.’
‘Fuck it let’s charge him. He’s bang to rights and he’s going to jail.’
The jaguar pulled up outside the pub and a greying, broad shouldered and powerfully built man emerged. He could have been a top business executive surrounded by aides and assistants were it not for the tattoos on his neck and scars on his face. The figure that approached him on his journey up the Road looked startled at his appearance, as if this was not in the rules for whichever game he might be playing, and immediately started stumbling and slurring. The big man turned, half recognised the face, and stared, trying to place him. The drunk stopped and seemed to think for a second before pulling a crowbar from his pocket. The minders were a little twitchy and headed for him en-masse but he stumbled across the road where they observed him jemmying the window of the paper shop and chuckled to themselves, just another small-timer. The big man dismissed the idiot and entered the bar to find his son.
I’ve been read my rights and formally charged; I have no alibi and can’t offer a defence. They’re right; I’ll get six months. As they’re processing me I’m shaking like a shitting dog and smell like a tramp that’s been slumming it. The looks I get as I’m led through the custody suite en-route to my cell are a blatant mix of pity and contempt. Then the place explodes into life as ten riot suited pigs come steaming through, charvas and conmen alike are smashed to the side as the robocops head to their van.
“What’s going on?”
The head of the steroid squad flashes my copper a glare for being too nosey but one of his goons can’t help himself.
“Jimmy McGilligan was found in the scrapyard under Byker Bridge this morning. He had his boxers in his mouth and a rounders bat stuck up his arse. Looks like he’s been Rohypnol’d, apparently he was on the lash down Shields Road and wandered off from his pals.”
“Fuck me his brother’ll go mental.”
“Aye, he had to be sedated when he was told, he was screaming about it being Kinghorn again. With them being the type of family they are then it’s definitely all gonna kick off and I tell you what, Billy one punch as his dad or not, I wouldn’t like to be in young Tommy’s shoes.’
As they close the cell door and forget about me while they continue speculating on the bloodshed to follow I stop shaking. Sometimes you have to lose the battle to win the war and six months is nothing. By the time I’ve served three, Kinghorn’ll have died a horrible death, half the gangsters in this town will have wiped each other out and my family will have finally been avenged.
Aye, when the time comes then I’ll be fuckin drinking to that.
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