Friday Night Street, Ch11

CHAPTER 11



I’ve always had a way with words, me. You wouldn’t want to count the number of times I’ve been called a cheeky get. Forever getting meself in trouble at school for being mouthy I was, which is kind of how I learned to use my hands. But it’s not like I just play the smart arse all the time. You’ll see. I like to tell a few stories, entertain the boys, you know. Thing is, soon as I see something happening, I want to get involved, find out the story. I’ve usually got a thing or two to say about stuff, but that’s alright. Like I told you: I’ve got a mind of my own. I can’t stand these retarded types who just sit through any amount of shit and don’t get up or say something.

So that’s where I was now. Centre of attention with everything resting on my mouth rather than my fists, which is not necessarily the way I would have had it, given a choice.

Still, we don’t always get to choose the choices do we? I mean, it’s up to me whether to do something or sit tight, but my options are a bit limited by these two bozos playing Action Man with their rusty old guns. You should see them. The one’s got a shotgun that looks like he stole it off Old Macdonald’s fucking farm and chopped it in half with a lump hammer; the others toting some bleeding relic from the First World War or something. He might have got one shot off, but the thing looks like it’d fucking explode if he pulled the trigger again. Not that I’m about to put it to the test, mind you, which is precisely what I mean when I say my options are a bit short. People’s reactions are a lot more predictable when you hit them with a few lefts and rights than when you spit out a string of clever-sounding words.

“The way I see it,” I say, “is it could be anyone underneath them bash hats. No one’s seen your faces, have they? All you’ve got to do is swap places with two of us, and walk out of here pretending to be the punters.”

Junior looks at me like I’ve lost my mind.

“And who the fuck’s going to be them?” he says, incredulously.

“We are, pal. You and me.”

“Bollocks to that,” he says, “I’m not risking getting shot as a bloody robber.”

“Listen hotshot,” Shotgun says, “We’re hardly giving you the shooters, are we? Do you think we’re fucking stupid or what?”

“You keep the gun under your shirt for insurance,” I say, “and give us the sawn-off without the shells in it. What could be simpler? We let you go, hold out for ten, then give up the game. You’ll get a head start at least.”

“We’ll take the bird with us, and pop her if you fuck up.” Shotgun suggests, trying to work it out in his head.

“I’ll shop you as soon as I’m out the door,” Natalie spits.

“Yeah, then it’ll be the last fucking thing out of your mouth,” Shotgun fires back at her.

The other one, mister fucking Silent Spring, pulls old Shotgun round to the back of the counter for a confab. Then Junior starts harping on at me in his whinging voice.

“You’re mad. There’s no way I’m going to dress up pretending to be one of them. Why would I want to do that? Just sit tight and wait for the police to sort it out.”

“Brian needs a hospital. Now.” Natalie hisses at him. I can hear the desperation in her voice.

“Yeah, well,” Juniors starts, looking at the slumped body next to him, “it might be too late for him either way. Why risk our necks when it won’t make any difference?”

Jesus. I thought she was going to clobber him then for sure.

“You piece of shit,” she says with real malice.

“Should have given me that key.” I say to her, recognising the bridge that’s just gone up in flames between them.

He must have realised the gaff too. He sits back and sighs to himself.

“Insurance,” he says. “Fucking insurance. It’s all I’ve heard my whole bloody life. What a load of old bollocks. Who wants to be in insurance, except people with no life, soul or ambition? My old man might as well be dead for all the joy he gets out of life, and with all that money. The most exciting thing he does is play a round of fucking golf.”

“You’re always so concerned about how you’re feeling now, today. We’re not animals. You have to think about the future.” Brian says. His eyes are closed, and the words come slowly, but his lights are clearly still on.

“Yeah, you’ve been so busy thinking about the future, your life’s nearly over and you still haven’t done anything with it,” replied pencil dick.

“Haven’t done anything – like bloody snowboarding?” Brian opens his eyes to look at Natalie for a moment. “What the hell’s that got to do with anything? I’m fifty-five years old. Self-gratification is the meaning of life for a five-year old, you prick.”

He coughs between heavy breaths, then spits blood onto the floor. “You might as well have killed yourself on your fifth birthday, after you’d eaten your chocolate cake and drooled over the shiny new bicycle with a bell on it, because self-contentment will never get any better than that. Bloody fool.”

His mind seems coherent enough, but there’s no colour in his face. “If the difference between a five year old and a fifty-five year old is nothing more than the amount of times they’ve felt contented, there’s really not much point in carrying on is there? I mean, you weigh it up.” There’s another bout of coughing. “Those few self-satisfied moments are punctuated by so much trauma and suffering along the way, the five-year old has probably got the better deal of it in the balance. Wouldn’t you say?”

“Oh god, next you’re going to tell me that trauma and suffering are all part of the meaning of life. Do me a favour, Brian,” Junior scoffed. 

“Of course not, but don’t they have to count for something? Don’t they have to lead us somewhere, through some kind of development, out of childhood, out of contentment with bikes and bells and chocolate cake?”

“Hallelujah, for that. Your lying there bleeding to death and you’ve found the meaning of life. Can we change the subject?” Junior’s clearly got no time for Brian’s tortured self-reflections, even as the poor bugger lies on the floor dying. He must have heard half of them second-hand through Natalie I suppose; they obviously filled him with contempt.

“You’re so busy worrying about the meaning of life, you’ve got no time to bloody live it.”

“You have to invest in the future.” Brian insisted. His eyes shift from morbidly watching his own blood drain onto the floor to looking at Natalie. “That’s why kids are important. They are your insurance.”

“Insurance for what?” I ask.

“To make sure your ideas, your values, carry on. To make sure the world goes in the right direction. The way you want it to go.”

“The world’s going in the totally wrong bloody direction as far as I can see,” I say. Junior nods his little peanut-head in agreement.

“That’s because your values aren’t being propagated. The family, it’s all buggered up in this society. Look at the Muslims, the Indians, the Chinese. There’ll be the ones who survive in the long run, you’ll see. You have to have a common cause to find meaning in life,” he went on. “Whether you go snowboarding or not, who gives a toss,” he spat. “Everybody’s so busy looking after themselves, they’re just creating conditions for conflict, strife and more bloody unhappiness for everyone, including themselves.” He looks accusingly at Junior as he finishes, but the runt is looking at the floor.

“It’s each for their own,” Junior says after awhile. “If you can’t keep your missus happy, why should I care? Why shouldn’t I get some happiness out of it? It’s not like I forced her, is it? We are just bloody animals, Brian, that’s your problem. Me and your wife, we were at it just like bloody animals.”

I can’t tell now whether Junior’s angry or feeling sorry for himself, but he’s starting to piss me off. Just then the cowboys come back round the counter, ducking low to keep out of sight from the window.

“When you’ve finished putting the world to rights,” Shotgun says, “maybe you’d like to shut the fuck up and get your acts together. We’re gonna try this plan of yours, fuckwit, but if it goes screwy your getting one in the head. I don’t trust you one bastard bit.”

“I do,” pistol boy said, lifting up his visor.

And standing there all along was my own best mate.

Funnily enough, my first reaction was one of relief. Well, it’s always nice to see a familiar face, especially when you’re in a tight spot. My first thought was that at least I would get out of this in one piece. But that soon went out the window when I thought about how long he’d been pointing a gun at me without letting on, and what he’d done – shooting the life out of some poor fucker for no `reason. It might sound soft, but despite what they’d done to me earlier, I was starting to feel sorry for the predicament they were in. Well, at least Brian and his missus anyway. Pencil dick was still cruising for a pasting as far as I was concerned.

Listening to Brian and watching the life pour out of him, I decide I’ve had enough of sitting down being threatened. I stand up, and the gunboys stand up with me. There’s a sense of the surreal about the whole situation. It’s like we’ve been transported into a private little world, just the three of us, everything else forgotten.

I sense Shotgun feeling itchy. I’m shifting my body weight and the position of my feet so I can close the distance between me and him. Despite my disbelief at the actions of my mate, I know he isn’t the problem: he’s not capable of pulling the trigger on me. I’ve only got to take out the big fucker. Even so, I’m considering how to do it by putting Shotgun between me and the ancient pistol, just to be on the safe side, you know.

         I can feel it starting now; the rush before the violence takes over. You get these hard thumps in the chest, and your breathing gets deeper; there’s a metallic taste on your tongue where it’s glued to the roof of your mouth, and your eyes and ears go into tunnel mode, cutting off everything except the tiniest of changes in your opponent’s body. Then, for no reason that distinguishes this moment from any other one, the tension just snaps and you’re off – an unstoppable and ungovernable force flowing out of you like a vengeful God on Earth. Every blow you land is delivered with a lungful of air and a heart full of hate. 

Shotgun’s obviously feeling it, too. I can see his fat hands tightening hard on his rusty old blunderbuss. The blood and hormones are just about to reach critical mass in my head when I hear the creak of a door behind me, and a strangely familiar voice says, “Sorry, do you mind if I join you?”





--Friday Night Street continues in PART III in the next instalment--