The fear of death is something we all have. Don’t give me no shit. Yeah, I know you do. We all fear it. Even the fucking Japs feared it when they ran at the yanks on Okinawa, shouting Banzai. It scared the fucking shit out of me on Saturday night in Roker.
Me and Martha always go to the Demi on a Saturday. It's fucking sacrilege not to and if we don’t make it then the staff sends out search parties. The place is a fucking dive, it hasn’t been done up since I was knee high, and that that's a few year ago, I can tell you. The carpet looks like someone has left jizz trails all the way to the toilets. Like there's been a wanking competition going on. This place has seen its fair share of fights with marks on the wall. The blood stains are that good, the coppers have used it in crime scene training videos and that.
If I don’t have a Bottle of Newcastle Brown Ale, a hamlet cigar and a double gin and tonic on the bar by seven, I’ll be having words with Tim. He's this fat bloke with the thickest set of spunk stoppers I’ve ever seen. He can down a yard of ale in three seconds flat and a pint in less than 2 seconds. What's the point in that? I mean you’ve got to enjoy your ale. It defeats the objective, when you’re throwing it down your Gregory Peck.
“Sorry I’m late, Dave.” Tim gives me a smile, and then puts the broon ale and gin on the table. He offers me a light and I bend my head forward. I draw in the Hamlet, let the nicotine distort the world and bend it for a second.
“Liverpool drew with Man U today.” He looks pre-occupied at the moment; something else is on his mind.
“Fucking hate those Manks. What’s up, Tim, mate?” I blow out and looked at the hamlet, inspecting it for any irregularities on the burn. There is: somebody loves me.
“Got Deputy Dog on the 10:00 at Shrewsbury. Put a one and a half on it.”
A win? “You didn’t put it on to win, did you?” He probably did, the daft, fat fucker!
“Aye.”
“Does Doris know?” Doris is his Landlady of a wife. She beats the fuck out of him regularly. His rock, his shield, his tower of strength and tormentor.
“Nah,” he whispers.
“Best keep it that way, mate. She’ll kill you.” As if on cue, the nasty bitch walks in and the engagement is over. He goes back behind the bar and gives me a conspiratorial wink. He’ll tell her if he’s won and she’ll still leather him for taking the chance. If she doesn’t he’ll go and do it again. The hiding he's gonna get is in the bag and the poor bastard dotes on her.
The regulars trickle in, the old and bold members on their last legs. They've got more chance of popping their clogs in here than at home. The strange thing about these guys is that most of them outlive their wives. Now I don’t know if they either murder them off in their sleep or that shite they drink has the power of longevity. They drink all that bitter shite – Flowers, Boddingtons etcetera. I might have to give it a go. Not fucking likely – it’s the ‘dog’ for me. Drink of the gods.
There’s a fair crowd by nine and the Bingo starts. Bully’s been callin’ out the numbers since me father started coming here when he was a bairn. The bloke’s a fucking legend. Hard as nails in his prime, probably still is. Elevated to the position of Bingo Jockey, he’s earned his place through the respect he’s worked hard for. He got a bit of a reputation of being a tasty fucker in the face of overwhelming odds, especially when it involved taking on the plod.
Martha’s got Sandra here and they’re nattering away like two schoolgirls. Sandra’s got this irritating laugh and I feel like strangling the cow. They’re all talking about each other behind their own backs. Backstabbing bitches. If any blowkies were gonna do that here, they’re likely to get a broken nose. Stand tall, look your fellow man straight in the eye and be honest. Above all, honesty is the best policy. A personal hate of mine is liars. Fucking hate ‘em with a passion – no honour.
An hour later I shake hands in turn with several pool players, each losing to me. Hurricane Higgins hasn’t got fuck all on me I tell yeah! Do this for a bit and I might bet some cash. As soon as I put the fiver on the table they all back away, like I was a pool shark. I try it every week and it never works.
“Martha. Drink up,” I order.
She gives me a look, and is about to speak, but thinks better of it. Smiling at Sandra, she says her goodbyes. It was time for a Kebab and the boxing starts on Sky Sports soon. I bid Tim goodnight and head out into the sticky heat of night.
This is Mediterranean weather. What the fuck is it doing on Wearside? Is it on holiday? Martha brings the shawl around herself and clacks behind with those silly stilettos of hers. El-Gringo the Kebab shop is only round the corner from the boozer, so it's not much of a ball’s ache to get there. A group of youths congregate around the alley behind the shop. Their forms barely seen, but the glowing embers of their cigarettes give them away. If I were a sniper. POW!
The glare of the bare strip lights, accentuates the dirt in the shop. I casually stand on several slow, unlucky cockroaches, after they scuttle from under the seat. I'm glad Martha hasn’t seen them. She’d make a scene. I order a plain kebab – no ‘rabbit food’ for me and none of that white spunk on it either, El-Gringo. Martha orders a kebab wi' nowt taken owt. I mean the fucking trimmings and it cost the same as mine. How the fuck did that work out?
I hold up both kebabs. “Can you see the difference, marra?”
The Turk puts a white cloth over his shoulder and inspects the Kebabs. He shrugs his shoulders. I thought these fuckers were meant to have basic English before they came over here.
“This one is bigger than this one.” I make it as plain as possible.
“Dave. Come on. It’s always been that price.” Martha tugs at my elbow. I can see the glint of recognition in the Turk’s eyes now.
“I know, Martha.” I say, “I just want to know why they’re the same price.”
“Ah! Yes they’re the same price.” The Turk says. Now he speaks English. “You’ve basically got a fully loaded Kebab, but without the Tzatziki and relish to go with it. We can give it separate if you like?” He smiles at me.
“Nah. Yer alright, marra. See you later.” I wink at him and leave. Bloody smart arse speaks better English than me. We head back to the car with our two prized possessions. The Kebabs are like gold on a Saturday night. Some of the clubs are open till three in the morning and the chance of getting some bait at that time was like catching the Pope smoking a joint.
I can see the youths under the light of a street lamp. One of them has a plastic bottle and is swigging from it, like his life depends on it. Stupid fucker’ll have one hell of a hangover; if that’s the cheap shit they sell at the superstore – White Lightning or something like that. I can remember when we used to mix Diamond White and something else to make a Kangaroo. It used to fuck you up. We get into the car. I fumble for my keys and drop them onto the floor.
I'm not pissed. I’d only had about six pints. I can handle me ale me like, and there’s nowt wrong with that so long as you know what you’re doing. These other tossers who get completely arseholed and then kill some poor fucker – that’s where you cross the line and put ‘em in the slammer.
“David.”
I freeze. Martha's in trouble. I look up at her – my hands still groping, the keys were down here somewhere.
“That boy’s got his cock out and he’s pointing at me.”
I crack my head on the steering wheel.
“Awlright lavvy. D’you want some of this inside yer?” The guy with the bottle shouts. The bottle swigging spick has got his dick out and is parading in front of the car, offering it to the wife. Cheeky cunt.
I gets out the car. “Stay inside, Martha. I’ll sort this oot.”
“Dave. No! Let’s go home. Leave ‘em be.”
I cannae do that. You got to lay down the law with these daft fuckers. “Do you fuck with that?” I ask the bloke, pointing at his limp dick, nestled in pubic hair, like a baby bird.
“Where you from anyway? You sound like a bunch of fucking brummies.”
“I jus’ want to give her a good seein’ to, wi’ me Python!” His mates emerge from the shadows.
Six in total: I usually take the lead man first and then that should scare the shit out the rest. I’m a bit of a strategist me. Aye, I may not look like it, but I’d have put Napoleon through his paces. I put up my fists. Always give the opposition the illusion that he’s going to win. I pose like a nineteenth century bare knuckle boxer. They trade smiles.
“What the fuck are you lot doing?” Martha? It's Martha. “If any of youse want to give me a portion, then you’ve got to take him on one at a time. Not six to one.”
“Get in the car.” I order.
I hear the slam of the door and the largest spick takes a pace forward. Here we go.
“Square go, eh? Mano et mano?”
He doesn’t look too sure. I guess it's my cocky, confident attitude. I put a foot forward with my supporting one slightly back. You have to watch the eyes and shoulders. Their eyes change focus and the shoulder moves slightly before a punch.
He reaches into his pocket, slowly.
If it's a blade, then he’s fucked. The streetlight glints off the unmistakable shape of knuckle dusters. They were bone breakers from the high street shop, under the counter. The local paki made a fucking fortune before a match. I have to be quick.
“Oh aye!” I shout as I bring out the left gun, and that’s all I need.
I’m sure there's a look of surprise, a millisecond before I put my fist in his mush. His cronies spread their hands out in an admission of surrender. I put a boot into the side of his coupon Alan Shearer would have been proud of.
“Anyone else want a fucking go? Anyone else want to fuck the wife?” I ask all of them. They leave their mate, bleeding on the pavement.
I drive the motor across the road and decide to wait for the twat to get up. Don’t want to get roped into a police investigation. I've got a reputation with the local bobbies. They all knew me as a brawler.
“Eat up, Martha. Yer Kebab’ll get cold.” We tuck into our Kebabs.
“You should have just driven off.” She whines. Silly cow should know by now, what happens to silly lads who take the piss.
I give her that look and she keeps quiet. That’s it, keep on eating – you can do the ironing, washing, cooking, etcetera, etcetera, but leave the fighting to moi. I don't need to tell her that of course, she knows the score.
Ten minutes have gone and the spick's still on the floor. They usually get up after five. He hadn’t moved though. I don’t want to spend any more time in nick. At my age you've got your life mapped out and you’re focused. I’d led the life of a drunken brawler before, spent a good two years inside for ABH and a further eight months for GBH before that. I don’t want to go down for manslaughter, because that’s what this would equate to. Please get up, you spick twat, I whisper to myself.
The fluorescent glow of a blue light stings my heart and I know it's a meat wagon for the spick. How hard had I hit him? It was a fucking corker of a punch. I caught him just below his right eye. Probably broke his nose as well. Sometimes I just don’t know my own strength. The two who get out of the ambulance give a wary look around before going to the poor lad. There's been a case of nutters dialling 999, attack the paramedics and twoc the ambie. Why would you want to do that? Maybe it was these pricks.
They check him over: eyes, pulse and they even slap him. I think he's had enough punishment without the emergency services sorting him out as well. Wake up you fucker. At least they're not resuscitating him. He starts to get up and I get's this sense of relief, like this is my second chance. Maybe this is a warning not to get into any more bother in the future. You know, like an omen. Not fucking likely. Any wanker flashes his pencil dick at me missus and he gets a fist ‘n’ headbutt in the mush. He gets up, but has trouble walking.
There's a knock at the window and here’s PC Plod peering through the glass at me and the missus, munching on our Kebabs.
I smile at him. “Good evening, Orificer.”
He smiles back. “Alright, Dave. What you been up to?” It was Roger. I’d done some work for his mother in her backyard last year. Nice bloke, but knew me too much about my past. Plus, he was a rozzer.
“Did you have anything to do with the assault across the road?” This tart butts in with a notebook in hand. She'd get it as well.
“One at a time, pet.” I reply to her. “He had his cock oot and flashed it at me wife.” This doesn’t seem to faze them.
She wrinkles her nose, “Have you been drinking, sir?”
“Nah. Not me.”
“You’ve been drinking. Hand over the keys and get yersel’ a taxi mate. You can get the keys in the morning,” Roger reasons.
“I haven’t been drivin’ though,” I say before the girl butts in again.
“We know that. Just get a taxi home. We’ll take the car back, you can get it back in the morning.”
I hand over the keys and glance over to the ambulance. The spick was holding a bandage to his nose and fell back against the doors. He's still fucked. They end up putting him into the ambulance, the lights and sirens going ‘ten to the dozen’.
“I’m not in the shite, am I?” I ask as I take Martha around the waist. We both move towards the Taxi stand, which was still full of black cabs at that time.
“Just go home.” Roger talks into his walky-talky. He was out of ear-shot. Probably calling the recovery truck. Forensics and all that shite, fingerprints and blood. Ah fuck!
The next day I'm rudely awoken by the sound of the doorbell. Martha stirs. The colliery brass band can march through the bedroom full blaze and she'll still not get up. Lazy cow. I usually shadow box on the landing to loosen up before going down the stairs, cos you don’t know what nutter’s on your front door. I take a step back and open the door to two smartly dressed policemen.
David Cresswell, you are under arrest on suspicion of assault….
“Good morning, Dave. We’d just like to thank you for the marvellous work last night.”
Are they taking the piss?
“You broke his nose, fractured his skull and jaw.”
They must be taking the piss.
“Aren’t you supposed to arrest me for that?” I ask. Fuck the alibi and the excuses – if I were a hundred metres within an unconscious person then I was usually involved. The pigs knew that. Pointless hiding the fact I’d filled the fellah in.
“If you’ll come with us, we’ll explain further. We can give you a lift to get your car.”
“Had on. Give us five minutes.”
Within ten I was ready and bending down to get into the car. I'm expecting a hand on my head and the officer warning me to watch my head any minute now. This is where they’d lay down the truth, with the child locks on – to tell me I was under arrest.
“The man you punched was the member of a gang. They’ve been terrorising the neighbourhood. An old lady was mugged last week for a tenner. The group matched the description.”
“So you’re not going to arrest me then?” I ask, still not sure whether they were blagging me.
“Normally, we’d have you on a line up and the prick would pick you out.”
Later, I'm walking into the plod shop and receiving handshakes and pats on the back. “Well done, son.” What the fuck!? I feel like I’ve just come back from Afghanistan.
“I could clear up a few more if you want.” I offer. Shocked looks.
The Sergeant holds up his hands, “Thanks, Dave, but that’s enough of that. Leave the rest to us.” He hands me the car keys. I expect a set of cuffs on the wrist. These fuckers know what I’m like in custody. I was a bit of a nutter back in the day. Suppose I still am. Are they going to rush me when I'm unaware?
It's probably the first time I’ve entered and left a free man. Roger comes out with me. “I don’t mind you doing what you did last night mate,” he whispers, “Just don’t make it too obvious.”
"Any idea who won the ten o'clock at Shrewsbury?” I ask him as I head to the car.
"Deputy Dog won." An oncoming bobby growls in my direction. "Fucking gnat's whisker. Gnat's whisker."
"Deputy Daaawwg!" I howl. Tim'd be celebrating in style today.
Looks like opportunity knocked for every fucker last night.
(c) Craig Douglas 2009