Byker Books

So it started with Blakey, just because he is a skinny skinflint of a fuck and he wouldn’t give me credit and I was desperate. You don’t know nothing till you’ve been desperate for a fix like I was. It’s like a knife tearing you in half and Blakey should know it, he’s been a dealer for about a hundred years if you hear him tell it and he must have seen a million and one skids like me in that state, but I guess that’s what he runs his business on.

They call him Blakey coz he looks like that bloke in On the Buses, not that I ever saw it, I’m too young, I was just a kid when Take That started out, so its not like I would remember anything like that, but that’s what they say. Tall, skinny fuck he is, like I said, like walking corpse, the type that wouldn’t give a door a bang, know what I mean? Wouldn’t give me a paper that afternoon anyway, and could see I was gagging for it, sweating like a pig I was, had the shakes an all.

I said, Come on Blakey, just one, I’ll pay you back.

And he said, yeah right, like I never heard that one before.

He lives in this shitty little council flat down Mousehold, I can’t believe they haven’t kicked him out years ago, but that’s the thing about Blakey, he’s been going so long, I reckon he must have friends in high places, coz he never seems to get caught for nothing, not even skipping his TV license, the bastard.

He says, I’m sick a you, you little fuck, all you do is whine like a fucking dog. Never give me a moment’s peace. What I ever done to you, eh? What I ever done to deserve this?

I say, come on Blakey, it ain’t like I didn’t give you the money in the end, now is it.

But then he thinks about it, looks at me out of the corner of his eye, on the squit like. Then he says to me, Alright, I’ll give you some gear if you do a little job for me. Like I ain’t going to lick a pig’s arse for it, the state I’m in. He has to shout because the old girl downstairs is deaf as a post, and she’s got her telly going so loud the whole fucking street can hear it, and I reckon the mugs on Blakey’s tree are buzzing from the vibration. He likes stuff like that, Blakey, mug trees and that, like he’s a proper little housewife, likes to keep everything neat, and he always keeps his shit in a little file box, with little pockets for different sorts. Like, he’s got this brilliant little plastic wallet with this like psychedelic paisley pattern on it for LSD, it’s really wicked. But speed ain’t what I’m after right now, coz I’m sweating like a pig, like I said, and I’ve got to shoot up or I’ll die, I just know it.

So I say, what is it?

And he says, there’s this bloke owes me, won’t pay up, so I want you to make him.

And I say, come on Blakey, I ain’t the hard man type, ain’t you got something I can do better?

But he ain’t having it. So I follows him into this little back room he’s got, like a back bedroom or something, used to be some kid’s bedroom I guess coz it’s still got this wallpaper with yellow and red and black footballers on from way back, peeling off the walls and Blakey, he ain’t so neat that he’ll flash a brush about or anything. He’s got this shoe box on the shelf, and he pulls it down, and pulls the lazzy bands off it, and pulls out this big knife with this nasty blade on it, like crocodile teeth or something, and a curly point.

And I say, fuck me, Blakey, what the fuck’s that?

And he says, That’s what you are going to persuade him with.

And I say, come on Blakey, what kind of cunt do you think I am, he’s going to have that off me in a second and stick me!

And he says, Do you want the fix or not, coz some fucker’s got to do it, and I ain’t got time to waste on no spongers.

So I look at this blade, and my heart’s racing like fuck, and my head feels like its going to burst, and I figure if I don’t get stuck with the knife, I’m going to die anyways, so at least I got something to do in the meantime, so I take the blade and I stuff it in the inside pocket of my jacket and hope it ain’t so sharp its going to cut through the lining and fall out and stick in my foot and pin me to the floor
like some scopey.

He says, good lad.

I say, where is this cunt, then?

He says, usually in the chicken shop this time of day.

And I think, fuck, because the chicken shop is Rooster Fried Chicken up the Larkman where all the really hard bastards hang about, and if I cut someone up there I know they’re going to shred my testicles on the spot.

So I say, fuck, Blakey, ain’t that a risk? Can’t I take him later, somewhere else?

Blakey shrugs and says, do what the fuck you like, it’s your fix.

So I ain’t got no choices. I’m fucked. Proper fucked as they say, which ever way I look at it, and I’ve got to find the bus fare into the bargain.

So I says, so how will I know which one is him?

And he says, Look for the cunt with the yellow diamond hanging on a chain round his neck. It’s the diamond you want. Worth a few quid that is. Enough to clear his debt, if you get my drift.

So I reckon a necklace is easy enough to nick, I’ll just run in there, rip it off his neck and leg it. I reckon maybe this won’t be so bad and I can get back and get my fix and everything’ll be alright.

So I say, Make sure you’ve got it all sorted for me when I get back, Blakey,’

He grins and says, Anything for one of my best customers, and lights up a fag, and then says, Now get the fuck out of my face.

Anyway, I walk up to the main road and get the bus. It’s a scorching hot day and there’s all these kids on the bus, little kids with their mums and they’re all squawking and squitting and making my head hurt with the noise, and I get up and scream my head off at them all to shut up and the bus driver pulls in and throws me off the bus for being a nuisance and frightening the other passengers and reckons he’s going to get me banned off the bus company, and I give him some lip, but I don’t want to make too much of a scene in case he calls the filth, so I shout some stuff at him when he drives off, and wave my fist, and then I have to walk the rest of the way, which is a fucking long way on a hot day, let me tell you, so I have to take my coat off and tie it round my waist, and then my t-shirt, which is pretty skanky anyway, but then I remember the knife and I have to put it all back on again.

So when I get to the chicken shop I’m dripping like a wet cunt and I have to stop and wipe my face with my shirt to see what I’m doing coz all the sweat’s dripping off my eyebrows and that. I go in and take a look around, but there’s hardly anybody there, just this one bloke having a three piece dinner and spilling beans all down his front like a scopey. I reckon I got just enough for a cuppa tea so I get one and sit down on these hard plastic seats they have, red, like school seats but with benches attached, all melted with fag burns like my kid brother’s face, like a pizza. The girl behind the counter gives me a funny look. Like she’s got something to shout about, working in a place like this. And she’s got real chip shop skin too, and she’s fat, can hardly get her apron tied round her gut.

So anyway, I’m sitting there in the window, in the sun, trying to drink this fucking awful cuppa tea, and wishing I hadn’t flogged my watch to Kevin down the pub for the cash to buy a paper off Blakey, and wondering how long its going to take this cunt to turn up so I can get my gear and be out of it on Blakey’s carpet, because that’s all I want. And that’s when this girl walks by, Hayley. Hayley Miller. I used to know her in school. Not that I went much, but you know. She was in my tutor group. Tall and skinny with great tits and blonde hair. She had this way of hitching up her skirt to make it look like a mini. Great legs too. I really liked her. And then there she is walking by the chicken shop, bold as you like, and looking dead grown up in this black suit and a white shirt with buttons undone so you could almost see her tits.

So I stick my head out the door and say, Hello Hayley, and she gives me this look. No one ever looked at me like that before. Like I was a dog or something, asking to lick her bum.

So I say, Don’t you remember me, Hayley, from school? It’s Ricky, Ricky Banks.

She stops walking, and looks at me, and she says, Hey Ricky. And my guts start churning like I’m a ten year old again, and I’m shaking like a leaf. Pathetic.

Anyway I give her this grin and I say, you look good, what you doing now?

And she says, working for Norwich Union. Got my A levels and started there last summer.

And I say, wow, that’s really great.

And she shrugs and says, Thanks, but I can tell she doesn’t really want to talk to me, and we look at each other, and she looks awkward like she can’t think of what to say.

Then she says, what about you?

And I say, well, you know, this ‘n’ that. Working right now actually. Which ain’t technically a lie, but somehow it feels like that when I say it.

And she says, what’s that then?

And I have to come up with something then, so I say, um, I deliver messages for people, which is technically true too, but not the kind of true she likes.

She says, so you’re one of them dispatch riders then?

And I say, something like that.

And she says, where’s your bike then?

And I have to say something, so I say, round the corner, I always like to leave it somewhere safe.

And she says, oh, well. And then she says, well, got to get on, I’m meeting my mum, it’s my wedding dress fitting.

And I feel like she just tore my guts and my heart out and threw them on the pavement and stomped on them, but I say, wow getting married eh? Who’s the lucky bloke, anyone I know?

And she says, Arran Dyer.

That ponce. But I say, well, good luck.

And she says, thanks.

And I say, see ya then.

And she says, yeah, and walks off down the road with that funny walk of hers, and I stand there like a cunt and watch her all the way till she’s out of sight round the back of Aldis. The girl behind the counter is staring at me, and she’s got this smart look on her face, like she’s laughing at me, stupid bitch, so I shout at her, what’s wrong with you, you stupid bitch? And sit down with my tea again. And now I really want to get my fix because I don’t want to think about Hayley Miller’s tits and the way she walks and the fact that she’s going to marry that cunt Arran Dyer and not me.

I wonder if things had been different, that maybe she might be marrying me after all, and then I think about how shit my life is, and how shit I am that I have to lie and steal to get drugs and how I got no where to sleep at night and no job and the only good thing is the high, and how I want to die because its never going to get any better for a cunt like me because I am too stupid to get clean and get a life, so I might was well die now as next week or next overdose. And then I want some gear even more.

Then these two blokes come in, and ask for three pieces and chips and onion rings and chocolate shakes, which in my opinion is a bit over top when you’re fat geezers like them, and let me tell you they were real bloaters, but one of them turns round and leans against the counter while the bitch is getting his chips and he’s got this silver chain around his neck and it’s got a yellow diamond on it.

So now I start shaking, because this bastard is bigger than me, and he’s a hard bastard too, tattoos all up his neck, one of them cunts with love and hate tattooed on his knuckles, and ain’t shaved for a week, and a neck as wide as his shoulders.

But that chain looks pretty thin, and I reckon I could just grab it and run, so I get up and the knife feels heavy in my pocket and I put my hand inside, like I’m looking for my wallet or my phone, which I flogged to Kevin too, and put my fingers around the handle, which is warm from where it’s been under my arm all this time.

And I say to the bloke, Blakey wants his money.

And the bloke looks at me, and says, yeah?

And I say, Blakey says he’ll take that diamond. And I get the knife out and point that curly point at him, and the sun glints off the blade and makes that funny sparkly light on the wall behind him.

He looks at the knife and says, do you know what this diamond is made
of son?

And that pisses me off because I don’t like no one calling me son, not even Blakey, so I say, I don’t care what the fuck it’s made of, just give it me.

And the cunt says, there’s this process where they can take the ashes of a dead person and put them under great pressure and heat, and make a diamond with them. He says it like he’s reading out of a brochure or something, and the bloke next to him, who is also a big, ugly fucker nods this sympathetic nod.

So I say, I don’t care, just give it me. But I can’t hold the blade still now and I don’t know if it’s just the shakes from withdrawal or coz I’m scared.

Then he says, this particular diamond is made from the ashes of my late departed ex-girlfriend Kelly, who died last year.I’m getting angry and scared now, and the knife is wobbling about in front of my face and his face and I can’t keep it still, so I say, very sorry for your loss an all that but give me the fucking diamond.

And then the bloke says to his mate, well, it’s not like she didn’t deserve it or nothing, is it? And his mate turns round and says to me, now what sort of bloke do you think would make his ex-girlfriend into a diamond and wear it round his neck?

So I shout, well, I don’t fucking know, do I? Just give me the fucking stone?

(c) Rebecca Barrow