E-Book, Englisch, 370 Seiten
Thompson Jackie Loves Johnser OK?
1. Auflage 2024
ISBN: 978-1-78117-949-9
Verlag: Mercier Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
E-Book, Englisch, 370 Seiten
ISBN: 978-1-78117-949-9
Verlag: Mercier Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
NEVILLE THOMPSON was brought up in Ballyfermot, Ireland. He is the bestselling author of five novels. His work has been translated into French, German, Greek, Polish and recently Ukrainian. October 2024 sees the release of L'Amour Ouf, the French film directed by Gilles Lellouche. Neville is currently working on two new novels.
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CHAPTER TWELVE
I STILL HUNG around the shops, but I was moving on.
They were still me mates, but I was ambitious. I wanted a profession, a career. Not the everyday profession like a fireman or a doctor. I wanted to be a robber, a full-time criminal, a twenty-four-hour-a-day menace to society, and Slash, Tiny and Fat Larry just weren’t in that league. So it was like any group of lads, we hung out together, played together, fought together, but our jobs were different.
Townies are a law upon themselves. Less trusting, clannish. I was lucky that some of me uncles still lived there. I worked for the Brush. The Brush ruled everything, and I mean everything.
“Looking for a bike for the kids at Christmas?” Go to the Brush.
“Need a loan?” The Brush was your man.
“A crate of whiskey? A camera? A fridge?” The Brush, the Brush, the Brush.
In order to keep ahead of demand, the Brush needed jobs done.
The Brush had the brains, he needed the brawn. He needed foot-soldiers, trusted men, he needed me. So I worked for the Brush, I worked hard. I drove, I carried, I did whatever it took, and soon I gained his trust and I was put in charge of jobs and my jobs were always done right.
One day I got to meet the Brush in person, a rare treat.
It was straight out of the movies. A car came to the house. I was dead embarrassed, no one ever called to the house, I was too ashamed of it. Here was me, dressed to the nines, throwing money around left, right and centre, yet living in a kip. The driver was known as Blue, he was Brush’s right-hand man. Cocky fuck, I knew he was smirking at where I lived.
“Nice decor,” he said. “Woodchip always looks so well, doesn’t it?”
Anyone else and I’d have fucking killed them. Then again, anyone else wouldn’t have said it. Because he knew he could, he did. That to me was taking liberties, not showing respect. His day would come. . . no fear.
We drove without talking. He turned up the radio full volume and sang along to the songs.
“Yellow river, yellow river, it’s in my mind. . .”
“An’ up your hole,” I thought.
It was the longest journey I’d ever had in a car. We stopped a few times and Blue would get out without a word. Disappear into a doorway for a few minutes, then back into the car, radio on and it was sing-along-a-Blueboy all over again.
“Winding your way down to Baker Street. . .”
I began to see the same places twice, three times. Harold’s Cross from the right, Harold’s Cross from the left. Down Camden Street, up Camden Street, across Camden Street. Fuck this, I’ve had enough.
“What the fuck’s up?”
“What do yeh mean?”
“This is the fucking fourth time I’ve seen Christ Church. If I wanted teh see the sights, I’d take a fucking tour bus.”
It did the trick. He got out, made a call and within minutes we were down an alleyway and entering a snooker hall by the back door.
There was only one game being played when we went in. An old man and what I took to be his grandson. I pushed by, fed up with all the delays.
“Watch it,” the old man said.
I turned, said nothing. Just stared at him. I thought of me own granda. I wouldn’t like some smartarse talking down to him, telling him to fuck off. No matter what, no matter if he was out of order or not.
“Sorry.”
Apology given, I turned to Blue.
“Where’s Brush?”
He smiled. Jasus, I’d like to kick his fucking teeth in. If he wasn’t one of Brush’s men I’d. . .
The old man walked, cue in hand, towards me.
“Hello, John, I’m hearing good things about you.”
Me face must have told the story. He continued, “Not what you expected, eh?”
From every darkened corner of the hall, laughter echoed.
“Let’s go to my office, you and me need to talk.” He gestured towards a small door to the right of the table. Blue and the young snooker player made to follow us.
The Brush waved his hand. “Blue,” handing him the cue, “you take over from me.”
I smiled.
Yeah, Blue, stay with the boys, us men have some business to discuss. I’d have loved to have said it, but I just smiled.
I could feel his eyes piercing into the back of me head, little daggers being thrown, aimed at me skull, wanting to blow me fucking brains out. I could feel them and it felt great.
The office was small but, in contrast to the darkened hallway, it was bright and colourful. The walls were painted light blue, like the skies back in the summer of me childhood. . . Jasus, listen to me, talking like a fucking aul fella. But back then the summers were so much brighter. We’d get up in the morning and pull on our shorts and T-shirts. You never gave it a second thought, you knew that the sun would be out there, waiting. A big orange ball sitting amid a light blue sky. And we’d run and run all day. Not giving a fuck about rain or hose bans or drought.
I liked this room.
I’d have loved this colour for our house, but I knew that within a week, two at most, it would look like every other colour that had been painted on to the woodchip wallpaper. . . chip-pan yellow.
It was unbelievable, paint the walls magnolia, paint them mint green, salmon pink, paint them scarlet fucking red and within a week they’d be chip-pan yellow again.
The Brush moved to the other side of a small oak table and sat in one of those plastic chairs that adorn every bingo hall. He waved his hand (the Brush seemed to like waving his hands) in the direction of another plastic chair.
“Sit down, John, we don’t hold with airs and graces here.” I don’t know what the fuck airs and graces had to do with a plastic chair, but I sat down anyway.
The Brush wore a waistcoat, like the snooker players, and from one of the pockets he pulled a ten-pack of Player’s. He searched his pocket again. I knew he was looking for a light so I threw a box of matches on to the table. He picked them up and lit his cigarette. Took one long hard pull and, sitting back, allowed smoke rings to bellow out of his mouth.
“One of the last great pleasures left to a man my age.”
I pulled out me own cigarettes and reached for the matches.
“John, I’m sorry, where are my manners?”
He reached into his pocket.
“No, honestly, I only smoke tipped. Those things kill me.”
“Kill us all, John, kill us all. The doctors are blue in the face trying to get me to stop, and Mary, the missus, won’t let me smoke in the house.”
*
* *
I remember the first cigarette I ever had. It was one of me da’s non-tipped and it nearly fucking killed me. I was nine and all the rest of the family smoked. Puffing their brains out and at the same time telling me not to. Bobby kicked the shite out of me one time when I asked him for a butt. So I learned me lesson. If I was going to find out what the big attraction to cigarettes was, I was gonna have to get me own, and fuck the lot of them. I decided to nick the aul fella’s. He’d come in pissed and, after having a smoke, go for a shite and straight to bed. It was his ritual. The cigs were always left on the mantelpiece and the poor drunken fucker never had a clue how many were left.
I’d only rob two, maybe three, depending on who I was meeting the next day. So there I was, two cigs, four matches and me gang behind the school shed. We’d put Tommo Ellis on Ello and the poor fucker would be shitting himself in case the head caught us. It was almost tribal, a sacrifice, some mystic ritual. All we were short of was offering up a prayer to the god of smoke.
I lit it on the second match, the breeze having blown out the first. I took a huge pull, letting me lips wet the end of it. The smoke went all the way down to me toes and, as I exhaled, it turned to fire and ran the length of me body, burning me guts on the way. I could feel me eyes watering, stinging me to death. I passed it to Slash. They all asked at the same time, “What’s it like?”
I could hardly talk, me insides were on fire and me stomach retched. I thought I was going to throw up the currant bun we had every Wednesday. I didn’t. I gulped and it returned to me stomach. It would have been a terrible waste. I loved school on Wednesdays cause we got buns. And I loved Friday cause we got bread and jam. If it had been Tuesday I wouldn’t have minded, cause I hated corned beef.
They asked again, “Johnser, what’s it like?”
I gave a hoarse whisper, “fucking cool.”
I was a hero.
“Hurry up, Slash.”
“Yeah, Slash, hurry fucking up an’ get it outta yer gob.”
“Slash thinks it’s his aul one’s tit. Don’t yeh, Slash?”
“Fuck off, yous,” Slash retorted.
“Hurry up, what’s wrong? Yeh chicken?”
“No, now fuck off.”
“Then smoke the fucking thing.”
Slash inhaled and I watched his face change colour. As he exhaled, out came the smoke and his bun. He let the ciggie fall into it and followed that with a helping of cornflakes.
“Ah, for fuck’s sake, Slash.”
Slash looked around, puke dribbling from his lips. Too weak to say anything.
“Sketch!” shouted Tommo Ellis. “Here’s Lurch.”
We scattered in all directions.
Lurch caught Slash and held him up like a rag doll in his huge hands. We’d named him Lurch after the character in the Addams Family. He must have been six foot six, brainy Bannon said he was nearer seven foot. Whatever, he frightened the shite out of us.
Poor Slash had to clean up the vomit...
