If You Liked School, You'll Love Work

1. TREES

THE EX-MISSUS CAME round the old gel’s house with the kid. To try and make a bleedin point. Using her as a farking weapon against me. Funny how people change over the years. Looking across the table at Trees, that desperate stare, them sort of jerky movements, with her holding her hands that way she did, like they was trophies on exhibition; I was gutted just how little I actually felt. This was the woman I’d kipped with every bleedin night, barring accidents (usually happy ones as it happens), for sixteen farking years. Mad, but I suppose that I wanted to feel something, anything, just to tell me that it all wasn’t a total farking waste of time.

Just as worrying was that I saw me own sheer bleedin indifference mirrored in her vacant gape. She had her hair cut short and dyed it her old brown, but it was just a little bit too rich and deep in colour and to my mind just drew attention to the fact that her looks were going. The sort of haircut where the Skirt-in-Question announces to the world: ‘I’ve given up the ghost of being young and officially turned into my old mum.’

I dunno if it’s cause she can see the disdain in my eyes, but she’s looking at me like I’m worn goods n all. Me! Still a 32-inch waist, although, granted, you got a bit of a blubbery overhang them days. I got to thinking that there must have been some point we had stopped being human, being real, to each other. Now we just went through this pantomime, which, being fair, I don’t think exactly sat well with her either. It ain’t much fun when you communicate as the least flattering version of yourself. Whenever we got together, which, thank God, wasn’t often, we just reminded ourselves of what a pair of cunts we’d become to each other. Exchanging glances, all we could see was failure and humiliation and we’d never see anything else. Apart, we could put each other up on a bit of a pedestal; remember the good times, the love even, but together? Forget it.

I can’t wait to get home, and that sure ain’t here no more. Nah, it’s the Canaries for me: all-year-round sun and holiday skirt gagging on it. You can stick England up your fucking arse.

Looking round my old mum’s house now, it saddens me how little she’s got to show for her life. A bit of furniture, the telly and a few bleeding knick-knacks on the mantelpiece, that’s her lot. Represents the last of that generation who kept their noses clean, dutifully lined up to fight in some daft farking war, and listened like nodding dogs to the Queen slavering shit every Christmas. Of course, just like their forefathers, they were royally shafted. Since World War I they been waiting for them homes fit for heroes to emerge. So where are they? Don’t see any on this poxy estate.

Yeah, I might do a bit of decorating for the old gel next time I’m over for an extended stay. A lick of paint. Some wallpaper. Brighten things up a little.

I look again at Trees. Certain things need a bit more than a superficial renovation to make them palatable.

Mum, God bless her, has taken Emily into the kitchen. Like the old gel, the poor little cow ain’t daft; she knows we’re having a confab about her, but off they go. So now Motherfucker Teresa here’s lowering her voice and saying, — I’m at my wits’ end, Michael. She won’t do a bloody thing; no homework, nothing around the house to help me out… the school’s been doing their nut…

— Yeah, I believe that to be the case, I agree, sort of absent-mindedly.

She looks at me and shakes her head. — And what do I get from you? Bleedin platitudes, she scoffs at me, — same old bleedin platitudes.

That’s a new word she’s learned: platitudes. Posh word for a Hardwick. Don’t wanna be giving the likes of that crowd a bleedin education, it only breeds dissatisfaction. They’ll all be happier tarmacking drives.

— Look, if you want me to come along to a meeting at the school, just give us a little bit of notice. It ain’t easy when I’m running a bar hundreds of miles away…

I see something nasty flash into her eyes and realise that I’ve made my first big mistake. True to form, she pounces. — Oh, poor Mickey, must be such a hard life, running a bar on a baking hot island! She shakes her head. — Platitudes.

And the narky cow draws first blood. Our boy has to settle back onto the ropes, stay calm, keep ducking and diving.

The dodgy springs from this old chair are digging into my back. Should replace the old gel’s suite. Not that she ever uses this one. This was the old man’s chair. A dump like this, and what was the old fellah’s party piece? That Tony Bennett song: ‘The Good Life’. Loved that one he did. He didn’t have much of a good life here, neither did I as it happens, when I was stuck with that narky mare. Springs in my back and I’m getting grief from this cow. — C’mon, Trees, this ain’t gonna solve nuffink…

— …while I’m working in that lab five days a week and trying to bring up our daughter!

I can see she’s pretty tensed up. Probably choking on a snout. Her weakness, that is, and I ain’t got no sympathy for them who can’t stand above their addictions. Knows better than to light up in my old mum’s house, though.

Teresa Hardwick’s making all the running, trying to land the big punch, but Michael Baker is still nippy on his feet.

I blow out some air making a farting noise through my lips. I stop when I remember that was one of the things I did that got her goat. We all ave em. Hers that did my head in? Too bleedin numerous to mention. But one would certainly be the way she makes that mouth of hers go like a cat’s arsehole, as she’s doing now. — I appreciate that you ain’t got it easy, I’m telling her, doing my diplomatic bit, — but that bar’s my livelihood. I ain’t coming back here to sit around doing nuffink. At least this way I can make some money to send back over, I say, and maybe it comes out just a little bit too smug.

Stinging jab from Baker! Hardwick felt that one!

Of course she steams in like a Millwall mob with the numbers on its side. — Yeah, you’re all abaht sacrifices, ain’tcha, Mickey?

Strong counter from Hardwick. She tries to land another big right, but Baker’s on his bicycle.

— Look, I ain’t gonna sit here trading insults with you across no room. You know what’ll happen, I appeal, — we’ll both start raising our voices. It makes it just like before, and it don’t do me no good, don’t do you no good and it certainly don’t do Em no good. And I got to respect me mum’s house.

— Good at that, ain’tcha, she hisses like a bleedin witch, — respecting houses.

Oh! That was a low blow from Hardwick!

There’s a long silence, with her just looking at me, judging me. This is a lot of bleedin use, this winding back the clock like it was yesterday. Some people ain’t got what it takes to move on. Character deficiency, one might say. I get up and stretch, managing to stifle a yawn. She hated it when I yawned when she was jawing. Have to get used to it these days. I clock the old picture of my dad on the mantelpiece. Funny, but nowadays that tash would make him look well dodgy. — I’m going back tomorrow, I tell her. — Keep me posted.

Good stuff from Baker there, who was obviously winded but kept dancing his way out of trouble.

Trees takes the hint and stands up and I notice a new roll of fat under her chin. Always was a bit too fond of crisps: ever since our courting days. The Hardwick family, though, they were all proper scum. Reared on junk food, they was. Her mum thought that gourmet cooking was putting a load of fish fingers under the grill instead of in the frying pan. ‘I always grill my food,’ the pompous old trout used to remark. So I suppose Trees didn’t do too badly, coming from a house like that. My old man had their number, right enough. Well dodgy, that crowd, he told me when I first brought her home. Don’t like the idea of Em hanging about there. Not exactly the place, to put it diplomatically, that you’ll learn anything worthwhile. Alright if you want thieving and fortune-telling as your specialist Mastermind subjects. The Hardwick gene — never that far from the surface in Trees — comes crashing out as she says in a low hiss, — That’s right, you just do what you always do when the going gets rough: run away and leave everybody else to clear up the mess after ya, and she goes all bleedin stiff like somebody’s rammed a steel rod up her jacksie, then heads through to get Em.

Another low blow and the referee has disqualified Hardwick! The winnah, and still undisputed champion is… Mikeeee Bay-kah!

I feel like shouting back at her: it’s a mess of your own farking creation, gel, cause it’s only since she’s been alone with you that all the bleedin problems have started, but I bite my tongue and I’m thinking about that plane home. That’s Trees though; not content with being the architect of her own demise, she’s determined to drag everybody else down. Count me out of that little game, some of us got a bleedin life, thank you very much! As old Winston once said: ‘Although prepared for martyrdom, I prefer that it be postponed.’

It’s all over!

2. CYNTH

FARKING WEATHER: SUNSHINE paradise all year round they say. Pull the other one! This freak storm only went and washed all the notice from the board outside the pub, after I’d taken ages chalking it up, Worthington’s Cup; Chelsea v Man U. I spent bleedin yonks getting that Chels crest just right.

My mood ain’t helped by Margarita, our cleaner, who only goes and comes in an hour late. I tap my watch n tell her: — You havin a laugh or what?

She starts rabbiting on; something about her husband and son and a farking car crash and this mad storm. I empathise, take her outside and point at the runny noticeboard. — Tell me abaht it.

This little old English pub, the Herefordshire Bull, in sunny old Corralejo, is my power base; well, mine and my partner Rodj’s, to be strict about things. It’s a no-frills house of ill repute of the sort you might actually find back home: two small bars, a public and a lounge, each containing a big screen, and a jukebox (the lounge) and a dartboard (the public). On the other side of the bar, the expat cowboys we inherited when we bought it from a retired farmer five years ago. A right little den of iniquity. But it ain’t a bad life, truth be told. I like to think that we, the English, well, some of us any roads, have brought a little calmness and serenity to this island.

A couple of Jap geezers are my first customers tonight. Don’t see many of them in Corralejo, though there’s a nice little bordello full of South American beauties round the corner, getting a fair old rep by all accounts. Bit expensive though, and I never did see the point in paying for something that’s easily obtainable for free if you ain’t the picky sort. One Jap puts some John Lennon on the jukebox. I nod over towards them and sidle up to Cynthia, who’s washing some glasses and give her a subtle pat on the bum, whispering: — Sro kreep on praying rose mind graymes too-geh-eh-thah…

I love Cynth’s fat.

She gives my arse a saucy little squeeze back and winks at me. I’ve only gone and…

Oh well, destination planet sleaze.

Thought it would be busier tonight cause they’re both big expat teams, but there surprisingly ain’t many Chelsea nor Man U around. A couple of Geordie lads come in and start giving it the big one about soft southerners but I ain’t rising to no bait. Lairy northern cunts. The main thing is that Cynth’s here and I’m looking at her big, heavy buttocks and those pendulous breasts and I’m thinking, ‘This is a woman whose basic structure can no longer contain her sexuality.’ Tits and arse expanding all over the fucking shop. Jawline still defined, skin on the face still tight. Every farking pint, every slice of pizza, it only goes straight to the gut, tits and arse. That’s why I like to see her indulge: in fact I bleedin well encourage it!

— Have another beer, babe, I say to her.

— Not on duty, Michael. You trying to get me drunk? She giggles. Good fun is Cynth, and that’s a quality you appreciate in skirt. Course, there’s some who’re that way inclined till they get what they like to term ‘commitment’, then turn straight into narky old mares. That’s the stage when they start to see your role as a psychological punchbag, taking the blows cause they can’t hit back out at a life that’s disappointed them. You become a everythingologist in the bar game. Walton, Guildford, Romford, Streatham, I done em all.

— Take another slice of that pizza then, gel, I suggest, pointing to the congealed mass of dough in our hot tank.

— Nah, I can’t, can I, cause I’m getting so bleedin fat, she protests.

— No you ain’t, don’t talk nonsense, anorexic you are, I tell her, — that’s your problem. Read all about you binge-and-purge sorts.

— That’s bulimia, she says, touching her gut.

— That might be the case, but it’s the same thing, innit, birds worrying too much abaht nosh, I grin, cause I like a bit of meat on a gel. The way that weight of hers wobbles and shifts as she moves; I really love to watch her serving, especially when she stretches a little to reach up to the optics to fill a glass. I’ve seen me on the other side of that bar ordering a Scotch I don’t even want just to cop an eyeful of that. Most of all, I suppose I like the way I can change her, love watching her spread out after a week’s indulgence, all instigated by yours truly.

Them supermodels might look great in clothes, but let’s face it: you wouldn’t wanna fuck one of em. Feel like one of them Indian geezers lyin on a bleedin bed of nails.

Rodger ain’t exactly shrouding himself in glory at the moment. Bertie only went and caught him with his fingers in the till, metaphorically speaking. Actually, they were in Marcia’s snapper, behind the bar n all, the dirty fucker. Course, Bertie starts sounding off to me about mates and a mate’s missus and how you don’t go there. ‘You do not cross that farking line, Mickey,’ was how he put it. I don’t see no fucking line, but I ain’t gonna tell him that.

Of course, if I had a missus myself, then I might think differently. That ain’t ever gonna happen though: once bitten, twice shy, is what I always say. Right now, though, it’s give us anuvah, muvah, that one don’t bleedin well play in Chateau Mickey. Cause the truth is, the only way you’ll get skirt of any quality is to nick the attached but disaffected ones. And they usually ain’t up for jumping ship till they’ve checked out that there’s quality goods on offer elsewhere. Then there’s your stepping-stone skirt; can’t work up the bottle to leave their geezer without a patsy like you around to share the flak. Course, once he’s gone, you soon get your marching orders or she becomes so crazy you have to give her the elbow, and you’re left high and dry like a daft cunt and a rep somewhere between a sleazebag and a muppet. Basic human nature, and if you ain’t worked that one out after five years in the licencing trade, then you never will.

After all, I had a go at that Marcia slag myself the other night. Bit thin for my tastes, but there’s something about a skinny bird pushing forty. If they ain’t let themselves go by then, they got to have one big vice. I’ve found through experience that it’s inevitably shagging. A skinny tart pushing forty is usually a dirty slag: pretty game for anything once you get past the first hurdle. It’s that first fence that’s often the problem. Giving it the old cock-teaser malarkey again, Marce was. Cut to the chase and grabbed her outside the toilets. She only went and slapped my bleedin chops, hitting me with the old innocent routine before scarpering. Told her it was a fair cop, that I must have misread the signs. Jack Daniel’s’ll do that for you.

Every farking time.

Rodj seems to be making an impression though, the cunt. A sleazeball of the highest order is my business partner, with that gelled hair and a permanently laughing face, even when he’s pissed off. There’s definitely some good shagging in old Marce, I’ll wager, so I can’t exactly blame Rodj for trying to get some in. Mind you, married to poor old Bertie, God love him, she’s got to be desperate for it, I’d be surprised if that wasn’t the case. Have to say though, looks like old Rodj is now in pole position, even if he ain’t good at closing deals.

This island’s full of fucking junkies! Two cunts sitting in the corner of the bar, staring at the farking walls. Sorry, but did I leave London for a reason? My bleedin mistake. Mind you, the quality of football in the so-called Premiership would have every cunt on gear. The game’s shit, too fucking tactical, all the flair geezers stifled by five across the middle. Playing percentages and charging muppets forty nicker for the privilege, and mugs like me for the satellite equipment and packages. Then you got them commentators and pundits; the telly company tell them to talk up every farking game, so you got them cunts having a farking orgasm while we’re at home falling asleep on the flaming couch or in the boozer begging the barmaid to turn the cunting jukebox up. So another Scotch goes down and my face glows and I realise that I’ve only gone and got arseholed again!

Any roads, Cynthia and I have been getting it on. Unshaggable till you down a couple of Scotches, then she fairly sets up the horn in you. Birds will make a cunt of you all the time. Not that I’m cynical; a cheerful sort by nature really, but I only make the observation.

Cynth and me didn’t half cane it the night before I went back to me mum’s in Walton: a big session on the red wine. I think I got right up between her there and then, I believe that to be the case, but I was too farkin rat-arsed to remember much about it. So I wakes up feeling horny, as in fucking Alpine, and gets my fingers moving south of the border. Gor blimey, it was like trying to work with a block of sandpaper. Funny though, the things you learn with a bit of experience. As a young buck I would have taken that as a sign that she don’t fancy me and said something defensive like: What’s up with you, you farking frigid lezzer, you fucking peculiar or something?

Experience though. Now you know that as she’s been canning the vino, she’s just a bit dehydrated. So I brought her a big glass of water. — Get that down ya, gel, I told her.

— You’re so sweet, Michael, she said.

Didn’t dare tell her I was just watering the flaming garden, did I?

Phase 2 involved getting her up and moving around, let the metabolism kick in. With a tourist bird I’d’ve suggested a bracing walk along the seafront or the beach before taking her back and nailing her, but that weren’t an option with Cynth, as discretion was of the essence. She’s still a married woman, after all, even if her relationship with that golf wanker is tenuous to say the least. So I offered to make some tucker, scrambled eggs on toast.

Sure enough, a bit of sweet talk over the table, some fresh orange juice and another big glass of water and the next time me hand went downstairs it was like sticking it under a running tap.

I brought her off that way, then slipped the old how’s your father in for a bit more Sunday sport. There’s plenty to cushion you when you’re on top of her, and I love sticking my finger in her belly button and going: ‘Ow’s my Pilsbury Dough gel then?’ And as I give her one, I get a hold of that big, fat wobbly arse and those flabby love handles and, of course, those floppy great tits. It’s bleedin wonderful, but there’s no way that I’d let Cynth go on top. She suggested it after a bit and I sort of skirted round the idea. I mean, who’d want all that beef on top of em? If I want buried alive I’ll go round some East End boozers bad-mouthing the Kray twins, thank you very much.

Excellent fuck, Cynth, but she went a bit funny afterwards with all this ‘hold me, Michael’ stuff. Birds are like nosh-ups, have a big one and you’re satiated. Don’t wanna go near one again for a bit, do ya? Basic psychology, but something skirt never get. She went a bit frosty, and I was trying to get some bleedin kip in for the next morning’s flight to Gatwick, so we ends up rowin. She only tears off into the night, but, well, for me it’s mission accomplished, innit. I reckoned that with a seeing-to like that she was well bound to be back. Sure as night follows day.

And I wasn’t wrong. True what they say about absence making the heart grow fonder, and the ravine wider. There’s no mention of the previous argy-bargy and she’s all over me like a cheap suit tonight, asking me about bleeding Walton-on-Thames. — Great town, I tell her. — Whenever I leave I always keep a little bit of Walton in me. What about you?

— I’m from Faversham, she says, — you know that…

— Well then, I say, how’d you like a little bit of Walton in you?

She punches me in the chest but she’s looking around making sure the coast is clear and she whispers, — Your place at midnight?

— I shall be waiting, I say in my best MC tones.

Fair play to Cynth; she don’t keep me too long, once I turf em all out and lock up. She double-backs and I hear a familiar knock on the door from the back staircase. I let her in, then we’re on the couch ripping each other’s clothes off like teenagers and all that flab’s flying all over the place, and I’m on her in a sweaty hump and she’s off like an alarm clock n all.

Jesus fack almighty!

The next day at least the bleedin rains have eased off a bit but the weekend hangovers have kicked in ever so bad. Cynth couldn’t stay, told her old man she was playing cards with her mates and cleared off early. I don’t lie around in bed too long. I’m up and strolling through town to pick up some nice fish, fresh off the boat, then phoning Trees-the-ex back in Walton-on-Thames. Before you can say Jimmy Pursey the dopey cow only goes and tells me that she thinks it would be a good idea to send our Emily over for some of the school holidays, which translates as ‘I’m knocking off some geezer and I want her out from under my bleedin feet’.

Thanks a farking bundle, you filthy old trout.

Puts me in a right shit frame of mind, that does. Still, you got to keep thinking: calmness and serenity. So I gets in the motor and takes a trip down to the Kraut side of the island using the FV1 coastal route and bypassing that farking dump Puerto del Rosario. As you get onto the FV20 and head south to Gran Tarajal it could be a different world. It’s the best-looking bit of the island by far, and the portion which the old Squareheads have thoughtfully commandeered for themselves. Makes you wonder who won the farking war. I park up outside a boozer I occasionally use and poke my head round the door but it’s dead. There’s this waitress who works in a restaurant I like down here, but it don’t look like she’s in today. No worries: they’ve a nice bit of grilled lemon sole on.

A bit of tucker sets me up and when I get back for the evening shift Rodj is already in, and Cynth ain’t far behind. — How’s it goin with Marce? I ask him discreetly.

— Nuffink’s going on, he shakes his head angrily, which means it most certainly is. No need for the cunt to get all bleedin narky; it ain’t as if they’ve exactly been discreet about the whole thing!

I clock a couple of dodgy-looking geezers standing at the bar. One’s a big burly fucker with a crew cut, wearing light-reflective glasses. The other’s a weaselly little cunt with shifty eyes and greasy hair, slicked back. He’s dripping with tom; two earrings, at least two gold chains round his neck, bracelets on his wrist and sovereign rings on nearly every finger. Farking little tart. But it wasn’t so much how they looked as what they were saying that got me interested. You got to watch putting your nose in but I got intrigued and found out that by hiding behind the gingham curtain which drapes at the side of the small public bar, pretending to be looking at the books, I can hear every bleedin word they say. Meantime, the cunts think I’m in the back shop! So here I am, fiddling away, but getting a proper earful.

—… but there’s a few around here she’s going to have to sack if she’s gonna go all the way to the top. Baggage and such. I mean, I ain’t naming no names but that gel’s got star potential and I’d be loath to have it undermined through some dodgy associations… it sounds like the weaselly cunt with the gold is saying.

— You’re thinking of Graham, I take it? the big cropped-haired bastard says. His voice is gravelly, like a villain on The Bill.

The other cunt has a high, nasal, snidey tone: — Like I said, I ain’t naming no names, but if the cap fits…

— You got to save her from herself, Trev.

— Well, we’re gonna have to sit down togevah, just the two of us over a nice meal, bottle of wine, and have a serious little chat…

— Serious chat…

— A serious chat about her future, cause I’d hate to see her blow it. But what she needs is a little discipline, a firm hand. Otherwise she’s gonna throw it all away.

— Cruel to be kind, Trev.

— Exactly, Chris. Tough love I believe is what they call it nowadays. And if that Graham was to just somehow disappear it would make my job a great deal easier.

There’s a silence as the big brick-shithouse geezer goes, — Disappear… let’s be clear about this, Trev. Disappear from her life or disappear for good?

The other cunt’s voice goes low. I think he says, — Whatever it takes.

— If he did vanish off the scene, she’d be very upset.

— In the short term, Chris, in the short term. But she’d get over it. Course, she’d need a shoulder to cry on.

Then Cynth comes through and shouts something, whipping the curtain away, dozy farking cow, which is so farking mortifying as them geezers see me standing up from behind the bar. They look daggers at me giving me that ‘how much have you heard’ thing, but I just keep staring at the ledger in my hand, worrying that my cheeks are flushing. — Yes, my lovely? I say as distractedly as I can.

— We need some San Miguels and Coronas up here right now.

— Where’s Rodj? I ask, as if I don’t know.

— He nipped out for a moment.

A wooing, no doubt, the cahnt. — Bleedin hell, gel, can’t it wait? I’m engrossed in those books. Totally engrossed, I turn to the geezers at the bar. — Got to do everything around here, I shake my head and smile, and the big cunt gives me a tight grin back, but the weaselly geezer’s eyes are all black pools.

I drop the books and head downstairs, cursing that fat, stupid blundering cow.

Farking villains. Never did like the cunts, even back home. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve pulled a few strokes myself now and again, but I don’t get off on all that gangster bollocks. Most of those cunts are just fucking bullies and you’re the mug who’s got to listen to their bullshit and laugh in all the right places. Wouldn’t be so bad if it wasn’t so farking boring most of the time. Yeah, some of these geezers are genuinely witty, but most of them’s peddling the same farking shit you’ve heard a million times before.

Eventually, the cunts drink up and leave. The greasy little fucker with the gold gives me a long, slow, hard nod and I’m paranoid all bleedin day, in me own farking place.

At night it’s a better atmosphere in the pub and I lock Vince, Bert and myself in for a card school. Funny to think that by keeping Bert here right now, I’m probably assisting Rodj in his quest to nail his missus. Mixed feelings about that one. Vince is a decent sort, from Manchester, or near there. Rents out properties here on the island. Dodgy as, never seems to do anything, always away on little trips, but generally has a horsechoker of a wad in his pocket. Bertie runs a sporting-goods shop but if you ask me it’s been bought with funny money. He’s a shifty little git, and every time some new face comes in the boozer he seems to get a bit antsy.

Vince and I are winding Bertie up. — You mean to say that you’ve never had a homosexual experience in your life before? I ask him.

— Course I haven’t, Bertie says, all offended.

I’m shaking my head, looking at the dross I’ve got in my hand. — How old are you, you’ve got to bleedin thirty-seven and you’ve never had a gay experience?

He looks to Vince who smiles and shrugs, which freaks old Bert right out. — Of course not… you’re bleedin tapped, he goes, then he turns to Vince again. — Have you?

Vince looks at him with his big hooded eyes. — Of course I have, he says in that Manc voice, — I mean, you got to try everything once, aven’t ya?

Poor Bertie almost chokes on his beer. He puts the glass onto the table, looking at Vince all sorta weird. — But… I can’t believe I’m hearing this… he says and turns to me. — What about you?

— I’m thirty-nine for fuck sakes, I tell him, — I mean, we ain’t all led sheltered lives.

— I ain’t led no sheltered life… he protests, his voice going all high.

— Yeah, sure, Vince shakes his head.

— Well, no, he starts, all hesitant, — cause there was once…

And we’re all ears as he only goes and describes this encounter with a bentshot at some bleedin queer bar down in Clapham. Well, Vince and I just let him finish and then shout together: — WE’RE ONLY FARKING JOKING, YOU FARKING GREAT BIG POOF!

Outed! Always knew he was bleedin suspect. I point at him and shout, — File under arse behnnndit!

Bertie begs Vince and I to say nothing, insisting that he was just a bit freaked at our so-called disclosures and making it all up so as to fit in, which knowing Bert is quite possibly true. We’re having none of it though, the dirty bleedin arse bandit. But the geezer’s pretty distressed so the only thing to do is tell him we’ll keep shtum about the whole thing.

Of course, it’s only all around the bar the next night, innit. Somebody obviously kissed and told but mum’s the word on that one.

Thing is, it fair sets old Bertie off on the warpath with Vince and I as main suspects. Marcia’s only gone and heard all about it and kicked off about Aids, putting poor old Bert on an indefinite no nooky ban. Not that she gave him that much in the first place, by all accounts, or rather by Rodj’s account. Now Bertie’s gathering evidence for his appeal. But this one ain’t going to go to Stewards, not if I can help it.

After closing time he only goes and comes round to mine with a bit of attitude on him. — One of you two has been blabbing about the other night! It’s all round the bar, Marcia’s heard all about it!

— Bollocks. I ain’t said nothing to Marcia. Who told her then?

— One of the geezers at the bar, Bertie says, open-gobbed.

— Who?

— I dunno, do I? he whines. — She won’t say.

— Well, that covers a multitude, don’t it? I shake my head. — Why won’t she say? I ask. Thing is, with geezers like Bertie, it don’t really matter how pissed off they are, you just keep asking the questions and you soon draw their sting.

— I dunno, do I? he repeats like a flaming parrot, all flustered.

I shake my head. — Sounds suspect to me, mate.

— What? What sounds suspect?

I feel like saying, ‘You, you fucking dodgy little arse bandit, you sound farking suspect,’ but I explain it to him. Bertie, God love him, he ain’t the sharpest needle in your old mum’s embroidery kit. — If my missus had told me that she’d heard that I was an iron, I’d want to know who’d told her. I wouldn’t be happy hearing that it was just pub talk. I’d be asking myself: who stands to gain from her thinking that you’re bottled beer?

You could quite literally see the coin drop. — Was Marce on with Rodj the other day? he gasps.

— I believe that to be the case.

Then he headed off, eyeballs bulging out like a Jack Russell’s bollocks. As if he was planning to do some serious damage. Not that he’s the sort, really, but there’s no telling what some geezers will do over skirt. Crimes of passion n ah’ll. Think ancient Rome; Caesar, Mark Antony and Cleopatra. And it ain’t just big empires what’s been brought to their knees by minge; some tidy little businesses in the licensing trade have gone right down the flaming Swanee when the guvnor and or his missus have been caught on the wrong side of the duvet. See, I’d mentioned Bert’s little secret to Rodj earlier, knowing full well that, in turn, he’d be compelled to tell Marcia. So my hope now is that Rodj does a runner and Bert’s sine die, leaving the field clear for yours truly to fire into Marce.

I’m sitting back feeling pleased with meself, when me mobile sings out, signalling a text coming in. It’s Trees-the-ex. Her message reads:

Tight-arsed cow. I have a shower, make myself a sandwich of cheese, tomato, lettuce and mayo, then pick up the blower and dial, getting a funny farking tone. Forgot to knock off the zero on her number after 0044. I try again and get her voicemail. — Neither Teresa nor Emily are in at the moment. Please leave your number and we’ll try to get back to you.

I leave a message. — Trees, it’s Mickey. You wanted me to call between 4 and 6, from your text. You said it was urgent, so I called right away. Do you want to get back—

— Michael, she says and you know that the cow was sitting there all the time letting me farking rabbit on like that. — How are you?

— Busy, I tell her. — What’s up? Is Em okay?

— Oh, well, I ain’t gonna be popular, am I. Thing is, Em’s been playing up so I’m sending her over to you for a bit.

It might be hot here but ain’t nobody told my blood that right now. The farking cow. — What do you mean? You said some orf the holidays. I got a flaming bar to run, I can’t—

— You can’t make time for your own daughter. Fine. I’ll tell her.

She’s loving all this, the farking cow. I take a deep breath. — You say she’s coming for a bit. What is a bit?

— Dunno. She’s flying out tomorrow on the 8.15 from Gatwick, gets in at 12.30.

— You can’t do this without bleedin well sortin it with me, that is bang out of order. I got things to do!

— N I ain’t?

That bleedin cow is in her farking element. She knows that I can’t knock Em back. — You know what I mean… I need notice, you can’t just hit me with a fait accompli like that. C’mon, Trees, give us a break—

— Nah, you give me a break, Mickey, she whines, that adenoidal tone squeaking down the blower, like a proper Hardwick. Forgot just how much it does your crust in. Patience of a saint I must have, putting up with that all them years. — She wants to see ya. She’s been a proper narky little cow and I ain’t havin her sitting around talkin the hump with me and Richie…

Surprise, surprise. — So this is what all this is abaht, you and some farking trouser—

— I’ve said my piece, she says, all cool, but she can’t keep the smugness out of her voice. — Be there at the airport to meet your daughter.

— Trees… I’m pleading now, — Terry…

Then she only goes and puts the farking blower down on me!

I dial her number again but it’s only the flamin voicemail, — Neither Teresa nor Emily…

— Farking cow, I spit and head downstairs to the bar. Knockout blow to Hardwick, Baker left KO’d on the canvas. It don’t bare thinking about. I pour myself a double Scotch. Cynth’s in and she’s watching me. — Bit early, isn’t it?

— Been a funny old morning, I tell her, heading down to the cellar, leaving her standing there, hands on hips like a big, shapely vase. It’s always nice and cool down here, just the place to go when you wanna charge the old calmness and serenity batteries. Suddenly, I hear a rustling sound and I see a big furry rat; long-haired cunt, marching across the floor. He vanishes behind a stack of beer on pallets. I pick up the brush. Then I hear the tinkle on the mobile: another flaming text message coming in. Bleedin hell, it’s only from Seph, this farking hairy little Greek gel I was nailing last summer. Telling me that she’s only here on Friday for two weeks. How farking complicated can life get?

Old Roland seems to have scarpered. So down here in the cellar I’m taking stock of my life. It’s all here in the barrels and the stacked pallets of bottles: piss. My assets all converted into a supply of alcohol to sell for profit. Disinhibition, good times and hope; that’s what I peddle. How many birds have I nailed through them over-imbibing that most glorious of drugs? Too many to count.

I shake off my thoughts and get upstairs. Cynth comes over and sidles up to me. I know by her look what she’s got on her mind and she opens her mouth to confirm that I ain’t wrong. — When we gonna see each other then?

— Tonight round mine. Eleven forty-five, I say, but it comes out all wrong, as I ain’t making much eye contact, I’m warily checking the bar for strangers.

Nothing will alienate skirt quicker than your distraction. You gotta at least provide the illusion of the old undivided. — Anything wrong? she asks.

— Nah… well, yeah, I come clean. My gut’s still blistering from that phone call with Trees, even if Seph’s text just proved that you just have to tough out the bad till the good comes round the corner, which it always does. Didn’t take very long in this case. I should be chuffed, but there are practical affairs to put right. — The ex is only sending the bleedin kid over tomorrow, ain’t she. I mean, what am I gonna do with a young teenage gel here? I look around the boozer, then nod upstairs. — You know the flat, it’s tiny.

Cynth rolls down her bottom lip. — You got a spare room.

— Yeah, but it ain’t got no bed and it’s got all my gear in it.

— I’ve got a fold-down bed; you can have that. When I come up to yours later we’ll go through your stuff and sort it out, she cheerfully volunteers. — How old is she?

Good sort, Cynth. I’m looking at those stiff red lips of hers and she’s got me all ears now. — Thirteen. Going through the narky little cow stage by all accounts.

— And she’s gonna be here most of the school holidays?

— The ex ain’t said but I believe that to be the case, yes.

Cynth seems to think about that one. She never had no kids but I think she always wanted them. No luck with the geezers though; told me once that her first fellah was a cunt, a proper tightwad, who didn’t want no breadsnapper around. Number 2’s been shooting blanks for years and is now any roads settled into a golfing life. She seems too bleedin keen on the idea of Em being here though. But it don’t half get ya thinking; if these two hit it off, it gives me a bit of time to be indulging in some extra-curricular activity with a certain young lady from Greece.

Interesting gel, young Seph. We met the other winter when she was over here. To be honest, a bird with a tash don’t do nuffink for me, but after a few Jack Daniel’s she could have been farking Taliban for all I cared. Bottled her up a few times last summer, then again in November over there when Chels was at Olympiakos in the Champions League. Made some of the geezers pretty green that day, swanning round Athens with a young thing like that on me arm, tash or no bleedin tash. Lovely long black hair; all the way down to her arse. Even them big Nana Mouskouri glasses couldn’t keep the old fellah down. In fact, you get to a certain age and that thing starts to appeal. That’s what happens when you’ve watched too many stag vids and seen too many facials.

I might suggest a waxing.

— Penny for em? Cynth asks, and I’m looking at that great expanse of doughy gut between the bottom of her top and the top of her shorts. Plenty of the old cellulite in the mix, but it’s funny how it don’t look half as bad on tanned skin.

I pinch a fold of belly lightly between forefinger and thumb. — I do believe that you are losing weight, gel, I tell her.

She puts her hands on her hips and does a little swivel, giving herself the once-over in the bar mirror. — You really think so?

— I believe that to be the case.

— It ain’t what the scales say, she goes, spinning round and looking at that fat arse. Rodj sees this from the bar of the public, raises his brow and gets back over to pulling pints for two old geezers that’ve come in with their wives. Looks very guilty n all. I’m wondering whether he and Bert have had words.

— Bathroom scales, I scoff. — Always bleedin farked, ain’t they. Can’t rely on em, can ya, I tell her, taking a slice of pizza from the glass display case and sticking it into the microwave. — You need fattening up, you do.

— You’re so sweet, Mikey. You know, when I was with Ben I was never good enough for him. He always used to moan about my weight… and Thomas, he doesn’t even see me as a woman…

I move over and pin her against the bar. — Some geezers don’t know when they’re on a good thing. I tug down the zip of her shorts and slip my hands in and start touching her bush lightly.

— Michael…

— You’re a naughty gel. No knickers, I say, thinking, bleedin hell, no prizes for guessing what she was after all along!

— Stop, Michael, somebody might come, she gasps as I pull up her top to expose those big tits, flopping away without a bleedin bra in sight.

— I believe that to be the case, I murmur, as she pulls the top back down before Rodj comes round.

3. EM

WAITING AROUND AT the airport the next day, I feel well farked. Fucking armies of holidaymakers; old cahnts in the mood for winter sun for the old bones, sly-looking husbands ready to team up with like minds and bodyswerve their miserable fat cows and screaming kids, and young uns and some not so young on the hunt for a good drink and a rattling opportunity.

After cleaning out my gaff the other night, Cynth and I nailed another couple of bottles of red and then did some tequila slammers. Farking suicide mission. Any roads, I humped her a couple of times then cooked up some steak, onions, mushrooms and McCain’s oven chips, the low-fat ones.

Got up the next day still drunk and left a decidedly sheepish Rodj running the show. — Gonna be a recurrent theme, mate, I tell him. — I’ll have to be leanin on ya a bit. All hands on deck.

— Yeah, well, I know you wanna spend time with Em. Don’t worry about it, he says.

— You, sir, are a gentleman and a scholar.

Poor Rodj. Don’t think he’s even had the satisfaction of properly nailing Marce but he’s certainly got someone on the warpath! Apparently Bert’s been spotted in various boozers making threats about a certain party! Smarmy git though he might well be, what the likes of Rodj forget is the adage about the construction of omelettes requiring certain eggs getting well smashed. And when things start getting cracked, that’s when his sort start getting nervy.

On the way to the airport I bell Seph. She’s a goer but a bit of a loose cannon and you got to watch her. Her old man is the chief of police on this small island, which is only a short hop from Piraeus, the old port of Athens. ‘My father is the chief of police for thee whole island!’ she boasts all the time. Wouldn’t mess with her over there cause the old man sounds like a proper cunt; the sort who’s probably fitted up more geezers than C&A’s.

She’s on my turf now though, or soon will be. Hopefully I’ll be on her turf soon n all. Normally I enjoy a bit of rug-munching (a gentleman’s sport long before the old bulldykes muscled their way into the picture) but she’s got a flaming Axminster down there. Thought I’d come face to face with Dr Livingstone at one point, before necessity compelled me to come up for air.

I’m waiting at the arrivals gate and then Em sees me and her face lights up for a second before she remembers she’s a teenager and I’m her old man and she just gives me an awkward pat on the shoulder instead of a hug. And it hurts, cause I wanted to wrap my arms round her and say ‘How’s my little gel then’ but I ain’t said that to her, ain’t had that sort of thing with her for bleedin years and I know that I’ve missed so much, so bleedin much, and I’ll never have it again.

Gor blimey if there ain’t bloody tears welling up in my eyes so I pull down the shades from the top of my head and point to the exit.

— Good flight? I ask, managing to keep my voice even.

— A plane’s a plane, she shrugs back, not even noticing that her old man’s all choked up.

— Yeah. You ain’t wrong.

So we get to the car and I start rabbiting on, shit really, just trying to fill in time. How’s school and all that bleedin malarkey.

— I hate school, she says as she sits with her knees up, picking at the skin round her fingers.

— Don’t be like that, I tell her. — My old man, your grandad, he used to say to me, ‘If you like school you’ll love work then live happily ever after.’

She don’t say nothing to that, just sort of rolls her eyes.

I try to explain: — What I mean is that it’s your start in life, so you gotta go in with the right attitude. You get out what you put in, don’tcha?

She just shrugs and don’t say nothing. And I suppose she’s right to be a sceptic n all. The stuff about the old man, he said nothing of the kind, I just made that up. Churchillian-style motivational speech, that sort of thing. Reality was, the old boy didn’t give a monkey’s about what I got up to at school. Yeah, she’s right, school was a load of bleedin bollocks. My teachers were all sneaky, poncey fuckers, every one of them. Well, except that Miss Johns in English; the way she’d bend over you to correct your work and them tits in that tight top and that hair cascading down in your face and the bleedin perfume… farkin well shouldn’t have been allowed. No wonder I grew up not bein able to keep my hands off skirt; damaged I was, well and truly bleedin damaged by the educational system! Should get a farking claim in! Good solicitor, that’s what I need, a decent brief, like the geezer wot sprung us all and got the compensation when the Old Bill, bless em, made another farking cock-up.

Thing was, though, the likes of Miss Johns was different. Encouraged you, didn’t they. Didn’t think they had all the questions and answers, honesty lies.

— Mum told me that you got put in jail for fighting at a football match once, when I was a baby, she says.

What the fuck is that dopey old slag saying to the gel?

This rookie scraper has evidently been trained in the Hardwick school of low blows.

— I got arrested because I was near to where it was all going off and the Old Bill was grabbing anybody, but I never got put in no jail, well, remand, yeah, but I wasn’t convicted. The case was dropped; I got compensation cause they was proved to be in the wrong. That’s how I got this place, and that’s how you and mum got the house, I tell her, and that’s as about as much as I want to say on that subject and I move sharply on. — So how’s things with ya then, you got a boyfriend at that school?

I’m only joking, pulling her leg, but she turns to me all seriously and says, — I don’t really like the boys at school. It may be because I’m still too young, or maybe because they’re too immature, but I think I’ve got a bit of virginity left in me yet.

Shit… that hurt…

Farkin hell, I feel like I’m about ten years old and I’ve been told off by my big sister. Then she suddenly looks at me all weird. — You used to see other women. Before you left me and Mum.

I feel my face going all cold and tingly. That way you do when there’s a few of you in a boozer and a big mob of tasty-looking geezers comes in. You’re fronting it but your bottle’s well shaky. Nobody’s saying nothing but you’re just waiting for it to kick off and for some cunt to ram a flaming glass in your face. What’s farking well going on here? — Who told you that? I ask, as if I don’t bleedin well know.

— It’s true but, ain’t it? she says, sounding like somebody else. That flaming Hardwick gene.

Well on the ropes here. Think calmness and serenity. Use the experience, keep ducking and diving.

— Look, one thing you’re gonna realise in life is that there’s more than one reason why people do things. Sometimes there’s a lot of them. It takes more than one person to change things, like in a relationship.

She seems to think about this, then she goes, — These women, when you were lying in bed with them, then her voice goes harsher, — shagging them, did you ever think about me and Mum at home?

I ain’t havin this. I slow down and pull up by the side of the road. I draw a big breath. — Look, I’m your dad and we’re gonna be staying together for a bit. You got to give me some respect; I respect you, you respect me.

I don’t believe it! Mickey Baker is throwing in the towel! His corner are saying that their boy has taken enough punishment!

— Whatever, she says, now all distracted, like her mind’s on sumfink else. She opens up a magazine she’s been carrying. It’s one of them celebrity gossip shit-sheets that kids and thick cunts read. The so-called celebs are mostly Luton reserves level; there’s some fat munter who once had a hit record and is now bloating for England and ramming Colombia’s harvest up her hooter since her fella scarpered with a fitter bird. I worry about Em’s choice of reading: the sort of thing a Hardwick might read. More interesting to her, evidently, than her old fellah, whom she ain’t spent any proper time with in months.

I’m fuming cause I don’t know this kid at all. She’s been poisoned against me, by parties who shall remain nameless, and I’ve got my work cut out here. This ain’t my little gel. This is a weird kid whom I don’t recognise; all tall and skinny and dressed funny and comin out with all sorts of daft stuff.

— That’s what they call the Red Mountain, I point out the window, — Montana Colorada. Past them you got the Dunas de Corralejo, which has a wealth of coastal vegetation that is totally unique to this part of the world, I explain with enthusiasm. I’m thinking that they must teach them shit like that at school: the environment n all that for fack sakes.

She ain’t giving a toss.

— All volcanic, this is, I hear my voice tailing off in an apology as I look over to the Isle of Lobos. There seems to be some clouds over there, hope they ain’t headed this way. — We can take a trip over there, I suggest, — in a glass-bottomed boat. Fancy that, do ya?

— Yeah, she says, briefly looking up from her mag as we head up General Franco Avenue.

She ain’t flaming interested, but what can you do? We drive home and I take her down to the Herefordshire and intro her to Cynth, Rodj and the likes. She takes her stuff upstairs to the flat, and when she comes down a bit later, she’s got a book in her hand. That puts me in a more cheerful frame of mind. Better than reading those junk mags.

Now Cynth’s goin all strange and saying to Em, — When I was young I really liked smoothing out silver paper. You know, different-coloured sort of metallic paper. Kids probably don’t do that any more, she says looking at Em who’s now reading her book, Philip K. Dick. Funny, I always liked science fiction when I was her age. Arthur C. Clarke. Brian Aldiss; ‘The Failed Men’. Skinny geezers wot buried themselves in fields for years. Intelligent sorts, kind of lizard-like with big heads, but who’d just given up. Couldn’t be arsed no more. So they dug themselves into the dirt in their millions and hibernated, till some cunt came along and ploughed them all up. But they still just lay there in their muck, not giving a monkey’s. That shat me right up as a kid. Cause you gotta be bothered.

Yeah, there was loads of them geezers, Harry Harrison, the one what wrote about Mars and Isaac Asimov, the robot geezer. And that chap what wrote about all them plants taking over. Yeah, sci-fi: mad for it I was. Then I stopped. Dunno why. Well, skirt, I suppose; in a contest between the imagination and the hormones, there was only gonna be one winner.

— Did you do that when you were a kid, Michael, smooth out silver paper? Cynth’s rabbiting on.

— Yeah, I tell her. Smooth out silver paper. What the fuck is she on about?

Cynth made the effort, I’ll give her that, but Em ain’t responding to none of my jokes, she just sits with a long face all day. All night she’s buried in that book as I’m playing arrows with Vince and Rodj. — What about that last night? Vince goes.

— What? I say, looking at Rodj, half expecting to hear something about him and Bert!

— Geezer shot dead. He throws down the paper in front of me.

My Spanish ain’t great shakes but I can make out that a British holidaymaker was shot dead outside the Duke of York pub over in Lanzarote. A parky little chill comes over me and for some reason I think back to them two geezers what was in the boozer the other night. A funny pair, right enough. Proper shit me up, they did: that cunt going on about people vanishing. They didn’t do a very good job of making anybody disappear, by all accounts. Police found him right there in the house. I’m trying to remember what it was they called the geezer they was jawing about.

I look over at Em, still reading old Philip K. Dick. Some mind, that geezer. Blade Runner, Minority Report, Star Wars, the brains behind all that shit, he was. Nice work if you can get it. Too bad he’s dead now, so he won’t have seen any dosh for it all. Life can be unfair, but mind you, you dunno how much the cunt was worth alive.

Rodj’s been on the treble eighteen for centuries, after looking like he was gonna take me to the cleaners. Bottle always goes: couldn’t bleedin well check out in the farking supermarket. If Marce wants a length from that department, she could be waiting a long time, especially with old Bert doing his nut. An ominous silence on that topic.

I hit the fourteen and finish up all nifty on the double twenty. — Bastard, Rodj curses and then looks at Em and Cynth. — Pardon my French, ladies, he adds. They both look unimpressed, as well they might.

— This geezer wot was gunned down, what do they say about him? I ask.

— Businessman on holiday, Vince goes.

Businessman. Every cunt’s a farking businessman nowadays. Covers a bleedin multitude, that one. — What sort of business was he in?

Rodj shrugs and pours himself a large snifter from the bar. He glances to me and I find myself nodding back in agreement without thinking what I’m doing. Sure enough, I’ve a glass of Scotch you could float the HMS Belfast in. — They didn’t say, Vince shrugs.

Nah, they wouldn’t bleedin say. So, in reality, we know nothing.

Later that night Seph bells and tells me she’s over in Lanzarote. I inform Cynth that I’ve business over there and ask her to look after Em tomorrow. They ain’t best pleased, nor is Rodj, but shit happens and I ain’t up for explaining things.

4. SEPH

I DECIDED THAT it was about time that I went to visit my old mate Pete Worth at the Cumbria Arms, over in Lanzarote. It was a bright Saturday morning and I got into the motor ready to head down to the ferry, change islands and drive up to the nice little bar in the old town harbour at Puerto del Carmen, where I’d arranged to meet Seph. I was anticipating a carefree, seamless little jaunt.

Didn’t work out like that though.

I’m passing the garage, and I look over and I see a sight that makes my arsehole clench like a bookie’s fist. It’s them two geezers, the ones what was in yesterday and they’re only talking to Emily and Cynth…

I stop the car and get out sharpish. As I stride across the forecourt, the geezers get into their own motor and head off without seeing me. Emily and Cynth clock me soon enough, though. — I thought you’d gone, Cynth says.

— Nah… only running late, innit. I look over my shoulder. — What did them geezers you was talking to want?

— Trying to chat her up, Em laughs.

Cynth goes all that silly little girl way, like some old boilers tend to whenever there’s a fresh slab of beef around. That old routine ain’t fooling nobody. — No they wasn’t, and she even touches her flaming hair, — they was just asking about the bar, that’s all.

I do not like the smell of this, and I ain’t talking about Cynth’s knickers neither, though by her posture I detect a fair amount of spillage in that department. — What do you mean, asking about the bar?

— Well, they were in the other night for a drink… Cynth says, her eyes going wide.

— Yeah, yeah, I remember…

—… and they were just saying how nice a pub the Herefordshire Bull was, made them feel right at home. They was asking about how long it had been up and running, that’s all, she says, looking all guilty, like she’s been caught telling tales out of school.

I grab a handful of Cynth’s fleshy arm. Pulling her away from Em, I lower my voice, — Asking about the guvnor, was they? I dig my other thumb into my chest.

— No… she says, then admits, — well, just if it’s an Englishman what runs it and where you come from… They was just making conversation, that’s all, and then she shrugs my grip off and starts rubbing her arm, looking at me like I’m some sort of beast.

Questions and answers, honesty lies. Cool it, Mickey son. Think what Roger Moore or Kenneth More or Bobby Moore would do in this situ. Think composure under pressure. Calmness and serenity.

— Sorry, darlin, I’m a bit uptight at the mo, I apologise, stepping into her with a peck on the cheek, leaving my face up close to hers.

She’s staring back at me like she don’t have a clue. Cynth ain’t no mug, but like most skirt, thinking outside the box ain’t exactly her forte.

I see that Em’s distracted, looking at stuff in the garage-shop window. — Listen, Cynth, if those geezers come sniffing around you, or Em or the bar, I want you to bell me on the mobile straight away, capeesh?

Cynth takes a step back. — They wasn’t the law, was they?

— Worse than that, darlin, I lower my voice, — HM Customs and Excise, I believe, I touch my nose and wink. — Keep shtum abaht this one gel, alright?

— Of course… she says, then looks worried. —… There’s nothing wrong, is there?

— Nothing we can’t sort out, I say, looking across at Em by the shop. I leap over to the kiosk and order three big chocolate ice-cream cones. — There ya go, I say, dishing them out. Takes me back to the summer jaunts me, Em and Trees had down in Hastings. Good times. Em don’t look too chuffed though. Cynth blows out her cheeks and says, — We just had one…

I’m reasoning that Cynth needs to keep that calorie count up. Getting extra fat is one thing, but sustaining it is a problem. If she falls below one thousand five hundred a day, it’ll start dropping off. Loads of snacks with high sugar content does the trick, along with convenience food loaded with additives; that and plenty of booze. — Can’t have too much of a good thing, I tell her. — If we hadn’t had that stuff around in the Second World War, the Yanks might never have come in and we might all be poncing around in jackboots right now. Come to think of it though… I wink at Cynth. — Right, I look over to the car, — I’d best scarper. My old mate Worthy, he can’t abide lack of punctuality. Reckons it shows disrespect, and I’ll tell ya wot, I wag my finger in lecturing mode, — he ain’t wrong.

Cynth looks at me all that pleading way and she goes, — When will you be back?

— A few hours, gels, worse bleedin luck. No rest for the wicked, I shout at Em. — Bye, princess!

Then I’m in the motor and that ice cream gets slung out the window as soon as I’m out of sight. Chunking up in skirt is fine; I reckon lots of us geezers are closet chubby-chasers. It ain’t an option for me though; no decent minge wants porky trouser. I get down to the harbour and I’m ramping the motor onto the ferry. Never really liked Lanzarote; too commercialised. Mind you, Fuerty’s getting that way n all, and Worthy, to give him his due, fairly rakes it in at the Cumbria. He can stuff it though, it’s the QOL issue, innit.

When I get to the bar Seph’s sitting at a table outside, writing postcards, a white bag at her feet. Looks as lonely as a virgin on Valentine’s Day. She’s wearing shades under a big straw hat with a scarf tied round it. That’s a fetching little aqua-coloured dress, plenty of flesh on show, and her hair’s tied with a blue ribbon in one ponytail, one of those jobs what hangs to the side. That’ll have to go when I nail her: I wanna see that stuff farking flying all over them pillas.

Course, when she sees me she starts playing it all standoffish; kiss on each cheek, Euro-style. I was hoping for a big embrace and a tongues job from the off. The chaste approach don’t impress me none. Right load of old bollocks that one: you don’t come all this way if you don’t want a bleedin good rattling at the end of it.

The good news is that the tash has gone! She’s been doin a bit of waxing, or zappin with the laser, by the looks of things.

I sit down and she starts tellin me about the aggravation she’s getting from her old man, this police geezer. Seems he wants her to go to college somewhere, and she’s thinking about England. Asking me what part’s the best.

Maybe it’s all down to recent personal experiences with certain parties who shall remain nameless, but I suppose I ain’t painting that much of an enticing picture. I tell her that the North’s grim, the Midlands are dull, and the countryside’s boring: full of farking inbred mutant toffs, and London’s chock-a-block with scum and ponces these days.

— I was thinking about Brighton, Sussex University, she says, and I’m hoping that long vodka I’ve set up for her will thaw her out a bit. Worked before, and you gotta stick to tried and tested methods. What was it that the great man said: ‘It has been said that democracy is the worst form of government except all the others that have been tried.’

Got to come in on the B-word though. Even my liberalism’s got its limits. — Nah, you don’t wanna go to flaming Brighton, do ya. Full of bleedin arse bandits, innit, I explain, and that gets me wondering if she’s into the Greek love, her being Greek and all that. Ain’t my thing, that kinda dirt; I’m not sayin I ain’t stuck it in some manky holes in my time, but they’ve all been front uns. — The best part of England to go to now is Wales, I venture, — it’s all sort of unspoiled, Aber… whatever the fark they call it, by the sea n all that. Good university town, I am led to understand. Prestigious, some might say.

She lifts her shades over her head and her big dark eyes blink in the sun. — Wales is good?

Good? What is farking good? I find myself squelching through a swamp of moral relativism every day, as the geezer on the Discovery Channel said the other night. I shouted at the screen: ‘Tell me about it, mate, it’s called the licensing trade.’ — Yeah, but the only problem with Wales is that there’s too many Welsh. They don’t count themselves as English down there, and neither do we as it happens, although they still come under England.

She shakes her head, and delves into that white leather bag of hers for a packet of fags. — I would want to be close to London.

I can see the point. Seen enough sheep in Greece, I suppose.

A very civilised people, the Greeks. Homer. Aristotle. Socrates. Plato. Just some of the names who’d walk into the starting line-up of any country’s Grey Matter First Eleven. But your classics ain’t exactly what’s on my mind just right now. — So, eh, what do ya want to do? I ask, knowing full well the answer. It’s a long way to come from Greece and they got enough beaches there.

Suddenly there’s a big light in her eyes and a smile across her face. — I have come to tell you that I have fallen in love, she says.

I look at her and in spite of everything, all the farking aggravation it’s gonna cause me, I can’t help but feel a little warm glow, nestling in the gut. — Well, you’re young, but I understand… I tell her, and grab her hand.

She shakes it all sort of funny and says, — It is good that you understand these things, after what has gone between us.

I’m thinking: the older the fiddle, the better the tune right enough, but I elect to keep shtum as it’s an emotional time for her. She’s still young. Proper idealistic n all. Though I suppose I’m the same. Numerical years: it don’t matter a fark. If that’s the way you are, you never lose it.

Her little face glows and she says, — His name is Costas and he comes from Athens. He is an actor and…

And I can’t hear nothing all of a sudden.

And she goes on and on about this flaming bubble and squeak geezer, waving this packet of Marlboro Lites in my face as she talks, but I can’t hear the rest. I’m thinking, what the fuck is she doing over here then…

But all I can do is look at the turkey ducks, them birds that just lie out on the ground around the harbour. Fuck knows what they are, I ain’t seen them anywhere else. They just sit there on the tarmac, like they was all gonna lay eggs. All together, a proper little mob of them. They got turkey-like faces and necks and fat bodies but they got ducks’ bills and webbed feet.

Weird-looking cunts, but they ain’t no bother to nobody, just like them old boys who sit and talk on the benches, or the tourists under the patios of the harbour bars. Yeah, the old town here is quite picturesque. The rest? Too shit to even discuss.

The turkey ducks.

It’s me who’s the right bleeding turkey now though. Turkey ducked. Or maybe not. — So, what brings you here? Don’t tell me that you came all this way just to share this news, excellent as it is, with your old buddy Mickey? I say, reasoning that she probably wants a good old-fashioned seeing-to before she ties the knot with this bubble thespian. Last days of freedom n all: perfectly understandable.

— I am here with Costas. He is filming here and over where you stay in Fuerteventura. He plays an Italian policeman from Interpol in a movie they are shooting.

You cunt! A wasted afternoon, by the sound of things. Farking films. They’re always shooting farking movies here. In theory at least, they got the weather all year round. It’s Worthy’s boast that Moonraker was shot in his flaming backyard. Well, at least them bits on the moon was.

But right now I’m feeling like one of them Failed Men, only don’t farking bother ploughing me up. Cause there ain’t gonna be no nailing taking place this afternoon, not with this pace of drinking any roads. — Same again, señorita! I shout at the waitress.

So as I slide back into a mire of despondency, she starts recounting the tale. — I met Costas back on the island where my father, who is chief of police, was able to advise him on how to play this detective.

All I can do is smile through my disappointment and nod like a fucking muppet as the drinks slide down.

After the tale, she gives me one of them looks and says, — You are a good man, Michael, loyal and faithful. What was it your friend said back in Athens? ‘He shines like a diamond fountain.’

— Diamond geezer, I correct her. — That was Billy Guthrie, bless him, I say, and I’m starting to feel the drink, so I clink glasses. — Diamond fountain of love, gel, that’s me.

Reminds me that I must call Bill, see how he is. He wasn’t well for a bit. Packed in the drink, then lost a bollock in a freak paintballing accident. So much for harmless sport. Don’t know what the fuck he was up to, mind you, surely some abuse of the old equipment going on there. That’s what being off the booze does for ya.

Not that we’d know much about that here. Seph’s looking well trolleyed. She can’t decide whether or not she wants a cigarette. She takes one out from her packet, then puts it back in. — You would have been a good man to marry, but in men of your age the seed is likely to be spent, my father says, she kindly informs me. — The gift I must give to him is that of a grandson. My three sisters all have daughters.

— Oi! I protest. — I don’t think I like this spent seed bit.

— Your child is also a girl.

— That don’t mean nothing.

She gives me a knowing look, which, given our history, chuffs me no end. — But it means that you are a man; that is for sure. My father is the same. He once said to me that all the stuff of man-ness has gone into him, there was nothing left over for his offspring. But I know that a grandson would warm his heart and some day I will give him one.

I’m thinking: I’d like to give you one. Maybe it’s the heat, maybe it’s the booze, but a nailing is absolute priority.

— Costas and I will live in England, close to London, she says, finally lighting up a ciggy and sticking the pack and lighter back into her bag. — He will improve his English and find acting work, while I study. Then we will have sons, many Greek sons, she smiles and raises her glass, forcing me to toast.

I’m thinking that we ain’t got much time if she wants a bottling fitted in, but then she explains that she’s waiting on Costas, making me feel a right cunt. I set up more drinks.

Baker ain’t sticking no bun in an oven here.

Costas finally shows up. He’s a skinny bloke with blond hair, looks more like a farking Swede than a Greek, and he’s got a nervous way about him. First impressions ain’t always right but he don’t look the sort of geezer what’s gonna settle down and breed a load of Finsbury Park kebab cutters.

Seph intros us and he looks shiftily at me, then her. Something’s up here.

— Alright, Cost? How goes the movie business?

Seph decides she’s gonna go to the shop to get some stuff. — I will leave you boys for a while to get to know each other, she smiles, happy as a fly in shit.

Sure enough, Costas ain’t slow in opening up to me. — The woman is crazy. She thinks that we’re getting married. Huh! Her father caught me dealing cocaine to tourists on their island. He threatened to have me locked up if I didn’t go along with her crazy scheme. Said he had police contacts all over Greece and would make my life miserable. London would be nice for my career, but…

— A lovely gel, don’t get me wrong, but she’s a few bob short of the big note, if you get my drift.

Costas pulls a grim smile, and throws down the bulk of a rum and Coke. His face is tense and sweaty. He lets the tumbler hit the table in a heavy bang, which attracts the waitress, and he signals another two up. — In Greece we say that some sheep may be missing from the flock.

I nod in total sincerity. Costas ain’t a happy camper. He’s been made a proper Herbert. Herbertitis A, I would say. I’m warming to the geezer, though. — Her father asked me about my family. If I had brothers. For sure, I tell him, six of them, and no sisters. His face expands into the grin of a reptile. Later on he… he shakes his head and shudders in the heat and the waitress brings more drinks.

— Wot?

— He tries to touch me, he spits, outraged. — Like I was a bitch.

— Wot happened?

Old Cost fairly bursts into a rant. — I push him away. He says, ‘That is good. You are a man.’ They are crazy: the whole family. I have to get away from them all. My shooting time here has wrapped up today, but I have not told her that. Tomorrow I will go to London and stay with my uncle. Away from the crazy bitch and her fascist homosexual father. Did you know that he even gave me the ring to give to her? Picked it himself. Diamond and sapphire. For his daughter’s eyes, he said. It is he himself who should be fucking her. When you hear them talk it is like that is what they both want!

I’ve listened more attentively than any man should to a broadside delivered at that velocity. — It don’t look good at all. I drum my fingers on the table. — I’d scarper, mate, and pretty sharpish. What’s it the Yanks say: get the fark outta Dodge!

Cost leans closer to me, reeking of old fags, booze and garlic. — I plan to do this. The only thing that worries me is what she will do! She is crazy, I tell you!

I think about this one. — Leave that to me, mate. It needs an Englishman’s touch; stiff upper lip, keeping calm when all those around you are losing the plot. Think John Mills, Kenneth More and all that mob, I wink, giving it a little chorus of Dam Busters.

So when Seph returns, Costas tells her that he got a call to go back on set. She pouts a little, but he silences her with a kiss. I like it. I see a pro at work. As he goes, he slips me a little note that I’ll give to her later. And hopefully, it won’t be all that I give her. I slide it into my chinos pocket.

I’m pretty farked as Seph and I head for Worthy’s place. She’s been brighter n all, cause the drinks are fairly kicking in. — Actors are so dedicated. It is their craft, she slurs.

— Yeah. It’s a tough job, I tell her, holding the door of the Cumbria open, gentleman-style, to let her in. — They’d be very hard to replace if they ever went on strike. The global economy would be well farked. What would we evah do without the likes of Tom Cruise?

She punches me jokingly on the arm as we step inside the boozer and I immediately clock Pete Worth, looking all buff and tanned, like a big farking blouse. He sees me at the same time and is coming out from behind the bar. — Alroight, sahn! Looking a bit paunchy, he goes, prodding my gut.

— Ain’t got time to be in the gym twenty-four/seven like some. You steroided up or wot? I ask, grabbing his bulging bicep. — The old bollocks must be the size of dried peas by now!

— At least I’ll be able to see em without the use of a mirror, you cahnt, he laughs and before I know what I’m doing, I’m sucking it in a little. It’s all this hanging out with Cynth. The follow-up to passive smoking: passive calorie absorption.

Worthy don’t notice though, as his eyes are elsewhere. — And who is this little beauty? Alright, darlin?

Seph looks him up and down. — My name is Persephone.

— Seph’s old man’s a big noise in the Greek Old Bill, ain’t that so, darling?

— On the island I grew up on, my father is chief of police, she says.

— That’s the whole island n all, ain’t that so, gel? I tip Worthy a wink and he sets up some beers and a round of shots. He’s joking with Seph about her old man’s gaff and I take my opportunity to discreetly slip Cost’s note into her white shoulder bag. It’s like lighting a slow fuse, and fireworks are sure to follow. I’ll need a few drinks for this little show.

So Worthy, a very avuncular mine host, sets us up another round. Then some more. It goes all muddy for a bit, then Worthy puts some Greek plate-smashing music on and Seph and I are giving it loads. A fat cunt in a London accent says something and for some reason I get the hump. Some time later I hear a glass smashing on the stone floor of the bar and somebody pushes me and there’s raised voices. It’s like I’m wearing about six balaclavas though, cause the next thing I know is that I’m falling down a flight of stairs and then there’s nothing.

I wake up lying on a bed, with all my clothes still on. Somebody’s next to me, I can hear loud snores. It’s Seph, still in her dress. It’s ridden up a bit and I can see her white cotton knickers are still on. Smoothed, bronzed thighs, all the way up to paradise. But if my memory serves, them pants should be way too scanty to contain that big, black bush, but there ain’t no sign of it. She’s only gone and went Brazilian on me!

Obviously, no nailing went on last night. I turn away, I’m just torturing myself; besides my farking head feels like it’s gonna explode into small fragments. I recognise this gaff: it’s Worthy’s pad. Small front room and bedroom, kitchen, balcony. There’s no sign of him, he’s probably gone off on the nail somewhere.

I check the clock. It’s farking morning and I’ve only gone and left Em all night with Cynth!

I dig the wobbly out me pocket and switch it on. Seven missed calls, and loads of messages. All from Cynth, and in tones of ever increasing panic. It’s the last one that proper shits me up though: Em’s gone!

I’m looking at her image on my phone’s screen; a younger kid with a toothy smile, but still recognisable as her, stares back at me and I can hardly breathe. I’m trying to dial Cynth but her incoming call beats me to the punch. — Mickey… are you okay? Where have you been?

— I’m fine, what’s this bout Em?

— She didn’t come back last night. She met this boy, he was a nice lad; Jürgen, German, they were going to a disco. She’s stayed out. I’ve tried her mobile but she doesn’t get a signal over here with her service provider… What happened to you?

— I got tied up, ran into some old friends, I say, looking at Seph, still crashed out and snoring for Greece. I open the sliding patio doors and go out onto the balcony for a better reception. The sea looks pretty smooth and calm. The sunlight shimmering on it relaxes me a little. — My mate Worthy gave me them shots, knows I can’t drink that shit, the cunt; only went and passed out, didn’t I.

— Teresa was on the phone for Em a while ago…

Another bolt of panic hits me and my legs are pretty shaky now. I sit down on the moulded plastic chair. — You didn’t say nothing about her being gone, did ya?

— Of course not. I said that she’d gone out for a walk and some breakfast with you and she’d call her back later.

If that shabby old munter back in England gets wind of this… — Good gel. I’m back over on the next ferry. Keep me posted.

— She’ll just have gone on to a party and maybe drank too much and got her head down somewhere. You know what teenagers are like. She’s a sensible girl.

I clock a big Merc going past on the coast road and I’m thinking about those farking gangster cunts. — She’s only a farking kid, Cynth… I swallow hard, —… Any roads, keep me posted and I’ll see ya soon.

The panic is trying to rise, but I’m fighting it down, keeping a lid on it. Think Churchill, when the Luftwaffe fancied their chances. I pull myself out of the chair and head inside. My heart jumps again as I see a note on the table. I relax a little when I clock it’s in Worthy’s handwriting:

Jesus cunting Christ on a mortgage in Romford. What a stupid fucker. Barman’s probably some farking headcase. I’ll square it with Worthy, hopefully they’ll have put it down to alcoholic high spirits. Now I’m fretting about the time, as I can’t recall when the next ferry is. But it’s not for a bit. In the bathroom I catch a dodgy whiff from my armpits, so I peel off my gear and go into the shower. The warm water’s relaxing me but suddenly I hear a blood-curdling wailing sound, followed by shouting and things smashing. I run out the shower dripping wet, wrapping a towel round me, and Seph’s lying on the wooden floor, bawling her eyes out, a crunched-up note in her hand. There’s a glass ashtray smashed to bits on the floor. — He’s gone… Costas…

Of course. The note I helped him slip into her handbag in my last semi-sober moment. I remember that one. I need to make sure she don’t wreck this gaff, that’ll be another thing Worthy’ll have me for. — What’s up? Take it easy, gel…

She looks urgently at me, then screams, — He is a pig, then opens her arms. — Please, Michael, hold me!

I’m on the floor with her and she’s in my arms. I’m stroking her hair, consoling her. — I am so glad you are here, she wails. I’m worried shitless about Em. But then I recall, there’s two hours left till the ferry and her dress has ridden up and the old fellah’s desperate for the spotlight, pushing this towel aside like it’s a flaming curtain…

5. MARCE

NAILING HER WAS the wrong farking move; ain’t never gonna get rid of her now. Course, anybody can play Emperor within the Enlightened Realm of Retrospect, just as we can all play Cunt in the Kingdom of Trouser Wood; that ain’t the bleedin issue. The pertinent topic of concern is: what do I do with a nutty Greek bird whose hair’s blowing all over the place on the deck of the ferry and whose eyes are bleeding black, teary mascara all over her face? — Seph, I’ve got my daughter here, in Fuerty… and my girlfriend, well, sort of… I qualify. Daresay it’s been a long time since Cynth was described in that way, —… and I can’t have you around!

— Please, Michael, please, I need you… She pouts like a kid. — I will find a hotel over there and stay away from them if you come and see me. I cannot go home, I cannot face my father after all the things Costas said about him in his note… all the lies! She breaks into that farking wail again, the sort of sound you’d do anything to stop somebody from making. A nosy old couple on the deck stare at us. I give em the eye and they find something else to gawp at.

All I can do is play the honest broker. — Don’t do anything rash, gel. See this as an opportunity to take stock. Attempt to divest all emotion before making decisions, I explain, trying to talk down my own mounting panic about Em. — You gotta believe that things happen for a reason. Some kind of divine, cosmic ordination. That’s the word: ordination.

— But the things he said in that note… telling me that he had fallen in love with my father, and that was the only reason he wanted to be near me! He feared that my father only wanted him for sex, on the side!

— It’s a funny old life, gel.

— But my father is chief of police, she moans, — for the whole island! He is a real man! How can he be homosexual?

That was a good move, though. My advice, that one. He listened and learned, no flies on old Costas. — Stranger things have happened at sea, gel, I tell her as the boat tears through the waves.

— It’s not possible… it’s just not possible…

— Maybe it’s all just been a misunderstanding, I shrug, happy to see the Fuerty shoreline and Corralejo harbour coming into view.

Cynth’s there at the dock and she’s looking at me and then Seph in bemusement. She’s got that sour, betrayed face, like she’s been put in her place by younger skirt she can’t compete with, which, I suppose, is the case. I put her out of her misery by introducing them and giving her the party line: — Cynth, Seph; Seph, Cynth. Cynth, Seph’s an old friend who has just been, how could one put this delicately, disappointed in love. Her boyfriend’s been working on this film they’re shooting over here, and he’s only gone and done a runner. Left her a note, the lot.

— Oh… okay, says Cynth, now relieved and rather sympathetic.

Seph pouts, starts grizzling and bursts into tears again, and Cynth, on cue and now delighted cause she thinks she ain’t got no competition, is waiting to smother her into that ample bosom. As Seph gets the treatment and is happy to succumb, Cynth coughs out, — Still not heard from Em. This German boy she met seemed ever so nice, she pleads, her voice rising in panic. — I never thought they’d stay out, Mickey, she promised she’d be back before midnight!

— Yeah… I say, struggling to stay cool myself, especially as I’m thinking again of them gangster cunts. The top crowd among them maniacs these days ain’t like the old school who played by a certain code. They always target the families of the geezers they want onside. Farking low-life pseudo-nonce scumbags. — Listen, Cynth, you take Seph back to base and wait there in case of Em showing up. I’m gonna go off looking for her.

So I leave them and jump in the motor in search of Em.

I’m off driving down to the Kraut side of the island, watching the vegetation get lusher and the villages get more picturesque. I hit a few bars, asking questions, showing Em’s picture, which Cynth thoughtfully brought out, an update on my mobile phone edition, but there ain’t nobody biting.

Then as I’m driving back into Corralejo, outside a block of shitty tourist apartments, I see em: them two geezers. Them that was in the Bull the other night.

I pull into the car park outside the gaffs and watch them. The big cunt goes into the apartments, but the little weaselly un turns on his heels and heads back out. He gets into a motor. I follow him and he parks behind the supermarket. It’s empty. He gets out the motor. I do n all. My nerves are jagged with the hangover, all the booze of the other night leaving my system. Sweat’s pouring off me. My limbs feel heavy. I gotta do something, but I ain’t particularly great shakes at the physical side of things as it happens. I loved running with football mobs, but I was never a top lad, never a front-line troop. I’d be game enough when it came to thirty-second windmilling bouts with other mugs, but this cold-bloodied stuff was never my style. But I gotta do something. But I feel like shit. Like proper shit. Like a dirty, discarded, old brown shit sweating in some toilet that won’t flush away.

The geezers might be—

No. I gotta do something—

He sees me approaching.

— Alright, John? I shout at him, pumping myself up, ramping is what I believe they call it, as the faces of every top lad I’ve ever known come into my head, egging me on.

— Mister Landlord, he says with a nasty smile, like he’s some farking Bond villain expecting me. Well, I’m straight over and my nut’s in his face, and he goes down like Cynth on a dirty weekend. The cunt obviously wasn’t expecting that. I’m right down on top of him battering his head off the tarmac, screaming in his face, — I DON’T CARE ABOUT YOUR FUCKING GANGSTER BOLLOCKS, I’LL RIP YOUR FUCKING HEAD OFF AND CRUSH YOUR FARKING SKULL IN A VICE IF YOU’VE TOUCHED ONE HAIR ON MY LITTLE GEL’S HEAD, YOU CAHHNNT!

I can’t hear anything except a ringing in my ears as I crack his weaselly head twice, three, four times, but then I realise that the phone’s ringing The Dam Busters in my jacket. The geezer’s lying under me, moaning and groaning, again like Cynth after a good nailing. And like her, he ain’t going nowhere fast. I tear the wobbly out of my pocket and answer it. It’s only Cynth. — Michael, Emily’s here. Everything’s fine. Jürgen brought her back. We’re all having tea on the veranda. Yeah, they got a little tipsy last night and decided that it might be best not to try and drive so they sat up drinking coffee.

— Sweet. I’ll be back shortly, I say, clicking off the phone. My heart sinks in my chest as I look down at the geezer.

— Please don’t… he begs, and now his voice sounds all posh, — I’m not who you think… he moans.

— I… I… I try to speak and can’t, so I get off him and stand up. — Look, mate, I apologise… I think I might have got the wrong end of the stick. I offer the geezer my hand, but he waves me away and starts to sit up of his own accord, taking deep breaths, rubbing his nut. — I thought you’d kidnapped my daughter to put the frighteners on me cause you thought I heard something I shouldn’t have, which I didn’t, I try to explain. — I mean… a geezer like you…

— I’m an actor, he moans in that posh voice.

Suddenly all I can think of now is old Costas and his stupid farking movie. — Fuck me, I gasp, and I’m helping him up. — Your mate n all?

He rubs his bonce again and keeps taking deep breaths, then bends over like he’s gonna puke. After a bit he lifts up his head. — We’re shooting a film… we were method acting… learning our lines.

— Fuck sake… I’m sorry, mate. I should have thought. I even know the farking film you’re on about, I tell him, helping him back to his motor and sitting him down in the front passenger seat. — I know it might not be much consolation to ya, but you geezers are pretty good at your job, I tell him. — Had me proper wound up, you did! I laugh, but he still ain’t for seeing the funny side.

Later on, when I get back to the pub, I learn that the local Old Bill found out that the businessman geezer got shot by his wife. Seems he was knocking off the au pair, and she caught em on the job and took exception. That made me think: thank fuck for gun control in England! Trees caught me in similar circumstances once and came at me with a kitchen knife. Had to scarper pronto. In another country, say like America, old Mickey here would’ve been brown bread. Just for a farking shag, and not, as I recall, a particularly great one at that.

No doubt the likes of Trees would say it was poetic justice.

So I had the actor blokes, Will and Tom, back at the pub for a night out on me, to show there was no hard feelings. They turned out to be decent geezers: a bit la-di-da, but alright. Even got me some work on the film, Old Iron, playing the hit man’s associate! A speaking part, no less, although my character was called Silent Billy. I had to say, ‘Don’t like the sound of this. Not one bit,’ just before a bunch of us got cut down by a hail of bullets. A thespian debut. I thought: let them get their green eyes on that one back home.

Cynth was fairly enjoying playing mother hen to Em and Seph. Everything seemed sorted for a while, except that every time I looked round, and I ain’t naturally what one might call the paranoid sort, they would all suddenly go quiet. What was it the old cunt said: ‘When the eagles are silent, the parrots begin to jabber.’ — C’mon, you lot, I demanded, — out with it. What’s going on, then?

It was written all over their faces. But when they came out with it, it wasn’t half a proper boot in the bollocks. — Emily’s mother needs her, Cynth says. — She wants to go back.

I look at the kid. I thought that she was going to give me grief cause I had to give that Jürgen geezer a talking-to, even though I don’t think nothing went on. For a Kraut he was a nice young fellah, the sincere type. Thing is, I was sort of getting used to having her around. — Em?

She shrugs and says, — I don’t really want to, Dad. But Mum’s really upset cause that Richie guy she was seeing has packed her in. I’m going to go back and Jürgen’s coming to visit next month. Cynth’s gonna take me over.

I’m instantly uplifted as I look at Cynth and try to stop a smile moulding my face into Mr Sly. — Good of ya to take her, gel. I’d go myself, but there’s this place… I say, looking around the Herefordshire Bull, but all the time thinking about the nailing Seph’s gonna be getting from now on in!

— Yeah, I thought I’d go over and see my parents, Cynth goes, — and also help Persephone find Costas.

— What…?

Seph gives me a poisonous smile, which ages her about thirty years. — He thinks he can do this to me and not pay. I want to look him in the eye and tell him that he is a cowardly, lying dog!

— Sometimes it’s healthier to let it go, gel, I almost plead, looking at Em and seeing the Hardwick in her and hating it. My own flesh and blood: looking like she got a career in white heather sales. In fact, the three of them seem straight from central casting for Macbeth.

Specially, it must be said, Seph, who’s looking proper narked. — No, I will let it go once I have looked into the eye of the coward and liar!

Cynth nods slowly in agreement. She’s got a bleedin nerve acting like Snow White. A certain golfer not a million miles from here wouldn’t be best pleased if he knew what she was up to when he was on the links!

Fairly bonded, those two have, but it’s proper messing up my shagging plans. — Seph, you don’t wanna—

— He has insulted my father, who is a chief of police. He will pay for this, and she bursts into tears again, only to be crushed back into Cynth’s big floppy tits.

I let it go, cause when all’s said and done, there ain’t no use crying over spilt milk. As one door closes, another one opens; that’s what I’ve always believed to be the case concerning shagging. Sure enough, a couple of days later, they’re back to Gatwick on the flight, and I’m looking over at Marce. Bert was sitting in the corner of the bar getting plastered, while Rodj was cleaning glasses in the lounge. Ultimatums had evidently been issued. You could’ve cut the atmosphere with a knife. I nodded at Marce and dropped my voice. — Why the long face, gel?

— Bert and Rodger… they both say they want to be with me. I don’t know, Michael, I just don’t know, she told me. — It’s all too much.

I winked at her, cause I knew exactly where she was coming from. — Not that I wanna complicate things, gel, but at the election back home, that Liberal Democrat geezer said, ‘We are now in the age of three-party politics.’ Well, I think you’re in exactly the same position!

Well, she got my drift alright. — What position do you prefer? she asked, arching a brow.

And I have to say that she’s certainly delivered the goods. Poor Marce: all she wanted was a good nailing and a bit of fun, not Bert and Rodj giving it the old pistols at dawn routine.

So the summer didn’t turn out so bad, after all: the big disappointment being the film, Old Iron. It only went straight to video after me giving it the big one on the blower to the mates back home, about Hollywood beckoning and all that.

Still, you can’t have everything, and as I pull a frothing pint of John Courage’s finest for this tourist couple, Marce is on her knees behind the bar, her dirty, lovely mouth going to work on the old fellah, so I got to say that life could be worse. And you gotta admit that there’s a lot to be said for persistence. As the old cunt said back at his posh school: ‘This is the lesson: never give in, never give in, never, never, never, never, in nothing, great or small, large or petty — never give in except to convictions of honour and good sense. Never yield to force; never yield to the apparently overwhelming might of the enemy.’

Old misery-guts Rodj, cleaning up the glasses in the bar next door, daft little Bert, out on the piss somewhere, they should have heeded that advice. Reminds me though, Cynth’s only due back next week; or at least I believe that to be the case. No rest for the wicked. Still, with a bit of calmness and serenity, there ain’t no hurdle that can’t be negotiated.