I turn the key in the ignition and Billy Bragg starts playing, a busker voice and a one-amp guitar. Twenty-one years when he wrote this song. Doesn’t want to change the world. Who does? Too much work, too little respect. I’d settle for beer money and a roof over my head.
A short drive to Hanover Street, and I park behind a Ford Escort with a bad paint job. I’m guessing that the staff go in the same way as the punters, so I watch the front door, Bragg turned down.
This is how I spend most of my time these days. Sitting.
Waiting. Watching. Listening to music at an inconspicuous volume and hoping to Christ I don’t get spotted. When I started this job, I was prison-hard. I wasn’t afraid to walk down them mean streets with a rude wit and clenched fists. I had ideas. But the streets take their toll, and I soon found out it was safer to sit in a car than be out in the open. I don’t run as fast as I’d like, not as fit as I need to be. So the Micra it is.
I turn off Bragg, stick in The Smiths. I should invest in a CD player for the car. Spend some money on it. But then the kit would be worth more than the car, and I’d come out the flat one day, find a gaping hole where a Blaupunkt used to be, the rest of my motor in flames. Kids’ll torch anything round our way.
So I’m sticking with tapes.
Eject Morrissey and Marr, stick in The Animals. I listen to the opening bars of ‘We Gotta Get Out Of This Place’ then stop it before Eric Burdon kicks in with the vocals.
Fuck’s the matter with me?
You’re being followed, Cal.
That’s not the case, though. I know that. That bloke in the bar, he could’ve wandered in just like me. He could’ve been checking out the meagre talent on display. There are some blokes who don’t realise that there are boundaries when it comes to scoring. I’ve seen enough pissed-up tracksuits trying it on with office totty. He might have been one of them.
It’s this job. I’m not sure of anything. Doubt’s a pisser.
Sitting in silence now, wishing I was home, but knowing I can’t go back yet. My skin crawls with the cold. I’d turn the heater on, but it’d be like kicking this car in the bollocks.
Besides, the amount of drink in me might knock me out if I get too comfortable. I crack open a window, light a cigarette and inhale.
My mouth feels dirty. I open the glove compartment; see if I can’t find a mint or gum or something. A tidal wave of mix tapes spills out onto the passenger seat. Tom Waits, Joy Division, more Smiths, Warren Zevon, The Stranglers, Elvis Costello, Ian Dury and some crappy tape I got free from a magazine that promised New Wave, but gave me New Romantic. And, at the back, an opened pack of Extra. I struggle with the wrapper, take the last piece. Pop the gum in my mouth even though the coating’s cracked and it tastes like an inner tube.
I start shovelling the tapes back into the glove compartment, manage to pile them all in there and close it with a dull click.
‘Fuck are you doing here?’
I jump across the car. It takes me a moment to place where the voice is coming from, and when I do, all the alcohol drains from my system.
The doorman. That big bastard bouncer who chucked me out this afternoon. He’s wearing a black puffer jacket. Light catches the massive sovereign rings on his fingers and a dirty twinkle in his black eyes. ‘What’d I tell you?’
I try to get my cool back. ‘What did you tell me? My memory’s shot.’
‘You’re not welcome at the club.’
‘I’m not at the club.’
‘You’re near enough. What you waiting on?’
‘A bloke can’t sit in his car?’
‘Get out.’
‘You know I’m working for Morris.’
“I don’t give a shit who you’re working for. Get out the car or I fuckin’ drag you out.’
‘Listen to me,’ I say, but my voice cracks into a whine.
‘Morris Tiernan hired me to find a dealer who used to work for him. His name’s Rob Stokes, right? And he’s fucked off with Morris’ money. Now Tiernan wants ‘
One hand on my mouth, the other wrapping fingers around my throat. I choke out. The bouncer removes one hand, pulls his fist back and cracks me hard with those sovereigns. I black out for a second, come back to the here and now with his fingernails digging into my neck. Blood all over my jacket and one nostril feels like it’s been ripped open.
I scrabble against the door, black flies instead of vision.
He gazes at me, eyes half-closed, and squeezes my throat.
I try to tell him to wait up, hold on, let me explain, but it comes out like Donald Duck with a voice box.
‘Get out the car,’ he says. Low, soft.
I get out the car, I’m as good as dead. I don’t get out of the car, I’m as good as dead. Rock, meet hard place. My hands flap, telling him to calm down. Ease off so’s I can open the door. If I get out, I might have a chance to take off running, even though my lungs feel like they’re fit to burst.
I know I wouldn’t get far, but when the devil shits in your pillow, sometimes you’ve just got to pretend it’s extra stuffing.
The bouncer’s fingers loosen. I try to smile at him. He doesn’t smile back.
I glance at the tape deck. It’s still on. Which means a swift twist of the ignition, and I’m out of here. That’s if I can manage it without him crushing my windpipe.
Reach across and unlock my door. The doorman removes his hand and cracks the knuckles. I rub my bruised neck, cough my voice back into action. ‘I wish you’d let me explain.’
I put one hand on the door handle, click it open. My foot eases onto the accelerator.
He catches the movement. He lunges.
As I turn the key, the engine coughs. The bouncer’s eyes become wide, like what the fuck do I think I’m doing? This was supposed to be a one-on-one. His top lip curls.
The engine catches as I throw open the driver door. It glances off his right knee as he makes a grab for me. One short dig in the kneecap and he twists away, his hand falling short, his face all screwed up with anger and pain.
I floor it.
Pull on the steering wheel as hard as I can, and the Micra jerks forward, pranging the car in front with a grinding shudder. I keep the pressure on until something snaps.
One of the Escort’s hubcaps goes spinning into the street.
The Micra’s engine screams at me to take it easy, but panic has taken over. I need to put as much distance between me and the bouncer as possible. I hear his hand slam the boot of the car and tense up. Keep the motor gunned, trying to do nought to sixty in first gear.
Nothing but the roar and whine of the car in my ears now.
When I’m halfway up the street and the engine sounds like it’s going to blow, I force myself to ease off on the accelerator.
A quick look in the rear view and the bouncer’s nothing but a hulking shadow. Jesus, that was close. I ease down at traffic lights, head back to Salford. Settle back into a rhythm; let my lungs catch a decent breath. My throat stings, feels like someone took a cheese grater to it. I cough up something slick that tastes of blood and spit out of the window. Check myself in the rear view mirror. I’m a fucking mess. My nose has stopped bleeding, but one nostril is torn in the middle.
Those bastard rings. Big ugly bruises on my neck, and it feels like he broke the skin somewhere.
As I pull into my parking space, I light another Embassy.
Something is seriously rotten in Morris’ club, and I’ll be fucked if I let some steroid freak stop me finding out what it is.
I get out of the Micra, inspect the damage. The left wing is scratched and battered to hell, but I suppose it adds character.
I’ll put it on expenses, let Morris pay for it. Maybe I’ll have a word with him about his bouncer. I might even let Mo have his wicked way.
