"...then, when he was down, I grabbed his hair and started smacking his face on the floor. I was just, 'This'll teacha for trying to screw me over you motherf*cking c*nt'."
Richard sat opposite the boy, resting his elbows on the cheap laminate table. He patiently massaged his temples and cleared his throat.
"Now, with the benefit of hindsight, what do you think you should have done?"
"Well," the boy said as he smiled, "I'd forgotten that I had my flick-knife in my pocket, I shoulda waved it in his face and scared him good!"
Richard rested his head momentarily on the plastic, before addressing the boy again. He caught the petulant stare and held it.
"We've been over this a hundred times before, the correct way to deal with the situation would have been to say, 'Excuse me, I don't think you've given me enough change, a Happy Meal is only one ninety-nine and I gave you a five pound note.'. If you'd done that we wouldn't be here." Richard waved his hand around, pointing out the peeling pastel blue walls and the rusty reinforced glass windows.
"Oh, aye, I suppose so." then his face brightened a little, "I'll give it a go on Monday."
Richard nodded, but he had a strong suspicion that the boy would be in trouble again before the week was out.
"S'funny," the boy said wistfully, "but I kinda like it in here, I mean the food's crap and the fellas in here, well, they're thick as cack, but it's nice, y'know? And you, Rich, you've been a star! If you'd been around before, well, I prob'ly would have still ended up in here, but I think I'd have felt bad about it, y'know? If there's anything, and I mean anything I can do for ya."
"Just try and keep your head down, eh?"
"Whatchya up to at the weekend then?"
"Well," Richard shrugged, "I'm meeting up with a bloke who went to school with me. I bumped into him a couple of days back and we're getting together for a pint. He seemed to be doing quite well for himself, considering he was always full of shit in the old days."
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Paul Drummond had not been either successful or popular at school. He was the one that all the boys picked on and that all the girls teased. Far from being dispirited by this, Paul had enjoyed the notoriety and had played up to the role, but when school had ended he dropped off the radar and nobody heard anything about him for years. His Friends Reunited page contained a single paragraph that acquaintances couldn't tell whether he'd written, tongue-in-cheek, or someone else had mocked up. Richard doubted however, that Paul would have chosen that particular forum to tell the world about his sex-change operation.
It had always struck Richard that fundamentally people never change, which could have depressed him in his line of work, but somehow didn't. Day in day out he saw the flotsam and jetsam of mankind and recognized in them the types of people he had known at school. Bullies were still bullies, extroverts were still extroverts, it was only the context and the way in which people reacted to them that had changed. In the same way that Bill Gates, despite his billions, was still in essence a computer nerd, he knew that he'd be working with the boy again soon. It had been the same with Paul when he spotted him getting out of a brand new Porsche. He known the face instantly, but bereft of a familiar setting he'd found it hard to place. They'd exchanged pleasantries and agreed to meet up at the AMbar, a trendy new place in town.
As Richard chained his bicycle to one of the nearby street lamps he noticed Paul's Porsche parked in the alley next to the bar. Unable to resist, he ambled over and peered in through the window. It was beautiful, the leather interior shone with a hundred valets and the controls were elegant and refined. The ultimate in flashy understatement, the designers had resisted the urge to bombard the driver with cup holders, satellite navigation and more buttons than the space shuttle. This was a pure driving experience, which yet again seemed incongruous with the owner who, the last Richard had heard, had failed his test for the seventh time.
He took off his pack-a-mac as he entered the bar, the big bouncers smirking at him as he struggled to free his arm from one of the sleeves. Scanning the tables quickly he couldn't pick out Paul amongst the clientele. After stuffing the coat into its little plastic holder he approached the bar and ordered a pint of bitter. The barmaid was tallish and had dark, shoulder length hair. The corners of her mouth were tweaked into a contented smile and as she returned Richard's money he felt the cool, smooth, moisturized tips of her fingers brush his palms. For the twentieth time that month, Richard fell a little bit in love. He was about to start some small talk when she turned to greet Paul who had emerged from a backroom door, behind the bar. Paul nodded to Richard exchanged a few quiet words with the barmaid and then kissed her familiarly on the cheek.
"Alright, matey? Go grab us a table, I'll get myself a drink and be over in a sec." He turned back to the girl behind the bar, whispering a few words in jest which made her giggle.
It was still quiet in the bar, small groups of professional types in their off-the-peg designer suits sat around sucking beer from cold glass bottles. A haze of cigarette smoke hung sweetly in the air. Richard picked out a booth and sipped his pint, not so much because of thirst, but to give his hands something to do.
Paul slid over to the table, balancing three glasses in his hands.
"Here we go, bud. I brought you another; because, to be honest once I sink into one of these booths the thought of dragging my arse to the bar just makes me feel maudlin."
'Maudlin.' Thought Richard, who talks like that?
"Last I heard," he carried on at full tilt, "you were doing something worthy, charity work, or reintroducing otters to their natural habitat or something. Now don't get me wrong, I think it's great that there are people around who are willing to spend their lives chasing little river rodents around and forcibly relocating them, but I do wonder sometimes whether there's really much point in it all. I mean for crissakes, it's not like the first bloody amoeba spontaneously appeared in that spot. Things change, and you can't blame it all on man, nature's adapting. Everything is moving quicker, and there's something a bit odd to my way of thinking about these Luddite bioterrorists who honestly feel that they're doing the world a favour by looking at how things were twenty, thirty years ago and then trying to freeze them at that moment. What's the point? It's the same in business too y'know. Julia and me bought these bars a few years back, you know what they were? Irish themed pubs. What the hell is that? Had the people who'd designed them ever even been to Ireland? The only thing that was apparent when you walked through the door was that you were never going to stay for more than one pint; you'd knock it back quick and then head on to the next themed joint. Sure, it wasn't going to be any better, but at least you got a spot of fresh air on the way. So how are the beavers then, Richy?"
"I work with young offenders Paul, which is quite enough wildlife for me. It's not the easiest job, and our success rate with rehabilitating them is pitifully low, but the government has promised us some extra cash. If we can get it to the really bad areas and set up good programs I think we could make the world of difference."
"That's what would depress me about going to work for someone else now, it's just so liberating to control your own budget and not have some jumped up suit telling you that you can only spend this amount this tax-year and that you've got to make the money stretch to cover that initiative. I like being able to say, 'Screw this theme bar bullsh*t', and do this." he waved his hand around the bar, "I had this idea you see, it was brilliantly simple, you charge people two or three times the going rate. There are masses of chain pubs that really discount the booze and what do they get? They get a bar full of drunken townies and a low profit margin. But what it's done is create a niche, where people will come for a quiet, exclusive, drink. O'course, it wouldn't work if hey didn't think they were getting something better, I mean I know people are stupid, but no-one's going to pay over a fiver for a pint of bog standard dishwater. So we bought a stake in a small brewery, stuck a very plain label on one of their bog-standard lines and then did a Haagen-Dazs. There was an article in Scientific Canadian about how 90% of taste is in the brain, if people think that they're swilling champagne they will taste champagne. Which is all top stuff for me."
"You do seem to have done pretty well for yourself; I was admiring your car on the way in."
"Oh yeah, she's my pride and joy. In another six months or so I'll part-ex it for the new one, quarter of a mil more but goes from nought to sixty just under a second faster. Now that might not sound like much in those terms, but let me tell you, when I test drove one at the motor show the acceleration made my bollocks tingle."
"That's nice." Richard stared into his pint, what little of it was left. The conversation up until this point had been a bit one-sided and he had felt like the one man recipient of 'An audience with Paul Drummond'.
"So what are you driving then?"
"I use a bike for my day to day commuting, I only live about a mile from work and if I ever need to travel cross-country I've got a mate who lends me his Polo."
"Well, it certainly keeps you trim." Paul concurred, admiringly, "I try to get to the gym, but business keeps me tied up most of the time. It'd be all right but when you're living out of hotel rooms and eating in restaurants where the food is just so. . . Cycling is a really great way of keeping trim. I went on a fantastic cycling holiday about a year ago in the Canadian Rockies, the weather was beautiful, and the scenery is amazing. I was gonna get a bike when I got back, and maybe a flash four-by-four to sling it in, but I stepped out of Heathrow and the sky was grey and it was pissing with rain and I just realized that there was no way on gods earth I'd have ever used it."
"It's not too bad, you just need a good coat," he pointed to his pack-a-mac, "and at least we're well served for cycling lanes around here."
"Yeah, they're trying their best but you should see the town planning they've got out in Vancouver. I bought a flat out there the first time I visited. Lovely place."
The barmaid sauntered over, and gave Richard a warm smile.
"Richy, let me introduce you to Julia, my angel." he hooked his arm around her waist and tipped his pint to his lips, he'd only drunk a half of it, but even that surprised Richard, who had barely noticed his acquaintance even draw breath. Having sunk his two pints with frightening rapidity he felt, bloated, slightly queasy and now that his mind had thought about it, in need of a piss.
"It's nice to meet you." he smiled, and shifted uncomfortably.
"I think that you're the first of Paul's friends that I've ever met, you don't talk much about the past do you?" she chided him.
"There's nothing I could tell you about myself that you don't already know," he retorted, "or that wouldn't really piss you off."
Richard raised his eyebrows at the woman, but she was busy ruffling Paul's hair.
"As if you could."
The familiar gesture inflamed in Richard a spark of envy which grew steadily as they passed the evening, the conversation settling uneasily on a variety of topics on which Paul's views infuriated and disgusted the listener. By the time that Richard staggered from the bar, very, very drunk he had fostered in his heart a loathing for Paul that was unmatched by anything in his previous experience.
In his stupor he remembered something about how it was illegal to ride a bike while drunk, so he set off home on foot. The night was cool, and once he'd left the city centre the paths became quiet and deserted. Occasionally a car would glide past, the faint thud of its radio faintly audible through the closed windows. Richard reviewed the evening, experiencing alcohol induced clarity of vision. Somehow the idiot child he'd known at school had become an idiot adult, but a successful one. He was driving a car that would have set Richard back several years wages and was going to buy a new one that would cost well over double the value of Richard's house. He'd traveled widely, lived a stress-free exotic lifestyle that Richard found difficult to visualize, it being so totally alien to his past.
In contrast, Richard felt like a failure, as though life had stuck its tongue out at him and just as he'd begun to get offended had dropped its trousers and started to moon him. Materially, he couldn't compete; Paul was living a lifestyle that Richard couldn't imagine, but what of job satisfaction? Richard laughed bitterly and startled himself by the noise in the quiet dark road. What good was he doing? The boy would be in trouble again before the week was out and they'd talk and talk and talk and maybe get him onto a scheme. Then he'd offend again and nothing would have changed. He'd seen it over and over again but only now, in the desolate early hours of a lonely Saturday morning, did he realize that any success he'd had was temporary, a stay of execution. He sat down on a park bench, bizarrely facing four lanes of dual carriageway.
Then there was Julia, the raven-haired barmaid. Paul's partner in business and in love. That was the success that really offended him, that such an obnoxious bastard could pull such a sweet and beautiful woman. It'd have been months since Richard had even got a snog. He consciously decided not to count how long it had been since he'd last got laid. Wiping water from his eyes he lay down on the bench and rested. When he woke the following morning he was cold, stiff and covered with dew.
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"Hiya chief!"
The bellowed greeting startled Richard as he stood in the empty aisle deliberating which soups to try this week. The boy stood there proudly, grinning like a maniac, next to a trolley full of nachos and snacks.
"I got a job!"
"Congratulations, how's it panning out?"
"Well, I've only been here a fortnight and they're already saying that I'd make a good supervisor, I know all the fiddles see?"
He sat down on the corner of the trolley and Richard lent up against the shelves.
"Nacho?" the boy offered ripping open a packet, "We've got some dips around here too."
Richard rolled his eyes. "Do you think that's a good idea?"
"I know, I know, we yapped and yapped and yapped about how I shouldn't do this and don't do that, but I've been watching other people and I've sussed out where I went wrong! I kept getting f*cking caught!"
Richard reached over and took a handful of nachos as the boy popped open a jar of spicy salsa.
"I'm the only one on stacking duty tonight, and there's Sylvia on the tills. In any case, Bob, our manager knows that we all pinch stuff, they call it 'grazing', get that!"
"Well, you certainly seem to be getting all those life-skills we talked about."
"How are you then? Missing me?"
"I think I'll get by." Richard popped a dip laden snack in his mouth and chewed, it tasted a bit cardboardy, but the dip wasn't bad.
"How'd that meeting go with your mate from school?"
Richard rolled his eyes again, he'd been doing that a lot recently; on reflection he thought he might take up yoga.
"It was awful. The guy is an even bigger wanker than he was at school, but now it's even worse because he's a successful wanker. He spent the whole evening telling me about how he owns that chain of pubs, y'know, the 'AMbars' and how they're doing so well and how he's got this beautiful car, a Porsche, but how he's gonna buy a better one. He goes off on all these flash holidays, but the really, REALLY galling thing was his girlfriend, she's just beautiful and smart and funny. Why do women always fall for bastards?"
"'Cos they're more interestin than you buddy." smiled the boy, then on seeing Richard's face fall, "Just being straight with you."
"Yeah, well, you've learned in two weeks what it's taken me ten years to understand. No-one appreciates the work you do, no-one cares if you're good or bad or anything in life. Just screw what you can out of it and if you're smart you won't get caught. Hey, pass over some of those crisps."
The boy picked out some fancy ones and threw them over.
"Don't get too down about it matey, things always catch up with the real bastards in the end, not the honest sorts like us."
They chomped quietly at their snacks. Each lost in their own, not entirely dissimilar thoughts.
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With a cursory glance he could see that the Porsche was a write-off. Every window was smashed, the boot had been opened up and the engine attacked with an axe or a sledgehammer and then the car had been set alight. Richard looked at the smoldering remains and had a terrible ice-cold sensation in the pit of his belly that he might, in some small way, have been responsible. He chained up his bike and nipped into the AMBar.
"Can you tell me when my claim is likely to be approved?" snapped one of the bouncers from his previous visit at a buzzy voice emanating from his mobile phone. He listened for a few seconds as the mobile buzzed like a sleepy wasp. He was sat on a bar stool and glanced angrily at Richard as he walked in.
"That's not good enough! It's clear that it's a write-off; there isn't a single part of the car that isn't smashed, burned or buckled in some way. I need a car! Yeah, well, I hope so too!" he slung the phone down on the bar and growled.
"Bastards! They take your money year in year out and then when you finally need their help they're about as much use as a chocolate teapot. They never point out to you that they don't guarantee getting you a hire car do they? Apparently you get one of those if your car is being repaired, but if it's a write-off you have to wait for weeks for the buggers to approve your claim."
The man hopped off of the bar stool and stalked purposefully out of the bar. Julia peered into the bar from the back room and, seeing Richard greeted him with a smile.
"Have you seen what they've done to the car?" she asked him.
"I'll bet that Paul is really narked." Richard chipped in, then thought about it and realized that he'd probably just buy the flashier car early. A pang of jealousy kicked in again.
"Oh yeah, he's mortified. I've been meaning to thank-you though, he doesn't have many friends and I know that he appreciated you coming over for a drink the other night." she leant across the bar propping her cheeks on her palms and the green amber necklace she was wearing swayed gently from her bosom and rested on a flannel. Richard was hypnotized.
"Well, life seems to be going quite well for him, what with the car and the bars and the holidays."
"Yep, it's not been easy for him, so many problems. But we've not got a lot of family and so we have to stick together really."
Richard had the uneasy feeling that he'd made a horrible, horrible misjudgment.
"It's difficult at times though, I mean he's so full of shit," she continued, "you wouldn't believe the things he tells perfect strangers, that he owns the bar, that the car is his. . . I wouldn't mind so much but people then talk to me as though I'm his floozy. But I worry, y'know? He's off running the usual errands, but the bar isn't doing so well and so the boss there wouldn't bung him in a taxi. I dread to think where he's gonna end up on the buses."
She frowned unhappily and then rested her hand on his. "It's really nice to be able to talk to someone he knows from way back, who knows his little foibles."
"Er, yeah." Richard stuttered. "So is the insurance likely to pay out for the Porsche?"
"Well, they've been stalling until now, waiting to see what the police could find out."
The feeling in the pit of his stomach suddenly became very painful.
"But we got a phone call this morning and they haven't got any fingerprints from the hammer that was used, there's nothing of any use on the CCTV footage. I'm just at a loss to explain why anyone would do this, jealousy?"
"It can make people do mad things." Richard admitted, maybe the kid was getting smarter after all.
"Anyway, that's the last extravagance we'll see around here for a while, they'll pay off a big chunk of the loan and replace it with a Renault or a Citroen, maybe something Japanese. Anyway, enough of my chuntering, what can I do you for?"
"I just popped in to see how you both were."
"Oh, aren't you sweet?" she ran her hand down his arm, "I was just about to brew some coffee and make some bacon sarnies, fancy joining me?"
Richard looked at her and fell in love a little bit more. He quickly assessed his culpability, wrestled briefly with his conscience and then cleared his throat.
"Sounds great."
©Mark Sexton 2004