If You Liked School, You'll Love Work Page 5

  — Please … Madeline begged Alejandro, suddenly falling to her knees. — I did nothing wrong, she begged.

  Alejandro looked at this woman, and saw the dangling cross hanging round her neck. Like the one his mother wore. He thought of his father once again, that animal who had shown no mercy. — Hey … relax. He held up her phone and started snapping them with the camera. — If you are good, the only shooting is with the camera on thees phone, he almost whispered, and his hand reached out and gently touched the side of her face. Eugene glanced at the petrified Noe, and was about to lunge when Alejandro suddenly turned toward him, his eyes murderous again. — Go and assume thee position again, faggots, or you get thee bullet!

  Madeline gave them a perilous, yearning stare and Eugene, in bitter despondency, nodded at Scott and they had to go through the indignity of the ritual once again. Every snap taken by Alejandro seemed to last minutes, his leering, mocking commentary now a warped parody of a fashion photographer. Eugene shut his eyes, and he could hear the bigger Mexican saying, — Now if you tell anyone about thees, all your friends and family will have those nice peectures sent to them! These will look good in thee family album, two seesay boys and the gorl with the teetays!

  And he only knew it was over when he felt the cool, still air on his cock replace the wet heat from Scott’s mouth. Only then could Eugene hear the footsteps of the departing brothers receding and he opened his eyes. In the gray twilight he was aware of an echoing retching sound, like nothing his ears had been privy to before. It seemed as if a malign spirit was smirking in celebration of a particularly vile debasement it had engineered. He thought that it was Scott or even Madeline vomiting, but their vacant gazes and an insidious scorch he was suddenly aware of, told him the source came from somewhere inside of himself. Eugene turned to the canvas, those big arms holding him up as the bile poured from his guts, a nervous laughter punctuating every strength-sapping heave. Outside, he could hear the engine of the Chevy starting up and chugging away into the fading desert light.

  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 a
ny 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.