Arabian Monkfish (Part One)

Ah get oot the black hack in Kentish Town, just ootside the Forum.

Black hacks, that’s whit we call them up the road – hackneys. Where, as coincidence wid huv it, ah’ve just travelled through. Hackney, that is. The borough in London, oan ma waiy here fae Stratford. The Carpenters Estate it’s called, where ah’ve been staiyin. Crashin wae an auld mate, Damo.

He used tae be wan ay the road crew wae the band back when we thoat we wur the next big thing. Back afore ah went back hame tae aw the fuckin madness.

Ah’d recently discovered that it’s goat fuck aw tae dae wae the place – Hackney, ah mean.

The taxis – fuck aw tae dae wae it. It came fae the French word, hacquenee, meanin, a horse that could be hired. Who knew? No fuckin me anywaiy.

Ah seem tae gravitate taewards this area, Kentish Town – whenever ah’m gaun oot fur a pint or that; even just tae walk aboot. Cunts say Camden Town is the place tae be but there’s too many fuckin weirdos kickin aboot there fur ma likin.

Ah like it here; goat some good memories ay this gaff, know whit ah mean? We played wance in the Forum, supportin a mad American grunge band, ah furget their name. Full oan Kurt Cobain wannabe cunts, an there wis us, an ecstasy fuelled, Anglo-Scots hybrid, dance-rock crossoer.

The world wisnae ready fur Arabian Monkfish though. Who could blame them really, wae a name like that?

Still though, it wis a good gig. The grungers in the crowd didnae want tae admit it, but we fuckin stole the show. Ah’m tellin ye, hud a few ay they torn faced cunts converted. Ye should’’ve been there.

That wis afore the peas an barley took its grip though. As soon as the marchin powder goat involved, we wur doomed tae failure. Oor insatiable appetite an woeful income, versus oor wilful capacity fur spendin whit little we did make oan gear, rung the death knell fur the greatest band ye’ve never heard ay. They record company cunts just don’t get it. Ye need tae invest in yer talent; let them nurture their creativity an fund the acquisition ay any substances that help them realise it. Fuckin simple enough economics if ye ask me. Speculate tae accumulate, know whit ah mean?.

Their fuckin loss, man.

Ah duck intae The Bull & Gate. Good wee shoap. Wan ay they auld fashioned, gin palace numbers. A bit like The Portland, if it wisnae stuck in a time warp, an wae mare poncy, yuppie cunts, the type ay which widnae last two minutes in there.

‘What you avin then, mate?’ the boay behind the bar sais.

‘Eh, just a pint ma man.’

‘Just a pint? A pint of what? I ain’t a bloody mind reader, pal.’

‘Sorry, man. A pint ay Tennents.’

‘You what? Don’t sell any of that fackin Scotch guff in ere mate, Carling do ya?’

‘Naw, it f-f-friggin well won’t!’ ah sais, mindin where ah um, kind ay crestfallen, ‘ . . . just gies wan ay they cans ay Red Stripe ye’ve goat in that fridge then, mucker.’

He gies us it an ah paiy the exorbitant price waeoot as much as a grumble. No dain too bad fur the auld poppy the noo but ah’ll get tae that in a bit.

Been doon here fur aboot a month noo. Efter hidin in a bush in that gairden, listenin tae aw the polis sirens an reflectin oan the carnage ah’d surreptitiously orchestrated (admittedly, ah’d underestimated the Houlihan brothers’ robust approach) ah’d floated aboot, like a fuckin ghost, in the worst rain storm ah’d ever hud the misfortune ay bein caught in, ponderin oer the next move. Eventually ah worked up the balls tae go back tae ma gaff an flung the gither whit belongins ah could.

Scanlon came roon an ah gied him the other click we hud left oer fae the bulkin up process an telt him he’d be best aff takin it oer tae the Guru oan the Sou Side. Ah knew he’d take it, laid oan, an at the right price, an shift it doon that waiy, away fae the eyes an ears ay the East End. Made sense. Loose lips sink ships, know whit ah mean?

Ah headed doon here wae ma bass guitar, a bag ay claes an three an a hauf grand that ah wis haudin fur McNulty that, given how things hud played oot, must’ve slipped ma mind tae gie him. Funny, that.

It wisnae quite as funny, the waiy he met his end, right enough. Fuckin toast, man. Whit a waiy tae go. Still though, couldnae huv happened tae a mare deservin candidate.

Scanlon thoat there might’ve been some blow back fae the Templetons oer how things went but like ah’d told him, they’re no gien a fuck aboot that rocket. Plenty mare up-an-comers ready tae step intae the breach an take his place. He placed far too much stock intae his connection tae them, but tae cunts like the Templetons, he wis just another buyer tae get rid ay their supply. It’s like ah’m always sayin – market forces, man. The market will decide.

Ah gave Scanlon maist ay the gear ah hud left ay McNulty’s ah wis haudin, tellin him tae dae whit he wanted wae it; a wee earner fur his troubles. Needed tae be done. Goes waeoot sayin. Ah brought the rest wae me tae keep the auld nerves in check, an tae break the ice wae Damo an the rest ay the troops doon here. Ease the transition process.

Didnae take long till it wis rattled, mind you. Time flies, an Persian rugs rapidly diminish, when yer huvin fun, even mare so when yer tryin tae blot oot bein an accomplice tae a bloodbath.

Ah’m meetin Damo in here efter his graft. He’s workin oan a buildin site noo in Greenwich – The Millennium Dome. Wan ay Blair an New Labour’s full-frontal cultural assaults, designed tae solidify their self-appointed status as the party ay the people; hearts an minds an aw that; a symbol ay national pride, as we edge ever forward, tae the new millennium!

Some fuckin shite like that, anywaiy. Same arse, different fuckin cheek, they cunts.

Damo sais he makes mare money labourin oan there than he ever could howfin aboot stage gear, an even though he preferred the life oan the road wae bands, he’s goat bills tae paiy. Tryin tae save up tae buy his ain gaff, he sais, an in London, that in itsel’s nae easy feat.

He keeps sayin he’ll get me a joab if ah want but ah telt him he widnae unnerstaun; that creative types like me cannae be runnin aboot pan-handlin oan buildin sites, tradin oor sweat fur a haunfae ay shrapnel. It interferes wae the creative process, know whit ah mean? That last experience in the dockyerds at Rosyth wis enough fur me.

‘Oi oi, you Jock cunt! You gettin the faackin drinks in then or what?’ a voice comes fae behind me. Damo, wearin a pair ay camouflage troosers, a too-tight Judas Priest muscle t-shirt, showin aff a multitude ay tattoos, an his long black hair tied up in a fuckin mad bun.

‘Fuckin too right ah um, brother. Whit ye intae? Some fuckin hair-do, by the way.’

‘Guinness wiv a dash of blackcurrant mate, and what abaht my air? Keeps it aaht my face when aah’m graftin, don’t it?

‘You still drinkin they cocktails ah see? Ye’d get yer baws partit fur askin fur that in Ireland, ya cunt. Here, John! Gies another can ay Red Stripe an a Guinness an blackcurrant fur ma lady friend here, whenever yer ready.’

The barman shoots us a look that suggests he’s none too chuffed wae ma gentle ribbin ay Damo — probably drinks it like that an aw, the mad prick — but keeps his opinions tae himsel, puttin them doon oan the bar an gaun back tae rearrangin the buntin hingin above the gantry, made up ay the nations flags that ur competin in the World Cup in France.

‘You got any sniff on ya?’ Damo sais, oot the side ay his mooth, keepin tabs oan the barman’s whereaboots.

‘Nah man, ah telt ye. Ah’m aw oot, man. Kept you an the boays awright fur it though, eh? Gratis. Fur lookin oot fur us till ah kin get settled – get ma ain pad an that.’

‘Yeah, yeah, course. Go on then, I’ll give ya a bump. Picked up a couple of grams off a geezer at work before I knocked off. You ang abaht a minute, then meet me in the bogs, yeah?’

Cheeky bastart, eh? Wants tae know if ah’ve goat anymare, afore breakin intae his ain stash.

The barman gies us a funny look as we come back fae the bogs the gither. ‘That Guinness an blackcurrant, mate. It goes right through him.’ ah sais, an he looks, automatically, at Damo’s pint, wae barely a drink oot it. Ah grab the drinks aff the bar an we go an sit doon at a table near the windae.

Ootside, the street’s bustlin wae folk headin hame fae work, prominent sweat patches under oxters, ties undone, shirts an blouses unbuttoned under a roastin hot London sun.

‘Listen Steve, I’ve been meanin to talk to ya.’

‘Aw aye, whit’s gaun doon?’

‘You know it’s been great seein ya. You know, catchin up, faackin avin it large and that –’

‘Too right Damo. Some fuckin laugh, eh? Me an you, just like auld times, noisin every cunt up.’

‘Yeah.’ he looks doon at his beermat, footerin aboot wae it, ‘ . . . thing is mate, you’re gonna ave to do one. Julie’s goin ape shit bruv. Says you’re takin advantage –’

‘Julie? She disnae even staiy wae ye man. Who’s fuckin flat is it, eh?’

‘Well, mine, but it don’t matter mate. I’ve made me mind up. You can come rahnd in a bit, yeah? Pick up your stuff an what ave ya. I’m sure you’ll sort sumink aht.’ he sais, takin another couple ay stanks ay the blackcurrant polluted abomination. The fuckin cunt. Ah should’ve known when he ordered that he wis wan fur the watchin. Nae coincidence they’ve aw just fuckin rinsed me fur the last ay the gear ah brought. Gie cunts an inch, an they take a fuckin mile, know whit ah mean?

‘Sound, Damo. If that’s how it is, ah’ll come roon in a bit, eh?’ is aw ah kin come up wae an he fucks off, back oot intae the bustle ay the street leavin me oan ma tod again.

 

*                           *                           *

One Week Earlier

 

Scanlon hud settled oan thirty grand fur the key he’d moved oan tae the Guru, which he’d taken oan the condition that he get it oan tic so’s he could sell it first, then square him up wae the money at a later date. Tae be fair tae auld Archie boy, he didnae fuck aboot. In just oer two weeks, he sold the lot ay it an Scanlon’s awready been roon an collected the dough. Nae fuckin greetin aboot quality either. He just divvied it up an put it oot the door, as is, an cunts snapped it up.

It’s just like ah sais – the masses, the cunts oan the street, they’re no arsed aboot percentages ay purity. They just want a dunt aff somethin, anythin. Anythin that helps mitigate the mundanity ay their otherwise woefully inadequate existence. Gie them that an they’ll come back tae the well in their droves, an they’ll keep comin till it runs dry.

Ah’d goat him tae transfer ma hauf ay the money by Western Union an MoneyGram. We hud tae dae it in different amounts, at different times an fae various locations, tae multiple other locations doon here fur me tae pick up. It takes the best part ay a week an some sizeable taxi fares, but between us, we manage tae get ten grand wired doon. The rest, he deposited in three accounts ah’ve goat wae different banks, two ay which hud the sum total ay £7.48 between them afore the deposits were made.

Wae the money in ma possession, ah decide tae go fur it an in a phoneboax no far fae The Bull and Gate, oan Kentish Town Road, ah thumb through a yella pages till ah get find whit ah’m lookin fur.