22. Sold Out

Sometimes, the good that’s in your life is so obvious that you just don’t see it. Or you see it, but it doesn’t register. You take it for granted.

It’s like with me and this town. As you know, I’ve never been highly struck on the place. Alright… there are a few good shops, some decent people, it’s relatively clean and the crime rate’s low (Sherlock’s ‘herbary’ notwithstanding). Then there's the beach and the sea close by, which is nice. A cinema and a swimming pool. And not forgetting, of course, Mad Mack’s: the best pub in the western hemisphere. Apart from that, though…

…well, alright – putting it that way, it doesn’t sound too bad. You see, that’s what I mean. When you do all the reckoning up, it comes out better than you’d thought. Could always be worse, anyway.

And then things start to happen which help you to understand the true value of it. And you begin to see that it might just get worse – depending on which side of the fence you’re on, of course.

It’s been going on slowly for years, as Suzy said. The steady drip-drip of a change of culture around here. The smart money sees a quiet little town by the sea, with London and Europe an hour away each, and lots of development potential. Business parks proliferate, and new roads get built. Houses go up all around as the population spreads. And, of course, the property prices go up, too. Ten years ago, you could get a 2-bedroomed semi around here for sixty grand. Now, beach huts are fetching a quarter of that. Barbers and bookies have gradually given way to boutiques and bistros. An SUV dealership’s appeared where a caravan site used to be. Money’s moved in and opportunities are opening up – if you can handle the price. Throw into the mix a tax-capped council which finds itself in a bit of a hole and needing to make some quick cash to fill it…

And that’s where you come to a situation like Billy’s. Literally minding his own business one minute, doing what he does best, providing a service to everyone – the loaded and the skint alike. The next, he’s up for having his livelihood whipped out from under him like one of his Turkish rugs – displaced by some developer or other, looking to turn the Hippodrome into a retail park or a bijou residence apartment block, or something. ‘Regeneration’ is the label the council’s giving this little piece of financial sleight of hand. Something that’s supposed to make the place better. But who for? What about some of the local people, whose forefathers built the town, who are now finding themselves priced out? Or the likes of Sherlock, Yoyo, and Yours Truly, still scrabbling around in the bottom of the bargain bin? What about us? Good question.

*

“Well, they ain’t getting away with it without a fucking good ruck first,” Yoyo belched, as the top of his third pint settled in his stomach.

After finishing at Lemon’s we’d dragged Billy down to the pub for a few lighteners. It ain’t every day a bloke gets told his business and (lately) home are going under the hammer at the end of the month. But he seemed quite sanguine about it all. As it turned out, he’d been expecting something for while, so had made a few plans of his own.

“The auctioneers have told me I just need to cough up ten per-cent of the valuation price and it’s mine anyway,” Billy said. “I’ve got the money from the divorce settlement and the sale of the house, plus some other savings, too. So I’ll be able to manage that and still have a tidy wedge left over.”

Sherlock rubbed his chin. “And what about the balance, Bill? Any idea what the mortgage’ll be on that?”

“Two grand a month, give or take. The business makes more than enough, on average, to cover that. The building society seemed happy with the figures, anyway. And I’ve got savings to fall back on if things get dodgy – which they never really have yet, touchwood.” He stared long and hard into his pint. “I reckon I could scrape through. Might have to pull a few more stops out… but it’s do-able.”

We sat and looked at him. Me and Yo. Sherlock. Suzy and Trina, and Lemon. We were all thinking the same. Here’s a fellah not far off fifty, looking to put himself in serious hock for the rest of his life. Who needs it? Any other situation, he’d probably be looking at getting out by sixty, then going off to enjoy himself. Making the most of what he can bring out of it.

He seemed to latch onto our thoughts.

“The thing is… the place means a lot to me, as you know. I started it from scratch with a bank loan and a few bits from some house clearances. It’s done alright for me up to now. It’s not Habitat, but it ain’t a tot-shop, either.” He cleared his throat and took a mouthful of beer. “And there’s other connections, like I told you. Family. We’re in the wood and brickwork of that place. I’m comfortable there. So…” He put his glass down on the table, like an auctioneer’s hammer on the final bid. “I’m not giving up just yet.”

Lemon, who’d been sitting quietly over his shandy, pushed his nose forward.

“Bill… I wouldn’t be so disrespectful as to suppose you’d be looking for help. But you know the position I’m in now. I’ve spent a bit on the house and I’ve looked after family. I’ve enough put away to keep me comfortable. But there’s still some left over waiting for a good use. If things get tight, or if you’re worried about anything… you know what I’m saying.”

Billy cracked a grin for the first time that day.

“I appreciate it, Lem. But I’m alright, thanks.”

“You’ll bear it in mind, though?”

Billy tapped a finger against his head.

“Labelled and filed, mate.”

*

So… not as bad as it was first painted, perhaps. That’s what we all thought. Billy got a confirmation on the mortgage, and the next day he wrote out his deposit cheque and dropped it over to the auctioneer’s office, where he signed the contract. And that was that. Sorted. He was told he didn’t even need to bother to go to the auction. But he thought he would, anyway. Me, Sherlock, Yo and Lemon tagged along, too – just out of curiosity, and to give him a bit of moral support.

It was held in the ballroom of the Esplanade Theatre, down on the seafront. Probably the biggest crowd they’d had in there since the Zimmer Frame Line Dancing Championships, in fact – including Ted Hogbin, standing at the bar, scotch in one hand, catalogue in the other, done up like a funeral director at a convention, accompanied by a couple of besuited associates who looked like they did bench presses with lorry axles. Even Yoyo was impressed. He recognised one of them from somewhere and they nodded to each other.

“Who’s that, Yo?” I asked.

“Mickey Woodruff. Sensei Mickey Woodruff, I ought to say. One of the instructors at karate. Fourth Dan. If he catches you with your guard down, it’s like being hit by a fucking planet. I heard he had a new security job. Didn’t know it was with that fuck-head, though.”

Both the tasty geezers were looking our way now.

“Better not say too much in case he’s got a black belt in lip-reading, too,” Sherlock mumbled from the corner of his mouth. “I mean, I get the distinct feeling they know what we’re saying.”

Ted Hogbin, as I’ve mentioned, runs several businesses in the area – mainly residential homes for the elderly and special needs. Not, you understand, that this should be seen as a measure of his compassion towards some of our less fortunate citizens. He’s very much the bottom line man. As he was once heard to joke at a civic dinner honouring his contribution to local care provision:

“There’s gold in them there ills.”

Also there, bobbing around in the background in his red puffer jacket and bling, like a chav’s dad at a widow’s hop, was Les Kyle – face sunk into either a bacon sarnie or a pint each time you saw him. Another of our finer examples. Probably looking for a public convenience to convert into a bedsit or something.

We went to the snack counter and got a coffee. While we were waiting, Ted and the lads sidled over. He grinned at Yoyo.

“Nice haircut, son. Let me know if you need a lawyer.”

I saw Yoyo’s chin tremble. Normally, I’d know what was being indicated by that. This time, I wasn’t so sure. Hogbin didn’t wait for an answer anyway. He swivelled his head like a ventriloquist’s dummy and looked at Lemon.

“Alright, Walter? Come to offload some of them winnings, then?”

Lemon puffed his chest out in a way I hadn’t seen before. Funny what money can do to a bloke’s confidence.

“Just thought I’d see if there’s anything interesting. Don’t suppose so, though. Not in this town.”

Something approximating a smile ruckled its way across Hogbin’s chops. Behind him, Arnie and Sly tried to look nonchalant – succeeding about as well as The Chippendales at a church bazaar.

“Oh, there’s a few decent bits – if you know what to look for. Some nice little antiques knocking around the attic, you might say. Not got your eye on anything particular, then? Be nice to know the size of what I’m bidding against.”

Lemon shook his head. “I don’t think there’s any danger of me out-bidding you, Ted. Unless it’s on that old Public Toilet near the Bandstand. But I can’t see you being interested in something like that.”

For a moment, Hogbin’s face was blank. Even his boys looked perplexed. Then he touched a finger against the side of his nose.

“You never know. I could probably find a way to spin a coin out of it.”

Lemon winked at him. “I’m sure if anyone can make a few bob out of shit, Ted, then you can.”

This time the smile stayed where it was – grew broader if anything. He reached up and patted Lemon on the shoulder.

“See you around, Walter,” he said.

Then he turned and headed back into the crowd – the lunks sticking close, like flies on a turd.

Sherlock lifted his hat and ran his hand back through his hair. “Jesus, Lem! You getting anxious for a spell in plaster?”

Lemon just shook his head. “I used to be at school with him. He was a mate for a while, believe it or not. He’s just a mouth with a body attached.”

“It’s not his body I’m worried about,” said Sherlock.

Lemon took a sip of his coffee. “He’d have taken that last crack as a compliment, believe me. He’s never been one to miss a trick. At 13, he already had a fag fiddle going with a bloke at the docks. Used to flog ‘em in the playground. Half the middle-aged smokers in Cacksea got started on Ted’s cut-price Number Sixes. He was the first kid in the school to have a brand new Chopper bike, soon as they came out – bought and paid for all by himself. Never stopped from there, really – ‘cept he has a few more wheels under him now. And he makes something bigger than fag money.”

Sherlock chuckled. “I was thinking about the other side of his reputation. Like the traffic warden who tried to book him and ended up dangling by his ankles from the end of the pier.”

“Lucky it was only his ankles, then,” said Lemon. “Don’t worry. I know how far I can play Ted.”

We took our coffees to one of the side tables and sat ourselves down. Through the thronging bodies, I could see Ted Hogbin and Les Kyle in a huddle together, running their eyes over something in the catalogue. What a pair they made, too – sartorially as well as morally: a flash-harry Dracula and a bulging bag of blood in slacks. The crowd seemed to be increasing by the minute and the hall was almost at capacity. An interesting mix of people, too. Some decked up to the nines, others looking like any toe-rag in off the street. No telling who had money and who didn’t – though I’d have bet that some of the scruffier ones had some of the biggest wads tucked away.

At ten to two, the doors were closed and people started to look towards the stage, where the auctioneer was chatting with a couple of security guys. I glanced at Billy, who was also surveying the scene. He looked like a chess master in check.

“Why do I get a funny feeling about this?” he said.

Lemon leaned across the table towards him. “Nothing to worry about, Bill. Don’t forget – you’ve pre-empted them. You’ve got a contract of sale. You’re home and dry.”

Billy looked at him. “Well… I ain’t actually got the contract yet. They still ain’t sent it through.”

“You’ve signed it, though,” said Sherlock.

“Yeah, I’ve signed it, alright.” Billy shrugged. “Like you say… nothing to worry about, probably.”

But his face stayed the same.

*

The auction got under way at two sharp and didn’t take long to get into stride – the first few small lots hardly raising a flutter and going under the hammer inside ten minutes. Then came some of the bigger stuff: garages, warehouses, storage depots. An office or two. Nothing especially important. Lot 15 was the old bandstand on the seafront – sold in three minutes to a corporate pub chain for £200,000… surprising, considering it had been refurbished only a few years back and was a substantial bit of property. Quite the bargain.

And then came the biggest surprise of all. Lot 16 was announced. The Hippodrome. The auctioneer didn’t get three words into his introduction before Billy was on his feet.

“Hang on a bloody minute. What’s going on?”

All heads turned. The auctioneer peered over at Billy, who had his arms up like he was trying to stop a train.

“Is there a problem, sir?”

“Bloody right there is. The Hippodrome’s off the list. It’s already taken.”

The auctioneer checked through his notes. Then he turned to look at someone in the wings before coming back to the mike.

“Not according to our information, sir. The Lot stands.”

Billy started to move forwards through the crowds.

“Then your information’s wrong. I’ve put a deposit down and signed a contract. You bloody know I have.”

The auctioneer gave a nod to the security men and looked over his glasses at Billy.

“I know of no such thing, sir. Now, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

The security men came in one either side of Billy and started to lead him over to the exit – at which point, Yoyo sprang up like his chair had exploded.

“What the fuck are we waiting for,” he said. Then he surged into the mass of bodies like a tanker into a flotilla of rowing boats, with the rest of us being sucked along quickly in his wake. Billy saw us, though, and yelled back.

“Leave it, lads. Leave it. Don’t give them the satisfaction.”

But Yoyo had already reached the podium and had grabbed the microphone from the auctioneer – who, quite sensibly, backed off towards the wings. Whatever Yoyo intended to do with the mike, though, he didn’t get the chance. Ted Hogbin’s boys emerged from nowhere, grabbed his arms and had him following Billy so quickly that his mohican looked like a shark’s fin slicing through the tide.

Sherlock, who was between me and Lemon, grabbed our arms and motioned us that way, too.

“Come on, guys. Do as Billy wants. We can sort it out after. We’ll only make things worse.”

*

Outside, we stood under the colonnade as the rain lashed down around us. The two security guys stayed with us, guarding the door, but we could hear enough through the windows to know that the bidding was going pretty quickly. Then we heard the final whack of the hammer on the gavel.

“Someone’s made a big mistake here, Bill,” said Sherlock. “That’s all it can be.”

Billy leaned back against one of the columns and sank down on his haunches. It was like he’d been full of air and someone had just pulled the plug out of him.

“There’s no bloody mistake, mate… except the one I’ve made. The bastards have taken me for a mug. I’ve been stitched up like a kipper.”

“But why would they do that, Bill?” I said. “If you’ve got the money, that’s all that matters. Why should they worry about who owns the place?”

He looked up at me and shook his head. “I think they’ve got grander plans for the property than my little enterprise provides. I think that’s what it’s all about, mate. One way or the other, they want me out.”

He stood up again then and took a breath.

“As it stands at the moment, though… I’ve still got a business to run. I’ve also got a couple of bottles of nice champagne in the fridge. Not much to celebrate now, but they still need drinking.” He pushed his hands into his pockets and stepped up onto the footpath. “So… who’s up for a glass or two?”

We followed him up to the road and into the wet March afternoon.