MONEY POWER RESPECT
by
MICHAEL KEENAGHAN
"Listen, mate, don't argue with me, just hand over the fucking money!"
The shopkeeper was unimpressed, arms folded behind the counter.
"People like you make me laugh," he said. "Where I come from I've seen real violence. Bombs, machine guns, killing, every day. You don't frighten me. Now get out of my shop and get a job, you skinny bastard, before I get angry."
Punchy had the machete raised in the space between them, the Sikh staring him out behind the blade with cold defiance. Punchy hadn't expected this. Why wasn't he handing over the money and pleading for his life? Punch'y hand was beginning to shake, the adrenaline bursting through him, fight or flight time. Here he was, tooled-up and balaclavad, and setting no impression whatsoever. What the fuck was going on? Abort. Abort now.
He turned and ran. Two streets away, his car wouldn't start, farting up and cutting out like the cheap piece of shit it was. This was all he needed.
"Come on, you fucker - Start!"
It did. He was out of there.
***
Punchy's girlfriend had put on weight. Lots of it. You know Dawn French, fat bird off the telly. That's the sort of weight she was heading towards. Two years ago when Punchy first met Marie, she'd been one of those cuddly birds with curves. Thing was, she just kept getting cuddlier.
When they'd walk down the street together, say hand in hand (something Marie always insisted upon) he'd sometimes hear a beep from a builders' van. "Cor, mate, that's a beauty you got there!" or "Give her one from me!" Marie would smile, taking it as a compliment. Punchy wouldn't. He knew they were taking the piss. But he didn't care. Marie's weight didn't matter. He'd always preferred a bigger kind of bird anyway. And besides, he loved her.
Punchy put in his few final thrusts, felt the tingle and was done. He flung the rubber out the window - spot on - and reached for the ciggies.
"Is that it?"
"Is what it?"
"That - are you finished?"
"Yeah. Of course. Marie, I'm done. I can't keep going on once it's happened. Anyway, I've had a hard day."
For a while they smoked in silence. It was a hot evening, the setting sun beaming in, the two of them naked on the duvet. It wasn't a bad flat. Twelve floors up the view was amazing, right into the city. Marie had been lucky getting hold of this. Getting a council flat in London these days was like winning the lottery.
"Punchy?"
"Yes, darlin' "
"Do you think I'm too fat?"
"No. Of course not. No way."
"Well, Punchy..."
"What?"
"I've been thinking. I think we should have a baby."
"A baby? Marie, we can hardly afford the bills as it is."
"The doctor reckons it would be best to maybe lose a stone or two, but it's not essential. A bit of weight is good for pregnancy. A boy, Punchy! A little Punchy, running round, here with us..."
Marie was going into some kind of reverie, talking about a mate that had just given birth, Mothercare, prams, baby clothes...
Punchy's mind drifted elsewhere. That fifty quid he blew in the bookies. It was meant for the phone bill. If Marie found out she'd go spare. And of course that bit of madness in the off-license. Getting hyped up in the pub, then marching in there with big expectations. Talk about an embarrassment. He'd bought the machete off a bloke for twenty quid. Right now it was lying at the bottom of the canal. More money wasted.
He cracked open a can of Ice cider. In the humid Summer evening the drink was refreshing. Usually it tasted like shit. Cheap and nasty. He rolled it across his forehead. The heatwave hadn't let up for weeks.
"Punchy?"
"Maria."
"How can you drink that stuff?"
"Cider? I like it. Especially in this weather."
"But that. Thatstuff," she said, pointing at the can. "It's what the tramps always drink."
Punchy laughed. Tramps? She was right. If he didn't watch out he'd be a tramp soon enough. At the scamming game he was a low-end apprentice and probably always would be. Most crims graduated. You started on the shit and you worked your way up. Joined the ranks. The blokes that piled it in, walked around confident like they owned the gaff. Punchy was still on car stereos and tricks with vending machines. Small change.
These days schoolkids were making more money. Boasting about it too. Every time Punchy got on a bus he'd hear some fifteen year old bragging away, giving it the big gangster talk. Selling crack though wasn't really Punchy's style. But here he was, twenty-five and still without a penny to his name. Marie was only twenty, but now she was talking babies.
Punchy had asked around for any work going spare (he'd even asked his psycho brother) but really he would have to come up with a plan. They needed dough.
He rested on Marie's chest. She stoked his hair. A gentle breeze had entered the flat, the sound of the city easing down after another chaotic day. There was a whole world out there. Opportunities everywhere. You just had to grab them. One of these days,surely, Punchy's time would come. He'd strike lucky.
Marie's hand was playing with his cock.
"Ah, Marie, come on, I'm tired."
She manoeuvred herself over him. "Lie back," she said. "We'll see if you're tired." She took him in her mouth. It felt good. Punchy could see her full arse in the mirror, her womanhood. The pressure rose. Fuck it. He wanted in. He mounted her from behind, began working away full throttle.
He still had some tension to work off. The episode in the shop. What a disaster. He pictured the Sikh staring down at him, unfazed, even with a fuck-off machete in his face. What was it he'd said again? Get out you skinny cunt and get a job. Something like that. Well Punchy did have a job. Crime was his job. Using his savvy to get places, move up in the world. And he wasn't a skinny cunt. But he'd been nothing more than a bit of turd on that bloke's shoe, basically. A minor irritant. Another little scumbag off the streets. It was about time someone somewhere showed Punchy some fucking respect. It wasn't his fault he had fuck all.
Maria was moaning away. So the geezer thought he was a wanker, did he? He pictured himself walking in looking like Al Pacino. Placing a sub-machine gun to the shopkeeper's forehead. "Cocky now, yeah? Now listen, pal. This time I'm the boss, okay? Not you. Fuck you. So you see this bag here - fill it, NOW, or I'll paint your head against the fucking wall!"
That would show him.
As he was pumping away Punchy thought he heard a noise in the hall. But no, surely not. Must be the bed springs. Then he heard, "Oi, oi! Where are ya...?"
Standing in the doorway was Punchy's older brother Tommy. His full name was Tommy "One- Ear" Malone. People generally called him Tommy One Ear. He'd had a good chunk of one bitten off in a pub fight. But as they say, you should have seen the other bloke. Tommy done four years for manslaughter. These days he was mostly robbing drugdealers.
Tommy's face had dropped. It looked like it was stamped with the word "malfunction". Punchy, meanwhile, had pressed pause. Palms upwards he said, "Can you give us a minute, Tom, yeah?"
Two minutes later.
"What are you doing here? How did you get in?"
"Key was under the mat."
"So you just let yourself in - I was busy!"
"I know, I seen you... Look, sorry, bruv, I knocked. Honestly, if I'd known..."
They sat down. Tommy produced some lagers.
"Where's Mazza?", Tommy asked. She was having a bath. "Good. Me and you need to talk. Private, like. Let's have some noise"
Tommy went over to the DVDs, selected ‘Charlie's Angels’. "Cor, the tits and arse on this - they could fly-kick me into action anyday!"
Then he looked around as if to make sure no-one was in earshot. And began talking business.
He had for Punchy what he called "a nice little earner." Punchy would be "employed" by a local gang of gun dealers who were looking for someone with a flat to store their wares. Just a few, like, not much. A suitcase worth.Tommy knew these fellas from inside.
"They're good blokes. And what do you have to do? Sweet FA. The cozzers would never come looking here. It's good pocket money. I'd do it myself but I know you need the money at the moment."
Punchy had to think carefully about this. The idea of Old Bill steaming in at 6am to rip him out of bed on firearm charges was a no-no. This was heavy shit, well out of his league. He'd be looking at years. His brother took every risk in the book without a second thought and often ended up paying for it. If you listened too much to Tommy One Ear you'd have to start liking the taste of porridge pretty quickly. The year that Punchy spent in the Scrubs was well enough for him. But yet...
"My advice is, Punch, go for it. Just answer you phone 24/7 for when they get a sale and want to make a collection, and an envelope will be hitting that mat weekly. I've recommended you."
As for ever getting a proper job, Punchy had no chance. Employers always went for first impressions. The scar down his cheek he'd took from riding pillion one time and hitting a lamppost made him look like a nut. And more than once he'd been told that his general demeanour seemed to imply one word alone: Unemployable. He didn't quite understand it. He could work just as well as the next man, just at different things, that's all. And besides, that stint in McDonalds had been a fucking nightmare...
Tommy was getting some charlie on the go, chopping up two hefty lines. One thing about Tommy, he always had money. Even fresh out of nick, never seemed to be skint. He must be doing something right.
Between the coke and the lager it wasn't long before Punchy was saying: "Fuck it, course I'll do it - bring 'em on, man!"
Tommy One Ear left the flat a happy man; he liked to spread good fortune, especially to someone like his kid brother. He'd even sorted him out with a couple scores. He looked like he needed a good meal. Punchy didn't feel too bad either.
"Atlast he's gone!" Maria said, emerging in her bathrobe. "Barging in like that...!"
"Hey, forget about earlier. You know Tommy, he's alright."
Punchy finished his beer, aimed for the bin. Bingo.
Marie dimmed the lights. Outside, the night was black.
She dropped her bathrobe and was standing hands on hips in stockings and suspenders. Immediately, Punchy's dick turned into the London Gherkin. She was a big girl but bloody hell, she didn't half look sexy.
"We're going to make babies, Punchy. Me and you together. You, doing it to me until there's a baby inside of me..."
This time they did the business over the table. Punchy swiped aside an old KFC bucket and got to work. He was riding coke-high and didn't mess around.
"Yeah, that's it, Punchy, fuck me hard, fast, fuck me good... impregnate me with that big prick of yours."
Punchy loved it when Marie talked dirty. He worked away with fury. He felt like an Olympic athlete, the crowds cheering him on. Or a Superhero. Flying over tall buildings. Working hard for the masses. Ultimate power. Respect. He was shagging the arse off his bird, looking forward to a few extra quid and feeling happy as Larry.
"That's right, Punchy, fill me with babies... lots and lots of babies..."
On the wall Punchy could see a photo of the two of them on holiday in Malaga. Standing on the sand, cocktails raised to the sun. Clear, fresh skies. Not like the polluted crap of London. Marie looked perfect in her little bikini. Probably only a size 14 then. But what did it matter. Women seemed obsessed with weight and dress sizes; men could'nt give a fuck. They preferred a good bit of meat to a bag of bones any day. Punchy recalled the night they'd made love on the beach to the rising sun. Malaga, hey. He'd made a packet on a scam and made sure to spend it well. Good times. Maybe once again he was onto a lucky streak. Oh yes. He could feel it in his loins.
***
The money kept arriving for a few weeks, then as they gradually collected up their stash, that was the end of that. They must have sold like hot cakes. It got a few debts paid anyway. And to be honest, having a bag load of ex-Albanian mafia handguns hanging round the house was a bit naughty to say the least. At least Punchy could get a nights' sleep now. Well, when he wasn't having to perform on Marie. She was still talking babies, big time, and Punchy was considering getting a dog for her, to cover the maternal instinct for a bit. What with having to go at it like a wild goat at every opportunity, Punchy was knackered.
He was also pissed off. Maria had suggested something about him going for a sperm-count test. What was she on about? There was nothing wrong with his spunk. How was she expecting to get pregnant in just a few weeks? Even so, the possibility of being a Jaffa bothered him. You never knew. All that kind of talk made him feel like he had one bollock.
On top of that, the dole were on his case. Giving him untold grief. They'd put him on their New Deal bollocks, and there he was, doing what you always had to do on these back-to-work schemes. Nothing, basically. Or at least nothing of any value. Stuck in a room every day with twenty other bods. Fucking about on the computers, talking shit and drinking endless tea. He wanted to be out there, opportunities on every street, crawling the pubs, picking up word of business that way. Out there in the world making dough.
Not all this load of old bollocks. The government wanted to make it look like they were doing something, so they rounded you up like cattle and wasted your time. Took you off the unemployment figures while they did this as well. Sneaky cunts. Blair and his cronies needed a good stabbing.
Soon they were giving Punchy 13 mandatory weeks of Community Service-style shit. That's what they did when you were on a dole. Treated you like a fucking criminal.
It had been a long, hot, stressful day. Punchy had even had a bit of a fight with a crackhead on the stairs. The bloke thought it had been alright to take a shit right there. Punchy had stepped straight in it. Now Punchy had a sore cheekbone. The bloke said he'd shoot him if he ever saw him again. Right dodgy-looking cunt as well. Punchy would have to carry a knife from now on, something big and sharp, protect himself from these fucking psychos.
Maria was bouncing around to a workout video. Keeping her metabolism up for the imminent pregnancy. She'd even ditched the fags and the fast food. The fridge was full of nothing but carrots and green leaves and shit. Punchy hadn't had a decent hunk of protein in weeks, was dreaming about the stuff, red meat dripping blood. This wanting-a-baby lark was no joke. Punchy was sitting on the sofa, leafing through the local ‘Advertiser’. He was considering getting off the dole for a while, going straight, even if it meant flipping burgers. They were doing his head in, endlessly lecturing about Initiative, Confidence, Barriers to Employment. It was like going back to school. At this rate he'd end up fucking loopy.
He turned a page in the local rag and was met by the cold, defiant stare of the Sikh from the off-license. Christ! There he was, arms folded, triumphant, like he'd just done a prize shit. Punchy was enthralled. He read the story. Some yob had burst in, brandishing a gun, demanding the takings. Mr Singh, who had recently been plagued with such incidents, was having none of it. A struggle ensued, during which several shots were fired, one grazing his side. This didn't stop him.
He got stuck in with a fury, his cricket bat ensuring the youth hit the deck and stayed there.
When the police arrived there was a tied-up comatose armed robber and an injured shopkeeper who had bravely protected himself and his business from the criminal scum of the streets. The youth had a fractured skull and a faceful of missing teeth. He was in a bad way. But who cared? Why would they? As for the cricket bat, it had, by chance, been lying near at hand. He had them lying all around the house. Mr Singh was an avid cricket player, well known in the community for his talents as a fine batsman. The police commended his actions and put him forward for a bravery award. They were concerned about a significant influx of handguns in the area. Many Glock handguns had recently been recovered during a stop-and-search trial, and an investigation into the possible source was currently gathering momentum. Arrests were soon expected.
The caption above Mr Singh's head simply read: HERO.
© Michael Keenaghan
Reproduced with permission
IAIN SINCLAIR
MICHEL HOUELLEBECQ
J.G. BALLARD
JAMES KELMAN
JOHN FANTE
DAN FANTE
ALAN SILLITOE
