Harris glanced up from his overpriced beer. Places like this made him sick. Everyone so young, laughing and joking, carefree; all loose-fit jeans and little t-shirts, half of them probably queer. Brixton was all trendies now, arts and media workers, ponces the lot of them. But Harris remembered the days when on this manor you had to watch yourself, the arsehole of South London, an angry nigger's paradise, rough as fuck. Not to say there still wasn't plenty of them about, but there you go.
Once more Harris phoned her and again her mobile was off. What a mug he was. Last night listening to some posh bird warbling in his ear about meeting up. What was her parting shot again? Be there, big boy. Taking the fucking piss. But of course all along he'd known it - only turned up just in case. But fuck it anyway. Served him right for going on the piss in Upper Street. Nothing but Guardian-reading scum.
He ordered another bottle, the strop of a barmaid planting it down like she was ready to quit. Harris shook his head. Fucking hell, if life's that crap then piss of back to Poland you fucking bitch. Face like the back of a bus. Though working in Brixton what do you expect?
A bloke at one of the tables was mouthing his head off, skinny media type, his unisex mates all looking up to him like he was God. When he laughed they laughed. Under the din of crap music Harris caught a few words of the monologue: "art gallery", "Shoreditch", "party", "lots of drugs". Typical. Harris drank his beer with total disdain. He had a choice: either sit here getting more depressed by the minute or move on somewhere better - quick. But where? Stuck in South fucking London. What a mistake.
Fuck this. He headed to the bogs. Chopped out some charlie right there on the sink-top not giving a shit. Get charged up a gear - take it from there. Some bloke smiled on his way out, said something, trying to be funny. Yeah, whatever, piss off, Harris muttered. A line for each nostril: up it went. Not bad shit either. He always bought off an old army mate, now pensioned off and in the powder trade. Harris couldn't imagine working full-time dealing with cokeheads all day, no way; too fucking depressing. Though, having said that, he'd have to soon get his arse into gear and do something. Life was getting monotonous. He couldn't stay out on the piss spending his compo forever.
Sometimes he wished he was back in Iraq. Those were the fucking days alright, even if it had left him with steel plates in his back and shrapnel still in his legs, not to mention marks and gashes all over him. Never mind though - war wounds to impress the ladies. But on a bad day the old psychological thing was a bit much. Dwelling on the bad aspects. And coming down from the old marching powder didn't always help, never helped, but fucking hell, you've got to live. And besides, things could have been a lot worse. He remembered the attack outside Baghdad. The rebels shelling the earth all around them, pulling one of his squadron to safety, dragging him by the scruff of the neck, not realizing the bloke's legs were gone, arms hanging off in tatters, blown to bits; nothing but a stump. He had to leave him because again the shells were raining down. But he'd never forget his eyes, never.
But the camaraderie. You miss it. You want it back. Return to civvy street after all that and everything turns to shit. No action anywhere. On two occasions he'd spotted old mates drinking on the street with tramps, gone to fucking pot, wasting away. It's true, you speak to the homeless and half of them are ex-fucking squaddies. Left to rot. Makes you sick.
Harris looked in the mirror. Still looked alright for his age. That bird last night had took him for early-thirties. Not bad for a thirty eight year-old who's been dodging bombs halfway round the world, not bad at all. Such a shame: she was the business that bird. Brunette, big and chunky - just the way he liked them. None of that supermodel shit, no way. Big shoulders and big broad tits. Nice and built. Problem was, she had some fancy job with a big PR firm so thought she was something special. Probably just sitting by a phone filing her nails all day. Big fucking deal. Mention you're a squaddie and birds normally love it, works every time. But that bitch - it probably frightened her away, went against her Islington PC values or something. Head up her own arse. Hadn't minded him buying her drinks all night though. But come closing it was all excuses. Winding him up. Sending him down over the river to a bar full of fucking fashion and media whores. Slag.
Harris strolled over to the urinal for a piss. Another bloke was there too. Trendy highlights and a figure-hugging little t-shirt like some kind of bumboy hairdresser. Probably spot on there. On the sly Harris clocked the man's prick. It was shocking - nothing was coming out of it, it was hanging there all gorged-up, semi-erect. Now the bloke had turned and was looking right at him, down to the dick and back to the face, smiling. Hang on a minute, I'm seeing things. Bewildered, Harris zipped up and walked back to the sinks. The bloke was pissing away like nothing had happened. Harris watched him finish up. Had he just imagined that? The bloke walked over and was washing his hands. Harris must have been fucking hallucinating; he'd been caning it for quite a while, burning both ends, and the doctor had warned him not to mess about on top of the stress tablets... But no. You don't imagine shit like that. And not in a place like this. Fucking full of them.
Harris charged at him, sent him crashing into one of the cubicles. Queer cunt, taking the piss out of him. The bloke was down by the bog clutching his shoulder like it was broken - what have I done? What have I done? Harris kicked him in the face, broke his nose just like that. Thing was, he was probably loving it - ooh, the danger, the aggression, the violence. But these pricks knew nothing about violence. Nothing about pain. He remembered being in the brig. That was hell. Really was. Two months mental torture, locked up like a fucking traitor. For what? Misconduct in the line of duty. Bullshit. He'd been rough with a captive. Big deal. Maybe he'd got carried away, but war is war, you're out there, you're fired up, the strain takes its toll. But up before a kangaroo court they don't give a shit.
It was ironic though, getting done for fuck all. They didn't know the half of it. What about that girl he'd fucked in Basra. Cunt like a vice, broke her in good. Little terrorist bitch. They'd been doing raids for hidden arms and found a family house with enough firepower to blast all their arses to hell. He remembered the face of her father as he rode her right in front of him. Just ripped the cloak from her and rammed it straight in, a nice AK47 pushed into her neck. Move, you Arab cunt, and the little bitch gets her head blown off. Wasn't such a cocky rebel fighter then, I tell you. Then pelting the bastard with a round of lead, watching him do a little dance in front of his family, the girl crying to her mother and the lot of them wailing like banshees.
All that pissing about in the desert, and all these nuclear bombs lying round gathering dust. Solve the problem in five fucking minutes. But then there wouldn't be any fun, would there?
The hairdressing ponce was curled into a ball, loving it down there with all the piss and shit, Harris firing in some well-practiced kidney shots. In the morning that'd fucking hurt like a bastard. Such a skinny little cunt as well. Typical white weed. Made you think: if ever there was another riot in Brixton these pricks would be running to the hills. No way would they fight in no urban nigger war, that's for sure, even if the cunts were ransacking their pads and coming at them with machetes. Harris thought of the news footage he'd grown up with: never-ending war in Northern Ireland, mainland IRA bombs, riots in virtually every British city. Growing up in Walthamstow nothing ever happened, but on the box the whole country was flaring up. Fired him up no end. Planted the seed that made him want to get out there, join the army, start living.
Now though, the country was well controlled, weaker than ever, no excitement anywhere, not even in Northern Ireland. Everybody happy playing war on computer screens instead of getting out there and stirring up some shit for real. No guts, no gusto. Sitting back fiddling with gadgets, obsessed with trivial shit. A different age. Harris looked down at the poor specimen of humanity on the floor. Looked like it was the first kicking he'd ever taken, the weak prick. Harris had more respect for the niggers on the street. At least they took some risks, had a bit of life to them. After all, it couldn't be all roses out selling crack on the streets every fucking day.
He ripped him up, slumped him on the bog, wanted to see his face. What a mess. Please, I've done nothing, the bloke managed, face creased up in pain, a right state. Come to think of it, who knows, maybe he had done nothing. But that wasn't the fucking point. His t-shirt was so tight you could almost see the anorexic ribs poking through, and a nice bit of blood appearing there too. Looked like a fucking girl. Harris was hard. Found himself unzipping his jeans.
Suck my fucking dick, he ordered. The man looked confused, like Harris was some kind of joker or something. You think I'm pissing about? He backhanded him in the face, almost knocking the cheekbone back into his skull. I'm giving you a fucking order, now suck, you nancy cunt. Harris had him by the hair and was ramming him in and out, wanting to let him know who was boss, feeling a little disgusted but on auto-pilot now, not really giving a fuck, sometimes you've just got to follow things through, not mess about, wanting to hurry up and get it done before some poncey bastard started strolling in ready to dial 999 and Harris having to lay the boot in once again, probably kill someone this time, who knows, a one-man bloody rampage.
Fuck this, he couldn't hang around; he threw the bloke to the floor, put in a few final kicks, maybe got a bit carried away, a pool of blood appearing around his head, but whatever, closed the cubicle door on him and got out of there, and close fucking call, someone else on their way in, Harris heading through the bar and out to the street, moving sharpish, working his way through the revellers to the main drag, buzzing life everywhere, almost a sense of anarchy, pushers openly selling and the police not giving a fuck, everyone out on the piss, and a commotion near the station, police vans, an ambulance, a crowd of onlookers, stay back, Harris squeezing through, some black kid covered in blood, lifted onto a stretcher, a couple of weirdos filming it on their mobiles the sick cunts, someone saying it was a knife fight, a teenage gang war, Peckham v Brixton, Caribbeans and Somalians, same old shit you hear about every day, and down into the tube, the coppers ushering everyone out, getting the tape out, the tube shutting up shop, a crime scene now because of the fucking stabbing, Harris walking on to Stockwell, buzzing away, floating on air, glad to be out in the night working off the adrenaline, some cunt trying to beg money off him near the Academy, Harris belting him straight in the face, the bloke flying out of the way, comedy stuff, marching on to Stockwell tube and a tribute outside, flowers, condolences for the bloke SO19 had gone a bit frantic on, the dozy cunts, though who knows what the fuck had gone on, and down the escalators, false lighting sending flashes before his eyes, good coke but fucking hell not half strong, a train tearing through the tunnel, perfect timing, heading up into town, and sitting on the carriage restless as fuck, and a bird across from him just oozing with sex, head down in a magazine, all shy, but big tits and thighs that could squeeze the life out of you, and she was reading Cosmo or some shit, Anorexic Monthly, who knows, and staring at her meatiness he felt like tapping her shoulder and saying, fuck all those bitches love, you're the business, but of course he'd never do that, would never accost a woman ever, only a wanker would, this is England for fucks sake, not some fucking greaseball country where you pinch girls' arses and go sliming up around them thinking you're it, no fucking way.
But up and down the carriage everybody looked so bloody miserable. Harris felt like shouting THE WORLD'S NOT ABOUT TO FUCKING END YOU KNOW, and at Victoria the tube filled up like a sardine can, pricks with bags and rucksacks piling in sending the temperature soaring, some fat American standing centre-aisle, his arse right in Harris's face, and at one point he thought he could smell a fart in the air and pictured ramming a rifle right up the cunt's arse, but it was just some other bastard munching McDonalds, no consideration, and all Harris could hear were Yank accents everywhere, gobbing off and laughing like they owned the gaff, and Harris couldn't stand the cunts, bragging lardarses the lot of them, never met a US soldier in his life that wasn't full of shit, and Harris squeezed through at Oxford Circus stepping on one of their bitch's toes, hearing her squeal, and smiling through the throng, up the escalators onto the street, fresh air at last, straight into Soho, he hadn't ventured round here in years, and there was hardly a sex shop or porn cinema in sight, the whole place lit up and spanking new, all cafes and poncey restaurants and posh fuckers everywhere, and he remembered when he was a teen it was all knocking shops and arcades, runaways and tearaways, a gutter world full of seedy sex and rough as fuck, the perfect place to come down and have it out with another mob, kick their arses right out of it, or find a few old pervs and do some bashing, have a right old time, but now it was like there were dollar signs flashlit overhead, so much investment, so much gloss, its bollocks ripped out, not a shred of grimy old London in sight, could be any polished-up Euro city anywhere, some bloke saying excuse me, do you want to buy some skunk? Fucking hell even the niggers were polite, and Harris laughed and walked on, bought a can of superstrength and watched a little punch-up flare outside a club, hoping for a bit of action, but it was nothing, just someone getting lairy with a bouncer and it was over in a flash, and on Great Windmill Street there were tarts in doorways smiling away touting for business, but it wasn't convincing, nothing like the old days, back then you'd be fucking and fighting in the streets, now every nook was lit up like a Christmas tree, and so many coppers about you probably couldn't take a piss without getting arrested. Fuck that. What a disappointment.
He jumped into a black cab, said Seven Sisters, the driver grumping away saying it was too far, he didn't want to be stranded up there, whingeing like a fucking girl, Harris peeling off a fifty telling him to go off-meter and he'd get another one at the other end, money makes the world go round and off they went, the cabbie yapping away, going on about Israel and Palestine and Lebanon, really going into one, give us a break, Harris just wanting a bit of peace and quiet, had enough of war and bullshit for one evening, snorting up coke from his fist, Friday night for fucks sake, and soon the old fart took the hint because he told him to button it, and Harris was gliding through King's Cross, Caledonian Road, Holloway, good old gritty London, past the old Rainbow and the boarded-up George Robey, the darkness of Finsbury Park where he'd bashed up a few queers in his day, used to hide in the bushes with some mates he had down here after a night on the piss, grab some cunt and beat the bastard black and blue, great times, made him long for the days when Maggie was in and the whole of London was one big dumping ground, and on past the Manor House, now a supermarket, crappy old Paddy place anyway, on into N15, the same old reliable shithole it ever was, except maybe more so, boarded-up shops and towerblocks in the sky, desolate deserted streets, hooded ghosts hovering in the shadows, slit your throat for a fiver. What a wasteland. But tonight Tottenham was the place to be. Harris couldn't wait to bury his cock in some big bitch's booty, couldn't fucking wait, knew just the place, a little dive up the end of West Green Road, informal, lots of choice, always a friendly welcome, and why not, black and white unite and fight, and he loved those meaty mamas, knew what a white bloke liked, and Harris liked it both ways, playing the domineering slave-shagging cunt or handing the whip over and letting the ho teach his white arse some fucking respect. Damn right.
The taxi pulled in, they were here, Harris saying cheers and walking on, only for the cabbie to start going on about his other fifty. Was he taking the piss? Must have been a ten minute journey at most; certainly felt like it. A hundred to Tottenham? No fucking way. Piss off. The cabbie stepped out. I've had enough of your lip, son, now pay up. A little club in his hand. Hilarious. Harris felt like laughing in the joker's face. Instead, he started punching in a number on his mobile. Naturally the cabbie asked who he was phoning. Harris told him. His best mate, a nigger not long out of Wandsworth for chopping off some cunt's fingers, knew about prices, did a bit of cabbying himself, only lived over the road, be here in a shot. Cunt suddenly changed his mind. Couldn't get away quick enough.
Harris stood outside and belled in. A couple of Turks outside their shop were smirking away, knew he was a punter no doubt, must see them coming and going all the time, should mind their own business the pricks, muttering away in their own tongue, fuck them. A mute Rasta let him in, stoned out of his head by the look of things, and up the stairs the smell of cooking and ganja and strong perfume, and the madam, a big Jamiacan lady, welcoming him in like a returning soldier, remembered him from last time, bringing him into a room and telling him to take his pick, two big hefty black girls, a scrawny half-caste and a ratty little white cow that looked like she'd been scraped off the street, fuck that, he took both blacks, why not, you've got to live, could be dead tomorrow, and there was a bit of joking and banter, everyone well happy, apart from the rejects of course, and the big mama asked if he wanted some of his usual, good stuff, keep you going bwai, and though he had plenty powder in his wallet he thought, why not, bring it on, the more the merrier, coke all round, and in the bedroom the girls lining their gums and stripping him off, taking charge, ordering him to get on the bed white bwai, then they started to get naked themselves, teasing away, peeling off piece by piece, putting on a show, down to their bras and panties, Harris supping a bottle of Red Stripe and spread out on the bed like a king, who could ask for more, and the girls were dancing for him, must have put some music on, such a familiar riff, something from way back, Harris shoving so much coke up his nose he could almost feel the cheese-holes popping in his brain, so fucking sexed up, well up for it, and the vocals kicked in now, Michael Jackson's ‘Thriller’, of course, what a blast from the past, and it was amazing the way the girls were moving, writhing away, teasing him to death, two naked Beyonces dancing like pro's, and he wondered what they were doing in a low-rent brothel, should be up on stage, raking it in, watching them work in sync, gliding those legs and pumping those generous bootys to the beat, looking down at him all sultry, all suggestive, and he felt like he was in a white man's paradise, so much exotic flesh, laying back and enjoying the show, and as the music got louder Harris couldn't wait until they were going to come over and do whatever it was they were going to do, ravish him maybe like she-beasts, and he was up for it, really up for some sex now, but the music was getting louder and louder and the dancing more frenetic, and it was like someone had installed disco lights because they were flashing in different colours to the beat, really disorientating, and this was the strangest version of ‘Thriller’ he'd ever heard, some kind of mad pumping remix, that riff going round and round, and it was all a bit frenzied and to be honest he was starting to feel a little queasy now, just wanted them to maybe take it easy, turn all that racket down, maybe just cozy onto the bed and stroke his knob for a bit, relax him, take it from there.
But no. Strobes were flashing before his eyes, the volume becoming deafening, Jackson's voice coming at him from all angles. Something was happening. The atmosphere was changing. Harris stood up, covers his ears. He was confused. He wasn't erect anymore. The girls were shaking in a frantic jungle dance, their eyes trained on him, faces kaleidoscoped in the lights. But their expressions were evil now, sinister, emanating with pure hatred, and something else: retribution. But whoa... this was just the crap inside Harris's head, sometimes you just had to shut your eyes for a second, let it go away and everything would be back to normal, sanity restored, and he tried it again and again, but it didn't work, this was no nightmare, this was real, and the room had filled up with a whole troupe of dancers, all black, all moving and shaking, edging closer, baying towards him, and he could see them now, their sharp white fangs and their eyes full of blood.
Harris ran for his life. Evade and exit. Down the stairs and out onto the street, the throng following behind. The Turks were still outside their shop and Harris yelled HELP!!! but they turned and smiled and were fanged also, wolfen eyes, this was alien territory, and more of them appeared and they joined the crowd, Harris fleeing, howling through the streets for help, but everywhere was deserted, nobody human to help him, the soundtrack still booming like a street carnival in the night, the blacks and Turks chasing him into hell, more and more zombies emerging from the backstreets joining the throng, an army of the living dead hot on his heels, on and on, HELP!!!!!, and more of them hanging from windows now, cheering and howling, waving the chase on, wanting to see him ripped apart and eaten alive, and he tore on through the urban jungle as it turned to industrial wasteland, apocalyptic terrain, sirens wailing to the ‘Thriller’ beat, two Robocops flying out from nowhere, trying to restrain him, hold him down so the undead could have their feast, no fucking way, never, Harris using his combat skills to shake them loose, had to survive, had to make it through the night, but zombies were emerging from everywhere, every crack, numbers too great until he realized he was trapped, a three-sixty wall of undead closing in around him, some naked, some in rags, some decomposed like they'd walked from the grave, but some fully clothed, almost human, and Harris stood there in a panic, he recognized some of them, characters he'd met throughout the night, all his victims, and others too, more vague faces, prisoners in Iraq, the girl he'd raped and her family, faces from the past, years ago, a bunch of Catholics from his second tour of Ireland, with some mates he'd dragged them into an old shed and kicked the life out of them, blamed it on the Proddies, and others too, so many faces, faces he'd never thought about, never remembered. Until now.
Everyone he'd ever slighted, wronged, hurt in any way was right there before him, some with scythes, machetes, axes, others with torture implements, wires and cables and pincers, and more technological weapons, advanced equipment beyond his wildest nightmares. And they were encircling him, closing in. There was no escape route, not a chance. Please, Harris begged, don't do this, I'm sorry, I'm fucking sorry...
But it was all too much, no use, felt like his brain would explode, and he screamed to the heavens AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!! screamed for mercy, the sound of the music and the sirens and the baying of the crowd reaching fever pitch, until a lone Robocop stepped forward with a Taser gun and blasted Harris with so many volts that he was dancing to the beat like a frenzied maniac, the throng looking on, laughing and mocking and jeering, until suddenly there was only silence.
IAIN SINCLAIR
MICHEL HOUELLEBECQ
J.G. BALLARD
JAMES KELMAN
JOHN FANTE
DAN FANTE
ALAN SILLITOE
