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!