Circumstances

I’ll admit I wasn’t too phased by what happened to Doc. I might even have profited by it. Anyway, what’s another dead junkie in the scheme of things? Buddha, however, took it bad. It turns out he and Doc were close back in the day.

“They slaughtered him like a pig Johnny. What was the point in that?”

“Finney says he’s cleaning up the neighbourhood, that junk is a scourge.”

“The real scourge is folk like you and Finney. It’s men like you who make the schemes hell to live in.”

“C’mon Buddha – I’m just a businessman making a living. If I wasn’t selling the dope, some other cunt would.”

“Does that salve yer conscience Johnny? The old supply and demand argument. The fact is that it isn’t someone else – it’s you. It’s your karma Johnny and no-one else’s.”

“It’s a dog eat dog world Buddha. I didn’t make the rules”

“All dogs say that Johnny. You didn’t make the rules, but ye enforce them.”

I didn’t like the way this was going. Did Buddha just call me a dog? Cheeky cunt was getting overly familiar. What was his problem anyway – I didn’t stab Doc – Finney did. I was bristling and groping for a reply.

“But it’s human nature Buddha – we’re a greedy lot.”

“Dinnae gimme yer Social Darwinism, or that Libertarian crap. That’s the philosophical equivalent of a bag full of feral cats. There’s your basic misconception about human beings. We’re not successful because we’re competitive. We’re successful because we are co-operative. It’s not the survival of the fittest, or the fastest, or the smartest. It’s the most adaptable who survive. Those who can change with circumstances. I’m a stubborn cunt though Johnny, you have to prove to me that there are genuine circumstances to change with. I’ve been around and I’ve seen loads of fake circumstances. A man would be a fool tae adapt to those. What about you Johnny – dae you see any change in circumstances approaching?”

Buddha had lost me again. He was driving at something. I didn’t quite get what it was, but I had a feeling I didn’t like it. I tried to change the subject away from me and my circumstances.

“You know that I tried to score fae Doc back in the day. Aye, he said he’d tell my mother if he ever caught me anywhere near junk. I shat it. Never tried tae score in the scheme again.”

“He was a good sort was Doc. He put me up when I got out of the looney bin.”

“You were in the looney bin?”

“Briefly”

“How come.”

“A wee misunderstanding about the nature of reality.”

“You got it sorted then?”

“No, ye cannae tell anybody anything. No-one listens. I keep that shit to myself now.”

“Dae ye?”

“You’re no listening.”

“I might be.”

“I doubt it.”

There was an embarrassed silence. Just for a moment. I suddenly realised that the Buddha was angry. I’d never seen him angry before. He was angry with me, but I couldn’t work out why.

“He was a Christian ye know.”

“Doc? Was he?”

“Aye.”

“Well, we are all Christians more or less.”

“No, we aren’t. Doc was the only man I ever met who’d turn the other cheek, or give ye the shirt off his back. He was a real Christian – not more or less.”

“Aye, well if he had the love of Jesus – why did he need junk?”

“Human frailty. I said he was a Christian. I didnae say he was perfect.”

“I didn’t know the man. We moved in different circles.”

“That’s where yer wrong. You move in the same circles, but you dae it in a Mercedes.”

“Is there something on yer mind Buddha? Something ye want to say?”

“I’m saying it.”

“Well you’ll have tae speak up – cause I cannae hear ye.”

“I’m saying that if karma dealt such a blow tae a man like Doc – what’s in store for you Johnny?”

“Let me worry about that Buddha – I can take care of myself.”

“Can ye?”

“What’s it tae you?”

“I’m yer friend Johnny – probably the only real friend ye have.”

“I have friends – lots of friends.”

“Will they tell you when you are wrong?”

“Of course they will.”

“Then let me tell ye – you are wrong Johnny. You are all wrong.”

I’d had enough of that auld bastard moralising. He’d made a comfy living off the dope. He’d set himself up for life. Now he was straight he presumed to tell me how I should live mine. I stormed out of his flat without a bye or leave. I don’t take that shit from no cunt. I have friends – real friends. They don’t lay that shit at my door. They know better.

I was getting into the car, my Mercedes, when I noticed a sign outside the Episcopal Church opposite. It read: “For what shall it profit a man, if he gain the whole world, and suffer the loss of his soul?” There are fucking Christians every fucking where these days.

Shades

Rab was wearing his cheap sun glasses. He was always wearing dark glasses. He claimed he was photo-sensitive, but he just didn't want any cunt tae see his eyes. They say the eyes are the windows of the soul and that cunt had no soul; but he had Mo. I'd have given my own soul tae be with Mo.

"Nah Johnny, Maureen will do her dinger if I'm late hame again."

"One wee drink cannae dae nae hairm Rab. We'll just be a minute."

"Aye, and if she finds oot ah was drinkin..."

"Who's goany tell her like? C'mon, one wee drink."

Rab relented, I knew he would. Nae alky can refuse free drink. Rab had it bad. The doctor had warned him that he was drinking himself into an early grave, but that wasn't deterrent enough for Rab. You'd think the thought of losing Mo might inspire him, but he took her for granted. He always had. She had carried him for twenty years or more. The cunt had never done a day’s work in his life. Rab just lurched fae one crisis tae the next while Mo skivvied for him; picking up his broken pieces and tending his wounds.

Maureen was a beautiful woman and I had loved her from afar since Rab first introduced us two decades before. We were best mates Rab and I. We still were, as far as Rab was concerned, but I watched him drain the soul from that woman and I wished him gone.

"Another pint Rab?" - we'd had four already.

"No thanks Johnny - ah've got tae head hame. Maureen will be worried..."

"One mair for the road then - one last pint - then we go."

"Maureen will freak if she smells the drink oan me."

"Get some mints oan the way home - and for fucks sake dinnae tell her I was buying - I'll never hear the end of it."

"I widnae grass ye up Johnny - we're mates, right?"

"Aye, we're mates Rab."

.

Rental Dogs

Do me a favour would you? Lift the lid and let it breathe. Let some of the heat out, we don’t want it boiling over do we? We just want a gentle simmer to bring out all the goodness. Cooking is an art form Johnny and it takes patience to prepare a masterpiece. This is what it’s all about boy – meat on the table. A man must provide for his own and no one else is gonna do that for him. A man must provide even if he has to steal. Not too much like – only what he needs; you leave some for the next guy. You nibble the hand that feeds ye Johnny. If you leave teeth marks you’ll soon find a pack of rental dogs oan yer tail.

Those rental dogs are meaner than the average mutt and just love the taste of blood. They smell your fear and so you must keep that shit well hid. Never look ‘em in the eye. It aggravates ‘em if you look ‘em in the eye. The eyes are the windows to the soul and those mongrels have no souls, see? Most rentals are bereft of souls. Whether they were stolen by pimps, or dealers – notorious soul thieves – or worn away from the inside by worry, hatred, or avarice; the rented have a legendary soul deficit.

Remember Poor Boy? He went insane and sold his soul to complete strangers. He got a sawbuck for one weighed ounce of solid soul. He bought a wrap with the proceeds and smoked it, but it never filled the hole left by his soul. No amount of gear ye smoke, or booze ye drink, will ever relieve ye of a missing soul. Take all those rental buddies and barflies who congregate in the temples of oblivion, or the crack heads and junkies they look down on. They got no souls.

Half the world have no souls and mostly that’s avoidable. It’s a question of intent; of how much ye want something and how much you are willing to pay for it. My advice, Johnny Boy, is to never want anything too much. Besides, you’ll see the price come down if the seller knows you can walk away. Some have no means of paying for whatever it is their hearts desire, so they go rental. You’re only rental so long before you realise that yer soul is part of the deal.

It’s a nightmare to live without a soul Johnny. The soul is that vital spark that kickstarts the emotional and intellectual energy that makes you unique. The soul is yer passion, yer intensity, yer mojo, and without it you’re an empty husk. Take it from ole Buddha, ye never want tae go rental. You never want tae lose yer soul; not for fortune, fame, for women, or drugs. Because nothing you can ever possess is more valuable than yer soul.

.

Gummy Bears

Buddha had started to resemble his namesake. He had grown fat – positively rotund. Thirty odd years of tweaking had made him thin as a rake, but when he gave it up he blossomed into a beach ball. He’d had a triple bypass. Three decades of amphetamine abuse had taken its toll on his heart. He no longer partook of the old whizz. He no longer smoked – anything. He did, however, find other diversions.

“I’ve seen the future Johnny Boy and it’s in edibles.”

“Inedibles?”

“Ha fuckin’ ha. You’ll see. Every cunt will be doin’ it. Nae mair noxious fumes and carcinogens; just pure THC delight.”

“Is that what’s in them?”

“Aye, that and all the other cannabinoids. You lose most of them when ye smoke it. This way it all reaches yer brain pan and it stays there much longer.”

“Is that them? They look like sweets.”

“They are sweets; pure hash oil preserved in gelatine. They even have different flavours.”

“What do you call them then?”

“These are gummy bears.”

“Strong?”

“There’s a quarter of a gram in each. That’s enough to get ye well stoned, but two of them will fuck you up nicely.”

“I’ll have two then.”

He was right. I was pretty fucked up. I had a strawberry and an orange. I could still taste the oil though. It clung to my teeth for a bit. It wasn’t long before Buddha proffered me two more. I wolfed them down with a cup of chai. Our conversation was rambling and silly. We giggled like school boys as we enthused over the records we played. The music sounded awesome. Buddha got all philosophical. He said his brush with mortality had affected his outlook.

“Did ye ever turn yer heid a certain way and catch a glimpse of the universe spinning round ye an’ suddenly realise that you are at the centre of it all?”

“Naw.”

“Well you should turn yer heid mair often then.”

“I think I feel that tee hee hee Buddha. I’m nearly trippin’.”

“Good innit?”

“Fuckin’ right.”

“Want another?”

“Fuckin’ right.”

I don’t know what time I eventually went to bed, but I woke up with the munchies. I tip toed past Buddha’s room – so as not to wake him up – and headed for the kitchen in search of biscuits. Buddha was right into that health food lark. There was all sorts in his cupboards; things like wheatgrass powder, blue algae and sphagnum moss. There were no biscuits, but I found a tray of chocolate brownies in the fridge. I scoffed three or four of the wee brownies with a glass of milk. It was only when I had finished my sugary repast that I tasted the by now familiar oily residue on my teeth. Shit, the brownies were some of Buddha’s ‘edibles’.

I tried to sleep, but was roused from my slumbers by a loud clanging – like the old fire engines made. It took me a moment to ascertain that the source was in my head. I was hallucinating wildly and could see luminous air molecules cavort and wriggle in the dark. Quite suddenly a Blueband margarine tub materialised in my head. I could see it, but can’t explain how, because it was inside my head. Then the margarine tub vibrated a little before flipping over onto its side. It wasn’t empty. Batman was in there and he sprang out to smashed my brain with a giant mallet. My whole body convulsed with the blow. Batman then settled back into the margarine tub and it flipped back onto its base. A moment later it happened again. Batman was giving my brain a proper pounding.

This went on for like two hundred years before Batman’s blows grew softer as he faded off and I found myself free falling through space towards the beautiful blue planet Earth. I was enjoying the view and the sensation of gently falling when I was joined by this guy who was also falling.

“I bring a message from your sponsor.” He said.

“I recognise you.” I said.

“You’re tuning into the wrong channel.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Yes you do.”

“Who are you?”

“You know me. You’ve always known me.”

“Go away.”

“Don’t you want to know?”

“Know what?”

“Why you are here?”

“Why am I here?”

“We sent for you.”

“Who are you?”

“Good question. Who do you think I am?”

“How would I know?”

“I’m a messenger.”

“Aye, you said.”

“I bring a message from your sponsor.”

“I’m tuning into the wrong channel.”

“Yes.”

“What does that mean?”

“Look within.”

I looked within. The whole universe was in there. I was in there too. Then he zapped me; twenty million volts coursed through me and everything that ever was followed. I understood it all. From the big bang to the end of time; it was all laid out before me. In the beginning were the words and the words were lights, camera, action! The whole show was specifically designed for me, for this moment. I turned my head a certain way and caught a glimpse of the universe turning around me. I was at the centre of everything and everything was at the centre of me. I couldn’t wait to tell Buddha.

“I saw Jesus!”

“Really?”

I explained the whole trip to him. I was calling it a vision. He laughed uproariously when I told him about the brownies. Apparently there was a lot of hash oil in the brownies. I told him about Batman and the message from my sponsor. I related the whole experience as best I could. There was much to tell – there was everything in my story. It was the story of everything.

“You’ve had a revelation Johnny, an epiphany.”

“I talked to Jesus.”

“Are ye sure?”

“Who else could it be?”

“Anybody.”

“It wasn’t just anybody. It was Jesus.”

“Did he say he was Jesus?”

“Naw, but I recognised him.”

“You’re making the classic mistake Johnny Boy. You’re focussed on the messenger, not the message.”

“What was the message?”

“Don’t ask me. It was your vision. It was your message.”

“I don’t know. There was so much. I saw everything.”

“That’s yer message then – everything. What else would it be?”

My vision haunted me for months. I was convinced I met Jesus. Buddha just laughed at that, but every time I thought about Jesus I cried. I wanted to talk to people about it. Buddha advised me not to. I admit I made an arse of myself a few times trying to convey everything to everybody. Eventually the immediacy of it faded and so did some of the details, but something special had happened to me. Buddha agreed with me there. He said I should meditate on it. He suggested I eat some more brownies since that seemed to be my spiritual catalyst. I declined. I simply was not ready for more of everything, but I had some more gummy bears just the same.

East Of Leven

I could dae this of my own accord you know. I dinnae need the spike, the earmuffs and the diamond collar. I do awright oan ma ane. I kin write awright if ah kin just get some sleep! Men of a certain age, especially those of the manic-depressive persuasion, often find it difficult tae sleep. Loads of pent up emotion an’ barely supressed anger keeps them awake at night. You’ll find that many men of a certain age carry luggage heavy wi pent up emotion an’ barely supressed anger; it’s the lack of fuckin’ sleep that does it.

I’m in an awfy fix. I’m in Scoonie, East of Leven; Scotland’s ane Anus Mundie. I came here tae get away from it all. Fuckin’ well succeeded tae – I’m miles away from anything. This place was designated as pointless back in 1962 and filed under forgotten; do not resuscitate. Some part of me has died here. There is some portion of Scoonie, East of Leven, that shall forever remain Buddha in an unmarked grave.

Brought Johnny. Fat lotta use he is. All he talks about are burds; burds he’s shagged and burds he wants tae shag. He’s goat it bad that yin. He was gifted wi a beautiful intellect which resides in the glans of his penis. I love the guy tae death, but one day that cock o’ his will lead him into mair than temptation. I told him tae be meagre wi his wants, but on that score he’s the greediest bastard a’ ever met.

We’re no exactly oan holiday here. This is no gentleman’s junket. We’re on the lam. No fi the law or that, but fi our friends. Our pals want a pound of our flesh. Some depressing tale involving supposed MDMA tablets and an alleged horse tranquiliser. A very ugly story, but all too common in today’s marketplace. We were merely intermediaries in this carfuffle, but since the primary agents had absconded wi the loot, we were held by many tae be responsible. Stupid bastards. To a man they are all stupid bastards and the stupid like to weigh in mob handed. The mob that’s after us is comprises of some unsavoury characters who’d just as soon knife you as kick ye in the head when yer down. We’re running from a lynching – there’s nothing the stupid love more than a good lynching. They’ll never find us in Scoonie though. God cudnae find us in Scoonie.

I brought my stash, of course, but it’s running low an’ I’m rationing the whizz. Give Johnny his due he’s been out in Leven every day hustling the few remaining angles, but maybe he’s just hunting fur burds. It’s been three weeks since he got laid last and he’s getting kinda antsy. That testosterone banks up and swamps the brain ye know. Many are the wondrous feats of stupidity perpetrated by horny men.

“You know trying to find a trick on the street is too much like hard work. You want to open an oaffice.”

“Why an office?”

“If you had an oaffice the tricks would come tae you.”

“Why?”

“Tae buy your services of course”

“And what are my services?”

“You’ll be relieving them of their cash.”

“Just like that?”

“Just a little mind you, no enough tae send naebody tae the polis.”

“Ye’ll have tae be specific Buud – what would I be selling?”

“Dreams Johnny Boy – dreams.”

“Fan fuckin tastic Buddha – wid you get tae the point?”

“A raffle – a lottery, anything that costs us nowt to organise and the punter only a few coppers tae play. We can use the laptop tae design the necessary and print them off in the site office.”

“Won’t they be suspicious at the office?”

“We’ll wait till they’ve gone hame – I have the key right here.”

“That’s a screwdriver.”

“It’s a key in the right hands.”

“What are we raffling Buddha?”

“A luxury caravan – fur Save The Children.”

“So we are going to run a fake raffle no one will ever win. Won’t people be pissed when they find out?”

“They never will. Millions of people dae the lottery every day and not one of them realises that they were ripped off. I’ve done the maths Johnny and statistically speaking yer odds of winnin’ are about the same if ye buy a ticket or not. No-one seriously expects tae win the lottery anyway. They dae it just in case; people are playing ‘cause it fuels the old pipe dreams for a wee while. They get to imagine what they would spend it on if they did win; an entirely vicarious thrill costing a mere pound.”

“Looking at it that way people are pretty stupid., eh?”

“The stupid ones are, but the rest are just greedy. Never make the mistake of thinking yer trick is stupid Johnny, never underestimate anybody. If you find a trick who is genuinely stupid – walk away. Have nae dealings wi the stupid whatsoever.”

“Surely they are the easiest tricks?”

“Too easy, but unpredictable. You never know how the stupid will react to being made a cunt of Johnny. The prisons are full of stupid fuckers who killed for nae apparent reason. Nothing is more dangerous than brute ignorance and conscientious stupidity. Have no dealings whatsoever with the stupid Johnny. If you huv a stupid friend – boot him intae touch. If ye huv stupid customers – get rid of them before they get ye busted; I guarantee ye that they tell every cunt they meet everything they know about you. No drug, not even booze, causes so much strife. If we're looking for the source of our fuckin’ woes, we shouldnae be testin’ folk for drugs, we should be testin’ them for stupidity. There’s nae fuckin’ rehab fur the stupid – they’re always fuckin’ stupid and that’s a fact. What was it Oscar Wilde said? ‘There is no sin but stupidity’ I reckon he was spot on; stupidity is the route of all evil.”

“We can all be stupid at times Buddha – people make mistakes.”

“I agree, but that’s no whit am talking about. I’m talking about the terminally stupid – the ones who cannae learn fi their mistakes; because they were right to make them and would do it again tomorrow for the same inane, stupid reasons they did it today. I’m serious Johnny – you let the stupid into your life and chaos ensues. That’s enough philosophy fur one day – fire up the laptop an’ let’s get tae work.”

Epilogue

I wish Johnny had listened to me. Perhaps I should have placed more emphasis on the stupid, but Johnny found he was willing tae indulge stupidity if it came wi a pretty face. That peccadillo was to cost him dearly one day, but that’s another story and I’m no the man tae tell it. Creativity being the cessation of stupidity our raffle scheme worked out well. We only sold a coupla hundred tickets, but that raised enough to dig us oot a hole and still have some change for beer. All’s well that ends well they say – except this is no the end, but the beginning.

.

The Boy Who Wept

His name was Calum Fraser and he was seventeen, though none of us knew this at the time. The folk on the ward just referred to him as the boy who cries. Calum cried a lot – no, Calum wept a lot. You might say he was inconsolable, but I don’t remember anyone actually trying to console him. It was heart rending and it was embarrassing. So we did our best to ignore him. I thought about going to him once or twice. To put my arm around him and ask him what was wrong, but I never did. I always figured he had lost someone. You only grieve like that when you have lost someone.

Poor Calum. He wept both night and day. I know because he slept in my dorm and kept me awake with his sobbing. One night I lost the rag and told him that if he did not shut up I’d give him something to cry about. I felt instant shame. Those words shame me still. He stopped crying a few days later when he fashioned a noose from a bed sheet and hung himself in a toilet cubicle.

It must have taken a determined effort to hang himself on his knees like that. He was still kneeling in the doorway of the cubicle when I found him; the improvised noose held him upright in cruel mockery of prayer. His had been a gruesome death, a violent death, the bulging eyes and bloated tongue attested to that. I hoped to God that he’d found some peace and that death had finally dried his tears.

.

Soulless Episode III

She robbed me with apparently no sense of irony. She was enraged and barely coherent. I had been rumbled again. She went through my pockets looking for anything she might have missed. She found a couple of condoms in my jacket. She held them up and laughed.

“Just in case Johnny? Or do you always go prepared?”

She tossed them at me with a gesture that suggested both amusement and contempt. She loved a grand gesture did Jane and she had the dramatic flair tae pull them off. She was a bonny lassie, but she would insist oan talking.

“Yer easy tae get along wi Johnny. Yer a good laugh and yer no bad in the sack, but yer lacking something.”

Here we go, I thought, the commitment lecture – it had to come one day. It always does. Still, I couldn’t help gazing at her near naked body and thinking that a man could lose himself in a woman like that, so why can’t I?

“Yer a coward Johnny. Yer afraid of commitment and yer afraid of love because yer afraid of rejection. Ye take nae risks ‘cause yer a cowardly fucker.”

I was smiling now. I didn’t mean to and it could only wind her up, but the whole scene had a familiar pattern to it. I had recognised the symptoms and I knew it was coming, but like a fool I had to turn up for the final scene. I was almost glad I did though, she was magnificent in her rage. She was a very beautiful woman of strong character. If I were ever to fall in love it would be with a someone like her. I wish I could tell her these things, but tae what purpose? I just lay there on the bed smiling like a muppet.

“You’re pointless Johnny. You’re a record wi nae groove, a fuckin’ bike wi nae wheels. You have a’ the charm and grace in the world Johnny, but ye huv nae soul.”

I groaned in psychic pain. Not that old chestnut. There’s no such thing as a soul. Even Buddha had tae admit that, sort of. The soul is a concept – an abstract – a fuckin’ falsehood. Why do they always pull that soul shite on me? If she meant I had no conscience – that I could bear. It wiznae true, but I could bear it. This soul malarkey though just got oan ma tits. I had soul – even Buddha said I had soul – whatever that means.

“There’s nae need for this Janie, we’re friends after all.”

“I dinnae want tae be one o’ your ‘friends’ Johnny.
 I’m no some wee whore fi the scheme who’ll let you pick her up or let her doon as ye fuckin’ well please. I deserve mair than that!”

“What’s the money for Jane?”

“I’ve been yer whore and now I want paid!”

“Do I make ye feel like a whore?”

“Aye Johnny – ye do.”

There was so much anger and anguish in her face that it silenced me dead. She loved me. She really did love me, and in that moment, I knew I loved her. It was too late though. Too much had already been said and too much had already been done. How could she ever trust me again? How could I? She would be better off without me, who needs a man with no fuckin’ soul anyway?

.

Bagman

I always had to drag the low end. There was a crock of shit at the end of my rainbow. That’s the very first time I was gifted anything for nothing. There’s irony in that statement cause brothers and sisters – nothing, not even shit, ever comes for free. I was once an archdeacon for the diocese of no hopers, now I’m a bagman for the combine. I collect what’s due them from the people of the parish. They shell out a little corn to those who’re in need and I gather the proceeds. I just come from stoving Fat Eddie’s face in. I get a little vexed when people don’t pay. For one thing I’m supposed to – it’s the nature of my job and for another I’m on a slice of the trim. It’s in my own interests that the punters cough up; so if they don’t then things can get rough.

Fat Eddie’s wife asked who gave me the right. I told her I was free to do as I pleased. She told me my freedom was an obscenity while I helped keep my neighbours in chains. That was something to contemplate; however briefly, I’m no philosopher so I wouldn’t know. I just do my job and don’t think about it, because in my line of work thinking doesn’t pay. If it was up to me there’d be no collections and we’d all live in peace like the good Lord says. But it isn’t up to me, so I do what I have to. Whatever it takes to keep my head above water. Times are tough and they’re getting tougher. I just play the game. I don’t make the rules.

Some local loser followed me from Eddie’s. My tracks were still warm and revealed my bloody feet. This joker tried to tap me right there on the corner. I said I don’t do loans, I only collect them, but I gave him a sawbuck for temporary relief. My good deed done, I was soon on my way. I had places to go and people to meet. Business is booming on account of the recession. People are hard pressed, but they still have to eat.

They said I was a sociopath and a menace to society when they locked me up and lost the key. I just do my job to the best of my ability and hope that it’s enough to keep my people off the street. We all do what we think we have to. That’s the nature of the game we all play. We are all of us slaves to the system and no matter what they say none of us are free.

.

Richard

That rat faced fucker is slicker than deer guts on a door knob. They say he’s making decent money pimping refugees and extorting pennies from the homeless. From what I know of him he’d steal his grandma’s teeth if she had any. I’m told he has a sentimental side and is good to his dear old mum, but so was Harold Shipman and that turned out well.

I knew Richard back when he was steaming a living from other people’s envelopes. Being a congenital idiot he was soon caught and they sentenced him to hard knocks for fucking with the mail. They tried to rehabilitate him, but he came out of jail even more devious than when he went in. The new Richard had no moral boundaries and an avaricious hunger that would never be satisfied.

Looking back it’s hard to see how anybody could be taken in by his patter, but he seemed a plausible cunt and many were. I used to lay him on deals which we’d settle on a weekly basis. Everything went swimmingly until he ticked a weight from me and did not return. I had to go fishing for him and he was a slippery fucker to catch. We settled up eventually, but then we parted company. I have no time for thieves – they see everyone else as chumps and you’d be a fool to trust one twice.

Richard formed a habit that’s hard to beat. They say he has a jones that costs him a grand a week. That’s a lot of corn to filch and one fuck off greedy monkey to be feeding. He’ll never dig himself out from under that; that’s a life sentence with no chance of parole.

I saw him the other day there and he dingied me. Maybe he thinks he still owes me money. He was a hundred years old and his rodent features were even more pronounced. It seems form follows function and you become what you do through time. The vagaries of intent are both capricious and complex and we seldom get what we want; but sometimes we get what we deserve. Everything has its price and those dues will be paid. So while greed might fill your wallet one day, it could cost you dear the next.

.

Forgiven

Big Malky went down hard. He took a hell of a beating before he cracked, but crack he did. After a couple of hours of relentless punishment, he was sobbing like a baby and pleading for his life.

 “Please Mo – there’s no need for this. You dinnae huv tae dae this. I’ll go away – you’ll never see me again. I’ll gie you money – anything you want – just dinnae dae this.”

 His words burbled in his bloody mouth and I was both disgusted by the display and elated by the sense of power it produced. The once mighty Malcolm McTear, the last man on my list, begging for mercy – crying like a schoolgirl. I let him go on for a while, but the final word went to my 1911 Colt 45. I whipped the big pistol out and without a second glance tapped him on the forehead – right between the eyes. There was blood and brain everywhere. I was pleased by the action – solid and professional like.

 “Did ye see that boys? One slick movement – like a fuckin’ samurai.”

I was determined that everyone on the list would be dispatched before the old man’s funeral and I had achieved my goal. The old man would be pleased and I imagined him watching from on high with a big smile on his face. He was a wise one my father – not only was I visiting vengeance on his enemies – I was clearing the ground for increased business. He knew that these scumbags would try it on with me after he was dead and that the wisest thing for me to do would be to liquidate them before they became a nuisance.

The whole operation had proven to be much easier than I had anticipated. We caught them napping – they thought their troubles were over when they heard that the old man had snuffed it. They were soon to be proven wrong. Most of these so called hard men had pleaded for mercy and I had shown it through the barrel of my gun. All except Jimmy the Flea, he had stood his ground right up to the end.

 “You cunts had better kill me – cause I’ll be coming back for ye. You Mo – you’re scum just like yer dad. We had a party to celebrate when that dirty old fucker died – and mark my words – you’ll be following him soon enough...”

I silenced him mid tirade – he was boring me, but he went down fighting and I respected that. I made a mental note to take care of Flea’s two boys – if they had half the bottle their old man had they could become a problem. For the time being though my work was done and I could focus on dad’s funeral – it would be the biggest the city had ever seen with faces from all over the country coming to pay their respects.

The day the old man died the whole family were gathered around and mum was insisting that they send for a priest. The old man was against the idea until mum said to him that she’d miss him should he end up in purgatory. He eventually relented and Father Mulligan was sent for, but the old man was as awkward and stubborn as ever.

 “Do you renounce the devil and all his works?”

 “I do Father.”

 “Do you forgive your enemies?”

 The old man did not answer but lay there staring into space.

 “Do you forgive your enemies?”

 Again the old man did not respond.

 “For the sake of your immortal soul Jock – do you forgive your enemies?”

 “Aye, alright – I forgive my fuckin’ enemies!” rasped the old man.

 He then turned to me and fixed me with his steely gaze.

 “But there’s no need for you to be forgiving anybody Maurice.”

The Cuckoo

She had turned her dressing table into a shrine and it broke my heart to see; there were photographs, postcards, letters, jewelry, trinkets, and all the bric-a-brac of romance. Two years after Paul’s death and she was still in mourning. The flat they once shared was a mausoleum to his memory; unchanged since that fateful day.

I once fostered hopes that she might turn to me after a suitable term of grieving, but I had become that most pitiable of species – the best friend. I longed to tell her how I felt, but I dared not because I knew she would be horrified. She trusted me and I felt that at some basic level my love was a betrayal of that trust. My love for her was just another of my guilty secrets and something best left unspoken.

When she told me she needed a hand sorting out old clothes for some charity shop I briefly hoped that she had begun to clear out some of Paul’s old things; that she had perhaps started to move on. When I got to the flat, however, I discovered that it was her own clothes she was throwing out. Looking at the assorted jumble of clothing I wondered if she was not divesting herself of the last remnants of colour in her life.

 “Thanks for coming around Pete, I really appreciate it.”

 “No problem Marie; anything I can do to help...”

 "There’s bound to be better things you could be doing on a Friday evening.”

 “Not really – unless you count my busy TV schedule.”

 “You need a girlfriend.”

 “You’re probably right.”

There followed an excruciatingly embarrassed silence which lasted a heartbeat, but which filled an eternity. She had taken to these pronouncements lately and I had never formulated a decent retort. I should have found a girlfriend and gotten on with my life, but it was already too late. Paul’s death wrecked both our lives and we orbited each other at a discretionary distance – both of us alone in our private grief.

After dropping the clothes of at the charity shop she invited me back to the flat for a coffee. I was hoping she would. We wound our way up the tight concrete stairwell and I recalled the nightmare of hauling their furniture up those steps – Paul and I heaving and cursing with every footfall. But we were laughing too; those were happier times, before he got ill and dragged us all into hell with him. On the top landing to the right of the flat was the door that lead to the roof – it was padlocked now, but that did not stop the memories from flooding back each time I saw it.

Paul had been an outgoing and vivacious character and was always the first to see the funny side. He was the perennial joker and the life and soul of any gathering, but Paul began to change. He threw malevolent tantrums and sulked in deep depressive funks which were counterpoised with manic highs when he lost all sense of propriety. Marie nearly left him then, but when he was diagnosed with Bi-Polar Disorder she thought her place was by his side fighting his dreadful affliction.

That day Marie had called me and asked if I could pop by and check on Paul because she would be delayed at work and he was not answering the phone. He was prone to ignoring the phone, so there was nothing untoward in that, but she worried nonetheless. When I got to the flat there was no answer, but the door was unlocked so I went inside. There was no sign of Paul, but his typewriter was on the kitchen table and initially, I was glad to see that he had been writing again.

A man acquainted with sorrow,

weary of the world, tired of life,

has no faith in tomorrow,

no taste for endless strife,

sorrow rules his heart,

and measures every beat,

tears his soul apart,

and turns his flesh to meat.

It seemed such a sad hymnal that it gave me a chill inside. My friend was fighting for his life and I was impotent in the struggle. He was not in the flat, but I knew where he would be – I found him on the roof watching the traffic flow by below.

“Hey, Paul – how you doing?”

“As well as can be expected.”

“You writing?”

“Only obituaries.”

It was so hard to reach him sometimes – every inquiry only threw up negative responses and sometimes they were chilling. I really felt sorry for Marie. She had to deal with his blank numb ripostes and his suicidal ideation. I could see it was crushing her spirit, but Paul did not seem to notice, he seemed on a track of his own and oblivious to the world around him.

“Well that’s something – at least you are writing.” I smiled hopefully.

“It’s pointless.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Everything we do is pointless. We steal our days while we fend off the inevitable. I just wish it was over.”

I don’t know what came over me. I was angry with him, frustrated by him. I’d had enough. I charged into him and gave him a hard shove. He toppled over the side of the building and landed with a sickening thud. My only thoughts then were that I hoped he was dead and that no one had seen me.