The Storytellers One by Roger Mansfield (Schofield & Sims Ltd, Huddersfield 1971)

 

Maybe he wasn’t joking, Ernie thought. Bob was clever with hands and brain, the stop-gap of the shop with micrometer and centre-lathe, a toolmaker who could turn off a candlestick or fag-lighter as soon as look at you. ‘Do you mean it about a .303?’

Bob pulled into a lay-by and got out. ‘Keep clear of the headlights,’ he said, ‘but catch this.’ Ernie caught it, pushed forward the safety catch, the magazine resting in the net of his fingers. ‘God Almighty! Anything up the spout?’

‘I’ve a clip in my pocket. Strictly for rabbits’—Bob smiled, taking it back.

‘A waste,’ Ernie said. ‘The twelve-bore would do. Mixer-matosis has killed ’em all off, anyway.’

They drove on. ‘Had it since I left the army,’ Bob told him. ‘The stores was in a chronic state in Germany at the end of the war. Found myself with two, so kept one. I have a pot-shot with it now and again. I enjoy hunting—for a bit of recreation.’

Ernie laughed, wildly and uncontrolled, jerking excited shouts into the air as if trying to throw something out of his mouth, holding his stomach to stop himself doubling up, wearing down the shock of what a free-lance .303 meant. He put his arm around Bob’s shoulder by way of congratulation: ‘You’d better not let many people know about it, or the coppers’ll get on to you.'

‘Don’t worry. If ever they search, it’s a souvenir. I’d get rid of the bolt, and turn another off on the lathe when I needed it.’ ‘Marvellous,’ Ernie said. ‘A .303! Just the thing to have in case of a revolution. I hope I can get my hands on one when the trouble starts.’

Bob was sardonic: ‘You and your revolution! There wain’t be one in our lifetimes, I can tell you that.’ Ernie had talked revolution to him for months, had argued with fiery puritanical force, guiding Bob’s opinion from voting Labour to a head-nodding acceptance of rough and ready Communism. ‘I can’t see why you think there’ll be a revolution though.’

‘I’ve told you though,' Ernie said loudly. 'There’s got to be something. I feel it. We work in a factory, don’t we? Well, we’re the backbone of the country, but you see, Bob, there’s too many people on our backs. And it’s about time they was slung off. The last strike we had a bloke in a pub said to me: ‘Why are you fellows allus on strike?’ And I said to him: ‘What sort o’ work do you do ?’ And he said: ‘I’m a travelling salesman.’ So I said, ready to smash 'im: 'Well, the reason I come out on strike is because 1 want to get bastards like yo’ off my back.’ That shut ’im up. He just crawled back into his sherry.’

(From 'The Other John Peel' by Alan Sillitoe.)

Quick Change by Jay Cronley (Doubleday 1981)

 

Grimm didn’t feel like a clown, but he handed the kid a balloon, anyway.

“Is that a light bulb on your nose?” the kid asked.

“Get lost,” Grimm said.

“That doesn’t sound like clown talk to me.”

“You want the balloon or not?”

“You’re the meanest clown I ever met.”

“Listen, kid. You’re getting on my nerves.”

The suit was hot and the makeup smelled like turpentine, and wearing tennis rackets would have been easier than the floppy shoes, but a plan is a plan.

One thing Grimm hadn’t particularly counted on was the number of greedy children following him along the sidewalk. You can't think of everything. The children couldn’t follow him into the bank, that was for sure.

“Hey mister clown, stand on one finger.”

Grimm took some change out of his front pocket and threw it in the grass in front of the bank; so much for the children, they zeroed in on the money.

He walked into the bank, exactly the way it had been drawn on the practice paper.

You just don’t rob a bank. You try that, without a well-conceived plan, and they'll gun you down—that is, if you aren’t electrocuted first. In the modem bank, there are wires hooked to plants, and cameras behind clocks.

The plan is what separates the pros from the cons.

And whereas the plan might be that you rob the bank of millions of dollars and live happily ever after, there are many sub-plans that determine whether you will have to give the money back, or live happily ever after in jail.

Grimm knew about a guy who lost a button on his pants at a very bad time—when he was stealing some money. This guy reaches down and his mask slips off and the next thing he knows he is banging a tin cup on the bars, asking for more swill.

A plan is equal to the sum of its parts. Somebody stubs his toe at the wrong time, and this triggers an electronic device that drops the bars around you.

For example, you have to start somewhere, like with the mask.

It's obvious a man has to wear a mask so his face won’t be on the evening news. Money is no fun if you have to spend it down in the sewer or somewhere as dark. You don't put a burglar's mask on and walk three blocks to the bank. Somebody might say, “That guy is going to rob the bank.” You don’t put the mask on right outside the bank, either. This attracts attention, and you might be clubbed by the guard. So whereas a mask sounds like a simple proposition, it isn’t. You have to think it out.

It was Grimm’s idea to go as a clown. Clowns don’t rob banks.

“Hi there, mister clown,” the guard said.

“What’s your name?” Grimm asked.

“Hugh,” the guard said. “Hugh Estes.”

“Have a balloon, Hugh.”

“Thanks.”

There was some doubt whether Hugh Estes could draw his gun inside five minutes. And if he could get it out of his holster, he would have to figure some way to get it over his gut. A bank guard’s primary responsibility is to keep rich old women from bumping into the window's.

“Hugh,” Grimm said. “I have terrible news for you.”

He frowned. “I don’t get to keep the balloon?”

“Worse than that. Come over here.”

Hugh Estes got up from his desk. Grimm put his arm around the old fellow and led him toward the door. “How’s your heart, Hugh?”

“Never better. You with Easter Seals?”

“No.”

“United Way?”

“Hugh,” Grimm said. “I’m a criminal. I’m robbing this bank”

Grimm had his left arm tightly around the guard’s neck. “That’s funny,” Hugh Estes said. “You’re one of the best clowns I ever saw.”

“I’m no clown. Clowns don’t talk. Underneath this calm is a guy who’s getting a little nervous. I’ve got dynamite taped all over me, Hugh, so if you don’t want all these people blown to bits, just do what I say.”

Hugh Estes thought. They had taught him about this sort of thing in bank guard’s school. One out of approximately 475 people who say they are loaded with explosives actually detonates himself or herself.

“I’ve got a terminal illness,” Grimm said. “So it doesn’t matter what happens to me.”

That was the one who blows himself up!

Hugh Estes was getting real nervous real fast.

This would look very bad on his resume.

“Lock the door,” Grimm said.

Hugh Estes looked back at his desk, where the alarm button was. “You can’t rob this bank. There’s only one way out. This bank has never been robbed. It’s foolproof.”

“Yeah, but I’m no fool,” Grimm said.

Life Without Children by Roddy Doyle (Viking 2021)

Every morning, for ten days – his slot was ten o’clock – he sat at the kitchen table and waited for the call. He held up the iPad with one hand and pressed the green circle.

The screen this time, the camera – he was looking straight at her face. The mask was off, beside her on the pillow, leaning against her ear.

She was saying something – speaking.

—I – heard – one. Joe.

—Did you? he said.

He seemed to see each word before he heard it.

—At first – I was – afraid – I was pet – rified.

He knew the song.

—‘I Will Survive’, he said.

The words were heavy – she worked hard at pulling them out.

—I – might.

—Jesus – I love you, he said.

Something struck him now, the thought that had been lurking for months.

—Your worms, he said. —You’ve been making them up all the time, haven’t you?

He looked at her mouth on the screen, and waited. It was ages before she answered.

(From the short story, 'Worms'.)

Driving Big Davie by Colin Bateman (CB Creative Books 2004)

Everyone worth knowing knows exactly where they were when they heard Joe Strummer was dead. I know exactly where I was. I was sitting in a private room in a private hospital, trying to wank into a cup.

This probably needs some explaining.

Not everyone knows who Joe Strummer is. Or was. Joe was rock'n'roll.

He was The Clash.

For my generation, he was the man.

He sang 'White Riot' and 'Garageland' and 'London  Calling' and 'Know Your Rights'. He ran the tightest, wildest, most exciting beat combo in history.

He made music important. He changed lives in a way that Spandau Ballet or The Hollies never could. 

He was my Elvis, my Beatles, and he never got fat, or bland, or shot.

The world is indeed cruel. I know that more than most people. And I take refuge from that cruelty in the music of my youth.

The Horse with My Name by Colin Bateman (Headline 2002)

It was cold and dark outside. I went up the plank. It wasn’t a plank, of course. It was like boarding an aircraft. I did a quick tour. I bought a McDonald’s strawberry milkshake and then went to the newsagent and asked for a packet of Opal Fruits. The girl looked at me and I groaned and said, ‘Starburst.’ She nodded and lifted them off the shelf. ‘They used to be called Opal Fruits,’ I said. ‘They changed the name because the Americans call their Opal Fruits “Starburst”.’

‘Oh,’ she said.

‘And do you know why they call them Starburst?’

‘No.’

‘Because the astronauts took them into space. Existed on them. They’re packed with fruit juice. There’s a dozen square meals in this packet, and all for just thirty-two pence.’

‘Thirty-five.’

I handed her the money. ‘You’re okay. You’re young. You don’t remember. The glory days of Marathons and Pacers and Toblerones.’

‘We still have Toblerones.’

‘Yes, but they’re the size of fuck all. Used to be you’d break your teeth on them. Like Wagon Wheels.”

'You couldn’t break your teeth on a Wagon Wheel. They’re soft.’

Behind me a man in a blue tracksuit said, ‘No, I know what he means, Wagon Wheels used to be huge.’

I looked from him to the shop assistant and sighed. ‘Maybe they still are. Maybe we just got bigger.’

We all nodded sagely for several moments .  .  .

Shooting Sean by Colin Bateman (CB Creative Books 2001)

'Who the hell are you?' he cried.

'Security,' I said. 'I thought you were an intruder.'

'You stupid fuck! You broke my nose! It's my best feature!'

'Jesus,' I said, 'you're in trouble.'

He began to pull himself up. 'I'm going to speak to the goddamn manager about this . . .'

Before he could raise himself any further I thumped him on the jaw and he sagged back onto his knees.

'What the hell was that for?' he cried.

'Nothing,' I said, and thumped him again. 'But that was for "I Write the Songs That Make the Whole World Sing".'

Turbulent Priests by Colin Bateman (Headline 1999)

By noon a rag-bag of some sixty agitated islanders had congregated in the churchyard. They were all men, and they all had guns. Most were shotguns, but there were a few weapons of an altogether more sophisticated hue, which was, frankly, surprising. I’d expected slings and arrows, cudgels, rolling pins, Moses crooks and fish hooks. Not AK-47 assault rifles.

Father White addressed them from the steps of the church. Father Flynn stood by the church gates. He intended to bless them as they went a-hunting. Not the gates, the hunters. He had delegated the actual mechanics of the search to Father White, although I wasn’t altogether convinced that he had much choice about it. 

He’s neither younger nor fitter,’ he explained, ‘but he could have planned the invasion of Normandy in half the time.’

It was said with grudging respect. He looked worried. His voice was dry, his eyes were pinched up pensive. The mob was excited, baying to be off, and though they didn’t need it, Father White was whipping the frenzy up further. It was a simpleton’s version of a fox hunt, chasing a big girl around half a dozen square miles of bramble, scrub and wind-bent tree.

‘That’s an awful lot of hardware for an island this size, Father. What’s this, the forgotten wing of the IRA?’

He laughed. ‘No . . . of course not . . . we get a lot of ships call by, and they’re usually keen to trade. Particularly the Russians. God love their impoverished wee souls. There’s a fair bit of bartering goes on.’

‘You mean like half a dozen cabbages for a Kalashnikov.’

‘Actually, you’re not that far off. They’ve no shortage of weapons but their rations leave a lot to be desired. Poor scrawny half-starved wee men. You could probably equip a small army in exchange for sixty-four of Mrs McKeown’s meat pies.’

‘It looks like you have.’ I shook my head. ‘That’s still an awful lot of weaponry to track down an eighteen-stone schizophrenic. She’s not Rambo, Father, she’s Dumbo.’

‘Dan, she’s with Constable Murtagh, and as far as we’re concerned he is Rambo. He has a gun and he knows how to use it.’

‘He’s also the law, Father.’

‘Not on this island.’

‘Father, you know that’s not right.’

Before he could respond Father White appeared at his elbow. He had a shotgun under his arm.

Cecile is Dead by Georges Simenon (Penguin Books 1942)

'Did you see her?’

Maigret looked surprised.

‘Who?’

‘Cécile! Now if I was Madame Maigret …’

Poor Cécile! And yet she was still young. Maigret had seen her papers: barely twenty-eight years old. But it would be difficult to look more like an old maid, to move less gracefully, no matter how hard she tried to be pleasing. Those black dresses that she must make for herself from bad paper patterns, that ridiculous green hat! It was impossible to perceive any feminine allure under all that. Her face was too pale, and she had a slight squint into the bargain.

The Pressures of Life: Four Television Plays edited by Michael Marland (Longman Imprint Books 1977)

 

The Pressures of Life

Sometimes we feel that we are on top of life - able to follow our interests, succeed in our work, get on well with other people, and everything goes smoothly. At other times, we feel frustrated we cannot quite manage what is needed; we seem to hit problems that are beyond us; we feel overcome by “the pressures of life". These four plays all show people of today suffering in one way or another from the pressures of life today. The plays are by different authors, and were written for different series, but they each have “the pressures of life” in common, and in each we meet characters who are having difficulty coping.

Short plays on television are one of the most popular and probably one of the best art forms of today. The television screen has encouraged a form of realistic, compressed, and popular drama which explores contemporary characters in contemporary settings. The best of these have a depth of understanding of human nature and the predicaments that people get into that makes the play seem more than just a typical problem of the moment. Neil’s conflict with Fred Pooley in the first play, for instance, makes us think about the ways in which people’s pride and their prejudices affect their relationship with others. These are, above all, plays about people, people pushing against their surroundings and fighting the pressures of life.

The atmosphere of each play is different, and the reader should try to imagine the background of each. Speech Day depends on the atmosphere of an old-fashioned school building, just as A Right Dream of Delight depends on the cheery, bright comfort of a modern light factory, and The Piano on our sensing of Ada’s house, which is cramped but homely and comforting. Readers can build up a picture of each setting, not only the look, but the sounds of the schoolboys singing, and the demolition machinery' at work — all the details which are hinted at or described in the printed text and which the television screen would bring to life.

One Step Ahead by Duncan McKenzie (Souvenir Press 1978)

 

A Misspent Youth

Sonic players need coaxing along, some need a kick up the backside to get the best out of them. I needed both kinds of treatment in my callow days and I got what I needed. Born a Methodist, I graduated from schoolboy football playing for a team run by a Roman Catholic priest and another team which operated in a local Sunday pub league, and I don’t suppose you can have greater contrasts than that.

My Soccer travels have taken me a long way since the days when I was kicking a ball around for my junior-school team at Old Clee, Grimsby, but I like to think that f still get as much of a kick out of the game now as I did then, although my views have changed somewhat over the years, and especially in the past 18 months or so. Some people might say that I’ve grown up, at last; others would argue that I have found my right niche in the professional game since I joined Everton and came under the influence of manager Gordon Lee. Me? - I feel that I have learned as I have gone along, that everyone I have encountered in Soccer has taught me something, and that my own native intelligence has taken me to a point where I have matured.

In my early days in the professional game, I saw some youngsters who needed coaxing being given the kicking treatment - verbally, if not physically and the result was that they failed to respond. I’m still convinced that they probably had as much ability as myself, had they been handled in the right way, psychologically, but what happened was that they became afraid. They were afraid of doing things wrong.

Darts Greatest Games: Fifty Finest Matches from the World of Darts by Matt Bozeat (Pitch Publishing 2017)

 

Sid Waddell told the armchair enthusiasts that Deller was “not just an underdog, he’s an underpuppy” and asked: “Can Deller do the unthinkable and beat Bristow in the world final?”

For Deller, who threw spring-loaded darts designed to avoid bounce-outs, reaching the final, a fine achievement for a qualifier, wasn’t enough.

He was there to win the World Championship and predicted a 6-3 victory.

He blew six darts at a double to make it happen…

Earlier, the match had swung this way – Deller led 3-1 – then the other – Bristow levelled at 3-3 – then back again.

Deller won the seventh and eighth sets, taking him into a 5-3 lead and just one set away from the World Championship.

In the ninth set, Deller was 64 points away, then 18, then eight, then four…

Six darts at a match-winning double were missed and Deller spent the next two sets “shaking my head. I should have been world champion.”

Ever the opportunist, Bristow showed why commentator Dave Lanning described him as “a burglar” on the oche.

In his youth, Bristow had burgled houses and the North London ne’er-do-well-turned-king-of-darts brought his street cunning to darts. Knowing Deller was vulnerable, his mind elsewhere, Bristow smoothly upped his average by a few points and plundered five legs without reply while Deller chewed over those missed match-winning chances.

When he claimed the opening leg of the 11th and deciding set, Bristow led for the first time in the match and that realisation, the possibility of defeat, snapped Deller out of his ruminations. Either he started throwing his best darts again or he would lose – and he hadn’t come here to lose.

The spell broken, he rediscovered his fluency to break back immediately with a 121 checkout, then hold his throw to leave Bristow needing to do the same to save the match.

Bristow got to a finish first in that fourth leg.

He took aim at 121 with Deller also on a three-dart finish, 138.

Bristow threw 17, then treble 18 and with 50 left, everyone zoomed in on the bull’s-eye. Everyone apart from Bristow, that is. Rather than go for the bull’s-eye to win the leg, Bristow was so sure Deller wouldn’t take out 138 for the match, he threw 18 to leave his favourite double 16.

This wasn’t hubris. Bristow had thought it all through. He reckoned Deller’s mental mastication – “He could have beaten me earlier, he had his chance” – and the awkwardness of the 138 finish – “it was all over the place” – guaranteed he would come back to the oche and have three darts at his favourite double.

Years later, he would think otherwise, saying the pressure would have been greater on Deller had he been faced with a smaller finish. “If he had 58 left he would have been standing behind me thinking: ‘I’ve got two more darts for the title,’” he said, but still, nobody, not just Bristow, really expected Deller to take out 138.

“He’s banking on Deller not doing this!” cried Waddell excitedly and when Deller’s first dart landed in treble 20, there was a chance Bristow had got it wrong.

Deller had taken out big finishes in the earlier rounds of the championship and knew what he was doing. “I didn’t stop,” he said. “There was no way I was going to think about it.”

Had he thought about the importance of the darts he was throwing, his arm would surely have twitched, so Deller ignored the crowd’s growing excitement when he nailed treble 18 and coolly switched across the board to fire his final dart into double 12.

“I have never seen anything like it in my life,” said Waddell while Deller shook his fists above his head in sheer joy.

“It was perhaps the next best thing that could happen to me,” Deller would tell Darts World, “… next to playing for Ipswich Town.”

Seven Kinds of People You Find in Bookshops by Shaun Bythell (David R. Godine, Publisher 2020 )

 

Yesterday, a man telephoned the shop and asked for a copy of my second book, Confessions of a Bookseller. The total, including postage, was £18. As I was taking down his credit card details, he said, ‘Please add an extra £10.’ When I asked him why, he replied, ‘Because I know how hard this time must be for businesses like yours, and I want you to still be there when all of this is over, so that I can come and visit the shop again.'

No Wonder I Take a Drink by Laura Marney (Saraband 2004)

 

My lasting memory of Mum is of her standing leaning against her bed, wearing her good pearls, nicely turned out in a peach blouse and lemon cardi, bare naked from the waist down. She was threatening to sign herself out of the hospice for the third time that week. Anticipating this I had sneaked her in a half bottle of vodka. We both knew it would probably finish her off but that's the way she wanted it. She died three nights later. Before she died and after I'd helped her put her drawers on and poured her a watered-down vodka and coke, she nearly told me something.

I could see she was struggling and I suppose I should have been more patient or just told her to bloody well spit it out, but at the time I was too busy noticing that my mother had no pubic hair. I couldn't believe that, at age sixty-eight, she would take the trouble to give herself a shaven haven. Where would she have got hold of a razor? And besides, her hands shook most of the time.

At first I thought it was just another of her rants about the Health Service, actually a thinly disguised rant about her own health, but her tone was different, not angry, she seemed frightened. She closed her eyes and shook her head vigorously, the way she did when we argued. And then she went strange. She started rocking back and forth, moaning and shuddering.

'Your dad says I should ...'

She was scaring me with her amateur dramatics so I decided to nip it in the bud.

'Dad's dead, Mum, he died four years ago.’

Slowly she opened her eyes and showed me a thin aggressive smile.

Do That Again Son, and I'll Break Your Legs: Football's Hard Men by Phil Thompson (Virgin Books 1996)

 

Only once did I deliberately set out to try and hurt someone and that was years later in a charity game for a little amateur club in Belfast. The manager told me: ‘There’s a lad playing on the other side who says he’s going to kick you.'

I replied: ‘If he wants to kick me he will.'

It didn’t worry me. I’d spent my professional career playing against players like Smith, Harris, Reaney, and Dave Mackay of Spurs, who was unquestionably the hardest man I ever played against and certainly the bravest. This time it was just a cocky kid with ideas above his station. He was as good as his word, however. He followed me everywhere. He kicked me and he kicked me again. I told him: ‘This is ridiculous, this is an exhibition game. It should be fun.'

He kept on kicking and he started insulting me. All the usual stuff like, 'You’re past it, you’re a has-been, you won’t finish the game.’

I said, 'If you kick me again, you won't finish the game.’ He did. So about ten minutes later I deliberately knocked the ball a little too far forward, or so he would think, knowing he was going to come for it. And when he did I turned him and hit him above the knee. As they carried him off, he was crying like a kid. While he was lying on the ground the captain of our team went over to him and said, ‘Kittens don't fuck cats.’

I felt very upset about it afterwards. I went to see him after the game to apologise. His manager said, ‘Don’t worry, George, it’s taught him a lesson - don't fuck with a truck.’

George Best, taken from The Good, the Bad and the Bubbly

Brothers Keepers by Donald E. Westlake (M. Evans and Company, Inc 1975)

“Have I kept you waiting? I’m so sorry,” Brother Oliver said. “I was painting, in the courtyard. This winter light is so perfect for—”

Dwarfmann gestured that away with an impatient flick of his numerical wrist; I couldn’t see the numbers. “My days,” he said, “are swifter than a weaver’s shuttle. Let’s get down to business.”

I’m sure Brother Oliver was as taken aback as I was. The imagery, in Dwarfmann’s rattly style of speech, seemed wildly inappropriate. Then Brother Oliver said, in distinct astonishment, “Was that from Job?”

“Chapter seven, verse six,” Dwarfmann snapped. “Come, come, if you have something to say to me, say it. Our time is a very shadow that passeth away.”

“I don’t know the Apocrypha,” Brother Oliver said.

Dwarfmann gave him a thin smile. “You know it well enough to recognize it. Wisdom of Solomon, chapter two, verse five.”

“Then I can only cite One Thessalonians,” Brother Oliver said. “Chapter five, verse fourteen. Be patient toward all men.”

“Let us run with patience,” Dwarfmann or somebody said, “the race that is set before us.”

“I don’t believe,” Brother Oliver told him, “that was quite the implication of that verse in its original context.”

“Hebrews, twelve, one.” Dwarfmann shrugged. “Then how about Paul to Timothy, with its meaning intact? Be instant in season, out of season.” Again he tapped those little red numbers, and now I saw them: 2:51. I don’t know why I felt so relieved to know the exact time— something about Dwarfmann’s presence, I suppose. And he was saying, “I’m a busy man.” That couldn’t be Biblical. “My man Snopes told you all you needed to know, we’ll give you every assistance in relocation, given the circumstances we’ll go farther than the law requires. Much farther. But that wasn’t enough for you, you have to hear it from me direct. All right, you’re hearing it from me direct. We’re building on this site.”

“There is a building on this site,” Brother Oliver said.

“Not for long.”

“Why not look at it?” Brother Oliver made hospitable gestures, urging our guest to come look the place over. “Now that you’re here, why not see the place you intend to destroy?”

“Beauty is vain,” Dwarfmann said. “Proverbs, thirty-one, thirty.”

Brother Oliver began to look somewhat put out. He said, “Wot ye not what the Scripture saith? Romans, eleven.”

With that sudden thin smile again, Dwarfmann answered, “What saith the Scripture? Galatians,  four.”

“Pride goeth before destruction,” Brother Oliver told him, “and an haughty spirit before a fall. Proverbs, sixteen.”

Dwarfmann shrugged, saying, “Let us do evil, that good may come. Romans, three.”

“Woe unto them that call evil good, and good evil. Isaiah, five.”

“Sin is not imputed when there is no law,” Dwarfmann insisted. “Romans, five.”

Brother Oliver shook his head. “He that maketh haste to be rich shall not be innocent.”

“Money answereth all things,” Dwarfmann said, with a great deal of assurance.

“He heapeth up riches,” Brother Oliver said scornfully, “and knoweth not who shall gather them.”

“Unto every one that hath shall be given, and he shall have abundance.” Dwarfmann permitted his own scornful expression to roam around our room, then finished, “But from him that hath not shall be taken away even that which he hath.” Another quick look at his watch. “I think we’ve played enough,” he said, and turned toward the door.

Brother Oliver had two pink circles on his cheeks, and his pudgy hands were more or less closed into ineffective fists. “The devil is come down unto you,” he announced, “having great wrath, because he knoweth that he hath but a short time.”

Dwarfmann’s hand was on our doorknob. He looked back at Brother Oliver, flashed that thin smile again as though to say he was glad we all understood one another now, and with another quick glance around the room said, “He shall return no more to his house, neither shall his place know him any more. Job, chapter seven, verse ten.” And he left.

Brother Oliver expelled held-in breath with a sudden long whoosh. Shaking my head, I said, “The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose.”

Brother Oliver gave me a puzzled look. “Is that New Testament? I don’t recognize that.”

“Uhh, no,” I said. “It’s Shakespeare. Merchant of Venice.” I cleared my throat. “Sorry,” I said.

Dog Day Afternoon by Patrick Mann (Dell Publishing 1974)

 

"If I felt that way about law officers, I’d—”

“Shut up, Boyle,” Joe interrupted, trying not to sound unpleasant. “You just don’t know your ass from your elbow about life. Take the Chase. What do they owe you, man? For fifteen years you been dumb enough to give them loyalty and honesty. That’s so much gravy to them.

“They’re laughing up their sleeve at you, man,” he went on. “They had your ass for fifteen years and they don’t owe you a fart. Not a fart in the wind. To Chase you’re just meat. Buy it, sell it. What did they buy you for all these years? Are you even making fourteen grand a year now? Sixteen? I don’t think so. And for a chickenshit salary you put out something that money can’t even buy, loyalty. What a sucker play, Boyle.

“The first time Chase profits dip below a certain point they won’t hesitate to chop you off like any other bad investment. Cut losses. It isn’t even something another human being decides, Boyle. They feed the problem into their computer and, clickety-click, out comes a name. Your name. Get rid of Boyle at fourteen thousand a year. Let some young black or Puerto Rican run the joint at half Boyle’s salary.”

Littlejoe paused. He saw that Marge was listening to him so intently that she hadn’t puffed even once on her lighted cigarette.

“Sure he’ll steal you blind, because he isn’t a dumdum like Boyle. But what he steals is a business cost that’s already been passed on to the poor, stupid customer anyway. So who cares? Insurance covers it, and the insurance costs are part of what the customer pays for. Fuck everybody, but start with the poor, loyal Boyles of the world.”

Smoothies by Richard Allen (New English Library 1973)

 

Weller’s clubbed fist ached to smash into his target’s gut. He came forward as the Smoothies and Sorts separated in silent agreement. This wasn’t - for them – the time to pick a fight. None of them had come armed for aggro.

Bright headlights coned into the parking lot as an ancient banger chugged up the slight slope from street to pub.

Acting on instinct, Weller held back. What was on his mind did not require witnesses.

The car turned in a wide circle, weaving through the remaining vehicles on the lot. Like a gigantic insect crawling across an ocean of concrete it finally came to a halt, twin beams spotlighting the frozen tableau of youths and fuzz.

‘Put those damned lights out,’ Ford shouted.

The lights snapped off.

Weller closed his eyes tight. In the obscure gloom he had lost his sight. Cursing mentally he assumed they were all suffering from the same dilemma.

He was wrong!

Nero had not stared directly into the brilliance. He could see. And a tremor of anticipation raced through him.

There were five of them. Climbing from the ancient car they formed a formidable line in front of their transport.

Brass!

The word screamed from Nero’s brain. He’d heard of them but never actually seen one. And he didn’t mean brass as applied to Soho tramps and stripclub tarts.

These were the Brass - an exclusive formation of ex-skins dedicated to violence, terror and everything touching on the televised portrayal of IRA and UDA thuggery in Ireland.

Weller’s eyes opened. He could see now.

‘Wot’s the scene, man?’ a Brass ‘captain’ asked.

Nero’s lips were dry. ‘Frisk,’ he said with a croak.

‘Fuzz !.. ’ The word spat from the ‘captain’ as he lit a cigarette. In the match flame his insignia showed briefly crossed legs crudely cut from a brass fender.

‘What the blazes,’ Ford said. This was something he had not been geared to expect. The para-military ‘uniforms’ looked familiar - right down to the woollen caps covering skinhead features. Even the pick-axe handles bore a striking resemblance to those yobbos over in Belfast and Derry.

‘This,’ the ‘captain’ said and waved.

Like a swarm of irate wasps the other four Brass attacked. Ford fell to a savage blow. Weller knocked aside when he attempted to grab an axe handle from a flank man.

‘Don’t kill ’em,’ Easy Eileen yelled.

Weller heard her plea, faintly. He saw the brutal blow scream down at his head - and the lights all went out.

‘Kick the bastards,’ the ‘captain’ called.

Boots went in.

‘Youse lucky we came along,’ the Brass ‘captain’ told Nero. ‘Christ, we been lookin’ fer fuzz fer an hour. 

The Dark Remains by William McIlvanney and Ian Rankin (Canongate 2021)

 

Lighting another cigarette, Laidlaw became aware of a stooped old-timer with rheumy eyes who had joined the bus queue behind him.

‘You should enjoy life more, son. Your face is tripping you.’

The man’s breath was like a blowtorch, and Laidlaw wondered why it was that after a drink so many Glaswegians turned into the Ancient Mariner, eager to share their stories and wisdom with complete strangers. This particular example boasted a rolled-up newspaper, which he wielded like a baton, as if he could conduct the world.

‘At least it’s only my face that’s tripping me,’ Laidlaw responded. ‘Your whole life seems to be one long bout of falling over.’ He gestured towards the rips in the man’s trousers and the elbows of his worn-out jacket.

The man studied him, taking a step back as if to help him focus. ‘You look like an actor, son. Have I seen you in anything?’

‘We’re all actors in this town, haven’t you noticed? You’re acting right now.’

‘Am I?'

'Badly – but even bad acting deserves the occasional round of applause.’ Laidlaw dug a few coins from his pocket and placed them in the man’s hand. ‘Should cover your bus fare. Either that or a paper from this week rather than last.’

There was a double-decker drawing towards them at that moment. Laidlaw gestured for the old man to precede him aboard, but then stood his ground and told the clippie he’d wait for the next one. The new passenger stared in bemusement from the window as the bell rang and the bus pulled away, depriving him of his audience. Laidlaw didn’t doubt he would soon find another.

The Glass Cage by Georges Simenon (Helen and Kurt Wolff Books 1971)

 

He did not answer.  No answer was required. He was still thinking of Fernand Lamark and that light oak coffin. One day, when he was feeling calm and clearheaded, he would make his will. In it he would give orders that he was to be cremated, for he did not want to be shut up in a box. Neither did he want people to come and see him on his deathbed or to accompany him into a church and then to the cemetery.

He would like to die without anyone's knowing. He did not want people to talk about him. He did not want them to pity him, only to forget him as soon as they left the house where his corpse lay.

The Crafty Cockney : the autobiography by Eric Bristow (Arrow Books 2008)

 

Streetwise

‘You play like a poof!’

These were, the words my dad George said to me when he first watched me play darts. I was eleven years old and he'd just bought me a board for my birthday. I was playing in my bedroom.

‘I can't take you down the pub if you play like that,' he said.

I’d never played darts before, but three weeks later I was getting regular three-dart scores of a hundred plus. The trouble was 1 had a unique style of throwing that in my dad's eyes looked suspect. It involved standing to the side and holding the dart lower down the barrel so my little finger rested on the tip of it. This hindered my throwing action. To overcome this I raised my little finger in the air so there was no contact with the point.

‘You look like a little posh boy holding a china teacup,’ he said.

‘Give it a rest, Dad,' I said to him. This is the way I play, and this is the way I'll always play.’

He didn’t like it, but it was a style that gave me five World Championships, five World Masters, two News of the World titles, four British Opens, three Butlins Grand Masters and numerous Open wins in Sweden, Denmark and North America, plus a host of other tides — and pretty soon everybody was copying my throwing style. As soon as I got good there were thousands of other players in pubs and clubs up and down the country all playing with raised pinkies. They thought they could be great darts players just by lifting up their little finger. What a bunch of wallies!