KICKS ‘91

by Michael Keenaghan

Monday afternoon and I’m up in Archway Tower with Shay. He’s here to sort out a late giro. The seats are full and we’re sitting on the floor. Shay checks how many fags he’s got left; lights one up, says we’ll twos it. He tells me next week he might be able to get us a bit more labouring with his dad, but he’s not sure, they’re not speaking at the moment. 
 
A black girl by the counter starts shouting through the glass. Looks about eighteen, same age as us. -Place fucking stinks, she says, grabbing her forms and walking away.
 
Shay winks at her as she passes. 
 
-What are you fucking looking at?
 
He puts up his hands, smiling.
 
-Tsss… She pushes through the doors.
 
-Imagine trying to wrestle with that in bed, he says. Hands me the fag. 
 
Shay’s number comes up. He’s over by the counter for ages. Then we’re sent upstairs to the sixth and there’s another wait. We hang about the stairwell. Apart from the dole departments most of the seventeen floors are empty. We stare out the window, down at the Archway Tavern. Two figures stroll along, enter its doors. 
 
-Don’t torture yourself mate, Shay says. We’ll be lucky to come out of here with enough for ten B&H.
 
We head back inside, the room smoky and stuffy, a nutter pacing up and down, a woman shouting at her kids. In the end Shay gets an emergency payment. All of twelve quid, but still, it’s good to be heading out of there. 
 
We sit by the post office eating chips. There’s a group of drinkers on the next bench. Buses coming and going at the stops. It’s starting to get dark now.
 
I finish my food and I’m wondering what Shay’s going to suggest next. I’m dreaming of a pub crawl along Holloway Road. The Lion, Marlborough, Half Moon, sticking some Pogues on the dukebox, letting the night never end. But that’s all I’m doing, dreaming.
 
Across the way I notice a group of blokes our same age. Four of them. They keep looking over. 
 
-Do you know those pricks? Shay says.
 
-Nah. I change the subject. Ask what he’s going to do with his big payout.
 
-Fuck knows, he says, still staring over. A bus pulls in and they move towards it, not interested anymore. He carries on eating.
 
I pull up the collars of my jacket. It’s getting chilly now. The drunks shuffling off towards the tube. 
 
Shay scrunches his wrapper, aims for the bin. He stands up, -Come on, nodding over to the Co-op, Let’s get some drink.
 
We head over. We get a four pack of Holsten and a quarter bottle of whisky. Have a bit of banter with the girls serving. One’s dark, one’s ginger, both well nice. Back at the bus stop Shay says it’s a shame we didn’t have a few more quid, could have asked what time they were knocking off. Still, next week, Mick, back on site. Nice bit of cash in hand.
 
A 41 pulls in and we jump it. We head upstairs to the back, Shay tossing over a can, opening a twenty pack of fags. 
 
We’re heading back to Hornsey. Shay’s got his Stanley out, carving something onto the seat in front. He’s been carrying that thing for weeks now. I watch him finish. ARSENAL RULE. 
 
He sits back, feet up, playing with the blade.
 
-Look at you, you fucking psycho. 
 
-Shut up you tart. Pockets it.
 
He throws me another can and we start on the whisky. Passing it back and forth, washing it down with the lager. It tastes like shit but good; warming.
 
We’re moving through Crouch End, rows of shops and warm pubs, turning at the top of Turnpike Lane. We pass under the railway bridge, blackened walls and Class War slogans, then pull up at the lights by Dylan Thomas House, the towerblock where Fiona lives. I count the floors, fifteen of them, and the bus shifts on. We get off down near the end of Turnpike.
 
We head into the Toll Gate. There’s a fair few in and maybe we could get a tenner off someone we know. We walk up and down but no-one’s around tonight. We get a pint and Shay counts his change. He’s got it all out on the table. In the end we head to the off licence, bring a bag of cans over to Duckett’s Common. 
 
We mess about in the kids’ playground for a while. Then we settle over in the middle of the grass. Tall plane trees line the park. Cars, buses passing along Green Lanes. 
 
I’m resting on my elbow, feeling pretty drunk now, Shay saying we should go round to Fiona’s. She might have a friend round. Siobhan. Or that Carol bird. Always has someone round. And if not, who cares, she’s enough for both mate. 
 
I knew Fiona before any of them. Used to sometimes see her after school. But she was different then. I think of that time round the back of the Shopping City, kissing and stuff, a guard chasing us off. But that was as far as it went. Still, for a while there I thought I was in love.    
 
I tell him no, we should head up the trains. They’ll probably be loaded tonight.
 
That’s what we do sometimes. Head up the sidings, break into the buffets all loaded up for the next day. Grab a crate, run. We’ve got away with it so many times it’s ridiculous. 
 
He shakes his head. He can’t be bothered with all that tonight. Then he’s talking about Fiona again. How last week everyone was round there again puffing and drinking. Fiona off her face and doing him in the bedroom. Barry getting his a bit later. He’s laughing, saying I should have been there. 
 
-You haven’t been over there yet, have you? he says.
 
I ask him where was the kid.
 
-Round her mum’s, he says. The kid’s hardly ever there, you know that.
 
Three police cars blaze along Green Lanes. They swerve down West Green Road, fading into Tottenham. 
 
I think of what happened with Fiona’s dad. Coming out of the Manor House one night and two muggers tried to jump him. He pulled out a hammer and floored the both of them. 

-Her old man’s still got two more years you know, Shay says, reading my mind. Can you believe that? Shouldn’t even be in there atall. 
 
I think of what it must be like. We’ve all done nights in the cells, but none of us have done actual time. I think of Pat Donnelly from up the road, caught with a few Es and the police did him for dealing. They lied outright. It got him six months. 
 
I think of that time coming out of The Gresham. A van parked on Holloway Road waiting for bodies. They pulled us in, said we’d run out in front of traffic. It was bullshit. Shay’s Celtic top winding them up all the way. Then in the cells two of the biggest bastards in the station start kicking us about the floor. Shay’s getting it the worst but still he laughs at one of them, calls him a fat slob. The copper grabs him up by the hair, drives him headfirst into the wall. Laugh now you fucking Irish cunt. Cell door slamming. 
 
I remind Shay of that and he smiles. Says the copper did him a favour. That the next day getting sewn up, he got to ask out one of the student nurses. Met her that very night. A few drinks in the pub then it was straight back to her digs. Best bit of sex he’s ever had. Well worth a stitching. 
 
I’m laughing along. Heard it before though. I drain my can and lie flat out. At some point I must drop off because the next thing Shay is shaking me. 
 
I open my eyes. For a second I don’t even know where I am. Crushed cans on the grass around us, Shay with one still in his hand. I sit up. It feels colder now. I’ve got a headache. 
 
-Can you see that? he says. He’s pointing towards the path running through the width of the common.  
 
I squint over. The kids’ playground. A builders’ hut. Then I spot them. Figures, by a tree. Two men.
 
-Queers, Shay says.
 
-Nah, they’re drug dealers, I tell him. They’re doing something with their hands. 
 
-Too fucking right they are, he says. Then he crushes his can. They’re queers I’m telling you.
 
He gets to his feet.
 
-Where are you going?
 
-I’ve been watching these cunts for ages.
 
-Come back, you big eejit. 
 
He keeps going. -There’s two of them, Mick, you coming or not?
 
I get up. I follow him. 
 
One of the blokes sees him coming and moves away fast. The other stays put. Shay says something then headbuts him in the face. The bloke falls, and Shay’s laying the boot in.
 
I run up to him, pull him off, -You’re fucking mad, let’s go.
 
The bloke uncurls slightly, face bloody, tries forcing a smile.
 
-You seeing this, Mick? Shay goes at him again. I should fucking stab this cunt.
 
I’m pulling at him and he pushes me to the floor.
 
-Listen, you want to go out tonight or what?
 
He goes through the man’s pockets. He gets his wallet and kicks him in the stomach. -Come on, let’s go.
 
The man’s groaning on the grass. 
 
-What you standing there for, come on. Shay’s already out on the backstreet. I head out, catch him up. 
 
-Forty five fucking quid, he says, we’re sorted. We’re moving fast under the streetlights.
 
-Dirty cunt, he says, tossing the wallet by some bin bags. Did you see him there loving it? I feel like washing my hands after that.
 
We turn up Turnpike, Shay talking about a pub he knows down Finsbury Park, does a lock in, the lot.
 
-But first we’re heading up Fiona’s, he says, eyes glinting. You’re getting shagged mate.

2 Responses to “KICKS ‘91”

~ This piece was posted on Monday, March 22nd, 2010 and was filed under Short Story, Writing. You can make comments on it below. ~