Nine Foot Tall Page 4

  Mel shouts, ‘Fuck knows, he must have got away, down a side street or summat.’

  I look behind and I can’t see anyone. Looks like they’ve given up the chase.

  We sneak up a few side roads to make sure we’re out of sight altogether and head home. Without Ricko. Good, I’m glad he got away. I mean, it was me they were after really, they thought I was a perv.

  As we got back to our own estate that night, Ricko was sitting on my garden step with his head in his hands.

  ‘Yo, Ricko man. You got away.’ I’m relieved for him.

  He looks up at me and my heart sinks. His face is battered and bruised, black eyes and swollen mouth.

  ‘They were kickin’ me in the fuckin’ mouth. The cunts. I can taste fuckin’ boot polish off their Doc Martens on me teeth.’

  And he was right. Upon closer inspection, not only was there dried blood in his gob but he had black boot polish all over his teeth.

  We all killed ourselves laughing, even Ricko. He called us cunts, but he still laughed as we helped him get home.

  To think, I nearly shagged a fat bird.

  I told you weed did funny things to me.

  Saturdays were beautiful.

  June 1996– Aged 29

  They say that one person in every thousand has psychopathic tendencies. This, I do not believe. It seems that every other person I meet is in some way a pathological freak.

  Mad Marko was one of those people.

  Mad Marko lived in an old 1960s tower block, one of those rat-infested, piss-smelling monstrosities that are still blighting the skyline of the ever-growing metropolis that is Leeds.

  He lived alone, apart from the fungus on the back of his toilet door, and his sole purpose on this planet, it would seem, was to be cabbaged out of his fragile, tiny mind every night.

  Oh, and to buy and sell drugs. Any drugs.

  The stories go that Mad Marko had been sectioned under the Mental Health Act on more than one occasion. The last time, apparently, he was found sitting astride the statue of the horse in Leeds City Square, singing Christmas carols. Naked. During the day. And it was June.

  They say he’s had electric shock treatment.

  Do they really do that in those places? I suspect not.

  Whatever the case, he is one big, bald, mean, unhinged, Honey Monster looking, scary motherfucker.

  And I had to go and visit him. Shit.

  I didn’t know where to get rid of morphine. Fuck no. All I did was sell a bit of whizz and a couple of Es. But I was skint. I had some hospital morphine that they give to cancer patients, and I wanted to offload it.

  I’d tried to get rid of it in the local pubs, but nobody wanted to know.

  ‘We’re not fucking smack heads, Gaz,’ is all I would get out of them. We hated smack heads.

  Heroin addicts. Scum.

  Mad Marko knew loads of smack heads. His dingy 10th floor hovel was always full of them, crashed out in his bed, on his sofa, in his bath. In the lift even.

  So I called him up.

  The deal was this: I go to his flat, the flea-bitten shithole that it is, give him the bag of morphine, and he would do a straight swap for fifty Es.

  And the variety of Es were my personal favourite, Ziggys – they had an imprint of the iconic image of David Bowie with the lightning bolt through his face embossed on them. It was a bit of a misnomer to be fair, as that image wasn’t Ziggy, it was Aladdin Sane… Well, never mind, they were my E of choice anyway.

  Spot on. That would do for me.

  ‘Come round tonight, ya little cunt…’ He always called me a little cunt. He appeared to really have a soft spot for me but still called me a little cunt. In a sort of affectionate way. ‘Get here about two o’clock after you finish DJing.’

  I finished my set that night, a good set too, the place had been rocking. The place could never help but rock when I was playing. I was mashed out of my tree; always played better when I was mullied.

  I could hear the music blaring from Marko’s gaff, even from the stinking lift.

  His door was wide open when I got there and I could see all kinds of nutters around the place as I entered. Girls sitting on the hallway floor, smoking crack pipes, guys crashed out on the kitchen, bathroom and toilet floors. A bedroom door was slightly ajar and I could make out, in the half-light, a bloke lying face down on the bed, long matted hair at the back. I kind of recognised him, didn’t know where from though. Fuck him. Smack head.

  ‘Come in here, you little cunt.’ Marko sounded really jolly as he shouted me into his arsehole of a living room.

  It was full of smoke, quite dark, just a crappy forty watt lamp and the orange light from his one-bar electric fire.

  There were about ten people in that room. A couple of haggard looking girls, obviously E’d up by the way they were dancing and contorting their faces. You could tell that once upon a time these girls had been really pretty. Not now. Twenty-eight going on fifty. All sunken cheeks and leathered sun bed skin. Hair bleached to lifelessness.

  The Mad One himself was sitting in the middle of his velvet sofa drinking lager out of a vase, and there were a few young guys around him, talking about fighting and glassing fuckers in the neck and shit like that. Trying to impress him I expect.

  Let me get the fuck out of here. Do my swap and fuck off.

  ‘Sit down, you little cunt, grab a drink.’ He pointed to some cans on his sideboard.

  ‘I’ll just have one, man,’ I mumble, ‘I’m a bit mashed. Can’t stay long. Here’s that stuff you wanted.’ I chuck him the carrier bag full of morph, he catches it in one hand and, as if from nowhere, by magic, his other hand throws me my Es.

  ‘Don’t eat ’em all at once. You little cunt.’ He booms with laughter at this comment and is then followed in his merriment by everyone else in the room. The hangers-on.

  I’m looking nervous and twitchy. I fuckin’ hate this place.

  ‘Sit down, Gaz…’ He never calls me Gaz, something’s wrong. ‘Sit down, have a beer and chill out.’

  The others are looking at me, as if, I don’t know, as if something bad is gonna happen. I know. It’s paranoia. Fuckin’’ell, I should have known. I’m relieved now. It’s just paranoia.

  Es always make me paranoid. Now that I know it’s paranoia, I can chill out.

  I try to make some conversation.

  ‘So, Marko, what are you gonna do with that morphine? You’re gonna take it yourself, are you?’

  He stares at me. Right in my eye. As though I’d just called his mother a bastard.

  ‘Fuck off, you little cunt. I’m no smack head. It’s for him in there, on the bed. Richardson.’

  ‘Richardson? Do I know him?’ I ask, hoping he’ll calm the fuck down.

  Still staring in my eye he shouts, ‘How the fuck do I know if you know him?! John Richardson. Smack head, that’s all. He’s just a fucking smack head.’

  I knew at that point where I recognised the body on the bed from. It was Ricko. My old friend Ricko. Aw shit, man, he’s a smack head.

  I did hear that his mother had died soon after his dad, and then, when we all grew up and grew apart, that his brother, who we used to get weed off, had thrown himself from a train. Got cut in half.

  Fuckin ‘hell, Gaz, poor Ricko’s a smack head and you’ve brought him some drugs.

  I’m having a little reminisce to myself, staring out of Marko’s 10th-floor window at the night sky, what a great view, when…

  Mad Marko lunges at me, and in a split second he has the window open and he’s pushed me right out of it, grabbing my legs so I don’t fall to my certain death.

  I’m screaming like a woman, him holding me by my ankles, dangling ten floors up, piss-stained concrete below. He’s gonna let me go. I know he is. I’m screaming, please, please, please.

  I can hear the
hangers-on through the window laughing their spines out. Oh, they think it’s hilarious.

  ‘Shut up screaming, you little cunt, or I’ll let you go…’ He shakes me about a little as though he’s gonna drop me. I’m not struggling, fuck that, I’ll fall. ‘Right, here’s what’s gonna happen. That bag you just gave me is mine, right?’

  I look up at him and nod furiously.

  ‘And… and… that bag I gave you is mine as well. Innit?’

  Fuck! Is this what it’s about? He wants to rip me off? I don’t care, I got the morphine for free, and if he’s not gonna drop me on my head from ten floors up he can keep the fuckin’ Es. Especially now that all the blood in my entire body has rushed to my head and it feels four times bigger than it should.

  ‘Fuck yes, keep it, keep the fuckin’ lot… Just get me back inside. You’re gonna drop me, you crazy cunt.’

  He shakes me about a little more, swapping hands and all that crazy shit. I scream. A lot.

  And he pulls me back in. Laughing.

  I’m as white as… I don’t what the fuckin’ whitest thing ever is, but whatever it is I’m as white as that.

  ‘I was only messing, Gaz…’ He’s still laughing. ‘I wouldn’t let you fall. I like you. Keep the drugs, I was only playing.’

  ‘Playing?’ I try to get my breath. ‘Fuckin’ playin’? You could have dropped me.’

  Everyone in the room is killing themselves with laughter.

  I shake my head in disbelief, grab my bag of Es and go. Fast.

  I don’t even peep in to see my old friend Ricko, to see if he’s alright with these lunatics. I just fuck off. To an all-night club. With my bag of Ziggys.

  I never saw Mad Marko after that.

  They say he got sectioned again.

  Good. The mad cunt.

  I did hear about Ricko though. He overdosed apparently.

  Some bastard had given him hospital-strength morphine. It was too much for him.

  And he died.

  Chapter Four

  -

  Fish, Chips and Potato Peelers

  I Fought The Law–The Clash –1979

  (written by Sonny Curtis)

  July 1983 – Aged 16

  Breaking up for the summer was the highlight of the year, but this year would be different for us. It would be the highlight of our lives – we were breaking up forever. Leaving school. We were now sixteen. We were men.

  The summer holidays were the greatest. It was always sunny and you always had fun. Even when you were skint.

  Sure, I had a little job on a Sunday night, collecting glasses at a local pub, but we never had lots of cash. Just enough to get by, y’know, bus fare into town and that.

  We didn’t care. We didn’t need money.

  We just had fun.

  So, here I am, it’s the holidays, the sun is beating down across the estate where we live, shining onto the windows of the flats, the ones that aren’t boarded up, and all is sweet.

  My mam’s made me some bacon and eggs, KC and The Sunshine Band are jumping out of the kitchen radio singing Give it Up.

  ‘Gaz…!’ My mam shouted from the lounge, over the sound of the vacuum cleaner. I could never understand that, mams trying to get your attention while the vac’s going and the radio’s blaring. But it’s what they do I suppose. ‘Will you do me a favour when you go in town with your mates?’

  Mouthful of bacon, packed in so I can’t even chew it properly. ‘Yeh, course I will. What do you want?’

  ‘Will you go to the water board and pay the bill for me? I’ll give you the book. All you have to do is give the woman the money and get the book stamped. It’ll only take you a minute.’

  ‘I’m sure I can manage that, love, no problem. Can I have a couple of quid for some chips? I’ve only got me bus fare.’

  She switched off the vac, thank fuck, smiled at me, gave me a kiss on the top of the head and passed me the water payment book and a five-pound note. That’s two quid for me and three for the water board people.

  I didn’t even know that you had to pay for water.

  So, there’s me, Mel and Ricko all going into town. Mark couldn’t come; he was younger than us so hadn’t broken up from school yet. We broke up earlier than the younger ones, took our exams and… well, just broke up earlier. I don’t know why.

  We’re in town, doing what we do best – strutting.

  First port of call? HMV.

  Yes, the record shop. Always a good place to pull a bird.

  In the early ’80s the record shop was a meeting place, like a little club or something, always full of gangs of girls, and it was free entry. Ace.

  Baby Jane was playing when we walked in. Cool. Rod Stewart was a bit of an old-timer. But the girls loved it when he was singing. Good old Rod, he made it easier for us to pull.

  So, we’re strutting up and down the aisles, racks of vinyl albums, millions of them, trying to catch the eye of some of the many beauties who are flicking through the Paul Young section, when…

  ‘Gaz! Mel! Ricko!’ We heard some goon shouting at us.

  Aw no. Not him. Fuck sake.

  It was Psycho. Sykesey was his real name, but he was nuts, always fighting and shit. And he was an Ugly Fucker. A face that even a dog wouldn’t lick. One eye higher than the other, tongue too big for his mouth and two cauliflower ears. Not one. Two. You had no chance of getting a bird with him around.

  ‘Alright, girls…’ He thought he was a funny fucker calling us girls. He was just jealous of our good looks. ‘What yuz doin’?’

  ‘We were just off, man…’ I said this so we could get rid of him. Y’know, fuck off and come back later when he’s gone. ‘We’ve gotta go pay me mam’s water rates, nowt special.’

  A big smile comes over his stupid looking big-tongued face.

  ‘Aw that’s ace! I thought I was gonna be on me lonesome all day. I’ll come wi’ ya.’

  Not one of us wanted him with us. It’d end in tears, always does with him around.

  ‘Nah, man, it’ll be boring, Psycho. What do ya wanna come there for? We’ll go pay the thing and then come back ’ere and meet you.’ We all nod at each other, mumbling ‘yeh’ and ‘sound’.

  He’s determined to come, though.

  ‘Nope. I’ve made me mind up, I’m coming wi’ ya. I’ve been in here two hours and all they keep playing is Rod fucking Stewart, doing me head in, man. And everyone keeps staring at me face as well. What’s wrong with ’em, don’t they fancy me?’

  He strokes his cauliflower ear and licks his lips with his giant fat tongue and laughs. Like a nutter.

  We are not happy. At all. We’re gonna be lumbered with him now, all fucking day.

  It’s not as bad as it had first seemed. We’re strutting down to the water board and all is good. Psycho is in quite a good mood, making us laugh and telling funny stories and stuff. Maybe he’s not so bad after all, he just wants to hang about with some mates.

  Now, the inside of the water board is a little like a bank to look at. Y’know, windows with women behind them, taking your payments from under a little space at the bottom of the glass.

  Today there’s only one woman working and there are two people in front of me waiting to pay for their water. The boys are hanging around at the end of the counter, waiting for me to pay the thing. They’re being a bit boisterous, as you do.

  The woman keeps looking at them as if they are scum. They’re only messing, what’s wrong with her? She looks a bit like Miss Jean Brodie, all school ma’amish or nun like.

  My turn.

  I pass the book under the glass and, ‘Can I pay me mam’s water please, missus?’

  She just nods, all the while glancing sideways at my mates. She takes my money, stamps the book and shouts, ‘Next!’

  Fucking charming. No thank you or fuck all. The mis
erable old bastard.

  As I walk to leave the building, the guys walk out in front of me and down the great stone steps that lead up to the revolving doors. I can see Psycho looking really shifty as we walk down the steps.

  ‘What the fuck’s up with him?’ I ask Ricko.

  ‘He’s got the money, c’mon.’ Ricko starts to run. Then Psycho and then Mel. ‘C’MON!’ he shouts behind to me, stood on me own like a lemon.

  ‘What money?’ I shout after them.

  Then, as if by magic, The Miserable Prime of Miss Jean Brodie runs through the revolving doors and screams from the top of the steps, ‘Stop! Thieves!’

  Fuck this, I’m off. Like a Bat Out of Hell is playing in my head. Running like a speeding bullet.

  Almost up to the others now, they’re shouting for me to catch up, we’re down alleys, up side streets, through car parks and then… Stop.

  ‘We’re safe. C’mon, let’s stop for a bit.’ Psycho’s panting and grunting as he says this and plonks himself on the grass verge.

  I’m delirious as to what has even happened. Haven’t got a clue.

  The others are all laughing and jumping about, linking arms and singing, ‘We’re in the money!’

  ‘What fucking money?’ I still haven’t got the faintest idea what’s gone on.

  Psycho, sitting with his legs crossed on the grass, pulls a big wad of cash out of his pocket, big enough to choke a pig, and says, ‘This fucking money! There must be ten grand here, boys.’

  I’m curious now.

  ‘Where… where the fuck did you get that lot?’

  Psycho piped up, with a huge retarded grin, ‘In there, man, that water place. It was easy, Gaz. It was just lying there, under the end window, waiting to be plucked away. I just stuck me arm under the glass… and took the fucker. Fuck that woman, man, she’s long gone. She’s gone and we’re rich!’

  That was it then. We all jumped and sang and hugged and kissed and sang again. We were rich.

  It was all in fivers, so it looked as though there was more than there really was, but after counting it up there was five hundred. Five hundred fucking quid. Three months’ wages in the ’80s, and that’s grown-up wages – I only got five quid a week glass-collecting.