Nine Foot Tall Read online

  God bless Psycho and his great big tongue, he shared it out equally, a hundred and twenty-five each, all in five-pound notes.

  To think, this morning I only had enough for my bus fare and some chips. This money would last me till I was twenty. At least.

  We walked around town wondering what to buy, how to spend our loot – clothes, records, shoes. We could get anything we wanted.

  We were starving after all that running so went to the chip shop. Fish and chips… four times.

  And that’s just about all we bought, except for me. I also bought a silver skull and crossbones earring. Cool. Big dangly thing it was. A quid twenty-five. It wasn’t real silver.

  We were so excited that we agreed not to impulse buy, that we’d go home, hide the money and then go to Blackpool for a few days.

  I was wearing leg-hugging, stretch-denim jeans that day, Smart R’s. I stuffed my wad of dough into the super skin-tight pocket and headed home. Head spinning. I’m rich. I’m rich.

  It was late afternoon as I walked down the street to my house, still lovely and sunny, all the young ’uns playing tennis in the street because Wimbledon was on. Funny that, kids only like to play tennis at Wimbledon time.

  My plan was this: open the front door really quietly, sneak in and go upstairs to my room to hide the money. No problem.

  I get to my house, quietly turn the handle and open the door, when…

  ‘Gaz…!’ It was my mam calling from the lounge. ‘Get in here now.’

  I tried to walk to the staircase.

  ‘Two minutes, Mam, I’m just nipping to the bog.’

  ‘NOW!’ she shouted. Something was wrong. She never shouted unless the vacuum cleaner and the radio were on at the same time.

  I looked sheepishly around the lounge door frame. Aw fuck.

  There’s my mam, my dad and two big fuckers. Two big fuckers with suits and ties on.

  They weren’t smiling either. Not one of them.

  The first big fucker opened his mouth, ‘Hello Gaz, how are you?’

  I’m shitting in my pants almost.

  ‘Erm, I’m cush thanks.’

  ‘Good. I’m glad you’re cush.’ He stared right at me as he spoke, watching for… well, I don’t know what he was watching for but he was still staring. ‘Where’s the money, Gaz?’

  I don’t believe it, he came straight out with it – how does he know? We only got it two hours ago. I know, I can blag it, just deny everything and he can’t do a thing.

  ‘What money?’ I say this as calmly as I can to avoid detection, but it just comes over as cocky to the adults.

  My dad pipes up, ‘Gaz, these two fellas are policemen, CID, so don’t lie to them. Tell the truth and it’ll be better for you.’

  CID. Cunts In Disguise, Mel’s brother called them. I don’t need this shit.

  I carry on denying it for a few minutes – I don’t know what you’re talking about and all that rubbish, when…

  ‘Okay, then, Gaz…’ the other big fucker smiles at me, ‘how much money have you got on you?’

  ‘Erm, er, nothing, nowt. I only had two quid that me mam gave me for some chips and I’ve spent it. I ain’t got owt.’

  They are all staring at my jeans, Mam, Dad, two fat coppers, all looking at my Smart R’s.

  ‘Empty your pockets please, Gaz.’ He’s still smiling, the clever fucker.

  I know I’ve been busted now. Nothing I can do to get away with it, just play for time.

  Back pocket first: a door key… slam… on the table.

  Other back pocket: penknife and Polo mints… bang…table.

  Front pocket: they are all looking with eager anticipation… two bus tickets… bang… table.

  ‘And that pocket, Gazzy baby, the one with the great big giant bulge in it. What’s in there?’

  He’s still smiling. He knows full well what’s in there. The bastard. He’s just making me sweat. In front of my mam and dad.

  I pull out the wad of notes and drop it on the table. My mam and dad both put their heads in their hands.

  And the cops give me all the under arrest shit and cuff me up.

  Fuckin’ stupid tight jeans.

  I wouldn’t tell them who I’d been out with that day.

  But my mam did.

  Mel’s mam never said anything, but Ricko’s mam said it must have been my fault, I’m a bad influence. Fuck, I didn’t even know till it was too late.

  Stupid fucking Sykesey. Psycho. With his funny face and his massive tongue. Going and robbing a place where I’d just given them a book with my bastard address on. Dur!

  Because we’d only spent some money for fish and chips, the water board got most of their money back, so the courts didn’t go as harsh as they could have done.

  They didn’t even mention the fake silver skull and crossbones earring.

  Instead of Robbery, which could have got us four years in a young offenders institute, where we would most definitely have got arse raped every day, we got Handling.

  Handling Stolen Goods. Forty quid fine and a stern telling off. Not bad at all, my son.

  Smelling of roses comes to mind.

  Breaking up for the summer was the highlight of the year.

  July 1996 – Aged 29

  Once you’ve seen somebody get really fucked up, kicked in the head, without mercy, over and over and over. When you see that black blood coming from their ears. When you know that you’ve seen someone get fucked up so bad that they’re never gonna recover, and if they do they’ll be eating through a plastic pipe for the rest of their lives. Once you’ve seen that, that day will stick in your head forever. Forever.

  Today was that day.

  Sunday was usually a good day for me. A good day for business that is.

  On the seventh day, the Lord rested.

  On the seventh day, Gaz and Unsolved Steve went out and took copious amounts of drugs, and made some easy cash.

  ‘The Mass is ended. Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.’

  It had been at least thirteen years since I’d heard these words uttered – for some, the only words that were heard throughout the whole of Mass.

  But something had compelled me to go to Mass today. Don’t know what it was, I just knew I had to go.

  It made me feel good too, an enormous sense of well-being. That and the drugs I’d taken only a couple of hours earlier.

  It still felt good, it felt good because I’d chosen to go, of my own accord. Not like when I was younger. When I was younger I was made to go. With my little sister. Yuk.

  My dad sometimes came with us, but if he didn’t he would tell us to go, and just so we wouldn’t sneak off to the park with our mates he would tell us to bring back a Mass sheet and explain to him what the gospel had centred on.

  Today’s gospel spoke of Jesus mixing with tax collectors and sinners (Matthew 9.9-13).

  Anyway, I’ve done my bit for Catholicism today. It’s time to go meet Steve.

  Sunday to us was usually an extension of Saturday, which in turn was an extension of Friday.

  It went like this.

  Friday morning, meet Steve and go to the pub for opening time. Drink beer and brandy and eat lots of chemicals up to closing time. Go to an all-night club. Drink and chemicals. Go to some strange house for an after party, complete stranger’s house most of the time, but who cares? More drink, more chemicals. By this time it would be Saturday morning. Go to a cafe for some eggs and bacon. Back to the pub for opening and through to Sunday morning, more breakfast then straight to the pub again. We had our chemical assistance to beat the sleep. Es, coke and a big bag of Billy.

  And that’s what Sunday would consist of, mucho Billy-o. Had to be alert.

  Everyone had been out all weekend, all feeling jaded, and would come to us for their pick-me-ups. Paid for
our beer money and more drugs, if nothing else.

  One of our favourite haunts on a Sunday was an all-day drinking den by the name of Flanagan’s. It sounds like it should be an Irish bar. It’s not. It’s a shithole. The only thing Irish about the gaff is the little shamrock on the sign outside and the fifty or so pikeys who would congregate there. Not a hint of Irish music, unless the pikeys started to sing in the beer garden, which was quite often. They’d sing, then they’d fight. Each other. For fun. They used to fight each other for fun.

  But we got on well with the pikeys, the travellers. They loved their beer and chemicals.

  That meant they loved us. We had the chemicals.

  We drove up to Flanagan’s in Steve’s car that day, a lovely, lovely BMW. Private number plate too, D34 LER.

  As we drove up past the canal, I saw, in the distance, someone throw a dog into the canal.

  ‘Fuckin’’ell, Steve man. Did ya see that? Some cunt just chucked a dog offat bridge. Into the canal. Fuck me, man. I don’t believe what I just saw, the cruel bastard. How can people do things like that, Steve man? It’s beyond me. Have you ever hurt an animal?’

  Steve thought for a moment, then said, ‘What? On purpose or by accident?’

  ‘Any. Either. Why? Have you? Have you hurt summat? You have, ‘ant yer?’

  ‘Yeh, then. Yeh I ’ave. I killed an elephant once.’

  I nearly choked on my cigarette smoke.

  ‘A fuckin’ elephant?’

  He seems to have completely forgotten chopping off a dog’s head last year. But I suppose that’s allowed though, it being a bouncer’s dog, trying to bite us and that.

  ‘Yeh, man. A baby elephant. Killed it stone dead.’

  I laugh out loud. I can’t believe what I’m hearing.

  ‘How the fuck did you kill an elephant? There aren’t any elephants round ’ere, man. Where did you even see an elephant? Let alone kill one.’

  ‘I went to India, Gaz man, Goa…’ He doesn’t find this quite as amusing as I do. He’s telling me his story with the straightest face I have ever seen. Ever. ‘Yeh, Goa. It was cush. Nice place, red hot too. Anyway, I hired this motorbike for a day, big fuck off thing it was, a right beast, fast as fuck. I’m teararsing round the countryside at about eighty mile an hour, flew round a corner and crashed into an elephant. Killed it, man. Dead.’

  I’m still laughing.

  ‘So you just banged into a baby elephant, then? And it died? Fuck off, man. You’re bullshitting me. A wild elephant? Just walking around?’

  ‘Yeh, man. It’s true. Out there, man, in Goa, stuff just walks about, free like. Not like here where it’s all in a zoo and that. I flew round a corner and smashed into a baby elephant. It wasn’t massive, it were only about four foot high. Fat little fucker though. Nearly broke me bike. It just fell over when I crashed into it, then it grunted, then it died. All these Indian geezers were jumpin’ around shouting and wavin’ their fists at me. So I got back on me bike and fucked off. I saw all sorts of stuff there, man. Huge cows with big curly horns. Big flying things and all sorts. It were mad.’

  ‘What do you mean? Big flying things? What sort of fuckin’ things?’ I’m astonished.

  ‘I don’t know, Gaz man, just massive stuff what flies.’

  ‘Eh? Massive stuff? What kind of stuff? Birds? Insects? What?’

  ‘Gaz man. Just stuff. I don’t what they were. Just animals or summat.’

  ‘Animals? Fuckin’ animals? Well fuck that, Stevie boy, I’m not ever gonna go to no India. That’s for sure. Flying stuff? Flying animals? Fuck that. You’re crackers, man, going to mad places like that. I wish I’d never asked you anything in the first place. I’m gonna have nightmares, man. Flying stuff? Fuck me.’

  It still amazes me, the shite that comes out of people’s mouths when they’re off their heads. All I could think about for the next few minutes was flying animals. What were they? Perhaps they were like the Screaming Devil Monkeys from The Wizard of Oz. But in India. Not the Magical Land of Oz.

  ‘Don’t you just love the red hot, sunny, sexy summertime, Gaz?’

  Steve was extra giddy and happy today. The sun shining, the pocket full of cash. The whizz and Charlie in his brain.

  ‘I do, man, I do…’ I was giddy too, in a playful mood. Time to wind him up a little. ‘Steve man… what’s wi’ that stupid number plate, for fuck sake?’

  ‘Whatyonnabout? It’s ace.’ He nods his head furiously in time to the tune on his radio.

  ‘Ace? Steve man, it’s not ace. It’s gonna get us nicked. Every cop who drives past is gonna stop us. Every single one. All day, every day. Stop. Search. Stop. Search. Nicked. Nicked. Nicked.’

  Winding up Steve is so easy.

  ‘What you trying to say, Gaz? That my number plate’s crap?’

  ‘Yeh I am. It’s crap. C.R.A.P. All private plates are crap. It’s like having stone cladding on yer house. But crapper. Yours is even crapper than anyone else’s coz it says DEALER and it’s gonna get you nicked. Me too if I’m wi’ yer. If it dunt get yer nicked it’ll at least get yer loads of hassle. Fuckin’ DEALER. It’s crap. Rubbish.’

  ‘Well, I like it. If the feds stop me I’ll tell ’em to get fucked. How’s that grab yer?’

  He means it too, he would, he’d tell the cops to get fucked.

  I carry on with my little party game.

  ‘And that fuckin’ chain you’ve got on, well…’ Steve wore one of those great, big, fat, ridiculous gold chains around his neck, weighed a ton man. ‘With that fuckin’ stupid chain on, weighin’ yer neck down, yer might as well have a big sign on yer head saying I AM A DRUG DEALER. You look like a bastard, man. Big silly chain and crappy number plate.’

  I can’t help laughing while I’m saying all this, Steve’s laughing too, but he can’t tell if I mean it or not, which makes me laugh even more.

  ‘Aw stop it now, Gaz, fuck off. This silly chain cost me three grand and me mam bought me this number plate for me birthday. So stop laughing at it. You see that wire…?’ He points to a wire that leads to his mobile phone plug, the in-car charging kit. ‘Plug it out for me please.’

  I look at him with a puzzled expression.

  ‘Plug it out?’

  He puts on some sort of posh upper crust accent. ‘Oh yes please, Cedric. Would you mind terribly? I’m concentrating on the road, you see. I need you to plug it out for me.’

  ‘Plug it out? You mean unplug. You don’t say plug it out. It’s not right. Unplug. I’ll unplug it for you. Fuckin’ plug it out. Ya mad cunt.’ I’m shaking my head, chuckling.

  ‘I’ll say plug it out if I want. OK?’ Ha ha, he’s shouting at me now.

  Yes, I’ve done it, I’ve got him going, his voice is getting mad. I love it when he gets mad, it makes me laugh.

  He raises his voice a little more. ‘I’ll say plug the fucker out coz when I plug the fucker in I say “plug it in”. There. That must be right then, mustn’t it? Plug it in and then plug it out. Yep. Plug it out. Plug it out. Plug the fucker out. My silly gold chain is a nice gold chain, and me mam’s birthday present number plate is not like bastard stone cladding. Fuckin’ stone cladding? What’s that supposed to mean? I like stone cladding. And it’s plug it fuckin’ out. C’mon, you mad little cunt, we’re here.’

  I’m falling around laughing at his outburst as we get out. He’s chuckling too, not the mad belly laughter that I’m convulsed with, he’s just chuckling.

  Sunny weather, drink and chemicals, lots of laughter. Nothing can go wrong today. Right?

  Wrong.

  We’re walking into the place, through the beer garden, nodding to people, saying hello, alright fella, got some gear, want some gear, how’s yer head, how’s your lass and all that kind of shite, when we spot them. The Lonnegan brothers. All six of ’em. Aw fuck, not them.

  Fuckin’ ’ellfire. Not th
em.

  The Lonnegan brothers. The Vicious brothers.

  All six of ’em. Crazy, deranged, violent to the extreme. They love jail. How can anyone win against someone who loves jail? They love to fight the blacks, they love to fight the pikeys, and they love to fight the police! If they get into a fight and some fucker calls the law, the Lonnegans wait. Every normal sane person fucks off. Not them. They wait and they have a fight with the police. They are nutters. They’re not even from Leeds, man, they’re from Hull or somewhere. They just come here to cause trouble.

  The last time I saw any of the Lonnegan brothers was here in Flanagan’s a few months previously. I was almost asleep in the beer garden one afternoon, the place was packed, rocking it was, when in come two of the Lonnegans, Jimmy and Frankie. They walk straight up to this giant of a man, not a word and BANG. Baseball bat around his crust. If that wasn’t bad enough, the force of the whack made the bloke’s eye pop out. Popped right out of his head. Onto the grass.

  It soon made me wake up, seeing that, I can tell you. There were women screaming, the giant guy was screaming, they were all screaming, man. The Lonnegans? They just went inside and ordered some drinks. Like nothing had happened. Crazy fuckers. Crazy fuckers who are here today. All six of ’em.

  Jimmy, Frankie, Terry, Gaz, Baz and Finbar.

  Jimmy is the eldest, about forty. He’s probably the only one out of the lot of them who’s really hard. Oh yeah, the rest of them are mad enough, but they’re not really hard. If they went toe to toe with some hard nut, they’d lose. But they’re mad, so going toe to toe isn’t an option; they use weapons and go mob-handed. Jimmy is the one with the reputation really, the rest just want be like him; except for that, he’s quite a nice bloke. Unless you upset him. Then he’s not nice. Jimmy Lonnegan will go toe to toe with anyone, and he will probably win.

  Frankie “I am afraid of no man and there isn’t a dog on the planet that I can’t beat in a fight” Lonnegan is as mad as a box of frogs. He’s about thirty-five. He once glassed a bloke in the face for standing on his toe in a nightclub. About eight months later he saw him in the Asda, and glassed him again. With a bottle of salad cream. He’s spent nearly half his life in the shovel.