Dave Cryer: Stories to Make Fire With

13:28:20 o'clock BST

 

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'Can you perhaps tell me what you want to be?'

 

'None of the above.'

 

'Okay.' Sandra closed Form H and placed her pen firmly in the centre of its front page. Its blank front page. She looked up at the client. She squeezed her chin in and pushed out the edges of her lips into a straight smile.

 

The client copied her straight smile. He had straight hair. He had a straight-looking suit.

 

'Shall we start again, Sir?'

 

The man's lips puckered up. He blinked once, slowly. He looked like a cartoon frog, thought Sandra. But then, as if switched on, he perked up. Now he was a wide-mouthed frog. His eyebrows sprang up, his eyes lit up, and up went the edges of his mouth into a crescent smile.

 

Sandra voiced a now-we-understand-each-other comfort laugh. Ha.

 

'Yes. Good. Right then. Surname?'

 

'None of the above.'

 

'No problem, Sir. First name can get us going.'

 

'I don't want to go. None of the above.'

 

'As I said before, Sir, there isn't a box for that.'

 

'I don't want a box. Don't you see?'

 

'But it'll help us to place you. Move you on.'

 

'I don’t want to move on. I want to stay where I am.'

 

'With respect, Sir, if you don't want to move on, why have you come in here? To see us?'

 

The man leaned back into his chair. He pulled his chin backward, cocked it to his left, elevating the right side of his face.

 

'I want it on record. I just want to stay put. None of the above. None of the below. No boxes.'

 

Form H beckoned.

 

 

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Written by davobarbus Link to this entry | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 2 comments: Show Recent | Add your own

10:57:04 o'clock BST

 

 

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When Malcolm Apple sauntered into the shop, the boss's eyes bored into him. Raymond Barrel had a particularly hard stare, like Paddington Bear minus his marmalade sandwiches. Big Mal knew all about Paddington from his mum.  She had lots to say about Paddington. Used to.

 'You're only seventeen, Crabbo,' said the tubby old shopkeeper.

'Yeah. Only. Not like you.'

 'This is your first job.'

 'Yeah, like I said. First on the ladder, Gramps.'

 'And like I said to you, Son, get here on time, or you'll be slipping down the snake.'

 'Slipping it in more like.'

 'Get your apron on and get some stock through from the back.'

 'We'll have a brew first, eh?'

 Big Mal eyed the Barrel as he stepped through the shop. He locked on to that piggy glare and, with his tongue glued to his upper teeth, he measured the bounce of his step like a bomb to a dam, plucking up a banana from the central display. He stopped, peeled, popped its tip into his mouth.

 Barrel folded his arms and continued to stare. He looked like a Buddha. Or a fat skinhead standing among Mods.

 Big Mal pushed the banana in a little further and raised his eyebrows. He wouldn't be faced down by an ageing gutbucket. He withdrew the banana fully from his mouth. 'What?'

 'I don't know why I employ you.'

 'You said I bought life and vitality to the grocery business. And the sparkling eye of youth to pep up the bland world of outside catering.'

 'I'm pretty sure I didn't. Maybe if  your morals were as sharp as your mouth…'
 Malcolm bared his teeth like Jaws at the boat and snapped off a monstrous length of banana. His cheeks bulged. A soldier on parade, he pirouetted, chomped and stomped, marching off into the back.

 For the next hour he worked without pause, carrying through double the amount of crates and boxes old Smeggy Keggy ever could. A handful of customers came and went. Like a dervish,  he whipped out the apples, the grapefruit and the kiwis, transferring them from the wholesaler's boxes to the shop racks, quick as a card sharp. He knew the fat man was watching. When good old Raymond made him a cup of tea, he just carried on working. He let the brew go cold, palming off his thirst. Not a lot went by before ten-thirty anyway. Before nine and you'd see glammed-up glories passing by on their way to their officejobs.  Approaching eleven and it was gagging mums with kids.  Afternoons were bouncing, bookish babes, skipping afternoon class in search of love. There was no need for Big Mal to even glance up in the ninety minute daily drought.

 At 10.30 he was done on the restocking and the cleaning. He had swept and mopped like a man possessed.  He angled his head below one of the double-your-fruit mirrors and pushed his jet-black hair back into place. He installed himself at his till. He launched a mouth-only smile at Raymond. From the till you could see every passing woman in profile.

 At 10.35 Mrs Lucy Shakepole came in. Big Mal called her Miss Lucy. She liked that. Miss Lucy worked in an old folks home. She always came for more than she could carry. Big Mal always served her with a smile. She always asked him to drop it round at lunchtime. He always obliged.

 Miss Lucy left, looking back at Big Mal and giving him a little wave.

 'She's old enough to be your mother.'

 'Change the record, Raymond.'

 'Well.' He was staring at the door.

 'You're only jealous.'

 'Of you, don't be daft. I've been a lad in my time, you know. A good lad, mind. I could tell you a few stories.'

 'I'll tell you a quick one this afternoon, when I get back from the old folks home.'

 'Don't be crude.'

 'I'll tell you a tale of the cucumber surprise Miss Lucy had for lunch.'

 'She's old enough to be your mother.'

 'She's young enough to be your daughter, Raymondo.'

 'Have some respect. She's a customer.'

 'That's right Raymond. And I give her the kind of service that she comes back for again and again.'

 'You know nothing, Boy.' Raymond's nostrils were flaring. His eyebrows were pricking out like hedgehog spines. 

 Big Mal smirked.

 'It's only a laugh, Raymond, sorry mate.'

 'I'm not your mate, I'm your boss.'

 Big Mal gave a little grimace and dropped his eyelids to half-mast. 'Sorry Boss. I'll make you another cuppa, eh?'

 'Yes. And it's not a laugh, Son. This is real life. You get back what you put in.'
 
As Big Mal came out with the cuppas, he saw the head of Andrea Gogo turn towards him. What a fine figure she presented. This one liked to be wined and dined. Mostly wined as it usually happened. She was worth theextra, though. Much younger than Miss Lucy and with boundless energy. Often out at the clubs and always with very nice mates in tow. They wereall up for it.

 Andrea had giggling black hair that tickled her cleavage. 

 'How's it going, Big Mal? You out tonight?'

 'I will be.'

 'Why don't you call round for a warmer-upper with the girls?'

 'I might do. In fact I will do.'

 'That'll be four pounds thirty, please, Madam,' said Raymond Barrel. 

 Andrea presented a fiver without even looking his way.

 Andrea paused outside the door and looked back in. Malcolm's tongue crept out,  slightly moistening his top lip. Off she skipped and Big Mal turned to the boss.

 'Lend us twenty quid,  Raymond.'

 'Sub you again, when you still owe me? You're joking. I'm not funding your dodgy waywardness.'

 'I know exactly which way I'm going Raymond. Just need some funds.'

 'So get yourself a bar job then.'

 'It's not a bar job I'm after, Raymond. I like to be on the tottie side of a bar, anyway. And how would I fit a bar job between all the weddings and birthday bashes? How about I give you this week's rent out of next week's pay?'

 'No.'

A short while later, while Raymond was out the back, Malcolm dipped two fingers and a thumb into the till. He took a twenty, which was what he'd asked for, which wasn't really much to have asked for, and then he took another twenty, for good luck and to show the boss who really was boss.

 At three, as usual,  when Little Ted parked up outside on the double-yellows with his music up and his window down, out went Big Mal to lean in and chat and soak up some sounds. Little Ted had a little something for him, as ever. He gave it him on account as Mal said he was a bit strapped until pay-day.
 
At five-thirty, Raymond Barrel locked the front door.

 'Don't come in tomorrow, Malcolm.'

 'Bank Holiday is it?'

 'Don't come in the next day either.'

 'Blinking heck. Diamond jubilee?'

 'I saw you. I've seen you before. I don’t like the way you treat the ladies. The way you treat me. The way you treat my business. Or your own business, for that matter. I don't want you in my shop and I don't want you in my flat. Seventeen and you're already rotten. You're not savable. I had you lined up, Boy.'  He shook his head with a long blink. 'You're not going to sour my life, my customers, my business.'

 'Easy Fatman, you'll pop yourself.' Big Mal removed, folded and placed his apron on Raymond's till, eyeing him the whole time. 'I take it you won't be needing me for the Buffy gigs either.'

 'My catering business? No. All my other lads are straight down the line, Malcolm. When it's a wedding, they serve. They don't stuff themselves. They stay off the dancefloor. They leave the bridesmaids alone. They stay sober. I'm going places with them. But you, you're upsetting the apple-cart.'

 'You're going nowhere. Holding me back. You'll see.' Malcolm raised his eyebrows, leaned past Raymond to lift his jacket off the peg and  went. Outside the shop, he paused, shaking his head at Raymond's van with its spiky lettering: Buffet, the Scran Hire Player. What a joke. What an awful joke of a van. What an awful joke of a man. No real lightness. Real lightness stops you sinking into the mud.

 He went straight up to the flat, packed all of his not-very-much stuff into his holdall and high-tailed it round to Andrea Gogo's place. He could kip on her sofa, she said, winking. But that night Big Mal got talking to Marcy's fellah. Marcy's fellah offered him a room in exchange for occasional favours, and Malcolm thought this was a better deal than getting shacked up with Andrea Gogo, despite her wicked ways and her tickly hair. Marcy's fellah said to call him Big Ted and it turned out he was great friends with Little Ted. Small world. That's why Marcy's called Jemima when she's working then, thought Big Mal. Malcolm's Mum had told him all about Play School, but he didn't think he ought to mention that to Big Ted.

Big Ted had rooms above the shops right opposite the fat man's emporium. From his new window, Big Mal could still see his favourite females going in for their daily bits. He knew where to find them. He wouldn't miss out. And now he had a rent-free place, so he'd have a bit more cash. When he got a new job. Maybe he wouldn't need one. Big Ted gave him some Sweetie Money, as he called it, for the packages he'd been running that week since moving in. Big Ted must be really loaded, thought Mal. He always knew the Jemima flop-house was up here, but he didn't know all of these bedsits were raking it in for Big Ted. That's why he had such a nice car. And it was a good crack up here. Music and comings and goings. Everyone seemed to know each other. Malcolm only knew Marcy, but he'd soon get to know the others.

 There was a knock at his door. It was Friday. Since moving in on Tuesday night, he'd not had a visitor. He opened it. 'Marcy!'

 She frowned. She was blossoming from a pink dressing gown. 'Not here, Malcolm. Never call me Marcy here. This is where I work, remember.  Jemima.  Jem, if you like. That's what my boys call me.'

 'Yeah. Sorry.' What a woman, thought Big Mal. He quite fancied peeling her out of that pink dressing gown. He was stirring quite rapidly.  He wouldn't have to pay for it, would he, not Big Mal. But Big Ted's mythical jungle knife loomed large. 'What can I do for you?'

 'I need a banana.'

 'Right.'

 'Ted said you'd do stuff for me.'

 'Haven't got one. Don't eat fruit. Don't like it. Comes of working with the stuff all day. I've got some bourbons.'

 'I need a banana.'

 'Okay. I need to go out a bit later -'

 'Now.'

 'Now?'

 'I need it now.' She thrust a fiver at him, switching her dewy-eyed gaze between him and the note until he took it. 'Get me two. To be safe.'

 'Right.'

 'I'll wait here.' She stepped in. 'It's only over the road. Be quick.'
 Big Mal scooped up his trainers and sat on the bed to lace them.

 'He does catering as well, doesn't he, that old boss of yours?'

 'Yeah.'

 'Ask him if he can do Saturday afternoon. Bowling club. Two o'clock for twenty. One of the girls has got engaged. We're having a do. Bit last minute, but ask him.'

 It was the nearest place for bananas. And God knows where the next nearest caterer was. He didn't want to upset Marcy. That would have a rather heavy knock-on. He hot-footed it down the corridor to the metal stairs.
 
 

The End ( 1993 wds)

 

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10:39:40 o'clock BST

 

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The van had been parked there all night. It must have been. I was the last one out at seven. I always am. Even if there’s a directors meeting that goes on late, I’m always the last one out. I always lock up. There aren’t many others that have keys. Not to the main gate anyway. And it would have had to have come in through the main gate. Well, that’s what I thought before I spoke to Cuckoo Ken. Maybe he’s right for once. Maybe it did get lowered in by helicopter. That was Ken’s conclusion.

 

It would have had to have been a Chinook, I told him. That’s a big van, I said, practically a lorry. An ordinary chopper wouldn’t be able to lift something that size. Not with all that weight in it. Maybe it was the army did it, Ken said. Or the air-sea rescue people. But we’re nowhere near the coast, I told him. He said they go all over. I just raised my eyes and nodded at him to shut him up. That’s what I do when he’s spinning one of his tales.

 

But his explanation was as good as any. Not that I told him.

 

I checked it all out with the other keyholders, chased it up good and proper. I wanted to find out who did it. Ken’s helicopter theory was annoying me at that time. He kept on about it. I don’t think he thought I believed him. Well, I didn’t. I must have given myself away to him, though. I must have talked too much, too eagerly, about my investigations. The more I looked into it, the more he went on about his helicopter.

 

But I would have heard a helicopter, I said to him. It would have had to have flown over my house to get in. It could have come from the south, he said. I still would have heard it, I said. You sleep like a log, he said. A fuggin Lancaster bomber wouldn’t wake you, he said. I walked off after that one. I could have asked him how he possibly knew how heavily Islept, since he’d never been in the same bedroom as me, but I didn’t. He hasn’t even been in my house. I wouldn’t have him in my house. He’s not what you’d call a friend, I only work with him. Well, I work and he watches.

 

You’re Chief, he says, I’m Assistant. He does this one all the time. I assist, Chief gets Chief pay for being chiefly in charge of operations, Assistant gets assistance pay, for helping out, not rolling over like a dog. He always takes his fag out of his mouth when he says that one. He says the ‘like a dog’ bit with real menace, like he’s going to punch me one. As if. I just walk away from him when he’s like that.

 

There aren’t any tracks, was the first thing he said about it. What tracks? I said. Tracks, it’s been raining for three fuggin days, there should be tracks, he said. From the gate to the fuggin van, he said. We didn’t know it was full of all that stuff at that point. We’d only just discovered it. They could have driven it slowly, I said. Don’t be daft, he said. I’m not being daft, I said, they didn’t blooming throw it there, did they?

 

That was when he came up with his helicopter theory. It took him a while. He didn’t look at me, he just stared at the van out there in the middle and smoked his fag. He took it out of his mouth a couple of times ready to give it the big I am, but it was ages before he actually came out with it. He even looked at the sky, like there was some kind of cast-iron evidence written on the rainclouds.

 

He was right about the tracks. It made a right old mess when we eventually moved it. I told him that it had been raining all night and that the ground must have softened up since they drove it there. He said I must have softened up, in the head. That was when he marched onto the grass. He threw his fag down and jumped up and down a couple of times. Look, he said, look at it, it’s like a fuggin peat bog! If you drove a fuggin Matchbox van on this, it’d cut it up like the fuggin Somme. Christ Ken, I said. What, he said, what? He raised his eyebrows and kept them raised. He put his hands on his hips and did one of his pouts.

 

Let’s have a closer look at the blooming thing, I said, come on. I waited until he moved, then I set off and overtook him. That ground was really squelching. Even we were leaving tracks. I didn’t look back, though, and I didn’t stop till I got to the van. I could hear him puffing and wheezing as he tried to keep up. It’s the fags. He was practically dead by the time he arrived, ten seconds after me.

 

I’d got my breath back. What do you think, then Ken? I said straight off. He didn’t reply, he couldn’t. He needed a blooming paramedic. It looks like one of them hire vans, don’t it Ken, what d’you think? He still couldn’t speak. What’s your assessment, Ken? I asked him, polite as Mother blooming Theresa. He was shaking his head and looked like he was going to manage to croak out a reply, so I walked off round the van.

 

It’s right bang on the spot, I said to him when I came back round. There’s something deliberate about that, don’t you think, it’s not like kids with a car is it? Someone’s parked it like that for a reason. I stared at him. You could almost see the helicopter in his eyes, but I don’t think he had the breath to start on again. Someone’s driven it in, I said, real careful, and parked it right there to make some sort of statement. It’s a statement, Ken. Someone’s trying to tell us something. Well, maybe not me and you, but, you know, us, the gaffer, the directors. I reckon there’ll be something in it, you know, inside it. As well as something in it as in something behind it, you know, not behind it like we are, but behind it as in a reason for driving it in and parking it right there, because it won’t be stolen stuff will it, why would you leave it here if it was stolen?

 

I said all that lot without even taking a breath and poor old Kenneth had to light up and smoke his fag like it was oxygen before he could come back on any of it. There usually is, he said. Is what? I said. Something in it, he said. In what? I said. Vans, he said, usually fuggin is something in fuggin vans, he said, then nearly keeled over with the effort.

 

Not all vans, I said.

 

Get a crowbar, he said. You get a crowbar, I said. You’re the Chief, he said.

 

Don’t start, I said.

 

I’d had enough of him, anyway, so I just walked off. I decided to go and get a crowbar anyway, but not because he told me to, just because I wanted to see what was in the van. I didn’t tell him I was going for a crowbar. I got myself a brew while I was in the office as well. I drank half of it while I watched him out the window. I saw him rattling the padlock like he was trying to get it off, then he leaned up against the van for a bit, then he went round and tried the driver’s door and it opened.

 

Blooming hell, I thought, why didn’t I think to do that?

 

I set off back at a bit of a pace, but slowed down as I got near. Didn’t want him thinking I’d rushed back. He hadn’t found anything, though, he was just sitting there with his eyes closed, smoking another fag. He’d wound down the window.

 

Oi Kipper, I shouted, then as he looked at me I swigged back the last bit of tea, then emptied a few drips onto the grass. He gave me one of his really hard stares. Like blooming Paddington Bear when someone’s nicked his marmalade sandwiches from right under his hat.

 

Are we having a look then? I said to him and I raised the crowbar up in the air like blooming Mel Gibson ready to have a go at the English. Come on, Fag-ash Lil, I shouted, Letsby Avenue, where the coppers live. Come on Helicopter Harry, let’s have you out of there. I don’t want to find blooming Tutenkhamun in the back there and be cursed forever on me own, do I. Come on Lord Carnarvon, shift.

 

He was shifting all the time, of course. He had his eyes on the crowbar, too, I could see it. You can read himlike a book. I knew he was going to ask me to give it here, but I was off before his feet touched the ground. I had that lock off and the back of the van open before he even got there.

 

Blooming helicopters. I showed him who's boss.

 

 

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Written by davobarbus Link to this entry | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 0 comments: Add your own