Writing by my favorite punk
Luv u Babe

Cold rapid hands

Draw back one by one

The bandages of dark

I open my eyes

Still

I am living

At the centre

Of a wound still fresh

Octavio Paz

Prologue

Spare Some Loose Change

It’s fuckin freezing under this blanket. I exhale slowly and watch my breath curl away like smoke. My god, I wish I had a cig. As I check the street for promising free-fag material, a group of evening-out wankers push out of the next door take away.

-Got a spare cig mate?

A Burberry-jacketed cunt with a number one finished in bleach-blonde offers cigarettes around his mates from a full pack of Regal, looking at me like he’s about to piss himself laughing, trying to get the others to enjoy the joke, then they cross the road, running as they see their bus approaching, laughing, smoking-

-Fock, fock sake, the fockin bus!-

-all dressed in various crease-ironed trousers, chequered shirts and kicker-style shoes.

I open my resealable silver plastic bag to count the evening’s takings. Not bad, could be better. Too many coppers and five pees, but nearly there. Well there’re always too many coppers in this job, moving you on half the time but what can you do? Another hour. Feet pass. Mostly steering away, all going somewhere- trainers; knee-length boots; skater shoes; DMs; Indian sandals with socks; strictly-no-trainers-no-jeans-club shoes. I keep my head down most of the time like, except for the odd occasion when change drops into the Man City hat I’ve got in front of me. Service with a smile, eh? Fuck me, it’s cold.

It’s early March and a sharp wind’s threatening a drab spring. What your average non-pavement boy doesn’t appreciate is the cold. In a job like this, disillusionment creeps up on even the well prepared with alarming ferocity. And you know what, if I had a tenner here now and some change for the phone, I wouldn’t bother embarrassing myself sitting here any longer. But to be honest, I’m beyond embarrassment. I passed that stage years ago. I put it like that so you understand, but what I basically mean is, I wouldn’t waste my time freezing my arse off here, sat on my arse on a piece of cardboard in a skanky old blanket outside Abduls, if I didn’t have a cash flow problem, right? Right. So now we understand each other, I’ll let you take a closer look.

If I was standing up, which I don’t usually bother with for a long session, more for the casual opportunist opportunities, you’d notice I’m not a short-arse or a tall kind of bloke, and there’s not much meat on my bones, like my auntie used to say when I wouldn’t eat up the carved carcases she forked onto my plate. Always liked my veg, but meat, I still can’t stand it. Used to chew it and gob out balls of the stuff, stick it on the ledge under the table. Still got a mohie: had it since I was in school. Not that I bother shaving the sides every day, or dye it much; well, I’ve got a cash flow problem like I said, so it’s a sort of cacky brown at the moment, which matches this height-of-fashion duffle coat. Wish I hadn’t sold my biker jacket now, but that’s life. I’d put about a thousand studs in it and done some wicked paintings all over it; copied that Exploited picture with all them punk skeletons on the back too off the album cover for Troops of Tomorrow. Looking back, it was worth more than the fifty measly quid I got for it and I bloody hate this poxy duffel coat, seriously. If I ever see Mogga again, I’ll buy it back; swear to god he had to squeeze himself into it cos he’s a fat bastard. I’m not offending him, he says so himself. He was giving me all that lecture bullshit and all the ‘are you sure about this, Scab face?’ shit when I sold it to him, but he was always admiring it, so I knew he’d be chuffed to buy it off of me.

I cut the sleeves off this cunting duffel thing, fuck knows why, cos like I said, I’m bloody freezing now. At least I’ve got this navy hoodie and the mohair jumper I can curl my camouflaged knees up into in an attempt at warmth; yeah, it’s not a bad one either: Ites gold and green like the Rastaman who gave it to me said. Moses. ‘Gary, mon, jus satta, star’ he said when I offered him a fiver for it. Wouldn’t take a penny for it, not even a pint of Guinness. Yeah, he’s a top bloke, proper sorted, but I’ll tell you about him later, right, cos my boots are moulding themselves to my feet, they’re that cold. My toes are numb and that Manchester drizzle what came down earlier’s soaked my blanket, soaked everything, freezing my arse, which is also becoming dangerously numb. Ah, but here’s a drip of happiness, a bloke on a skateboard stops and hands us a couple of cigs…magic, eh? Minutes pass. Buses pass. Short skirts and stilettos pass, but do I look bothered?

Check this out. After today, she’ll probably be here every fuckin night, on the dot, well I’d say on the dot if I had a watch, but you know what I mean. Here she comes, head bowed like Saint effin Ophelia, if there is a Saint Ophelia, that is, this wafer-thin girl. Approaching me now in her Hi-Tec squash shoes, white socks, red jeans. I look up at her: dark-haired, hollow-eyed, in an M&S jacket. Earnest-looking.

-Hello?

She speaks tentatively with a soft RP accent. I mumble a reply; well, more of a grunt, shoving my money bag back into the inside pocket of my coat, looking sideways down the street at the neon curry house signs, the buses. The road and the pavement are Friday night busy. And I’m in a rush now, you know, fuckin aching to get this money changed up and shift. The girl coughs, crouches down in front of me. Biting her bottom lip, hands clasped. Here we go. I have her sussed before she even opens her mouth. I get them all the time; the do-gooder contingent, the god-squad, the wannabe social workers social wankers; social spastics. Helping you to help ourselves. Ok, I know, I’m sounding like a judgemental bastard now, right, but I’ll tell you about judgemental: the ones who spit at me, kick me and do a runner, throw coppers at me, swear at me: Get a fockin job. Scounging our taxes. Sewer rat. There are always the odd ones who are sound: I don’t mind a decent chat from time to time. Takes my mind off the cold. But I prefer most of them to just drop the money in the hat and walk away. I’m not in the job for the conversation. If I’d wanted that, I’d have worked in telesales.

-Um, excuse me, sorry to bother you, but, um, I was wondering if you know somewhere to get something to eat, uh, because there’s a place behind the university…

Like she’s born and bred in Manchester and I’m not, like. I mean, excuse my sarcasm, but I was working these streets before she was sitting her GCSEs. I’m hoping for the last couple of squid to top up the shrapnel in the kitty so I smile and nod.

-Yeah, I’m alright, cheers love.

-Um, and you’ve got somewhere to sleep? The Salvation Army hostel is only ten pounds a night…

Is that all? Like they have vacancies anyway: my left arse cheek they have vacancies, and ten pounds a night to get raped up the arse and your stuff nicked or your head kicked in if you’re lucky? Now we’re talking: I can get the same treatment in one of her Majesty’s overnight suites for free. Now I’m beginning to wish the girl would just piss off. She’s putting people off, squatting my pavement space like a free-ad for a non-denominational cult. She means well enough, but we all know that’s a psuedo-compliment, right?

-Well, so long as you have enough to eat and a place to sleep…

You should see the way she looks at me, like butter won’t melt, but she’s getting this red glow around the old cheeks and it’s spreading. Roll on tenner time…

-I don’t suppose you’ve got a spare cig?

-I’m sorry, I don’t smoke- but I do have something for you: will you read this?

Surprise, surprise. She pulls out a small booklet and hands it over. There’s a whole bunch of them in her pocket. I fantasize briefly about reaching in and evacuating possible banknotes tucked underneath them, her words blurring into the general diesel engine and car-horn chatter.

-It’s Mark’s Gospel. I just want you to know that Jesus loves you, whoever you are, whatever you’ve done. He forgives all our sins.

-Good for you. Sin a lot, do you?

Ha, she don’t know what to make of that one. Just looks at me gone out. So I help her out a bit, get the ball rolling on the business front.

-Well, ‘ave you got some spare change then, love?

-I’m sorry, I don’t give money to beggars. If you look to the lord for help…

-Well, has he got some spare change then?

Ha, that got her. Bloody hypocrite. See what I mean? The tightest of ‘em all, the do-gooders.

-Who, sorry?

-The lord.

-Uh, sorry, I don’t understand?

I can feel myself laughing now. It’s fun to have a laugh with them now and again. Different planet. Different bloody planet.

-Has the lord got some spare change? Just you said I should ask him, and seeing as you know him so well, I thought you could ask him on my behalf, maybe he gives money to people like me, so he wouldn’t mind lending you a fiver.

I’m getting impatient now. This is prime time. I’ll put it like this: there’s enough circumstantial evidence in this world to give super heavyweight titles to the argument that the lord doesn’t give a shit about people who ask for his help. If his so-called missionaries won’t help when I ask them, either they’ve misunderstood what he instructed them, or he didn’t tell ‘em owt: you decide. Religion’s only useful to those balancing the books. How much could I get for her leaflet down the nearest second hand bookshop, for example? Sweet eff ay. Get my point?

-Uh, well, every Sunday, we have a service here…

Now she’s getting another booklet out of her pocket and I’m checking for a stray tenner or even a quid slipping out unnoticed, but it’s not my lucky day. She’s showing me an address on its reverse next to a wishy-washy watercolour of a cross, surrounded by white flowers. Funereal if you ask me.

-The address and times are on the back. We have a morning and an evening service; you’re always very welcome to come and invite all your friends.

Oh yeah, maybe I’ll pop in some time and relieve them of their burden in the form of a few notes from the old silver plate. Last time the lord’s minions helped me to help myself it was from a wooden bowl, else legging it with the whole plate would have been a distinct possibility. Easy work if you can get it. But with clothes like this and the stink on me like a dog that just got out the river, it’ll be eagle eyes all round. Last time I had a go I escaped with a twenty and a grin like a winning politician on election night, but the speed with which I had to scarper hurt like me lungs were on fire. Should quit the smoking really. It don’t help with the choring: can’t run as fast as I used to.

I’m beginning to feel pretty frayed around the edges. I’m looking at the toecaps of my boots, checking this big rip in the leather where the steel’s showing through. I’m getting tetchy, the pit of my stomach heaving quietly to itself and I’m not in the mood for this shit. If she doesn’t shift soon I’m gonna to get aggro, and that ain’t good for business, but seriously, it’s like going into a brothel and expecting a sports massage on the NHS with some people, eh?

-Look, love, I appreciate your concern and all that, but I got a job to do ‘ere.

-Um, well, uh….pause…Um, well, I’m Sue- uh- what’s your name?

-Danny.

-Well, Danny, you take care, and take time to real the Gospel…it’s really good, you know…you might be pleasantly surprised.

-You’ll get a fockin surprise in a minute, love, I think to myself, or do I say it out loud? Either way, she looks a little upset as she gets to her feet, cos when I light the cigarette I got earlier off some Cockney skater, she does these big Princess Di interview eyes at me, looking up and down the street with this scared animal vibe, then back at me. I can almost hear her thinking: how dare he ask me for a cigarette, when he already had one? The cheek of it! Funny, right? I do a lot of imagining what other people are thinking. Not much of it nice.

-Goodbye, my friend.

-Yeah, right.

Back to business it is then, and tonight I’m onto a winner after all. The pubs are kicking out, which can mean a number of things, but it’s all good tonight thank fuck, and the quids are flying into the hat and my lucky break comes with the return of the skater who hands me a fiver.

-Nice one, you sure, like? I ask him, which I immediately regret. Fuckin daft twat I can be, honest: are you sure? What is it with all this are you sure stuff?

-No, I’m not sure, now give it us back. Course I’m sure, else I wouldn’t’ve given you it, would I?

See, like I said, there’s sound cunts just like there are daft cunts and evil cunts. So when the last of the drinkers have left the kebab houses with their steaming food parcels, I pull myself up, slowly. Slowly slowly. For fuck sake, it’s painful. My knees have seized up and I can hardly straighten my back. Definitely time to get moving. I take a well deserved stretch which turns out to be painful too, and yawn. What’s up with me and all this stretching and yawning? Right, let’s go: I’m walking faster with every step.

* * *

Tania’s cursing and slamming the receiver of the payphone down repeatedly like she’s trying to tenderise old mutton for the fourth time in a row. Bastard, she’s thinking, switch your fucking phone on. What the fuck’s going on? He’d told her to phone him at eight and he’d have it all bagged up. Now it’s almost midnight. This is taking the piss. Four hours, and by now Adam and Nathan will be long gone and she’ll be stuck all weekend with Hellie. Fuck that for a game of soldiers, no chance. She’s in a rage now, trying to slam the door of the phone box. Frustrated with its slow-closing door mechanism, she gives it a kick, stubbing her toe.

-Ow, for fuck’s sake!

She’s walking now, then running for the number 47. The driver raises his eyebrows as she flashes her weekly student bus pass.

-Rushing home through Rusholme love?

God, that joke gets more irritating every time she hears it.

She stomps upstairs to the back, grabbing the cold, chrome bars as she goes, sits on the spring-hard back seat and lights a fag.

* * *

The fuckin lighter ain’t working. I’m not having any of this, I can feel the flint coming loose like it’s about to spring off and it’s times like this when a walk down the road to the garage ain’t the first thing on my mind. Fuck sake, there it goes, landing in no mans’ land. Hang on…I’m remembering now, there’s a box of matches somewhere. Maybe in the kitchen. If you can call it a kitchen. I look around the room, turning over books, trashed drawings, plates, empty baked beans cans. Fuck sake, don’t laugh. Do you see me laughing? If I just shove it all inside this Kwik Save bag I’ll have more chance of finding the matches or even another lighter. Call it tidying up if you like. Fuck sake, there’s so much chaos in here my feet are crunching like the floor’s sandy. Right: wrappers; tins; newspapers; that drawing’s had it; it’s got to go…

I’m checking the kitchen now. I got this old Calor gas burner off a skip with Spid, and the chest of drawers it’s standing on. Yeah, you guessed, the cylinder’s empty. Yes, I’ve got it. Ha, look, a box of matches inside this pan. Stuck to the side by some cruddy smee, but who cares. Charred stumps, noooo. Hang on, two matches left. I hate using matches but I don’t reckon I have much choice now. Or do I? I light the lighter with the match, which works better. It’s a bit of a bloody fiddle but eventually I’m all sorted and everything’s getting there…

Fuckin hands shaking like an old alchie with the DTs, swear to god I miss the old times: no rattle, no sweat, no problems finding a route of administration so to speak, ha. Fuck me, there she is, the scarlet in the brown, feel better before it even goes in… the relief ain’t something you can describe unless you’ve got a habit. I breathe in like it’s fresh air in the Blue Mountains, deep and long, and hit home.

Cushty again. Now I can relax. I’m sitting in this big old armchair, gouching nicely and if I do say so myself it’s about time I sorted out my shit. I got piles of drawings here, half of them all fucked up with black marks and stuff and coffee rings. Then there’s my painting.

Yeah, I’ll get on with it tomorrow, sort it out, get some stuff sold. Since I was a kid they always told me I had a talent for art. Yeah, it’s pretty good stuff I’ve done, must be able to make a few quid, surely? I should go round the galleries or something. Ha, me, Gary Fitzpatrick, the big talent waiting to be discovered. What a fuckin tragedy. Seriously though, I could do with making something work for a change. Don’t you reckon? Like Moses would say, Lord have mercy!

PART ONE: Squatters’ Rights

One

Wet Phosphorus

It’s easy to squeeze through this cellar window, despite its narrowness: she’s done it before. As Tania drops onto bricky rubble below, the dank, familiar smell hits her in the pitch black as she gropes her way across the room, stopping as she hits a stone staircase. Slight, yellow light casts itself down banisterless steps. As she reaches the ground floor, light from the street falls in distorted rectangles onto the floor of the hall from the part-open doors, the musty odour of abandoned buildings hanging in the air. She creeps along uncarpeted boards, clinging to carved banisters, some of which are broken or missing and makes her way up the wooden staircase to the first floor. An empty room gapes at each end of the corridor; two other rooms face her: one, a stagnant bathroom, another a deep pink bedroom with varnished floorboards. Another flight of stairs and she faces a white door upon which is written in solid black marker pen: