PT5
By Parson Thru
- 2836 reads
Then there was the time we lived above the city’s main smack dealer.
He was called Tony Man.
I’m not sure he’ll forgive me for telling you that. But when The Man has that name you just can’t fake it.
His girlfriend – we’ll call her Mandy to hide her real identity – was a nice young girl. The landlord told us so on the Saturday that he interviewed her. Her boyfriend couldn’t make it.
It wasn’t long before he blew out the landing window with his sawn-off shotgun.
It’s what you call making your mark. Rent day was Saturday, so we had the net curtains blowing in the wind for at least a week.
The Landlord, who was some kind of circus act from Castleford, asked us what had happened to the large Victorian sash at the turn of the stairs. We couldn’t tell him. It wouldn’t do to get involved.
The truth was, the situation had been brewing for a while.
Tony could get a little frustrated at times and we’d more than once pressed ourselves against the wall in case he discharged his piece through the ceiling. It was a pretty loud fucking bang in the house.
Mandy had a bit of a thing for the body-builder up in the attic. He lived on raw eggs, making the whole building smell of eggs or maybe just eggy-shit. Whatever, he’d developed himself quite a physique. Mandy was not unaware of this and had been known to mount the stairs when Tony wasn’t cutting the mustard.
We reckon Tony knew.
One Saturday night there was a lot of screaming sometime after Des O’Connor. It got nastier.
We got as close to the wall as we could – at the edge of the bed. We heard Mandy run upstairs followed by two loud bangs.
She made it round the corner, but the window didn't stand a chance.
We didn’t bother taking our dinner out to the shared kitchen that night.
The kitchen was never the same anyway after we found Mandy sitting on the work-top while her friend did the business. Arm in tourniquet, works in the arm, guilty little smiles as we walked in.
I suppose it was the works-top.
They must have discussed the situation afterwards because they started using the shared toilet opposite the kitchen from then on.
There was often a neat little red line up and down the back of the door. Something to contemplate during a crap.
Every now and again, the police would bust the place.
I mean.
It was a game really. I’d be riding home from my late shift on the push-bike and see the Transits across each end of the street.
What are you supposed to do?
I’d just finished a 2-10 or 3-11 and maybe even called in for a bevvie on the way. I just wanted half an hour by the telly and my bed.
All I could do was gently meander around the van, wobble up the street to number 16.
By this time, everyone including my girlfriend was spread-eagled up against the wall. Police radios were going through the motions in empty cars and I would prop my bike against the curb.
“Right! You! Up against the wall now!”
To his credit, Tony used to speak up for me.
“Easy, man. That’s Kev. He’s just finished work. He lives upstairs.”
The plods weren’t buying any of that crap. They’d been around the block a few times.
I remember waking up in the early hours to a raid going on downstairs.
Well, everywhere really.
There was a police radio round the back of the house.
Note to Police: you really should turn them down.
Then I remember Tony’s voice saying “When you see him, drop the brick on his head, Henry.” Subsequently, there was an anguished cry outside. The brick had obviously found its mark.
Nothing more occurred that night. A very strange game of cat and mouse. The place was always clean by the time they called anyway.
One of the saddest sights was seeing my old Kung Fu instructor get dropped off by a car outside the flat.
I’d known him since we were kids. He was probably three years older than me.
I stood back from the nets a bit and watched. He walked up and knocked on Tony’s window.
There was a particular knock.
It was always met with anxiety and paranoia from within, but if they were recognised they got in.
There’s an unwritten rule with smack-dens. If anything goes wrong, the poor fucker gets thrown out onto the pavement.
No names, no pack-drill.
We’ll call this bloke Steve.
I saw Steve come and go a few times after that.
I didn’t mind Tony and always had a bit of a laugh with him going in and out. I suppose I was the equivalent of Sweden or Switzerland – except I wasn’t holding his money.
It was all no skin off my nose.
A year or so later I heard Steve was dead. Died on holiday.
Happens all the time.
I suppose I learned a lot in that flat.
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Comments
You did learn / see a lot in
You did learn / see a lot in that flat. Interesting read.
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There are so many interesting
There are so many interesting people out there, its good to get them onto paper/screen. Very visual I found.
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Bloody Hell, Parson. I haven
Bloody Hell, Parson. I haven't lived! I loved the clipped matter of factness of this.
Thanks for reading. I am grateful for your time.
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I can't tell if it's real
I can't tell if it's real life or fiction - always the sign of a good story! I quite understand the screaming after Des O'Connor.
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Hey PT,
Hey PT,
LIke celtic I wasn't sure if it was life or fiction, but it was a good read.
'One Saturday night there was a lot of screaming sometime after Des O’Connor. It got nastier.'
I didn't think there was much that could get nastier. Oh, I'm forgetting Daniel O Donnell. An Irish taxi driver told us that he was good enough for the English.
Moya
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We didn’t bother taking our
We didn’t bother taking our dinner out to the shared kitchen that night.
The understated humour makes this an awkwardly enjoyable laugh with a self-conscious glance round to check Tony isn't behind your lounge door.
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I like how you play it for
I like how you play it for laughs now, PT. An entertaining read but Tony must have often been a nightmare neighbour at the time.
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