An extract from 'e-state' (unpublished)

Synopsis for e-state

e-state is the story of the residents of a Yorkshire Housing Estate.
No-one likes living there, they all want to escape. Most try the normal
methods of crime, drugs, gambling and suicide. But these are usually
temporary, and those who try them still have to come back to live in
The Jungle. There are those who try that little bit harder to escape
permanently, and one of those is Bill. He digs graves for a living, and
robs graves to supplement his meagre income. He plans to retire to a
barge he will name after his long-dead mother who doted on him. He
managed to escape the miserable childhood he suffered at the hands of
the brutal man he thought was his father, and now wants to leave
civilisation behind him, having only the dogs he took in from stray as
company. Bill thinks human beings are the lowest form of life, only
interested in hurting others in the name of greed. But Bill is human
too, and he also gets greedy. He wants to stop what he does but can't
afford to if he wants to buy his barge. So as his neighbours go about
their everyday lives - drinking; fighting; gambling; stealing; conning
old people; mugging; joyriding; vandalising; drug-taking; watching
strip-shows; committing adultery; catching diseases; and wife-beating -
some begin to notice things amiss and the natives begin to grow
restless...
A woman sees him in her dead husbands' suit. She thinks nothing of it,
just her memories. A ring is found that should be in a coffin. The
family can't work out why it has come back to them. Bill is seen
selling second-hand jewellery. People think he is another burglar. He
is seen in a grave at night by two lads who had to walk through the
cemetery. Their brains are too fried by drugs to work out just what it
was they saw. They're too scared to mention it to anyone else, too
messed up to be sure
Bill has been riding his luck for too long, too many years, and as he
rushes to finish his last night-time job, he forgets to replace the
flowers properly. The bereaved thinks her hated mother-in-law did it
out of spite.
The Council want Bill out of his house so they can knock it down. Him
staying put is costing the rate-payers money. Bill wants more
compensation than they offer. It's all he needs so he can leave and
live off his pension. This is the greed that costs him and his dogs
their lives. One man, Alan, has a personal vendetta with Bill and his
dogs after one of them savaged him. He only needs an excuse, and the
man who works for the Council gives him one. The council man knows Bill
is a gravedigger, and tells other people in the pub. Hearing this,
Brads, one of the lads who saw Bill in the grave, wonders if that
explains the sickening question him and his friend Lewy have puzzled
over for a year. Alan tries to stir up hatred of the loner with the
dogs amongst the men of The Jungle. It isn't difficult. None of them
like outsiders, they've already proved that by clubbing together to rid
the estate of a couple of thugs, led by Andy, a soldier on leave. When
something like this happens, they all stick together and sort it out
their own way.
As people talk about the gravedigger in the pub, more pieces of the
jigsaw fall into place after ten years of confusion. A party of men set
out straight from the pub to the cemetery. They want to find out for
themselves, and have to open a grave to do it. This is all witnessed by
Brads and Lewy, who know nothing of the reasons behind it. Seeing their
friends and neighbours knee-deep in a grave is too much for them, after
what happened before. They're glad to be leaving for The Mediterranean
the next day, for the summer at least. They're not planning on ever
coming back to the estate.
Neither is Bill, but he has to wait for his compensation cheque. Alan
and others are in the pub, preparing for another alcohol-fuelled mob
beating, but this time without Andy to keep them under control. Bill's
dogs can sense what is about to happen to them as The Jungle goes
quiet, always a sign of trouble. Bill thinks it is Ron the council man
who has come to call on him, but the dogs know better. The other
residents have decided to march on his house, like the villagers
marched on Dr Frankenstein's castle, to rid themselves of the monster
created by his parents.

*********

They'd had to leave the club early and neither of them were too happy.
Morley was a stupid place to get home from by public transport. It took
ages just to get to Leeds. Rob apologised, but it wasn't his fault. He
was a clubbing mate from years back who'd offered them a lift when they
bumped into him in Sheffield the week before. It was good to see him
again. They thought he was still in Germany. He thought they'd stayed
in Spain. He'd dragged them away from the floor, which was pumping, to
tell them they were leaving because Tyler was fucked. They'd had that
moment of deciding whether to stay or go. Tomorrow had to come into it.
They'd done that before and spoiled it all. Brads said they should go
now because either way, the night was fucked. And they hardly had any
money left. He was right. Rob softened the blow by telling them there
was a big lump of Moroccan at his house to get stuck into.
They were still all wired from the pills and whizz sat in the lounge.
Lewy was fuming, and kept looking daggers at Tyler slumped in an
armchair. He'd dropped six or seven pills at once, the little arsehole,
and got the bends from coming up too far too fast. Rob's other mate,
Simon, was following up his THC content speech with one about
milligrams of MDMA in the pills they'd had. He reckoned that was the
reason for Tylers state. Lewy couldn't keep quiet any longer.
"Listen you fuckin' prick, 'e knows fuck all about drugs, an' 'e
proved it tonight! Fuckin' arse'ole!"
"Lewy, shuddup mate."
"Sort o' thing yu do when yur fuckin' fifteen! If 'e weren't so
fucked, I'd o' killed' cunt by now!"
"'Ey, calm down man, it's no ones fault yu know. Tek it easy."
He motioned at Lewy to sit down, which wasn't the best move.
"Calm fuckin' down! We were 'avin' a fuckin' belter an hour
ago!.."
"Lewy!"
"...An' now we 'ave tu listen tu you talkin' shite for hours, you
fuckin' ..."
"NICK! LEAVE IT OUT!"
"Simon, don't bother, no one's in' mood for it now."
Brads and Rob tried to shut them both up, but it was too late.
"What? I 'an't said nowt wrong, an' 'e just starts for no
reason!"
That was it. Lewy leapt off the couch and kicked the arm of the chair,
knocking Simon's equipment to the floor. As Simon's aggrieved face
looked around, Brads had moved faster than he had in years to prevent
punches being thrown. He bundled Lewy out into the corridor, but
couldn't stop another kick which Simon blocked with his arm.
Brads ordered Lewy to stay outside the front door while he went back
in. He locked the door after him just in case.
"Listen boys, sorry about that."
"Yeah, so am I mate. Simon, yu should o' realised mate. I know, yeah,
it's all knob'eads fault."
Rob nodded at Tyler, who hadn't moved for over an hour since they
threw him down. The temazepam must have hit him well, unless he was
dead. Brads said sorry again as they heard Lewy mouthing through the
letterbox.
It was a long walk home, but still wired and calming Lewy down made it
a good idea. No one was around at 3.30am. No taxis either. They didn't
have too much money, and couldn't jump one in the state they were in.
Besides, years of people getting up to Field End Road late at night and
jumping over the wall into the field had taught the cab companies to
ask for fares beforehand. Sometimes it was robbed straight back off
them with interest. They used to jump cabs all the time, never thinking
of the consequences. You don't think ahead when you're a kid. Served
them right really. It all came back around. Now they had miles to walk.
One of the blokes in the Crown used to tell a story about his mate from
the estate, thick cunt, arriving on his street in a cab, telling the
driver to pull up outside number eighteen, then doing a runner. The
police were waiting at number eighteen when he got home.
"'E were a fuckin' prick, weren't 'e?"
"Aye."
"Was 'e though? I weren't bein' out of order, were I?"
"Nah, 'e were an arse."
Lewy kept repeating the question. Brads told him in stages. Yes, he'd
been a little bit out of order.
"One o' them people that know it all. Like one o' old fuckin' pub
bores. Doin' my fuckin' 'ead in."
"A drug bore!"
"That's exactly what he were! A fuckin' drug bore! Bad as a fuckin'
pub bore! No, worse! At least pub bores don't think they're
cool!"
"You were cool, mate. You 'andled it well."
"Did I? No I din't! Were I out of order though, honestly?"
"Yeah, but I know why. You 'ad yur eye on that bird wi' yellow top on,
din't yu!"
"Yeah, well do yu fuckin' blame me! She were gorgeous."
"Mmm. Ecstacy goggles."
"Really?"
"Just cos she smiled at yu, dun't mean she's gorgeous! Don't worry, yu
din't miss out on owt. Tyler probably did you a favour! Yu wun't o'
wanted tu see 'er in daylight."
"Aw no, I've done it again, 'ave I?"
Brads had also done it again with his disarming. Lewy was now laughing
at himself.
"Woo! Still up there though, aren't you? Fuckin' went then." - he
snapped his fingers - "I were right in' mood for 'im. Never 'ad that
before on pills. I'd o' killed 'im an' it'd been easy! Weird!"
"Aye, I 'ad tu fuckin' push you out, yu larey little cunt."
The talking ceased for a while. When they came alongside the cemetery,
Brads suggested cutting through it to get to Lewy's house. They'd done
it a fair few times before, but not for a long while. He'd avoided
going anywhere near Adele's house in the
ast month or two, and definitely didn't want to walk past it tonight.
He didn't want to see lights on in her bedroom, or shadows, or....in
fact he didn't even want to think about why he didn't want to walk
past. Not ever, but especially not now.
Up the slope, the graves were taking on all sorts of weird shapes.
These were older ones, decorated with figures on top, which made it a
great spooky place to do a trip, but was still quite entertaining
now.
"(Someone's over there! I saw a light!)"
"Nah, don't be daft."
"(Swear! See! There on' left.)"
"(Ha-ha! In'graveyard! Nice one!)"
They wanted a closer look, hoping it would be someone fucking, not
mentioning that it might be without consent. That had happened before
in this cemetery.
It wasn't easy to keep quiet, not being able to see the ground for
visuals, but they worked around the stones by hand. A moon would be
helpful. All the shapes man. Too confusing. A change of direction, then
noises.
"(Fuck's that?)"
"(Dunno. Still got techno hammerin' in mi 'ead.)"
"(Same 'ere. Not sex is it.)"
"(Uh-uh.)"
They crept closer until the torch could be seen on the ground thirty
yards away. It must be something dodgy at this time of night, but they
didn't want to go closer than this. Could be a few idiots.
The torch disappeared! Below ground. What the fuck! Brads mind had had
a couple of months off from thinking stupid things, but now it kicked
in again.
"(Someone just came out o' that 'ole!)"
"(I din't see it.)"
"(Did! Honest! Fuck this, I'm off . This is too fuckin' much,
man!)"
"(What the fuck is that?)"
Brads headed quickly away and was followed rapidly by Lewy. He tripped
on one grave and looked back, got up in a panic, and looked back. He
imagined he'd just seen zombies and all sorts of weird shit, and it
could even happen with the one he was on!
ewy helped him upright. The panic was contagious, so Lewy was trotting
to keep up with Brads, making Brads go faster. They almost ran into the
wall, before scrambling over it, crossing the wasteland, and running up
the path along side the junior schoo
to the estate. Soon Lewy's shaky hands were opening the door.
Brads didn't normally mind the e-state. Even if he was working Monday,
and that had been most of them recently, it wasn't a problem. This was
different. They were only just starting to come down. Both had banged
shins and ankles, and Brads had cut
nds from the green marble stuff covering the top of the grave he'd just
fallen on. They were both out of grass, and refused the offer of any
valium from Rob. They couldn't put music on loud with Bazza in bed.
Neither of them wanted to argue over whether it had been zombies or
two-headed monsters. So after a few feeble efforts at concentrating on
something else, they sat in silence, smoking fag after fag. Their jaws
were working overtime, eyes wide and staring, sweating, blotchy white
skin, hearts racing. Even though they hadn't spent long dancing, this
was a classic e-state. It was a nasty one as well. Lewy got up to raid
Bazza's whisky supply. He had an idea for something to concentrate
their minds on. But if the Big Man had fucked up recording Match of the
Day, it would be the end of the world.

******

Alan swallowed the last half of his drink and pushed himself to his
feet. The whisky that Pete had brought out after letting them try the
legally imported pocheen had finished him off early. He hated the
stuff, but landlords prerogative and all that.
There were a few comments from the rest of the school about leaving
when he was up, but Alan was about even, and he'd paid himself out, so
they could all fuck off. They weren't serious anyway. There were also
some piss-takers saying Sue would batter him for getting into such a
state, but he was more likely to do it to her, so he said. That wasn't
true though. People who hit women were the lowest form of scum, lower
than coppers. Everyone at the table agreed, although he knew at least
one who regularly said that and did the opposite. He waved at the stud
players and the regular drinking crowd and stumbled over to unlock and
unbolt the door. Stuart was behind him ready to shut up again as Alan
braced himself for the bright light. There was none. It was still dark.
In May as well. Fuck, he was early. The door slammed behind him as Alan
routinely stumbled quickly off the premises.
Singing softly to himself on the way home, Alan was on autopilot, even
picking up a brick without thinking when he heard a dog growling up
ahead. It happened so often, he didn't stop to think. A quick rock on
the head and they soon shut up. His throw missed though and skidded
into a post at the side of the path. The dog had scampered away a bit,
but turned and growled again, teeth bared and hackles up. Alan looked
and his own hackles came up instantly.
"You! Yu fuckin' dirty fuckin' cunt! Don't you growl at me! Should o'
fuckin' killed yu when I 'ad chance! Come 'ere!"
Sue had brought the mongrel home, he'd never even wanted it, but it
wouldn't have been worth the grief to kill it, so he threw it out when
she was away one weekend. They'd seen it around the estate, running
with the strays a couple of times afterwards, so she couldn't complain
about how he treated it. He told her it had always been a bit wild,
which it had, so it was probably happier with the scabby bastard estate
dogs. He hadn't seen it for a while now though, and hadn't thought
about it for ages.
ow he could do what he wanted to and she'd never even know. Revenge
beckoned for all the furniture it had chewed, all the carpet it dug up,
all the times it pissed on the fireplace (''E's only markin' out 'is
territory!') and shat all over the fucking house, especially that time
he stood in the sloppy dogshit first thing in the morning and puked.
For all the doghairs he found, even in his fucking bed, because she
used to watch t.v. with it in the bed when he was out late. Bitch. And
for all the times the nasty little bastard had bitten him. The only
time he got any fun at all out of it was when he used to get it to
drink from the toilet bowl, and pissed on its head. It always fell for
that one. Now he was going to get some pleasure from breaking its
fucking neck with his bare hands.
They were both growling as Alan took a couple of steps up the path and
reached down for the scruff of its neck. The dog backed off and bit
him, but he didn't feel anything, and didn't stop. The pocheen had
probably helped there. He soon had it in a
tight headlock, trying to stop it wriggling and snarling. Alan's
bleeding right hand held the scrabbling mutt while his left twisted the
neck fur. The dog, eyes bulging as the flesh tightened on its head,
couldn't move, but as Alan moved his left arm clockwise, the dog bit
it. He was strong though, and didn't flinch. This fucker was really
asking for it.
"Right! You wanna know 'ow that feels do yu?"
He took a big snarling lunge at the dogs left flank and sunk his teeth
through the fur. He remembered the taste from when he woke up with
hairs in his mouth from the pillow. He sank them into the flesh,
shaking it like a dog would to him. Big mistake.
The dog yelped and managed to wriggle free, leaving Alan to fall on
all fours, before it turned, snapping viciously at his face. Alan
covered his face with his arms and he curled up in a ball as the dog
savaged him. He was spinning in a circle, trying to boot it away while
the teeth held his arm and it shook him like a rat.
One kick connected and he thrashed wildly at the dog until it let go
and ran off up the path, leaving Alan prostrate, not in pain from the
bites yet, but pride well and truly damaged. So were his clothes. He
was whimpering in disbelief and swearing on his kids lives that he was
going to kill that dog if it was the last thing he ever did.
Alan sat for a while, head swimming, before he picked himself off the
floor and picked fur from his mouth. He staggered homewards, angry with
himself as much as the dog, but he was paying already. The hairy
bastard would pay later. It obviously still lived on the estate. It
would finish up as part of a dog vindaloo when he sold it to fucking
Sinbad or whatever his fucking name was who ran the curry shop down the
road.
Alan was near home when laughter made him look up. Two lads coming the
other way had seen his face and the state of his clothes lit by a
lamplight, and obviously found it funny. Alan stopped, facing them
under the lamp.
"Summat funny, yu cheeky little cunts?"
"Aye, you. An' if yu don't fuck off, yu'll get it even worse. Startin'
then? Come on!"
Alan told the kid he'd picked the wrong night, and grabbed his head,
slamming it into the lamppost with a satisfying clang. The other kid
aimed a punch at Alan's shoulder and barely connected. The one getting
punched pulled a hammer out of his coat pocket and Alan let him go to
avoid being hit. He backed off and the kids started getting
cocky.
"Urr, not so 'ard now, are yu? Come on then!"
He swung it, but wouldn't come close enough to really try. The other
one had a blade, probably a chisel, and they were both trying to look
menacing. Alan laughed, knowing he could call their bluff. They
wouldn't be talked into a panicky beating of him, but you never knew.
Some kids were so proud, they'd rather get beaten up than backdown.
That was how he was as a kid.
"Listen boys, if you were gonna use them stuff, yu'd o' done it by
now. An' if you do use 'em now, yu'd better do a fuckin' good job, else
I'll kill yu wi mi bare 'ands. An' I mean that."
He said it quietly, there was more force to it that way. After a bit
of a stand off, they skipped backwards, pointing and threatening him,
telling him how lucky he was, to save face with each other. They went
down a connecting path between the high fences, disappearing into The
Jungle. Alan turned to find his garden and was looking forward to
bed.
As he opened the gate, a brick hit him hard on his back. His scream
turned into a yell as he heard two sets of footsteps running off.
"RIGHT! That fuckin' does it!"
He was in and out of the kitchen in a flash, and ran down a few paths,
trying to see which way they'd gone, wondering very loudly if they
fancied it now. Having sobered up rapidly on the walk home, Alan was
now drunk on rage and tore around the blocks
earest his looking wildly for two kids or a dog, and brandishing the
biggest knife in his kitchen. No sign, but he wasn't giving up so
easily and ran back to get his car.
A few crawls around the twisty estate roads and still nothing. He was
quiet, wanting to catch them unawares, but realised he was wasting his
time after quarter of an hour. He turned to go back home and almost
crashed into a prowling police car. They
were out of their car quicker than he was and were on him before he'd
run very far. Alan gave a pretty good account of himself, almost losing
his temper after the events of the night. It took four of them to
subdue him, he didn't know where the extra two came from. He was
restrained by a few kidney blows and someone kneeling on his head,
making him chew tarmac. The handcuffs were on him and one cunt pulled
his hair back.
"Where the fuck were you off tu wi no lights on then?"
Alan tried to spit in his face, but was backhanded. A bit of blood
appeared in his mouth, but that might as well bleed along with every
other fucking part of his body. At least the copper had blood coming
from his mouth as well.
"Been drinkin' 'ave yu? You're in big trouble. Drinkin' an' drivin';
assaultin' a member of Her Majesty's Constabulary."
"Two members weren't it.
He was slapped again.
"Seen this sarge? Think this is yur man."
One of the later arrivals, there were now eight of the bastards, had
found the knife on the passenger seat. The shit had really hit the fan.
Alan was getting progressively madder. All the cunts were pointing and
laughing at the state of his face as they dragged him up off the floor.
The leather was ripped apart, especially at the arm and back. Cue lots
of jokes about it being a good job he wouldn't need a jacket inside.
Alan wasn't impressed that they'd brought a meat van and a dog van for
him as
well, and they took great care to bang his head on the roof as they
bundled him inside.
"Need all this lot do yu, for one fuckin' bloke, yu soft cunts! Tek
these fuckin' cuffs off an' I'll tek you all on! Yu queer fuckin' pig
bastards!"
The drive down to the station consisted of Alans face and ears getting
slapped with gloved hands to try to shut his threats up, and the
fuckers taunting him about the lovebites his beautiful wife must have
given him, and how she must like it doggy style. Very fucking funny
girls.
Alan tried to get to sleep in his cell, but was woken up every few
minutes by a truncheon on the door. Just checking on him, the rule with
drunks. They were still pissed off because he wouldn't take any test.
They must have had a quiet night. The bites on his arms were hurting
now, nearly as much as his face, his back, his ears, his legs. His
demands to see the doctor were finally met, and he was marched up to
get some treatment.
There would be no telling them about the lock-in at the Crown, he
wasn't going to tell them about the dog or the kids either, because
they'd laughed at him enough already. So when the doctor asked him how
he got his injuries, Alan looked at him and tried to smile.
"Ask yur mates there. They'll probably tell yu I fell down'
stairs."
A few more marks were not going to matter, so they'd given him a few.
He'd have a few new scars from tonight as well.
"And what about the bites?"
Alan smiled again.
"Your dog did it."
He could play the game too.

******

Bill had moved, or been moved, to The Jungle twenty years ago. He
hated the place, but liked the position it was in. Next to the fields,
trees and hills, so it was easy to get away. He'd always been one for
getting away from it all, and now it wouldn't be long. He'd be out of
here permanently. Away from the dirt and the noise and the rotten
houses of rotten people. He'd be away from the people, something he'd
tried to do as long as he could remember. He wouldn't have to deal with
anyone any more. A few shop and lockkeepers perhaps, but not for long.
That could be dealt with because there was little chance of being
betrayed by them. Unlike everyone else.
Okay, so not everyone, just everyone he'd ever had feelings for, and
there weren't many. His mother dying was a kind of betrayal. She left
him alone with his father. That was the worst thing anyone could have
done. Bill was a war baby, born while his father was overseas, fighting
and fucking for King and country. The wife and life he'd left behind
weren't the same when he returned. Perhaps that's why he behaved like
he did, or maybe because of things he'd seen and done during the war.
Bill had been told some of the things when he was growing up. They
helped him decide to leave home at fourteen. A few years of drifting
and living rough, mostly alone, helped Bill to make his mind up. People
were rubbish. The lowest form of life. The things they put each other
through, you'd never guess they were supposed to be the most
intelligent form of life on the planet. They were worse than animals.
He didn't want anything to do with them.
Dogs were a different story. When Bill found a job that suited him and
his life, he also got a new house. A cheap pre-fab maisonette maybe,
but still a house. He'd found work in the dead centre of Steel City and
moved down from York. It was a bright, vibrant place then. All new
skyscrapers and walkways in the sky being built. Bigger than York and
certainly bigger than the village outside York where Bill was born.
There were more people in Sheffield, and that was important for Bills
work. Bills house was near a railway line. That was where he'd found
the first puppy he'd ever had. Some cruel bastard had put it in a bag
and thrown it over the wall. It might have been just after Christmas,
which was now how Bill thought of it. Unwanted present. The puppy
filled the gap that had been in Bills life since he'd left home nine
years previously. They'd had dogs on the farm near where he grew up.
Bill liked to play with them when he was sent to get milk and eggs. You
used to get them from the farm in those days, not a shop like now. He
also got belted for taking so long, but it was worth it. He could sit
for hours in a field with the farm dogs, or in the barn. Once, the
sheepdog, Bess, had puppies. Bill stayed in the barn with her for
hours, watching as she fed and cleaned the little blind things. The
farmer didn't seem to mind Bill being in there, and neither did Bess.
One of them died when he was there, which broke his heart, but it was
still magical watching the other puppies growing up a bit, when they
were clambering over each other to get at a teat, or chewing Bess'
tail. He also made one better when it was looking like dying as well,
and that made him feel so proud. It only had one eye, so he called it
Nelson. He made up names for them all and just sat for hours instead of
going to school, playing with them. Nobody bothered him. They never
came into that barn. Those were probably the happiest days of his
childhood after his mum died. The farmers wife saw him going into the
barn one day when the puppies would have been about six months old. She
called him. The puppies had gone. They'd gone to homes to learn to work
for other farmers. It was what they were meant to do, and what they
enjoyed doing. She took him up the fields and showed him one of the
other dogs, Nero, rounding up sheep with her husband whistling it. Nero
did seem to be enjoying it, and it was fantastic to watch, but Bill
couldn't help feeling they'd sold the puppies to stop him coming up to
see them.
Bills own puppy was also nursed back to health, and although it wasn't
blind at all, he called it Nelson, and treated it with plenty of love
and affection, and found a true friend. Having a dog improved Bills
life no end. When they moved to The Jungle ten years later, there were
dogs everywhere. The maisonettes weren't allowed to have them but the
new place was no problem. He took in another abandoned stray, and this
helped cushion the blow when Nelson died. This set the pattern for the
next twent
years. Sheba had long since passed away as well, but now Bill had four
dogs, all picked up from around the estate: - Scamp; Patch; Junior; and
Randolph. He loved them all and they loved him back. He wished he could
have more, as many as possible, all of them, but it was impossible in
this small flat. Any more than four in such cramped surroundings, and
they put each others backs up and fought constantly. They began to
behave like the packs of strays that roamed the estate. When the packs
got together, they didn't act like lots of dogs, but like one big,
dangerous one, no predicting how it was going to behave. Bill did as
much as he could for dogs though, and wished other people did. They
were his life. He didn't watch much t.v. apart from animal programs and
didn't say anything more than hello to his neighbours, who changed
fairly often as far as he could make out, and didn't look like they'd
be worth talking to anyway. He didn't see that much of them, because
Bill was mostly asleep during the afternoon and evenings and got up at
night.
He could see the way things were going in his job. Soon, there'd be
some new machine brought in that could do it ten times as fast, and ten
times cheaper, and they'd all be out of a job. That seemed to be the
way of the world. He was nearly ready for that though, and another year
or two would see him with enough money to buy himself a barge and sail
up and down the waterways of England for the rest of his life. With the
dogs of course. He hoped a barge would be big enough to accomadate all
four of them.
It would be a relief to get away. Dogs were loyal, you could trust
them with your life, unlike people. Bill knew what humans were capapble
of. All of them. Given the right circumstances, they were all capable
of committing anything, even murder he thought. If he needed proof, it
was there on the news every time he watched it. If someone's child was
murdered, they always wanted to kill the killer. Perfectly normal
people could do it. Dead right too, if someone did that to someone or
something yo
loved so much. What about the War? His father had (possibly) changed
from an innocent young man to a killer, judging from his stories. He
was also a rapist. Him and his colleagues had rampaged through Italy
during the last part of the war, shooting men and fucking women
'whether they liked it or not!' according to Wilfred, who thought it
was hilarious. Maybe joining the army did that to him. Bill wondered if
it would have been any different if his dad had been in the RAF. There
were lots of bases near their village, and they always saw airmen in
blue uniforms around the area. Wilfred hated them for some reason,
perhaps he was jealous because the airmen were supposed to get all the
girls, not the soldiers. 'Fucking Yanks! Fuck off!' He hated Americans,
and even called Bill a Yank when he thought Bill had been misbehaving
and was belting him. He was a bastard. The way he used to treat his
wife, Bills beloved mum, made Bill want to do violence to him, only he
wasn't big enough. That proved Bill's theory, because he was a peaceful
bloke, took after his mum, not his violent dad. He thought it was
because he didn't want to be like Wilfred, he wanted to be the exact
opposite, that he hated violence so much. Wilfreds idea of how to treat
a woman,
as he loved to say, was to keep them under control, let them know who
was boss. Women were rubbish, only good for a few things, and one of
them was dangerous because they were all disease ridden whores. Wilfred
pronounced it 'whoors', and Bill didn't realise what it meant until it
was too late. He thought it was just a word for women.
Against the advice of Wilfred, Bill got close to a girl from his
village. He couldn't 'stay right clear', they were in the same class.
On the way home from school in the next village, Bill and Maggie were
walking through the fields when she lifted he
skirt up and showed him her knickers.
"Yu want tu see what's in 'em?" - she asked, and then pulled her
knickers down before Bill could bring himself to answer. He was in
shock. She made him promise to drop his shorts if she took her knickers
off. Bill was too shocked to move when she did, so the girl pulled his
shorts down for him. He hadn't seen that bit of a girl since he used to
share a bath with his mother, and he began to blubber at the
memories.
"What's up wi you? Don't yu want tu do it wi me?"
She reached out for his floppy willy and pulled it, but Bill pulled
away.
"What? Why you doin' that?"
He'd heard it so many times over the years, that the words had become
on word. Bill was scared of contact with girls because of this, because
Wilfred had told is son that if a girl touched your willy, it went bad
and dropped off.
"Cos yur a disease-ridden-whoor!"
Maggie punched Bill full in the face and he stumbled backwards, his
trousers tripping him up.
"I'm gonna tell everyone at school that you don't like girls!"
She left him on his back, half naked as she stomped off. He wasn't
looking forward to seeing her at school next day, and as he arrived,
people taunted him about not liking girls, and not being able to get a
stiffy. It went on for weeks and weeks, some of them not letting him
forget it. Not that he could. Every night in bed, he cried for hours,
silently so his dad wouldn't hear and come up with his belt for the
'soft little bastard'. Wilfred hated crying and hated anything which
made a man more like a woman. Crying was for women and Wilfred hated
women.
Bill didn't care. He didn't want to be like Wilfred. He didn't look
anything like him, but more like his mother. She didn't mind Bill
crying, in fact she encouraged her darling baby to have a good cry as
he sat on her knee after he'd hurt himself or been hurt or whatever.
She said 'Don't listen tu yur father' and Wilfred would reply ''E's no
son o' mine, cryin' like a fuckin' girl!'
The incident with the girl made Bill even more scared of female
contact. He avoided them and their diseases, and had done since. The
only thing he could use women for were for comforting him, but Bill had
his dogs to cuddle up to, and stroking them gave him any comfort he
needed. There was no need for women in his life.
No need for people. Except for the extra money his job could earn him.
He'd managed to painstakingly save nearly enough to sort himself out.
As long as he had enough, that would do Bill. Greed was the downfall of
humans, and that was why the animal population of the world was
dwindling. He'd seen it on the telly. Humans always took more from the
herds, or whatever word applied, than the herd could afford to lose. It
caused trouble in a similar way to when Bill got greedy with dogs and
had five or six. Now he kept it at four, and only got a new one when
one died, or he had to kill one.
There were times, not many but unavoidable, when Bill had to kill his
own dogs. Most of Bills money went on vets bills, for injections, and
sterilisations and minor things. He couldn't let any of his dogs get
pregnant, because he had no room for them
and wouldn't trust anyone else to look after his puppies. Not here.
There were enough unwanted, unloved dogs in the world without Bill
being the cause of some of them. He wanted to do the opposite. All a
vet could do when it came to the end was put them down. Bill had had
dogs long enough to know when that moment was, and (possibly because he
was a Yorkshireman) didn't see the point in paying hundreds of pounds
for a dog to die in a cold, clinical room when he could do it himself.
The dogs always knew that their time had come, and would howl and
whimper non-stop for hours while Bill stroked them for the last time.
Then as they began to calm down, he would break their necks. Bill knew
most people would find that sickening, but that's because they were
stupid. They were prepared to eat animals, but they weren't prepared to
kill them first. That was what some of his work colleagues told him. It
was easier to pretend they weren't ever living at all. It would be too
messy and disgusting, better to have it done in the abattoir down the
road. That was a nice place to die.
Scamp, the lurcher-type dog, was forever catching rabbits on their
dawn walks, and Bill killed and skinned them before cooking nice meals
out of them. The dogs got the bones and the giblets. Most people
wouldn't even be prepared to hit a rabbit over
the head. Bill had also killed a sheep once. That wasn't to eat though.
He would have done if carrying a dead sheep home without being seen was
easy. Someone would have seen him though, and the farmer would have
been straight down with his shotgun. There'd be no explaining what had
happened, they'd all have been shot, him and the dogs. Rex, a big
alsation sized mongrel, had mauled the sheep early one morning, so Bill
had to finish the job off before it was found. Then he had to bury the
sheep, deep so no one would find it and no dogs would dig it up. Bill
and his dogs were almost exclusive walkers around those fields, so it
would have been easy to guess who did it. Rex had to be killed soon
after, because he had the taste of blood, and once a dog got that, they
tried to kill anything, even the other three. Bill had learnt that from
painful experience. Dog eat dog. Rex had to go when he savaged a little
lamb. At least Bill could take the lamb home under his coat and try to
eat it. It wasn't as easy as rabbit though. The skin of a rabbit peels
off just like orange peel, but lamb doesn't. It was too fiddly, and he
gave most of it to the dogs who didn't care about wool.
So it was better all ways around, and no explanations to the vet
either, if the dogs died in a humane way, in the place where they
lived. Then Bill would take the body out onto the moors and bury it in
the place they loved to roam free. Much better than being carted off to
the council tip. The dogs were also buried deeply. It was the only time
Bill ever took his work home with him, because Bill was a gravedigger
by trade.
The hours suited him, as did the solitary nature of the work. He
rarely had to talk to other people, except when he was needed to do
double jobs, quick ones. He could walk his dogs early in the summer
mornings, when the air was freshest and nobody else was around. It also
mattered that no other dogs were around, because Randolph didn't get on
too well with strange ones. They could all be free then. Bill liked his
dogs to be dogs, instead of like children. He let them roam free and
half-wild. They also had the run of the flat, chewing it to bits if
they wanted. Bill didn't care, as long as they were happy. He left the
back door open for them to go out when he was in bed, and always
welcomed them home again, no matter how long they'd been away. That was
what his mother did to him, even when he'd just been to school for a
day. Told him she'd missed her special boy. It made Bill feel very
special. Bill knew they'd always come back, like he did, because their
food was there and so was his love.
Bill didn't like the way most people treated dogs. He hated the way
they spoke to their animals in that baby voice. 'You're a good little
doggy, aren't you? Yes you are, yes you are.' The dogs were always
babies, trying to please their masters. The personality traits of the
human were imposed on the poor animal until it became like its owner.
That phrase was true! The only time it was good was when people who
owned Rottweilers and Bull Terriers and such dogs, tried to teach them
to be violent by beating them and making them hang off sticks clamped
in their jaws. He saw it on the estate all the time. When the dogs
behaved as planned and savaged the owners, there was something
beautiful about it for Bill. It served them right for treating a dog
like that. Every puppy you ever saw was a sweet, smiling dog. They had
to be bred to be nasty, and it wasn't right.
Even though Bill left the door open during the day, nobody would come
in when the dogs were there, even the squatters upstairs. Most of the
flats in this block were now boarded up because no one wanted to live
there when the old tenant moved out or die. That suited Bill. Perhaps
there'd be less kids around throwing stones at his windows, drawing on
the walls outside, and shouting 'Weirdo' at him just because he kept
strange hours. If he was weird and everyone else in this place was
sane, then he preferred to be weird. Bill always locked his door as he
left the place, like he was doing now. No one would get through it when
it was made of steel. Mind you, they could get through rotten window
frames easily enough, if it wasn't for the dogs. That was another
reason to have dogs. The more the better. They kept people away, and
Bill had good reason to want it like that. Surprisingly, there were
things of value in there.
The job didn't pay all that well, but it got him by. The reason Bill
had saved up so much was because of the extras. And tonight was an
extras night.
Bill locked the house, and made his way down to the cemetery. There he
got his tools out of the council hut and made his way to the new spot.
By the time he'd completed the work, it was early morning, and the
torch would need recharging soon. Bill set off to the freshly filled
grave he'd dug yesterday morning. After clearing the soil away, he got
out his screwdriver and removed the brass handles and levered off the
plaque from the lid. Anything metal was removed quickly and quietly.
All he had to
o now was fill in the hole and he was done. The excitement made Bills
heart run fast. This was the best part of the job.
Bill had been in the job for a few years before he'd even thought
about anything like it. He couldn't remember the date now, but it would
have been about twentyfive years ago, when he was doing a shared job
with a bloke called Dave. Dave made a joke about the amount of money
people spend on funerals, when the person was already dead, so would
never know. Bill didn't reply at first. Dave stopped digging.
"True though in't it? What difference does it mek if yur buried in
mahogany or chipboard? Yur still dead."
Bill carried on digging.
"All them 'andles an' stuff an' all! Bet they're worth a bob or two.
What yu reckon Bill?"
"Aye could be."
"Yur a man o' many words Bill. Brass most of 'em. Where there's muck,
there's brass eh?" - he laughed as though it was the first time he'd
ever told the joke - "Some are med out o' silver though, I seen
'em."
Bill stopped and clambered out. Fucked if he was working while Dave
was resting. Dave looked around the cemetery.
"Size on this place eh? All them bits o' precious metal. Thousands of
'em, right under our feet. We must be sittin' on a fuckin' goldmine
'ere, mun't we? What a waste."
Bill nodded as Dave watched him. Then Dave laughed.
"I've just 'ad a thought! What if yu could get all them fittin's an'
sell 'em tu someone who wun't care where they come from? Would yu do it
eh?"
He laughed again as Bill considered.
"No one'd know would they?"
"Suppose they wun't, no."
Dave carried on in the jocular tone.
"Shall we do it then Bill? Mek a few bob?"
They both laughed.
"Would yu though, seriously?"
Bill shrugged, but he was thinking about it.
"Cos I know someone that'll tek owt off yur 'ands an' say nowt about
it, long as you don't."
Dave was serious now, and Bill thought about it as they finished the
job. He agreed to give it a try and was made to swear he'd never say
anything, even if he didn't. Turners, the funeral directors Dave said
he sold the stuff to, must never know. He had a mate who ground and
polished the plaques, and this was the metalworks where Dave told
Turners he knocked up the handles in his spare time to earn a bit on
the side. Bill knew he was a little spiv, but didn't realise the extent
to which Dave would go to make money. Still, nobody would know. And
Bill needed the money.
The first time he did it, the nerves were jangling. He felt good
afterwards though, and it got easier and easier. Then Bill began to
open the coffins to get at the hinges. Seeing dead bodies wasn't as
horrifying as he thought, and anyway, most of them were covered in
cloth. Any guilt Bill may have felt was superceded by his own needs
after Bills life plan began to become clear. After he'd taken the dogs
along the towpath of a canal near Wakefield and seen people chugging
along, stopping their barge where they wanted, Bill knew that was
something he should try. He'd taken every holiday since then on a
barge, and needed every spare penny he could earn to be able to buy his
own. If taking the fittings from dead people's coffins could help him
do that, he didn't give a shit about any moral implications, and
neither would the dead people.