Forked Tongues

Forked Tongues - by Steve Thomas

"These days - These awful days"
i) Forked Tongues

Drizzle over Nottingham, the rush hour traffic crawling up Mansfield
Road humming in the distance, on flight to the outskirts of the town.
An occasional horn blurts in interspersion to the rumble. Over a
council estate the chop and drone of the police helicopter unmistakable
- adding dissonance to the gritty symphony as it circles.

A glance from the balcony confirms that September ebbing fast, the
light early evening becoming more rapidly consumed - as autumn takes
residence. The window seems to fray, billowing like a sail, in moment
of perceptual glitch. Grey, outside the dimming of the light seeming so
inevitable, so apparent - the year embracing its terminal throes.

Lotus Court, Slumsville. Bored, broke &; desolate down at Brian's
flat. Probably a good hour since I've smoked the last cigarette in my
packet. The feint rumbling of nicotine withdrawal adds edgy frustration
to the enveloping sense of tedium. I fumble through the coppers in my
pocket before taking them out and recounting them - not for the first
time that afternoon. 42p in loose change, the same as when I'd counted
earlier. Enough for a pint of milk perhaps, or for a chocolate bar
even. No good to anyone when you're out of fags.

Brian senses my frustration and snaps out,
"Stop, looking so sorry for yoursen. If you can't do the time, don't do
the crime, yoof. Last Friday you were waltzing around like some
millionaire strutting an striding - with that poncey walk you do when
you've got a wedge in your pocket&;#8230;."

"Yeah, but I've got no fa&;#8230;"
He interrupts, face contorted with annoyance, the yellowy green
complexion flushed with a scarlet hue, momentarily, "It's all with the
fags&;#8230;with you. You should have thought about the fags when
you were spending all that money on the brown and the white. On the E's
and whatever else you could get your grubby little hands on."

I grimace, acknowledging my stupidity. Feeling pathetic, my stomach
constricting in sympathy with the mood.
Noticing my discomfort he softens somewhat, the lines of his forehead
now bent with concern. "Glad I don't do drugs like you, Ben," he says
with conviction, before he strains the last dregs of his bottle of
super cider.
Our attention turns to the television set, Brian fumbles a broken
slider as we try and find escape and focus in its two dimensional
world.
Time dragging slowly that afternoon, 'Songs of Praise' and the
'Antiques Road show' forever.

I get up from the chair; remove two 'Diplomacy' tea bags, from a damp
box and into two cups. Like most of the produce bought from Mr.
Hassid's community grocery they are already well past their sell by
date. Brian hasn't got a kettle and so I microwave it, and watch semi
dissolved dried milk lumps float upon it's surface, croutons of scum
decorating insipid liquid stew.
We sit frozen by the TV for a few more minutes; Brian takes a slurp and
goes to say something but is foiled as a rap on the door startles
us.
"Who, the fuck is that!" He lurches over to the door, animated by
annoyance and taking a peek through the spy-hole before I hear the turn
of keys.
"It's the girls Ben! Come in girls, Ben and me 'ave been having a
party. We got vintage wines, delicacies from the orient and top class
entertainers in 'ere&;#8230;"
They slip in, slithering past his rangy frame to avoid the wild arm
gesticulations. In the grip, of a new mania since the arrival of our
unexpected guests. They sit down in front me still giggling. I raise a
smirk too for the first time that afternoon, I had to hand it to Brian,
he was one crazed fucker.

"Seriously girls, though we've got bugger all, I've just finished my
bottle of the cheapest, cheap cider and Ben's going to go nubbing,
knobbing or is it cottaging - that's it Ben, isn't it or somemat - as
he's got no fags. He'll be out exploring later though, watch him go -
down the Victoria centre toilets - that's where all the fags hang
out!"
Sarah, emaciated, drawn but still beautiful, flicks her black waves and
throws me a menthol super king much to my relief. Whilst Trish, grins
fiddling with her belt, still captivated by Brian and his daft
routines.
I was now concerned, something or other was up I gathered. You didn't
go paying house calls in this part of the estate for the sake of social
nicety. Normally it was to scrounge a few coins to call a dealer, to
borrow, to beg or steal on someone's giro day. There was always a
motive of self-interest if you scratched at the surface for long enough
around Lotus Court.

Sarah gestures me over and pipes up, "Ben, your so god damn good
looking you know, shame you're the wrong sex for me an' Trish."
Brian finishes tells Trish another gag and then makes his way over to
get something from his room.
"Your not too bad, yourself, Sarah," I comment, "looking a bit tired
under the eyes though, another late night?"
"Bin, rocking and piping round the clock, Ben, You know what it gets
like!"
Dragging on the fag, almost shivering in anticipation as I wait for the
lungs to extract the much-needed nicotine into my bloodstream.
"Mr. Parker is just the man we were looking for isn't he Trish. With
those innocent student boy looks - where has he been all our lives,"
Sarah gestures.

"You see, Ben," Trisha speaks, "We've got a little proposition you
might just be interested in. Sarah show him the cards, won't ya."
With that Sarah takes out a little leather wallet and produces three
plastic cards.
"Credit cards," I ask, "Knowing you two shady fuckers, stolen credit
cards, I bet!"
They both break into laughter and then onto discussing how I can help
them out with their little scam.

"DK got the cards for us, came up to ours 'bout ten minutes ago. So
they should still be live. He says that some plum had left their car
door open and when he checked the glove box, hey presto three cards.
There's two in the name of a Mr. Joe Bramble and one for a Sheila
Bramble. He can't risk going out cause of all the warrants out for him
and besides he just looks too on top. So Ben, we want you to go out
shopping with Sonia, this afternoon if you're up for it. You know loads
about credit cards don't you and if you get changed into something a
bit smarter with that posh voice you can act the part, no probs."

They give me sometime to consider, whilst they go back up to theirs
leaving me to discuss this new moral dilemma with good old Bryan.
"Sounds like a recipe for disaster, mate," he points towards at me,
"next thing you know you'll be staying full board at Her Majesty's
hotel Lincoln , passing soap for the batty-boys. Don't get involved
with that lot. They're dangerous, dangerous fuckers I'll tell
you."
"Come on their not that Bad, Bri"

"Depends how bad, bad is. Problem is with those girls though they speak
with forked tongues..................you can't trust anything that
comes out of their pretty little mouths. They lie, they cheat, they
blag and steal. Don't even know why I'm bothering telling you Ben,
you're a druggie, you know the score."
"Suppose you're right. But, all the same if I can make a quick raise
out of it, it's gotta be worth a try, eh? Just have to be careful and
watch what I'm doin'."
"All with the quick raises, then now is it! Suppose the first thing
you'll buy with those cards are blimin' fags, I don't know. Don't say I
didn't warn you. Now if you don't mind, fuck off!"
With that I leave, returning back to my flat to consider the options
and make a decision.

ii) Cashback Hero

Desperate times, desperate measures, social deviance now social norms.
Material advantage the new ethic, value systems in dissolution for two
decades. Instant gratification the imperative, supervening over trust,
care, commitment, love, decency - nowadays - these awful days.

I'm at Trisha's flat, dressed in my smart casuals all psyched up for
the blag. Sarah's just finished off smoking the recycle from a scrapped
pipe. Besides her are Sonia, a shoplifter just up from Milton Keynes
and DK, a street robber and car thief. DK strains his eyes, never
taking them off the curvaceous glass vessel, in frustrated anticipation
of another lick.
"All right" I acknowledge him nonchalantly. 'Wanker' is what I'm really
thinking though. Last year he'd skanked me over at the crack house on
Wildman Street, smoking my last crumbs of rock when my head was turned
and then caning all the brown on the foil.

Really, I should have taken him out there and then, but I've got a bit
of a reputation as a 'soft-touch', I'm 'too nice' for the drugs game as
Sarah keeps telling me. Anyway looking at him, his faced strained and
pupils overly dilated it was clear he was 'rattling.' He really didn't
look to hot, sweat pouring from his forehead and pervading the sense of
desperation that only those addicted to the opiates can know.

Trish comes in strong, dominant "So you're up for it then Benny, boy-
Nice one! The deal is this - Sonia goes with you, take her around the
all the bars and places that do cash-back. Show her around Nottingham.
Pretend you're a normal couple out shopping it'll look good. You keep
half of whatever you get. We'll sort DK out when you get back when we
split it. Hurry up though you'll need to act quick before they're
cancelled."

Down Exchange Walk, Nottingham's busiest walkway, we jostle through the
crowds. Edgy excitement pulses through my bones- I'm trying not to show
it though. Sonia and me are buzzing. Criminal endeavour is like a drug
in itself.
"Need, to practise doin' these signatures Ben, you're lucky the guys
ones look total piss - mines a bastard," she says.

"Yeah but, remember Sonia, half the act is just looking the part. If
you go in shakin', looking like a drug fiend and sweatin' like a rapist
they're gonna check the signatures. Most of the muppets won't even give
it a second glance, if we're cool as cucumbers. Knowing me, I'll
probably get the jobs worth trainee manager, then we'll have to blag
our way out before he rings the card company."
"Even worse than that," starts Sonia, "are the 'ave a go hero's. A mate
and me were lifting down Watford one time in 'Next'. I'd got loads of
gear in my bag I'd ripped off. But, as I was taking off the tags of
this fakin' pair of shoes and ready slip 'em in. This old geezer sees
me do it an it's like, never - he's goin' to grass me in. I try an' do
a fast one and then he runs over 'an grabs me, - not security but the
old dodger himself, like. I can't fakin' believe it, I panic 'an all I
can think of is getting' somethin' out my coat to hit him with. All I
can find is this rusty old works so I jab 'im right in the eye with it,
'an leg it out. He's then lyin' on the floor, cryin'. I felt bad 'an
all after that, he didn't deserve that but, it was he's own stupid
fault for tryin' to take the law into his own hands."
"Jesus wept, rough........................Listen, I'll just check the
cards are still OK by ringing out on them from the call box. After,
we'll try one of the bars, put a couple of drinks on tab, perhaps order
a starter then ask for cashback. Don't go over ?50 on a single
transaction though as that's when another wall of security kicks
in."

Early evening calls Nottingham's weekenders' to play. Lads in a uniform
of Ralph Lauren polo, Timberlands and other designer costume spill out
of bars. Wearing their fake tans, drinking imported beers - trying to
look important for the Karen Millen girls. Wannabie crusties, students,
and goths are slamming spirits at not so happy hour in one of the rock
caf?'s. Two junkies pass unnoticed.
We'd flitted from bar, restaurant and pub. Always getting about ?40
cash in each, leaving whatever we'd ordered half finished. Taking our
turns to use either Sonia's card or either of mine at a time. So far,
so good.
We're coming out of Browne's, must be the sixth bar now on our mission
to rinse the cards. I'm getting nervous now, facial twitches, paranoia
or guilt I don't know which. Things going well, too well -
"Sonia, that last bint behind the bar, looked at the signature kinda
funny, or is it just me. Later she was talking to one of the apes that
sometimes works the door, he looked over. Didn't you see"?
"Chill Ben, Its cool, you're just being a para cat."
"OK, maybe I am, but we must have been using them for over an hour.
Look for peace of mind I'm going to check them in the BT booth, over
Old Market Square."
She gives me her card and I walk over to the booth.
I take out the cards, push them in the slot and dial out - thank
heavens their OK. Sonia's waits outside. I go to open the door, no
something drags me back - one last try, just in case. Card one, yeah -
smooth, two - dialling, three - I wait................., waiting - a
recorded message blurts out, shit!
"Let's go, Bar Risa should be good"
"No, Sonia, that's it. Game over, cards have been rumbled - good job I
checked them twice." I crunch one in my hand the plastic
buckling.
"Fuck!" She says. "Never mind, it's been quite a raise. Have to do it
again some time," we both laugh. She puts an arm round me for a moment,
camaraderie between crooks as we move up Parliament Street, on our way
back to the slums.
We get back but stop at my flat first of all. I make Sonia a quick brew
and we count our spoils. Four hundred and thirty smackers, a bit of
loose change, eighty fags and a bottle of gin that I'd bought in
Parekh's grocery stores off Mansfield Road. Not bad, really for a
couple of hours work.
The girls need the money to try to get it together to get a couple of
ounce's of pure as it comes smack from one of Trisha's cousins whose
just flew into Heathrow from the yard. The plan is then to sell them
out at about seven-fifty a piece to the local dealers in turn to
distribute to Nottingham's druggie denizens. That's of course after
we've cut the powder with whatever we can, saving a good few grammes
for ourselves.

"Oh, by the way Ben, don't tell DK how much we've made. We'll say we
did two hits before the cards got stopped and I'll fob him off with
forty squid or somethin'. He's rattlin' an all like but that should
sought him out. No need to tell him the troof tough, more for us lot in
it?"
"More for us indeed," I try to sound pleased but guilt's consuming me,
like a malignant growth eating away at my insides. Lies, lies and more
damn lies, its the name of the game, guilt and shame. Remnants of a
consciousness still painfully intact.
I passed her a pipe. She had me enthralled - I think I'd started to
fall for Sonia and her snakelike charms. How easily did she convince me
to part with the most of my cash, for the next blag, and on the rocks
that we secretly bought from 'Bum' before she made her way back down to
Trisha's. Her blas? confidence and couldn't give a fuck attitude
appealed. With her honeyed locks and bright blue eyes, she was
innocence and wickedness combined. In this dystopian Eden, an Eve,
tempting and teasing, testing and trying - another bite of the
bittersweet apple?
In another world I'd love her, do anything for her. But I'm not that
foolish, deep down I know these days, in the drug world at the end of
this decade there is no such thing as love anymore. No such thing as
friendship, no trusting, caring only the ethic of temporary advantage,
convenient callings prevail. I'll shed a little tear for her, for me
for us all - until the next bag of brown, or rock takes us to the place
where we forget.
Ben Parker, the soft touch all over again.

iii) Guilty Conscious?

My stomach pains, I'm dehydrated and sore. Worse, I feel bad and the
beginnings of a habit are starting to show - even this soon, again.
Sheer stupidity, that's what had possessed me. OK I was bored down at
Brian's but that's no excuse. Now I could see everything with some
lucidity, was it worth it? No! Things kept on playing on my mind. I
wasn't cut out for this life of crime. For instance as I tossed and
turned trying to get off I thought of Mr &; Mrs. Bramble - had DK
really found the cards? His explanation didn't really wash. What if
he'd robbed them at knifepoint? Or burgled their house. He was a nasty
piece of work and was capable of anything.
I turned on the TV to try and get my mind of things, switching between
channels unable to concentrate on anything.
The local news ended and then some suit comes on to present 'Crime Stop
East Midlands,' exclusive video footage from CCTV and security cameras
in your area. You guessed it, this weeks was a special on shoplifters
and credit card fraudsters. They showed some youth with something like
a Panama hat on buying an improbable amount of fags and spirits at
Threshers store in Leicester, looking dodgy as fuck. I turn off feeling
sick as a pig.

Drinking Gin never did me any favours. The temporary oblivion of the
blackout, had to be bought at some price. Always a price to pay these
days - the inequality of addiction. Temporary pleasure in trade for an
excess of pain. I shouldn't drink anymore, take drugs - the offer of
false utopia, the duplicity exposed. But, we still do, as sure as eggs
is eggs. Under the jurisdiction of death, the death of the self. The
only comfort, you wake up and know that the choice has already been
made. It starts all over.
I wasn't brought up to be like this. None of us were. Not made for all
these lies, this deception, backstabbing and selfishness.
Wasted human potential, now just lingering like lizards, the lightning
flash of forked tongues - as we bide time for the next hit or fix. Like
a rabbit trapped down the warren, waiting for the Viper's jaws to
close. I've got to get out, out of this god-forsaken mess.
Next day came with the resonant hell of all the goings on before
assaulting me. I made up my mind; I had to get away for a while. A day
or two days at the most, if I was to help test out the gear for the
girls, before they sold it on to Bum, My' Out, Deano or any of the
other local dealers. I called an old friend down in Stoke Newington,
hailed a cab off Woodborough Road, for the station. In what seemed like
moments I was boarding the 11.15 to St Pancreas. The midlands plains
soon passing me by.

iv) Snake pit

Low, so low down now we're almost underground, moving through the grass
swiftly into the side of scarred earth. Venomous fangs dripping,
snapping out all around. The light tapers off slowly from a beam to
pinpoint, I've been here before, but not this far down. Deep, deep - in
the pit.
4.25am I squinted through the darkness, the red LED's of my alarm
clock, rotating, morphing as I come round. Roused but partially
conscious. Always on the peripheries of vision, you can almost just
make something out, indefinable, unknown - a hint of terror. A
deafening bang snaps me into wakefulness - another gunshot echoing down
from a neighbouring street? Or the slam of heavy steel doors at the top
of the complex? Don't know - don't care. My only concern is that I'm
getting in too deep with the girls and this whole stupid situation.
Trying to forget, I find the foil and chase the beetle up and down with
the tooter and slip back into the shawls of oblivion. Home again now -
blackness, peace.
Back in St Ann's. The break did me good, now it's time to get ready for
the next blag. I feel uneasy in my stomach. But I'd promised them after
all. They'd got it together to get the gear and now it was time to get
rid of it to the rude boys, that patrolled the promenades and
underpasses with their wraps of cellophane'd ecstasy. Hooded youths of
sixteen no more their runners, in their garish ghetto gear - the
economic mainstay of the sink estates was in boom.

iv) Deano

Deano is a yardie. Not one of these plastic yardies that you find ten a
penny in the crack and smack game. The real and genuine article. Before
he came over to these sceptre'd isles, he'd even spent time in a Long
Island penitentiary for being an accessory to murder, before getting
out on an anomaly.
For all his faults and flaws, I still kinda like Deano. He enters the
room wearing that broad grin of his. Smile punctuated by five gleaming
gold teeth, finished by the ever more extravagant gold chain decorating
his neckline. Thick black hands clasp mine together in
acknowledgement,
"Respect, Bred." The bright white and metal teeth glistening in the
space between ever-chubbier cheeks. Like as if with each bag of woe he
doles out and his junky clients enveloped further into sickness - his
lifeblood feeds, gorging, feasting on the condensation of misery of the
black market supply of hard drugs.
"Yo' gonna test dis' for me"
"You want me to smoke it or dig it"
"Pin-it up bred. Is' betta' 'dat wey."
I take out my works, cook up and then find a vein. The last bits no
problem as for the most I only smoke these days. But for occasions like
this, you need to dig to really put the gear to the test. As I start to
gouch Deano and the girls look pleased.
"Is good, bred?"
"The best, Deano, the best."
With that Trisha hands him the package wrapped in brown plastic from
the other side of my flat and he hands over the cash. Smiles all around
as Deano leaves, then Trish gives us two hundred (much less than what
had been agreed, of course) and what looks like barely a gram. Well,
never mind - better than nothing, I suppose.
"Right then, Benny boy. We're off. Rocks to smoke and we've still got
loads of blag gear we've scammed on various cards down at our flat. We
need to make a few enquiries and get rid of it fast. Cheers, Ben.
Thanks for all your help, you're a real star - in a bit, laters!"
With that they leave. Of course I've been taken for a bit of a ride
once again. The soft touch - I just can't say no. All those risks, all
that stress and was it worth it? If I'm honest - NO!. Should've
listened to good ol' Bryan in the first place.

vi) A Bite of the Apple?

Next morning I'm on my way down to Mr. Hassid's shop at the front of
the estate. In my bones I can sense something not right. As I glance up
at the flats, I can see Trisha's windows wide open. Moving around to
investigate it's clear that the doors been kicked in.
A couple of flats down I can see Bryan ranging up and down on his
balcony looking kind of agitated.
"Yush! Bri - What's up?"
"It's the girls Ben, they've been busted. Feds came round 'bout - god,
less than forty minutes ago. They wouldn't answer the door and so -
Christ; there must have been five coppers no shit! Two scaled up over
the balcony and this huge dude from C.I.D just kicks in their door.
Seconds later Trisha, Sarah an' that new girl Sonia cuffed and dragged
off screaming down to the van. Surprised they haven't been up for you
yet - the way you've been carrying on with them. I was worried, would
have tried to bell your mobile, but got no credit on mine, y'know how
it is Ben."
"Bloody Hell, Bri! That's fuckin' awful. You don't think someone could
have tipped off the old bill 'bout all that stolen gear in their yard,
do ya? Never! Bad shit man, fuckery!"
"Something's gone off though, mind ya back yoursen. Do be
careful!"
"I should have no worries though, fingers crossed. Those girls may be
many things but they aren't grasses - at least when they've got
absolutely no advantage in mentioning me. My involvement with them and
their scams was minimal anyway. There's nothing on me anyway - all I
did was help them out with the credit card blag that's all, and they
managed to skank me over that!"
"Well, I told you so Ben. Reptiles that's what I called them wasn't it
- always speaking with forked tongues," he starts grinning, "looks like
you've been lucky this time. They'll have to keep that bed at Lincoln
waiting for you another day!"
"Fuck you Bryan! I'll bring some cider round for you later ya ol'
weasel - in a bit!"
On the verge of the complex, I stopped off at the lock-up garage I'd
rented. I carefully lifted up a sheet of dirty linoleum and picked up
the small brown plastic package I'd left there a day before, tucking it
into my jacket pocket. I almost forgot the two cards under the plant on
the shelf, no good to me now; I'd chuck them into the River Leen on my
way back into town.
Anyway, I was a busy man now. Places to go, people to see and money to
burn. Time to get out of this city for a while. Brighton sound nice,
might not even bother to come back, eh?

Back up on 'The Chase' Deano was fuming, ranting, raving. He paced up
and down in the Afro-Caribbean centre, cursing with his brethren,
"Dem blud clat, girls. No one takes me for a fool - Wha' dey tek me
for, like some yout - a yout fresh on de scene?"
Apparently the gear he'd purchased hadn't been all what it had first
seemed. No one was bellin' him anymore, as the word on the street was
that he'd been tucked up. It was clear after the first few wraps he'd
that whatever they were it certainly wasn't Heroin.
He'd sent 'Mad Dave' an' 'Custard' down armed with shooters an' tools
to Lotus Court, but a phone call confirmed that no one was in their
flat. Looks like someone had got there before him.
Deano didn't mind that much about the money. "It's da
dis-respect'"
Anyway he could wait. Waiting was what he had always done best. When he
caught up with them you could bet that there wouldn't be much left to
speak of - a few pools of blood decorated with honeyed locks, hanks of
raven hair and scattered teeth.

Waiting around at railway stations always bores me. Hot, unusually hot
for late September, I need a drink. There's a hotel next door so I pop
in, order a large G&;T ice and lemon and then make my way to the
gents for a quick wash. Looking up, I take a glance in the mirror. Hey,
not looking bad, not too bad at all. There was something else I noticed
as I peered at the reflection, something I'd begin to notice over the
last few days more and more. Something serpent like about my smile
perhaps? Hardened reptile eyes looked back at me once again, before I
slithered back onto the platform.

Steve Thomas - Warley, May 2002