Scratch

Scratch

"Skin up, Moose," whispered Charlie, his throat hoarse from a long
session, "I could do with another smoke. It's good gear ain't it? Its
not too heavy on yer head."

"Chuck us the skins, then," croaked Moose. He had earned the nickname
from his schooldays because, as his 'friends' had taunted him, he
looked like one and, lacking somewhat in his personal hygiene,
sometimes smelt like one. As the years passed by, though, the moniker
had become more of an affectionate title as Moose (real name Steve
Biggs) developed a wicked sense of humour and, more importantly, grew
up to be six foot three and built like a brick shithouse.
Unfortunately, although a bright lad, he hadn't succeeded at school,
partly due to the first few years of torment and perhaps more because
of the trauma of the death of his father when he was fifteen. In his
latter teenage years he was in and out of trouble with the police for a
variety of offences ranging from shoplifting to common assault and his
mother eventually washed her hands of him. Now twenty-eight he had
settled down a bit and lived in a council flat, claiming a pittance off
the Social and topping it up with a few cash-in-hand painting
jobs.

Charlie Mason, on the other hand, had done a bit better for himself. As
a trainee surveyor he had moved into his first flat around the corner
from Moose about six months ago and met him in the Fox, the local pub
on Cholmsley Street. It had been Giro day for Moose and he was a bit
pissed when the two had got chatting over a game of pool. The
conversation meandered its way round to smoking herbs. After the
landlord of the pub had kicked them out they went back to Moose's flat
and shared a few bongs (Moose had bought it for one fifty in the local
Oxfam). That cemented their newfound friendship and they had kicked
around together ever since.

Charlie scrabbled around in the pile of crisp and chocolate wrappers on
the floor by the side of the chair but couldn't find the Rizlas.

"I ain't got em," he said, "who skinned up last?"

"I'm sure it was you," muttered Moose, "it must have been 'cos it was
more like a cigar than a spliff."

"It wasn't that bad. I'm getting better," said Charlie, hurt at the
way his rolling skills were being questioned. Hang on, here we
are."

He pulled the Rizla packet from the gap between the arm of the chair
and the cushion, along with some dusty, fluff-covered peanuts and a
two-pence piece.
"Oh bollocks, they're all gone. Shall we have a bong instead?"

"I think we're out of fags as well, mate," said Moose forlornly
fingering an empty packet of Bensons, "what time is it?"

"Quarter to twelve," said Charlie, squinting at his watch through his
blood-shot slitty eyes.

"Do you fancy nipping down the garage? It's open for another fifteen
minutes," asked Moose.

"Nah. I'm skint. And I'm too fucked, man. I'm glued to this chair,"
whinged Charlie.

"Look, I've got about four quid. Take that, get some cheap fags and a
packet of Rizlas and I'll stick the kettle on," begged Moose.

"All right Moose man," agreed Charlie, "as long as that tea's waiting
for me when I get back."

"No problem, Charles old boy, Here y'are," said Moose, passing the
money.

"Catch you in a minute," said Charlie as he walked out the door.

*

Outside he pulled his collar up round him. The night was bitterly cold
and his breath froze in front of him. He made his way down to the high
street and crossed over towards the garage. He walked briskly, firstly
to warm himself up but also because he felt a bit paranoid. Most people
would be coming out of the pubs now and the garage would be quite busy.
He wasn't sure if he would be able to handle it. Persevering though
(the need for tea and a smoke driving him on) and looking down at his
feet as he trotted on, he went in.

Just as he thought, there were a few people in there buying their fags
and milk while they had the chance. There was the usual sad bloke who
hadn't pulled that night flicking through the magazines on the top
shelf.

"Got the munchies, eh?" he joked at two young lads wearing grungy
clothes and stocking up on chocolate bars and biscuits. Bravado used to
camouflage his paranoia and nervousness.

"Yeah, man," replied one excitedly, "just had a right result. Bought a
scratch card with me last quid and won a fiver."

"Nice one," said Charlie. He thought about it some more while he
queued up at the counter. He didn't get paid until next Wednesday and a
few extra quid would be useful.

Having slipped into deep thought about it, he was disturbed by the
assistant behind the counter asking him what he wanted.

"Um," Charlie began, his mind stumbling around elsewhere, "oh yeah,
er, half ounce of baccy, some Rizlas and one of those scratch cards,
the one with the ace of spades on it."

"No petrol, sir?" asked the counter-guy.
"Nah thanks," Charlie replied.
"I thought as much, no-one buys petrol, just fags and food," muttered
the counter guy, "what baccy do you want?"

"The cheapest you got, mate."

"Like that is it? Here y'are, three pounds eighty-eight."

Charlie handed over his money, took his baccy, Rizlas and scratch card
and walked outside. He stopped across the road from the garage
forecourt. 'Christ, what have I done,' he thought, 'I've just spent the
last of Moose's money on a bleeding scratch card. He's gonna kill me'.
He stood there a while longer, thinking of what to tell Moose and opted
to blame it on being stoned, his excuse for most things. Tentatively,
he pulled a coin from his jeans and started to scratch the silver on
the card. It wouldn't be a problem if he won a couple of quid. He
looked at the card. Twenty quid, twenty-five grand, twelve quid,
twenty-five grand, twenty-five grand, twelve quid. He looked again.
There they were, three twenty-five grands.

"Fucking hell," he shouted, "I've won twenty-five grand!"

'Fucking hell,' he thought, the paranoia welled up, pumping adrenaline
around his body and causing his hands to shake uncontrollably. There he
was, a slim, weedy bloke of five feet eight in the middle of the garage
forecourt announcing to the local underworld that he had a passport to
twenty-five grand on him. He might just as well be wearing a 'Come and
fuck me over' t-shirt. He looked across the road and noticed three
blokes looking at him and whispering amongst themselves. Panic swept
over him and he broke out into a cold sweat. Shit, shit, shit was the
word that kept repeating over in his mind, intermittently broken by a
few fuck, fuck, fucks. Taking a few deep breaths he calmed himself down
and thought things through. He couldn't get back to the garage. The
only way to get through this was to ring up Moose and get him to come
and meet him.

He nervously walked towards a telephone box, fifty yards up the
road.

"Excuse me mate," he heard one of the three blokes shout over to him,
"have you got a spare cigarette?"

"Nah, sorry mate," replied Charlie nervously, his voice cracking under
the strain.

He dived into the phone box and fumbled around for ten pence. Luckily
the phone was working. He picked up the receiver and thumped out
Moose's number. He was feeling a little light-headed now and the stench
of old urine in the telephone box was turning his stomach.

"Answer the phone you fucking idiot," stuttered Charlie. The three men
had started to wander menacingly towards him. After what seemed like an
eternity but was in fact just four rings, Moose picked up the
phone.

"Moose, its me," blurted out Charlie.

"Where the fuck have you been? You're tea's getting cold," barked
Moose.

"Listen Moose this is important," hurried Charlie, "We've won
twenty-five grand, man, I bought a scratch card and we've won
twenty-five grand. TWENTY-FIVE GRAND, Moose, do you know what that
means?"

After a brief silence, Moose replied.
"Is this a wind-up Charlie, cos if it is I am not gonna be happy with
you. Did you get the fags?"

"Fuck the fags man, we're rich. You can smoke yourself stupid on super
skunk and roll it up with fucking Cuban cigars, man," babbled Charlie
excitedly, "but listen, there's three guys hanging around outside and
if you don't get here pronto, and I mean fucking now, Moose, you can
kiss the money goodbye and I can kiss my arse goodbye."

"I'll be there in two. Stay in the phone box and pretend you're
chatting. If you get any hassle call the old bill, for whatever good
that will do. I'll grab your car, just wait there," ordered Moose, "oh
and Charlie?"

"What?"

"If this is a wind up you can kiss your arse goodbye anyway."

"Just get here Moose, please," begged Charlie.

Moose slammed the phone down. After a quick search he found Charlie's
keys and legged it down stairs and ran to the Escort, parked outside.
He found the driver's door unlocked, and cursing Charlie for his
stupidity, jumped in. By now Moose's heart was beating as hard as
Charlie's. He kicked the engine into life and screeched off, leaving a
fair amount of rubber behind him. It had been a long time since he'd
driven a car, mainly because he didn't have a licence and was banned
anyway.

Meanwhile, Charlie continued talking to his imaginary listener. The
three men were now right outside the telephone box. Charlie froze as
one tapped on the window and he jabbed his thumb down on the first
nine. Just as he was about to tap the second he saw his blue escort
come tearing round the corner and pull up outside the phone box,
stalling to a halt. Out jumped Moose, a sight for Charlie's sore eyes.
Charlie walked out of the phone box to find his way barred by the
men.

"Let him through, gentlemen," asked Moose politely.

The largest of the three men, still a fair bit smaller than Moose but
big enough to be a handful, walked up to him.

"Or what," he challenged.

"Or this" replied Moose and with that he leant back and threw his head
forward, bringing it down on the unfortunate recipient's nose.

Charlie winced at the cracking, splitting sound and balked as he
watched the guy fall to the floor with Claret all over his shirt.

"Jesus Christ," shouted one of the two others, "Terry, are you all
right, man?"

"Come on Charlie, in the car," shouted Moose, as he ran to the
driver's side.

The two jumped in and Moose whisked them away in his unparalleled
driving style.

*

After a couple of minutes of catching their breath it was Charlie who
spoke first.

"Cheers mate, that was too fucking close."

"Have you got the card?"

"Yeah, man, I've not let go of it. Hey, I didn't know that you could
drive."

"I can't," replied Moose, "not legally anyway. I'm doing all right,
though, don't you reckon?"

"Yeah, I suppose so," said Charlie, "where are we going anyway?"

"We're going somewhere safe, my man, somewhere where we're not gonna
get any comeback on the plastic surgery we gave that fellow."

"That you gave him," corrected Charlie.

"Hey, we're in this one together, I saved your fucking arse back there
and don't you forget it," Moose said sternly to his passenger.

They sat there quietly as the car sped on out of the main town area
towards the open countryside, both with their heads filled with how
they would spend the money. Charlie wondered what he could do with
twelve and a half grand. Moose contemplated the luxuries that
twenty-five grand could buy.

"You can slow down a bit if you like," suggested Charlie, starting to
feel a bit nervous as Moose hurtled round the tree-lined lanes.

"I feel the need," shouted Moose, "the need for SPEED, and man can you
buy a lot of fucking speed with twenty-five grand."

"You mean twelve and a half grand, Moosey boy, shouted Charlie,
infected with Moose's enthusiasm.

"Well Charlie my boy," began Moose suddenly more sullenly, "I've been
thinking, you see, it was my pound that bought the card and I reckon
that its my good fortune that I've got a good mate like you who's done
me a favour. Besides you've got a good job, you don't need the money. I
might bung you a few quid as a thank you."

"You're joking, man," spluttered Charlie, "we wouldn't be in this
position if I hadn't bought the damn card. We're in this together, you
said so."

"Just protecting what's rightfully mine," said Moose.

"Leave it out, man," laughed Charlie, "you're winding me up aren't
you"

Moose laughed back.

"I wish I was Charlie boy, but I need this money."

"All right, pull the car over," demanded Charlie, "let's sort this
out."

"What's there to sort out?" asked Moose, becoming irritated "the
money's mine, full stop, end of story."

Charlie felt a sudden surge of adrenaline in his chest. He turned to
Moose.

"You'd better rethink things, Moose, or I'm gonna grass you up."

"What for?" laughed Moose.

"For nicking my car, assaulting that bloke and kidnapping me for a
start."

"Fuck you, they won't find me where I'm going. Give me the ticket and
I'll drop you off here."

"Bollocks Moose, you ain't having it."

Moose reached over and lunged for Charlie's arm. As they wrestled over
the bounty, the car began to weave sharply across the lane. Charlie
looked up.

"Jesus Christ, Moose, look out!" he shouted.
Moose looked up. In the middle of the road he saw a figure stumbling
towards them. He yanked the wheel to the left and lost control of the
back end. The car roared past the man in the road backwards and
continued spinning until the passenger side slammed into a large oak
tree. Sparks flew up as metal was torn apart. Once the dust settled
there stood the oak tree, unbowed. At its foot lay the wreckage of the
now unrecognisable blue Escort.
The man in the road turned back to look at the devastation. He wore a
pair of ripped trousers and a large stained and weather-beaten
overcoat. His hair was greasy and matted and his straggly beard was
stained down one side with an orangey hue. In his right hand he held an
almost empty two-litre bottle of strong cider.
He stumbled over to the car and looked in. The two occupants were quite
clearly dead. The driver had gone through the windscreen but his legs
had been trapped under the steering wheel and were broken and twisted.
Blood trickled from his nose and his right ear and gushed from a large
laceration in the side of his neck. The passenger was unrecognisable as
human. A large piece of metal had ripped away from the side of the car
and taken the left side of his head off. The tramp looked on sadly and
then, down by the passenger's left hand he saw something that lit up
his sad, crinkly face.

He gingerly reached across and picked up the tobacco and Rizlas and
stuffed them in his pocket before turning to stumble on his way.

"Must be my lucky night," he chuckled to himself before wandering away
from the road and through the trees, disappearing into the night.