London Calling by Tony Black
There’s a time and a place for this shit. Now ain’t it.
“You’re not cool with this?”
“Answer me this, Don, do I look fucking cool with it?”
Don curls his lower lip, bites down. It’s not a pained look, but I’m thinking, not far off it.
“A beer?”
“Fuck your beer.”
Frowns.
“It’s the good stuff . . . Stella.”
I raise myself from the Ikea cowhide chair, comfortable as a bastard anyway, cross the laminate floor. The first thing that comes to hand is the purple and red lava lamp. It smashes like the One O’clock Gun as I take it over Don’s head.
“It’d take a truckload of Stella for me to be cool with you fucking my girlfriend, Don.”
London Calling comes on the i-Pod plugged into the Bosch speaker unit on the wall. I think, bollocks, Jonny Ladd isn’t going to like this turn of events.
***
First I see of the bloke is Don knocking seven bells out of him in The Wheatsheaf shitter. He’s a suit. Banker-type or something, I’d say ad-man maybe, but like I know what an ad-man looks like . . . I sell a bit of Bob Hope for Don. Need to get a new line.
“Don, what’s this shit?”
He looks up, still kicking the crap out the poor guy, his new Kickers have blood on them, he spots it, removes one, starts slapping the fella about the head with it.
“Look what you’ve done to my shoes y’prick!”
“I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry.” He raises his hands, waves them about his head in a, it must be said, girlie manner. I laugh out.
Don clocks me in hysterics, falling into one of the cubicles, starts up himself, quite a sight. I’m hoping no-one else comes in when, bang on cue, the door swings open.
“Jonny,” says Don.
I drop the laughter. Calm it. Feel my feet slipping as I ease onto the toilet seat, make myself invisible. Dealing for Don’s one thing, mixing it with the likes of Jonny Ladd is another. Not got my sights on the Premier League, unlike some.
Jonny speaks, “This the cunt?”
“Aye, aye,” says Don, “That’s him all right . . . clocked him with the blonde bird out the estate agent’s office . . . one with the big tits, yeah.”
Jonny Ladd says nothing. I can see him in the mirror, out the gap in the door, his face is a roadmap of hard lines, look like they’ve been cut in with razors, maybe some of them have. He gives the guy on the ground the once over, I think he might speak, but he walks past, touches Don on the arm, motions a thumb, “Get him the fuck out of here.”
“Where?”
“Your gaff, there’s a brasser on the way to meet you . . . Make sure you’ve got your fucking camera, I’ll tell you where to send the shots. Now get a fucking jig on.”
***
“You got a hold of it?”
“Aye, I’ve got it.”
The box is cardboard, not fit for the job.
“He’s gonna come out the bottom, Don.”
“It’ll be fine, it’s just two flights.”
Two flights up an Edinburgh stairwell like this is not easy going. In the Old Town, twisty, windy stairs, it’s a near impossibility.
“I’m telling you, he’s gonna fall out!”
Don drops his end, as if to prove a point, the banker slumps out. The blood smeared over his face, from a nasty nosebleed, leaves a streak on the newly painted white wall.
“Och, for fucksake, Don. I told you this would happen.”
Over the edge of the banister there’s a female voice, Oriental, “Hello, is suck-suck, yes?” It’s the pro, she’s Thai or something, anxious to get to work. Oh yeah, we’re real multicultural in Edinburgh these days.
Don shouts back, “Aye, aye . . . just a minute.” He reaches down, gives the banker a slap, he starts to come around. Mumbles. Don jumps a few steps, turns, fishes in his pockets for the keys to the flat, says, “He’ll walk from here, drag him. I’ll get opened up . . . set the scene!”
I pick the guy out the box, balance his arm around my neck. I hear Don slam the door of the flat.
The banker speaks, “You have to help me . . .”
“You what?”
“I know what this is all about.”
“Yeah, you pissed off Jonny Ladd.” That’s a no-brainer in my book.
“No. It’s nothing to do with me . . . it’s my girlfriend!”
I’m scoobied, feel my mouth droop, then Don opens the door, hollers, “Get a shift on down there.”
When I turn back, the guy’s passed out again.
***
“So, what’s the deal here, he owe Jonny Ladd some?”
Don looks at me, scrunches his brows, “Fuck no, it’s for a bit of fun.”
“Come again?”
“The blonde, y’know, one with the big tits, Jonny’s got a bone on for her.”
I don’t follow, “I’m not with you.”
“Look, the idea is, we get a few photos on this fuckhead with his pants around his ankles, maybe some munter going down on him and the blonde suddenly has a change of heart.”
“That’s low.”
“It’s a living.”
I didn’t agree. For a while now I’d been thinking there were better ways to make a living than dancing to Jonny Ladd’s tune, or dealing for Don for that matter. Ange had said it . . . there’s more to life, change is good, or some such shit.
“What’s with the shake of the head?” says Don.
“Nothing.”
“Nah, you don’t approve, do you?”
“It’s not that.”
The brasser moves on the couch, points to the banker who’s coming around again. She goes over to him, starts to loosen his tie.
“No, fuck no . . . it’s his pants you take off, here . . .” Don directs her to the belt buckle, walks back to me, starts to play with his camera-phone. He says loosen up, get over Ange leaving, and . . . am I cool with him putting the moves on her?
Fuck no.
He tries to ply me with a beer, Stella Artois . . . Funny, I think, Ange never liked beer, but lately she’d been big on Stella.
I feel a rush of blood to my head.
***
Miss Suck-Suck lets out a scream when the lava lamp explodes. She jumps up as Don hits the floor. I raise a hand, say, “It’s cool . . . we’re all cool with this.”
She goes back to work. I say, “No. No. There’s been a change of plan.”
“Explain, please?”
“This fella here,” I turn Don over, start to undo his belt, “you want to get your gums round him instead.”
“Okay-dokey.”
As she goes to work, I take up Don’s camera-phone.
The banker’s coming around as I snap away, “Don’t worry about us mate, we’ll be out of your hair in no time.”
He keels over again.
“Wise. Get your head down.”
“Okay-dokey,” says Miss Suck-Suck.
I laugh, “No you’re doing fine, love.”
The Clash get me moving, London Calling sets the mood as I fire off some more shots, get in some arty ones.
I’m thinking, now here’s maybe my new job. Fuck knows I need one now.
Wonder if Ange will approve? I think this as I locate her number on Don’s phone, and press ‘send’.
