Headhunter

this is an excerpt from my forthcoming novel

You cant expect a private to quote Shakespeare any more than a boxer to have an opinion on modern art.  You are broken down and built back up into something that obeys orders immediately and unquestioningly and is very good at killing people.  Not necessarily someone you’d want camping on your lawn – it’s a dirty job that might be best not done at all but if it has to be done it were best if it were done well.

In World War 1 trench fighting was done with sharpened spades, clubs, sticks with nails in, Anything – on the grounds that a stick never jams, doesn’t need reloading and usually ends any arguments pronto.  A gun gives an illusion of invulnerability buts that all it is – you have a split second to get a killing shot off or you are fucked.

Have I killed? Yes.  Does it bother me? No.  What’s it like? You’ll have to find out for yourself.  Words don’t exist.  I’d like to be able to say that every death meant something to me and that i spent everyday since praying for their souls but IT DOESN’T AND I DON’T.  Its really like a night out in Bolton but with marginally less blood.  You go out, stuff happens, people get hurt, occasionally its you.  You may have done questionable things but so much ridiculous stuff has happened to me involving edged weapons, mines, projectile weapons and bits of wood with nails in them that to be honest I don’t give a fuck.  My job is violence – its good to have a job that’s a hobby as well.  I’d never shoot a kid – I’ve had to disarm a few crazy teenagers but as they were more likely to shoot themselves than me that wasn’t a problem – without exception they burst into tears and legged it after a fatherly hug.  Women I will only shoot if they carry a gun – I don’t like it but I have no intention of meeting my maker just yet.  My plan is to get my retaliation in first.

Anyway, blessed with just enough intelligence to realize the whole thing was just a game, a balls out commitment to everything plus enough badness to avoid promotion – life was all roses – smelly ones true but hey.  I’ve always had a certain ‘moral flexibility’.  If there’s a beer, £50 or it just sounds like a laugh I’m on it.

You may have watched East Enders – believe me its not even close to some pubs I’ve been in.  Cabbies, crooks, coppers and sometimes they were the same person.  Shocked at corruption in the Met? You’re having a laugh.

Anyway; I was sitting in a boozer in SE London where I used to go at weekends when I wasn’t on duty – a friend of a friend heard that I was a bit handy and mentioned it to a friend of a friends’ uncle who has a ‘little local difficulty’.  Anyway this old bloke who I’d seen in the bar beckoned me over first signaling to Irish Dave the barman to put another Grouse in the one I was swigging between Guinnesses.  Go in the bogs son and look in trap 1 – you’ll see an enverlope – read it and if you want the job come out, nod to me – if you don’t justleave it there and fuck off and don’t come back.

I chatted about football – the twat was a Spurs fan – I finished my drink, put my leathers on and went for a piss.  The contents of the envelope were a photograph of a man mountain with William ‘Bill’ Douglas Walford Arms Deptford RIP 29th October 1979– tomorrow’s date – on the back and £500.  I went out, nodded – and called Dave a cunt and left.

Dave was a cunt – no question.  A month later he ran off with the landlord’s wife – he ran two pubs so when he was in the other one Dave won over the not very lovely Irene./ He gave her a big diamond ring – which caused me being barred for a week when I said Irene show us your ring.  Anyway, he took her for everything and fucked off and about two weeks later a couple of Chelesea Headhunters came round tooled up looking for a chat with Dave – I knew one of them and we chewed the fat – I’d heard Dave was heading back to Belfast and often drank in the Fall area at …. And told him – he got me a Guinness and I told him I’d see him at the City game in two week’s time.

It was 830 – plenty of time – flushed with cash I got a cab to the East End.  I didn’t have a plan, bowl up and see how it went.  I got to the boozer, went in and ordered a Guinness – there was a couple of brickies with dust on their boots drinking in a corner and a few other nothings around.  I stood at the bar and chatted with the barmaid.  About 1030 a big bloke flanked by 2 minders came in.  Bill himself.

Evening sir from the barmaid, hows about a kiss for yer uncle Bill? From the hulk.  The minders went over to the brickies and told them to fuck off – one got up to fight, saw something in their pockets, gulped and grabbed his tools and left without a word.  His mate was lighting a roll up and not paying attention – a situation that was quickly and painfully altered.  Bill went to his table and sat down.

Seems like a real gent that one I said to Angie beghind the bar, she rolled her eyes and poured me another pint.

One of the minders had a pool cue case with him.  I wandered over to the table – put 50p down.  Bill’s shorter minder came over and put a pile of 50ps down.  Winner stays on I said to no-one in particular.  The grunt looked over to Bill who shrugged and nodded – £5 a frame round here but it wont be you – Danny here’s a genius.  He slapped a heavy set tattoed docker on the back  - Danny grunted and cleared the table.

Snooker is a game of skill, finesse, ability and positioning – pool is a game of low animal cunning.  Danny was good but not that good – and he cealry didn’t rate me at all.  He broke without a word and I played my usual game of blocking the corbner pockets and waiting for a foul.  It came after about 5 minutes and I cleared up – collected £5 in loose change from Dan the Man. No handshake.

The mini minder came over and started putting Bill’s cue together – a thing of beauty – inlaid pearl, gold bands, straight as a banana.  I made a good job of losing three frames in a row – handed over £15 and he told me to bugger off out of his pub.  I ignored him ... to be continued