My Little Armalite (25 page)

Ah, yes, and there he is, whatshisname, you know, that American or was it Canadian bastard Thatcher hired to come in to break the miners, the first of the new breed of million-quid-bonus fat bloody union-busting cats, got him in the sights easy as pie:
tuck-tuck
, goodnight! Slotted the bastard, ha ha!

I had fired off many, many rounds without noticing, through the sights, any smoke from my own shots. When watching George, I had now and then caught a very slight and incredibly brief whiff of shadow in front of his gun when he fired. But now we reached some mysterious tipping-point of light.

The wet, brown-green afternoon slid over quite suddenly into a real November country nightfall and everything changed. The next time I looked over at George to receive his waved instructions (he was as totally serious as an eight-year-old boy at play), the darkness had fallen and I was amazed to see six-inch licks of flame dancing sideways out from the chamber of his gun with every ejected shell, and his muzzle spurting great comic-book blooms of red and orange fire. The blasts showed every bone in his face and lit off reflections inside my specs.

My God, I must look like that as well!

Pretty damn cool, in other words.

Hard and
bloody
scary.

If my colleagues could only see me now.

If only my boys could see me now.

God, what if I just kept the gun for a couple of years? Ha! Oh yes, in a couple of years Jack and Will could be as teenaged as they wanted, but there would not be much danger of them thinking me an old pointless git on the evening I cajoled them out to my shed on some blithe pretext (
—Have we got to, Dad? Why? What's the point? Bor-ing!
) and there, in the soft lamplight, showed
them how to strip and load a real live AR-15 Armalite assault rifle!

Ridiculous, of course.

Back to reality.

Reload.

Cthunk!

Now, who was there left to slot?

Capitalism itself, why not?

There it is: capitalism personified, a slick-haired shit of about forty sat in his bloody spit-new Porsche braying hands-free into his Bluetoothed BlackBerry, a man of zero spiritual or intellectual distinction who is about to pocket another million quid, on which he will in one way or another make certain he pays virtually no tax, for his part in crunching the numbers or clauses of some bloody private-equity hedge-fund, asset-stripping deal made by people no one has ever heard of who will now be allowed to sack hundreds of hard-working people before selling niftily on.

Tuck-tuck!
The Porsche, that piece of sheer rub-their-noses-in-it consumption, veers, its windscreen suddenly a web of cracks, the smug grin on the driver‘s face now a mask of idiotic surprise as he looks down at the stain rapidly totalling his Armani suit.

Watch, I say, watch: for ye know not when the tuck-tuck cometh!

And who is this next up? Ah yes, a north-London estate agent. Of course. Who better? Revenge is black pudding, as the Germans somewhat curiously put it.

Hello again, Mr Young Estate Agent. Yes, that's right. I said up to four hundred thousand pounds. I said nothing special. Yes, I said
anywhere at all
in north London with three human-sized bedrooms. I said all I want is a normal house in a normal area where my eleven-year-old boys can ride their bikes in the park
alone now and then. Yes, I said I'd expect the schools to be reasonably OK. No, I don't mind if a bit of work needs doing. Go a bit higher, you say? Quite a bit higher? How much is quite a bit? Oh, I see. Another hundred and fifty? And that, you say, might just about
shade
us, wasn't that what you said? Into the what did you call it? The ballpark? What a lovely word. American, right? Sorry, let me explain. I, who have never been unemployed and who got on the property ladder as soon as I could, what with having studied religiously for my current profession throughout my twenties, have just offered to nail myself to the ground until the year I retire just to get a normal little house for my family. And you say I'll have to
go quite a bit higher
. I see. Now, how precisely shall I do that, Mr Slick? What's that? Oh, your own in-house mortgage advisor can probably help me
work it up
to five or six times our joint income? If we're economical with the truth, ha ha? So, hold on, correct me if I'm wrong, what you actually mean is: if I lie about what I earn, your colleague will be able to pocket the fat commission on a mortgage deal that will enable you to pocket the fat commission on a sale that will end up with me signing for a mortgage I cannot possibly afford and which, therefore, unless property prices continue to rise at over 10 per cent per year for ever, will inevitably leave me bankrupt and homeless? Well, that's very kind of you both. What nice men you are. But I'll tell you what, how about you tell this bullshit to my little friend, fuck face? Not such a figure of comedy now? You know what the linguistic root of the word
mortgage
is, O deeply qualified professional young man? You want to find out? Yes, try to scrabble away to safety behind your desk, but you will not escape vengeance.

Tuck-tuck.

Blood over the flat-screen workstations, the carousels packed with flats at half a million quid tumble as dying fingers grasp at them. The earth, a very slightly cleaner place. He shoots, he scores!

Talking of which, hark! Who is this nineteen-year-old with no GCSEs, a reading age of twelve and several Bentleys?

Why, who but Sean Scally, one-time plaguer of teachers, long-time bully of his fellow children and now world-renowned screamer-at of referees, a ruinous example of sudden and undeserved wealth to thick teenagers everywhere. Nothing personal, Scallo, but no society can function with examples like you held up every day. Why the hell shouldn't you pay 80 per cent tax? You and Liam bloody Gallagher. Meet Mr Tuck-Tuck, Scallo.

Tuck-tuck
.

He drops his ridiculous cocktail and crashes face-first into his Cheshire swimming pool.

And now?

Ah yes, you, you Bluewater-cruising godforsaken arseholes, because of you the planet is going to die and my kids are going to have a shit life. I believed in betterment, but all you care about is how quickly you can
get your hands on the brands
. Jesus fucking Christ, was it for this that the Tolpuddle Martyrs did, well, you know, whatever it was they did? And you have the same vote as me! Insanity! Well this is where the craziness stops, right here:

Tuck-tuck
.

As for you all, you hoodied and hoodless suckers-up of so-called ‘benefits', you ruiners of the social democratic settlement, you serial abusers of a wonderful system designed to save decent workers from hunger between jobs, you two million who
thought you were too good to do the jobs that six hundred thousand hard-working Poles have found in England! Hanging round robbing and dealing and spawning the so-called street culture that is going to make my poor boys' schooldays a Calvary. What's that? Oh, really? Only
just over a quarter
of all government spending, and hence of my tax, goes on what they call
Social Protection
? How modest. Only just over a quarter? Well well. That's OK then, what am I being so small-minded about, comfortable homeowning citizen that I am? I'll tell you bloody what! I am not a human, my unprivileged little mate, never mind a comfy one, I am a mere machine for paying bills, and I just about make my quota every month on month, year on financial year, and if I'm lucky I'll make it to retirement without falling behind, so that I can start being
really
poor.

Very nice.

Very bloody nice.

So hear me, the lot of you, up and down, in your Porsches and your estate agencies and your TV studios and your malls and your dole queues and … you know what this country needs?

A real bourgeois armed uprising at last!

A black, bloody insurrection of the hard-working, over-taxed and unbenefited. A dictatorship of the normal suckers, merciless with revolutionary discipline against all who utilise tax shelters or vandalise bus shelters. Down with all the dealers, in drugs or securities. Let fairness prevail on pain of summary execution. Welcome to the Day of Judgment, roll up and get your low-number party cards, all ye who never lied to social security or sat down with a tax barrister, and let our battle-cry be:
righteousness
!

Tuck-tuck!
Tuck-fucking-tuck. Tuck-tuck-fucking-tuck.

Oh fuck this fucking tuck-tuck for a game of soldiers, I want full auto and I want it now, I want to really cut loose and …

—Hey, Tony!

—Aah! Oh, Gerry, um, hi, sorry, what?

—Tell you what, Tony, we better wind up if you want to catch that train to Berlin! Here, you look like you're loving it!

—What? Oh, yes, of course. Um, very, interesting. Christ, really, is it that late?

—Time flies in the zone, eh, Tony?

—God yes. Right. Right. So, well, er, George …

—Toni, I hope you think this was good day.

—Oh, yes, very. Very, George. I just wish …

—I told you George was good! Just time to down a quick beer if you fancy, sandwich too, all included just as per, why not, eh? Everyone likes a beer afterwards, Tony. Funny, but true.

—A beer? God, yes, actually. I could murder one. Um, Gerry, hey, I really enjoyed today and, well, I was wondering, actually, you see, I'm pretty flexible time-wise the next few days and, um, well, I mean, I could come here again, very soon, maybe tomorrow, or the next day. But only if George is available.

—Toni, I am there for you when you want.

—Great! Well then, Gerry, look, how about I book up right now? Here, look, I've got the money. Four hundred, right?

Gerry immediately stepped, or rather bounced, close to me and took me round the shoulder.

—Tell you what, put your money away, Tony. We can talk prices in the car. Now, let's be going. I'll sort it for you. That's me, eh? There's my car. Let's get on
our way, shall we? Don't want to miss your train. We can get that beer at the station. Cheers, George, thanks for …

—Gerry, you wait.

—What's that, George?

—Toni, you tell me how much you pay him for today?

—Tell you what, we'll sort this out later, George.

—Toni. I am your friend, you tell me.

—We're getting pretty tight for time, Tony.

—Toni?

—I paid him four hundred euros.

—Now look, George …

—Four hundred, Toni?

—I was going to tell you, George.

—Toni, you watch. Gerry, you fucking bastard, you give me more one hundred fifty euros right now or you not get off this fucking shooting range. I kick your ass good. I shoot your fucking tyres out. Then we talk, you, me, Karel. Toni, I sorry, so sorry, this fucking bastard say you pay him two hundred fifty euros; is seventy-five for me, seventy-five for Karel for range, hundred for him. This is normal price for two English. Four hundred? Very nice for Gerry. So now I take his wallet. I am no thief, Toni. I do only what is make thing right. I take this fifty, you see? Fifty. Food for my kids, you see? Now you get one hundred back, I think that fair. You think that fair, Toni?

—George, no, you keep it.

—Toni, no.

—Yes, yes, please, George. For your kids.

—Toni, you are good man. I keep fifty of this, I give Karel fifty. You come back here tomorrow, next day, we do very good shoot, nothing for me, seventy-five for Karel range. I give you ammo what it cost me, maybe thirty, forty, nothing more to pay for you. We do really
good course. I show you all US Marine tactics, very important. You want to do night-sight shoot? Yes, of course. So we can do night-sight shoot, at six o'clock is dark enough. You will like this, I promise. Karel has very good night-sights. For you and me nothing extra; a hundred extra for anyone other. You see, I am your friend, not Gerry. Now you know me, fuck Gerry. You call me, here is my card, my number also here my mobile, you see? I pick you up, thirty euros here and back to Prague. This is very fair price. We shoot, we talk like friends. You see? Fuck Gerry.

George gave Gerry what looked like quite a harmless little shove but which sent him tumbling backwards into a deep and very middle-European ditch.

—Um, look, George, the thing is, I need to get to the train station. Sort of now.

—Yes, of course, I know this. I take you. No problem. Plenty time. We go?

—Right, yes, George. We go.

I feel that for the avoidance of doubt I should stress one thing: I did not want to have sex with George.

Not in the least. If he had proposed sex (George? Impossible!) I would have been horribly disappointed. I wanted things which are far more important than sex to us men. I wanted to drink with him. I wanted to drive with him. I wanted to talk with him, and agree with him and him to agree with me. I wanted to swap stories with him and find that, despite all the obviously vast differences in our lives, there was a strange undertow of fated congruity. I wanted to go looking for girls with him and wake up in the morning and go and have a big breakfast with him and talk about the girls before arranging to meet and drink with him again in a couple of days. I wanted his son (who was ten) to be friends with Jack and William for life. I wanted his daughter (who was nine) to marry one of them. I wanted to be as near as possible to him. No: I wanted to be as near as possible him. Not to his cock. To him. I wanted to be his blood brother. I wanted a formal alliance with him, for ever.

Anyone who has a fully grown personality won't understand this.

Most men will.

As George's old Passat circled the could-be-anyplace outskirts of Prague, I found myself no longer caring where we were going. Just being with him made me feel safe. It was like riding at night in my parents' car, a tired child. The reassuring voice, the soft illumination
of the dashboard, the washes of meaningless lamplight passing in the dark outside, the cool glass of the window on my cheek and …