Two Faced. Garry Bushell
the JAIL?’
‘Don’t let Potman hear you say that.’
‘Eh?’
The big man loomed up behind him, half of a newspaper in his hand.
‘Sort the bog paper out in that khazi, Eric,’ he boomed at the old fella behind the bar. ‘I’ve just lost Jonathan King’s Bizarre column wiping me arse.’
‘Best use for it,’ muttered the barman.
Noodles smiled wanly. ‘Here, show Harry yer Phil Lynott,’ he said.
Potman rolled up his left sleeve to reveal a tattooed portrait of the Lizzy singer across his biceps.
‘Class,’ Harry said. He studied Potman’s arm for some terrible indication of adolescent foolishness, like ‘Bay City Rollers Forever’ but, apart from a baffling reference to Dumpy’s Rusty Nuts, all he could see was a menagerie of swallows, eagles, mad dogs, axe-wielding vikings and the like.
‘Now show him Adolf,’ said Noodles with a grin.
Ah, now this surely was a tattoo from the teenage regrets section of his collection.
‘Not in here,’ Potman grunted. There were two pints of Guinness and cider waiting for him and he downed the first in one gulp.
‘Here,’ he said. ‘According to the Sun …’
‘Scabs!’ shouted Noodles.
‘Bollocks, no, listen. According to this, after wearing their pants for a day, the French turn them inside out and put ’em back on. They wear them inside out.’
‘The dirty bastards,’ said Harry. ‘You mean, they don’t wear them for a week and then chuck ’em in the washing like we do?’
Potman grinned. ‘Where do you hide your money to keep it safe in a French hotel?’ he asked.
Harry knew the gag but played along.
‘Dunno.’
‘Under the soap.’
Harry smiled.
‘You’re from over East, aren’t you Harry?’ asked Noodles, who was quietly rolling a spliff. ‘Ian Dury country.’
‘Sure am.’
‘What did your father do to earn a crust?’
‘Docker.’
‘A good law-abiding citizen?’
‘No, mate, I said docker, not doctor.’
All three laughed.
‘This a private party?’ asked Eggy, who had materialised alongside them. ‘Get us some pop, Pops,’ she said to Noodles.
Harry tried not to react as Eggy sat beside him and shuffled up so close their hips could have been magnetised.
‘You shouldn’t read that paper,’ she scolded Potman.
‘Bollocks.’
‘I’ve been to Wapping.’
‘Hanging out with all the silly Lefties,’ the Angel grunted. ‘Save the whale, ban the bomb, hug a tree, up with poofs and Paks, down with the Union Jack … a bunch of soap-dodging, 2CV-driving layabouts. I’d roll over the lot of ’em in a Panzer.’
‘I can see why you’ve got a Hitler tattoo, mate,’ Harry grinned.
‘No, it’s not political,’ Potman began. ‘It’s just …’
‘Do you fancy coming to the pictures tonight, Harry?’ Eggy interrupted, pressing into him even tighter. ‘Instead of hanging out here with Southall’s answer to the Oxford Union?’
‘I’d love to, angel face, but we’ve got business here.’
‘Your loss.’
Eggy moved away sulkily and when Noodles came back with a vodka and orange she stood up, drained it and waved goodbye.
‘See you later?’ Harry said, trying not to sound too interested.
‘Maybe, maybe not. Depends if anything more exciting happens, like a traffic light failure or a blocked sewer in the High Street. Ciao.’
And with that she was gone.
‘She’s a handful, that girl.’ Potman smiled. ‘I told your Eileen she shouldn’t drop acid while she was pregnant.’
Noodles just scowled. ‘Ciao,’ he said. ‘Don’t you hate ciao?’
‘I could do with some,’ said Harry. ‘Fish and chips, gents, on me?’
‘Fuck off,’ growled Potman. ‘You’re helping us out so the grub is on us, and besides we’ve got proper traditional English restaurants round here. What will it be, H, Chinkie or the curry house?’
It was 11.30pm when they arrived back at the scrapyard. Not drunk, but buzzing nicely on a mix of adrenalin and alcohol. Noodles laid out a fine array of weaponry on his office table: baseball bats, pickaxe handles, machetes, Ninja throwing stars, survival knives and lengths of thick, strong chain.
‘Take whichever implement suits you best, my friend,’ he said.
Then the three holed up in different parts of the yard to wait for the thieves to strike. Harry sat stooped on the back seat of a doomed Cortina, a baseball bat in his hand. Minutes turned to hours and nothing happened until he heard the side door open to his left. He turned swiftly, his fist in a ball ready to strike. It was Eggy. She pressed a finger to his lips and tucked in beside him.
They chatted in whispers about everything and nothing. Periodically her left hand brushed the top of Harry’s thigh and he hardened. Eggy noticed, laughed and traced the outline of his erection through his jeans with her fingernail.
‘I just went and saw 9½ Weeks,’ she said. ‘I was so turned on in there you could hear me sloshing.’
‘You talk like a geezer.’
There was a note of disapproval in Harry’s voice.
‘Do I feel like a geezer?’ Eggy took his right hand and clamped it on her left breast.
‘Do you want to?’ he asked hopefully.
She smiled coquettishly.
‘You could get your red wings if you like.’
‘Eh?’
Eggy explained the delightful process by which an Angel earned his wings – by performing oral sex on a menstruating woman.
‘Do you mind if I don’t? Not this time at any rate …’
‘How about the Queen Mum?’
Harry looked puzzled. He knew most Cockney rhyming slang, but it took a moment for this disrespectful reference to his favourite Royal to register. He shook his head.
‘No, ta.’
‘I could toss you off if you like.’
‘That will do nicely.’
‘Mirror,’ she said, pouting into the rear-view as she unzipped his fly. ‘Signal …’ She released his erection from the constraints of his briefs and grasped the shaft. ‘Manoeuvre …’
Eric and Geoff Marley came climbing over the scrapyard fence as Harry came over his handkerchief. The brothers separated. Eric, the skinnier man, crouched forward with a torch in his hand and made his way softly towards the Angels’ hut, tools clanking inside his green combat jacket. He paused to admire four mag wheels left nearby to ‘bring the bees to the flowers’. Potman leaped out and slammed a helve straight into his stomach. He doubled up