Grannied

They sit curled up on the livingroom chairs, covered with little blankets, inside Mockey’s poverty stricken flat. The atmosphere is as dead as the heroin situation. Their massive detoxing pupils stare at each other as sweat pours from their bodies. Their tea-shirts are stuck to their backs. The little alarm clock in the corner of the room shows: 20:00.

‘I can’t take much more of this, we need money, even a fucking tenner would do,’ says Smurf, his voice grating on Mockey’s ears like nails down a blackboard.

‘I’m suffering too, mate. But please be quiet, eh? I’m trying to think.’

‘Don’t tell me to be quiet, ya wee fuckin prick. I told you we should have went shoplifting earlier, but no, you said we’d be cool. Something will turn up. I’m ill because of you. I can’t even go out robbing feeling like this.’

Don’t speak to me like that or I’ll slash you, Mockey thinks while pathetically just saying — ‘sorry.’

Mockey puts his head in his hands, knowing it’s long haul until next morning while rattling like a bag of glass bottles, and with such good company, too.

‘Wank,’ replies Smurf while staring deep into his eyes.

Mockey raises his head up, ‘You never know, someone might chap the door with a bag or two for us.’

‘Someone might chap the door with a bag or two?’ Says Smurf, mocking him. ‘I swear it, wee man. If I had the energy, I’d be banging your mouth off that fucking wall. So, just shut the fuck up, will you?’

Mockey puts his head back in his hands and time ticks on slowly for what feels like forever.

The well-dressed lad stares at their window, a stained sheet acts as a make-shift curtain. He can see a single unshaded lightbulb hanging from the ceiling which lights up the room, telling him that someone is home. He walks into the close and gives their door a chap.

Chap, chap. ‘Phweep… hol, boys! I’ve got some free smack for yous, if yous want it? One bag each! I know yous two cunts are in,’ he shouts through the letterbox.

Mockey and Smurf look round, then bounce of their seats, blankets drop to the floor. They almost trip over each other as they scramble up the hallway. One of them unlocks the door and they both peer around.

He’s standing in the close, wearing a dark-blue denim-jacket, a pair of cream chinos, and brown Hush-Puppy shoes. He has a black, white, and red Fila bag draped over one shoulder.

‘What did you say you had for us?’ Asks Smurf.

‘I’ve got two bags of smack, one each for yous. I don’t touch the stuff myself. It’s yours if you let me in and hear me out.’

They take a step back and open the door, ‘after you,’ replies Mockey, with his arm outstretched, inviting him in, and showing the way to the livingroom — if you can call it that.

Fredo walks confidently up the drab and dark passageway, followed by Smurf, leaving Mockey to lock the door.

Smurf nods at Fredo to take the seat where he was sitting. He takes Mockey’s; leaving the latter to come in and sit on the floor; in his own house. Smurf flashes a grin at Mockey as he sits down. They both turn and stare at Fredo. He throws two little wraps of heroin down. Both still feeling ill, they cautiously reach for the bags. He just sits there — watching — and places the Fila bag at his feet.

Mockey gets up and makes his way to the kitchen, ‘I’d offer you a cup of tea, pal, but we don’t have fuck all.’

He’s in there for a moment and comes out carrying a cup half-full of water. It has two needles and two spoons propped up in it. Within minutes Mockey and Smurf are cooking up hits, sitting there concentrating on what they’re doing while giving an ear to Fredo, allowing him to explain the reason for his visit; and his generosity.

‘I’ve got a proposition for yous. I need something done and I want it done as soon as possible. I know yous have fallen on hard times and this will be advantageous for the three of us.’

Mockey looks up at him while holding a flame under his spoon, ‘We’re no dressing up as Wee Bo-Peep, mate. Just so you know. There will be no sexual-activity what-so-ever.’

‘He’s right,’ adds Smurf, while pressing the tip of his needle into a torn piece of cigarette-filter in a spoon, as it soaks up dark-brown liquid.

‘Nah, nah… boys! It’s nothing like that, for Fuck’s sakes. What do yous take me for?’

‘What is it then?’ Mockey asks as he tightens the belt around his arm.

‘Aye, mate. What?’ Smurf adds with a look at him, then a nod down at Mockey, while jabbing his needle into a thick blue vein.

Smurf gets it right away. He pulls the plunger back and the barrel fills as blood mixes with heroin, producing a deadly mixture. He sends it home. Mockey follows with a little more difficulty but gets the needle in. Fredo watches them both and states:

‘A want yous to kill ma granny.’

Mockey and Smurf stare at him. They immediately turn around and stare at each other — they buckle with laughter.

‘HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.’

‘HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.’

‘I’m serious — I want yous to kill my granny. The two of yous together. That way the job will get done.’

Mockey pulls the needle out from his arm and sits it down, still staring at Fredo. Smurf is shaking his head. But the seriousness of the tone is slowly sinking into both lads.

‘What the fuck,’ Asks Mockey. ‘Why?’

‘Insurance,’ replies Fredo, with a shrug of his shoulders.

‘You’re off your nut,’ says Mockey. ‘Just pick yourself up off that chair, walk up the hallway, unlock the door, and fuck off. We’ll say no more about this.’

‘Pretend we never heard it,’ Smurf adds, with a nod.

Fredo unzips the top of his Fila bag. He pulls out a little plastic see-through poke full of notes. He throws it on the floor.

‘There’s £500 in there, in tens and twenties. It’s yours if you want the job.’

‘That’s a fuckin social loan, ya dick,’ replies Mockey.

‘There’s fuck all to stop us stamping your head into the deck and just taxing that,’ says Smurf.

Mockey nods in agreement.

‘Aye for sure,’ says Fredo. ‘But what if I told yous that I had another twenty-nine and a half grand stashed, which is also yours once it’s done. Then what?’ He says looking around the sparse flat and back at them.

Mockey is shaking his head while Smurf is holding his stare. Fredo goes into the little zip pocket on the front of the Fila bag. He pulls out a couple of Polaroid photographs. He hands one to Smurf and another to Mockey. He goes into the top of the bag and takes out a Polaroid camera and a little black recording device, Mockey stares at it and wonders. Then his attention is brought to the photographs. One picture is of Fredo sitting next to a pile of money on the bed and the other is of a sweet elderly lady. Mockey and Smurf look at one each, before swopping with each other.

‘Why so much money? You could probably get some desperado to do that for half the price.’

‘Yous have a reputation for not grassing and I want it done pronto, as in tonight.’

Mockey just stares at him.

A big grin appears on Smurf’s face, ‘What you thinking then, Mockey?’

‘Eh? What am I thinking? We have rules for fuck’s sake. What do I think — Jesus!’

‘Aye, mate,’ says Fredo. He’s asking you what you think. Look, she’s old and she’s had a good life, it probably won’t take much. Maybe just a wee freight and she’ll keel over.’

Mockey’s eyes flicker between them in bewilderment.

‘Rules? We’re skint. It’s a cruel world, Mockey. You have to take your chances when they come.’

‘Fuck sake. I… I need a moment. I can’t breathe in here,’ he says, standing up, and goes into the kitchen.

Smurf nods and winks at Fredo.

Mockey shakes his head and shuts the door tight behind him. He places both hands on the kitchen worktop, and stares at the floor, as the words ruminate in his mind.

It’s a cruel world. You have to take your chances when they come. I need to get these two idiots away from me. It’s a cruel world. You have to take your chances when they come…

He snaps out of his thoughts as he hears the others talking. He can’t make out what they’re saying. He gets paranoid. He opens the kitchen door and goes back into the livingroom.

‘Does your Granny have any downers?’ Mockey asks. ‘If she does, then you can count me in.’

‘I knew you’d see sense. She does. A kitchen drawer full. Valium, temazepam, all sorts of shit,’ replies Fredo — smiling.

‘Spoken like a true jakey,’ replies smurf, patting Mockey on the shoulder, as he sits back down.

‘Okay. How do we do this?’ Mockey asks.

Smurf stares a Fredo with curiosity.

Fredo picks up the recording device. It has a miniature cassette tape sitting under a clear plastic panel.

‘This is so yous don’t come the cunt. If yous try anything funny, I’ll go to the police. I’m a desperate man, don’t fuck with me. I’ll take us all down. I’m going to say my name and the deal and when I hold it to your face. State your name and say agree. Okay?’

Smurf replies, ‘cool.’

Mockey nods, ’aye.’

Fredo hits record, ‘I Alfred Robinson am entering into a deal where I will pay thirty thousand pounds to the after mentioned, to kill my granny, Phyllis Jones Bagwhistle, by whatever means necessary. State your name and agree.’

He holds the device towards Mockey, who nods it towards Smurf. Smurf gives Mockey a snide look and leans towards the tape recorder.

‘I’m Smurf. Sorry. I’m Craig Smith — agree.’

He switches the device back to Mockey with a threatening facial prompt. Mockey waits a second or two.

‘– Alan Mockton — in for a penny in for a quid, agree.’

Fredo his stop and puts it back in the Fila bag.

‘When yous do the business, take a picture of her with the camera and bring it to my house so I can see it. She lives at Four Dalvait road, in the little houses behind St Kessoks’ primary school, capisce?’

‘I know where it is,’ says Smurf.

‘Capisce,’ sniggers Mockey.

‘I’ll pay yous the money as soon as I’m satisfied. Do yous know where I live?’

‘We do,’ replies Smurf. This is quality, Mockey. We can smoke and jag all night now.’

‘Aye. We’ll see you out. Enjoy your night, mate,’ says Mockey, getting to his feet.

Fredo grabs Mockey’s cheek and squeezes it, ‘ciao,’ he says.

He leaves the camera while grabbing the Fila bag. The three of them leave Mockey’s little flat; two of them to go and score, and one of them going home to wait for the others coming back with the photograph.

A waft of candy smelling smoke hovers thinly over both lads as they lie back relaxed in their favorite, now more than comfortable chairs. They are all dressed in black. Hypodermic needles lie on the floor at their feet, next to cups half-filled with water, next to burnt tinfoil, and next to ashtrays with real cigarette-ends in them. The little alarm clock in the corner flickers from: 01:59 to 02:00.

Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep…

Smurf leans over and slides his ashtray towards it. It’s a perfect shot as doups and ash scatter everywhere. The incessant noise stops. They immediately start cooking up. They both hit up. Mockey pulls on a pair of black gloves. They both leave for their destination: number four Dalvait Road: one of the little houses just behind St Kessocks’ primary school.

Mockey and Smurf walk by the residence scoping it out for any weakness that would give them easy and quick access. Three windows are spotted, two big ones, and a little one at the top, which has been left open just ever so slightly.

‘That’s all we need,’ says Smurf, rubbing his hands together.

‘I don’t know, man…,’ replies Mockey. ‘This feels bad.’

‘Don’t bottle it now. We’ve been over this for the past two hours. If we can just get her unconscious or even a pic of her sleeping. We can go to Fredo with the photo, and he’ll give us the money. At the very least it’ll put us in the same room with him and the cash. But we have to be quick and we’re here now.’

‘I know.’

‘The little window is open; did you see it?’

‘I seen it.’

‘Well, it’s your turn to go first. I went first last time.’

‘This is different.’

‘Is it, how?’ How’s it different?’

‘Okay, fuck’s sake, let’s get it done,’ Mockey replies, turning around, and back towards the target.

Mockey jogs towards the house and smurf follows at his back, the former puts both hands on the window-ledge and pushes himself up. He gets his right foot on the ledge. Smurf pushes Mockey’s bum, moving him closer to the open window. He grabs the inside of it and flips the latch. He opens it full and gets his head and both arms in. He flips the latch of the bigger window to his right at the bottom and pushes it open. He pulls himself back out and takes a sidestep. He goes through the opening. He’s in the house. He ducks under a net curtain. And jumps onto the floor in the pitch darkness of the livingroom. Smurf follows, cautiously, and quietly.

‘AIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEE,’ comes a loud scream.

A white-goony comes running out of a room and starts thumping Mockey over the head with a small bat.

Bump.

‘Ahhhh.’

Bump.

‘Ahhhh’

bump.

‘Ahhhh.’

Smurf catches a glimpse of the white-goony’s face, from a drip of light shining through a gap in the curtains. He throws a hefty right hook. His bare fist connects perfectly.

Crack.

The white-goony drops to the floor without so much as a whimper. Mockey flicks the light on.

‘Fuck! You just knocked out an old woman! Cries Mockey, sort of loud but in a silent kind of a way.

‘She was thumping you over the head with a bat, and the cow’s still breathing!’ he says, taking out his lock-back knife.

He opens the blade.

‘WOAH!’ Mockey shouts, getting in between him and her.

‘Look, Mockey. Let’s just get the job done.’

‘Naw, fuck that! I’m phoning an ambulance.’

‘Step aside or I’ll put this blade through you.’

‘You’re gonna have to. Cause if you kill her and you don’t kill me. I’ll stand up in the high court and grass you right up.’

‘What about no grassing?’

‘Mate. Let’s just take the picture. We’ll go back to Fredo and get the money. By the time the cunt finds out the truth, we’ll be well away. It’s easy. Just like we spoke about. Even get us in the same room and that. Imagine going to fucking jail for this?’

‘You’re fucking weak,’ says Smurf, shaking his head. ‘If this fucks up. I’ll be dealing with you.’

‘Right, cool. Put the steel away and give me the Polaroid.’

‘Here, ya fuckin dafty,’ says Smurf, handing him the camera.

‘Now jump out that window and wait outside,’ asserts Mockey.

‘What?’

‘Outside.’

Smurf gives him a glare, then makes his way to the open window, and pushes past the net curtains. Mockey takes a picture of the elderly lady lying down on the floor, staring at the ceiling. Her nose is broken but she looks comfortable, sleeping peacefully, on a background of a fluffy blue carpet. He follows the short route his accomplice just made, but only sticks his head out. He hands Smurf the photograph.

‘I’m just gonna grab some milk and teabags. Maybe have a look for credit cards and stuff.’

‘Whatever. Just hurry. I’ll wait up at the top of the road.’

‘Cool,’ he replies, disappearing back in.

Mockey goes to the kitchen drawer and stuffs a few boxes of pills in his pockets. He gets a little blue bag and puts the camera in it, then some teabags, and a jar of coffee. The milk’s open so he takes a quick slug and leaves it be. He sees the phone. He dials 999.

Bree, bree.

‘Hello,’ says a women’s voice. ‘Which service do you require? Police, ambulance, or fire brigade?’

‘Ambulance — please hurry. It’s my nan. I think she’s had a heart attack.’

‘What’s your name and where are you?’

‘My name’s Alfred Robinson. I’m at four Dalvait Road in Balloch. Please come quick.’

‘Can you just stay on the line?’

Mockey hangs up.

He jumps out the window and goes to hook up with his accomplice, before heading for Fredo’s house; in the housing scheme known as Haldane.

They stand outside Fredo’s house in Woodburn Avenue. They stare at the nice-looking red curtains. Through a small gap they can see a burgundy lampshade allowing just enough light out to light up what looks like a warm and comfortable Livingroom. The lads look at each other. Smurf walks up the path. Mockey follows him.

Chap, chap.

Fredo opens the door.

‘What happened?’ He asks.

‘Job’s done, mate,’ replies Smurf.

‘Just give us the money and we’ll be on our way,’ adds Mockey.

‘Not so fast,’ replies Fredo. ‘Yous got the photograph?’

‘Aye,’ says Smurf.

‘Come in then. This is a cause for celebration.’

Smurf walks right into the house. Mockey follows but waits at the livingroom door as Fredo comes up the hallway.

‘Have you got tinfoil, mate? And I’m choking for a cuppa,’ says Mockey.

Fredo’s keen to see the picture and doesn’t want them both together in the same room without him. He points to the kitchen.

‘Aye, mate, it’s all in there, you’ll see it. I’m not into smack, but there’s foil in the cupboard above the kettle.’

‘Surely you’ll have a wee burn with us?’ Mockey asks. ‘Celebration and that, aye?’

‘Fuck it, okay then. Make us a coffee.’

‘I’m gonna have tea,’ says Mockey.

Fredo shrugs and goes into the livingroom. Mockey heads for the kitchen.

‘HURRY UP WITH THAT TINFOIL, YA WEE PRICK,’ Smurf shouts, his harsh order falling directly onto Mockey’s ears.

He grabs the foil from the cupboard and walks through to the livingroom. He drops it on the little table that sits in the middle of the sofa and two comfy chairs. Smurf sets to work right away, making trays and tooters for smoking the heroin off. Fredo is smiling at the picture of his Gran. Mockey goes back in, feeling like a tea-boy, and a little bit worried about leaving the others talking but there’s no other choice. He fills the kettle and boils it. He makes one cup of tea for himself. He pours the water back out and refills it again for the others. He rummages in his pockets while they talk and laugh in the livingroom.

‘Whistle while you work, whistle while you work,’ he sings almost silently under his breath.

He holds the switch down, his gloved thumb forcing the kitchen appliance to work twice as hard. It bubbles fiercely as steam pours from its nozzle. He releases the switch. He makes two cups of coffee — and carries them all through.

Smurf is showing Fredo how to smoke smack. Mockey sets the cups down.

‘I hope yous both like milky with sugar?’ Says Mockey.

‘You’ll make someone a decent wife one day,’ laughs Smurf.

‘I thought he was already your wife,’ laughs Fredo.

‘He’s not too bad for an afterthought,’ replies smurf.

Mockey sits down and starts drinking his tea. He has a quick burn while the others drink their coffee.

‘What about the money,’ Smurf asks. ‘You’ve seen the photograph.’

‘It looks good, but I’m her next of kin. Will yous wait here until I get conformation? Her friend drops in on her every morning — without fail.’

‘All night? Smurf asks with a hint of protest.

‘Aye, all night,’ Fredo reiterates.

Mockey gives Smurf a quick glance with a wink, ‘Aye that’s no probs,’ he tells Fredo.

Smurf smiles. Fredo eyes the two of them, feeling confident, he shrugs his shoulders, gets up and walks out of the livingroom. He comes back in with the black, white, and red Fila bag. He drops it on the table. He opens it and pulls a kitchen-devil-knife from it. The others watch suspiciously. He sits back down and sits the blade on the arm of his chair.

‘More insurance,’ he laughs, his relaxed demeanor telling the others he won’t strike the first blow. ‘It’s all there, count it.’

Smurf tips the contents of the FILA bag out, rolls of notes and the recording device land on the table. He grabs the money and sits back in his seat and instantly starts counting. Mockey watches him with a fervent lust, never having seen so much cash. All three chase the dragon and revel in their victory, talking themselves up for half an hour or so. Fredo and Smurf’s speech patterns are becoming more slurred as time ticks on. They finally drift off to sleep.

Mockey runs a few more lines and sits the paraphernalia down on the table in front of him.

‘Are yous two enjoying the smack, valium, and temazepam? You were right, Fredo. Your Granny had a fucking drawer full, mate! I was wee bit worried they wouldn’t dissolve in the kettle. But they did, didn’t they? And recording the deal, masterstroke, mate. Almost fucking had me there.’

He watches them both as they sleep peacefully. He reaches for the recording device. He hits rewind. he plays it…

‘I Alfred Robinson am entering into a deal where I will pay thirty thousand pounds to the after mentioned, to kill my granny, Phyllis Jones Bagwhistle, by whatever means necessary. State your name and agree.’

‘I’m Smurf. Sorry. I’m Craig Smith — agree.’

Mockey hits stop. He sits back in his chair respecting the fact that none of them are snorers and amazed at the silence. He hits record — and lets it go for a minute or so, just to be sure. He presses stop and sits the device back on the table. He goes to the telephone that sits on a wall unit. His gloved finger dials 999.

‘Hello,’ says a female voice. Which service do you require? Police, ambulance, or fire brigade?’

‘I don’t know, pal. Whatever ones you feel are called for.’

‘Pardon?’

‘I’ll tell you what it is.’

‘Okay.’

‘My name’s Alfred Robinson. I phoned earlier saying my granny had a heart attack. She did not. I tried to kill the old bitch.’

‘Excuse me, sir?’

‘Yes, you heard. I tried to kill her. You have my number. I’ll leave the receiver off so you can trace the line or whatever it is that you guys do. I have my lover with me, he was in on it as well. We’re going to kill ourselves now. Cheery-bye,’ he says, sitting the receiver down and blanking the repeated calls of her soft voice.

He walks over to Smurf and grabs the Fila bag. he takes both photographs with his fingerprints on them. He throws the money in and zips it up. He addresses his sleeping former friend.

‘We had rules, mate. No dressing up as Wee Bo-Peep. No hurting old cunts or kids. No grassing. You broke one rule. I broke another. This makes us even. It’s a cruel world and you have to take your chances when they come — your words not mine.’

Mockey props the black, white, and red Fila bag over one shoulder. He leaves the house — and fades into the night.