Harry Oldham is writing a novel based on his criminal and sordid past. To do so, he has returned to live at Park Hill, where he grew up, and the place that he once left behind. That was then and this is now, in which the old world collides with the new.(Parts 1 to 14 are available to read in the menu)
Part 15
July 1982
My date with Louise was a disaster.
An Officer and a Gentleman had sold out, and we watched Porky’s instead. She wasn’t impressed, complaining about the hoots and whistles from the audience that greeted each unruly scene.
Louise had a cold, and sniffed her way through the film, and I was in a lousy mood. We didn’t say much to each other, and I tried to make up for the silence by holding her hand.
My heart wasn’t in it, and I didn’t know what I would rather have been doing, but it wasn’t being with the girl that everyone on Park Hill fancied.
I kept thinking about the conversation I’d had with Paolo in the Brown Bear. Nobody had spoken to me like that before, and certainly hadn’t made me question myself.
As I sat in that dark cinema, I thought about Paolo a lot. If I could have chosen where I wanted to be, it might have been with him, and that concerned me.
I tried to kiss Louise, but she pulled away, and when I tried to put my arm over her shoulder, she elbowed me in the ribs. There was a ripple of laughter from behind; somebody was taking the piss. I turned around and there was a nerdy kid smirking at me. I reached over, grabbed him by the shirt until the buttons popped off, and headbutted him on the nose. That was when Louise got up to leave.
When we got back to her flat, Jack was laid on the settee watching the World Cup on TV.
Louise went to her bedroom without saying anything, and that meant that I was unpopular. Jack shunted along the settee and made room for me to sit down. “I take it that your big date didn’t go well.”
Jack was wearing only a pair of black football shorts, and I saw how athletic his body was. He sat with his knees bent, his smooth legs covered in cuts and bruises that he’d got on the football pitch, and for the first time, I noticed how tiny his feet were. These little feet could tickle a football better than anyone.
He pressed his toes into my thigh, and massaged the top of my leg, and I kind of liked it.
“You’re acting like a bum-bandit.” Jack ignored me and didn’t stop.
He looked serious. “The coppers have been around to check that I hadn’t done a runner. They went to see Andy too, but he was out, and that made them freak out a bit. They found him at the shops.”
“What did they say?”
He flashed his famous cheeky smile. “They said that if the Falklands War hadn’t already ended, they’d have sent me to fight the Argentines. That’s what should happen to all bad lads.”
I thought that Jack would make a good soldier one day. He was brave, quick witted, and always eager to please, and joining the army might get him away from here.
“Something’s up Harry, because you’ve been acting strange.”
“Yeah, I guess there is.”
“You can talk to me if you want.”
I desperately wanted to tell Jack everything, about Frank Smith, Paolo and the bad guys who took advantage of me. I looked helplessly at him and could see that he cared and wanted to help. I couldn’t fight back that feeling of love – brotherly love – for someone I’d known most of my life, but there was something else too.
“I’m in trouble Jack and I don’t know what to do about it. And I can’t tell you anything, because if I did, I’m afraid that I’d lose you, and that’s something I couldn’t cope with.”
Jack rubbed his toes harder against my leg. “You’d never lose me. No matter how bad it is. We’re mates, and mates stick together… like we’ve always done.”
Back home, there was an envelope with my name on it that had been pushed through the letterbox. There was a note inside telling me to ring a telephone number.
My parents were in bed, and I had to talk quietly while I made the call in the hallway.
“It’s Harry. What do you want?”
“Harry. Good of you to call. Your next job awaits you.”
Harry Oldham is writing a novel based on his criminal and sordid past. To do so, he has returned to live at Park Hill, where he grew up, and the place that he once left behind. That was then and this is now, in which the old world collides with the new.(Parts 1 to 11 are available to read in the menu)
Part 12
July 1982
Two days after we robbed the newsagent, the police arrested Andy and Jack. I saw them arrive while I was standing on the balcony. They came in numbers, and I waited for them to come to our door, but they didn’t. They found the stolen cigarettes under Andy’s bed and then they were bundling Andy and Jack into the back of police cars.
“With reputation comes recognition,” said Frank Smith. “No sooner had you done the place over, there were people queuing up to tell us who’d done it.”
Frank had collared me outside the flats a couple of hours after the lads had been carted off to West Bar nick.
“That poor woman,” he said. “She had ten stitches in the back of her head. I hope you’re all proud of that. But I can see that she fucked your pretty face up.” He pointed to the scar on my face.
“That wasn’t meant to happen, but she wouldn’t do as she was told.”
“And now, your mates have been locked up.”
Frank lit a cigarette and leaned against the lamppost. He was in a shirt and tie, and for once he looked like a copper. I stood with my hands in my pockets and felt like shit.
“The question you must ask yourself,” he continued, “is why you’ve not been locked up as well?”
“Fuck you! Is that why you’re here? Have you come to arrest me too?”
“No Harry. I’m here to tell you that you owe me one.”
I didn’t grasp what he was saying.
“How come?”
“You’re not going to be any use to me behind bars, are you? Let’s say that I had a word in someone’s ear and you’re off the hook.”
“And how will I explain that to Andy and Jack?”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something, but more importantly I want you to tell me what happened afterwards.” He looked serious. “I want every detail. I want names. I want to know what those perverts did to you.”
He flipped open a notebook and stood poised with his pen. I couldn’t tell him because I was too embarrassed to say.
“When you’re ready,” he said impatiently. “I’ve already seen your Italian friend and after putting on the waterworks he blabbed. Now unless you’re going to cry like a baby as well, I suggest you tell me. Oh, by the way, our little eyetie has a thing about you.”
I told Frank every terrible detail, each name that I remembered, every minute that had passed in that posh house, and I noticed that he didn’t flinch once.
“Keep up the good work,” he said after I’d spilled my guts. He winked. “Not nice, and it will get a lot worse.”
He got in his car and wound the window down. “Watch your back. I hear that Billy Mason’s pissed off that you hurt his girl. He’s not a nice man. He’ll chop your balls off, and let’s face it if anyone needs their balls, it’s you.”
“I hate you. Why are you making me do this?”
“I nearly forgot,” he said, and fumbled amongst the shit that was on the passenger seat. “Paolo wants you to ring him.” He passed me a slip of paper that had a telephone number scrawled on it.
Andy and Jack were released on bail that night. Pending further enquiries, the police had said, but they knew they had them bang to rights.
I nicked a bottle of White Horse from the off-licence and shared it with them in the precinct. I wasn’t afraid of being caught because for the time being I might escape anything.
“How the fuck have you got away with it?” Andy asked.
“I’ve no idea,” I said. “You didn’t grass me up, did you?”
“No mate,” confirmed Jack. “But we’re in big trouble.”
“They’ll know I was involved,” I lied.
“It looks like someone’s looking out for you, Harry. They said that they weren’t looking for anyone else. The woman said there were only two of us involved. You’re a lucky bastard.”
“I feel bad lads. What will happen to you both?”
“Fuck knows. They didn’t say.”
I thought about telling Frank that I wouldn’t play his little game unless he got the charges dropped against them. I knew this was futile because Frank would have to answer to somebody above him.
“My sister reckons that you promised to take her to the pictures,” said Jack. “Is that right? I can’t believe that you want to go out with her.”
Andy looked at me with suspicion. “Fuck Harry! What did I say? Never mess with a mate’s sister.”
I saw that look in his eyes and realised that he was jealous.
“I’ll ring her tomorrow,” I replied, happy that I’d got one over him, but also annoyed that I was stepping into something I wasn’t entirely comfortable with.
Then I remembered that screwed up piece of paper in my pocket.
“I have to make a phone call.”
“Who are you ringing? Jack demanded. “You’d better not be two-timing Louise.”
“As if I would. I need to speak to a man about a dog.”
“We’re losing you Harry. You’re acting fucking weird.”
I went to the phone box on the corner and found that it had been trashed, so I walked down the hill to the next one. I dialled the number and dropped coins into it when it was answered at the other end.
“Can I speak to Paolo?”
“It is me.”
“What do you want?”
“I wanted to talk to you. I would like to see you… before…”
Harry Oldham is writing a novel based on his criminal and sordid past. To do so, he has returned to live at Park Hill, where he grew up, and the place that he once left behind. That was then and this is now, in which the old world collides with the new. (Parts 1-9 are available to read in the menu)
Part 10
July 2023 Meghan, my agent, had said that I had to send each chapter as they were completed. That way she knew that I was writing and might still make the deadline for completion.
She was understandably nervous when she rang after reading the latest instalment.
“Is all this true, Harry?”
“Every word of it,” I told her.
“Are we going to have to run it by the lawyers before it’s published?”
“That’s up to you,” I said, “but I’m writing it because it’s what you asked for.”
“It’s good,” she said. “It’s bloody good, but I’m not sure I like where this is going?”
“That’s for you to find out.”
“And there’s a danger that they might not publish it.”
July 1982 Stupid woman. If she hadn’t been the obstinate type, things might have gone smoothly. But no, she had to be a brassy bitch, and things went tits up.
We looked conspicuous as we walked from Park Hill. It was a busy Thursday morning, and everyone looked at us as if to say, “they’re up to no good,” and they were right.
Andy had identified a newsagent near the market, and he reckoned that it would be an easy place to steal cigarettes.
“We wait until it’s empty, and then we go straight in. Jack, you stand at the door and don’t let anybody in. I’ll shout and scream to frighten her. Harry, you empty the fags into the bag. Quick as you can. As soon as I say, we leave and head back to mine. Got it?”
We nodded in agreement, but I had misgivings. We normally operated under cover of darkness when there was nobody around, but this was different because there were too many people who might recognise us.
“Trust you to pick the busiest shop,” Jack berated. “We’ll be waiting all day for it to be empty.”
“Shut up, Jack. We’ve got to be patient. There’s only one woman serving so that makes our job easier.”
We waited in the shelter of a doorway outside Castle Market and at last plucked up courage to go for it. We wrapped scarves around our faces until only our eyes could be seen. Then we dashed across the road and entered the shop.
A bell rang as the door opened, and the woman behind the counter looked up. She was our mothers’ age, a bit of a looker, with auburn hair, and dolled up with Avon make-up. I saw her eyes, hard, and uncaring, and they narrowed as we stormed in.
“Fuck me, we’re being robbed by the Boys Brigade! If you’ve come for your comics, they’re not here. Now get the fuck out,”
Jack jammed his foot behind the door to stop anybody coming in.
Andy screamed. “Shut the fuck up! Don’t do or say anything and you’ll not get hurt. Now come out from behind the counter.”
We expected her to burst into tears, or faint, or something like that, but she didn’t. She just stood there and didn’t seem at all frightened.
“Step any nearer and you’ll have Billy Mason after you.”
“Who the fuck’s Billy Mason?” Jack cried.
I knew who Billy Mason was. He was a tough guy from Gleadless Valley, and I’d heard stories about his method of handing out punishment. Billy Mason would ensure that we all had broken arms and legs.
I went behind the counter with the bag and pushed her out of the way. I didn’t expect her to pull the scarf away and neither did I expect her to gouge her long fingernails into my face. She looked into my eyes, daring me, and I knew that she would recognise me again. I felt blood trickling down my left cheek, and all I could think about was Billy Mason.
The next thing I knew, Andy had smashed a full bottle of R Whites lemonade across the back of her head, and she slumped to the floor. The bottle shattered, and its contents mixed with the blood from her cuts.
I opened the bag and scooped cigarette packets into it, most ending up on the floor, and I realised that the bag wasn’t big enough. I tried to zip it up, but it was too full, and had trouble holding the two handles together.
“Let’s go!” Andy cried. “Walk out as if nothing happened and then split up.”
And that’s what we did.
Andy and Jack walked in opposite directions while I headed down to Sheaf Roundabout with the open bag of fags that everybody could see. I tried sprinting but they spilled onto the pavement, and I had to stop to pick them up. All the time I looked nervously behind me, expecting to see somebody running, but there was no one.
The story so far.Harry Oldham is attempting to write about his distant past at Park Hill. With a deadline looming, he sets to work writing about his shady past. He recalls his dealings with a bent copper, his violent days with the Geisha Boys, and a friendship with Paolo, an Italian boy, who is caught up in Harry’s nightmare. (Parts 1-8 are available to readin the menu)
Part 9
I had to thank Tom for getting me back on track. That meeting near the station opened the floodgates, and I needed a bucket to catch everything in.
I told him about the night I’d met Paolo which was something I’d never told anyone before. Not even Andy and Jack, who had meant more to me than anything.
“It’s strange that you bottle everything up,” I’d told him.
We’d sat talking for nearly an hour, two strangers, years apart in age, and with nothing in common.
“You came looking for me?”
“Yeah, I followed you because I wanted to know what you were doing in Sheffield and find out about you.”
“I’m here to write the book that will make me popular again.”
“Do you think that people are really interested in your life story?”
“Probably not, but it’s not about me because it’s a work of fiction.”
“I need to go,” he’d said, “but…”
“But what?”
“I wondered whether I could see you again. Just for a chat like…”
“How old are you?”
“Eighteen.”
It had been a long time since someone so young had shown interest in me, and I was flattered. I gave him my number.
“Next time, bring your girlfriend with you.”
I went back to the apartment, opened the laptop, and started writing.
*****
We were on our own with only the city skyline showing that there was life in the city. Headlights darted below and sirens wailed in the dark. Paolo sat on the bench and said nothing. I paced up and down angrily.
“What the fuck was all that about?”
“I thought you’d have guessed by now,” said Paolo in an unmistakable Italian accent, “and I’m sorry.” He sniffed as though he’d been crying.
“What are you sorry for?”
“For kissing you. For everything. It seems that I’ve dragged you into all this.”
“It’s that fucking Frank Smith. I’m not doing anything to help him. I’ll slit his throat.”
“Will you? Really? I don’t think so. Frank has us both in his grips. I’m a puff, and he’ll make out that you are too.”
“What do you mean?”
Paolo looked at me with sorrowful eyes.
“He’ll make you do anything he wants, and he’ll use that photograph to make sure that you do.”
I’d already forgotten about that sneaky photo, and the thought of it made me feel sick.
“What does he want us to do?”
“He’s going to use us. We’re the bait to get rid of people.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“Think about it. We’re the fresh meat that will bring them down.”
“I’m not a fucking queer,” I said.
“That’s not the issue. It doesn’t matter whether you are or not. Frank Smith will make out that you are, and shit sticks.”
“What will I have to do?”
“That’s for you to find out, but I’ve got a good idea.”
I was nervous and out of my depth. That fight in town seemed a long time ago, and I really needed Andy and Jack at my side.
“What has he got on you, Paolo?”
“I’m a bender, that’s what. He caught me with a guy and said he’d make good use of what he saw. He made good that promise.”
“Tell him to fuck off.”
“He’s not a man to be reasoned with. If I don’t do what he says, then he’ll tell my parents and they’ll disown me.”
“But he’s a copper. He can’t do what he’s doing.”
“How are you going to stop him? He’s a nutter, and like he said, plays dirty.”
Paolo wrapped his arms around himself to keep warm. I thought about the walk home to Park Hill and hoped that the guys would be waiting for me.
“I’m sorry for kissing you,” Paolo said.
“Not like you had a choice.”
“Well, I’m sorry because I know you didn’t like it.”
“You don’t know what the fuck I like!” I snapped and immediately regretted it.
“Does that mean that you liked it?”
“Of course, it doesn’t. I just meant that you don’t know anything about me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“If you say sorry once more, I’m going to…”
“Kiss me?”
“No, I’ll smack you in the face.”
“I’m sorry.”
I punched him hard, and blood poured from his nose. He used his hands to stem the flow and tears welled in his eyes.
I was used to hitting people without having regrets, but this time I felt incredibly sorry for what I’d done. He had frightened but beautiful dark eyes that were locked on my face. I let him go, and he shivered in the cold.
I took my tee-shirt off and held it to his nose. He was scared and vulnerable and I’d made his situation worse. He held the shirt to his face, like he was trying to get the smell of it.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that. I’m angry, and I took it out on you.”
I could see that he was looking at my bare chest.
“You have a nice body, Harry.”
“Fuck, Paolo. Don’t you ever stop?”
“Tell me something. What did it feel like to kiss a boy?”
I laughed, not because the question was funny, but because I was nervous.
“To be honest, it felt strange. I’ve never done it before. I guess that if I had to, then I’m glad it had to be with you.”
“That’s kind of you.”
I sat beside him and could feel him trembling. Blood stained the front of his shirt, and his curly hair was dishevelled.
“I’ve only kissed girls,” I said, “and I suppose there’s not a lot of difference.”
“You have blood on your face too,” he said. “Have you been fighting?”
“Yeah, we have. The boys that is.”
“Who are the boys?”
“Andy and Jack. They’re my best friends.”
“Were they the boys that got chased away?”
“That’s right. Some help they turned out to be.”
“I don’t have any friends,” he said.
“Fuck, Paolo. How come you don’t have any friends?”
“Because they know I’m queer and think I fancy them, even when I don’t.”
“You’re cold. Where do you live?”
“Hillsborough.”
“How are you going to get home?”
“For a rough boy, you have a caring side.”
“Don’t think that I’m like this all the time.”
“Can I ask you a favour?”
“If you want money for a taxi, then you’re out of luck because I’m broke.”
“It’s not that. I was going to ask you to hold me.”
What the fuck? This wasn’t doing my reputation any good. But he was afraid, and I felt deeply sorry for hitting him. I put my arm across his shoulder, and he rested his head against it.
“I hope that nobody sees me,” I said.
“Things are going to get messy, and we’ll need to stick together. I hope that you’ll be my friend.”
“If you like,” I said. “But tell nobody!”
“I think that you have a feminine side, Harry.”
*****
The Clash / Rock the Casbah / 1982
Paolo had insisted that he walk home, and I watched his slender frame disappear down the hill, convinced that he had no idea where he was going.
I put my blood-stained shirt across my shoulders and walked towards Park Hill, the cold air hitting my bare chest, but I wanted to look hard and threatening. A dog walker stared. “What the fuck are you looking at?” He skulked into the shadows where there were rats, broken glass, and glue-impregnated carrier bags.
I hated myself.
I had hit a defenceless kid who hadn’t deserved it, but it was the thought of kissing a guy for the first time that alarmed me most. I had meant it when I told Paolo that I was glad it was him, and that was what concerned me most.
I should have told him that I was disgusted and would never do it again, but I didn’t want to upset him anymore than I already had. If I was honest, I didn’t trust myself not to kiss another guy, and if I was going to, which according to Frank Smith was inevitable, I hoped that it would be like kissing Paolo.
Andy and Jack were sitting on the steps when I turned the corner. They were tired and concerned, also covered in dry blood.
“Where the fuck have you been?”
“Thanks for nothing,” I said, “so much for mates helping one another out.”
“That guy was a bastard,” said Jack, “he’d have beaten the shit out of us.”
”Who were they?” Andy eyed me with suspicion, and flinched, holding his side where there was a tear in his dirty shirt.
I had to think quickly. “Somebody we’ve upset,” I lied, “they wanted to teach us a lesson, but it’s sorted now. I guess I was the unlucky one.”
“What did we do to them?”
“Remember those nicked fags? They’re pissed off because they sell cheap fags too, but I told them that they’d all gone.”
“They came on a bit heavy,” said Jack, throwing an empty beer bottle that smashed against the wall. “Shit! There were three of us and only two of them. We should have helped Harry.”
“Fuck! Don’t you think I don’t know that.”
Andy put his arms around me and rested his head on my shoulder. “I’m sorry mate, we let you down, and if we see those bastards again, we’ll kick the shit out of them.” He held me tight, and I brushed my cheek against his unkempt hair.
“Stop acting like a queer,” I told him, and he laughed. He let go, put his arm around my waist, and squeezed. I liked the attention, and the fact that they believed I’d taken one for the team.
“That was a fucking good fight in town.”
“The coppers have been cruising the area,” said Jack, “we’ve been lying low.”
“That cunt won’t mess with us again,” I quipped.
“We look like shit, let’s go up to mine.”
Jack’s parents were away for the weekend, but it turned out that he’d lost his door key, probably on the floor of Crazy Daisy. He knocked loudly and the door was answered by his sister, Louise. “What shit have you been up to now?”
“You should’ve seen the other guy,” Andy joked.
The flat was warm and smelt of fish and chips, the remains of which were on the kitchen table.
“We’re going to get cleaned up,” said Jack.
Louise looked at me. “Look at you. Showing all your body off!” I offered the bloody tee-shirt as way of an explanation. Jack took Andy to the bathroom, but she held me by the arm. “Let me sort you out.”
She ran a hand towel under hot water and rubbed me down. “Cat got your tongue?” I didn’t know what to say as she wiped my face like my mother used to.
“We had a fight in town.”
“If you ask me, you all want locking up.”
Jack shouted from the bathroom. “Are you coming?”
Everybody fancied Louise. She wasn’t bad looking and was one of the few people that I felt awkward around.
“Thank you,” I said. “I think I’m wanted.”
“Before you go. Aren’t you going to ask me out?”
“What?”
“You’re a div Harry.”
“Are you asking me to go out with you?”
“If I waited for you to ask, then we wouldn’t get anywhere.”
“I don’t know. Yes, I suppose. Where do you want to go?”
“You’re too young for the pub, so you can take me to the pictures instead.”
“What do you want to see?”
“I want to see An Officer and a Gentleman.”
“Fuck me,” I said, “Isn’t that a girlie film?”
“Are you bailing on me already?”
“No, it’s fine. I’m not telling Jack and Andy because they’ll take the piss.”
“Get in touch with your feminine side Harry Oldham, you might find that you like it.”
I froze. It was the second time that this had been said to me tonight. It felt like Louise knew about my kiss with Paolo and that two separate worlds were about to crash into each other.
I started to leave but Louise pulled me back again.
“Are you forgetting something?”
“What?”
“A kiss maybe? For making you look handsome again.”
I stuck my tongue in her mouth, and we kissed for a few minutes. It was sloppy and tasted of vinegar. I thought I’d better put my arms around her, and she wrapped her own arms around my naked back. I could feel her sharp fingernails making circles against my flesh.
I tried to compare it to the kiss I’d had with Paolo, and hoped that it would be better, but I was mindful that this had also been forced upon me. I imagined what people would say when they discovered that I was going out with her. The lads on Park Hill would be envious, and that gave me satisfaction, but at the same time I felt uneasy.
The boys were sitting on Jack’s bed when I entered the bedroom. It wasn’t a place I’d seen very often, and I was intrigued.
It looked like any other teenage boys’ room, with posters of Kevin Keegan, Steve Coppell, and Trevor Francis, posted alongside one of Michelle Pfeiffer, and a topless blonde with big tits, who’d been torn out of The Sun.
It was untidy, with Jack’s clothes strewn across the floor, and his bed was still unmade from the previous night. Football trophies sat on top of a cheap dressing table, and I noticed his dirty football kit piled on a chair in the corner.
They were listening to Radio Hallam and were singing along to Rock the Casbah that had become a favourite. They looked almost presentable, whereas I was still stripped to the waist and feeling conspicuous. Jack didn’t object when I grabbed one of his soiled Adidas tops and put it on. It was far too small, and smelt of him, but I didn’t care.
Andy reached under the bed and pulled out several cans of Long Life beer that Jack kept stashed. We opened them believing that warm beer was the best thing in the world.
“I got that guy in the head,” Andy boasted. “He’ll be feeling that punch for a while.”
“We need to lie low,” Jack chipped in, “the coppers know it was us.”
“They can’t get us here,” I said.
“You said those guys sold cigarettes?” Andy had returned to the subject of my eventful night.
“Yeah, they were pissed off, but like I said, I told them that they’d all gone.”
“I know where we can get some more,” Andy continued.
“Where?”
“There’s a shop near the market that sells loads of ciggies, and I reckon we could rob some from there.”
“I told them that we wouldn’t be selling any more.”
Jack slurped from his can. “How do you suggest we get them?”
“I’ve been thinking about it,” Andy contemplated, “and I reckon that if three of us went in there when it was quiet, then we could take them.”
“But they’re going to see us.”
“Of course they’re going to see us,” said Andy, “but there’s only a woman working behind the counter, and she isn’t going to stop three lads, is she?”
You’re talking about holding it up?”
“Why not? All we need to do is cover our faces so that nobody recognises us, steal the fags, and disappear into the market where it’s crowded.”
“Fuck me!” I cried. “This is a whole new ball game.”
“I’m not sure,” said Jack. “What happens if we get caught?”
“We’re only sixteen and will get away with it,” Andy reassured us, “but who says we’re going to get caught?”
“I don’t know. Stealing a cigarette machine is one thing, but holding up a woman in a shop is something else.”
“Are you getting chicken, Harry?”
“No,” I said defiantly, “but what if she gets hurt?”
“Nobody’s going to get hurt. We’ll walk in, tell her not to be stupid, and steal the fags.”
“Like they do in films?” asked Jack.
“If you like, but with loads of fags to sell, we’re going to make lots of money, and Harry’s weird friends can get fucked.”
I looked at Jack but didn’t say anything else.
“That’s agreed then,” said Andy. “Leave everything to me and we’ll sort something for next week.”
“Make sure it’s not Wednesday,” Jack said, “because I have football in the afternoon.”
When the beer had gone, Jack nicked a bottle of sherry from the sideboard, and passed the bottle around. It had been an eventful night, and we were brave and pleasantly drunk by the time we were ready to leave.
On the way out, Louise appeared from her bedroom and gave me a scheming look. I said goodnight to her, but Andy had noticed something, and outside issued a word of warning.
“Never mess with a mate’s sister.”
*****
On Wednesday I went to the newsagents in the precinct to buy a can of Coke and nicked a Mars Bar at the same time. On the way out, I was stopped by a man who I thought worked in the shop. I clenched my fist ready to hit him, but he held up an apologetic arm anticipating what I was going to do.
“Harry Oldham?” he asked.
“Who’s asking?”
“I’d like a little chat.”
The man didn’t live around here because he was too well-dressed for Park Hill. He took me by the arm and led me to a wall near the flower beds.
“I understand that you’re working for us.”
“What?”
“Don’t bullshit me, Harry.”
“I don’t know what you’re on about.”
“Of course, you do.”
He sat me down and held out two envelopes, one in each hand.
“Envelope number one,” and he held it up for me to see. “This contains the details of your first job. Tomorrow as it happens. The address is in there, and you’ll need to be there for nine.”
“Fuck off!”
“Envelope number two,” and he put it inside his coat pocket. “This contains a photograph that will interest a lot of people around here. Do you want to know what the photograph is?”
I already knew what it was.
“If you don’t turn up tomorrow night, then this will be seen by everyone that knows you, and they’ll know that you’re a fucking faggot.”
The man gave me the first envelope and began to walk away. I stared at it not wanting to know what might be inside.
“Oh, by the way,” he said stopping, “there’s also fifty quid in there, money up front as they say.”
“Fifty quid?”
“And don’t even think about pocketing it and not turning up because that photo will still appear, and you’ll also end up at the bottom of the canal. Do you understand?”
I nodded.
I thought about the next day when I was going to rob a newsagent with Andy and Jack whilst also joining a world that looked dark and sinister. I wanted to talk to the boys, and ask for their help, but I knew that I couldn’t, and would never be able to. I didn’t sleep at all that night.
Charlie is in Barcelona for the week. He messaged to say that he’d been on the beach, but it was colder than he’d expected. He made no mention of what he’d been doing at night, but described a black eye he was nursing without saying how he’d got it. Levi said that Charlie was either shagging or was lovesick for him.
The apartment seemed quiet without him, and I kept looking at the unfinished paintings scattered across the floor.
On Sunday night, Levi, the Polish boy with the broad Yorkshire accent, suggested that we should go into town. I’d heard stories that his boisterous behaviour often leads to the unexpected, but I reluctantly agreed.
We visited bar after bar, Levi leading the way, and he knew every doorman and bartender. He was never once asked to show his ID, while I had to keep showing my driving licence to prove that I was far too old to be going into these venues.
After losing count of the number of Vodka and Cokes we’d drank, Levi suggested that we had a Tiki Fire which turned out to be a spiced rum with an eye-watering 75 per cent alcohol content. He downed his in one, while I made several attempts to swallow mine.
“Did you know that Charlie has an Instagram account?”
“Doesn’t everyone,” I replied.
“Yes, but did you know that he posts raunchy photos of himself and has about ten million followers?”
“No,” I said, and started searching for his page online. I couldn’t find it, and asked Levi to help. He couldn’t find it on my phone either.
“He’s blocked you.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Because he doesn’t want you to see it.”
I felt a little hurt at this revelation but asked myself whether I would want to see it or not. I decided that I did.
“I’ll show it to you if you want,” said Levi, and within seconds had Charlie’s page up on his iPhone.
“Hasn’t he blocked you too?”
“No. He wants me to see it because he loves me.”
I scrolled down and was shocked (and impressed) to see Charlie in various stages of undress. The manipulated backgrounds made the photos look quite arty when they had obviously been taken in the secrecy of his bedroom.
“I had no idea,” I said.
“Put your eyes away and don’t tell him that I’ve shown you.”
When I have too much to drink, I tend to get mardy, and this was one of those occasions. I wanted to message Charlie and ask him why he’d blocked me, but I remembered my golden rule of never messaging or posting anything on social media when I’m drunk.
Alcohol also makes every guy that I look at appear more desirable than they are.
The Tiki Fire had made Levi even bouncier, but I could feel every drop of it going to my head. We went to sit in a quiet corner while I chewed over Charlie’s Instagram account.
I looked at Levi and realised that he was good looking and at that moment I was in love with him. .
“One day I’ll take you to bed,” I told him.
He thought he’d misheard me and asked me to repeat what I’d said.
“I said that I like the idea of sleeping with you.”
“Oh,” was all he could say.
“Did you hear me?”
“I did,” he replied, “but we’ll have to see what happens.”
“Is that all you can say?”
“There is a problem,” he said, “and I want to stay faithful to my girlfriend.”
“You have a girlfriend?”
“Yeah, but I thought that you knew.”
“This is a night of surprises,” I said disappointed.
“Like I said, we’ll have to see.”
“I’m going outside for a cigarette.”
I got up from my seat and almost stumbled over a stool. I tried to walk towards the door in a straight line, but I was fooling no one.
After putting the cigarette in my mouth, the wrong way round, I realised that Levi had followed me.
“Are you okay? I hope I didn’t upset you.”
“Not at all,” I said. “Why would you think that you’d upset me?”
“I thought that you might have been expecting something that I can’t give you.”
“Oh my God! I was only joking with you, ” I lied, “and I’m really pleased that you have a girlfriend.”
I smiled, but it was a fake smile, and Levi’s face suggested that he didn’t believe me. Far from being my normal collected self, I’d been a fool, and left Levi feeling very uneasy.
“Let’s have another drink,” and he patted me on the cheek. That was about all I was going to get off him.
He went back inside, and I messaged Charlie.
“Did you know that Levi is straight and has a girlfriend?”
Charlie didn’t reply, but I knew that he’d be devastated when he saw the message, and that’s what I wanted.
Charlie has been nice to Levi, and he offered to take him out for the day in his Austin A35. Reverse psychology. If he’s nice to Levi, then Levi won’t tease him about having a crush on him. Levi has also been pleasant, and the other day he stood over Charlie and told him that he liked his paintings.
They are both playing mind games, and I am blissfully aware that they are using me to do it.
Whilst eating breakfast yesterday, Levi appeared in his underwear. He put his arms around me and whispered something in Polish into my ear. It sounded romantic but I don’t understand the language, and neither does Charlie, and Levi might have said anything. Charlie gave him a dirty look, and politely said, “Good morning. I hope that you slept well.”
Last night, we all stayed in and watched a movie. It was a low budget slasher film in which a teacher with a class full of unruly sixteen-year-olds finally snaps. One night, as two boys are walking home, he strikes, and drags them to a lock-up and cable-ties them to a desk. Thereafter, he gives the lesson of a lifetime, and if they get a question wrong, he drives a nail through the palms of their hands.
I shared the sofa with Charlie because Levi had occupied the chair where he would normally sit. Halfway through, Charlie stretched his legs and placed his bare feet on my lap. “Would you massage my feet please?” I was taken aback because this was out of character for him, but I obligingly rubbed and kneaded while he oohed and aahed. He’s got nice feet and moisturises them with something called Udderly Smooth that I presume is made from cows.
At that moment, the teacher used a nail gun to drive a six inch nail through one of the boy’s necks, causing lots of blood and gore to spew from his mouth.
“I find this kind of thing quite homoerotic,” Levi said.
“He is only massaging my feet,” gloated Charlie, “so there is no need to be jealous.”
“I wasn’t talking about you. I’m referring to boys covered in blood and driving nails into them.”
I went to bed and was listening to Troye Sivan on my headphones when Charlie appeared with a copy of The Hidden Michelangelo under his arm. “I’ve come to say goodnight,” he said, “and then I am going to read in my bedroom.”
I thought it was rather sweet because he’d never done this before.
Almost immediately, Levi brushed past him, and gave me a peck on the cheek.
He winked at me and squeezed Charlie’s backside as he left the room.
Charlie looked bewildered, while Troye Sivan sang, “he’s got the personality, not even gravity could ever hold him down.”
The story so far.Harry Oldham is an author who has been encouraged to return to Sheffield and write about his past. A chance meeting with a stranger called Tom brings back memories of Paolo, ‘one of the most beautiful boys I’ve ever known.’ The other Geisha Boys, Andy and Jack, take a backseat as Harry recalls the first time he met him. (Parts 1-7 are available to readin the menu)
Part 8
It was the night we became Geisha Boys. The night we ran through the streets of Sheffield, laughing, covered in someone else’s blood.
We ran towards our block and didn’t see the two guys getting out of the car. Andy and Jack ran ahead, while I was spitting blood, and out of breath.
I was grabbed from behind. I shouted to the lads, and they stopped dead in their tracks. They were my brothers, and they would help me. Except that they couldn’t. One of the guys waved a stick at them, a thick one, and warned them off.
“Keep on running you little turds. Because if you don’t, I’ll break your fucking heads.”
The boys hesitated but were powerless to help. They edged away, watching me, and disappeared up the stairs.
“Fuck! Don’t fucking leave me!”
The other guy held me tight. There was the faint aroma of Brut and petunia on him. The man with the cosh waited until Andy and Jack had disappeared and turned to me.
“Let’s get in the car.”
I was bundled into the back of a dark Vauxhall Chevette where there was somebody else. I tried the door handle to escape but it was locked and so thumped the back of the driver’s seat in frustration.
The two guys got in front. The guy with the cosh was driving. The other one, who smelt of Brut and petunia, wore a flat cap and donkey jacket and looked straight ahead.
“Good evening, Harry,” he said. “The luck we’re having tonight. Who’d have thought it? A brawl in a bar. The aggressors running towards Park Hill. We thought, it couldn’t be?”
The car moved off and the guy beside me was quiet. I caught glimpses of his black curly hair as we passed under streetlights, the orange aura highlighting his dark features.
“Harry, meet Paolo. He’s a fucking eyetie.”
We drove a short distance and pulled up on a road that looked over the city centre.
Frank Smith got out and opened the rear passenger door. “Out you get.” The lad called Paolo slid out and stretched. “You too Harry.”
He led us through a gap in a stone wall and sat us on a bench while he remained standing and looking like a council workman. The other one leant on the wall and lit a cigarette.
“Look at that view,” said Frank. “A big city with lots of people. Good ones and bad ones. We’re the good guys, but there are more bad guys than we’d like. Which side are you two on?”
Neither of us answered.
“A long time ago this city was run by bad guys. Did you know they called it Little Chicago? It was full of gangsters who thought nothing about kicking the shit out of each other. Then there were the knives and the guns. These were gang wars, the Mooneys and the Garvins, and the police couldn’t control them.
“But somebody sorted it out. Percy Sillitoe was his name. If he’d failed, then life for every respectable citizen would have been hell, but he succeeded and ended up running MI5. Clever bloke. Did you know that I read history boys?”
It was a school lesson forced upon us. We looked at each other in bewilderment and didn’t know what to say.
“Oh yes, I like history. Did you know that it gets twisted? Sanitised. Let’s look at Percy Sillitoe. Hard, focused and determined. That’s what we read today, but he was a scheming bastard, who fought fire with fire.
“I like to think I’m a bit like him. If you did everything by the book, then we’d get nowhere. In years to come, everything will be touchy feely, and I hope I’m not around because justice will side with the villains. Fucking chaos.
“Some people think I’m a bent copper. That hurts. All I want to do is suss out the shit, and the only way is to play dirty. I always get what I want.”
Frank turned to us.
“It’s a bit like the gang wars. The only way to deal with today’s bad guys is to eliminate them. One by one. Are you with me?”
“What are you on about?” Paolo had spoken for the first time. His English was excellent but there was an unmistakable accent.
“I need your help. Both of you. Paolo, fucking eyetie, with your boyish looks. Harry, the bad boy with a big flaw running right through him. Do you know what that flaw is, Harry?”
“No,” I replied.
“It’s going to slap you in the face soon.”
Paolo looked at me, a fellow victim in this charade and his eyes showed fear. I didn’t know what to do. If he had looked closely, he would have seen that I was more terrified than he was.
“Kiss each other.”
What the fuck did Frank just say?
”Fucking kiss each other!” He stormed over and grabbed the backs of our heads. He forced them together until our noses almost touched, but we resisted, and Frank used his strength. Our faces brushed one another. Paolo’s skin was smooth with no sign of facial hair.
“Kiss goddammit!” Frank shouted. “Paolo, bender! You’ll enjoy it. Kiss the scabby shit.”
And Paolo did. A quick peck on the lips before forcing his tongue into my mouth. I couldn’t back away. He wrapped his tongue around mine and I had no choice but to do the same.
There was a flash of bright light, and I realised that the other copper had taken a photograph.
Frank released his grip. “That’s enough,” he laughed. “I knew you’d both enjoy it. Didn’t I say so Brian? He looked over to his colleague who acted as if nothing had happened . “You see Harry, your eyetie friend likes snogging lads, and I dare say that he finds you attractive. Isn’t that right Paolo?”
The Italian boy was mortified.
“A match made in heaven. Now that you’re better acquainted, I’m sure you’ll both help me.”
“I don’t understand,” said Paolo.
“Percy Sillitoe succeeded because he played both gangs against one another. A word in one ear, a word in the other. He didn’t do a thing. It was a set up. And when one gang thought they’d won. he went after them next and destroyed them too.
“These are the eighties, and there are perverts in this city, but as always, there is more than one player. Player One is getting pissed off with Player Two, and so Player One says to me, ‘get rid of these bastards!’ I say that it will cost them, but we work together, and Player Two disappears. Then I come down heavy on Player One, and he disappears too. Get it?”
I was angry. “What the fuck has it got to do with us? We aren’t doing anything for you?”
Frank stared me out.
“I think you’ll both help me.”
“Get fucked!”
“Do you really want your parents to see a photo that shows you going at it with another guy? Better still, what happens if it gets into the hands of your low-life friends? You won’t be able to show your face on Park Hill again.”
The guy called Brian laughed.
“And what will your eyetie parents think when they see that their beloved Catholic boy is really a depraved bender?”
I exchanged nervous glances with Paolo.
“I won’t offer you a lift home because you’ve both got a lot to talk about. Somebody will be in touch.”
The two coppers walked back to the car, but Frank shouted something before driving off. It sounded like, “If they’d have let me, I’d have caught the Yorkshire Ripper years ago.”
Jack Blanton. Image: Bob Hawkins/Remember Cliffside
I once went to a funeral and cried. It surprised everyone, not least Eleanor, because I wasn’t known for sentimentality. She gave me her handkerchief and I blubbered like a baby and everyone in church looked at me. On the way home, she said, “Joe, I didn’t realise that you knew Jack that well.”
There were a lot of things that my wife didn’t know about me. That’s the way things were. It was the last time we spoke about Jack Blanton.
***
It is now Christmas 1941, and that funeral was seven years ago. Eleanor and I are separated, and I only see the boys once a month. For the boys’ sake, she’s invited me to dinner, but a dark shadow threatens everybody’s celebrations because America is at war.
On Christmas Eve, I telephoned her and said that I wouldn’t be going.
At times like this, I needed a friend to turn to, somebody to share my fear of what lay ahead, because I knew that war would come for me. The only friend I ever had was Jack, and he’d left me in 1934.
I sat on the steps of Cliffside Elementary School, where both my boys attended, and thought how quiet and deserted it was at holiday time. It was a far cry from the schoolroom at the textile mill where Jack and I had met as young boys.
We came from respectable families and were inseparable. That surprised everyone because Jack had a God-abiding background whereas I hated religion.
I remembered the words of Pastor Hunnicut as we laid Jack to rest.
“Jack had a cheerful disposition and pleasant smile from which he greeted everyone, from childhood until his last breath, for he died with a smile of love and victory on his face.”
Kindness oozed out of him, and I never heard him say a bad word about anybody.
Jack was smart, cleverer than me, and he might have gone to college, but he was athletic and wanted to be a boxer instead. As kids, we filled an old cloth sack with horsehair and sand, then hung it from the beam of a ramshackle barn. I’d watch while Jack punched the heavy bag until his knuckles bled, prompting his father to buy him his first pair of boxing gloves.
An old pro at the gymnasium taught him how to fight properly, and by the time he turned eighteen he was in boxing tournaments.
I sat in his corner, rubbed his shoulders between bouts, and gave him words of encouragement. In victory, he smiled, and in defeat, he also smiled.
When there was nobody left to fight in Cliffside, we travelled to Charlotte for the big fights. He was twenty when he knocked down Buck Bridgers to win the decision, and the following year he floored Lloyd Parris after two rounds.
Jack was the squarest and cleanest shooter to climb through the ropes, and all the girls adored him, but he wasn’t interested, and too busy to notice that I had gone off the rails.
While he lived his clean-cut life, I had become addicted to illicit liquor that I obtained from a jailbird at Boiling Springs.
The night he mistakenly drank the ammonia used to purify water; I was getting drunk with Walt Parker in his backyard. I heard the next day that he’d only taken a sip, but the doctor said he had to pull out of his fight with Jim Swinson.
I went to see Jack, nursing a headache and racked with guilt, and told him that he needed to look after himself because he was my best friend. That was when he told me he’d met a girl and was going to marry her.
I said that it was a bad idea and promised to get straight if he’d reconsider, but he laughed and asked me to go to the wedding.
Jack married Juanita Crawford at the Baptist Parsonage in Avondale, and everyone was shocked because it had happened so quickly. They looked the perfect couple, Jack with his Italianate looks and slicked back hair, and Juanita with flowers in hers.
She was a sweet girl, but I resented the fact that she had stolen Jack from me.
A few weeks later I got hitched to Eleanor, who said I was worth a shot and thought she could help me mend my ways. It was a shotgun affair and nobody else was invited. Afterwards, I told Jack, and he said that I should take good care of her, but I knew that by not inviting him to the wedding, I had hurt him.
The following year, Jack fought ‘Kid’ Belk for the Championship of the Carolinas at the County Fairground. It was a close contest, but he was outpointed, and I remember the look of disappointment on his face, as if he had let everyone down.
I told him that I was proud of him and to focus on his next fight with ‘Kid’ Belk, but Jack was knocked out in the third round.
He changed after that, as if he knew that he was never going to be a great boxer, and when Juanita became pregnant, his priorities shifted to finding a good job. But these were bad times, with long unemployment lines, and work was even harder to find for a twenty-three-year-old.
This despondency might have sent Jack the same way as I had, but he never touched a drop of liquor. The Cliffside Baptist Church was his escape, getting involved with all sorts of activities, and attending prayers every Sunday and Wednesday.
He trained young boxers at the school gym and was excited when he discovered the next Carolina Carnera, a young boy called Walter ‘Bill’ Hamrick.
We went fishing like the old days, and talked about our childhood, the failures, and our hopes and dreams.
“Sometimes our disappointments turn out for the best. I see now that it was best that I did not continue boxing,” he said.
With no job, and the need to make ends meet, Jack joined Roosevelt’s Tree Army, and spent eighteen months planting trees and shrubs near Forest City.
Before he left, he grabbed me by the shoulders and looked me straight in the eyes. ”Joe, I love you like I do my brothers, Bill and Jim, and my sisters, Georgia, and Lillie-Bell. If ever you are in trouble, you must call me.”
Jack received a monthly salary of $30, of which $25 was sent to Juanita to help buy food, clothing, and fuel.
When he returned, his church connections landed him a job as supervisor at Cliffside Waterworks, as well as becoming the district milk inspector.
The last time I ever saw Jack, he showed me the Charlotte Observer and a photograph of his young daughter, Peggy Louise, who had been chosen as a Cliffside mascot. She smiled like her daddy did, and I knew that Jack had reason to be proud.
A few weeks later, I did something bad, and killed a man who stole a dollar off me. I punched him on the jaw, and followed it up, punch after punch, like Jack had shown me. I left him in an alleyway and got drunk with Walt who said he would give me an alibi.
That night, I went to see Jack because he would know what to do.
“He’s sleeping, Joe,” Juanita said, “He’s sick. He’s got real bad stomach pains.” I pleaded with her to let me see Jack, but she refused to wake him. “I’ll tell him you called as soon as he’s well again.”
Jack never did get better.
On Monday afternoon he was rushed to the Rutherford Hospital where doctors operated for appendicitis, but they said gangrene had already set in. He died a few hours later.
I went to offer my condolences to Juanita who was comforting Peggy Louise on the porch.
“He could never see the bad in you, Joe.”
She gave me Jack’s boxing gloves with their brown patina and cracked leather.
While I was leaving, she called after me.
“Why do good men have to die, Joe? Why isn’t it the bad ones?”
***
Back on the steps of the Elementary School, the light was fading, and snowflakes had started to fall.
I reached into the inside pocket of my jacket and pulled out a faded photograph. It was a photo of Jack, taken at a studio on Drug Store Street, a few days before his fight with Jerome Spangler. That would have been about 1930 when he was twenty three.
His fists are raised, eyes down, and I won’t forget that thick black hair that reminded people of a matinee idol.
He was wearing red boxing shorts that were tightened with string because he had been too skinny. On them, were the sewn-on letters ‘LB’ – Lawrence ‘Jack’ Blanton – that his mother had once cut from black cloth.
Benoit was sixteen on the night his grandfather died. He climbed onto the roof, curled up against the warm chimney, and looked over the rooftops of Le Septième.
His grandfather had been ill for months. The tiny bed had been pushed against the window where he would watch the street and its people. In the evenings, Benoit’s mother sat beside him, and talked about old times.
When he died, they both cried.
That night, Benoit listened to the noisy traffic, police sirens, and the animated chatter from Café Maxim below. As it got later, the traffic quietened, and voices were replaced by the clatter of plates being washed in the kitchens. By the early hours, most Parisians were asleep.
It started to rain, and Benoit found the sound of raindrops trickling down the sloping roof strangely reassuring.
The city grew quiet, and the people of Paris slipped into their beds. A church bell chimed one o’clock and Benoit listened carefully.
It was a familiar sound.
A mournful trumpet played across the dark rooftops, and it was his grandfather’s tune.
Benoit thought about the battered old trumpet that still lay beside the empty bed, the one that used to play Stardust.
***
Sebastien was in the market when somebody told him that Landry had died in his bed.
The news made him sad, and he went for a walk to remember the good times he’d had with the old man.
With a baguette under his arm, he walked beside the river where the fishermen on the bank thought he looked a lonely sight.
When it began to go dark, he walked through the park and kicked autumn leaves like he used to as a little boy.
Sebastien was twenty-two now and was at the Paris Conservatory where he studied classical trumpet.
He thought of the day outside Café Maxim where Landry had showed him the trumpet he’d found in the attic of an old house in Normandy and then taught him how to play it.
And Sebastien played it quite well and was good enough for his parents to buy him a new one that had cost a lot of money.
Sebastien called at Café Maxim and spoke with Landry’s friends. They bought him a beer and ate the baguette that had snapped into two pieces, and they all agreed that they would miss the old Frenchman.
They raised several toasts to Landry, and it was after midnight when Sebastien arrived home.
He climbed the rickety stairs to the flat on the top floor and opened the French windows. The breeze caused the curtains to billow inwards and the first drops of rain started to fall.
He looked at his shiny trumpet and thought about the first tune he’d played.
The clock from the church chimed once, and he put the trumpet to his lips and played in memory of Landry.
Perfectly Hard and Glamorous 