Monkey Wrench Read online

  He’ll die waiting, because I’m always fucking ready.

  And then Lineker, slimmer, faster, with his long lean snout and his short hard coat which shines up like the paint work on a brand new motor. ‘Keep still, shark face,’ I growled, because he’s not like Ramses. He’s got a smaller head and a smaller brain and he doesn’t concentrate like Ramses does. But he polishes up lovely.

  They are the tools of my trade, those two, and anyone’ll tell you, you got to keep the tools of your trade in good nick. Ramses and Lineker are in fighting nick. And so am I.

  ‘But only as long as you stay ready,’ Ramses said, in my head, watching me with his stony little eyes.

  Now, the thing about elbows is that when they are hurt they really hurt. My elbow had swollen up again. It must have been the weights. I hadn’t noticed at the time, but now I did.

  In the Static I put some water on to heat. First, I made tea because you have to get your priorities right in this life. Then I sat down, resting my elbow in a bowl of hot water, and studied the bruising where Gypsy Jo hammered on me with her feet.

  ‘Hot water,’ Harsh says. ‘You want all the veins and capillaries to open wide. You want increased circulation. You want your blood to feed an injury. You want your blood to take away the poisons.’

  Which made me think about Dawn who was kicked to death. It’d take more than a bowl of hot water to tweak up her circulation now.

  One time, my ma took a bit of a kicking, and she had black and blue all up her legs. So she limped away to the off-licence for a couple of bottles to ease her pain and soothe her freaky boyfriend. Only when she got home the boyfriend had scarpered so she sat down and eased her pain all by herself. But while she drank she smoked, and while she smoked she drank. Things being how they are with smoking and drinking, the time soon came when she nodded off and dropped her ciggy down the side of the sofa, where it continued to smoulder. The ciggy smouldered, and then the sofa smouldered, and the cushion smouldered. And very soon my ma’s frock started to smoulder too.

  How do I know this? Well, I smelled it. That’s how. From inside the cupboard under the stairs, which is where my ma used to put my sister and me whenever she wanted to fuck or fight or both. She put us in the cupboard under the stairs and turned the key in the lock and did whatever it was she didn’t want us to see.

  It was dark in the cupboard. They don’t build windows in cupboards. We didn’t know what time it was. We’d been in there a long time. Simone was asleep. She always used to sleep after she’d been frightened. She was frightened because even though we couldn’t see what our ma didn’t want us to see we could hear everything. And we heard every one of those black and blue bruises on ma’s legs.

  You think you can’t hear a bruise? Well, believe me, you can.

  I smelled smoke. I wasn’t very old at the time and I hadn’t learned much, but I’d learned enough to know that smoke meant fire. I woke Simone up and we started to scream and cry and bang on the cupboard door.

  Nobody heard us. Ma did not wake up, and we began to choke and gag on the smoke. We were too small to break the door and too weak to make a hole in the stairs above. So we did what small weak people do – we screamed and cried and wet ourselves. And still Ma did not wake up. Well, she couldn’t, could she? She was sotted out of her brain-box, and even before that, she’d forgotten all about us.

  So you see, there might have been no Eva, no Armour Protection, no London Lassassin, and all because of a few bruises. If you think bruises can’t kill, you’re wrong. I know better. And so does Dawn.

  I looked at my bruised elbow and I thought about having a tattoo – a green and red dragon swarming down my arm. Or up my arm. Which way should it go? If its head was up it would look as if it was crawling on to my shoulder which would be fine if I was bare-shouldered. But if I was wearing a shirt it would look as if it was crawling up my sleeve. A dragon with its head at the wrist end of my arm would look as if it was trying to get off. I thought about rats leaving a sinking ship. Rats. I’ve never seen tattoo rats on anyone, but maybe rats were righter for the London Lassassin than dragons.

  I imagined fighting. Me in my black costume with three rats tattooed on my left arm. Just the left one. It would be classier than tattoos on both arms. Three rats – one on the deltoid, one on the bicep and one on the forearm. The three rats would all be facing in different directions and that would solve the problem about whether they were coming or going.

  I get these ideas sometimes. I’m a lot more creative than people think.

  By that time the water was cold and I was hungry. But I’d forgotten to go shopping again. I’d like to invent a pill you could buy in packs of twenty which you could take when you forgot to go shopping. The pill would swell up in your belly to the size of a full meal and you wouldn’t feel hungry for twelve hours. That’s the trouble with food – you’ve got to buy a lot to feel full. And when you feel full, like as not, you’ve eaten too much. And when you’ve eaten too much you get fat. And when you get fat you stretch your black costume in all the wrong places and the crowd calls you names on top of all the other names they call you. So if they already call you Bucket Nut, for instance, and they add ‘fat butt’, you can wind up being called ‘Fat Butt Bucket Nut.’ Which isn’t very nice. But I’m a big girl, and if I don’t eat lots I get hungry. Which isn’t very nice either.

  Rat tattoos would distract attention. Everyone would look at the rats and forget about the size of my arse. Although, actually, it isn’t my arse which bothers me. It’s my abs. Big Gut Bucket Nut.

  Life can be a frigging awful problem sometimes.

  But sitting on your arse with your elbow in a bowl of cold water doesn’t solve any problems, so I dried off and went out. I took a torch and one of those big Bonio things I give the dogs as treats, and I went off to inspect the fence.

  Which turned out to be a mistake.

  Crystal popped up like a gremlin from behind a parked car and said, ‘Where you been, Eva? I’ve been waiting hours.’

  ‘Fuck off, gnome,’ I said. ‘Ain’t you caused enough trouble for one day?’

  ‘We shouldn’t of come to the gym,’ she said, scratching her curly mop. ‘I saw that, soon as we fetched up there.’

  ‘Fucking right,’ I said. ‘The deal’s off.’

  ‘What we need is premises,’ she said, like I’d never opened my mouth. ‘So I’ve found us premises,’ she said, ‘and I want you to come and see.’

  ‘Got turds in your ears?’ I said. ‘The deal’s off.’

  ‘What you doing, eating dog biscuits?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m not,’ I said, swallowing. ‘It’s training. This dog does what I say, I give him a Bonio. See?’ I threw the other half to Lineker who had been following me round like I was a bitch on heat.

  ‘I really fancy a pizza,’ Crystal said. ‘Double cheese and pepperoni. Want one? My treat.’

  ‘Where’s the others?’ I said, suspicious.

  ‘There’s a cock fight in the car park,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Y’know, bloke hens,’ she said. ‘Men from the market and the Full Moon, they fight cocks sometimes.’

  We walked up Mandala Street. There’s nothing so dead as a market street at night. All the stalls were gone to their lockups and the gutters were ankle deep in lettuce leaves and wet paper bags. It’s so quiet you notice it. Everyone shouts in a market, but at night there’s just the smell of dead cauliflowers.

  ‘Where you going?’ Crystal said. She’d stopped by a door and I’d walked on.

  ‘The pizza place.’

  ‘In a minute,’ she said. ‘I told you.’

  ‘Oh no,’ I said. ‘The deal’s off. I told you.’

  ‘It’s right here,’ she said.

  ‘It’ was a broken down shop with a boarded up window and a ‘To Let’ sign which looked as if it’d been there since before the Beatles.

  ‘Want a look?’ she said.

  ‘Fuck off,’ I said. ‘I�
�m hungry.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Crystal. ‘Only I ought to inspect the site.’

  ‘Well you inspect it,’ I said. ‘I’m off.’

  ‘Only I sort of lost the key,’ she said. ‘It won’t take a tick if you, y’know, open up for me. I’ll stand you the biggest pizza ever.’

  I went back and looked at the door. I tested it with my shoulder.

  ‘It’s locked,’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I lost the key.’

  ‘You got a key?’ I said. ‘It’s your place?’

  ‘We need premises,’ she said. ‘I thought this’d do.’

  It looked as if there had been squatters inside, and the place had been cleared and battened down afterwards. It looked as if someone had tried to get in again but failed.

  I heaved with my shoulder. Nothing budged.

  ‘You better find that key,’ I said. ‘I can’t shift this.’

  ‘Got a crowbar,’ she said, and she rooted in a plastic bag which I had taken for rubbish left in the doorway.

  It was a good stout lock. Even with the crowbar I had to shove with all my weight before the door tore open. It was a bit like the old days when Crystal and me needed a place to kip. The mouldy smell was the same too, and the cold. These places feel like cellars even on a warm night.

  ‘Takes you back,’ I said, and went inside.

  Crystal came behind me, and that was the same too. Whenever we were together I always used to go first. Just in case. And whenever we had to talk our way out – Crystal went first. She had a good mouth on her, even in those days.

  ‘Plenty of space,’ Crystal said, waving her torch around. The circle of light boogied around the walls and empty corners.

  ‘I’ll get some carpet in,’ she said. ‘And a bit of mattress or something like you got at your gym. See, it’s much better here. It’s nearer where the girls and me live. And you too.’

  ‘Count me out,’ I said. ‘I told you.’

  ‘And it’s private,’ she said. ‘None of those stupid blokes poking their noses in and telling you what’s what. Making you feel like a carrot. You’d be in charge here, Eva. Your own private gym. And we wouldn’t have to pay anyone but you, see. That fat geezer, up your gym, he said we’d have to pay entrance money or we couldn’t go there. Mean git. Whereas here. Well, see, if we don’t have to pay entrance money you could charge more for your classes, couldn’t you?’

  ‘How much?’ I said.

  ‘It’s up to you,’ she said. ‘Charge what you like. You’re in control. I’ll collect the money for you if you don’t want to be bothered.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ I said. ‘I’ll collect me own money.’

  But I had a thought. ‘What about the rent?’ I said. ‘Who pays the rent?’

  ‘Rent?’ Crystal said. ‘Leave all that to me. It’s the least I can do. If only I’d thought of it before poor Dawnie …’

  ‘And light,’ I said, before she could get sniffly again. ‘I don’t want to take that boarding down. I don’t fancy people in the market seeing in.’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘Nor me neither. I’ll figure something out about the light. Ain’t you hungry yet? I’m starving.’

  ‘What about the door?’ I said. ‘It’s broken.’

  ‘Almost forgot,’ she said. ‘I brought a padlock. Just temporary, like.’

  She’d come prepared, I’ll say that for her. She held the torch while I rigged the padlock, and then we went for the pizza.

  She stood me for two deep pan, twelve inch, double cheese and ham pizzas.

  ‘Do you remember?’ she said, with her mouth full. ‘When we was up the West End one time? And all we could snaffle was cold pizza out of the bin?’

  ‘No,’ I said. But I did. and let me tell you, hot pizza, with the cheese all soft and supple beats the shit out of cold pizza, half eaten with stuff set in it like bricks in mortar.

  Crystal, when she’s feeling sentimental, like about the old days and dead Dawn, is a bit of a soft touch. Which is why I was feeling quite pleased with myself. I mean, she’s supposed to be such a sharp operator but she’d coughed up rent-free premises and two twelve inch pizzas all in one night. Now tell me who’s the operator?

  Chapter 6

  ‘Where’s the Dirty Half Dozen?’ Gruff Gordon said. He rolled in whiffing of bitter as usual when I was just about finished and ready for my shower. ‘Where’s all that lovely hot buttered twat?’

  ‘Eva’s mucky mates,’ Pete Carver said. ‘I thought it was my birthday – all those prezzies just waiting to be unwrapped. What you got for us today, Eva?’

  ‘A snootful of knucks,’ I said, backing off.

  ‘That reminds me,’ Gruff Gordon said. His hairy eyebrows scrunched down, and his shoulders went up to keep his ears company.

  I beat it to the ladies’ shower. I’d thought I was too early for them. I thought I’d have done my work, washed and been long gone before they shambled in from the boozer. But those two heavyweight tossers never do nothing to suit me.

  Their idea of a chat-up line would be, ‘Lay down and spread ’em.’ But I reckoned Bella’s Babes could look after themselves in that department. And it wasn’t because I couldn’t look after myself – punching Gruff in the lunchbox was a pleasure I was willing to pay for. And I would if I knew anything about him. I wasn’t scared of him. And I wasn’t scared of Pete. I just didn’t want to see them. That’s all.

  For your information, in case you think I’m telling lies and I really beat it to the ladies’ shower because I’d made a belly-button sandwich out of Gruff Gordon and I was scared he’d return the favour – I’ll tell you – those two blubber boys don’t scare me one tiny bit. But I hate them, really loathe them with a capital L, and I’ll tell you for why. They are chip-mongers, chip-chip-chipping away at everything important. That’s why.

  I am a self-made woman. I was nothing before I took myself in hand. Zero. I’m strong because I made myself strong. I got a career ahead of me because I made it happen. I hung around on the edge of the wrestling scene until Mr Deeds got so fed up with me he gave me a go. And once I’d got my foot in the door I wouldn’t take it out. I’ve got jobs. I’ve got a home. I’ve got dogs I trained myself. I done all that, and I’m getting a reputation. I’m going to be famous. I’m going to be top of the bill one day.

  What I hate is Pete Carver and Gruff Gordon chip-chip-chipping with their smelly yellow teeth, trying to make me small and weak again. Miserable, mean-minded snot-bags who can’t bear to see someone succeeding.

  That’s why I beat it to the ladies’ shower. Got it?

  And if I want to teach Crystal, Bella, Stef, Mandy, Kath and Lynn how to defend themselves, I sodding well will. So there. Stick that somewhere. Sideways. You won’t stop me by taking the piss out of me. Or them.

  But I didn’t really know how. Which is why I asked Harsh for advice. Harsh knows things. He uses his head for more than stopping footballs.

  I caught up with him on his way to the tube station.

  ‘These women, Harsh,’ I said. I was walking backwards because Harsh didn’t stop. ‘These women,’ I said, ‘they want to learn self-defence but they’re just a pile of parts. They can’t even walk straight. It’d take fifty years to get them fit. And they ain’t very bright either.’

  ‘Well, Eva,’ Harsh said, ‘first you should ask yourself why you wish to spend your time in this way. Second, why do the women wish to learn. And third, what do they wish to do with such skills as you are able to impart.’

  I wished he would stand still. He is a very clever bloke who has been to college and all that. He can think and talk and walk all at the same time.

  ‘Do not walk backwards, Eva,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’ I said.

  ‘We are arriving at the station stairs,’ he said. ‘I do not wish to carry you up them after you have fallen down them.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Speaking spiritually, also, it is better to know where you are going and to approach p
roblems from the correct angle.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ I said. ‘These women …’

  ‘And I wonder,’ Harsh went on, ‘if the fact that you have been walking backwards is symptomatic. Have you considered, Eva, that you might be approaching the problem from the wrong angle? Why, for instance, are you asking me for advice of this nature? Wouldn’t it be better to ask a woman what it is that women wish to know?’

  He started down the tube station stairs, sort of gliding, weight perfectly distributed. I notice the way people move, and it’s always a pleasure to notice Harsh. But I had to gallop to keep up.

  ‘Yeah, but Harsh …’ I said.

  He was buying a ticket from the machine and I had to decide what to do. Between you and me, paying good money for a little piece of cardboard is against my religion. And another thing, if you must know, I hate travelling underground. It makes my teeth ache and my scalp sweat.

  I planted myself between Harsh and the barrier. ‘These slags are useless,’ I said. ‘How’m I going to teach them to fight?’

  ‘This is precisely what I mean,’ Harsh said. He stepped neatly round me. ‘You cannot teach them to fight. They probably do not want to learn. You think you should teach them because it is what you yourself know how to do.’

  He went through the barrier and glided towards the escalator.

  I took a deep breath and vaulted the barrier.

  ‘But Harsh,’ I said when I’d caught up, ‘what else is there?’

  ‘What else but fighting?’ He laughed. I do admire his teeth, I really do. One day, when I’ve saved up enough money, I’m going to get mine done so they look just like his.

  He stood on the escalator. It was moving, but at least he was standing still. I went after him.

  He said, ‘Most women do not want to learn to fight. This is the advantage men take.’