Boat hole
Billy ‘Hash’ Brown has made it home at last.
Sort of.
He sits on a stool at North Shields fish quay staring at the ground, the stolen jungle hat pulled tight to his ears. All he can see are legs and feet, feet and legs, he daren’t look up – it’s not a good idea - his new skin condition won’t allow it.
It’s busy.
Every other day is market day.
Dozens of civilians mingle with the orange plastic pants of the fishermen. They mill around between stack after stack of iced crates lined up in rows by the starboard sides of the fishing boats moored out in the dock known locally as The Gut, even the old fishermen can’t recall why.
At least Hash is in the shade under the corrugated iron roof, his stool placed in an improvised iglu between two stacks of iced fish packed in crates.
But out there, planet earth spins on into the sun.
‘Jesus fuckin, ’ Hash breathes. ‘Fuck.’
Nylon nets on the gathered boats’ decks seem to be melting, and anything metal claims the skin of any young fisherman dumb enough to touch it.
The deep sea trawler Kirrin fills three of The Gut’s berths. No fish is safe from Kirrin - no matter the depth or distance. The kit on this thing could beat NASA to life on Mars. Sleek lines. The Aston Martin of the fishing fleet. Navy blue with a white deck and bridge. Almost brand new.
Beautiful.
Her owner must’ve sold a shitload of fish.
‘Fuck,’ Hash sighs. ‘Me.’
A fish lies amongst ice with her friends in the top crate at Hash’s shoulder, staring him right in the face. Silver death with an open, confused eye.
‘Feel no pain,’ Hash says. ‘So they say.’
He looks at the fish.
‘Lucky bastard,’ he sighs, turning his sautéed eyes away.
‘Bollocks,’ the fish replies.
Hash looks at it.
‘What?’
Nothing.
Hash closes his eyes.
Opens them.
‘Jesus fuckin.’
They focus on a cowboy's Cuban heels as their segs click scratch click scratch towards him along the wet concrete of the dock, the inverted flame stitching on the vintage leather lapping up at the boxes of dead fish.
Frankie Cain, owner of the finest collection of rodeo boots this side of Texas, limps on down the fish market. The north east’s answer to John Wayne, holding the obligatory ten gallon hat.
The weather, for once, matches his clothes.
Hash would normally lounge back and smile, watching the owner of the Gunslinger fish and chip shop bemused - quick to take the piss.
But not today.
Staying still is one of life’s absolute necessities.
‘Hey sonny, how y’doin?’ Frankie says to Hash’s neighbour, Willis - working his lungs through today’s second pack of Superkings.
It’s 9.17am.
‘Hey Franko,’ Willis says, voice like a shot blasted wall, ‘Where’d y’park y’fuckin horse? Heh heh.’
They talk fish.
Orange water proof pants strobe by, but Hash keeps his eyes locked on congealed fish guts stuck to the river’s concrete lip.
A kid with a hose, a YTS trainee paid his dole money by Maggie Thatcher for this ‘training’, blasts the mess over the side into the water.
Hash closes his eyes.
‘Feel no pain.’
‘Bollocks.’
He opens them again, looks at the fish.
Sighs.
‘Aye well, Willis,’ Frankie says nearby. ‘Be seein ya.’
The boots arrive at Hash’s improvised iglu.
‘Hey sonny,’ Frankie says to the top of Hash’s head. ‘How y'doin?’
Frankie steps forward to fondle Hash’s cod friend next to the flop rim of Hash’s hat, tight blue jeans gnawing at his testicles - right in Hash’s face.
‘Alreet Fran . . .’
Hash tips his head back to get the old bastard’s varicose ball bag away from his eyeballs.
Schoolboy error.
‘Aaagh! Ayaz!’
The burnt skin on the back of his neck smears away from the flesh.
‘Ayaaaz!’
He lifts his hands to his neck, but there’s nothing they can do.
‘Ayaz man! Ayaaaaaz! Man!’
They’re fucked too.
A high price - but the going-rate nonetheless - for momentarily forgetting his new affliction.
‘Ayaaaaaaaz MAN!’
‘Jesus fuckin Christ!’ Frankie says, holding the talking fish to one side like turd prize. ‘What the fuck happened to you?’
The fish puckers her lips.
Frankie looks down on a face he’d last seen on a documentary about the Vietnam War, a blistered child victim of good old indiscriminate Uncle Sam. Proflugate with napalm.
‘Fell asleep,’ Hash croaks to the fish. ‘In the sun.’
‘Sheesh. You don’t wanna be doin that now, do ya? Must be a hundred fuckin degrees. Seen the state of ya?’
‘Aye,’ Hash replies. ‘Fuckin daft, aren’t ah.’
‘Y’not wrong like son, y’not fuckin wrong.’
Frankie hands him the fish.
‘No pain,’ Hash says.
‘Sorry?’
‘Wha?’
‘What?’ Frankie shakes his head. ‘Y’wanna go lie down son, y’talkin to y’self and that.’
‘Eh?’
Frankie moves his hat to the other hand and sighs.
‘Don't see y’here that often son. Part time job, is it?’
‘Aye. Just help out the father-in-law once a month like, for a bit beer money.’
Frankie's eyelashes flick the distaste away from his face
‘Aye, well,’ he says, looking up for the man in question. ‘How is Mr Talbot?’
‘Same as.’
‘Aye well,’ Frankie puts his hand to his brow and salutes like a cattleman. ‘I'll be seein ya sonny. Look after y’self now. Come by for y’supper, maybes I’ll give y’a free stottie like, seein as y’disabled and that.’
‘Aye.’
Frankie looks down at the flayed face, steps away, turns.
‘And stay out the fuckin sun man, we’re not built for it up here man.’
He clicks off to a - ‘Hey sonny, how y’doin?’ - warm greeting at the next stack of boxes.
Hash looks straight ahead.
‘Fuckin ‘disabled’?’ he mutters. ‘Cheeky cunt.’
The fish quay has the pure, indelible smell of death done-and-dusted: fish guts piled in a skip at the edge of the dock smoulder and ferment under the sun's grill; a B-movie monster sure to rise one night with the full moon.
Hash licks a thin layer of slime from the roof of his mouth and back of his teeth.
‘Mingin.’
The stench never quite leaves the men who work here, you can find them in any of the scattered, ragged bars in town – smelling of the small squares of cheap soap only found in public toilets. They may as well have scales of their own, for all the good washing does them.
Some give up and stink, always, like the sweaty bollocks of a marching army.
Hash’s head jerks up to look at Kirrin.
Another silly mistake.
‘Ayaz man! Fuck! Ayaaaz man! Ayaaaz!’
A fish buyer walking by Hash’s stack - ‘What the fuck?’ - almost jumps sideways into the river.
‘Ayaz man! Ayaz!’
‘Ayaz man’ y’self,’ the buyer says. ’Y’stupid fuckin prick.’
More rubber trousers pass by.
And there he is, The Codfather himself; Wade Talbot, walking the plank down to the dock from Kirrin in soiled white t-shirt and tight yellow ‘70s football shorts, a crate of fish balanced on each shoulder like some sort of twisted striptease.
‘Y M C fuckin A,’ Hash mutters to the fish in his hands.
>
Talbot steps onto the dockside and drops the boxes to the stack.
Hash jerks his skull away just in time.
‘Ayaaaaz! Ayaz man!’
A melon breasted mermaid carved into Talbot’s forearm surfs across his brow.
‘Bloody hot again kidda.’
Talbot has two volumes; LOUD or hoarse whisper.
‘Feelin alright now are ya?’
Today, two tone Talbot’s dial is cranked to max.
‘Fine, aye. Don't worry.’
The fisherman edges forward and bends his head to Hash’s hat.
‘Punters?’ he whispers.
‘What?’
Talbot’s eyes are black dots, busy as protons.
‘Punters?’ - loud.
‘No, not yet.’
‘Y’got it straight kidda, right?’ he adds. ‘Y’know what to tell em?’
‘Aye, we've not got any. We haven't taken delivery. We dunno when any's comin.’
‘Good lad,’ Talbot barks. ‘Good lad.’
The word PIES, scratched into Talbot’s knuckles in blue ink, slaps flat against his son-in-law's back.
‘Euaaaaagh! Aagh!’ Hash cries. ‘Aaagh! Ah ha haaagh! Ayaz man!’
‘Jesus! Sorry, sorry son,’ Talbot says, applying the brakes to MASH before it lands. ‘Sorry, sorry son.’
‘Aaaayaz,’ Hash breathes. ‘Ayaz.’
Talbot stands back.
PIES and MASH, Talbot’s own interesting take on the usual LOVE and HATE knuckle tattoos.
‘Jesus fuckin Christ! Listen? If? If y’need any help I'll be on the deck kidda. And? And? Don't y’worry about a thing. If y’need me, you know where I am.’
Talbot looks up the dock at the row of busy stalls, he leans forward and puts his hand on the two fish pillars.
‘Listen, kidda. Y’know you and wor Kathleen mean the world to iz, don’t ya?’
The black dots of Talbot’s eyes zip around. Hash had married Talbot’s daughter last summer, under grey skies and spitting rain.
‘Don't let what happened get to ya man, just put it behind ya. It’s just this fuckin heat man, the sun. It sent me a bit - dunno.’
He spins a finger at his temple. Innocent, like he’d had a couple of drinks too many and sung bad karoake down the club.
‘A bit fuckin loop the loop there for a minute. Ha ha. I thought they were tryin to rob us man. You'd’ve thanked me if they were.’
Hash rises from his stool.
Strips of flesh separate from vertebrae like leather jackets knocked from a rail. ‘Ayaaaaaz! Ayaaaaz man!’
He stumbles towards Talbot, pushed by Our Lord’s slapstick sense of humour.
‘Jesus kidda,’ Talbot says stepping forward to steady him by his left shoulder - lucky, it’s the only part of his upper body left unburnt, saved by the shadow of the wheelhouse as the boat rocked to shade.
‘Y’really are in a bad fuckin way.’
‘Like y’say man, forget it,’ Hash croaks. ‘Nobody knows fuckall.’
‘Good lad,’ Talbot says. ‘Good lad. It'll be fine, nobody'll ever know. Just pretend it never happened.’
‘Aye boss, never happened.’
Talbot raises MASH and takes Hash’s cod friend from his hands, places her in the top crate.
‘Nobody’ll ever find the fuckin thing,’ he whispers. ‘Never in a billion fuckin years will they find it. Just put it out ya mind.’
He walks the plank to Kirrin’s deck and barks a command to one of his overheating crew, back on duty and trying to look busy fiddling with a net in the shade. Talbot cracks him around the ear, knocking him flying into the melting nylon nets.
Hash stares at his fish friend, chilling in the top box of the stack.
‘Fuck,’ he sighs. ‘Me.’
He gently turns his head towards the wide gates thrown open to the burning sun.
A tall youth strides along the quayside towards him, his over-long arms swinging behind his bony arse, as if wafting away farts.
Foggy - Mark Fogarty - thinning blonde hair smeared to his head. Blue check lumberjack shirt open to the nipples, a plunging red V sprayed onto his chest by the sun.
He starts throwing elaborate body shapes, trying to avoid contact with the milling buyers and workers.
‘Fuckin dick head,’ Hash snorts.
The young YTS lad, now carrying boxes, bumps heavily into him - leaving white fish scales down the side of Foggy’s prized Levi’s.
‘Hey!’ Foggy says, stopping. He opens his arms and looks down at the mess on his jeans. ‘Fuckin hell man!’
‘Sorry mate.’
Foggy swipes at the organic sequins now attached to his pants.
‘I’ll fuckin ‘sorry’ ya, y’prick?’
A fisherman clatters him from the other side.
‘Will ya!’ Foggy spins. ‘Will y’all just fuckin stop it!’
A smile rips open Hash’s face.
Not a good idea.
‘Ayaaaz man! Ayaaaz!’
He waits for his face to fall back into position.
‘How can y’work in this fuckin place?’ Foggy says.
Hash raises his arms a little to test his flesh, preparing it for movement like a meat cape.
‘What y’got y’tracksuit on for?’ Foggy asks of Hash’s Kappa jacket, zipped up to his neck. ‘It’s roastin man, y’wanna . . .’
Foggy looks at Hash’s new face for the first time, peeling up into his stolen hat like bark from a scorched tree.
‘What the . . fuck?’ he snorts. ‘What the fuck happened to you?’
‘Don't ask Foggy man, don't fuckin ask.’
Hash takes two turtle steps away from his fridge.
‘Y’got any?’ Foggy says.
‘Nah.’
Foggy stares into the top box, face curling in disgust at the fish.
‘Leave her alone, she’s just chillin.’
‘Wha?’
Hash moves like a reptile shedding its skin.
‘Howay,’ he says.
‘What's up?’
‘Nowt, man. Just keep walkin. I don't want Talbot seein us.’
‘Fuck aye,’ Foggy says, looking nervously over his shoulder. ‘Bloke’s a fuckin nutcase.’
They pass through the open fish market gates and out into a nuclear firestorm.
Hash buckles.
Wilts.
‘Jesus,’ he breathes, blood whistling up his body and out the top of his head. ‘Fuckin Fuck.’
He wants to speed across the toasted tarmac to the chippy like a barefoot child on hot sand.
But he can’t.
‘Lovely day eh? Ha ha ha,’ Foggy says. ‘Fancy goin to the beach?’
‘Fuck. Off.’
They head out across the road to the row of shops and step under a blue sign – Kristiaan’s fish and chip shop.
And into a hot wall of frying batter.
‘Oh, Jesus! Oh Jesus Fuckin! Fuck. Me.’
There is no other shaded option, the chip shop had never before had the need for air conditioning.
Hash shuffles up to the polished chrome counter, sucking in all the air he can find. He steadies himself beside the pickled eggs, swooning.
‘What y’want?’ Hash croaks at Foggy.
‘Tea.’
‘Tea? In this heat? Tea?’
‘Aye.’
Hash stares at him, then turns to the counter.
‘You’re fucked in the head.’
A lady looks at him from the other side of the chrome and glass cabinets full of fish and pies and battered pineapple and sausages.
‘A tea and a Coke, shit loads of ice,’ Hash croaks. ‘Please, Madge.’
She pauses, the chip basket in her hand – her face says; how does this blistered prick in the stupid hat know me name?
Hot fat drips through the basket’s metal wire.
‘Tea and a Coke?’ Hash pleads s
oftly, looking at Madge like a clubbed seal. ‘Please?’
‘Oh, oh? Hello Billy Brown,’ she sniggers, shaking the chips. ‘That's a nice tan. Been on y’holidays?’
Foggy grabs the drinks and relaxes his string bean body onto a plastic chair.
‘Y'been to hospital?’ Foggy asks, reaching for his green wrap of Golden Virginia and Rizla papers. He starts to roll a cigarette.
‘Nah. Just here.’
‘Even y’voice is fucked man, y’sound like y’been learnin to fuckin fire breathe. What the fuck?’
‘Fell asleep,’ Hash says, easing down into a chair. ‘On the boat.’
‘On the boat? Talbot’s boat?’ he glances towards The Gut. ‘What the fuck y’playin at, gettin on a boat with that psycho bastard? Y’get seasick on the fuckin pedaloes.’
Hash takes a sip of Foggy’s tea by mistake. It bites his tongue and jumps down his chin.
‘Fuck’s sake man!’ he splurts.
He drops it, the scorching tea spills onto the table and drips into his lap
‘Fuckin hell mate,’ Foggy says, lifting the cup and putting it back in its saucer. ‘Y’wanna get y’self away to bed. You’re a fuckin mess man.’
‘Listen Foggy,’ Hash says, leaving the tea to roll its way down his chin. ‘It's all fucked mate. Everythin. Fucked. Fucked!’
‘What?’
An elderly couple look over, disapproving of the language.
Foggy lights his ciggie.
‘There's no more gear, y’gonna have to live off y’dole money or find somewhere else.’
‘What?’ Foggy whispers and leans forward. ‘Y’fuckin jokin. There's a drought on man.’
He looks down at his chin. He picks a stray bit of tobacco from his lip.
Hash closes his eyes. Two tears roll.
‘Fuckin hell mate,’ Foggy says. ‘You cryin?’
Hash opens his mouth and takes in a full chest of chip shop air.
‘Fucked,’ he whispers.
He creaks up onto his feet like an old man’s erection.
‘Look. It's just the fuckin way it is.’
A white string of spit joins his lips like gum. More tears line up at their ducts.
‘It’s fuckin over. Over! Finished. Fucked!’
He turns and heads back to the iced safety of his stool and his new friend.
The dead fish.