We'll All Be Burnt in Our Beds Some Night Page 4

  Very well sir, Johnny says, very well. Youre the boss. Youre the man with the briefcase. It’s just, what I’m sayin is, it’s all bullshit. Alright? Are you listening? It’s lies. Filth. That’s the best way I can put it. She’s an evil liar. She’s a drug addict. She’s . . .

  She’s a drug addict?

  Yes, she is. Or she was then, two months ago. All of her life, on and off. So I assumes she still is. I mean, things were different when we first . . . Why? What’s that got to do with anything?

  It’s a means of discrediting her testimony. And without that . . . was she . . . ahhh . . . did you mention . . . using drugs on the day you were arrested?

  My God man, how many times . . . yes, she was sweatin it out of her pores, that’s what I’ve been tellin ya. You coulda wrung her ponytail out into a pipe and got all of Buckmaster’s Circle wrecked until Labour Day. Haul a paper across her twat and . . .

  Well okay, good. I mean not good, of course. But good for us.

  Well you already says before that they’re gonna question me about my drug use. So fuck it. Yeah, fuck it, why not. Especially if it gets me off the hook.

  Reeves gives Johnny a sly look then, ever so briefly, a flicker over the top of his papers. Like he knows something that Johnny dont. Like he already knows in advance that there’s no way Johnny is walkin away from this one. Funny that is, how fellas can talk you blue in the face, all these words and gestures and the imparting of information and such, but then they can give it all away in one tiny minuscule passing glance like that. He knows something that he’s not tellin. Or maybe Johnny’s gettin paranoid. Or maybe he knows something that Johnny dont. That he’s not fucken tellin.

  Do you know something that I dont know? That maybe I should know?

  Pardon?

  You heard me. Are we on the level here? Am I walkin aboard a ship that sunk yesterday? Am I? Be straight with me, cause if I finds out youre fucken . . .

  Mr Keough, please, the outbursts, they wont help.

  Reeves lets out this long dramatic weary sigh and Johnny almost feels sorry for the scrawny skin-and-bones little knob. Come on, sometimes you gotta wonder what home life must be like for fellas like that.

  Be straight with me, Johnny says again.

  Is your father, your biological father, is he Steven Puddester? Stevie the Scar?

  Ahhh . . . well . . . well yes, yes he is. Why? What’s that got . . .

  Serving life without parole?

  Yes . . . well . . . yes he is . . . but he’s . . .

  First-degree homicide?

  Jesus. I mean, how do I answer that? Yes he’s in jail, yes that’s what he’s in jail for. But he’s there in the wrong, see. He’s not supposed to be there. He never done it. Just cause he had a record . . . What’s that got to do with me and my case? Come on man!

  And do you also go by the same nickname? Johnny the Scar?

  What? What the fuck are you on about man? That’s some whopper aint it? Where in the name of Christ did you hear that?

  That’s information I’ve picked up Mr Keough. But if youre telling me that’s not the case, then that’s enough . . .

  Fucken right man, what do you think I’m off me head? I mean yes he’s me father and yes he’s doing time . . . but I’m my own man here you know . . .

  Okay. Fair enough. I dont think it’s going to be an issue. I dont believe it’s admissible during the trial. I’ll have to double-check . . .

  What do you mean you’ll have to double-check? Youre a fucken lawyer aint ya?

  Yes, well, I’m reaching here Mr Keough, because I’m still more than a little baffled that you made bail, that you didnt even have a bail hearing . . .

  Look. I knows what youre thinkin. Okay? So choose your words wisely before you goes accusing me of anything like that.

  I’m not. I’m not Mr Keough. It’s nothing . . .

  What difference does it make to you to know why I made bail anyhow? Maybe the prosecutor had a soft spot for me. Ever think of that? Could be any number of reasons. Maybe they just were hoping I’d fuck up my conditions and knew that I’d be definitely going down then when I did. Make their case that much easier. Cause they havent really got nothing on me without . . . without. I mean, what odds? It looks that much better dont it? Say I comes up against a different judge for some reason and they sees that I wasnt deemed a flight risk or a danger to the victim, and that I abided the conditions . . .

  Of course, youre right of course. We’ll move on.

  Reeves with a little bronze key opening the drawer to his desk. He slips a package of peppermint knobs into his lap. He tries to pull one out of the bag but they’re all stuck together in one congealed glob. Johnny snatches the bag away from Reeves and slams it down onto the face of the desk between them and the candy shatters like glass, and slivers and dust spray across the floor. Reeves says nothing, reaches into the bag and pulls out a jagged little pink piece of candy shaped kinda like a baseball cap with the peak cut off. He pops it in his mouth, slides the bag towards Johnny, then leans back in his chair. Johnny eyes the bag of candy then slowly reaches out for one. He selects a piece that doesnt resemble much other than smashed stale candy. Reeves shifts the hunk of peppermint from one cheek to the other, gawps drearily at Johnny.

  When did you get those teardrops? Are they new?

  They were new three years ago.

  Arent they supposed to represent . . .

  Yeah, yeah . . . that’s all bullshit.

  Can you conceal them somehow? Some sort of makeup?

  No. I cant.

  And these are the two teardrops Johnny had tattooed, one under each eye, down at HMP during a stint for trespassing and breaches. Christ. I cant say what was going through my head. Pills most likely. No regrets anyhow, no regrets. Fuck it. Not like you can see em clearly from across a room or nothing.

  They each sits there then for a while, Johnny leant right back in his chair, suckin his peppermint, gawkin at the cheap ceiling tiles. Reeves leant in close across his desk, staring right straight at Johnny, who feels like smashin him now, his smug moustache, the sunken eye sockets. Briefcase. But it’s not his fault. No. Not his fault. It’s hers. Or maybe it is Johnny’s fault. Your fault Johnny. Mine. Alright? My fucken fault. My fault for takin up with her. Christ. Johnny’s fault for going in for that sort of skirt. Johnny’s fault for being too fucken pussy-whipped to be able to see clearly enough that he was bedding down with a goddamn . . . with . . . with a bloody deviant. I dont know. I dont know. She’s not. She’s not. She’s just Madonna. She’s just a girl that turned, got scared, got talked into talkin. And she’ll show up in court lookin like she do, prolly wear that pink thing she’s got, and do her eyes that way she does em. That’s Johnny then, done for. As good as gone. But Johnny aint done for now is he? Not yet. No not yet. What have they got on him? Just, just . . . ahh fuck it.

  What about the fact that I aint been in no trouble in a while? It was over a year since I had any run-ins before all this.

  Well we can certainly make a valid claim that youve been attempting to get yourself on a better path, but . . .

  Well what about this business with the fire then? Supposed to be some sort of ceremony next month. Supposed to be giving me a medal for fucken bravery.

  Yes. Yes. That wont hurt at all. That’s certainly crossed my mind. We could argue that you were under ahhh . . . emotional duress, stress, like a sort of PTSD situation after the fire incident and that may have contributed to . . .

  Naw man, that’s not what I mean, that’s pretty much comin out and sayin that I clobbered her. What I mean is, cant we use the whole fire story as a kind of testament to my, you know, me character or something?

  Well yes, yes. I suppose we could. But I’m more than a little curious about your youth record as well, Mr Keough, because given the circumstances . . .

  What about it?

  Well, it’s quite varied and lengthy . . . destruction of property . . . ahhh . . . theft over five thousand . . .
indecent exposure . . .

  I shook my cock at some party! Come on, it was a party. Crowd there from the university. There was fellas there too, not like I cornered some little girl and shook it at her.

  . . . unlawful entry, arson . . . countless disturbing the peace . . .

  Well how can they bring that stuff up?

  And I’ve heard, I mean there’s obviously no report, but I heard about some chickens, your neighbour’s chickens?

  Who told you that? That’s not . . . no no no. Listen . . .

  Did you kill someone’s chickens?

  There was never any charges for them fucken hens . . .

  Regardless, Mr Keough, even if they dont go back that far, the adult record alone . . . three petty thefts, possession, assault . . . break and enter . . .

  Jesus H. Christ Johnny man, will it never cease? How many times do Johnny have to explain that fucken hen story? Never even any charges and still it rears its head. And how many times with the story about that party in the Goulds with that uppity university crowd carrying on like that until you had no choice but to whip it out? Indecent exposure? Sure I was barely fifteen! Pius and his jeezly Cavalier too. Course I fucken burnt it, no question. But it’s not like I set out to burn it. Arson? Christ.

  Okay. Okay. Listen Mr Reeves, what am I lookin at here? I mean, what’s the likelihood I’ll be walkin away from this? And if not, what kind of time, realistically, am I lookin at?

  If you do go down, youre looking at three to five. We talked about this. The Crown will push for the maximum.

  So I’m going down, for sure . . . ?

  Well Mr Keough, I’m not in a position to offer false hope, so I wont.

  So there’s absolutely no chance I’ll get two-years-less. No chance it’ll go provincial.

  We’re building as strong a case as we can. This incident on Barter’s Hill, with the ahhh . . . fire, and the fact you havent had any trouble in a while, they’ll take all that into account. Meantime, keep your nose clean, abide the conditions of your curfew, sign in on time . . .

  Yeah, yeah.

  Well it cant hurt to be seen as having obeyed the court orders . . .

  That’s what I said to you! Look, be fucken straight with me, alright? Cant you . . .

  The bruises, the photos, the cut on her head, police notes, your record, her testimony, your father’s reputation. Come on Johnny, do the math!

  What’s that? What did you say?

  I said do the math.

  No, you called me Johnny. That’s the first time you said my name. In four weeks.

  He just stares at Johnny then, with that shell-shocked expression. Like he’s surprised suddenly that he’s sharing the same breathing space with another human.

  Cause that’s what we are, all of us, humans.

  Even Johnny.

  3

  It’s a funny concept though, an odd notion, Shiner goes, in a way, when you thinks about it. I mean, lookit Johnny, here we are being policed right? There’s people out there, other people, with blood coursing through their veins and hair growing out of their heads, with dicks and pussies and fingernails and brains and hearts and such, all the same makeup as you and me here Johnny, and they’re specifically trained to police us. They’re policing us. Us! I mean, think about it for a second. Not to say that I dont believe in right and wrong, but who gets to pick and choose who’s who, that’s what I’m most concerned about right here and now. Who gets to pick and choose? Cause when you thinks about it Johnny, most of us never had a fightin chance, did we? I mean, it’s a goddamn bloody miracle when you thinks about it, how ones like us, with the shit kicked out of us from day one, can sit around the table here now and carry on a decent and sensible conversation. Think about it. None of us ever had a fightin chance. Look at the shitheap youre in tonight. Yeah. They’re policing us, they’re on patrol, monitoring our actions, how we gets on with other people, where we’re off to and how we’re gettin back, keepin watch over how we’re gettin by. Alarming isnt it?

  This is Shiner going on. Night before court and Johnny thought he’d kill his last free hour, before curfew kicks in, listening to fucken Shiner yammering on about the ways of the world, how it’s put together. As if none of the rest of us knows nothing about it. That’s the thing about the blow, it’s the best kind if youre the one running your mouth off. Oh he’s a smart enough fella, Shiner, just when he gets a few lines in he gets all wound up like he’s suddenly after uncovering some huge conspiracy and now feels he has the responsibility to fill the rest of us in. Shiner. Spose Johnny coulda picked worse company tonight.

  The ashtray rattles on the table when what sounds like a big beefy pickup rumbles down the street outside. Some rigger’s cock extension most likely. The flash of the headlights on the kitchen wall. Shiner darts over to the window to see who it is. He stands there gawping through the ratty curtains, breathing through his teeth, then he whips back across the room and slumps back into the chair across from me.

  I mean, think about it Johnny my son. Here you are, never done nothing, best kind of a fella, going at it clean as a whistle, for the most part, hunkered down all nice and cozy, pulling old folks out of burning buildings, turning a new leaf, as they says, and the missus gets it in her head to go running to the cops about you. And for what, right?

  Shiner’s after shaving his goatee and he looks older somehow. Aged. And with the weight gone off his face these days too, he looks kinda apish. Really though, he looks like an ape with his chin jutted out like that and his bottom lip almost lapping up over his squat little nose. Toss that in with the way he hunches about and there you have it, the Missing Link. Yeah, it’s an odd thing, facial hair. Johnny wouldna recognized him if he’da run into him downtown somewhere. Christ, remember Shiner had the massive beard years back, braids in it and everything, useta pull joints of weed out of it. Everyone calling him Moses on the sly.

  And for what Johnny my son? Youre what, twenty-two, twenty-three fucken years old? Whole life ahead of you. Who’s to say you wasnt gonna straighten yourself right out? Everybody’s entitled to a few rough-and-tumble years, arsing shit up and gettin in a bit of trouble, having fun. It’s not right is it? They just looks at who you are, that’s all. And they sees who your father is and that’s you fucked. Same way it was for me back in high school—the older brother gave the teachers fucken hell years before I showed up but they went and tarred me with the same brush. I never had a goddamn prayer. And that’s what’s going on with you, cause of your old man. And like I said, your old man is a good man, a good man. Done me a solid on the inside. It’s not right. Cops rolling up and snatching you, roughing you up and mocking you, slappin all kinds of bullshit conditions on you, puttin you on a curfew like you were some kinda youngster, and then they runs and tells the goddamn judge on you! And what’s he gonna do? He’s gonna fucken judge you? He’s gonna listen to everybody else’s side of the story and then he’s gonna pass judgment on you. And he dont know nothing about you. I mean, it’s not like he can see how you are here and now sitting at my kitchen table good as gold and not hardly making a peep. And youre prolly gonna be gettin a goddamn medal for fuck sakes! That’s how best kind you are. And even without all that hype, sure, there’s lots of other things. Remember that time you helped what’s his name with that couch? How’s that hit you by the way? Feelin it yet?

  Ahhh . . . yeah, spose I am.

  This is a couple of low-dose perks Shiner hooked Johnny up with about a half hour ago. Johnny’s just now feelin it in the knees, that dizzy shaky burning in the joints. That’s where it always hits first, the knees.

  Shiner’s bell goes off, one long and three short. Someone lookin to score. Shiner walks over to the window and looks down to the street. He snatches his little bag of goodies off the table and brings em back to the window. He holds up the bag and dangles it at whoever’s down on the street below.

  Fuck you Penny, he shouts down. Fuck you. Six hundred bucks.

  Come on Shiner man, I told yo
u . . .

  Fuck you. Six hundred bucks.

  Shiner snaps the blind closed and ape-swaggers back to the table. He’s lanky and gaunt from all the dope, but with this sorta funny-lookin potbelly poking out, like them pictures of starving youngsters you sees in magazines. As soon as he’s sat down the bell goes off again. He jumps up and goes for the stairs. Johnny can hear him talkin real low and menacing down there. Must be young Rodney. Johnny dont even try and make out what they’re sayin. Couldnt care less. Nothing new around these parts. Technically youre not even supposed to be here Johnny my son, not supposed to be in the same company as anyone else with a record. But fuck it. They’re watchin Shiner, they’re watchin Johnny, fuck it. They’re watchin the whole goddamn street, watchin the whole fucken planet from some space station out there. They can zone right in to watch you humpin your pillow in the nights. Perverts. Fuck it Johnny. Get on home before curfew and keep the fingers crossed that Shiner’s gonna offer another few perks for to take in the morning before the showdown. Why the shit not? Wouldnt be the first time some jailbird was fried in court. Walk in in a big jellied haze and get carted down for processing and by the time you comes around youre on the bus and it’s all over, the waiting. Plus it’ll keep our John-John from losing the cool in court. Cause youre going down, and ya fucken knows it Johnny. And the last thing you wants to give her is the satisfaction of seeing you losin the cool. So, a nice buzz on, float through like nobody’s business. No room left for meltdowns Johnny boy! Three to five. Fuck though, what has he to worry about? Really? If he dont care about gettin smashed and banged around a bit, then what odds is it? What fucken difference does any of it make? Who cares if someone jumps him? Who gives a fuck? No one. Not Johnny. But if they thinks he’s not gonna come back at em, sometime, no matter how big and hard they are. He’s hardly gonna go up there strutting like the bigshot or nothing, but there’s no way he’s gettin run over neither. Fuck that.