Bucket Nut (2 page)

Milo won five Olympic titles, so I wouldn't sneer at his training methods if I were you. If Milo of Croton was anything like me, though, he would've ended up eating his calf with roast potatoes and lashings of gravy.

It isn't a good idea to think about roast potatoes when you're starving – not if you want to pass the next kebab house and get out of town without being caught in a borrowed motor.

I hate the country. When you get away from the town it's all dark and your headlights pick up corpses. You're always running over things that are already dead – hedgehogs, rabbits, foxes and things that have been squashed by so many cars you can't tell what they were. If it's got feathers, you know it was a bird, but otherwise it's anybody's guess.

Things stare at you with junky green eyes.

In the country, things are either dangerous or dead. People may not be much better than animals, but at least people don't leave other people dead on the roads. They take them away so that they don't have to get run over again and again. Just think what London would look like if everything that got run over was left where it lay.

And take the food.

I stopped at a chipper about thirty miles out of Frome. They were just shutting up shop when I got there and all they had left was a couple of mushy-pea fritters. Mushy-pea fritters! I ask you! I really do hate the country.

They tried to make me live in the country once. I was seven years old, and it was one of those fostering deals. They sent me off to live with this weird couple who had a big house in Cambridgeshire where they kept dogs and ponies and about five other kids. It was the sort of deal that made all the social workers misty-eyed and damp-knickered.

‘You'll love it, Eva,' they whinnied. ‘All that space to run around in. All the lovely grass and trees.'

In my opinion, social workers don't know obbly-onkers about city kids. Everybody went to bed at nine o'clock. There was nothing to do. The ponies had evil tempers. The dogs farted and had fleas and crapped
all over the ‘lovely grass'. And the weird couple were religious freaks who expected all the kids to ‘get along' with one another.

What makes people think that just because you're the same age as someone else you're going to get along? I mean the kind of kids who get fostered come from all over. They're nervous. Whatever kind of family you come from, you miss your home. There are kids who want to knock you about, kids who steal, kids who wet the bed, kids who set fires, kids who can't talk. And we're all supposed to get along, and be grateful for the grass and evil-tempered ponies.

Nature is supposed to be good for you. But it isn't. It bites, stings or poisons you at the drop of a hat. And besides, there are more birds in Trafalgar Square than ever I saw in the country – and that's counting all the dead ones in the road.

No. London's the place to be, and don't let anyone tell you different.

In London you can hustle. There's always a way to make a little biscuit – always somewhere to kip. It's best not to be too fussy about what or where, but if what you want is to get by, without too many folk asking questions, you can do it here.

If you're not stupid, that is. And I'm not stupid. A lot of people think I am – because I'm big. Big equals stupid, right? Well, anyone who thinks that is about as sharp as a golf ball.

And anyone who says it out loud to me gets a puffy kneecap.

I left the car at Waterloo and legged it home.

I had a home that year. And I had a proper job.

There was a chain-link fence with razor-wire curled in loops over the top of it. I got my keys out and undid the padlocks on the gate. As a precaution I whistled – wheee-yooooo. It was after midnight and the dogs would be hungry.

They hurled themselves out of the shadows, butting into my knees and thighs, slobbering.

‘Hello, Ramses,' I said. ‘Hello, Lineker.'

They were all right, as dogs go – but over-eager. They led the way to the shed, and I unlocked it. I mixed a couple of scoops of doggy-toast into the revolting meaty gunge they eat and stood back while they munched it up.

Then I picked up the torch and did my rounds.

It was a big place so a round took quite a long time. The best bit was the second-hand park because that was lit. All I had to do was check the fence and walk between the cars making sure no one was camping out on the back seats.

Then I walked round the sales room and offices, making sure all the doors were locked.

The worst part was the wrecker's yard. There was a big spotlight but the bulb was gone. I'd spoken to Mr Gambon about it three times, but he was a tight sod.

‘You've got plant there,' I told him. ‘Worth thousands. You've got parts and spares – mountains of them. A light bulb'd make my job easier.'

‘Lazy cow,' he said. Me! But I should've known better than to ask for something on the grounds it'd make my job easier. That's like giving them a licence to say ‘no'.

One of these days, I thought, I'd talk to the Owner about it. But since he moved out to Ongar I don't see much of him.

Lineker was snuffling in a pile of steel rods, but Ramses ran off to the perimeter fence. I took off after Ramses because he looked purposeful. I caught up in time to see him snap the hind-quarters off a big brown rat.

There were a couple of weak lights on the fence, and a sign which read Armour Protection. I don't know what Armour Protection is, or if it ever existed. The only protection that yard had, was me, Ramses and Lineker.

My house was a Static Holiday Van.

Sometimes, along with used cars and commercial vehicles the Owner buys second-hand caravans and mobile homes. My Static had spent most of its life at Poole Harbour in Dorset, and when the weather is damp, you can still smell brine and sea-mould in the furnishings.

I would prefer something with its own wheels because then, if the worst happened, I could simply hitch it on to a car and move my whole home. If you want to move a Static you have to hoist it onto a flat-bed, and you can't do it quickly.

But when the Owner employed me, the Static was all he had. And I had to admit, smell or no, it beat dung out of a hostel.

At the time, everything I owned could be stuffed in a carrier bag. After six months in the Static my possessions have expanded, but I'm still proud of the fact that in the event of a disaster I could be out of there, fully packed and ready for anything in ten minutes flat.

In fact, I'll tell you a secret – out of the things I carry at all times is a two-ounce tobacco tin, and in that tin is everything I need to make light, heat, food and take care of minor ailments. There are tallow-protected matches, a flat shaved candle, scalpel blades, wire, a flexible saw, waterproof plasters, needle and thread, aspirins, tea bags and chicken stock cubes. It is really amazing what you can get into a two-ounce tobacco tin if you are scientific.

I got the idea out of an SAS Survival Handbook. It makes me feel better, and I'd recommend it to anyone who regularly wakes up in the middle of the night anxious about floods, fire, nuclear fallout or homelessness. Take a tip from me – be prepared for the worst and you'll sleep better.

Nighttime is the worst time. I like to be out and doing something rather than lying alone in the dark trying to sleep. That's why being a night-watch-woman is such an ace job for me. I'm not supposed to go
to sleep, and if I want company there's always Ramses and Lineker, or a chat through the fence to some night-owl passerby.

I finished my rounds and then went to the Static for a little nosh. Someone had taped an envelope to the door. I opened it and, by torchlight, read the message. It was today's date, and the words –
Tomorrow, 6 p.m., Mr Cheng.

Mr Cheng doesn't waste words. Mr Cheng doesn't waste anything. He probably thinks I can't read and he's doing me a favour by writing short letters. He thinks anyone who isn't Chinese is stupid, and compared to Mr Cheng perhaps they are. I could fold him up and put him in my knapsack. But I wouldn't, because Mr Cheng doesn't take too kindly to liberties.

I put the note in my pocket and unlocked the door.

I was well-pleased. Whatever Mr Cheng wanted me to do it meant extra ackers tomorrow. Extra ackers are always welcome. This job gives me the basic – a roof and food – but if I want a bit of a stash and to get my teeth fixed I need extra. That's where the wrestling and Mr Cheng come in.

I left the Static door open to clear the whiff of sea-mould. To tell the truth, I was a bit whiffy myself. Because of that argy-bargy with Bombshell's boyfriend I hadn't had a wash in Turnip Town.

Harsh says a fighter should always be one hundred per cent strict about personal hygiene, so I pumped up the water and put two kettles full on the gas stove.

There is a water heater, but it is electric powered and I don't use electricity in the Static. If you use electricity you get electricity bills. The Static is hooked up to the mains and metered, but the one who reads the meter and decides what I should pay is Mr Gambon. And the first couple of months after I moved in were such a rip-off I decided not to use the sodding stuff. I've got torches and I've got gas. When I run out of gas I buy a new bottle, and when a battery runs down I buy another.

I'm in control. Right?

I had a wash, and I put on a clean tracksuit. Then I made a pot of tea and warmed up a couple of cans of stew. Harsh says I should eat green vegetables, but there were potatoes and carrot in the stew. They
may not be green but they are veg, so I reckoned they'd do. He also says I shouldn't eat white bread. But I don't like brown, especially the stuff with all the grain left in. Sometimes it hurts your teeth when you bite on it.

And sometimes I think Harsh is full of shit. Just about everything he tells me to do is hard work or tastes bad.

I compromised and ate two slices of white and two of brown.

While I ate I stared at my poster. The torch was propped so that the circle of light brought it up really nicely.
‘Eva Wylie',
it said,
‘The London Lassassin.'

In the picture I was facing right with my head turned towards the camera. I was wearing black and making a bicep. It was a pretty good bicep, though I say it myself who shouldn't.

‘Savage,' I said to myself, ‘really savage.'

It made me feel as if I was getting somewhere. It made me feel real.

After a while, though, I looked down at the saucepan. I shouldn't eat out of the pan, I know, but it's only me, so I do. The remains of the stew had hardened at the bottom, and somehow it reminded me of those dead foxes on the road after they had been pounded and flayed by car after car after car.

I wondered where the time had gone and I didn't feel so good any more. Time is like that sometimes – it seems to leapfrog over itself. It leaves you feeling lost.

Lineker was barking, so I shook myself and went out to see what was up.

Lineker is beautiful. He's all muscle. His hair is so short and shiny it looks like someone coloured him with a spray can. But his bark … it's sort of falsetto and hysterical – like the voice of a small red-headed man.

Ramses, on the other hand, is bow-legged and short-necked. He rarely barks, but when he does it's like a bass guitar – quite musical really, but sinister.

There were a couple of kids outside the fence poking sticks at Lineker. Lineker was going ape. But Ramses just stood in the shadows waiting.

If you see two boys together you see two people up to no good. That's a fact of life. I'd bet you a week's wages three-quarters of the
mischief in this world is done by males between the ages of eight and eighteen.

So what? As long as they don't do it on my patch I couldn't care less.

I said, ‘You're out late.' Nothing hasty, see. I could have run them off straight away, but I kept my relaxed mental attitude. They were people to talk to after all.

The lad with the stick stepped back from the fence. His mate said, ‘We was just talking to your dog.'

‘You want to watch him,' I said. ‘He's a bit vicious.'

‘My brother's got a Doberman,' the lad with the stick told no one in particular. His mate was squinting at me with a funny look on his face.

‘You ain't a man,' he said suddenly. ‘You're a bleedin' tart.'

‘Never!' his hoppo said.

‘Straight up.'

‘Godzilla!' He threw his stick at the fence, and they sprinted off into the night. Lineker went after them barking furiously.

‘Fuck off, gob fart!' I yelled.

It was a pity really. Since the police moved the girls from Mandala Street it's been a bit quiet on this corner. I'd be lucky if I spoke to another soul till the men came at seven-thirty and I opened up the yard.

The fellers don't talk to me much but they do respect me. They respect me for two reasons. One – I can handle the dogs. And two – there's been no thieving from the yard since I've been in charge. None at all.

And that's all I ask from people. A little respect. Credit where it's due.

I woke up at about two in the afternoon. Sunlight squeezed through the orange curtains and made the Static look as if it was on fire.

The giant crusher was pounding away and there was the usual sound of crashing and wrenching and men shouting at each other.

It's never too quiet to sleep in a wrecker's yard.

I got up quickly and rushed through my suppling routine.

I was going to visit my mum, and I had to get there before three.

If you want to talk to my mum while she's sensible that's the time to do it. She doesn't get up before one, and she's a complete rat-bag until she has her first drink. Then she has a couple of good hours and after that it's downhill all the way till she goes to sleep at about four in the morning.