(Continued from last week. Where we left Jimmy in the van with ‘The Driver’)
“Don't let things get you down.”
So, the reason Jimmy returned to face Pop’s barbed wit, time after time. Was because, when it came to knocking a man senseless, the old man knew his onions.
“Hello?”
Coming round, Jimmy saw the Driver staring at him, quite intently:
“Sorry?”
The Driver sighed: “Don’t let things get on top of you. All right?"
Jimmy nodded but the adult’s gaze seemed to demand a verbal confirmation and since it was no skin off the Paperboy’s arse…
“No.”
“Swear?”
Jimmy, who had no intention of letting anything get on top of him, was beginning to find it all a bit weird. Nonetheless he nodded. Once again though, it appeared that only verbalisation would do.
“Yeah.”
“Yeah what?”
“I swear.”
“What?”
The Driver seemed to be as mad as a hatter, yet Jimmy felt an unfamiliar regard for him. It was, much to the teenager’s surprise, a sense of respect.
“I swear not to let things get on top of me.”
Thankfully, it was then that Albert’s rather incongruous red Ford Capri turned into the side street and parked opposite the shop. Dressed in shirt, slacks and slippers, the newsagent climbed out and waddled round to the passenger door. From the van, they watched as Albert helped his peroxide blonde and inappropriately dressed wife, out of the passenger seat and cross the road. On spotting them, Albert’s wave was a combination of apology and impatient beckoning. Jimmy reached for the door but The Driver put a hand on his shoulder-
“Give them a minute.”
The boy found the Capri’s arrival most timely as he’d feared the Driver was about to say something weird. While he had no sense of the geezer being a poof, something was troubling him and the relief of being spared whatever that might have been, came as a huge relief. By the time they entered the shop Albert was sporting a dry shirt and an expression that suggested questions would not be appreciated…
The following Sunday, while Jimmy’s bag was heavier than usual, his heart was considerably lighter. This was because, on entering Albert’s kingdom that morning, the shopkeeper had lit a cigarette and nodded at a bin-liner. It sat beside the bulging canvas bag containing the Paperboy’s workload. Jimmy eyed it with irritation. His Sunday round was ridiculous enough without this fat fucker adding to it. Picking up on Jimmy’s annoyance, Albert clarified matters. Or at least, tried:
“Bobby dropped it off last night.”
Jimmy was none the wiser. The Newsagent took another lug on his fag: “Van driver you’ve been working with for the last fucking year.”
“Oh...”
Watching the boy’s cautious approach to the bag Albert remarked:
“Ain’t a bomb. He’s not Paddy!”
“I am.”
Albert’s grin was replaced by a look of embarrassment tinged with distrust. Jimmy was unsure what possessed him to declare himself a Celt as he certainly wasn’t. Not as far as he was concerned anyway. If it was just to get up the fat bastard’s nose. It had worked. After casually hoisting the sack onto his shoulder, an effort that almost killed him, Jimmy scooped up the plastic bag and breezed out. On his return, Banana Nesquik’s presence deterred mention of the gift from The Driver but as the following day was Monday, he could bypass talking to Albert and just thank the man directly.
Once home, Jimmy studied his windfall and couldn’t believe his luck. Along with the first eight editions of The Amazing Spider-Man and issues 50 through to 62, the bin-liner contained the much sought-after Amazing Tales 15. All he noted, in perfect condition. Added to which, was the entire Silver Surfer collection and while this equated to only eighteen editions, it included various Fantastic Fours in which Old Introspective featured. Full, no doubt, of him flying around on that board — thinking. This held no appeal to Jimmy as he did quite enough of that- himself.
He already had a few of the Spider-Mans, including number 3 but while those on the bed were encased in clear plastic covers and looked unread, his were scattered around the room, looking very shoddy. Included in the bonanza were few Bat and Supermans and while not a fan of either, or DC Comics period, he suspected they might be worth a few bob. The more he examined his windfall two things sunk in. The first was that he’d not been collecting comics so much as haphazardly accumulating them. Armed with the understanding that pristine condition was essential, he began sifting through the forty-odd Spider-Mans he owned and found that only twelve passed muster. Jimmy’s second realisation, was that this was the kindest thing anyone had for him and he spent the evening trying to work out why The Driver. Jimmy felt he ought to think of him as Bobby- why Bobby had done it. Yet, try as he might, the former junior swimming champion, came up with nothing.
Monday morning found Albert descending the stairs, gripping the banister with one hand and a cup of tea in the other. He was looking forward to his few minutes of solitude but as he turned on the light, found himself startled by a figure lurking at the shop’s door. The Newsagent reached for the truncheon he kept hidden under the counter but panic rendered him unable to locate it. The mysterious waved and as Albert’s eyes adjusted, he realised it was Jimmy. It had come as no surprise to learn this one was a Paddy. His barmy mother wasn’t though so why Balantyne? That, Albert was sure, was a nice Scottish name. It may have been a quandary but not one half as pressing as to why the kid was so early.
The answer arrived, along with the returns van. Fifteen minutes later, as the Newsagent noted Jimmy’s disappointment over the new driver, not that he was overjoyed himself, at the sight of a big blackman striding into his shop. As The Nesquiks had arrived by then, Jimmy postponed his enquires until after work…
“He passed out last week.”
“Where? Is he in hospital or something?”
Jimmy’s heart filled with remorse. All that about not letting things get on top of him suddenly made sense. That poor fucker he knew, Bobby knew… he was dying.
Jimmy's lip began to tremble. Albert sighed:
“Finished the Knowledge.”
The kid’s face went blank. Jesus Christ, these bogtrotters come over here, don’t know a thing about how we live. Albert sighed-heavily:
“Means he’s a cab driver now. Popped that round Saturday.”
“Oh, that’s all right. I thought...”
“What was in it?”
“Comics.”
The boy’s response caused the skin around Albert’s eyes to twitch.
“What?”
The Newsagent shook his head and lit another fag. Why couldn’t it be one of the other two? They were nice and normal. Everything about this one- wasn’t. He hardly spoke but when he did it was always to say something awkward. Albert didn’t want to talk about it. The Newsagent found life hard enough, without having to recall that sort of thing. Jimmy, on the other hand, wanted an answer-
“What, Albert?”
The fat man suddenly realised that, despite being younger than the other two, this one was taller and possesed a feral quality Albert had previously failed to detect. On doing so, he became quite nervous and his mind suddenly filled with the vision of Jimmy leaping the counter and biting a chunk out of his face. Albert’s palm reached for the jowl he’d imagined being ripped away. As he did so, he took an inadvertent backward step and trod on a box of Curly Wurleys. That was new stock and, while trying to assure himself it didn't matter, he was also trying to keep at bay, all the lewd comments Janice made about this kid. All that mental effort was simply too much… Albert cracked;
“Must have been his brother’s. Was younger... died.”
“Died? How?”
“I don't fucking know, do I.”
This hissy fit was down to his knowing full well but the recollection of how summoned a very painful self-realisation, one Albert had no desire to be reminded of… It had been three years earlier that Bobby had unexpectedly broke down right there in the shop. Albert, sensing some juicy gossip, had locked the shop’s door and led him upstairs. Moments later, Janice entered from the tiny kitchen, her hands covered in the ill-fitting rubber gloves used for cleaning its floor. She’d stood behind her husband as they stared at the sofa, where Bobby sat, sobbing his heart out. Albert, having never witnessed such grief, suddenly found himself overcome by an intense jealousy. He’d never cared that much about another human being and in that moment, realised that he never would…
Jimmy’s persistence was rewarded with the discovery that Bobby’s younger brother was sixteen when he’d taken the bus from the Angel to Archway, walked up the hill and jumped from “Suicide Bridge”. With Christmas looming, the Paperboy hung on in hope of tips and, though these duly arrived, he’d been surprised to discover that the most generous, came not from the posh houses making up the bulk of his route, but the few council dwellings that littered it. The Driver had gone and with him, Jimmy’s heart for the job. On hearing about work on Oxford Street from a boy at school, he gave Albert notice and purchased a record player with the tip money. It had been a toss-up between that and a telly but on going to the DER rental shop, they’d informed he was too young to sign the contract. Jimmy offered to lie and they’d laughed in the misguided belief, that he was joking.
Then, Dear Mother unexpectedly relented and got them a portable black and white, the only drawback being that it was kept in her room and she was very dictatorial over what they watched. They shared a love for the American TV detectives Rockford and Colombo. Along with the British one ‘Frank Marker Public Eye’.
No Net Curtains
On hearing the collection’s valuation the first thing Jimmy had considered buying was a footballer. He could get a pretty good one with fifty grand. He’d have him standing in the corner of the room doing fuck all, which wouldn’t be too different from what most did on the pitch each week. Especially, he’d observed, on the rare instances of his bothering to watch, those playing for Millwall.
For a couple of months he’d been at a total loss as to how to utilise his capital. He was determined not to squander it. After all, how often was fifty grand going to jump up and attach itself to him? Leaving the comics to appreciate wasn’t such a bad idea but instinct urged Jimmy to find a way of working his windfall. He’d briefly considered buying his own stock but laying out fifty thousand pounds on snide perfume seemed insane and he couldn’t buy less, due to the fear of flittering. Jimmy could quite easily blow a grand on shirts in Antiquarius on Kings Road. Truth was, he harboured fears of doing the lot on clobber. A fool and his money…
Fuck that. The thing about spivving, as he saw it, was that while people made a bit of money, some lots, there were better ways of making more. Much more. The trouble was, he didn't have a clue what these might be. At least that was, until “it happened” and that fifty grand — which he suspected, when push came to shove would be closer to forty-five — became cash he had plans for. Big plans at that.
The event in question, too place a fortnight earlier when, due to circumstances beyond his control. He had the misfortune of finding himself in Camden Town. En route to work, the Oxo’s arrival was greeted with an announcement there that, there would be no further southbound service. This was due to a bomb scare at Euston. Out on Camden High Street Jimmy felt it unlikely he’d be subject to an IRA attack as half those wandering around, and all those staggering, were Irish. Despite their fondness for blowing the city up, the teenager had a soft spot for this mob. Though the boy considered his father American, the man himself had been insistent he was Irish and further, that Jimmy was too. The kid knew that was bollocks and booze on the man’s breath inclined him to feel the same in respect to the declarations of love and tears being shed. The Irish question along with another, more exotic aspect of his ethnicity, were not subjects he could broach with Dear Mother as she’d fly off into a tirade at the very mention of his father. Jimmy recollected his dad being carted off by the police and his mother, an ambulance crew. It was a debt he had long since sworn to repay but America was a long way away and New York a big city. Even bigger when all had one to go on was a ten-year-old letter with a smudged address.
Jimmy had enough cash tucked away to get over there but resented spending it on a man who beat up women. There was plenty of time. Pain though she was, Dear Mother was just that: his mother. The Former Junior Swimming Champion’s moral compass may have been askew but the way he booked it, at least he had one. It encompassed a pathological revulsion for those maltreating women, animals or children. This included any form of molestation. You could murder a man but don’t be kicking any dogs. Or come to that, women or children either…
As far as Jimmy was concerned, the greatest attribute Camden Town possessed was the abundance of escape routes out of it. He was standing at one when he spotted a black kid known as Psycho, across the street. Of late, this bright spark had been telling anyone who’d stand still long enough, what he was going to do to Jimmy Balantyne when he caught him, the gist of which being: stab him. While not entirly sure what this was over, Jimmy suspected it probably had something to do with a girl. It usually did. All those cheered by Psycho’s proclamations though, were in for a false dawn. This geezer wasn’t going to stab Jimmy and they both knew it. Had he been sure the only mates Balantyne had were those posh kids from Hampstead, it’d have been open season but Psycho knew about Nolte. So, there on that crowded street, each played the game. Its rules consisted of Jimmy turning and feigning interest in the nearest shop window while Psycho pretended not to have seen him. A trick harder than it may sound as, against a backdrop of denim, Jimmy sported a florescent pink bowling shirt, sky blue pegs, white Sailor’s shoes and lime green socks.
He'd gone through this before with numerous other tough guys. The dance was private and not for the consumption of the Walking Dull. This was Jimmy’s term for those who, though still in the full bloom of youth, were already living their lives through the exploits of others. The nearest window, in this instance, was that of an estate agents and though semi-sure no attack was forthcoming, Jimmy wasn’t stupid. If one were to arise from a kid of this calibre, it’d come from behind. Hence an eye was kept on Psycho’s reflection as it passed the art deco ABC Bakery. A minute later Jimmy glanced to the right to view the hard case approaching the station which meant, unlesss he was travelling Northbound, he’d be walking back within seconds. Prudence dictated that The Former Junior Swimming Champ toddled along to the next stop, as ignoring Jimmy once, was something Psycho could live with but twice? That might be a problem.
If it was, it wouldn’t be the only one, because Jimmy wasn’t moving. This stance wasn’t down to a sudden desire for confrontation but that fact that he’d become transfixed by the estate agents window. According to which, armed with fifty grand, Jimmy could purchase not one but two, three bed-roomed houses around there, and still have change. Not that he would of course, it was a shithole.
However, for a kid who’d never owned more that a few discarded rags and a comic collection, the concept of possessing something so substantial, was mind-blowing. He’d imagined things like houses to cost…more. If he got one he wouldn’t have to pay rent and if he didn’t have to do that, he wouldn’t have to work and if he didn’t have to work. Then reality reared its ugly head with the realisation he’d need money for going out with Ginger and buying clothes and suchlike. Mind you, if the place was big or nice enough, he could rent parts out. Jimmy was euphoric as he’d found a way of avoiding…life. Any doubt over property ownership was instantly dispelled by dint of it being the last thing Dear Mother would do. Making it, by default, a shrewd move. He was determined not to end up like her, living hand to mouth and bitterly resenting all those who didn’t.
While Dingwalls Market up in Camden Lock was growing by the week and he foresaw it spreading down Chalk Farm Road towards Camden Town, Jimmy wasn’t banking on it bringing the area up. Judging by the deadbeats it attracted now, all that would do, was drag the gaff down further. Despite the concept of property investment being barely a minute old, he knew that the bricks and mortar featured in the window, were not for him. He may not have known exactly what was but instinct told him a house on a street full of other houses, adjacent to another road with more of the same, wasn’t it. His fantasy was a structure in which every inch generated income, in an area that did the same. What the former paperboy wanted was something somewhere he'd not only fall in love with (he adored the Old Kent Road but wasn’t interested in owning any of it) but that would soar in value. While realising nothing was going to yield the profits Spider-Man had, he was electrified by the prospect of discovering Spidey’s property equivalent. Where the fuck though, was he going to find that, in London in 1975? It was impossible…
Areas “came up”. Islington was proof of that. Previously unwanted properties were now gold mines. Jimmy knew this, due to Dear Mother dating a bloke called Danny a year or so back. Danny being what was known as a property developer. He’d driven a Jag, smoked cigars and supported Arsenal. Jimmy thought he was the bee’s knees as the Developer was forever cracking gags and slipping him fivers. Beside his attributes of good looks and being as quick of wit as he was with cash, Danny possessed another asset. This being, a big cock.
Jimmy’s blissful ignorance of which, came to an abrupt end one morning over a breakfast of sardines on toasted Cranks bread. Dear Mother, on stepping into the tiny kitchen to mash a second tin into the olive oil/garlic mix, began banging on about what a relief it was when they had a “big one”. She’d turned and mistaken her son’s expression of abhorrence, for one of concern:
“Oh, you’ve got nothing to worry about in that department. Shame they don’t hand out O Levels for it.”
For want of distraction, Jimmy took some toast and spread it with an excessive amount of butter. Without which, there was every chance it may have stuck in his throat and choked him. Dear Mother, on returning to the table, eyed his butter intake with disapproval:
“That’ll put fat around your heart. Kill you in a few years.”
It was a lot of butter and he was about to scrape some off, when:
“Didn’t inherit it from your Old Man. I can assure you of that.”
To ensure he got her drift she nodded towards his groin. Jimmy, in an attempt to rapidly fast-forward the effects of a lethal butter overdose, thrust his crust into the silver-foiled pack, scooped out a mountain of poison and stuffed it into his mouth. Dear Mother’s response was to sigh and shake her head in genuine bewilderment.
Despite Danny’s seemingly endless positives, Jimmy knew it’d end badly. They all did, but in this instance he could predict exactly why. Then again, what with Danny being a Jew and Dear Mother a raving anti-Semite, it wasn’t exactly difficult to work out. A warning bell sounded when she began making references to his talking about money. It seemed that while she had no objection to him spending the stuff, his mentioning it, was deemed garish:
“All he talks about is work and making money.”
As both topics intrigued Jimmy, he couldn’t see what her objection was but the fact that it had been aired, indicated Danny’s days, and nights, were now numbered. As instinct and intuition were all Jimmy possessed, any livelihood where they might be beneficial interested him, and Danny’s, seemed a prime example. That being so, there was a question he’d been meaning to ask and now realised he’d best get to it, sooner rather than later. So, a few nights on, while awaiting Mater’s return from the pond, Jimmy casually enquired:
“What are the signs then, of an area coming up?”
Since it was a question he imagined Danny having been asked or, of having asked himself, a million times, the contemplation of it was very frustrating. Dear Mother didn’t subscribe to the letting them down gently school and was capable of walking in and telling him to fuck off. She wouldn’t say fuck off. At least, not initially.
“No net curtains.”
Before he could expand, Dear Mother returned and within an hour Danny had been expelled. He was the only one Jimmy ever missed.
You're Both
Consuela had called and excitedly instructed Dear Mother to watch, and on his return, she’d insisted Jimmy did the same. The problem was that, on passing Acland Burghley Youth Centre moments earlier, he’d seen a game was about to start and he was keen to get changed for it. With a Samba on one foot and a Converse on the other, he wasn’t really focused on the evening news. How could he, with a decision of that magnitude weighing so heavily? There was something about the laces on the Samba that just didn’t…
“Look! Look!”
Jimmy turned to the screen to see it filled by a selection of mug shots, with Hector’s in the top right hand corner. Trouble was, with the trainer or rather lace quandary, still being uppermost, he’d absent-mindedly mentioned that they all looked a bit bedraggled. Dear Mother stared at him in a combination of confusion and contempt:
“So would you if you'd been tortured for months, you facile moron.”
On banishing him from her room she’d added, rather caustically,
“Shouldn’t you be selling frying pans or something somewhere?”
While she was well versed in looking down her nose at how he earned his money, this didn’t extend to turning it up, when it came to accepting it. She’d proceeded to blank him for a couple of days but was far too preoccupied with the surprise party they were arranging for Consuela, to put any effort into making his life difficult.
There had been no word on Hector’s release but it was felt highly unlikely the junta would ‘disappear’ him, after his being seen on TV. Especially, as it was on BBC. The Pondites didn’t really trust ITV. Given the elation around that and the excitement of the party, Jimmy was surprised to arrive back one evening to find Consuela, gently sobbing on the living room sofa. His conclusion must have been evident as both she and Dear Mother had shaken their heads. Great but if it wasn’t Hector, what was it? On Consuela's nodding to Dear Mother, he found out:
“Do you know someone called Podgy Patterson?”
He did and had never taken to the kid but Podgy was so nondescript there wasn’t much to take against either. Or there hadn’t been until his mother began talking and the beautiful Consuela, began wailing. Jimmy’s mistrust of Patterson wasn’t down to the envy he emanated but rather, his sly eyes. Podgy’s pathology might best be exemplified by his inability to play football. A lack of skill with a ball is, in and of itself, of no significance but Podgy’s manner of dealing with the problem, well that, that was hugely telling… Rather than accepting he was shit and going in goal like the other fat kids, Podgy Patterson quietly chose to view himself above not only the game of football but, in fact, those who played it. Puberty came late for him and by the time it did, fuelled by fear of risk, his nonparticipation was no longer restricted to sport. By then, any form of direct competition with other males was out of the question. This meant that while the other boys around the flats were playing football and getting involved in minor gang fights, Podgy was knocking about with girls. Not those of his own age but a couple of years younger. Hence, the next few years of years of his life were spent in endless debate over David Cassidy, Donny Osmond and his favourite, Michael Jackson. That was Podgy you see - edgy.
Masked by, and combined with, a faux-sensitivity, Patterson's raging insecurity presented as a somewhat bewildering smugness. As pleased as he was for having carefully and, he felt, cleverly, avoided the seemingly pointless rough and tumble that made up a boy’s rite of passage, Podgy realised, somewhat belatedly, that in so doing, he’d failed to cultivate the Do Or Die mentality required in asking girls out. Or come to that, to even dance. All that climbing trees and riding bikes then, wasn’t as ridiculous as he’d thought. Angered by the injustice of it all, one fateful night Podgy abandoned his slyness and allowed his resentment to boil into blind fury. Anger however, was a real emotion and were he in the habit of reading anything other than the Sun’s agony column, one considered by many, as a luxury item. Podgy ought to have steered clear of war but instead went ahead and declared it. Though he didn’t completely abandon the MO of a lifetime, as the declaration was made without informing his enemy…
Purchased the previous week in preparation for his maiden voyage to the Sundown, Podgy sported his new Coke bottle print shirt and high-waisted bags. Both from Wembley Market. The Sundown was situated close to Tottenham Court Road Tube and accompanying him were a few former Donny Osmond fans, now keen to sample the delights of the bright lights. Podgy shepherded them onto the 24 at the nearest stop to the Crescent, this being of course Queens Crescent. A vicinity which served no purpose other than to give the rest of Kentish Town somewhere to look down on. There had been fears amongst the girls about getting in, on account of not looking old enough but on the door but it hadn’t been an issue. After getting their drinks, they’d leant over the balcony to watch the action down on the club’s large dance floor. It was around that point that Podgy became aware of a frisson of excitment amongst the girls, who were nudging each other and pointing. On noting his confusion, one turned and exclaimed excitedly, “It’s Jimmy Balantyne!”
Patterson looked down to see that flash fucker strolling towards a group of young ladies. Asking a girl to dance was a nerve-wracking undertaking at the best of times so advancing on a group of them — alone — Podgy had to concede, was bold. As Balantyne encapsulated everything Patterson despised, the sight of his being knocked back could not have been sweeter. The best part was the girl had been so…so dismissive. That’ll teach him. Not so clever now, eh? Podgy made sure to tone down his smile on nudging the friend beside him. Her eyes though, remained fixed on events below, and then, Podgy saw why. Jesus Christ he wasn’t, surely? Bollocks, he fucking was. Patterson watched in horror as Jimmy turned to the second girl who, from upstairs, appeared to be undecided but on glancing at the first, shook her head. Thank fuck! Podgy then, almost Zen-like, blocked out all sound to study Balantyne’s face. Podgy sought signs of doubt but despite the third girl’s refusal, found none whatsoever. For a split second he couldn’t help but feel a tinge of admiration for Balantyne and on so doing, found himself trying to image how he must feel, at that moment. Walking that line and risking everything… on himself.
That’s when a shocking truth emerged for Podgy and, when things turned nasty. It became apparent that a lifetime secured against venture had left Patterson unable, to conceive how such an act might feel. The only person to blame for this of course, was Jimmy. As Balantyne’s mode was the very antithesis of his own, Podgy now found himself viewing the situation below as a moment of truth. He also found himself doing something else, something he’d never done in his life — praying.
It was fair to say the Pattersons weren’t a deeply spiritual family. In fact, their only connection to anything remotely religious was the youngest daughter’s attendance at the local Convent School. She’d opted for it on the basis of her best friend heading there. The Pattersons weren’t Catholic but mum wasn’t going to let anything like that stand in her way and she’d been surprised by gullibility of the nuns. As a family they’d often laugh about it but when, down below, the fourth girl broke into a smile and allowed Jimmy to lead her onto the floor, Patterson began to suspect it wasn’t a joke God found particularly humorous.
For not only had He Who Art In Heaven denied Podgy’s petitions, he’d gone as far as cruelly reversing them. Rather than seeing Balantyne humiliated, Podgy was forced to view his victory dance as one would a scene from a Peckinpah movie. That’s to say, in deathly silence and in very, very slow motion. Normal sound and vision resumed, as Podgy’s head slumped into the balcony’s chrome rail. It was only then that he became aware of the reaction amongst his “friends”, who were celebrating as though their horse, after falling at the first, had just pipped the favourite at the post. Closing his eyes, Podgy swore he’d get that cunt Balantyne. What’s more he’d do it his way, slyly…
He may not have been able to walk a line of girls in a West End Disco but he didn't have to. He had his own, private way, of doing things... This being, his befriending policy. Which, to all intents and purposes, was a continuation of the Donny Osmond years. Lending records, watching Charlie’s Angels, talking about clothes and listening while they complained endlessly about the boys they fancied. Boys, much to Patterson’s chagrin, like Balantyne. Podgy’s grooming phase could last for years, long enough that when, instead of receiving from him the usual hug, a girl found her mouth invaded by his tongue, she’d momentarily think she was engaging in lesbianism. Tired of being messed around by the ones she liked, she’d go with it. Once her eyes were closed all she had to do was imagine. Podgy meanwhile, kept his open. Wide open.
Jimmy’d been informed of these antics through a kid called Michael Cole, who found them hilarious and, while Balantyne considered them underhand, they were ultimately none of his business. At least, they hadn’t been, until he’d been handed not so much a licence but a mission. A Seek & Destroy Mission at that. It was sanctioned by Consuela and Dear Mother. What with Hector rotting away in an Argentinian cell, Jimmy couldn’t turn down. Jesus, it really was like being in a film…
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