Хелен Девитт - Some Trick - Thirteen Stories

Keith handed the mic back to Darren. He turned and walked out the door.

The studio was in Limehouse. He walked west. His legs would not let him get on a bus.

At Leicester Square the crowd, wasn’t there a director who gave every person in a crowd scene a thing to do? Sometimes the world is too convincing, as if someone spent too much time on it. Individualising the robots. He stopped at a corner.

On the pavement was this, like, guy with a sign beside him, CRAZY NICK AND HIS MUSICAL TRAFFIC CONES. There was an orange cone on the pavement beside him and he was holding another cone to his mouth, blowing into it. To the music of My Way.

pa PA, pa PA pa PA, pa PA pa PA, pa PA pa PA pa

pa PA, pa PA pa PA, pa PA pa PA, pa PA pa PA pa

People were dropping money in the cone. One woman, she put a ten pound note in the fucking cone.

PA PA PA pa PA

pa PA pa PA

PA PA PA PA PA

He stood on the pavement.

pa pa

pa pa pa pa

pa pa pa — — PAAAAAA PA

Like, fuck. A kid put 10p in the cone. The music was shite but here was this luckless tosser turning ostensibly irredeemable shite into gold with a simple traffic cone. Single-handedly handling his own PR and marketing and sales and distribution. Say Thom Yorke comes upon the scene, says Hey, Crazy Nick, great act, OK if I join you, and Thom Yorke picks up the other traffic cone and does an impromptu gig with Crazy Nick —

Crazy Nick can say Yes, he can say Fuck off Radiohead wanker scum. Total artistic control.

He stood watching Crazy Nick for about 3 hours because

He walked east.

Marc was on the late shift at the News of the World. He wore a suit because hacks must dig for dirt in a suit. A call came in that a celeb was being a wanker in a pub, if swift action was taken photographic evidence might be shared with the British public, and Marc was the man for the job.

The celeb was Kyle Vaughan. He had a part in a soap. He stood by the bar with a rolled-up copy of the Big Issue, blowing My Way out of the orifice. Poop POOP poop POOP poop POOP poop POOP poop POOP poop POOP poop poop poop.

Not much value in it as a pic.

What I’m saying is, they’re not doing enough to TRAIN, expatiated the celeb. Like, show some initiative, mate. You see them selling the Big Toilet Tissue and you want to say look, I have enough problems without constipating my brain with this crap, do something funny for a change, add value to the product

Marc: So you’d, like,

Like today I saw this bloke at Leicester Square, Crazy Nick and His Musical Traffic Cones, he’s playing My Way on a traffic cone, I thought, you know, this just goes to show how fucking useless the Big Issue is, anyone with a little imagination can do more with a couple of fucking traffic cones

So you, did you give him some money, then? asked Marc.

Yeh. I gave him a quid. Which is what I’m saying.

Poop POOP poop POOP poop POOP poop POOP poop POOP poop POOP poop poop poop.

But maybe, maybe everyone can’t be that innovative, do you think there’s enough funny things that homeless people can do? Could you, like, do you have any ideas?

Yeh. Sure. Like. Like. Say you say to people, I am going to take my trousers off. If you pay me I will put them back on.

Yeh, maybe, said Marc, but see, maybe that’s quite embarrassing, taking off your trousers in front of a lot of strangers, I mean, you wouldn’t want to do it

Poop POOP poop POOP poop POOP poop POOP poop POOP poop POOP poop poop poop.

That’s where you’re wrong, mate. Because it’s not about being a humung being it’s about putting on a performance

Yeh but I don’t see you doing it, easy to say, said Marc

And then it all happens very fast, the celeb is waving his Diesel jeans around his head and Marc is snapping pix and the celeb is shouting Wanker and Marc is heading for the door and the celeb is struggling to get into his Diesel jeans and Marc is in the street running

and he ducks into a doorway three swift corners down

and he gets out his phone and sends pix and they are dead chuffed, well done mate, they say

and he walks under the cold sky on wet tarmac on which the bones of chickens and crumbs of fried batter mingle with dog turds, shiny crisp packets, a flattened satsuma, he steps into the Oranges & Lemons & at the pinball machine is Keith O’Connor.

Marc orders a pint of Guinness. O’Connor is dancing with the pinball machine, pulling knobs, slapping the glass, leaning into it, pulling away. Marc sits on a plump leather bench. It’s quiet.

The door opens. A bloke in a Tommy Hilfiger sweatshirt and Diesel jeans, bald, red face, goes to the bar, orders a Peroni, goes through swinging doors to a room behind the bar.

You all right, Tel.

Yeh. Yeh.

No offence mate but you look like shit.

Yeh. Well, me missus kicked me out.

Fuck.

Yeh — See, I was sitting at the end of the bar and this old geezer is talking to this girl and I say the word cunt . Not loud, like, but I do say it, but in a private conversation. So he hears me, and this is partly generational, he takes offence because his girl is there. So he says What did you say? So I don’t want to make an issue of it, so I say All right, Stan, leave it, but he won’t leave it alone, he says What did you say, so at this point I go over not meaning to do any serious damage but just to, you know, give him a little tap, but I misjudged the situation and broke his jaw.

Fuck.

Yeh. Yeh. This old geezer, and you know I would not normally hit someone that age Derek but he gave me no option, but then me missus says, You’re not coming home.

Fuck.

Yeh.

Well, you can stay at mine or you can stay here. Frank and his lot are coming over after unloading, usual game.

It’s been a long day.

The pinball machine is silent. Keith feeds it more coins. Marc occupies his suit.

Derek: In the north cunt is still an offensive word. You say that around somebody’s girlfriend and he will exterminate you. In the south you hear it all over the place, people say Stop cunting me about, this sort of thing.

Tel: I’m all cunted out. I’ve heard that.

Derek: So stop cunting me about, you cunt, are you in or out.

Tel: Yeh all right then

Derek: You know what they say Tel, unlucky in love, this could just be your lucky night

Tel: Yeh. Yeh.

Teetleep Teetleep Teetleep Peep!

Teetleep Teetleep Teetleep Peep!

Beep! Beep!

Bebeep Beep Beep, Beep Beep Beep

Sorry, Tel, I think this is Frank — Frank, what the fuck, mate — yeh, yeh, sorry to hear that, Tel’s here, yeh his missus was aggravated by an assault of Colonel Blimp or what have you so looks like Tel will be selling the Big Issue or something, yeh, help the homeless, so we on for tonight.

The pinball machine is silent. Marc is silent, nursing his foamy Guinness. Banter is tossed nonchalantly into the plastic mouthpiece, it is snatched from the air to burst forth at a distant earpiece, fresh banter pours into the waiting ear, it seems two of Frank’s lot have been taken into custody, so if it’s just the four of them including Tel maybe that is not enough to make it worthwhile, names of possible substitutes are proposed and rejected amid banter

Sorry, hold on Frank, yeh what is it?

Keith is standing at the bar. He wears a black t-shirt with a skeleton. His eyes are thickly mascaraed. There is glitter on his cheeks.

He says: You having a poker game?

Derek: We’re talking about a friendly game among friends, mate.

Keith: This is how much money I have.

He takes a wallet from his back pocket and opens it, showing a thick soft pad of notes. This being the level of social savoir faire which led to Keith being a drummer in the