Read Online He Died with His Eyes Open by Derek Raymond - Free Book Online
Authors: Derek Raymond
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Street, sandwiched between a Pakistani restaurant called the Allahabad, European and Indian Dishes, and a delicatessen that specialized in tinned mangoes, chillies and ladies' fingers. The bow window we were sitting in peered out at a rather alarming angle onto a public lavatory, kept permanently locked against queers and youths who wanted to give head or shoot up in there. Behind this urinary redoubt was a pub called the Quadrant, in which the Factory took a permanent interest.
Around us, at desks in the room, were three startlingly white girls, two of whom looked adoringly at their boss while the third read the Standard and did her nails. Also there was an Irish accountant, the first I had ever seen, doing the drivers' figures with the aid of a computer terminal, and the whole area was sprinkled with bilious green telephones which didn't often ring—if one did try, the call was instantly cut off by the adorers and transferred to the overworked dispatchers' office on the floor below. From that floor I could hear voices drifting up through the thin planks. The day dispatcher groaned on to his underlings about the shortcomings of fucking amateurs, while out of the window I could see the only roller-skater the firm had. It said Planet 209 in black and yellow on his back, and he swept to an easy stop in front of the office with a practised double eight, relinquishing the boot of an SS 100. I watched him take off his skates and make for the stairs, his satchel for documents booming off his muscled buttocks, his swatched blond hair swirling against his hips. 'New set of needles today, Dave,' I heard him call out to someone. 'Twenty bleedin quid!'
'We like to entertain the law,' the boss of Planet was saying to me. 'Oh, yes, we ain't got nothin to fear from the law.' He was a small man whose tailor, having measured him for a little suit, would have charged him the price for a big one. He evidently didn't care about things like that, being more interested in the bottle he was pulling out of his desk drawer. 'Come on, Sarge, just a little one,' he said in a confiding tone. 'Chivas Regal, ha, ha, Chivas Illegal, the lads call it.'
'Well, if it really fell off the back of a truck,' I said, 'it might as well go the distance and on down your throat. Nothing you can do about Newton's third law. But not for me, thanks.'
'Newton's,' he said reflectively. 'Newton's. I worked as a driver for them lot of bastards once. Little firm up by Finsbury Park there, where you throw a left on Seven Sisters Road by the underground, you know the scene.'
I knew it. Although I had asked him not to, he poured some of the nectar into my glass just the same, so I picked it up.
'Well, here's luck,' he said, drinking. He looked at me more closely. 'Funny, you don't look like just any old size-nine turnip to me, you look like you'd got brains. Call me Tony,' he added, 'you might just as well. Tony Creamley's the name. If ever the law fires you, why not come to me for a job; you look as if you'd had some practice with a jamjar, ha, ha.'
'Easy,' I said, 'that kind of joke tires me out rather fast.'
'Oh, yeah,' he said, 'sure, okay. Nothing diabolical intended, Sarge.'
'Nor taken.'
'Luckily,' he said. The phone beside him rang and he answered it, waving an adorer aside and staring absently out of the window at a tramp trying to have a pee unseen on the pavement while chewing philosophically on a dead matchstick. He soon got tired of the voice I could hear quacking into his ear and said: 'No, you want Creamley Cars, darling, that's five oh one double three double four. This is Planet, son.' He listened for about three seconds more with his eyes shut and said: 'Now, don't give me a lot of blag—if you're not happy with your Creamley account, get in touch with their manager, that's what he's paid for. I should know, my boy pays him, sometimes, ha, ha. On your bike, get lost.'
He slapped the phone down, turned to me, and said: 'Some people are born to moan,
Around us, at desks in the room, were three startlingly white girls, two of whom looked adoringly at their boss while the third read the Standard and did her nails. Also there was an Irish accountant, the first I had ever seen, doing the drivers' figures with the aid of a computer terminal, and the whole area was sprinkled with bilious green telephones which didn't often ring—if one did try, the call was instantly cut off by the adorers and transferred to the overworked dispatchers' office on the floor below. From that floor I could hear voices drifting up through the thin planks. The day dispatcher groaned on to his underlings about the shortcomings of fucking amateurs, while out of the window I could see the only roller-skater the firm had. It said Planet 209 in black and yellow on his back, and he swept to an easy stop in front of the office with a practised double eight, relinquishing the boot of an SS 100. I watched him take off his skates and make for the stairs, his satchel for documents booming off his muscled buttocks, his swatched blond hair swirling against his hips. 'New set of needles today, Dave,' I heard him call out to someone. 'Twenty bleedin quid!'
'We like to entertain the law,' the boss of Planet was saying to me. 'Oh, yes, we ain't got nothin to fear from the law.' He was a small man whose tailor, having measured him for a little suit, would have charged him the price for a big one. He evidently didn't care about things like that, being more interested in the bottle he was pulling out of his desk drawer. 'Come on, Sarge, just a little one,' he said in a confiding tone. 'Chivas Regal, ha, ha, Chivas Illegal, the lads call it.'
'Well, if it really fell off the back of a truck,' I said, 'it might as well go the distance and on down your throat. Nothing you can do about Newton's third law. But not for me, thanks.'
'Newton's,' he said reflectively. 'Newton's. I worked as a driver for them lot of bastards once. Little firm up by Finsbury Park there, where you throw a left on Seven Sisters Road by the underground, you know the scene.'
I knew it. Although I had asked him not to, he poured some of the nectar into my glass just the same, so I picked it up.
'Well, here's luck,' he said, drinking. He looked at me more closely. 'Funny, you don't look like just any old size-nine turnip to me, you look like you'd got brains. Call me Tony,' he added, 'you might just as well. Tony Creamley's the name. If ever the law fires you, why not come to me for a job; you look as if you'd had some practice with a jamjar, ha, ha.'
'Easy,' I said, 'that kind of joke tires me out rather fast.'
'Oh, yeah,' he said, 'sure, okay. Nothing diabolical intended, Sarge.'
'Nor taken.'
'Luckily,' he said. The phone beside him rang and he answered it, waving an adorer aside and staring absently out of the window at a tramp trying to have a pee unseen on the pavement while chewing philosophically on a dead matchstick. He soon got tired of the voice I could hear quacking into his ear and said: 'No, you want Creamley Cars, darling, that's five oh one double three double four. This is Planet, son.' He listened for about three seconds more with his eyes shut and said: 'Now, don't give me a lot of blag—if you're not happy with your Creamley account, get in touch with their manager, that's what he's paid for. I should know, my boy pays him, sometimes, ha, ha. On your bike, get lost.'
He slapped the phone down, turned to me, and said: 'Some people are born to moan,
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