Full Whack

by Charlie Higson

Genres: Literary Fiction

Synopsis

Dennis 'The Menace' Pike, former wild man of Tottenham, is going grey and going straight. Anyway, it was hard work being a yob- the birds, the brawls, the endless beers- and he hasn't really got the energy any more for life on the edge. Then two old faces turn up from the past- the Bishop brothers, Chas and Noel. Famously inept, they were bad news then, and they haven't aged well. What's worse, they need Pike's expertise on a scheme wealth distribution really- offloading one of the old gang's ill-gotten millions. Robbing the robbers- now what's criminal about that?
Pike, still haunted by what happened one wreckless night all those years ago, refuses to get involved. But old habits die hard, and when he suddenly finds his bank account tampered with, Pike is drawn back into a world he spent ten years escaping. Thug or mug, he is nevertheless forced to confront a man so psychotically unhinged that his own youth seems like mere kids' stuff...
A slick, razor-sharp novel, FULL WHACK is packed full of searing wit, scurrilous characters and nefarious knock-about.

Release date: September 17, 2015

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 272

Sample

Dennis Pike had picked the wrong day to give up smoking. There was frost on the windows in the morning. The bread was stale, the milk was sour, there was a dead junkie in the lift and now two kids were breaking into his car.

It wasn’t an expensive car, a pale yellow two-door 1982 Ford Escort. There was nothing valuable in it and the radio was locked in the boot. But there was no point explaining this to the two boys, they’d already smashed the passenger window and were reaching in to unlock the door.

‘Oi! What are you doing?’ he shouted, and furiously wheeled his shopping trolley towards them, bouncing and bumping down the ramp from Dalston Cross.

They looked at him disinterestedly. They were probably only sixteen, maybe less. They wore big, loose, zip-up designer jackets, baggy jeans and trainers.

After a moment they turned their attention back to the car.

‘I said what are you doing?’

They didn’t reply, just opened the door.

‘That’s my car.’

‘It’s a crap car,’ the taller of the two boys said and turned back round to Pike, brandishing a baseball bat.

Pike sighed. Everybody wanted to be an American.

The boy had small eyes set wide apart in a dull, flat face. He took a couple of paces towards Pike, slapping the bat into his open palm. ‘Piss off,’ he said.

What a day.

It had started when he’d poured the milk onto his corn flakes and it had come out in cheesy lumps. He’d forgotten to put the bread away the night before and it was hard and dry. So he’d gone out to the corner shop and that was when he’d discovered the dead junkie in the lift. A young white guy in jeans and sweat shirt. Long hair in a style like people didn’t have any more. He looked like a smack-head and Pike felt almost nostalgic. These days it was all crack. A proper old-fashioned junkie was something you didn’t see that often. He lay curled up in the corner and at first Pike had thought he was asleep or passed out, so he’d kicked him. His skin prickled when he realized he was dead.

It was bound to happen sooner or later – a dead man in the lift. Ever since the police had opened up a dinky little designer police station on Sandringham Road to try and deter the dealers, the dealers had all moved round the corner to the flats. They hung about in the doorway of the betting shop opposite, trying to look flash and inconspicuous at the same time. Pike was sick of finding people passing over wads of money on the walkways and shaking rock-filled hands in the stairwells.

After getting the bread and milk he’d got a tape out of Mammoth Video to cheer himself up. Southern Comfort. He’d eaten breakfast, then settled down in his leather recliner with a cup of tea and pressed start on the remote control. The machine made a horrible, rasping, churning type of a sound. The picture juddered and everything went dead.

When he’d tried eject it wouldn’t give him the tape back. He’d lifted the flap and tried to tug it out but it was stuck fast.

So his video was fucked. He’d checked the paper for the television, but there were no films on till later, only dreary daytime programmes about dogs and family problems and cheery Australians.

What a fucking day.

‘Go on, piss off.’ The kid with the baseball bat came closer.

There was no chance that the guard, way down the other end of the car park in his little hut was going to see them, or even do anything if he did. It was a wet night and there was no one else around; five other cars at most. The car park felt vast and isolated. One side was bordered by a great mass of factories and warehouses, one by a train line and one by the backside of the Dalston Cross shopping mall.

Baseball Bat’s friend, whose black Naf Naf jacket was two sizes too big for him, nodded his head rhythmically and muttered ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah …’ under his breath. Over and over.

Pike wished he hadn’t decided to give up smoking last night, but it was part of his new order. Quit work, quit fags and get ready for the future. He didn’t need this.

‘Come on, just leave it,’ he said, but they weren’t impressed. He knew what he looked like to them. An old geezer with glasses and a shopping trolley.

He glanced down into the trolley for a possible weapon. A French loaf, not much use. A bottle of vinegar, too small, liable to smash and cut his hand.

‘Did you really have to break the window?’ he said, buying time. ‘That is such a pain in the arse.’

‘Well, I really care about that, don’t I?’ Baseball Bat said sarcastically. Naf Naf laughed. That was when Pike noticed the frozen chicken.

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you just walk away? Huh? We’ll say no more about the window. Because I’ve just given up smoking and I don’t need this shit.’

‘Why don’t you just walk away, mate?’ the boy raised the bat in a challenge.

Bloody kids.

Pike always went to the supermarket at Dalston Cross on Tuesdays. He’d tried all times, all days, but Tuesday evening at seven-thirty was when it was least busy. Pike hated crowds.

He knew that the market on Ridley Road, right next door, was half the price, but it made no odds to him. Pike liked to go in, load up a trolley with a week’s supplies, pay for it quick and get out. What’s more, Dalston Cross had this huge car park out the back so he didn’t have to carry any heavy bags.

Dalston Cross was the area’s premier indoor shopping precinct, with its very own campanile. Pike knew it was a campanile because someone had told him while he was waiting in a queue at the checkout one day. Well, of course, it made sense, north-east London was famous for its Italian-style bell-towers.

Inside, there was piped Christmas music playing and a Santa’s grotto had been set up. Around the grotto was a pen enclosing a Christmas scene with moving models; elves and gnomes and woodland creatures dressed in Victorian clothing. There was something vaguely sinister about the repetitive nodding heads and waving arms in the empty mall. More creatures were hung from the ceiling like in some kind of sick Xmas abattoir.

It was pleasant wandering the deserted, brightly lit aisles of the huge supermarket. Pike positively enjoyed shopping under these conditions. He found himself looking forward to his weekly ritual and after the problems of the morning it had been quite relaxing.

And then this had happened.

Baseball Bat walked towards Pike and put on his best hard-nut expression.

‘Okay,’ said Pike. ‘It’s your choice.’

With one hand he pushed the trolley at the boy, distracting him. With the other he picked out the frozen chicken. As the boy’s hands went to stop the trolley and he looked down, Pike launched the chicken shot-put style and it smacked into his forehead with a thwack. At the same time a train roared past on the North London Line, and Pike was vaguely aware of a smear of lights and faces.

Stunned, Baseball Bat tottered back and sat down heavily on the wet tarmac dropping the bat. Pike ran round and picked it up. He wondered if anyone on the train had witnessed the little scene, some budding Agatha Christie type who might try and work out what was going on with the trolley, the bat and the frozen chicken. Naf Naf was too surprised by the turn of events to do anything more than gawp, and Pike pushed him back against the car with the end of the bat.

Naf Naf’s eyes widened and he said ‘shit’ quietly.

‘It’s a bugger, isn’t it?’ said Pike. ‘Now, turn your pockets out. You’re going to pay for this window.’

It was no use, though. They had a pathetic four pounds thirty-eight pence between them. Pike didn’t have the heart to take it. He kept the bat instead.

He went home, let himself into his flat and rang a twenty-four-hour window replacement service. Then he sat down to watch the television and wait.

He’d furnished the flat almost exclusively from a secondhand office equipment suppliers under the railway arches by Hackney Downs station. There were beige, industrial-strength carpet tiles on all the floors and dark green metal shelving units around most of the walls. He didn’t have cupboards, he had filing cabinets. The chairs were all office chairs, with wheels and tilting backs. Instead of tables he had mostly metal desks. His only nod to comfort was his prized leather reclining seat from where he watched the TV. And what a TV. The latest wide-screen affair, thirty-six inches, with Nicam, built-in stereo speakers and a state of the art VCR wired in below.

A fucked state of the art VCR.

He looked ruefully at the packet of Silk Cut he’d left on the mantelpiece as a test. Well, he’d survived all this without caving in and the first day was bound to be the worst. At least there was some decent telly on this evening. A couple of films and a thing about crocodiles that looked interesting.

An hour or so later he was feeling pretty mellow and he decided he might as well chuck the cigarettes away. He picked up the packet and aimed it at the metal bin, but before he could throw it, the doorbell went.

It was the window guy. Pike went down with him as he fixed the door, paid him in cash what seemed like a ridiculously large figure, then went back up to his flat.

As he got out of the now junkie-free lift he saw two blokes standing outside his flat peering in the window.

‘Hello?’ he said, cautiously moving down the walkway towards them.

They turned round and his heart sank.

It was the Bishop brothers, Chas and Noel. Ten years had changed them, but they still looked like bad luck.

He fished the packet of Silk Cut out of his pocket and took out a cigarette.

‘Hello, Noel,’ he said. ‘Got a light?’

The Bishop brothers. Pike remembered the first time he’d met them. In The Cock in Tottenham.

Noel had come over to where Pike was drinking at the bar and introduced himself. ‘I’m Noel and this is Chas. We’re brothers. Twins. Identical.’ He laughed. That was his joke. Brothers they may have been, but twins they were not. Two people couldn’t have looked more unlike. Chas had been short and stocky with slicked-back hair, Noel, tall and skinny with a curly perm. They looked awful.

‘Identical to what?’ Pike had asked. ‘Certainly nothing human.’

It had been one of those moments that could have gone either way. He’d seen their brains turning over, considering – ‘Is he having a go? Do we start a fight? Or do we treat it as a joke?’ It was to Pike’s eternal regret that they both laughed. If only they could have all clobbered each other for a few minutes that would have been that and he’d not have been burdened with having Noel and his stupid brother as friends for the rest of his life.

‘You gonna ask us in, then?’ Noel asked, handing Pike a Bic lighter.

‘Nope.’ Pike lit his cigarette and handed the lighter back.

‘Come on, Pikey. It’s been ten years.’

‘What do you want, Noel?’ said Pike, unlocking the door.

‘Have a heart,’ said Chas. ‘It’s freezing out here.’

Pike realized there was no point in arguing. They’d tracked him down, there had to be a reason and they were unlikely to give up now and just go away.

He opened the door and nodded for them to follow him in.

Chas had always fancied himself as the more stylish of the two. Tonight he was wearing a grey suit of some sparkly material with the sleeves rolled up, a black shirt open at the neck, a lot of gold, and expensive burgundy loafers with tassels. He had a deep tan and a drinker’s coarsened features. He’d bleached his hair, a sort of silvery blond, in an elaborate blow-dried hairstyle. Pike couldn’t understand why anyone would want to have their hair done up to look so much like a wig. Noel was something else again. His body had filled out, it had become round and egglike, but his long arms and legs were still skinny. He wore high-waisted jeans pulled up over his gut, a white shirt and a colourful nylon jacket which in Pike’s day would have been called an anorak. He had a small round head the top of which was completely bald, but he’d made up for it by growing his hair very long round the back and sides. It hung down, straight and lank, to his collar.

Pike was unused to having anyone in his sitting room. It wasn’t designed for visitors. The recliner was the only comfortable chair and Noel had already grabbed that.

‘Nice,’ he said, putting his hands behind his head and leaning back. ‘That’s a big telly.’

Chas was looking at the metal shelving unit stacked to the ceiling with videos.

‘That’s a lot of videos,’ he said. ‘You watched them all?’

‘What do you two want?’

‘You got anything to drink, Pikey?’ said Noel.

‘There’s some beers in the fridge.’

Noel smiled and winked at him. ‘Good lad.’

Pike went and fetched a four-pack of Fosters, handed them round.

‘Almost didn’t recognize you, Dennis,’ Chas said, popping a can. ‘What happened to you?’

‘I got older.’

‘You’re completely grey,’ said Noel. ‘What’s that all about?’

‘It runs in the family,’ Pike said. ‘My dad was white before he was forty, but at least he’s still got a full head of hair.’

Noel stroked his bald pate. ‘Disgusting, innit?’

‘And what’s with the glasses?’ said Chas, turning over a metal waste bin and sitting on it. ‘Dennis Pike, the wild man of Tottenham, in specs? Times have changed.’

‘All right. I’ve gone grey. I wear glasses. I’ve got a big telly. You didn’t come here to tell me that.’

‘We need your help, Dennis,’ Chas said earnestly.

‘Yeah. Goodnight,’ Pike replied.

‘Hear us out Dennis.’

‘I’m not interested in any of your schemes, Chas.’

‘No, no. It’s not like that.’

‘What you been doing the last ten years, Pikey?’ said Noel, turning on the TV set and muting the sound.

‘Nothing,’

‘You must have been doing something.’

Pike looked at the TV screen. Against All Odds was on. He’d been looking forward to watching it. He was a big fan of the original with Robert Mitchum and had never seen the Jeff Bridges version.

‘I’ve been keeping myself to myself,’ he said. ‘I aim to keep it that way.’

‘We’re gonna rob Patterson,’ said Chas with a big grin. ‘Shit’s got it coming to him.’

Pike shook his head. ‘You guys are morons, aren’t you?’

‘Patterson’s gone up in the world,’ said Noel. ‘He’s a big cheese now. Got his own business. Electronics.’

‘So you’re going to rob him?’

‘It’s a perfect plan,’ said Chas.

‘I doubt it, if it’s one of yours.’

‘Listen.’ Chas lit a cigarette, Benson and Hedges. ‘Even if he knows it’s us, he can’t go to the law, can he? Couldn’t take us to court. It’d all come out, wouldn’t it? He’d be sunk. It’s beautiful – rob the robbers.’

‘We’d all be fucking sunk, Chas. The fuck d’you think I’ve been keeping my head down these last ten years?’

‘We just need a bit of muscle, Pikey. That’s all,’ said Noel.

‘Forget it. I’m out of that.’

‘He’s loaded,’ said Chas. ‘Millionaire more than likely.’

‘I’m not interested. I’ve got money. I worked. I saved up. I’m going away. Last thing I need right now is for you two muppets to drag me back into the shit. Jesus, I bet you don’t even have a plan, do you?’

‘We’ve got a concept,’ said Chas.

‘A fucking concept.’

‘All right,’ said Noel. ‘It’s true. We haven’t exactly sorted out the mechanics. We’re still at the planning stage, putting together a team, but …’

‘Oh, fuck off. Get out of here.’

‘It’s a beautiful concept,’ said Noel. ‘Ripping off Patterson.’

‘Why me, Noel? Why couldn’t you have gone to one of the others? Chrissie, or Colin or Mick?’

‘They’re all dead.’

Pike sat down on a desk top. ‘Shit, I forgot,’ he said. ‘Mick got stuffed in Florida, didn’t he?’

‘Drugs.’

‘He couldn’t keep out of it, could he? I didn’t know about Colin and Chrissie, though.’

‘Colin come off his bike,’ said Chas.

‘Figures. And Chrissie? Drunk himself to death, I bet.’

‘Choked,’ said Noel. ‘Vomit. Silly sod was supposed to be on the wagon. He’d been dry three years.’

‘The lads are dying, Dennis,’ said Chas, tipping ash on to the floor. ‘We’re the only ones left.’

‘We were losers, Chas. All of us. We were all due to take an early bath.’

‘You’re a wanker, Pikey,’ said Noel sadly. ‘You’ve lost it.’

‘Maybe I have.’ On the screen Rachel Ward was flouncing about in some skimpy outfit somewhere hot, Mexico it looked like. ‘Maybe I am a wanker. But I’ll tell you this, Noel. I used to think civilians were wankers, people who worked for a living, but I found out it’s a lot more hard work being a bad man, a fucking hooligan. I was a mug. But not any more. I’ve got enough money stashed in a high-interest account that I can live off until I’m out of here. Canada. Six weeks and bye, bye.’

‘Jesus, Pikey,’ said Noel. ‘What a sad story. You used to be Dennis the Menace, north London’s very own berserker, the wild man of Tottenham. You used to be Pike, for fuck’s sake. Look at you now with your grey hair and your glasses and your high-interest account.’

‘It won’t work, Noel. I’m not having anything to do with it. What did you expect? You’d tell me your half-baked “concept” and I’d go on the rampage? Fuck over Ian Patterson? Pretend nothing had changed?’

‘Where’s your bog, Dennis?’ said Chas. ‘This beer’s gone right through me.’

‘Out in the hall. By the front door.’

Chas grunted as he hauled himself up off the bin. Then he belched, adjusted his trousers and went out, closing the door behind him.

Noel flicked through the channels. ‘You got Sky?’ he asked.

‘No.’

‘Rubbish, innit?’

‘How did you find me, Noel?’

‘Herman the German.’

‘Who’s he when he’s at home?’

‘Chas met him in the nick.’

‘I didn’t know Chas was inside.’

‘Two years, cheque cards.’

‘Silly bastard.’

‘Herman’s a hacker, computers and that. Genius. When Chas got out he looked him up. He’s a useful lad to know in this day and age. They’ve pulled a couple of scams together, him and Chas. Herman’s not really a bad man, you know, he just loves the work. Anything to do with computers. Computer junkie.’

‘Yeah, so how did you find me?’

‘Mammoth Video.’

‘You what?’

‘You were always mad for the films, weren’t you? Stood to reason you’d be a member somewhere. Well, all the big video chains are computerized, linked up. Herman just went though them till he found you. Took about twenty minutes, apparently.’

‘Jesus.’

‘It’s a funny old world, hackers and that. Like a sort of club. They communicate with each other all round the world and they’ve all got daft nicknames, like … Oh, Christ, what’s Herman call himself? No, it’s gone. I told Chas he should call him Adolf Hacker. Adolf … You get it?’

Pike did get it, but he didn’t bother to laugh.

They heard the toilet flush and Chas came back in.

‘Nice bathroom, that,’ he said. ‘They look like original tiles. Worth a few bob, they are.’

‘Please, Chas, I don’t want to have to check that the bathroom’s still tiled when you leave.’

‘All right, keep your hair on. I was only commenting.’

‘Here, Chas?’ said Noel. ‘What’s Herman’s nickname? When he’s hacking? What is it again?’

‘Pike ain’t interested in that,’ said Chas, curtly.

‘I remember now.’ Noel grinned. ‘The Red Baron. That’s it. The Red Baron.’

‘Come on, Noel,’ said Chas. ‘Let’s split. It’s obvious Dennis doesn’t want to know.’

Noel looked surprised. ‘You’re not going to give up, Chas? Jesus, you’ve been going on about this for weeks. He wouldn’t shut up about you, Pikey, said you were the only man for the job, sort out Patterson. Christ, he was even going to mention Marti.’

‘What about Marti?’

‘It doesn’t matter now, Dennis,’ said Chas. ‘I can see we’re wasting our time.’

‘What about Marti? What’s she got to do with all this.’

‘She’s still with Patterson. Chas just thought you might still be sore at him.’

‘Christ, Noel. It’s ten years. I’m not suddenly going to get cut up all over again and go gunning for the wanker. He’s welcome to her. It’s finished.’

‘Yeah, I can see that,’ said Noel. ‘It’s finished, you’re finished.’

‘Let’s go, Noel,’ said Chas.

‘It’s been a pleasure seeing you again,’ said Pike as Noel struggled up out of the recliner.

‘Mutual, I’m sure,’ said Noel. ‘Listen, Pikey, if you should change your mind, here’s my card.’

‘Your card?’

‘He don’t want that, Noel,’ said Chas putting a hand on Noel’s arm. ‘Don’t bother.’

But Noel had already got his wallet out. A battered old plastic affair held together by an elastic band.

‘Leave it, Noel,’ said Chas.

‘Just in case.’ Noel handed Pike a card. Pike read it.

‘Noel Bishop. Independent financial advice?’

‘It’s an old card. But me number’s the same.’

‘Independent financial advice?’

‘Gambling and that, you know, horses, what to put your money on.’

‘You’re the worst gambler I ever met, Noel.’

‘Yeah, well the punters weren’t to know that.’

‘They soon found out,’ said Chas.

‘Yeah,’ said Noel ruefully. ‘Lost a lot of money on that little enterprise. Still, the cards come in useful.’

They were by the front door now. Pike glanced into the bathroom. There was a dog-end floating in the toilet bowl.

‘See you, then,’ said Chas.

‘I sincerely hope not.’ Pike opened the front door and the Bishops went out.

‘You must give me the name of your hairdresser, Chas,’ said Pike.

Chas smiled and put. . .