The Quarry

by Ben Halls

Genres: General Fiction; City Life; Family Life; Literary Fiction; Short Stories

Synopsis

'Ferociously alive, this is an immensely impressive first collection from a fresh literary voice' Jude Cook, Guardian 'Halls's stories show that even in zero-hour, austerity-battered Britain, the tenderness and warmth of human connection exists. The Quarry is, in the end, a testament to this messy truth - how love, hate, hope and fear have always lived on the same street' GLEN BROWN, author of Ironopolis You can see it in them; all that anger inside, it's toxic. Throw some drink into it and everything bubbles over. People say that they never see it coming, the swing of the fist that kicks it all off, but I can tell.In these interconnected short stories, we meet the men living on the Quarry Lane estate in west London. These are men at work, at the pub, at home, with their families, lovers and friends. Men grappling with addiction, sexuality and the corrosive effects of toxic masculinity.From a bouncer at the local nightclub, to a postman returning to the streets of his youth, and a young man thinking of all the things he'd say and do to the father who left him behind, this startling debut reveals the complex inner lives of individuals whose voices are too often non-existent in fiction. Powerful and impressive, The Quarry marks the arrival of a bold new voice.

Release date: February 6, 2020

Publisher: Dialogue Books

Print pages: 256

Sample

February 8th, me dad’s birthday. Every year I dig his letter out the drawer to read it, and it always puts me in a proper foul mood. Don’t know why, he was a right twat sometimes, mean to me and Mum. Bit of me was glad when he up and left us, happy to get him out the house, but I was only ten and what’d I know. When he went so did the money; no more holidays or big Christmas pressies or nothing. Fridge got proper bare and the house was always freezing. He did this to us, he did. Made us fuckin’ poor. Skipped the country too so the courts couldn’t get him neither.

He wrote me just that once, four years back now when I was sixteen. Slipped a picture in it too; him grinning away on a lilo, drink in hand. Said he hoped I’d done me exams and wasn’t quitting on school, that he’d send money if he could, but never fuckin’ did. He said he was sorry too, like that’d make a fuckin’ difference. Was nice, though, the massive twat that is me dad actually asking for me to forgive him. Didn’t leave an address or nothing with it. Stamp on it came from Spain, down in Marbella. I never told me Mum ’bout it neither. Bit of me was glad he’d wrote to me and just me, felt special, and a bit of me didn’t want to upset her. She got all odd when she weren’t sat watching the telly so I thought I’d leave her be. I stuck it down the bottom of me drawer.

Decide then and there that I weren’t going out with the lads tonight, gonna stay home and have a quiet one, save a bit of money. ’Cause that’s the only way you get out of being poor, only chance of getting out the bloody estate; you buy your way out, and I ain’t going to do that pissing me Tesco’s wages up against the wall every weekend. But then I’m just foolin’ meself, aren’t I? You don’t save enough money to get out of the Quarry by not going out. If I didn’t go out, I wouldn’t even do anything.

This is why I hate reading me dad’s letter, gets me all wound up. I just want to know why he did it, you know? Why he took everything and left, that’s all I want from him. That and some fuckin’ money.

Proper fuckin’ grim Saturday morning. Cold enough your breath blows smoke, even indoors. Still dark at six when I roll up to work, parking up me clapped-out Corsa next to the other beat-up motors that are at Tesco’s that time of day. Sun ain’t nowhere to be seen, the lazy shite. Streetlights picking up the slack.

Lock the car up and put me hands back in me pockets right proper quick. Delivery trucks are already in, sure I’ll get an earful for not beating them to it. Who cares, it’s six in the fucking morning. Only ones who care are the ones whose got nothing else to care about. Round the back of the store Danno’s tokin’ away with his eyes well shut. He’s leaned up against the outside of the loading bays. I scuff a boot as I get close and he hands a jay over without saying a word. He hasn’t slept yet, it’s pretty blatant. Most guys smoke to try to get some kip, he smokes to come down enough to get through the shift. I take a hard drag and shut me eyes real tight, letting things spin a second or two before blowing out, then another quick puff for the head rush before handing it back.

‘Y’good, mate?’ I says as he puts the jay back in his lips. I pull out a Mayfair and pat around me coat till he passes me a spark.

‘Safe, bruv, safe as,’ he says, blowing more smoke up. The rest of the morning chain gang is behind him in the bay, looking hard at the pallets that’ve been cut outta their plastic shells. There’s ten of us here, ten cursed bloody souls who get up and unpack smoked salmon and organic pears all morning, ’cause God for-fuckin’-bid that people could wait a bit so we could get more kip.

‘Coming down The Falcon tonight?’

‘Nah, bruv, not really feeling it. Might stay in, save a bit of money.’ Bit of a lie, but can’t say to him that reading me dad’s letter got me all moody. You don’t talk about that with mates.

‘Didn’t hear ’bout Scruff? He jacked a fruity last night, didn’t he. Not even one of the casual ones down at the pub, one of the big ones up at the services. Got a repeater and all.’

‘What’d he win?’ Me cig gets real close to the filter, burning up more than pleasing.

‘Took it all, five hundred. Matty was well pissed, he’d sunk forty into it before Scruff threw in a few quid and jacked the lot. Jammy cunt.’

‘He not comin’ in then?’

‘’Course not. He’s got some serious wedge on him, he ain’t getting up at six in the fuckin’ morning, ya get me.’

Five hundred quid. Two weeks’ take home, all things given. Lucky shit. Don’t know what I wouldn’t do for that kind of money.

‘He spreading it around then?’ I ask him, stomping me snout out.

‘Yes, mate, round Matty’s before, then down The Falcon. Proper good piss up.’

I give him a nod; guess we’re going out. Don’t even want to, but it’s rare to have some money flowing. Scruff’s good about it, spreads it around, so might as well have a cheap one. Might snap me out of me mood and all.

The Shift Nazi heads over, tie all awkward with his Tesco’s shirt, and tap-tap-tapping away on his clipboard. He’s well north of forty, been here longer than any of us, and dead proud of having that clipboard. It’s his life, and what a sad fuckin’ life that must be.

‘Daniel, Paul,’ he says in that smarmy way that tried to be cheerful and all authority at once, but just comes over sounding like a massive twat. I hate it when he calls me Paul, only me Mum calls me Paul, and only then if she were in a stress with me. To the rest of the world I was Jacky, Jacko, Jacky Boy. Kept me dad’s last name, Jackson, and it basically became me given one. Me and Danno roll our eyes at each other and peel inside to get unloading.

This is how the day goes. The stuff that goes on the shelves comes in overnight. It’s all wrapped up nice and tight on pallets, all counted by computers. Shift Nazi checks it all. Boys like me, Danno and Scruff then get the pleasure of cutting the plastic wrap off and putting it out on the front so peoples can get what they need. This happened six days a week – six days a week of getting up at five to get there at six in the morning. You lug boxes around till one, all for a bit over eight quid an hour. If you get done humping sooner, you get to help clean out the rotten veg and spoiled fish as a bonus. It’s properly fucking shit.

We try to make a game of it. You’ve got to do something to keep ya mind from going wonky, they don’t let you listen to music or nothing. Zero shit, they think it’d be ‘unprofessional’. Seeing how many pallets you can shift in an hour’s too much, too easy. Bit too obvious. You get the work done quick they cut your hours or put you on clean-up, then you’d be right fucked. What you do is see how few pallets you move each hour, but when Shift Nazi gives you shit for slacking or spies you having a crafty smoke you add a point on. You do three pallets, get caught twice, you got five points. Lowest score wins a smoke from the rest of us.

You got to do it, though. Can’t not have a job, government ain’t going to give you shit. All they care about are making sure the fuckin’ Poles and Pakis don’t get their feelings hurt. You go down the Job Centre and they’ll give you fifty quid a week for a few months before cutting you off. Don’t want to give you nothing. It’s two years since I left school after hanging around to get me A levels, a C in Art and B in Spanish. I was the only one who stuck around to get them, the rest scarpered soon as they could. Did me no good, I’m in the same boat as the rest of them; living with our mums and getting up at five in the morning to unpack pints of milk, going round scrounging enough money to have a car to get to work with something leftover to get pissed up at the weekends. Fuckin’ pathetic.

‘Paul, you’ve got to pick it up. We’ve got another delivery coming in half an hour,’ says the Shift Nazi.

Fuckit, that’s another point. Danno smirks from across the bay and says, ‘Unlucky, Jacko,’ as he plays on his phone. Really could of done with those smokes. By the end of the shift some new fuckin’ Pole wins ’em. Tell him to fuck off until he could ask for ’em in English and take a case of beers off his pallet as I head back to me car.

‘Y’alright love, how was work?’ me Mum says when I get home. She’s sat in front of the telly with a full ashtray for company. Same place she’s at every day since Dad went.

Actually, guess that’s not fair on her. She was alright at first, looking after me and waiting for him to come home. When I grew up and the penny dropped he weren’t coming back, then she got like this.

‘Not bad, ta,’ I say as I kick off me shoes.

‘Want a spot of lunch? Think we’ve got some ham left.’

‘No thanks, Mum. Think we’re going out tonight, Scruff won a bit of money. Going to get some sleep, rest up a bit.’

‘Alright, love, let me know if you want some tea later on.’

Say thanks and walk upstairs. Always the same conversation. Sad, but there ain’t much else I can do. Government gives her a bit every month, least they can do, and she doesn’t get worked up sat there.

Once in me room I flick the little hook lock over and throw me jacket down. I fish a pack of fags out of me work trousers then kick ’em off. Throw me work shirt off too. Sparking a cig I crawl back into bed, careful not to ash on the sheets. Turn me telly on and smoke till the fag burns down to the filter before rolling over to catch some sleep.

Standard Saturday night arrangement; me and Danno round at Matty’s flat, Scruff on his way. I’d left the beers in me car but it’d been proper freezing all day so they were alright. I was supping on one watching Danno and Matty play on the console. They’s calling each other all kinds of shit and I was bored, properly regretting coming out. I crush me empty can and fish out another. Matty has a nice flat. His family have money, he’s just a rich kid playing poor. Wasn’t at Tesco’s with us, he works somewhere in central with his old man. Never says doing what, no matter how much we got on at him. End of the day we don’t care that bad; he has money and doesn’t live down the Quarry with his mum. His flat was full of furniture all new from Ikea or someplace like that too, no hand-me-downs.

‘Where’s Scruff?’ I ask when they go quiet between games.

‘That cheating arse,’ Matty says, ‘you hear what he did?’

‘Yes, mate, Danno told me,’ I say, but he’s not listening.

‘I’ll tell you what he did. He fucking watched me feed coins into that fruity all night, then when I went for a smoke he stuck a few quid in and got all my money out.’

‘C’mon, leave it off him. It’s not like you sunk all five hundred in.’

‘Doesn’t matter, I put the last bit in that got it to pay out, then he comes along and reaps the benefits. It’s my money.’

‘You know he’s good when he wins.’

Matty gives off a huff and gets back to his game. I crunch up another empty and crack the next one.

By the time I got that one down me throat, and the next one too, Scruff was ringing at the door. Matty didn’t look up so I let him in. Scruff was always the little runt, and when he made his way up he was looking proper small carrying a case of beers and a few plastic bags.

‘Y’alright, guys,’ he says in his voice that never really broke right that we give him a mountain of shit over. Me and Danno pat him on the back to welcome him.

Matty stays round the TV, stubborn prick. ‘Look who it is, the prodigal son returns,’ he says. ‘The lads tell me you weren’t at work. Enjoying your ill-gotten gains today, were we?’

‘C’mon, mate, leave off him,’ I say. Don’t know why Matty gets so uptight about money. Maybe he thinks that if he cares about it it’ll seem like he has less. Don’t know what it is with people wanting to look like they got less than they do.

‘I bought this for everyone,’ Scruff says, opening up the case of beers, ‘y’know how it is when you’ve got some cash.’

Scruff went into his plastic bags and brought out a half-bottle of something for everyone. Pack of cigs each too, proper ones and all; not any shit brand or ones out the back of a truck.

‘C’mon, Matty,’ Danno says, unscrewing the cap on his bottle, ‘get off it and let’s have a night.’

Matty walks over and gives Scruff a shove that was a little too hard to be playful but fuckit he’s here. The rest of us unscrew our caps and take big, long gulps. It burns like fuck but we don’t care, it’s why you unpack pallets at six in the morning.

The Falcon is proper full. All the dregs drink there; Quarry locals looking for a cheap one, the school kids looking for anyone who’ll serve them, the old boys who’ve been going there since 19-fuckin’-forever. Dad used to drink down here before he got out and left, or so me Mum says. Whenever I’m down here I wonder if some of the old boys at the bar knew him, if he ever bought them a drink or something. I’d ask them if it weren’t so sad, going up to the old drunks and asking if any of them knew me dad ’cause I didn’t.

It ain’t even ten and we’s all smashed up. I mean properly twatted. We’d finished the bottles in the flat, along with the beers, and were three or four deep down the The Falcon already. You get a routine going: drink a beer, have a piss, outside to smoke a cig, repeat. World’s going a little bit blurry, and having a slash me aim’s all akimbo. When I bust outside for a smoke the snout goes down in what’s like one big breath, so I take another straight away and light it with the cherry from the last.

I’ve lost track of the rest of the lads till I see them trying it on with a couple of girls. They were pretty fit, but there was only two of them. Matty and Danno look like they’s the ones making moves, and Scruff lookin’ proper sorry for himself. Made me right angry; typical childish bullshit Matt’d pull, making Scruff feel like shit just for getting a break. Danno don’t know better than to go along with it all. And fuck Scruff too, letting them beat up on him like that. Really regretting coming out now, I might have been all miserable sitting at home with me mum but least I wouldn’t need to worry ’bout this.

I stumble on the fuckin’ step as I head back inside and the Gorilla Bouncer catches me eye. I give him a little smile and nod; yeah, yeah, I tripped, but I’m fine, ya cunt. It’s Saturday night at a pub, we gonna be sat around with cuppas? No need to toss me, least not yet.

I get behind the scrum at the bar and feel around me pocket for a note. Can’t find any paper, but there’s a fuckload of coins so I pull out some shrapnel and start sifting through. Got me head down when this elbow comes up and hits me hand, sending the coins scattering. It belonged to some pikey shite with more gel on his head than hair.

‘Watch it,’ I say, throwing in a snarl.

‘Fuck off,’ he says, giving me a shove as he turns his Ugly Head back to the bar. Twat. The coins are lost under the swarm of feet, at least an-hour-and-a-bit’s pay – over an hour of slinging corned beef – just gone. With me lighter in me fist I punch the twat round the back of his head.

He stumbles forward and someone drops their drink. I get one more solid shot in at his kidneys before I feel a hand on me shoulder. I spin round quick with me arm cocked but see the Gorilla Bouncer on me and think better of it. I let him pull me out the scrum before remembering me coins. I try to say that I need to go back and get ’em, that I know I’m done but just want me money, but what comes out is slurred shite and he ain’t having none of it.

Out on the street on me fuckin’ arse and Gorilla’s saying something at me, but I ain’t listening. Standing stable as I can I wander off down the side where the smokers are. The lads are still there, still chatting with the girls and making Scruff feel like proper shit. I manage to snag Matty’s attention, who says something to the girls and gets as close to me as the barrier lets.

‘Bruv, got kicked,’ I manage to get out. I know I got a slur on, so fuck knows what I sound like to other people, ‘some wanker was being a right twat. You coming?’

‘What? Leaving? Fuck that. I think we’re gonna stay here with the girls for a bit. We’ll let you know if we head to the flat, though.’

Matty turns himself round and goes back to the rest of the lads, just like that. Well, fuck him too, then. Shouldn’t have fuckin’ bothered with tonight. It’s always the same shit.

I fish around in me pockets for a lighter but the Gorilla Bouncer has followed me round the corner and is telling me to get away. I ask him to kindly fuck off and say that I’m going, and make me way to the Paki shop to get a lighter and something for the way home. It gets easier to walk after I lean against the side of Boot’s to chuck in the road. Ain’t nothing in it but liquid and it steams up. Fuckin’ disgusting, but the world ain’t all sideways no more. I cut through a car park behind a posh office building and take a piss against some twat’s BMW.

Make it to the Paki shop. It’s empty ’cept for the lone guy behind the counter. He shoots me a proper evil eye. Fuck him and his stupid thin beard. Probably gave a half of vodka to some fifteen-year-old for a blowie. Got that telltale coke nail and all. At the shitty fridge and looking for a drink, I’m rooting around in me pocket trying to figure out what I got enough for when I hear it.

‘That’s the fuckin’ cunt!’

It’s the Ugly Head from the bar who’d elbowed an hour and a half of unwrapping frozen shepherd’s pies out of me hand. He’s got red on his shirt, so I must have opened him up. Got a mate with him too, a big mean-lookin’ fucker with his head shaved. ’Course I’m by me jack, ’cause me mates would rather chat up girls. Before I know it one comes down each aisle and I’m trapped by the Gins. . .