Читать книгу To Hell in a Handcart - Richard Littlejohn - Страница 17

Ricky Sparke stumbled upstairs and, by placing one hand over his left eye, managed to locate the keyhole in the front door to his flat. He stepped over the pile of unopened mail on the doormat, threw his coat on the sofa and reached for the vodka bottle.

He unscrewed the cap and turned it upside down. It was empty. He wrung the neck, like a man strangling a chicken, but the bottle was spent.

Ricky retrieved another from the washing machine.

Since he had a laundry service, he had no need of the Indesit combined washer/drier. So he used it as storage space. Every other surface was covered with old newspapers, magazines, CD cases and LP covers with coffee mug stains on them.

Ricky picked up a dirty glass, wiped it on his shirt tail, poured a large slug of Smirnoff into it and topped it up with half a bottle of flat slimline tonic.

By drinking slimline tonic, Ricky had convinced himself that it wasn’t really drinking at all.

It was his concession to fitness. He was always trying fad diets, none of which worked, largely on account of the fact that he would insist on supplementing them with vodka and Guinness.

He once went on a white wine only diet, after reading that Garry Glitter had lost three stone on it.

Ricky lost three days.

He devised his own version of the F-Plan diet. He called it the C-Plan. Ricky thought that if it worked he would market it and make his fortune.

The principle was fairly simple. You could eat anything you wanted, provided it began with C.

The diet started well on day one, Ricky eating nothing but cottage cheese and cabbage.

On day two, he dined on corn on the cob and cucumber.

Encouraged by the results, he extended the diet to his drinking habits. Two bottles of Chablis later, he moved onto Chartreuse and, eventually, Carlsberg Special Brew.

Then came champagne, chicken tikka masala, chips, cheese and onion crisps and cognac. He had completely forgotten about the chicken tikka massala until he brought it up on the platform of Upminster tube station.

Ricky had fallen asleep on the District Line, passed his stop at Westminster, slept all the way to Ealing Broadway, turned round and slept all the way back, past Westminster once more and onto Upminster at the eastern end of the line.

He was woken by a guard, turfed off the train, threw up, slipped in his own sick, smashed his head on a bench and passed out.

Ricky discovered a previously unidentified side effect of the C-Plan diet.

Concussion.

He slept the night on Upminster station and made his way back the following morning, breaking his journey at Aldgate East for an extremely painful and deeply unpleasant shit.

Since then he’d stuck to vodka and the occasional can of Nigerian lager, which had been his first news editor’s pet name for Guinness.

Ricky took a slug of his vodka and slim and retrieved a can of Guinness from the fridge to chase it down with.

He made a mental note to go shopping the following morning, Saturday. He was down to his last bottle of vodka and five cans of Guinness. Oh, and some milk might come in handy, too.

Ricky slumped back on the sofa and hunted for the remote. He located it under a pile of soft-porn magazines. He didn’t know why he bothered buying them any more. Half the time he was too pissed to toss himself off.

Ricky laughed. It was true. He was the one sad bastard who really did buy Penthouse for the articles.

Ricky hit the remote and the 33-inch Loewe TV in the corner came alive. Along with his Linn hi-fi, the state-of-the-art television was his pride and joy.

He loved his home entertainment. He was a cable junkie. And his collection of CDs and LPs, which he still played on a 20-year-old Linn Sondek LP12 turntable, was larger and more comprehensive than the record library at Rocktalk 99FM. Ricky often took his music in with him.

Charlie Lawrence didn’t believe in wasting money on immaterial software, such as records. He relied on freebies. And since all the popular stuff disappeared overnight, Ricky reckoned that the only way he’d get a decent show on the air was by supplying his own CDs. Otherwise he’d be reduced to playing Lena Zavarone, Kenneth McKellar and the crass soft rock no one even wanted to steal.

Ricky flicked through the channels, hoping to stumble across some hard-core German channel.

It was always more in hope than expectation. The only porn he ever found late at night seemed to have been made in the 1970s. Before they got their kit off, all the players looked like Abba, during their ‘Waterloo’ period.

Ricky paused when he saw what looked like a game show come on. The spangled host grinned insincerely and introduced the programme.

‘Good evening and welcome to a brand-new edition of ASYLUM!’

‘Today’s programme features another chance to take part in our exciting competition: Hijack an airliner and win a council house.

‘We’ve already given away hundreds of millions of pounds and thousands of dream homes, courtesy of our sponsor, the British taxpayer.

‘And, don’t forget, we’re now the fastest-growing game on the planet.

‘Anyone can play, provided they don’t already hold a valid British passport. You only need one word of English:

‘ASYLUM!

‘Prizes include all-expenses-paid accommodation, cash benefits starting at £180 a week and the chance to earn thousands more begging, mugging and accosting drivers at traffic lights.

‘The competition is open to everyone buying a ticket or stowing away on one of our partner airlines, ferry companies or Eurostar.

‘No application ever refused, reasonable or unreasonable.

‘All you have to do is destroy all your papers and remember the magic password:

‘ASYLUM!

‘Only this week one hundred and fifty members of the Taliban family from Afghanistan were flown Goat Class from Kabul to our international gateway at Stansted, where local law enforcement officers were on hand to fast-track them to their luxury £200-a-night rooms in the fabulous four-star Hilton hotel.

‘They join tens of thousands of other lucky winners already staying in hotels all over Britain.

‘Our most popular destinations include the White Cliffs of Dover, the world-famous Toddington Services Area in historic Bedfordshire and the Money Tree at Croydon.

‘If you still don’t understand the rules, don’t forget there’s no need to phone a friend or ask the audience, just apply for legal aid.

’Hundreds of lawyers, social workers and counsellors are waiting to help. It won’t cost you a penny.

‘So play today. It could change your life for ever.

‘Iraqi terrorists, Afghan dissidents, Albanian gangsters, pro-Pinochet activists, anti-Pinochet activists, Kosovan drug-smugglers, Tamil Tigers, bogus Bosnians, Rwandan mass murderers, Somali guerillas.

‘COME ON DOWN!

‘Get along to the airport. Get along to the lorry park. Get along to the ferry terminal. Don’t stop in Germany or France. Go straight to Britain.

’And you are guaranteed to be one of tens of thousands of lucky winners in the softest game on earth.

‘Roll up, roll up my friends, for the game that never ends. Everyone’s a winner, when they play:

‘ASYLUM!’

Was he taking the piss, or what?

Who could tell?

Ricky switched off the TV, picked up the CD remote and pressed Play. Randy Newman. ‘Bad Love’.

Ricky drained the can of Guinness and topped up his vodka. He reflected on his earlier encounter with Charlie Lawrence.

Fuck him and his fucking job. Who needs it? Ricky’s inclination was to walk away from Rocktalk 99FM. But Charlie Lawrence was right.

Actually, Ricky needed it. He’d never been out of work, he had an expensive flat and expensive tastes.

Tonight, Dillon had handed him his bar bill at Spider’s. It came to £1,234.75. Ricky had to promise to pay him next week, when his salary cheque was paid into the bank.

Ricky collected the mail from the doormat.

Junk, bills, flyers, pizza menus, minicab cards.

And one registered letter, marked URGENT.

It was from the Tyburn Building Society.

Dear Mr Sparke,

We note from our records that you are now four months in arrears with your mortgage. As of today (see date above) …

Ricky looked at the letter heading. It was dated two weeks ago.

… you are deficient on your repayments to the tune of £7,240.70. Interest is accruing daily.

Please contact us immediately and make arrangement for payment. Failure to make full restitution within twenty-one days will result in county court proceedings for recovery of the debt and repossession of the property.

Shit.