Weird Shadows Over Innsmouth

Not “do”, notice, I’d’ve understood that (and I don’t mind giving out some tips): but “can”. How can I do it? And this from some little wanker who’s being put through college by mummy and daddy, who didn’t have a lazy girlfriend to support, and who was a right old slowcoach when it came to doing his round at the bar. Annoying thing was, after I’d discussed it with him for a bit (I say “discussed”: there was a bit of pushing and shoving at the start), I could sort of see his point.

According to him, it was a matter of attitude. If someone came round and turned me mum’s place over, I’d be after their fucking blood. I knew that already, of course, he wasn’t teaching me nothing there: I suppose the thing I hadn’t really clocked was this mental attitude thing. I know that mum’s got some bits and pieces that she’d be right upset if they was nicked. Not even because they’re worth much, but just because they mean something to her. From me old man, whatever. If I turn someone’s place over, though, I don’t know what means what to them. Could be that old ring was a gift from their Gran, whereas to me it’s just a tenner from Mr. Pzlowsky if I’m lucky. That tatty organiser could have phone numbers on it they don’t have anywhere else. Or maybe it was a big deal that their dad bought them a little telly, it’s the first one of their own they’ve had, and if I nick it then they’re always going to be on their second, or third, or tenth.

The point is I don’t know all that. I don’t know anything about these people and their lives, and I don’t really care. To me, they’re just fucking cattle, to be honest. What’s theirs is mine. Fair enough, maybe it’s not a great mental attitude. But that’s thieving for you. Nobody said it was a job for Mother Teresa.

Anyway, we’re back in the Junction and a few more beers down (haven’t even shifted anything on yet, still working through the change pot) when who should walk in the door but the Pole. Mr. Pzlowsky, as I live and breath. He comes in the door, looks around and sees us, and makes his way through the crowd.

Baz and I just stare at him. I’ve never seen the Pole anywhere except in his shop. Tell the truth, I thought he had no actual legs; just spent the day propped up behind his counter raking in the cash. He’s an old bloke, sixties, and he smokes like a chimney and I’m frankly fucking amazed he’s made it all the way here.

And also: why?

“Id like a word with you,” he says, when he gets to us.

“Buy us a beer, then,” I go.

I’m a bit pissed off at him, truth be known. He’s crossing a line. I don’t want no one in the pub to know where we shift our gear. As it happens it’s just me and Baz there at that moment, but you never know when Clive’s going to come in, or any of the others.

He looks at me, then turns right around and goes back to the bar. “Two Stellas,” I shout after him, and he just scowls.

Baz and I turn to look at each other. “What’s going on?” Baz asks.

“Fucked if I know.”

As I watch the Pole at the bar, I’m thinking it through. My first thought is he’s come because there’s a problem with something we’ve sold him, he’s had the old Bill knocking on his door. But now I’m not sure. If it was grief, he wouldn’t be buying us a pint. He’d be in a hurry, and pissed off. “Have to wait and see.”

Eventually Mr. Pzlowsky gets back to us with our drinks on a little tray. He sits down at our table, his back to the rest of the pub, and I start to relax. Whatever he’s here for, he’s playing by the rules. He’s drinking neat gin, no ice. Ugh.

“Cheers,” I say. “So: what’s up?”

He lights one of his weird little cigarettes, coughs. “I have something for you.”

“Sounds interesting,” I say. “What?”

He reaches in his jacket pocket and pulls out a brown envelope. Puts it on the table, pushes it across. I pick it up, look inside.

Fifties. Ten of them. Five hundred quid. A “monkey”, as they say on television, though no fucker I know does.

“Fuck’s this?”

“A bonus,” he says, and I can hear Baz’s brain fizzing. I can actually hear his thoughts. A bonus from the Pole, he’s thinking: What the fuck is going on?

“A bonus, from the Pole?” I say, on his behalf. “What the fuck is going on?”