Rant

  RANT

  Alfie Crow was born in Wallsend, Northumberland and now lives in Thirsk, North Yorkshire. He studied Drama and English Literature at Bangor University in North Wales, and studied for a PhD in Drama at Bristol University in North Somerset. He likes using the word North. He worked for many years in community theatre, writing and directing over thirty plays, as a college and university lecturer and as a poet coach in primary and secondary schools. Alfie was one of the winners of the Bridport prize in 2006 for his short story, Metal, and works as a performance poet, his poems having been published in many periodicals and collections. Rant is the first in a series of novels featuring the world’s worst spy and disgruntled jobbing actor, Mike Rant. Coincidentally, Alfie also once applied to join the secret service using a computer in South Shields library. He is not at liberty to divulge the success or otherwise of his application.

  First Published 2013 by Moth Publishing an imprint of Business Education Publishers Limited.

  Paperback ISBN 978 1 901888 88 1 Ebook ISBN 978 1 901888 92 8

  Copyright © Alfie Crow 2013

  The moral right of Alfie Crow to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. Except in the case of historical fact, the names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination and not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Cover design by courage.

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by Martins the Printers Ltd.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Moth Publishing

  Chase House

  Rainton Bridge

  Tyne and Wear

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  www.mothpublishing.com

  For Kate Fox,

  for being so wonderful,

  for being there,

  for being.

  Your turn now little fox.

  Alfie

  Prologue

  Before we start, I would like to make a short statement.

  I often find, however, that it is not in my nature to make short statements.

  I have been called excitable, voluble, a pain in the arse and many other things, but never abrupt, short or to the point.

  But I’ll try.

  Here goes.

  The events here depicted now seem firmly consigned to the past, but they are of course vital to my own history and, I think you will agree, to the history of our fair country. It is the burden of those of us involved in the underbelly of politics and world events that we are seldom, if ever, allowed to tell our version of events. More recently the tide of human life has carried me to some surprising and really quite bizarre places, and these will be dealt with in due course. But every story must start somewhere, and mine starts here. (Well, I say here – obviously it didn’t start here, but this is where the main narrative thrust of my life begins. The juicy bits. The money shot. Oh, how apt that phrase is…)

  Anyway. Just let me explain.

  Whilst the following story is completely true, I have slightly changed my own identity. Partly to make myself seem more pleasant to the fairer sex among my readership but also to avoid prosecution and/or violent death, or, at the very least, a good kicking. I have tried to make a faithful record of events as they occurred and to give a good impression of how I felt at the time. Though short of standing over you with a gun and shouting, ‘Quick the police are coming and they’re going to hold you responsible for all the evil deeds in the universe’, I’m not sure that’s possible. Not that any of the events contained herein were my fault – or at least none of the important ones. Or only some of them.

  Unless you include obtaining money under false pretences.

  Or the borrowing of various motor vehicles without permission.

  Or perverting the course of justice.

  And, of course, the use of sarcasm and choice language in a built-up area.

  Oh, and being party to the kidnapping of several young people with multiple disabilities, though that was definitely just a case of being caught up in the excitement of the moment. Going with the flow.

  And the same could really be said about all the explosions, the arson, the molesting of various indigents and the so-called high treason charge that in my opinion was trumped up because none of the other stuff was going to stick in court.

  Or the thing about interfering with the dead guy. But I was desperate at the time.

  That came out all wrong.

  No, wait, if you’d just let me explain…

  ACT I

  The Corpse

  Scene One

  Feet of Flames

  Wednesday May 5th. Not long after midnight.

  Where was I?

  Oh yes, there I am, liberally splashing paraffin around the living room of my ex-best friend, paying special attention to the armchair in the centre of the room, and its occupant. He looks somewhat the worse for wear and I can’t say I’m surprised. I think I’d look pretty shit if I’d been through, etc. etc.

  Next, into the hallway, the kitchen, and finally the bedrooms. I half-heartedly wipe away fingerprints as I go. There isn’t really enough paraffin for the bathroom too, but to be honest I’m hoping it won’t matter too much. I’m kind of new to this game but, like everyone else in the western hemisphere, I’ve seen enough daytime/real-crime TV to kid myself I can dispose of sufficient forensic evidence to keep them guessing. Buying time. Also, I’ve appeared in a couple of episodes of Crimewatch and believe me it’s amazing the titbits you can earwig in that particular studio. Can’t wait to see the next episode, where some smooth presenter tries to explain to a perplexed public that: The man seen in this reconstruction is wanted for questioning by the police – not for the crime he’s reconstructing, but for another crime, which will be reconstructed by someone else, who is not wanted for questioning. Not yet, anyway. Except possibly by his agent who wants to know why she wasn’t told he’d found some work and wants to know where her ten percent is.

  Anyway, my paraffin tin runneth empty now and there’s no time to stand around philosophising, so I make my way back to the living room to confront my friend. He hasn’t moved, which is something of a relief, but the smell in here is appalling. The fumes – and something else. Not his fault but decidedly unpleasant. I pull my balaclava down over my mouth and suck air through the damp wool, still soaked from my earlier outing.

  ‘Thorry about thith,’ I mutter, and try to find some kind of meaning in his gaze. But there’s nothing; just the empty eyes of one already gone before. I sigh, pull out the gun and aim it between his eyes.

  I squeeze the trigger.

  I sigh again and spend a couple of seconds trying to figure out where the safety is. I give a lever a hopeful tweak, take aim, and before you can say, bang, you’re dead; I’ve shot him twice in the head.

  Bad idea!

  I have had more than my share of bad ideas in the last couple of d
ays, but this really is the cherry on top of the fucking cake.

  I am so appalled and distracted by the mess his head makes as it explodes that I only vaguely take note of the spark that drifts from the barrel of the gun and lands daintily on the carpet by the chair. Suddenly, with a wooff, the headless chairman disappears in a fireball and the flames spread out across the carpet like, well, like flames across a paraffin-soaked carpet.

  Desperately I grab my bag, and find it alight. I am very well aware that the whole room is now on fire, thank you very much, and that only my soaking clothes have saved me from instant flash-frying. I dive out the door and slam it behind me, only to hear the whooosh of it going up in flames as I dart into the kitchen and hurriedly douse the bag among the dishes soaking in the sink. I run for the door and get halfway through before the kitchen explodes and the blast blows me halfway down the garden.

  I gingerly pick myself up, steaming gently, and stagger the rest of the way to the road. I look around to see if anyone is watching; of course, every curtain within a hundred yard radius is twitching manically. But so am I, so who am I to talk? Time to take my bow and leave. My first paid starring role, my first lead – and almost certainly my last.

  In the distance, sirens. I rapidly fumble my keys out of my pocket and onto the ground where, as I bend to pick them up, I notice that my shoes are on fire.

  (I’m sure that before you read this you’ll have seen it, recorded by the ever-present CCTV’s of Olde London Town, now become public property. The footage of me, Britain’s premier cold-blooded assassin, bankrobber and flower stealer, dancing a jig up and down the gutter puddles like some manic Gene Kelly.

  Michael Flatley, eat your heart out.)

  I eventually climb into the car, my shoes still smouldering gently, and catch the eyes watching me nervously from the back seat as I begin to make my getaway.

  Correction – I continue to make my getaway.

  Correction again – I CONTINUE MY BRAVE QUEST TO CLEAR MY SULLIED NAME IN THE FACE OF AN UNCARING WORLD LOOKING FOR A SCAPEGOAT.

  There, that feels better.

  I’m in your average North London estate and I can only hope my driving is as random as it feels. Hard right, straight on, hard left, hard right, hard right, hard right—hey, I’ve been here before, flat’s still burning nicely, I note. I have no idea where I’m going, but thankfully nor do the emergency services. After a while, having passed the same fire crew and ambulance for at least the third time, and having been stopped by a policeman on a mountain bike for directions to the house I’ve just left (luckily he doesn’t notice my backseat passenger), things quieten down and I find myself on some anonymous A road going north.

  Time for a little quiet reflection.

  We have a little time. For me it would seem to be borrowed – for you, I don’t know. Maybe you’re reading this to relax and take your mind off the fact that you’re being pursued by faceless gangsters, the police, and possibly the secret services of some of the most powerful countries in the world. I think not, however, so you’re going to have to trust me on how that feels.

  All will become clear, if you will just let me explain.

  Please allow me to introduce myself; I’m a man of wealth and taste. Ha-de-fucking-ha. Wealth I have by the carrier bag-full, taste – well, you only have to turn on your TV and there I’ll be, entertaining the nation, wearing the latest in haute couture dosser’s outfits.

  My name is Mike Rant (born Michael Grant) and I used to be an actor. I know, I know, sounds a bit too like My name is Mike Rant and I used to be an alcoholic. I took the stage name Mike Rant because I thought it sounded edgy – that it had a bit of attitude – perfect for all those gritty, Mockney, ten-a-penny gangsta movies that Brit cinema seemed to be churning out every other week. Unfortunately it also sounds a bit like “migrant”, as in “worker”. Those dispossessed souls who wander the earth in search of a crust. And that seems to be what I have become.

  I am thirty-three. This is probably not significant other than for the fact that I should really know better, and that thirty-four seems only a distant possibility.

  I live (lived?) with my wife (ex-wife? late wife?) on a featureless, sprawling estate just outside of Newcastle, which really could have been plonked down anywhere in the country and you wouldn’t notice the difference, except maybe the accent of the people in the corner shop would have changed. And the local news reports might feature dramatic reconstructions of Scousers who had almost gone on holiday to Turkey the week the earthquake happened instead of Geordies.

  I am on the run. The police wish to question me about the murder of my wife and are eager to know the whereabouts of her body. Also I have purloined some cash and kidnapped a law-abiding senior citizen of the portly, North American variety who is squashed into the trunk of the car I have stolen, and who squeaks every time we hit a speed bump. Not to mention the shifty-looking guy on the back seat.

  Could happen to anybody, I hear you say. Why not just stop and explain?

  Good question. In reply, your Honour, let me just state for the record that I, Michael Eustace Grant, for various selfish reasons of my own, do not wish to be questioned by the police. I have appeared in enough episodes of The Bill (you may remember me as Northern Villain IV, Deaf-Mute Homeless Man II, Transvestite Body in Canal) to have an instinctive fear of those men in ill-fitting suits and dentures who wish to pass a little time with me. My view is that these are men who know that violence is not the answer, but certainly cuts out some of the boring questions.

  I am also being hunted by some nameless, random group of international terrorist or security forces who have not deigned to tell me why – though it would seem that recently they offered me a great deal of money to join forces with them in killing short, fat, second-rate politicians from the Balkans.

  But, I hear you ask gentle reader – How can it be that a second-rate jobbing actor of the extra type has become such an urgent addition to the invitation list of every coppers’ ball in the land?

  Well, first let me state for the record that I resent that second-rate line. I’ve done my time, three years hard humiliation at drama school to be exact, and my acting skills really are not that bad – not that I get to use them very much. But I work (or rather, I don’t) in the theatre dahling, and if there’s one thing that I have learnt then it is that talent has little to do with workload, and that a celebrity is just a nonentity who struck it lucky.

  Bitter, moi? Oh yes, indeedy. I have worked under too many twenty-year-old wankers with a director’s chair and private incomes, who think a subtext refers to the menu in a takeaway sandwich shop, not to feel bitter as lemons.

  And yes, I have heard all the jokes: How many actors does it take to screw in a light bulb? A hundred – one to climb the ladder and the other ninety-nine to say, ‘That should have been me up there!’ What do you get if you put ninety-nine lesbians and a support actor in a room? A hundred people who don’t do dick. What’s the difference between a jobbing actor and a bucket of shit? The bucket. And yes, it does get you down, after two years reading the back pages of The Stage and wondering if it really is time to apply for that job as a topless go-go dancer (after all, the demand seems endless and I have bigger tits, a better sense of rhythm and am probably more desperate for cash and therefore more willing to whore myself out than most of the women I was at drama school with). Yes, of late I had begun to have lurid daydreams of yours truly in a spangled G-string dancing to the ‘Stars-on-45’ version of Abba, with big bundles of tenners bulging out from between my arse cheeks. Not pretty. The image, that is. My arse isn’t all that bad.

  It had gradually dawned on me that you do not go into the theatre to earn money, you go in to spend it, and you need lots before you start if you are going to build up a wide enough circle of cronies to stage anything turgid and large-scale enough to attract the attention of the critics. And don’t even get me started on critic
s.

  But this is not the reason I have become a one-man crap repository. I have not had a breakdown owing to my lack of success in the Arts and am not randomly striking back at society in a cry for help. If I wanted that kind of attention I could easily vandalise the Blue Peter Garden (and generate sympathy for my cause at the same time by distressing the smug presenters of that formidable institution – who do they think they are anyway? Barely out of drama club and already on prime time TV).

  No, I explain all of this simply to show why the argument occurred, as I believe that that is where all of this began.

  Monday May 3rd. Morning.

  It wasn’t the first argument of its sort, but it was a real doozy. Anna was up, dressed, breakfasted, and hurriedly finishing off a coffee before leaving to work at some shitty little solicitor’s office in Newcastle by the time I staggered downstairs.

  Anna, like me, trained as an actor. Anna, like me, quickly came to hate the world she had entered into. Anna, unlike me, realised that in order to live you have to have some kind of contingency plan for earning your daily crust and feeding your habits, and that it’s no good sitting around whinging about it and hoping that one day you’ll get up and open The Guardian to find that the world has surrendered and come around to your way of thinking, sorry about the delay.

  So. Anna went to work each day at seven thirty and I sat around the house and cried about my life not turning out how I’d wanted it to.

  Then Anna came home every day at six thirty and I dug down deep into my emotional psyche and always seemed to find the energy to cry a bit more about the fact that life didn’t turn out how I’d wanted it to.

  More often than I deserved, she was sympathetic. Occasionally, however, she told me to eff off, grow up, get out of the house and find some work, earn some money and eff off, as we both knew what a joke the theatre world was so it was time to cut our losses and get on with life so eff off. Or something like that. There may have been more effs.