Julie Andrews and The Goat Of Mendes, what a combo!!
Julie holding her arms aloft singing her heart out amid the splendour of the Swiss Alps and little kids running around the landscape innocently singing the dori rey mee’s.. The she-goat of Baphomet, the Satanic emblem of black magicians.

These two images subliminally flash on and off like an amphetamine flashbulb,

High on a hill was a lonely goatherd
Lay ee odl lay ee odl lay hee hoo
Loud was the voice of the lonely goatherd
(cue subliminal image of Baphomet, the winged she demon. Sitting cross legged sporting a goatee beard, wearing a pentangle crown, a devilish stare and horns sprouting from its Pan-like head)
Lay ee odl lay ee odl-oo
(cue subliminal message)
DIE FUCKER!!

I’ve found a way to crack open DVD’s. I can manipulate the contents of the films with an editing package, so I’m copying the Sound Of Music for old Bikey Jackson. Bikey’s just got out of the nick, he has a penchant for old musicals and I’m playing mind games with him at the moment.

“YOU’RE GONNA DIE FUCKHEAD” flickers in and out 0000.5 mili-seconds at a time and a satanic symbol staining an otherwise family film. This technique alters the atmosphere creating a sense of foreboding; hopefully the desired effect will make him shit his bed.

It’s all about pissing in someone else’s water.

I did this for a guy down at my local paper shop as an experiment. He loves Bogart films, so I edited in a horse being executed, shot in the head from an old black and white documentary about equine diseases. It’s on a loop as it collapses and rises unnaturally from the ground again.

So two weeks later, after I’ve been away working on a job, I return to pick up my magazines. There he is with a fucking rash on his neck. You see he gambles on horses always fucking bragging he’s won this and won that, now he won’t even look at the form. Mention horses and he changes the subject, when I say I have a tip for Cheltenham, a horse called Humphrey, he scratches that fucking neck of his.
I’m trying to get him to watch some Doris Day if he does the poor bastard won’t ever drink milk again.

A film on a DVD is a self-contained entity. Usually you can’t get in there to change it but with the right kind of software you can crack it open, break into the content. You can go in there and jiggle with the innards, fuck it up, mess with the narrative, slip in your messages. That’s what I’m good at, manipulation.
This is how I approach my job. I like to penetrate things. Watch the jig saw pieces of a personality fall apart and then move in for the kill. In actual fact I’m like a voyeur with bullets and some shit hot software to boot.

Bikey Jackson is a Hells Angel. A big fucker, got a Grizzly Adams’ fuzzed up grey beard that looks like it’s fucking exploded all over his face. Their lass must have to send out a search party to find his fucking mouth to kiss… well not exactly, I’ll explain later.

He has a big, big smile and tiny fucking eyes which in physiognomy terms means a dodgy cunt. He wears a bike jacket like he was born in it. The arms are cut off to reveal his now flabby arms, dotted with tattoos of snakes and swords and somebody called Caroline.

He has a limp, not from a bike accident, silly fucker dropped an iron on his foot while he was in the nick. He’s out now and smelling the sweet air of freedom. He wants to take out Ravenger. Ravenger is a fat charva from Wallsend… Ah! Wallsend where the English breakfasts are ‘fuckin massif.’£5.99 you get the whole fucking heart attack on a plate.

In the not too distant past when Ravenger was a junior twokker he looked up to Bikey because of his power and his drug territory. But things turned sour when Bikey slapped Ravenger in a pub coz he looked at him the wrong way. This humiliating experience sowed the demon seed in his soul. He never forgot.

Ravenger was a police bitch, anything that happened on the estate he would squeal. So years passed and Ravenger after several gym sessions and a quaint bouquet of steroids and uppers got big, real big… and bold. Having friends in the force and wanting somebody out of the picture. Ravenger was in the ideal position to get rid of Bikey so he paid a local prostitute, coincidentally called Caroline, armed with two bags of coke, tapped Bikey up in a bar and led him to a disused building. She spiked his bottle of cider and knocked the stupid fucker on the head, coppers were tipped off and Bikey was pulled in for possession.

After he was put away, Ravenger and his gym sluts ruled the roost, but apparently Ravenger is still soft as shit, still needs his army around him. That’s why he never had a one to one with Bikey; Bikey still has something on him.

Bikey has calmed down since coming out, he now talks really camp, he hangs around the town toilets looking to rub your stiffy for a fiver, sad fucker. Four golden stars to the penal readjustment system coz before he went in the nick he was a mean machine who would belt you even when he was having a good night.

He couldn’t give a toss about his territory now. He doesn’t want it, it’s the fact that Ravenger framed him and sent him down for seven years that keeps him hanging on. So he’s biding his time. Strangely, they are still on nodding terms, but I bet they do a lot of back watching.

You see if Ravenger did it himself or got any of his cronies to do it then the Wallsend Black Snake Chapter would be busy grave digging the whole weekend. They don’t normally get involved coz Bikey is a bit of an embarrassment to them, but when one of their own gets rubbed out, well they have their principles.

I don’t know any of these guys you have to understand. I’ve wheedled my way into this via Ravenger. I only got to know Bikey in the Wallsend Café and a few drinking holes.
So at the moment he thinks my name is Jimi Hendrix and I’m a plumber from Ashington with a passion for Hollywood Musicals.
My real name is Eddie Temple, I hate plumbing, I hate musicals and my full time job is killing.

People.

* ..............*............. * ..............* ..............* ..............* ...............* ..............* ..............*

Why does it always rain in Wallsend, every fucking Monday. I huddle into the Cholesterol Café, whip my woollen hat off and nod to Betty. She’s got a skewed rolly dangling from her mouth and her hands covered in tomato ketchup, like she’s just butchered some unfortunate fucker.
“Well ya said Ketchup”
“I didn’t mean all of that” scowls a disgruntled pensioner.

I sit down opposite Bikey. He’s eating a ‘fuckin massif’ 3 eggs, 5 rashers of bacon, fried bread nearly half a loaf, pile of beans, 6 slices of black pudding, 4 sausages and a clump of dodgy mushrooms spilling over the side of the plate.

“Got something to tell ya Jimi” he looks up from his feast and wipes the egg yolk from his mouth.
“Remember the World Cup? Eriksson was under pressure with Rooney breaking his foot, should he take him? Should he leave him? Will his foot heal up in time?”
“Aye”
“In the end he took him, it was a gamble, but he could afford to gamble coz the silly bastard was on his way out anyway. He had fuck all to lose, apart from his reputation”

I look puzzled. He didn’t get me to come out in the rain to lecture me on fucking football.
He continues “It’s what you call a dead man’s gamble.”
“What?”
Bikey leans forward.
“When someone’s on the way out it’s time to take a gamble, even take someone with them, call it vindication, call it what you fucking like.” He points his fork right near my eyes.
“It’s about resolving things, this is my gamble”
“What are you on about mate?”
“Cancer.”
“Fuck sake.”
“Say nothing more, I want no questions.”
“That’s fucking shaken me up Bikey.”
I lean back in my seat with false resignation.
“I mean it, no questions,” he jabs the fork again and lowers it to pick up a burnt sausage, shoves it whole in his mouth and nods to me.
I nod back.
“No questions then.”
“Thanks Jimi, you’re a good ‘un.”

If he’s going to pop his clogs then that’s my fee down the pan. Here’s me thinking I’ll have to do it soon when…. he gives me cause for a slight reprise.
“I’m going to do Ravenger next week, at Marsden Rock.”
Thank fuck for that.
“That guy who framed you? No man Bikey, you’ll get yourself killed.”
“I’ve passed caring Jimi, am on the way out, it’s the right time. It’s his two monthly pay cheque from the south crew,” he says “He’ll be on his own because he’s fiddling, even his mates don’t know he’s earning extra.”
“At least let me give you a hand. I have a mate who can get you a gun and I’ve got wheels. I mean you can’t rub somebody out by going public transport, where’s your class?”
“Aye you’re right, I might need a hand, that’s good of you Jimi you’re a real mate”
He finishes off his ‘massif’ and leans back in his seat. “Ah! Jimi…Jimi Hendrix, what a name… Pity you couldn’t play like him, you could give up plumbing” then he starts singing “Hey Jimi!! Where you going with that pipe in your hand?” he lets out a hearty laugh a big, big smile and those fucking slits of his eyes become tiny knife cuts at the top of his face. His laughter bellows all over the Cafe, shaking the dayglo poster offers on the grease stained walls.

Betty looks over with another eternal rolly in her mouth. She wipes her hand clear of ketchup and joins in the joke, her guttural machine gun laughs ending with a 50 a day ciggie cough.

I look at him seriously “I can’t play like Jimi but there’s always time mate, time is on my side.”
He drops his smile and can’t figure out whether I’m taking the piss out of his situation or I’m making a philosophical statement about mine. No matter. He sups off his coffee and before leaving says “I’ll let you know mate.”
“By the way Bikey I’ve copied Singing In The Rain for you” I hand him the DVD, “Cheers mate”
“Did you enjoy The Sound Of Music?”
“Well, yes and no, I enjoyed it but felt really uncomfortable for some reason. I don’t know why, maybe it’s the stress I’m under.”
“I understand.”

Bikey limps away into the afternoon rain.

* ..............*............. * ..............* ..............* ..............* ...............* ..............* ..............*

The Crown is a long bar with a little snug on your left hand side when you walk in. Dark wood, stained glass windows and the ceiling is an amazing lilac with white decorative plaster. It looks like it used to be a theatre but cut in half right down the middle. There’s an old record player on the far side of the bar and Billie Holliday sings above the vinyl scratches. Strange fruit, beautiful voice.

Ravenger is in the snug with Billy Jackson and Nez, his right hand man. Billy is another fat baldy cunt weighed down with bling. He looks like Ravenger, a bronzed potato head wearing golden earrings. The only difference is Billy has a scar on his cheek from a knife fight in his Merchant Seaman days. And there’s Nez, all muscles and no brain, sporting a Chris Waddle mullet. He must have a sense of humour to wear fucking hair like that, the sad bastard looks like he’s been in stasis since the 70’s. He’s got a gold ring on his left hand finger, it reads NEZ but the letters are backwards. So when he thumps somebody in the face, he leaves the word ZEN imprinted in the skin, big fucking deal.

Ravenger gets me a pint while he’s at the bar. I pull off my woolly hat and take off my drenched parker. Billy and Nez don’t know who the fuck I am and what I am doing here, they think I’m a hanger on. They give me the evil eye.

“You a student then?” Nez looks me up and down.
“Nahh! I’m a plumber.”
“Might have a job for you.”
“Aye,” I pretend to perk up.
“My Uncle Dave has plenty of leeks in his allotment.”

They both laugh their tits off, I laugh with them and make a gesture to Ravenger for a quiet word.

We both head for the toilets.
“What’s the score?”
“Next week I’m coming along with him, he’s going to try and hit you at Marsden Rock.”
“That’s an important meeting for me, don’t fuck it up… Anyway how did he know I have a meeting at Marsden?”
“He keeps tabs on your every move mate. Anyway he’ll be dead before he gets there, I’ll take a detour.”
“When it’s done and I read it in the Chronicle I’ll send the second instalment… You have my word on that, now piss off I need to talk to our lass” he thumbs in a number on his mobile.
I leave and return to the snug.
Nez points at me “Fucking pipes r us” they both laugh as I pick up my parker.
I think I might just return again to see these two Muppets. That gives me a satisfied feeling and a little glow in the centre of my heart.
“See ya lads, another time eh?”
“Fucking arse” rings in my ears as I head off… nice boys.

* ..............*............. * ..............* ..............* ..............* ...............* ..............* ..............*

Bikey limps down the road and gets in my car.
I give him a reassuring smile.
“You got the money for the gun?”
Bikey takes out a bundle of 20’s.
“£400, it’s all there” I take it from him and push it in my parker pocket.

“A mate of mine is meeting me in the Marsden Grotto pub so if you wait in the car I’ll text you when I’ve got the gun.”

I rev up and we’re on our way.

“I would put some music on but the little shits have stolen the fucking radio and the speakers. They’ve even pinched my favourite Betty pen – the one where you turn it upside down and it reveals Betty’s suspenders.”
“Who? Betty from the Café?

A smile grows on my face from a bizarre image of Betty from the Café, lounging on a sofa in her underwear covered in tomato ketchup. Erotically smoking a skewed rolly. “Nahh man Betty Page”
“Does she live round here?”
I point over to a housing estate “Aye look number 32”
Bikey looks over and hasn’t a clue what I’m on about.
I look at him, his exploding beard and his big, big smile, I kind of feel sorry for him.
“Fancy a drink?’
“Aye what have you got?” he spins around looking for alcohol.
“Check out my carrier bag on the back seat.”
He buries his hand in and pulls out a carton of milk.
“Fucking Goat’s Milk?”
“You can laugh it’s good for you.”
“Don’t mention goats to me.”
“Why what’s the problem?”
“They give me the willies, those fucking little beards and their oblong weird pupils, man, satanic fuckers.”

I’m thinking of Maria Von Trapp and the satanic goat. My judo psychology does actually work.
“Fancy a sing-a-long?”
“Like what? Sweet Child Of Mine? Bat Out Of Hell?”
“See if this rings a bell.”

"High on a hill was a lonely GOATHERD
Lay ee odl lay ee odl lay hee hoo
Loud was the voice of the lonely GOATHERD
Lay ee odl lay ee odl-oo”

Bikey looks sick.
“I’ve changed my mind Jimi, I’ve got this weird feeling something bad is going to happen”
“Too right, you’re going to blow fucking Ravenger into the next fucking dimension”
I look at him.
“Seven years of your life he’s fucking ruined, get a grip and shoot the bastard”

He says nothing and it’s silence from here on in.

Marsden Rock. It’s only a bloody rock, 50 metres from the shore. It’s had a chequered career. Soon as you get there you see a sign advertising the Samaritans, it’s a popular spot for suicides. The safety fence is always decorated with flowers. I think it reeks of death. A lot of people like it, say it’s a spiritual place, a place of contemplation. Mind you when you’re having a pint in the Grotto pub and you see the Rock against the sea, you feel kind of humble, like you’re insignificant in the general scheme of things.
Apparently there was this gothic kid who killed some of the seagulls and placed them on the beach making up the word “DEATH”. Does that sound like a spiritual place?

The Rock of Death, it looks like a big chunk of fucking cinder toffee.

“Right Bikey, I’ll go down see my mate and get the gun, then I’ll text you. Come down to the pub toilets and then it’s all up to you.”
“Okay” he says staring through the front window into the sea like he wants to drown in there and forget everything.
“You alright?”
“I’ll be fine. I think that goat’s milk is making me sick”

In the lift that takes you down to the Rock, there’s this full length mirror, so I practise whipping out my gun, “Ravenger your dead fucking meat.”

There’s obviously no mate in the pub toilet going to sell me a gun, this is to keep Bikey out of the way. It’s Ravenger’s two monthly meet up with the South Tyneside crew, swapping cash for drugs and I want a part of it.

I put the gun away and take a long hard look at myself. I’m thinking I just might let Bikey go, he doesn’t know who I am and he’s harmless enough, just been given some bad breaks. Although I think it’s his karma catching up coz he was a bad bastard. Let nature take it’s course, Eddie.

I come out of the lift and emerge from the pub. I see two figures on my right in the distance walking south along the foot of the cliffs where it curves round into a cove, a cosy hiding place from the Marsden tourists.

I make my way over to the big Rock, and stand inside the stone arch, watching them talking, laughing then the guy hands Ravenger an envelope. They shake hands.

It’s a cloudy day and there’s only a few people around mostly clustered near the pub.
This is perfect for the situation that is about to unfold. I don’t want any messy massacres. The guy walks away and Ravenger is on his own, I emerge from the stone arch, he sees me and lifts an arm. I acknowledge him with a wave. I climb over the rocks to meet him as he walks towards the in coming tide.

“Job done?” he says, he doesn’t even look at me.
“Aye,” I look up to the sky and see the Sun breaking through the clouds.
“You shouldn’t have come here, I told you I’ll pay you when I see it in the Chronicle, now piss off I’m going to phone our lass”

I circle round him and stick my gun into his bronzed cheek. His golden earring shimmers in the sunlight. He twitches and goes to turn to face me but feels the coldness of the barrel.

“What the fuck are you doing, man?” He instinctively raises his arms. I can see those sweat beads running down passed the glowing earring; I move the barrel to his temple. “Now you know why my surname is Temple?”
“You’ll get fucking hunted down if you harm me”
“What by Billy No Mates and Mr Zen? The fucking Wallsend Krankies? You know something I just might hunt them down someday, call it unfinished business.”
“Please man I’ll forget the whole thing, keep the money.”
He throws the envelope down onto the rocks, “I’ve got a kid man.”

Now it’s getting a bit mushy, just like the Sound Of Music.
“Got a kid? you only see him once a month and you let him deal for you, what kind of Father is that eh?”

I bend my knees and search blindly with my free hand amid the crusty rocks for the envelope. “Got it,” it feels fat full of notes. I straighten up and push the barrel into his temple and grip the trigger. I’m just about to give him the big goodbye when I hear Bikey stumbling over the rocks.

“Jimi man what the fuck are you doing?”
“Fuck man. Keep your fucking voice down.”
Bikey pleads with me, “Let me do it man, give me that at least.”
“Bikey you’ll be a marked man, your life won’t be worth living,” says Ravenger lowering his hands. I push the barrel hard into his cheek and push it up wrinkling his face. He raises his hands again.

I look at Bikey and his face is so pitiful.
“Here,” I give Bikey the gun, he takes over, holding it with both hands and screwing it into the side of Ravengers face.
“Make sure you do him good and proper,” I walk away.
“Where you’re going Jimi?”
“His name is not fucking Jimi he’s Eddie Temple, I paid him to kill you.”

Bikey looks puzzled and screams into Ravenger’s ear.
“He’s not Eddie Temple, his name is Jimi Hendrix”
“Jimi fucking Hendrix?” Ravenger turns to see me walking away with the envelope and manages an ironic smile.
I shout over, “He’s making it up, just trying to worm his way out of it, I’m going back to the car, he’s all yours Bikey.”
Bikey gives me that big, big smile of his.

I continue, “Oh! And Bikey when you’re finished throw the gun into the sea.”

Bikey grits his teeth and forces Ravenger to his knees. “Get down ya spineless bastard you’d do anything to get out of this one, Jimi’s my mate, he’s a good ‘un.”

I climb the winding steps to the top of the cliff.

I pause half way and look down at Bikey waving the gun at Ravenger who is on his knees. They’re arguing with each other. Reminds me of the DVD analogy; their lives are self-contained, living their small narratives. I enter as an observer, see all the shit underneath the surface. So you crack open the secrets go in there and meddle about, drop in a few messages, manipulate the scenes become a virus. That gives you the power to alter the outcome.
I continue my climb.

I’m surprised I haven’t heard a bang.

I look down leaning on the safety fence. He’s still talking to him he must be pouring out his seven-year angst before blowing his head off.

Then…..A dull THUD.
The seagull’s squeal and fly from the top of the Rock, filling the sky. Ravenger slumps lifeless among the rocks.

Lifting the boot of the car I grab my trusty Serendipity, the long range L115A1 sniper rifle. My ipod toggles to Number 22. The spine tingling harpsichord runs over your skin like a shard of glass, drenched in echo and reverb. The infectious groove of the bubbling bass and slap happy tabla’s, chug along like a chilled out train. It’s where happiness meets menace, it’s the mid-heaven of the day’s arc.

The climax.
Right time right place.
It’s the sovereign of soundtracks.
Roy Budd I take my woolly hat off to you.

I can’t get over this being like the end of Get Carter. If I told anybody they would accuse me of engineering this, I must admit it borders on the cliché, but what the fuck.
Bikey is in my sights, unfortunately he knows my real name now, I was going let things go. He limps away from the dead body; he looks dejected like he’s regretted it and he’s going to break into a mournful song. I’ll wait till he throws the gun away.

“Goodbye Bikey, you were fun but you didn’t half stink.”

He throws his arm back to throw the gun in the sea, just that second before releasing it.
POP!!

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