Grimsby pt. 4 (Patreon)

Fucking kill me already. If it’s 1 hour walk and I need to be at the fish market at 7, why the fuck did I set the alarm for 5? I had no memory of going to bed, but apparently I had managed to do that. How much did I drink? Was I still drunk? Fuck! Was I still high? I don’t know how long that shit lasts. Did I even get high at all? I must have slept on the side, because the right ear piercing hurt.

I decided to get up and take a shower after all. Some hydration and 3-in-1 adidas bullshit would probably do me good. At least my reflection wasn’t a surprise anymore, though I winced a little. I gambled that the tape holding the plastic wrap over my tattoo could withstand a quick shower. If not, the 24 hours would have to be shortened a bit. Showers have the magic ability to awaken the sleepy, chill the sweaty, thaw the frozen, heal the sick and refresh the hangover. This shower needed a refill of magic, because I wasn’t feeling it. At least I smelled better, and the bandage remained in place.

I couldn’t use the same clothes for a third day, I realized. If for no other reason because they reeked of weed. I dug through the heaps of clothes in my bedroom. There was no way of telling what was and wasn’t washed. Correction, some were clearly not washed, but there was no way of telling if something was clean. I managed to pull out two socks that matched, underwear that looked clean, and a T-shirt and an adidas tracksuit that weren’t wrinkled. I doubt whatever adidas use can even get wrinkles.

 I grabbed my phone. Fuck! How could I suddenly be short of time? I grabbed the cigarette pack and the lighter from the Nike joggers and threw myself downstairs and out the door. It’s way more than one hour walk to the fish market, and I have just about an hour to get there, so somewhere along the way I would have to jog. Fuck. Before that though, I really craved a smoke.

I ended up doing low intensity interval training, with shorter and shorter sections of jogging mixed with longer and longer sections of walking. I wasn’t sweaty when I arrived, late, but definitively flush. I tried to look like I had problem finding Jamie.

“There you are!”
“Glad you bothered to make it, Chayse. Talk with Peter over there, in the orange wader. He’ll tell you what needs moving.”

Peter must have been really imposing when he was younger, and still in his late 50′s he was tall, loud and a tangle of beard and hair. Talking to him wasn’t the easiest though. After having spent a lifetime with the fishermen, even if his accent wasn’t incomprehensible, he used a shorthand for everything that made it hard to understand what he wanted. But as I soon found out, it almost always came down one of filling boxes with ice, moving boxes, or squeegee the floor. By 10 it properly hurt, by 12 I was considering to just walk away. Doing this job was however one of the few explicit things Butcher Jones had told me to do, through Declan, and somehow I managed all the way to 2, when Jamie handed over my £60.

Peter had told me the chippie at the end of the market sold some of the odder looking pieces for £5 to workers. It was past lunch, so I managed to bargain for a £3 with old chips and take away. As I sat down in the clean but worn break room and started to eat, I had mixed feelings about the meal. On one hand I had worked harder than any time before in my life, and was starving. On the other I was eating 5% of my net worth, so I should pace myself and savor it. But the chips were stale, so faster was better. Sitting down and having a break with a full belly for the first time in days was however calming. A bit of a break in craziness of the past few days. It had been jarring, sure, but if things started to move along now at a more normal pace, it wouldn’t be that bad. Wake up, move boxes, have some chippie, do chores, sleep early. That should be my goal routine. Then three months from now I could hit up some old friends in London to crash at their place for a bit, grow out the hair, remove the studs, and this would all be an odd adventure with a memorial tattoo. But first things first. My plan was to sort out some essentials. Do a laundry run first thing back home, then move out some of the most obvious trash, old take away boxes and the like.

When I tried to stand up I was again reminded that I wasn’t used to this kind of work. My back muscles where sore after all the standing, walking and lifting, and I had to really push through the soreness to stand upright. I’ve heard walking is good for your back. I hope that is the case, because spending another £2 to get home wasn’t going to happen. I went slow, 2 hours perhaps, but I didn’t feel any worse by the time I got through the door. Not really any better either. Still exhausted I collapsed on the couch again. No sight of Declan. There wouldn’t be any laundry runs, nor any other run today, that’s for sure.

Not even five minutes went by when the front door opened. I was just about to ask Declan where he’s been when Jace walked in, looking exactly the same as the evening before. I vaguely recalled something about playing Xbox.

“Alright bruv?”
“Oi Jace. I’m fucking knackered.”
“Should be fucking easy to beat you then, mate.”

He confidently walked into the kitchen and grabbed us each a Stella, and after giving me mine proceeded to get the Xbox and FIFA up and running. While he still behaved as a cocky cunt, I did enjoy sitting down and watch someone else work for a change. I knew he was there for selfish reasons, but oddly it felt like being taken care of. I had never played FIFA even once, so I claimed to have forgotten all about it. He didn’t show any sign of disappointment, and just threw himself down next to me in the couch and began teaching me the basics. He then completely crushed me in our first game.

“That was alright, bruv”
“Thanks.”
“Let’s play for real now.”

While the game was starting he pulled out a blunt from somewhere and lit it. Looking for any advantage, I didn’t wait and started playing immediately. He didn’t seem to mind, and effectively retook the initiative as soon as he returned to holding the controller. He then held out the blunt in front of me and asked “Want some?” I didn’t want to let go of the controllers, so instead I had to lean forward to inhale from it. Despite the distraction, and the weed, I managed to score some points, but I was clearly outmatched. I didn’t mind though. Just sitting down, not working and not thinking was a luxury.

“You smoke weed every day, mate?”
“Yeah. Me and Daz deal around here.”
“So you’re his muscle?”
“Wanna fight, bruv?”

I was too tired and too high to realize what I had done until seconds later. Jace had told me he was a criminal, dealing drugs. I then implied he wasn’t the brains of the operations. But the way he said the last thing, challenging me to a fight, didn’t sound as much of a threat as it ought to. Like he was happy about it.

“Sorry mate, I meant no disrespect.”
“No, no bruv. I do boxing twice a week. You should come.”
“Thanks, but I’m not really that into sports.”
“You should come. Next time is tomorrow.”

There was a bit more force behind the last bit. I remembered Declan’s instructions on doing whatever Daz and Jace suggested. Perhaps that was still valid.

“OK. I’ll join.”
“Sweet. I’ll beat you in FIFA one more time.”

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