The Dirty Works of Shane Levene

"Alright mate, how d’ya like my new rod? Not 'arf bad, hey? Made outta the same stuff they build rockets from, apparently. Take a listen to this... Ya ever heard anything cut the air quite like that? That's quality, mate. Ya won't find yaself a better stick than this, not 'round these parts. Where did I "buy it’’? Youre pullin’ me leg int ya, mate? There’s over seven hundred quid a rod ‘ere… How d’ya suppose I could ever afford summin’ like this? I pinched it, mate... 'arf inched it outta that shop down Chiswick way. I mean, I dint intend to, it just kinda happened... Yeah, it were a bit weird. I'd gone in there just to have a nose around, you know, look over the wares and wot not, and after a moment I pick this rod up and I’m just kinda admiring it when I notice the young kid working the till ain't got a clue I've even taken it down. So, I'm admiring this rod, reading the sales patter, but really now I'm watching the kid... Watching the kid and remarking to myself how near I am to the door. Still, I dint never really think of leaving with it as I'm sure that any moment now he's gonna raise his head and look my way - only he doesn’t. He's just sat there, face down, pumping shit into his phone, completely absorbed by it. Tryna give him every chance I can, I says to myself: If he don't look up in 10 seconds I'm gonna turn and quietly slip out. So I start counting, and I'm sure he's gonna look up and clock me any moment, and this sensation of heat and excitement suddenly rushes through me and the next thing I know I'm up to 15 and I'm striding furiously down the Highstreet with the rod in hand. Any second now, I tell meself, any second now and you'll hear him ravin’ and screamin’, pleading for someone to stop ya. But then I'm up to 45 and I've turned off down a residential street and I'm as good as gone. I stop, half outta breath, lookin’ back at the Highstreet, at people just walking back an’ forth, at absolutely no commotion at all. And this feeling’ of elation comes over me, a feeling of victory. And just like that, like someone had flipped the switch on reality, I went from being a petty, clammy thief to a proud fisherman, chest up an' out, heading home with his brand new kit. For the first time in a while I walked with a little something in my step. And it may sound odd, but the day felt strangely religious.

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Well, anyways, that was a few days ago, so I'm off down the river just now to give the rod a whirl. With a bit a luck on my side I'll hook meself summin’ ‘arf decent. They say ya can't eat river fish but I've eaten it all me life an it's never done me no harm. So long as ya get it home nice and quick, get the head and guts out and get it fried up in a good lump of butter, ya should ‘av no worries. Yep, a good day’s fishing is just what I need. There’s nothing quite beats an afternoon along the river with the rod and the boats and the lap of the water in the wake. I'll set up just across from the old Harrods' storehouse, hurl my line out and hope the old watery Lady blesses me with a Perch or Dace or summin'. Though, truth be told, if you're serious about hooking a good 'un, the best place to fish is right off the Hammersmith Bridge. And not many people know that. Set up there, drown out the traffic with some decent tunes, drop some line and it's almost guaranteed summin’ big is gonna hit ya bait. Even more pity then that the bridge is outta bounds for me. After what happened to my Old Man there I vowed to never step foot on it again. Yep, Hammersmith Bridge, the place my old man croaked it… Smack bang in the middle of that cast-iron eyesore. One minute he was trotting along just fine an’ dandy, and the next he was face down, stone dead, not even time to say goodbye. Was his heart, they said, it just plain gave out. He was lucky though. Through pure chance, the very moment he collapsed, a doctor just happened to be cycling by and was on the scene in seconds. Was just too bad there was nothing he could do... Nothing anyone could do. That was the kinda screwed up luck my Old Man had. Anything else, a broken leg, burst stomach ulcer, a stroke, you name it, and you'd be lucky to have a doctor on scene like that. But no, my Old Fella had to have a fatal heart attack, a complete blow out, and there was nothing anyone could do about it. That's really where it all started. First me Old Man and then not even 4 months later me Old Dear. With no warning it were suddenly just me and me brother left. We tried to keep the family home but the council said it dint work like that and we had to move out. That house was all we had left. With the doors closed and the radio on we could kid ourselves on that mum an dad were still around. It was only once we were evicted that the deaths really hit us. They hit my brother much harder than me. He was only 14 and he stopped talking... Went completely dumb. Still ain't right today. I mean, underneath he’s still compos mentos, but somewhere near his surface lies summin’ raw and grief-striken, it's like he's wearing a permanent mask. The doctors and all that lot just see it as something odd, but it ain't that odd coz I understand it... I understand exactly why he's like that. If it wasn't for me having to fight our corner I think I couldve ended up that way too. Whether it was luck or not I don't know. Well, anyway mate, you know what this life is like. They kicked us out the home and as we didnt have the money to clear the place the council told us to take a few things of sentimental value and the rest they would auction off to pay for the clearance. That's how I found out about me Old Man's stamp collection. The fuckers got over twelve grand for it! TWELVE FUCKING GRAND! I never thought much of them stamps, never thought they could be worth anything like that, but when the council found out they were so valuable they should've informed us or at least given us the remaining money after the cost of their clearance operation. But what did we get? Nothing! A poke in the eye! I suppose expecting a little honesty in this world is too much?! No wonder people take what they can when they can. Course I tried to get some cash from the sale but I dont know nothing about them things and I was young and what chance would someone like me have against the council big wigs? None. Exactly. So, we ended up with just the few items we chose. But the strange thing was, now get this, outside of the house they had no real meaning. My mother's dresses just seemed like old rags and my father's binoculars quickly lost their smell and didn’t seem much like his once that was gone. They took everything when they took that house, and in many ways we were never the same again. But anyway, the prime fishing slot on the bridge is a no go for me. The bridge can keep its fish. I’ll be just fine downstream.

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I'll tell you summin' mate, appreciate your loved ones while theyre around. It's a hard lesson to learn if ya dont. Death aint no joke… An’ life gets pretty serious too. Dint used to be that way, mind. But the older ya get the more ya feel the weight of the world, or whatever weight that is. I’m gonna tell ya summin’, mate… Summin’ I’ve not ever told another livin' soul: Sometimes I feel sorry for them fish… Only it’s more like sorrow than sorry. There one is, just going about its business, and the next thing it’s fighting for its life, being reeled up out the water and confronted by an ugly mug like mine. Sometimes when that happens I forget about supper and frying them up in butter and I just gently get that hook out the mouth and pop the fish right back in the water. When I do that I feel like I’ve been on the sauce - my word of honour. I can’t explain it but watching those rainbow coloured scales sparkle just under the water before the thing descends back into the murky depths makes me feel giddy drunk. Shit, if I’d ever have told me Old Man that he’d have given me a good clip around the ear. He was a brutal fisherman, my Old Man was. I used to watch the way he’d twist and rip the fish off the hook and then discard the thing into his catch bucket. Seeing the shadow of the fish through that bucket, performing its death flap, gave me the willies. Then I’d watch my Old Man’s fingers, covered with slithers of dark congealed fish blood, slipping a fresh fat earthworm onto the empty hook. Maybe having to feed four mouths makes you more brutal? Maybe you can’t afford to have so much pity when your own children are starving hungry? I don’t know. What I do know is if I catch a fish today, even if it’s a good ‘un, I’m gonna ever so gently unhook him and send him back on his way. Today is not a day for death, not by my hand anyway. Well, can’t stand around blowing hot air all day. The sooner you wish me good luck the sooner I’ll be on my way. Gotta get some bait yet. Yep, gonna get down the park and stomp the ground and get me some fat ol’ worms. There’s enough of them, I'll tell ya that… Enough fat ol’ earthworms for just about everyone…”