The Indie Collaboration Presents: Tales From Darker Places Read online

He owed me money. That’s why I was there, and from the looks of it, most of the mourners hitting on his close relatives also wanted money due. It didn’t take them long to break up the ceremony, pushing those they thought responsible aside and demanding their share of any available. I left them to it, he owed so much to so many. One less vulture, one less wolf.

  I first met him on a cold, damp morning when trying to get to work. The van wouldn’t start so I got out the old tractor, tied it up to the front to tow and shouted out for Todd to get out of bed and come help. The sounds of a ratty motorbike drowned me out and a short hairy bearded black leather guy stopped beside the cab and took off his helmet.

  "Is he in?"

  "Yeah, and still in bed!"

  "Oh, right, I’ll get him up, then."

  No word or sign of help, nothing. He hung his helmet on the handlebar and rode up the track to the house. That was Barry, mean with a knife and never blew his nose. Ever. I arrived late for work that day, almost got the boot.

  "So, what’s your thing, eh?" Barry sprinkled some dope over the tobacco in the paper. He’d been there all day in the comfy living room, drinking and toking with Todd. I had come back to a smoke-filled home and a ton of washing up. I made myself a tea and sat down before the cleanup.

  "What? Thing? I’m in the band."

  "Really?" He had a wicked laugh. "Never would’ve guessed you for the music kind. What’ya play?" He licked and rolled up the paper, making sure I saw the tattoo on his tongue. Todd was sound asleep, resting in his favorite chair.

  "Eh, Todd, Todd! Lightweight. So, what’ya play?"

  "Bass."

  He almost fell off the chair with laughter but held onto his joint, lighting it with a beat-up Zippo.

  "You any good?"

  "I’m in the band."

  "That don’t mean a thing. I play bass. Maybe we can jam later."

  "Sure."

  Two bass players jamming together? Like two growling dogs fighting for territory.

  Washing up needed to be done.

  You in the kitchen?" He shouted through the house.

  "Yeah!"

  "Make me a cuppa, will ya? Three sugs!"

  That day did come, about a week later. Barry was half cut and could hardly hold his bass while in a sitting position. His way of jamming was to listen to some music, try to catch the bass line and then turn up the amp. Nothing ever got off, he couldn’t play for shit.

  "Ah, show me something, hell, you’re the ’pro’, you’re in the band," he barked, sucking on the joint way too long. I spun off a little riff, fast, furious and deep but he wasn’t impressed.

  "That’s nothing! Look, see."

  He tried to imitate my playing, but ended up banging the strings any which way he could.

  "See! Did you feel that? Did ya?" Giggling, he passed over the joint with only the roach left.

  After a few weeks, I couldn’t find some of my best albums, they had mysteriously disappeared, until I found them stashed away in Barry’s flat, hidden under some dirty clothes and rotting rubbish.

  "Thought you wouldn’t mind, me borrowing those," he said when he realized I’d seen them. "There’s some good music there."

  I grabbed a handful, putting them by the door, ready to take with me when I left. Of course, by the time that happened, I was too stoned to remember my own name, let alone some poxy pieces of vinyl.

  Barry did have his connections, though, and sometimes they came in handy, while other times they did not. For example, the place had been dry for a few weeks, we were all getting desperate, even to the point of becoming clear headed.

  "I’m all out. Do you know where I can score, Barry?”

  "Sure," he smiled. "I know someone. Give me some money and I'll go get some for ya."

  I reluctantly handed over the last of my weekly dosh and went to see another acquaintance, Pete, while I waited. It was at least five hours later when Barry appeared again, drunk. The group greeted him with open arms as he'd brought some blow and booze, but no sign of any dope or recognition that I was in the room. Barry had taken my money and that was that. Without wanting to make a scene, I took more than my share of the blow, seeing as it was technically mine.

  "What ya doing?" He screamed when he'd realized what I'd done. I stared at him, waiting for a confession, which didn't come. I was the fool, he was not the cheat.

  However, there did come a time when Barry was desperate. He surprised us all by holding down a job for more than a month and I had to cash his checks in every week. He was worried, scared. Then we found out that he'd borrowed money from some local shark who threatened to bust his kneecaps if he didn't pay up.

  "I need five big ones or they're gonna do me, buddy. I really need your help! What am I gonna do?"

  What could I do? Watch a fellow human lose his knees? Who was going to push his wheelchair? I scrapped together the money from my bank account and watched him hand it over with nothing more than a brush down. Barry was so grateful he went on a one-man drinking binge for three months.

  In one translucent moment in that period, late at night with the music blaring and the neighbors complaining, Barry let something slip, possibly hoping later that I hadn’t hear him over the noise.

  "Ya know, there’s wolves and there’s sheep, an’ them sheep were meant for shearing."

  He laughed, clinked my bottle with his and falling into a stupor only a few moments after.

  Months turned to years, and the money never appeared, although Barry's knees were as healthy as they ever were. I stayed around him, sometimes going on social outings, just to keep tabs, making sure he wasn't going anywhere, or if he got lucky, that I was there to cop the lot. Unfortunately, he usually skinned me for a donkey or a pony every now and then, and sometimes I even became the scapegoat for his little scams. On a few occasions my kneecaps were in danger.

  But now, all that was forgotten, if not forgiven. Barry was dead. His name would always be remembered as the guy you'd never mess with, the guy you could rely on to back you up, the guy who'd turn into a wild hurricane as soon as trouble hit town. Barry the wolf.

  No one was here now, a soft rain kept the blue skies away as the wake of vultures moved to the relatives’ residence, hoping for some payout or payback. Only the local gravedigger stood between me and the newly dug soil.

  "Was this the guy who rode his bike into the back of a tractor?" Asked the old guy.

  "Front. Yes, it was."

  "Such a bad way to go. Heard the tractor had no lights. Did they catch the driver?"

  "Nope."

  He owed me money.

  ©Copyright 2014 Dani Caile