Deadline Day Extract
I’d used up all my procrastination techniques and it wasn’t even 10am. VAT returns were a bitch. Tuesday was Deadline Day.
Me and admin were old adversaries. I was a poet, for fucks sake. Not a counter of beans or a recorder of transactions. I recorded life as it was being lived, by me and by others. Where the hell did people think all these songs had come from, the ones they’d clapped and cheered for more of back in the 90s, when the band I was in packed out everywhere we played.
The band was long gone but the poetry kept coming. Just not the people to hear it. Now I was selling poetry in my record shop in the form of songs on vinyl. Songs were poems set to music. Or should be, I’d thought.
I knew I could procrastinate more if I put my mind to it. So, I started counting up the number of songs I’d written over 45 years. But that just smelled of admin. I slammed the laptop shut and told Josephine I was going out.
“But the VAT return?”
“I’ll do it when I get back.”
“When will that be?”
I mumbled and left. And headed to Diablo Discs, the record shop and nightclub owned by my friendly nemesis, George. Minutes later I entered the darkness of his place. He hated paying power bills almost as much as I hated admin. About four bulbs were working, cheap bulbs. The place looked a yellowy red. It suited him. He looked up and grinned.
p.1
“Who’s the little bird, George?”
“Ah, Donnie, my tentacles spread far and wide, you know that. Both ears to the ground at all times. There’s a wee bit of history with this one. Little Bird was asked by the seller to help him sell the collection. See, he doesn’t do Facebook or online or any of that shite.”
“Neither do you!” I said.
“I don’t need to. I’ve Jenny and other young uns for all that. Now, me and Little Bird go way back. She called me to fill me in. Then she made the appointment for me to view the collection. Only, she didn’t say it was for me. I gave her a false name, James Brown, to use for the viewing. That way she could always play innocent. Me and the collector go way back too. But not in a good way. I could tell you more but then I’d have to kill you. So, let’s get cracking.”
“What about the VAT returns?”
“This is more urgent, Don. We’ll be back well before lunchtime.
It’s all arranged.”
“But George, it’s not like you’ll share any of these 45s with me. You hoard them. The most valuable ones never see the light of day. They’re all in your lock up. So, why do I need to see them.”
“You don’t. But I’m still not allowed to drive since I got out of hospital.”
“But Sam normally drives you.”
“He’s busy.”
“Doing what?”
p.3
“The fucken VAT return. Weren’t you here for that bit?”
“But he’s waiting for your answers to his queries.”
“Aye, just imagine the cunt’s face if I ask him to drive me anywhere today, deadline day. No. Best he thinks I’m labouring through paperwork in search of his queries. Now, where’s your car?”
“Behind my shop.”
“Bring it round. Meet you outside in ten minutes.”
“George!” shouted Jenny. “You’ve been told you’re not meant to even be at work! Never mind driving to Largs!”
George lifted up one of his crutches and pointed it at me. “He’s driving, not me.”
“You should be in bed!” she shouted.
George was a fucken tyrant. His team was forced to love him or leave him. Half left. The other half knew he was all bluster and just needed a little tenderness. Not that such tenderness could be expressed. It’d just give him the boak. He hated sycophants even more than rebels. So, such tenderness was expressed in giving as good as you got from him. Shouting back at him, reminding him forcefully what he should be doing. He respected that. He’d go to the ends of the earth to protect you if you were on his side. Not that he’d ever tell you that. Too soppy. You’d just find yourself at the end of the earth one day, on the very edge of everything and, just when you felt like jumping, you’d feel a hand on your arm. It’d be George with whatever you needed. Of course, if it was George and you weren’t on his side, he’d push you over the edge, laughing manically. Lucky for me I loved him.
p.4
“If I get any pain, Don will drive me to the hospital,” said George sarcastically.
“Or the morgue!” shouted Jenny.
“Either way, it’ll get us both out of doing the fucken VAT.”
“George, what about that customer who’s coming in?” asked Jenny.
“What customer?”
“The guy for the Barry Manilow LP replacement.”
“What was wrong with it?”
“The one we sold him had a generic inner sleeve. It should have come with an inner sleeve with the lyrics on it,” said Jenny. George rolled his eyes. “It’s Barry fucken Manilow, not T.S. Elliot. Should have charged him extra for sparing him the lyrics.”
p.4
“Running away from your VAT return, Don?”
“How did you know?”
“Sam’s just finishing mine. Last day after the month after the quarter. We’re all in the same boat, laddie.”
“I’m doing it when I get back.”
“Sure you are,” said George chuckling, adding, “Sam’s just emailed me some queries. Christ. I’d be as well doing it my fucken self. Hate emails and hate VAT. I don’t even do emails.”
“How’d you know Sam’s got queries?” I asked.
George pointed to Jenny behind his till. “She told me. Worse than that, she read out the queries.”
“And I’m still waiting for your answers, George,” Jenny shouted. “I can’t reply to Sam until you tell me what to say?”
George munched his bearded chops as he did when amused. He turned to address me without answering Jenny.
“A little bird has told me about a cracking collection of 45s, Don. Fancy a looksee?”
“Where’s the collection?”
“Largs. You’re driving.”
“When?”
“Now. See, the same little bird also told me there’s a big dealer from London coming up to see the same collection tomorrow. So, this is a time sensitive issue.”
p.2