If only he didn’t have to leave. He imagined being able to just stay there all day. Or at least until the boozers opened. It wouldn’t be a bad life, if only he could somehow get rid of all this actually having to work for a living bollocks.
Once O’Brian arrived and wolfed his breakfast down, something that usually took him no more than two minutes, they would cross the street to their freezing workshop.
They “restored” Victorian marble fireplace surrounds. Car body filler and a good layer of plaster of Paris held the buggers together, and Domestos-soaked cat litter got some of the smoke stains out, followed by a bit of a polish with a Black and Decker buffer. For this they were paid thirty quid a day each, cash in hand by the owner of the business, a crop-headed little queen who also dealt a fair whack of hashish and raved most of his nights away in the ecstasy pits of Docklands. He sold Beckett and O’Brien’s handiwork for exorbitant sums in his West Hampstead antique shop.
Thirty quid a day wasn’t exactly top dollar, and true they sometimes took a good lump of hashish in lieu of a couple of days pay, but then the old cash in hand and no questions asked meant their dole paid for beer, smokes, and the odd bite to eat.
Their workshop was really nothing more than a semi-derelict garage with a leaking roof and bad electrics. Beckett well remembered the day he picked up a power sander and switched it on only to wake up flat on his arse on the other side of his work bench.
For weeks after the accident he would tell anyone who would listen,
“Two hundred and forty volts mind. None of that namby-pamby Continental or Yank one ten. I had to take the next day off work, didn’t I. Sitting at home feeling like shit, with sparks coming off me pubes, every time a decent-looking woman came on the telly!”
Beckett was halfway through his third glorious mouthful, a less than delicate blend of everything on his plate, when O’Brian breezed in.
Causes Luke James Supports
Doctors Without Borders