Kids' stuff

9 October 2000
By Jamie.

There's something reassuring about the feel of a sharp knife in your hand. It doesn't have to be a big one, we're not talking machetes or those fuck-off Turkish sword things, just your old Stanley, or even one of the old girl's from the kitchen. Just the knowledge that if some wanker starts on you, you can pull it out and watch the bastard shit himself on the spot.

I remember the first time I felt the power it gives you. I can't have been much more than fifteen, your scrawny, wiry type, before I'd ever worked for a living or started on weights and that. Still pretty tasty though, on account of having three headcases for brothers; I could handle myself ok for a kid, anyway. But I felt like a loser, never up to scratch - never been in a proper fight, one-on-one, dangerous stuff, not like they had. They were full of stories of toe-to-toe battles with away fans, half-brick charges at enemy pubs, glasses and chairs flying - some of it must have been bullshit, but you don't know that when you're that age, do you. I was always looking up to them, so no wonder I felt like they were looking down on me.

So this one time, when Tommy was up on a charge for GBH and looked like he was going to be away for a while, I thought I'd help myself to some of his gear. Just while he was inside, sort of keep it fresh for him. First thing I find was this butterfly knife he's got, you know, the kind that you flip open and shut, all flashy. Course, the first few times I do it I almost slit my throat, but I'm getting the hang of it after a while and think, I could get used to this. And your mind starts to go into hurricane mode, you go back to all the times you wished you had something like this on you, just to show the bastard, and you put whatever went wrong right. Change history in your head.

I'm already buzzing, like I've had a couple of Stellas and I'm not in total control any more; there's someone doing all this, but if it's me I'm fucked if I know what I'm going to do next. And it feels good, so I head out of the house with my new pal in my pocket. To start with I'm walking kind of awkward, like I know people can tell what I'm up to; but then it's like, fuck them, let everyone know about it and there's a new boy in town. And I've got this swagger, and some people stare, but I don't care cos I feel seven foot tall.

I go to the Crown. The beer's piss, but it's about the only place you don't need a passport, birth certificate and letter from the bloody Queen to get a pint, and there's normally a crowd in there. Sure enough, some of the lads from school and the centre are hanging about, playing pool and generally making sure everyone knows they're there. The prize tosser's hanging about, too, ripping the piss out of everyone cos he's built like a caveman and no one's going to answer back and risk losing teeth over a little lost pride. He laughs at some poor sod for being a pussy, sinks his pint and heads for the bogs. I follow him, and no one sees me.

When I get in the bogs, he's already standing at the urinal, swaying and burping to himself as he pisses, and I think how easy this has been. I think of how it would look when the bill find him, flies open, cock out, in his own piss and blood. Kind of poetic for a gutter life like him. And that's when the real surge of power comes, knowing that I've got the key to his life in my pocket, in my hand, and I'm the only God here in the gents, deciding who lives and who dies and who gets to walk out of here in one piece...

But I put the blade back where it belongs and have a piss. He nods 'alright' to me and looks back down at what he's doing. I'm only a kid, after all. Might as well enjoy it while it lasts.