London 10/5, 16/5

By Eddie Coppinger

the central narrative concerns official drug experimentation within the army, which goes badly wrong. soldiers are fed a drug - zentox 24 – in order to make them cope better with the increased security demands on them. the drug affects soldiers’ perception of danger and has horrific unintended results. a series of ritualistic murders takes place in london. the murders are committed by soldiers whose drug induced paranoia has got the better of them. the lead character, tom hickey, stumbles over what is going on and soon links the killings to soldiers. as tom digs deeper, it quickly becomes clear that the whole of london is at risk. the drug science in the book is researched and authentic.
tom is a tabloid journalist and lives in south london. tom has issues - he suffers from covert ocd. his nice harmless “madness” eventually collides with the drug induced madness engineered by the army – he is forced to take some of the army drug - zentox 24. Can the highly structured and complex nature of his own ocd outfox it?
along the way, tom finds time to have an affair and become a father.

most of the book is in the first person, with tom liberally mouthing off about london, politics, afghanistan, religion...
the central narrative about drugs and the army drives the book on, but the book also seeks to shine a spotlight on the london migrant experience and how migrants interact with the police and the wider establishment.
each chapter of the book concludes with a spoof middle england tabloid news story. this is to provide contrast between tom’s life and this other world.
along the way, tom develops an important relationship with a civilian female doctor, who is working with the army. it is largely through this relationship that ocd/“madness” is explored.
the book also has many references to the internet, films and popular music. in fact, the first chapter ends with a take on a famous quote from casablanca, however, a number of the references are not so obvious. the author enjoys the idea that the reader will actively seek them out once they realise that the book is littered with them. each chapter of the book is self-contained and is consciously cinematic.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eddie Coppinger
• Release date: Sep 24, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301456208

Book preview

Chapter One

London. A magnificent monster of a city. Eight million people spread over God knows how many miles. It is nervy, it is dirty and at times it can make you want to piss your pants. I do not waste too much time thinking about whether I am English, British or European - those labels mean little to me as everyone I know, including myself, is second generation something or other. Many claim it, but London truly is the crossroads of the World. As well as the bad stuff, London is a life force, potentially the stuff of dreams, and the only identity that means spit to me.

I had half a day off from my tabloid job. As a journalist, it was always going to be a redtop for me bearing in mind I come from south London, and therefore, English is my second language, or so everyone north of the Thames is always telling me. But the tabloid job suits me. I do the same job as the guys on the broadsheets, even if I do have to make the odd story up occasionally.

It was a shit sort of day but I did not care. I was looking forward to seeing my mate Billy, a barrow boy made good or so he keeps telling me. Billy is great company and one of the few people who can out do me in the tall stories department. I had known Billy since we were both kids. We had been part of the same small gang of snotty nosed strays who played football together, let down tyres together and chased the same shiny faced cheeky girls together.

Billy’s paternal family was originally Dutch and came to London during the Second World War. His dad was only a kid at the time and went on to marry a shiny faced south London girl. The family always had an interest in fine furniture, but it never quite worked out for them, and they eventually ended up running a second-hand shop on Camberwell Road. I spent many happy hours in their shop as a kid crashing about with Billy. Bless them both, because Billy’s mum and dad use to take it all in their stride and often treated us to fish and chips from George’s chippy next door.

Billy could come out with some real whoppers. His best as a kid was convincing us all that he could speak Dutch and German, which, in those days in the 1970s made him stand out as pretty exotic. We would often egg him on to say something in one of his languages, and we would listen enthralled. Being kids the words we wanted to really know were the dirty ones. Apparently, Dutch for cock was Fatherhousen, fanny was Momahousen, breasts were Gibbi’s and someone talking cobblers was Totenkopf. These were just some of the words, and we went through primary school supposedly describing stuff in Dutch or German. We thought we were so clever. Real smart asses. It was only years later that we discovered he was not speaking Dutch or German after all, but some bloody Billy gobble-de-gook he made up . He hardly knew two words of either language. I always thought that was priceless, and I had a real affection for our flawed crazy diamond.

My better half, Kemi, was out for the day. She finally had decided to use the spa vouchers one of her mates had bought her for Xmas. Kemi is a slim five foot three inches with gorgeous ebony skin and a shaved number 1 haircut. Very few women can get away with such a hair-cut, but with Kemi it just underscored her urban beauty. On top of all that, Kemi is funny, caring and clever. She has a real quality about her, which everyone notices.

We are both very much second generation. My lot hail from Turles, Tipperary – a religion scarred market town in the middle of Ireland. When my parents were growing up in Thurles during the ‘50s, the queer fellows’ in black frocks use to go about town as if they owned the place, which, de facto, they did. One story my old man tells stands out. There was very little work available after the War, and there was a great deal of unemployment in Thurles. One particular priest was given to throwing pennies on the floor in front of gatherings of women and their children. I bet he got a real kick out of watching grown women with babies in arms scrabbling over the floor to pick up his pennies.

Kemi’s parents, Bob and Olive, come from war torn Sierra Leone. Bob and Olive are not their real names, they were nicknames given to them by one of their elderly neighbours. Bob and Olive are big people with big hearts, and if a neighbour could not pronounce their real names properly and wanted to call them Bob and Olive, well, that was good enough for them. So the names stuck. Bob and Olive lived on an edgy council estate in Peckham, which was a short distance from Kemi and me and our home in Camberwell. I suppose having lived in Sierra Leone more than prepared them for living in Peckham, which on its very bad days could resemble a bit of a war zone.

Really sticky days during the summer were worse. Everyone feeling hot and fucked off. It would not take much for things to get going. I remember one particular summer when it seemed like every Sunday, a big angry woman across the way from where Kemi’s parents lived, would kick off about something or another. She would start chasing after someone’s kids because they had been annoying the shit out of her. The kids would return to their flats and their mums or sisters would want to have a few words with the woman for the sake of appearances. The rest of her family would react, and then the kid’s dads or brothers would join in. Fist fights often broke out, sometimes windows would be smashed, and by the time the police turned up there might be running battles across the estate, and it would not end there. The police turning up would often make matters worse. Families who had been fighting each other would find common cause and then jointly start fighting the police. Happy days.

To be fair to the big angry woman she probably felt a need to defend her patch. That is the sort of thing you are forced to do when you live on one of these estates. You either roll over and take the shit or you kick off. This is a landscape where ASBO’s* mean little and where government community safety initiatives are short on both community and safety. The family next door plays their music too loud, which means your old man cannot get his sleep after coming off a night shift, or next door’s dog wakes up your baby, or the street drunk gets into the habit of pissing against your front door on his way home from the pub. You either kick off about this sort of thing or you give up. The big angry woman is not some piece of white trash as many commentators would want us to believe. She is simply doing what she thinks is right.

It is amazing how quickly things can kick off. Trouble comes out of nowhere. My sister, who is older than me, has always been quite handy. I certainly would not like to tangle with her. A few months back she was waiting in the queue for the cash-point near the parade in Camberwell. She had her three kids in tow. A woman then decided to push in front of her in the queue. This sort of thing happens a lot and you either suck it up or you do something about it. My sister did not think twice. She told the woman off, who had the poor sense to push her. My sister then battered her. The police turned up and initially wanted to arrest my sister but soon gave up on the idea once they realised they would have to sort out temporary care for three youngsters. They could not be bothered to do the paperwork.

Mind you, I have got no time for kids myself even if I am related to some of them. Especially the mouthy types. Shit! I was a mouthy kid myself and I did not much like me either. I am the type who avoids pubs that allow children in, and Kemi’s always telling me off for saying that I would even pay over the odds to shop in adult only supermarkets, and to travel on adult only trains and planes. They may be the apple of their parents’ eyes but I try to avoid the little darlings as much as possible.

I have got no time for teenagers either. I cannot imagine anything worse than sharing a house with a teenager who is holed up in one of your rooms. It seems to me that parents are only saved from that particular affliction by the downing of large amounts of alcohol and the passage of time.

Kemi and I have been living together for just over three years. I would say we were very happy and we still had the hots for one another. Last night we were at it until the small hours. I finally shot my load for the third time (I told you I made things up) as Kemi came to the end of a delightful story about finishing off one of her girlfriends with a giant orange dildo. In reality, I believe she once briefly snogged a girl at college during a drunken dare, but she knows how I tick and she also knows that I never let facts spoil a good story!

It is certainly a colourful working life. I have sifted through people’s bins and even had to dress up as an Arab. On one occasion I faked a heart attack in order to get into a hospital’s casualty department, to get near a politician who had also been taken to the same place. Sifting through bins and impersonating an Arab were my editor’s clichéd ideas, whereas the faking of the heart attack was all my own work. The casualty doctor at the hospital quickly realised I was not having a heart attack and I could tell from his questioning could not quite figure out whether I was a hypochondriac, a nutter or a journalist.

I must admit I do get embarrassed about some of the headline stories we regularly feature. All the tabloids are the same though. As well as the celebrity crap, we all lead with same well-tread, mostly feel-bad shit. We usually take turns covering moral issues, house prices, crime, immigration, Islam and bashing Europe. The stories are completely interchangeable and often it feels like all we are doing is re-adjusting the outrage. If there is any artistry involved, it is normally whether we can lead with a story, which combines two or more of our key tabloid ‘concerns’.

I had used public transport to get across town. Public transport in south London largely means the bus, which, as an able-bodied adult of 37 years of age, I only usually took when I planned to get pissed north of the river. It is when you are on a bus that you remember why you paid a fortune to learn how to drive and buy a car – lippy teenagers sprawled across the seats giving old ladies and the bus driver a hard time. Not much further to go. Why the fuck did Billy decide to move away from Camberwell? The romantic in me likes to think it was because of a woman, but in reality he probably owed someone money.

* * * * *

Daily News

Shocking Teen Pregnancy Figures

Teen pregnancy hot spots revealed

A shocking study of teenage pregnancy throughout the UK has revealed that some areas suffer pregnancy rates, which are double the national average.

The study by the Office for National Statistics (ONS) found that the inner London Borough of Southwark has the highest rate of teenage pregnancy in the country.

Out of every 1,000 girls under 18 in Southwark 85 become pregnant. That rate is twice the national average and five times higher than the area with the lowest rate.

The ONS figures reveal that areas with high teenage pregnancy rates tend to be in cities, with high levels of unemployment, large numbers of immigrants, and more people living in social housing.

The UK has the highest rate of teenage pregnancies in western Europe, with 95,000 conceptions last year, resulting in 58,000 live births.

*ASBO. Anti-social behaviour order.

Chapter Two

Fuck it...

I was standing in front of Billy’s red door. I was looking forward to spending the evening with motor-mouth. You know – a bloke’s evening. I would not see Kemi until tomorrow, so I had planned to spend the night at Billy’s. I had telephoned him three days earlier to set things up. I was really up for it. Blokes have to have quality time with their mates. So my mind was full of getting pissed and talking nonsense with Billy, you know the sort of thing, football, beer, cinema, women, but not necessarily in that order.

I rang the bell. Billy lived in a rented terraced house, which was just around the corner from Wellington army barracks. It was a two-up, two-down affair, which always had the welcoming smell of some exotic incense. Claire, Billy’s girl, was into nice smells, probably to mask the smell of Billy. Smelly bastard.

Claire was also meant to be away with friends this weekend, on some poncy creative writing course in the West Country. If she wanted to know about creative writing all she needed to do was ask me. Billy opened the door. I should have noticed immediately that something was not right, but all I was thinking of was cracking open a beer. I am such a piss-head.

Billy did not say anything in recognition of me; instead he turned around and headed for the kitchen. I followed close behind. As Billy entered the kitchen I asked him whether he had heard anything from our mutual friend Earl. Billy did not answer. I had tried to contact Earl for the past three days but I had got nowhere. I again asked Billy about Earl. Again there was nothing except the sound of Billy opening his cutlery drawer. He stood rigidly with his back to me as I went to playfully squeeze his shoulder. As I did so, he swung around and stabbed me with a fucking bread knife. To say I was shocked would be an understatement. He had meant to really hurt me but the blade hit a rib and slid over rather than into my chest. It hurt like fuck and I instinctively grabbed on to Billy. The only thing I could think of was to hold on to him. I had been in enough street scraps to know that sometimes you could ride out a beating. He thrashed about but I kept my grip. Billy threw us both against the kitchen walls and into cupboards. But I held on. My head was spinning - my mind could not quite believe what was going on – I was holding on for dear life to one of my best mates.

As we thrashed about Billy was screaming at the top of his voice. He screamed that I had helped Claire to poison him, and that he would get me before I could finish him off. What the fuck was he going on about?!

As I hit the cooker-hob square on for the second time I noticed a heavy pot out of the corner of my eye. I made a mental note of where it was and when I hit the hob for the third time I reached out and grabbed the pot. Once I had hold of it I pulled myself away from Billy before whacking him around the head as hard as I could. He dropped to the floor. I quickly rummaged through the kitchen drawers and I soon found some masking tape, which I wrapped around Billy’s hands and ankles until I was happy he was going nowhere.

I crouched for a few moments in order to get my breath back. My blue shirt was in shreds and I only had one shoe on. Blood was smeared across my chest and face, and my ears were ringing. After a few moments I managed to stand up and I looked down at Billy. He was still completely out of it. I grabbed a beer from the fridge, before collapsing on to one of his wooden kitchen chairs. I gulped the whole can of beer down in seconds, before grabbing another.