Pompey Geezer: Buckland Gap 1

By Charles Stanley Wiltshire

A can of lager, a cigarette and a well-placed scratch. Thus begins David's day. Being a hard geezer on the Buckland estate ain't easy, but David has the crown. He's got the girls, sprogs, flash car and the meanest headbutt in Portsmouth. His days are filled with crime filled sprees to ensure his obese mother has her requisite fags, booze and curry. But even a thug like David has aspirations and his foray into drug-dealing is seen as a step-up. But through a serious of increasingly violent events, David's kingdom erodes, unravels and culminates in an explosive finale. With shades of Clockwork Orange and Trainspotting, new author Charlie Wiltshire gives an unflinching, and often times disturbing, account of life on one of England's most difficult estates. From the details of pulling gear' to the politics of cancer in underclass patients, Buckland Gap asks if society can ever be saved. Even from itself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Charles Stanley Wiltshire
• Release date: Apr 23, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005787486

Charles Stanley Wiltshire

My name is Charles Wiltshire and I hail from Hampshire in England. My work experience is based around the IT industry but on my heart I have always wanted to be full time Author. I love creating stories and building fiction worlds. My other loves in life are cooking, running and motorbikes.

Book preview

CS Wiltshire

Pompey Geezer

(Buckland Gap 1)

Copyright © CS Wiltshire (2016)

The right of Charles Stanley Wiltshire to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN (Paperback)

ISBN (Hardback)

www.wiltshirebooks.com

First Published (2016)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd.

2nd Edition (2022)

WiltshireBooks.com

Acknowledgments

A special thanks for my family, friends and the people of Portsmouth who have helped with the creation of this novel.

Chapter 1

Signing on

The sun always seemed to shine reluctantly over the housing estate of Buckland in Portsmouth. It was almost as though that great celestial body could sense what it was illuminating and would only do so with a hint of protest. On a dull, cloudy spring morning this feeling of unwillingness always seemed to be amplified as the local, celestial body struggled towards its noon position with occasional appearances through the clouds before starting a weary descent to the horizon and happier parts of the planet.

During the day the sun had shone over pavements covered with discarded lager cans, cigarette packets, the occasional vodka bottle, discarded underclothes and used condoms. One thing was for certain; there was no gold to be found on the streets around here.

David Harding opened his eyes and groaned as he noticed the sun intruding rudely into his room. This was not the sun’s fault though. Had the bedroom been fitted with curtains; such a rude intervention would not have happened. The groan was followed by a few choice and colourful metaphors and his first cigarette of the day. David was a creature of habit, and he rarely left his bed before the first full smoke of the morning was complete.

He sat quietly in his bed puffing away at the cigarette as the sun’s rays brightened the unpainted, unwashed walls of his bedroom. Scattered around the room was piles of dirty clothes, empty lager cans and an assortment of food containers in varying levels of decay. All of this was lying on the remains of a twenty-year-old carpet. It was the sort of room that any self-respecting pet owner would not leave a dog or cat in, and if you wanted to breathe fresh air then the only option was to open the window and stick your head outside.

David was a twenty-three-year-old man. He was six-feet one-inch tall and fairly lean in build for someone who drank on average twelve pints of lager each day. His dark brown hair was shoulder length and cut straight at the front. His face was ordinary apart from a flattened nose which had been broken at least six times. His upper body was covered in tattoos including one which bore the legend ‘kill all pigs’.

His style of clothing was fairly ordinary. He did not like the style that most of his friends now wore and hated the label ‘chav’ even less. He preferred simple t-shirts, jeans and steel toe capped boots. That was his style and that was what he always wore. He knew what he liked, and he knew where to steal it.

For David, the fortnightly signing on ritual had now become a very mundane and tedious part of his life. After all, he had been doing it for nearly five years now and once again that day had arrived.

Every two weeks on a Tuesday he would get up early, at least early by his terms. He would then bathe and dress in clean jeans and top. After that he would gather up his essential daily items: dole card, wallet, car keys, cigarettes, lighter and mobile phone. Unlike most other mornings he would not consume a can of lager for breakfast, since the smell of alcohol always seemed to result in the payment reaching his bank account a day or two later than usual.

This particular signing on day was no different to any other, and now fully armed for his day’s work, he left the run down, shabby, four-bedroom maisonette that had been his home all of his life. He strode down the weed covered garden path and stepped over the gate which had been rusting on the path for nearly three years.

He glanced up at the sky. It was a typical drab spring day in southern England. The sun had once again disappeared, and the sky was now covered in a blanket of dull, off-white cloud which always seemed to add an even more depressing feel to the estate. It was a dry day but there was a cold bite in the air; summer was coming, but it had not arrived yet.

David then looked around him. There were a few people walking by, and across the road, two dogs were fighting over the remains of a discarded half-eaten kebab. Meanwhile a fox was watching to see if it could sneak in and grab the mess that some people called meat. As always there was plenty of other litter around. Empty lager cans were the most common item, but there were also plenty of empty cigarette packets, burger packaging and even a pair of tights. None of this was unusual on the estate. Around here very few people seemed to actually care about the local area that they lived in. The council had provided plenty of litter bins for the public to use, but these would only be utilized once the road was full or if someone were trying to hide something from the police. The road still had plenty of parked cars. Not many residents worked in the area, and as a result, most of the cars did not move until the evening when they were needed to transport people to pubs, clubs and curry houses.

He walked up to his car and looked on in pride. It might have been ten years old but it was a BMW and that was all that counted. The car attracted the type of women in whom he was interested. These women were easily impressed, poorly educated, aged less than twenty with two or three children and desperate to snare a local hard man who would look after them. These delicate roses of England struggled to work out the age of a car by its registration, but they all knew the name BMW. They knew it was a classy car and therefore they assumed David was a classy man or ‘geezer’ as they termed him. As a result, David was popular on the Buckland estate. He was now the father of three children, and he was also the main suspect in another two. Being a well hard geezer, he would of course brag that he had at least ten kids with two or three on the way. He often bragged his sperm were as hard as he was, and no condom was strong enough to hold them back.

This made David feel proud and reinforced his belief that he was a very hard man, a top geezer and a force to be reckoned with.

He jumped into his car, fired it into life and revved the engine for a few moments. Although there was no need to do this, it was another gesture of how hard he was even though the action did the aging engine very little good. He then set the stereo to full volume; he knew of no other level. Then with a loud screech of tyres, he set off down the road ignoring the twenty mile per hour speed limit that existed on the side roads of Portsmouth.

He drove straight to a side street close to the unemployment office and headed directly to the café opposite. The fact that he was parked on double yellow lines did not worry him. He had parked in the same place for years, and no one had challenged him so far. Inside the café he watched the news while enjoying a mega breakfast with tea and toast.

The mega breakfast in this establishment consisted of two rashers of cheap, greasy bacon, two sausages that had been pre-cooked and then deep fried back to hot. Next to this were two slices of fried bread, two fried eggs, baked beans, fried mushrooms and two fried tomatoes to give it a healthy feel.

So classy was this café that the brunch was the same meal with a large portion of greasy chips thrown on top.

This had been his routine for nearly five years, and in that time hardly anything had changed, including the dirt on the café windows.

On this morning the news was concentrating on local events in the Portsmouth area. The regional headlines centred on two savage muggings that had taken place the night before in the Southsea area of the city.

Southsea, the resort area of Portsmouth, was also where a large proportion of the university students lived and enjoyed their nights out. People like David hated the students. They considered them rich snobs who came to Portsmouth to steal their women, drink their beer and take their jobs. Yes, David really believed that the average university student was a threat to his prospects of getting a job, when in reality he had no qualifications or any desire to work. As a result, these students were frequent targets for the muggings and beatings he enjoyed dishing out.

The way one of the incidents was being reported in particular was making David extremely angry. He turned to Billy Graham, a friend he had known since his school days. Billy was sitting at the next table also enjoying his full English breakfast before signing on.

That is a fucking load of crap, Billy.

David then shoved half a sausage in his mouth and chewed angrily as well as noisily.

Billy looked up from his copy of the Sun and said, How do you mean geez?

They are claiming the mugging of the Asian bloke was racially motivated. Why?

They always do, offered Billy. Thump anyone non-white and you are a fucking racist init.

Billy was the opposite of David. He had adopted the full chav uniform and was never seen anywhere without his branded tracksuit, white trainers and Burberry cap. He was even known to keep the cap on in the bath. Around his neck was a large gold chain and his hands were covered in hideous, cheap gold plated rings.

But it’s fucking crap. All I said to the little wanker was give me your fucking money and mobile phone you fucking little cunt. He resisted so I fucking did him. I don't think the word ‘cunt’ is a racial insult, said David.

Billy nodded. He was not surprised David had committed the attacks. It had all the hallmarks of his work, in other words brutal and nasty.

Not once did I call him a Paki, wog, rabjab or anything else, so why do they claim it was fucking racial?

Billy simply nodded again; what was there to say. David continued his rant.

The other wanker I did was white. Yet the poor little shit has hardly got a fucking mention. No wonder us real English geezers feel so fucking angry these days?

By real English, David of course meant the indigenous white English population.

That’s true, answered Billy. Lots of talk about that in the pubs these days. The fucking geezers are getting angry init. They are all talking about the UKIP and civil war init. So how is business these days?

Fucking bad, replied David. This time of year those university idiots are all broke; that’s why I had to do two of the cunts last night. After all, I got to get me fucking wages somehow.

David drained his tea and turned to the girl behind the counter. Her name was Tracey, she was sixteen, pregnant and already well on the way to liver failure. She looked totally bored with life and sat on the counter watching the television while smoking a cigarette. Behind her was a no smoking sign, but like everyone else who worked or ate in the café, she ignored it. Her arms were heavily tattooed and you needed a maths degree to count the number of body piercings she now sported.

Her face always seemed to have the same expression, which was ‘what now?’.

More tea darling, demanded David.

Tracey sighed, removed the cigarette from her mouth and prepared a fresh cup of tea.

Anyway, he continued, I am fed up with mugging silly little wankers. There is hardly any fucking money in it these fucking days. I am going to move into drugs. I’ll get more fucking money that way.

And more danger init, offered Billy.

Yeh well, I can handle it. Hard geezers like me can handle the fucking danger.

He grunted as Tracey placed the fresh cup of tea on the table. She returned a look that explained what she thought of him; it was not a particularly pleasant thought. David decided to ignore the disrespect this time, after all she was pregnant and he knew he could be the father.

I just need some money to get started, need to mug someone rich or borrow it.

Why not see Kelvin Pook? He likes you cos you saved his fucking life once.

David nodded. That could be a way into the business. Kelvin Pook was one of the biggest dealers in the area. Also he was harder than Pook and could handle his boys. Another thing to consider was that they had been very good friends at school, and David had indeed saved his neck once; surely they would be able to work out a deal.

David drank the fresh cup of tea straight down. He had just realised it was time to sign on. He left enough money on the table to settle his tab and jumped to his feet.

Thanks, I will see him, said David as he got to his feet. Time to sign on, see ya geez.

Billy nodded and returned his attention to his own breakfast.

David meanwhile was walking into the unemployment centre or ‘Job Centre Plus’ as it was now labelled. This was a building he really hated. The staff never seemed to smile, and it was generally considered they were only there to catch you out in any way they could and reduce or stop your unemployment payment.

On this morning there were two people in the queue in front of him. The first in the queue was a young girl who looked very similar to Tracey from the café. Her hair was dyed blonde and black and she was heavily pierced. Her arms were covered in tattoos and she was fast developing the ever popular vodka and kebab belly. The jeans she wore looked two sizes too small, and her thong was a good four inches higher. Her thighs were far too large for her jeans and were bulging over the sides in a way that some people actually believed was attractive. David eyed her with admiration. He liked her sort. They were easy, and if they had children, they were usually desperate to impress potential partners.

The other person in front of him was a typical Portsmouth chav. He was dressed in designer tracksuit bottoms and shirt. His cap offered the logo ‘Bored’ and the gold around his neck looked impressive at first glance. David stared at the gold carefully and soon realised it was in fact cheap rubbish, so no point in doing him, he thought. His left trouser pocket was bulging with a can of lager and the right side bulged with a packet of cigarettes and gold lighter. He was constantly sniffing and looked in desperate need of something much stronger than alcohol. Years of glue sniffing had practically destroyed the inside of his nose and the sniffing was the long term result of the abuse.

Both of these people, if asked, would claim they were poverty stricken, abused by the system and in dire need of money. Both however would always be able to find money for cigarettes and alcohol.

After ten minutes David was called to a desk. He sat down and stared at the member of staff in front of him. The clerk was a balding, overweight man in his fifties. His name was Arnold Smith, or Arnie as he liked to call himself, and he looked tired and generally fed up with life, the universe in general and his job in particular. He had been doing the same depressing job for fifteen years and could see no end to his life of boredom and hell. Every workday he would sit behind his desk and listen to people like David come up with lame excuses as to why they had not found a job or what health reasons were stopping them from working.

Each day he would go through the motions while dreaming of a better and happier life. He had tried night school to improve his qualifications, but he had always given up halfway through the course. Tiredness and depression would set in and he would retreat to his home, wife, television and dreams. One day, he would often think, I will write a book about this life of mine and get revenge over those lazy, good for nothing nuggets who have abused me all of these years.

So far he had not written a single word and probably never would.

For ten years he had wanted to say to people like David, ‘You are a fucking lazy liar, and you will get no more taxpayer money, so now go away and get a job you no good lazy loser’. But he knew he could not and would not. He simply did not have the balls and he needed the job.

Good morning Mr Harding, and how are you? he asked in his usual depressed voice.

David sighed, same question every two weeks for the last five years. Time they changed the script.

How do you think I am? he replied. This country is so fucked and I am still unemployed, ain’t I?

Well, the unemployed part is true. In fact, you have been unemployed for nearly five years now.

Yeh, and whose fault is that, all those Polish wankers coming over here and taking all the English jobs. Also what jobs there are do not match me skills.

Arnold checked the rather extensive computer records for David.

"What skills are those Mr Harding? According to our records, you left school with no grades and have never done any training.