Spurious Scrapper

By George Veck

''Fans of Trainspotting by Danny Boyle will surely enjoy this book, as well as readers who appreciate realistic and relatable writing. A must-read for those who are not afraid to dive into the darker side of life.'' - ''Stuart Brkn Johns''

Be careful who you keep up at night.

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A narcissistic drug dealer strives for a life of lawless utopia within the profitable confines of his locally renowned, party-central home. Fuelled by North Wales' lack of prosperity, Chrissy drags his aimless cretin entourage along for a parasitic, rampant ride, profiteering off the deprived town's insatiable collective drug intake.

When Sam, a naïve, straight edged game design student moves in and jeopardizes this anarchic way of life, Chrissy stops at nothing to get him onside.

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''Very well written book. It would also be great for the younger generation to read to understand what drugs do in the long run to people and why they should avoid them.'' - Cassandra Doon 

''A really eye opening read that shows the author's skill and writing prowess and a book I certainly wont be forgetting.'' - Mark Fearn 

''Spurious Scrapper is a fast-moving and grimly hilarious novel that takes the reader into a wretched subterranean world that is as appalling as it is compelling. Highly recommended.'' - Rose Auburn 

''George Veck's writing is gritty and authentic, pulling no punches when it comes to depicting the dark underbelly of society. Spurious Scrapper is a novel that will both fascinate and disturb, and it's this ability to evoke a visceral response that makes it a standout work of fiction.''

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: George Veck
• Release date: Jan 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223680918

Book preview

Spurious Scrapper

George Veck

Contents

Title Page

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 1

Rubber City

D

on slouches back on his beloved emerald green armchair, slurping his third can of Red Stripe in his council house's living room, one rammed with tacky, eighties-era decoration and upholstery. Yet to reach his desired drunken buzz, he vacantly glares at the telly with a grizzly snarl courtesy of another monotonous shift as Harvey's grills assistant manager.

On the telly, SNP leader Ian Blackford erupts in a wily fit of rage. Adamant that slimy old Boris Johnson has repeatedly misled the House of Commons, he demands the prime minister's immediate resignation. Unfortunately deemed guilty of grossly disorderly conduct, he's ejected by the house speaker Lindsay Hoyle, who does so while fighting back the tears in a historic Prime Minister's Questions moment. Not that the cynical, non-voting, apolitical Don is moved in the slightest by the Scottish National Party leaders' plight. Live landmark footage beaming through his fifty-inch flat-screen proves the last thing on his mind. The no-show of his car park sweeper Sion 'Cont' dominates his manic thoughts. Don usually has no issue turning a blind eye to the odd MDMA comedown sickie, safe in the knowledge that others will return the favour. This one, however, truly hit a nerve. Already short-staffed today, Sion's sickie forced Don into sending his stunning waitress outside on car park duty, leaving him – as the senior member of staff – to begrudgingly prance around, waiting on tables for his first restaurant floor appearance in six months.

For the first eight years of his Harvey's tenure, Don strictly forbade himself from gorging on their customary free staff meals. However, he's struggled to resist such temptation of late. A former county-level rugby player, gym rat and habitual protein shake guzzler, he's been piling on the pounds and finds himself deeply ashamed of his weight for the first time. So much so, that his classic house outfit of a tight bowl neck vest may need changing. He glances down at his bulging belly and sighs. No longer can he deny being a lard-arse, grizzly ex-sportsmen, a bracket of men he's always loathed and secretly mocked.

Utterly petrified of being caught off guard in a moment of pitiful self-loathing, he rapidly snaps himself out of the daze.

''Food's nearly ready!'' Don's wife, Sigrid, shouts from the back room - without so much as a glance to ensure the accuracy of her statement.

Don scowls and rubs his dark, wavy, curtained hair. ''Not though is it! Slug at the wheel,'' he restlessly yells.

Tired of squandering between ten and twenty daily minutes of precious leisure time languishing at the table waiting, Don refuses to fall for the bait and switches over to BBC1 Wales. A news piece plays on the local foodbank, where a bustling cue bellows out of Bangor's gothic cathedral. Seldom do they do anything in Bangor, and Don's patriotic pride has him firmly on the edge of his seat.

''Tragedy actually is a more fitting word. That so many in a traditional, proud area, full of grafters, who've dedicated their existence to pay taxes into a government we still have to be reliant on for the basics of life. Anyone with half a noggin, won't be bringing children into this,'' an out-and-out North Walian old man Gwyndaf passionately declares in a TV interview.

Don nods, failing for a second to link his staunch social media-wide support of reducing the Universal Credit allowance and the consequential reality of old Gwyndaf's austerity. A sudden empathetic outrage surges, but so alien is such compassion, that he brushes it off, unable to identify with the uncomfortable phenomenon. Suddenly, Don spots his stepson Chrissy Bray's distinct, long, thick black shaved sides mullet hair blowing lightly in the wind behind the interview. A gaunt, denim dungaree-wearing old man Hywel stands nattering alongside him, squinting his eyes as Chrissy's thin, black leather jacket beams the piercing sun's light into his alcohol and tobacco-induced wrinkly face.

''No way it's Chrissy!'' Don manically shouts.

Sigrid hurtles over with a grin as mischievous as the vast array of colours on her treasured dress - one of the last clothing stragglers from her adolescent hippy days. A faze that faded due to the malleability of her beliefs and character depending on her perpetually interchanging inner circle. When it came to Don, she knew portraying the straight-shooting, subservient wife she could instantly sniff he deeply desired would win his approval. Despite some initial teething problems during her transition into the role, she did enough to swipe Don's glittery, MDMA-fuelled affection on their first meeting under Copperfest festivals Hardstyle tent seven years ago.

As she cottons on to the location of her eldest son's accidental TV appearance, her glee rapidly evaporates.

''Dickhead. What's he doing there man?'' Don cackles.

Don's buzz haircut, nine-year-old son Gav scampers over with a smirk as smug as his entitled personality.

Wanting in on the family glee, Chrissy's darkly dressed, twelve-year-old half-brother Sid trudges over. Before catching a sneaky glimpse of the big screen from a safe distance, Don swivels around and glares his way.

''That stir fry's rubber city again, then you're paying for a takeaway. And it will NOT be a stingy one,'' Don bitterly warns.

Sid rustles his blonde streaked dark hair – the very first haircut his painfully controlling mother let him pick – before huffing his way back towards the kitchen. Don's disdain for Sid is no secret. With a rigid 'lad's lad' perception of how people should look, sporting what Don deems a 'feminine haircut' has only sunk Sid to new lows in his estimation.

''Look at matey there.'' Don points at Hywel's eccentric outfit with a censorious grimace.

''Proper weirdo,'' Gav remarks.

''What's he fucking doing with him!'' Don holds out his hands in histrionic bewilderment.

''Maybe he's a gayboy now yeah Dad,'' Gav says after a moment of deep consideration, mustering every ounce of his four years of playground logic at a chronically discriminatory public school.

''Might be onto something there Gav.''

''He is not!'' Sigrid defiantly insists.

''Barnet like that, you just never know,'' Don estimates, desperate to push his original theory linking Chrissy's haircut history – including a four-year top knot faze – to probable homosexuality.

Sigrid's eyes wickedly narrow as she clenches her teeth. ''With respect, I think I'd know that about my own son.''

''No longer asks you for dough does he though, don't do fuck all that we know of for it. Blokes like that, they'll give him, I reckon.'' Don strokes his chin as the sums whittle through his thick skull. ''Quarter of their food bank for a blowie, half of it for full works, whole shabbang for an overnighter.''

Sigrid reverts her focus to the telly. Not for long though, as already passively enraged at being disturbed from her rigid, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder fuelled chore schedule, she furiously storms out. Not that she'd dare tell Don. About that, or the litany of inner marital bits and bobs rattling her fiercely co-dependent cage.

Horrified to see Hywel present his farmer's cap to Chrissy, Don cups his head. ''Look! Hat the lot.'' He turns back to Sid. ''At least we know where you get it from now Sid. Mystery solved.''

Sid looks Don straight in the face with an eerie, vacant air. Satisfied with his ribbing's success, Don slowly turns away with a brimming, wry smirk. No sooner as he does, Sid quietly spits in the duck noodle stir fry he's making over the hob.

At the food bank, Chrissy bewildering stares at Hywel's outstretched farmer's cap.

''Who keeps a tenner in their cap?'' Chrissy bluntly asks.

Hywel impatiently flitters his eyes. ''Going to leave me stood here like a prick or what?''

This is Hywel's first splurge on Chrissy's hash; never in forty-five years of smoking has he shopped elsewhere of his old school buddy Trent Bonc. After dealing weed, hash and knockout-strength weed caramel shortbreads for fifty years without so much as a stint on tag, old Trent was abruptly slapped with a two-year prison sentence last month. In turn, forcing Hywel resentfully out of his comfort zone into the unpredictable game of scoring off scatty adolescents.

Chrissy picks a two-and-a-half gram bag of low-grade hash – locally known as 'rocky' – out from his thigh-length, black leather jacket's inside pocket and abrasively snatches the tenner before putting the hash in Hywel's hand.

''Arglwy! None of the old school subtlety these days,'' Hywel mutters before sternly gazing at the BBC cameras and interviewee.

Chrissy blushes and darts off in a flash. Just as well, given he's precisely eleven minutes late for the next drug drop. A shortcut's the only option to avoid a barrage of missed calls that will drain his precarious iPhone 5 battery and scupper potential business.

Skinny, ginger-haired Bangor tick merchant Nebo tensely awaits, beckoning Chrissy down the rough, boggy Bangor Mountain path by ferociously whistling. An almighty five crate Tubourg sesh with tear-away locals half his age has proven far from the stimulation required to endure the last sixteen painful minutes. With Chrissy being the town's sole dealer yet to fall victim to Nebo's atrocious debt management, a no-show on his part could have proven detrimental. A hissy fit-driven night of criminal damage debauchery was considered, but with this glorious bag of bash to keep him quiet, Bangor's safe; for tonight at least. In true Nebo fashion, he exploits this perfect opportunity to get more. Despite asking for two, his orders bumped from a half to a full gram, just enough to keep a buzz flowing until evening - should he stay stingy with the line servings. Unable to suppress his unequivocal relief, Nebo manically pulls Chrissy into a cold, sweaty hug before celebrating wildly with the lads as Chrissy trudges down the town centre leading, nettle-ridden path.

Nev 'Stiff' awaits Chrissy, whose nickname derives from his former profession as an undertaker. A crippling crack cocaine addiction scuppered his promising career, sending the bloke from a three-bedroom detached house in Garth to sleeping rough - or hostels on the rare occasion busking rakes in enough for both that and his gear. 'Bob Dylan – The Hurricane' is his favourite song, and the one Chrissy finds him belting on his long-term acoustic guitar while slumped in the old doorway of a derelict, boarded-up Help The Aged charity shop. Determined not to break flow, Nev gifts Chrissy nothing more than a fleeting nod as the half-gram wrap of