Hell on Earth

Stand back and take a look at this city. Quite impressive, you might think. But like all major cities it has a dark underbelly; step beyond the city centre with its castle, casino, sports arena and theatre, and you will encounter the red light districts, crack addicts, crime-ridden housing estates and knife-wielding hoodies; believe me, there are places you just don’t want to go. Hell on Earth? If you venture far enough, you’ll doubt that Hell could be any worse than this.

*  

It’s easier to forgive an enemy than to forgive a friend. Isn’t that what they say? Well it’s true; I can vouch for that.

“ Morning, Sam.”

Arty was standing by a mailbox, smoking a cigarette.

“You’re looking well,” I said, trying to keep what was left of my composure.

“As well as can be expected,” he grinned.

I’m told that prison food is pretty good these days; he certainly wasn’t looking underfed.

“Care to join me for a drink?” he asked.

Against my better judgement, I stepped into his battered white van. The engine didn’t sound too good; I just hoped we weren’t going far.

“So what do I say now? Long time no see?”

“Bad idea, Sammy; I haven’t exactly been thinking pleasant thoughts about you.”

I just shrugged; he obviously wasn’t in the mood for small talk.

“So what do you want?” I asked.

“Maybe I want to do you a favour.”

“Maybe pigs can fly.”

He laughed at that, maybe he’d calmed down after all.

He pulled up outside a battered, rusting caravan.

“Home,” he said. “I haven’t exactly come up in the world.”

The inside was filthy, a layer of dust covering just about everything. In the absence of electricity, a bucket of water served to chill his cans of lager.

Arty opened a few of those cans, sat down, pulled out his tobacco tin and offered me a rolled up cigarette. All that time working together, and he still hadn’t realized that I didn’t smoke.

I pulled the tab on a can, Arty lit up. His fingers were so nicotine-stained they looked diseased.

“Just like old times,” he said.

“Whatever.”

Arty never turned up for work without at least a dozen cans of lager in his bag, and I always had to clean up the mess; dirty dishes in the sink, unclean cups; and of course, it was always down to me to clean out the microwave, throw rotten food out of the fridge, and then open all the windows to let out the smell.

That was Arty; farting like a horse and thinking it was funny. His body odour was still pretty strong; they certainly hadn’t cleaned him up in prison.

“So what do you want?” I asked, wanting to get this over with.

“Well,” he said, taking a long drag on his roll-up, “I’ve been out of prison for six months now. As you can see, my circumstances are a bit shit.”

He used to rent a pokey little bed-sit. By all accounts it was a pigsty.

“So you live here?”

“Yep; rent free; but it’s cold as fuck in the winter and I’m not getting any younger; and you can do fuck all with state benefits these days.”

“So you want money, is that it?”

“I want my old job back, Sammy. It’s time to start earning an honest crust again.”

A flat statement; as if it was that easy, after all he had done.

“Arty, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” It was tempting to laugh in his face; but he was deadly serious and I didn’t want to antagonise him. “No offence, Arty, but you’ve got no chance.”

"I’ve changed, haven’t I? Prison was a sobering experience; and it’s not as if they’ve never hired anyone with a criminal record. Christ, it’s just a poxy little security firm.”

“It’s not as simple as that.”

“I wasn’t fired, was I? And that … er, little incident …had nothing to do with my job.”

That was true, but Arty had more or less fired himself. Not that he considered this; so he talked, opened a few more cans. Eventually I agreed that, yes, I’d make an enquiry on his behalf; who knew? Maybe I would; but Arty was bad news, no way were they taking him back.

So I let him plead his case, shared a few more cans, and then listened to his tales of prison life. Arty could talk the hind legs off a donkey, so I was relieved when he finally ran out of steam.

“Come on,” he said. “I’ll take you back.”

After those few cans I was feeling drowsy, so on the drive back I just let him talk; and as he drove away, cheerily waving, I made a final, hollow promise to try and get him his job back.

What a loser, I thought.

I sat in my car for a while before starting up and driving off; and you know, I really should have known better.