Don't be a Hero: Harry Harris bull in a betting shop, #1

Chapter One

Harry rearranged the crap on the sales table for the tenth time.

Who am I trying to kid, I can shuffle the teapots, knitting books, photo frames, back scratchers and all this other shite forever, no-one will buy it.

He picked up a magnifying shaving mirror and checked his nose for blackheads in the hope he might find one to squeeze. Birkenhead Market was supposed to be a step up from the normal round of car boot sales.

I’m in the middle of a busy shopping centre, I thought. I’ll be beating customers off with a stick I thought. Fifteen quid this pitch cost, three times the usual fee and I haven’t made one sale, Harry muttered to himself.

He threw the mirror into a cardboard box. The scraps of newspaper, with which he wrapped the fragile stuff broke its fall and saved him from more bad luck.

People drifted through the stalls like zombies in a post-apocalyptic retail wasteland. Their eyes wanted to buy but their pockets said no. The woman who ran the second-hand bookstall across from Harry rearranged her thrillers and looked over at Harry.

Don’t worry love, it’ll pick up once we get nearer Christmas, she offered by way of unexpected support.

I’ll be in Scrooge’s workhouse by then, replied Harry rubbing his hands together to keep warm.

It’s slower than usual, the book lady rearranged the romance section unromantically.

The end of October in northern England could be unpredictable, the weather might be tropical or Arctic, sometimes both in the space of an hour. Today was the Polar variety and Harry stamped his feet and rubbed his hands together once more to get the circulation going. His fingerless woolly gloves weren’t doing their job, a bit like Harry.

Fuck it, I‘m not freezing my nads off here any longer.

Harry grabbed a teacup bearing the regal mugs of Charles and Diana and scooped up a scrap of newspaper to wrap it.

How much is this mate?

Harry jumped in surprise, the adrenaline of a possible sale flowing like Niagara in spate. Then he saw who it was and elation switched to depression in an instant. The archangel of meanness, the man who seemed to stalk him at every car boot sale and market, held up a delicate china cup and saucer like a Sotheby’s auctioneer.

A fiver, answered Harry, determined to get full value.

His potential customer took a drag on a rolly that smelled more of Weed than tobacco, then spat on the cup and wiped it on his sleeve, give you 50p.

To Harry this guy represented everything that seemed to work against him in his endeavours to scrape an income from selling crap goods to crap people.

On your bike, Harry hated this guy with a vengeance and hoped that rudeness might get rid of him, but he was wrong, the man took it it as a challenge, a contest where he always fancied himself to win.

On your bike. You know I’m in a wheelchair. He turned to Bookstall Woman, looking for a witness. Do you hear this, discrimination against the disabled.

I don’t think that’s what he meant.

Harry gave her the thumbs up.

It’s a common idiom, not to be taken literally by common idiots, Harry’s patience was as thin as a fag paper.

Harry snatched the crockery from his wheelchair-bound antagonist. Bookstall Woman stopped filing cosy mysteries and watched the real-life drama with interest.

It’s not even worth 50p, Wheelchair would not give in.

It’s worth a fiver because it’s Edwardian Wedgewood, check-out the markings, it’s worth at least £25.

Give you 70p.

Do you know what? Harry thought for a moment then handed the cup and saucer towards Wheelchair Man.

He sensed a haggling victory but as his tattooed knuckles snatched at the Wedgewood, Harry let it drop. The fragile china exploded on the concrete floor.

Now do one.

You’re mental, Wheelchair Man pushed his chair backwards with one slippered foot as Harry reached for the royal mug.

Have this one too, Harry launched Charles and Di after the rapidly retreating shopper, shattering the royal couple into unhappy pieces as it missed its target but not the pavement.

Bookstall Woman’s mouth was gaping in astonishment; I’ve wanted to throw something at that tight arsed scum bag for ages. He’s loaded you know, claims all sorts of disability, the chair is a scam.

Whatever, I’ve had it with this, Harry picked up a box of books and gave it to her. This life isn’t for me.

He turned his back on the stall and stomped out of the Market Hall.

What about your stuff? she called after him.

You have it, he answered without looking back.

Harry left the Market and cut through the mall. The car boot sale monkey was off his back, but then he remembered he had to go home to his girlfriend Peggy. Her first words, as always, would be, ‘How did you get on?’ a question pregnant with monetary expectation, an expectation he couldn‘t fulfil.

Harry meandered through the town centre shopping precinct, past the pound shops, charity shops and closed down national chains that had given up on the once proud town in the same way that Harry had abandoned his pathetic stall. He was so preoccupied in his own misery, he didn’t notice the bent and shuffling shape of a skinny old man pushing his three-wheeled invalid walker out of the BarryBet betting shop. Nobby was also absorbed in his own world, but in his case it was the prospect of donating his meagre winnings to the nearby Wetherspoons pub in return for several pints of their cheapest lager.

It was a slow-motion collision, two dark clouds bumping softly together in the shopping precinct heavens.

Fucking hell dick head, watch where you’re going, get off me, spat Nobby.

Harry realised he was on top of the ancient, long-haired scarecrow. A six foot two, sixteen stone heavyweight squashing a featherweight minger. Nobby the Jobby’s roadkill B.O. hit Harry like smelling salts and he jumped up.

Sorry mate, he offered a hand to Nobby and regretted it when he saw the black overgrown fingernails. Now he understood what it felt like to touch a real zombie.

Could have broken me bloody hip, moaned the old fella straightening a track suit top dustier than Tutankhamun’s bandages.

Harry retrieved Nobby’s trike and set it in front of the old moaner.

Don’t even think of putting in a claim, a Sherman Tank in a skirt, with a voice like Tom Waits gargling acid, filled the BarryBet threshold.

Oh yeah thanks Marge, knew you’d be on his side.

Ignore Nobby love, Big Marge winked at Harry, I’ve been wanting to knock him out for years.

There’s plenty of other bookies.

Be my guest.

I’m sorry, stated Harry, feeling like he’d become the catalyst that brought a simmering feud to the boil.

No worries love, he’ll be back tomorrow, no-one else will have him.

You don’t care, that’s your problem, muttered Nobby, aligning his trike in the direction of the pub.

I do care and that is my problem. See ya tomorrow.

Fuck off, was Nobby’s parting shot.

See what I have to put up with, Big Marge swivelled to go back in the shop then stopped, were you coming in?

Er no. Over Marge’s shoulder Harry spotted a notice