

The Spy Who Bluffed Me!

********

Andy Rivers

Byker Books

Published by:-

Byker Books

Banbury

Oxon

OX16 0DJ

www.bykerbooks.co.uk

2014

Copyright © Andy Rivers 2014

The moral right of this author has been asserted.

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 permission of the copyright owner.

Typeset by Byker Books, Banbury
Andy Rivers has been a Butlins barman, pretend chippie on a Spanish construction site, coach holiday rep, mobile sandwich salesman and outdoor traffic cone washer to name but a few of his eclectic 'career' choices. Originally from the East End of Newcastle he now lives in Oxfordshire where, as well as following Newcastle United around the country, he passes the time by indulging in his passion for 'Professional Geordieism' and lager. This is his third published tome (he is also the author of 'I'm Rivelino' – a hilarious account of the forty years of hurt he has suffered at the hands of the Magpies and 'Maxwell's Silver Hammer' – a uniquely written, gangster thriller set in Newcastle.)

With the royalties from these books he plans on buying a Ferrari and having a proper mid-life crisis.

He may be waiting some time.
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### Prologue

One Clever Fucker

You won't know it from looking at me right now, but I am one clever fucker.

Granted, I'm covered in blood, tied to a chair and stark bollock naked, but that doesn't detract from me cleverness, no way kidda.

And, if that wasn't enough, as well as being clever I'm also the world's premier close protection operative.

Well, I say the world's...probably more like England's...well, I say England's, strictly speaking I'm probably more like the north-east's...well I say the north-east's...oh, fuck off gobshite, I'm good and that's all you need to know.

You're thinking, now, aren't you, _if he's that good at protection and if he's that clever, then how come he's still tied to that chair, covered in claret, and has all his white bits on show?_ You probably think the room I'm in's not that cosy either. Bare walls, one little light bulb with no shade – tramps, eh? No windows, no carpet and one door. Looks locked, you can tell that kind of thing when you've been in and out as many places as I have in the course of your career history.

I'd have to give you that, like, I know how it looks; but you have to remember that not only am I a clever fucker and hard as nails with it, I'm also bloody lucky, so I'll probably get out of this.

How did it come about, then, I hear you ask?

Same old story innit? Thinking with the little head instead of the big one. Well, that and the businessman's curse; tried to diversify too soon, see.

As I've said, top close protection operative, me. Good name in the business, making a fortune an' all. Made fifty notes last week helping out a local celeb with a little problem. No names, no pack drill and all that, though. Gotta have discreets in this game, matey. Just know this, if you watch the local news one night and one of them presenters seems to have a bit of a cold – well it ain't Lemsip they're snorting, that's all I got to say on the subject, okay?

Anyways, despite me being a clever fucker, I got sidetracked by a bird, didn't I? There I was, minding me own business, getting bucketloads of respect off all the main faces through me superior protection business. Got regular numbers on quiet little doors an' all...well...one little door, if I'm honest.

Actually, it ain't that quiet, either; mind you, keeps me sharp, that does. You needs to stay on your toes and that when you're putting your name up to do the door at The Shattered Beaver. That's the kind of door that brings you the kind of shit that keeps your name in the frame and your game at the top of the division.

Or something.

Like I says, clever fucker, me. You think I'm thick, don't you? That's why me bollocks is dangling through this chair and me nipples have got them clamps on. Just like the teachers at school, won't give no-one a chance, you fuckers. They all ganged up on me an' all and then put me in the dippy sets 'cos I was too much for them. Thirst for knowledge, see, always asking questions, no good to them when they want a quiet life, is it? They wants a quick shufty at the Grattan catalogue under the desk and I'm shouting about _War and Peace_...or maybe I just shouted for more pizza? Dunno. End result was the same though...''Bottom set, Palmer, portakabin...now!'

Anyways, my kind of clever ain't that book shit that geppy fucking students do, is it? No way, you want my kind of clever, you've got to be street smart. Think Rocky mixed with Spender, add in some Terry McCann and season lightly with a bit of Del Boy. Stick in an oven made by Ray Winstone and then give it two hours in Al Pacino style heat – oh aye, that's fucking me to a T, that is.

So, me teachers, well, 'cos I ain't their kind of clever, I ends up in the nut huts with the dipshits and the squawking fuckers, couldn't hear meself think half the time. Lucky I was handy with me fists or I'd have been in trouble with them weird twats. That's how I got the nickname, you've probably heard of me – Neville 'Pagga' Palmer?

No?

Fuck it, your loss. Anyways, you're obviously interested in me story or you wouldn't have bought this book, would you? You'd better have fucking bought it an' all, mind. If you've swiped it then the bloke in the shop won't get paid and if he don't get paid then neither do I. If I don't get paid then you'd better be ready for a big, pissed off Geordie to come through your front door at two o'clock in the morning, wearing his favourite knuckleduster, you thieving bastard.

Well, just as soon as I gets meself loose from this predicament, anyways.

So this bird, she offers me the chance to do a bit for Queen and country and that. I knew there was something dodgy about it, but she was paying cash in hand so me giro was safe and even though she had cracking jugs it wasn't them what swung the deal, oh no, I'm a professional me, remember.

She's connected, ain't she? You know, Secret Service, on her Majesty's and all that palaver. She's a fucking spook and that. So I'm thinking, do this job right and there might be some lucrative work at the end of it, get me off the door at the Beaver for good, like.

Well, that and I might get to shag her.

So, anyways, she's the reason I'm here and the reason I'm going to get me gonads flayed with knotted rope in a bit – yeah, I've seen that _James Bond_ film, I know what's coming. Might be the last thing coming for a while like, depending on what state me nads is left in.

Tell you what, seeing as we're here I might as well tell you the whole fucking thing while I can still talk with a man's voice an' all.
Kicking in the Back Doors

So we've gone back a little while, right? It's a couple of weeks ago, might be three, not sure really, hard to tell when your napper's as busted as mine is at the minute.

Fucking cold in here with no strides on an' all. Just as well me spook bird ain't here, I'd have nothing to impress her with at the present moment in time, if you know what I mean. Well, obviously she'd be impressed by me cleverness and me sparkling repartee and that, but physically? Well, as I say it's cold and I'm naked so fuck off, you cheeky twat.

I tell you this an' all gobshite, you can mock but you wouldn't like it between the cheeks of your arse...or maybe you would, you fucking weirdo.

Anyways where was I? Oh aye, it's Friday night and I'm doing me regular door at The Shattered Beaver. It's all going smooth as the silk on a posh girl's pyjamas when they turn up. Cosgrove and Bobbin.

They're professional rivals, see, them two. We all treat each other with respect, you have to in this game, but it's obvious they're checking out the competition and, as I say, I am the number one protection operative around these parts.

'Alright, Spacca.'

That's just their little joke. It's a respect thing.

'Lads.'

We always go on like this, we're all mates together in this game and the camaraderie, even between rival firms, is a big part of the job.

Bobbin gives me a humorous slap round the back of the head and we all have a laugh. He's crap at slapping, like, I can feel his knuckles on me napper, so he's obviously bunched his fist. Fucking amateur.

Cosgrove stands square on to me and puts his head into mine. It's like there's been an eclipse, I can't see nothing but scar tissue, Indian ink and false tan. Reminds me of a bird I nailed last week, same aftershave as well, come to think of it.

Anyways, he growls something about me not stopping them coming in and we has a laugh about that an' all. Professional courtesy, ain't it? You always lets the competition see how well you're doing an' that. So I stand aside and tell them to get a drink by all means; we're all mates, ain't we, and they smile back.

Well, Cosgrove does; Bobbin does the closest thing he can to a smile and then gives me another jokey slap in the solar plexus before they go on in.

'Great lads, them two,' I says to the queue waiting at the door when I get back up.

They're all looking at me and smiling so they know we was just messing about, all lads together, like. Anyways, I quickly drop the first fucker at the front with a short right just to be sure, too good-looking to drink in here anyway, that one, when the manager comes out to see me.

'I don't want the likes of Cosgrove and Bobbin in here, Pagga. I pay you to keep them types out, so do your job...and why's that twat on the floor with a broken nose?'

I have to think quick, but luckily I'm a clever fucker.

'You know how you wanted me to find out who'd been sniffing round your daughter, boss...?'

Not strictly a lie, as the smarmy fucker was in here last week trying it on with her, but a bit of a fib 'cos the boss actually wants to know who's been shagging her...although being his daughter, he doesn't want to use the actual word.

And matey on the floor hasn't been up to none of that with her, I know that for a fact. That's 'cos it's me what's actually doing her and what with her studying for her A levels, and the gymnastics class she's doing, as well as the secret pole dancing lessons, I know she hasn't got time for no-one else.

He buys it, anyway, kicks the bloke in the nuts and tells him he's barred.

'Right, well done, now get them two fuckers out my bar.'

Now I have to be thinking carefully about this. Cosgrove and Bobbin are obviously no problem to a man of my physical proportions and fighting knowledge. Oh no, when it comes down to the old personal protection game, then they're strictly second division or whatever it's called this week. I mean, I may have mentioned this before, but I am the head honcho round here and a clever fucker at that. No, these boys will present no problem to me in a physical sense, but I obviously have the reputation of the pub to think about.

When the gaffer had first took over the boozer and took me on I was right up for it. I was working in a bar in town called 'Vault' or some shite like that – proper yuppy bar, it was, you couldn't hit anybody or anything. The barmaids were smart, but I needed to get away; I was just another bouncer there and I needed to spread me wings a bit and here I'm numero uno, the top banana an' that. Mainly because I'm the only banana, but I'm still head bouncer so shut it chopsy. Anyways, the bossman said he wanted to give this place a better rep. You know, make it a good night out for couples and that. I remember it clearly 'cos I'm a professional in this game, me.

'Pagga, if any bird's trying to get in here and she's got more tattoos showing than skin, then knock her out. Any bloke what drinks halves is out, an' all; we're not a pink palace, are we?'

So, you know, management directive, weren't it? I know he didn't actually say 'don't go scuffling with them two big scary bastards, Cosgrove and Bobbin, and getting your body smashed to bits', but I'm sure that's what he meant.

It's all about customer service, this job, know what I mean? Interpret the punters' needs and give them what they want.

That's what I told his daughter, anyways.

Thinking back, me first night there was a good 'un, an' all. We'd just shut the place for a lock-in with the regulars, they was all appreciative of how I'd busted heads all night, like, and the curtains was closed. Then there was a noise at the back door. Old Jackie peeped out the window then ducked back again, white as a sheet.

'There's two lads trying to get in with a crowbar.'

Then there was a crash and the fuckers swung open...the two thick bastards didn't realise we was all there, did they? They were dealt with quickstyle, like.

If I could have got there before old Jackie I'd have done them myself, but he twatted them with his zimmer and they fucked off. Shame about his bag bursting and that, meant he couldn't drink the pint the gaffer give him...still I made sure it weren't wasted and we all gave him a little wave as they put him in the ambulance.

As I was saying to the landlord's daughter later on – imagine having your back doors kicked in like that.

Anyways, though, you're thinking again now, ain't ya? You're thinking, well, how did good old Pagga get them lunatics...I mean protection professionals, like meself...out that bar without it all kicking off and him having to use his extensive defence techniques and training? Have I mentioned I'm a fighting expert as well as a clever fucker? No? Ah, well, it'll probably come up in conversation sooner or later.

Well, like I say, I knows me way round a bag of spanners, me, and I know how to skin a cat. Not that I ever have, like. Shaved a few pussies, kidda, but not skinned no cats, oh no, not me, and the RSPCA will never prove nothing neither.

So, Cosgrove and Bobbin, got to get them out without having to use me world famous one-two combination. Easy.

'So that's sorted, lads, aye. Same time next week?'

'Aye, Spacca, nice doing business with you – you fucking pleb.'

Jokers, them boys, they really are. Bobbin gives me a witty little backhand in the gob by way of saying goodbye and that's it sorted. Now, dafties like you won't understand, you'll just see a scared bouncer giving two local head-the-balls money to fuck off and leave him alone, but you'll be wrong, won't you?

What you really saw was a business transaction between professional men who know that spilt blood is bad for reputations and cashflow.

I gets paid fifty a night for being on that door and I give them twenty bar each. That means I'm still in profit and there's no bother – well, no more than the usual, but I can handle a couple of stabbings and the odd riot.

Told you I was fucking clever.

Anyways, that's how it happened. Normal night, normal stuff happening.

Broke up a couple of fights in the bogs, took the drugs off some cheeky bastards who'd brought their own in and got a quick BJ off Capri, the landlord's daughter, before she went to her evening class.

So, nowt out the ordinary, until I seen her. I'm hanging about the back door of the boozer watching this bloke what's been knocked over by a white van and laughing at the pissed up twat trying to get up when this vision of beauty jumps out the back of the motor. Blonde, she is, like the head of a pint of Guinness. Curvy in all the right places an' all, think of...ooh...a knuckleduster. Sexy as fuck, mate, the way she boots him in the head and then axe kicks his ribs; fuck me, I've got such a hard on. When she pulls out her gun and slots the twat without a second's hesitation, I know I'm in love.

I've never been in love before; well, pies don't count, do they? And I'm not exactly sure that's what it is, but I reckons this must be it. Is it love when your arse clenches like you're trying to stop a fart escaping? Or when your heart tries to come out your mouth and punch you in the face, shouting, 'It's love, you fat get, now do something!' Is that it, when that happens?

I don't know, but it must be something like that, eh? I'm not sure what to say, me mouth has dried up and me hands is shaking, so I takes the pint and joint off a passing underage hoodie and quickly neck the both of them.

Then it happens. Our eyes meet across the road and there's this instant magnetism. Actually, it might be a proper magnet, I dunno, but she's across that fucking road and on me in a flash. She has an earpiece on and I can hear a tinny voice shouting at her through it. He's saying something like, _'Usual decoy out of commission. Send replacement._ '

Thinking about it now, maybe the fucker shouting had the same treatment with the rope and the bollocks as I'm going to get – fucking voice sounded awful, man.

Anyways, she grabs me lapels and looks me straight in the eyes. I know I'm a good-looking twat, but this is ridiculous. I can feel her gun in me bollocks; well, I hope it's her fucking gun. I don't want none of that shite I got into in Thailand again – fucking nightmare that.

Then she speaks.

'What did you just see?'

Her voice is like cut glass. I reckon she grew up riding ponies and playing lacrosse...whatever the fuck that is. Mind, if she's had that sort of power between her legs on a regular basis, it's no wonder she's jumping old Pagga, know what I'm saying? I think you do.

'I just saw you, pet, and then there was nothing else in the world worth looking at.'

Heard that on an old film, I always use it. Works every fucking time. Nothing surer.

'Problem averted. He's a dick. No threat. Repeat no threat. '

I know she's done that to keep me safe. It's obvious she's protecting me 'cos I've got something she wants. Oh aye, definitely got something she wants.

And then she's gone. Back in the van with the tin man. One last look and she's off.

I know that wouldn't be the end of it, though. She had that glint in her eye, I know women, I do, and I know she'll be back for more of the Pagga experience.

I was right an' all.

Clever fucker, me.
'Progress report, 001.'

'Sir. Target confirmed as 'Loose Lips'. Has fatally compromised 009 with enemy and aborted 'Operation Industrialist'.

'As we suspected. You know what to do, 001.'

'In hand, sir.'

'Good. They take out one of ours, we take out one of theirs. Carry on.'

'Very good sir. Over and out.'
Little Red Riding Hoodie

The next day I've still got her on me mind, haven't I? Keep seeing her everywhere, it's like I'm hallucinating or something. Honest, I mean to look at me you'd think I'd never done anything unhealthy in me life – body of a Greek god and all that – but it's like all that acid I did in the eighties has come back to haunt us. I'm at Texan Pete's having me normal morning fry up – trims the fat off the bacon, mind, I'm not a fat bastard me– when I see her face behind a newspaper on the bench across the road. By the time I've put the seventh sugar in me tea and looked back up she was gone; must have imagined it.

I eats me brekkie, taking the opportunity to nick a couple of sausages some ungrateful bastard has left on their plate next to my table, honestly there's some fucking wankers in the world. Mind you, they was cold by the time Pete had turned his back long enough for me to neck them, still waste not want not, eh? I wish I'd give the fried egg a miss though, the bloke was livid when he come back from the bog.

So anyways, I does me morning vittles and then I'm at the bookies checking out the form and casually counting up the change in me pocket, never let the bastards in there know how much you've got, you'll never leave the place alive, when I clocks a movement in the window opposite and it's only her checking out me form. Well, that's what I think, like. I puts me fifty pence treble on and look again and there's no-one there, have to give me head a shake, I think.

Maybe this is the love thing again?

I think on it for a bit and then decide that even though I'm a clever fucker there's just some things in life a bloke don't know about, and this love shite's one of 'em. I always thought love was invented by blokes to keep birds happy and to sell 'em books, or something. Like a marketing ploy that's just gone too far, 'cos everyone believes in it now.

Fuckin' hell – maybe that's how Jesus started? It'll be that Diana next – nothing surer.

Anyways, you don't want to hear old Pagga philosophising, you ain't as clever as me, for a start, you wants to hear the story. So with this love shite in mind and how it was affecting me sight, funny like, 'cos I thought it made you go blind, not see things, but there you go. Like I says, with this in mind I decide to approach an expert on the subject, so I heads to the Baited Badger. Old Maureen, the landlady, knows the game. She should, anyway, she's been on it fucking long enough.

'Pagga, what you after son? Usual?'

'No, Maureen, I'll just have a drink, cheers.'

I waits till she's poured the beer before I ask me question. If you give her too much to think about at once, she goes to pieces. No, she literally goes to pieces, bits of her skin fall off through stress and I didn't want her bits in me mouth, not again.

'What do you know about love, Maureen?'

'It's an expensive game, Pagga, an expensive game, son.'

She lets go a big rasping, tar-addled cough that nearly dislodges the fag from her lips and a fucking awful smell fills the air. Too late I realise she's used the cough to disguise one of her legendary farts and I know I need to get the beer to me mouth to filter out whatever's been up her arse this week.

I tell you what, though, she's fucking over-rating herself if she thinks her love's expensive, last I heard she cost somewhere in the region of twenty-five pence and a pickled egg. Still, should hear her out anyways.

'Aye, you need to make sure the lass loves you and when you know that for sure you never let her go, kid. Anything else and you're set for a fall, a hard one, an' all. That's my advice.'

I'm still gulping me pint and using it as an air filter so I try to just nod, but it's hard 'cos I can't breathe and the beer's gone up me nose instead of down me throat. Fucking hell!

I start coughing and she's round the bar patting me on the back.

'You alright son? You need a hand?'

'I ain't got no cash, Maureen.'

'Oh, fuck that, then.' She takes her wrinkled old digits off me bollocks and gets back behind the bar.

'Why you asking, anyway, Pagga?'

'Well, I spotted this bird and we had an instant connection, like, and I can't stops thinking about her. I keep seeing her everywhere, an' all. It's like she's following me. I tell you, Mo, me napper's not right with it all.'

She cackles away, flashing them pearly yellers at me, then bends forward over the bar, giving me the overhead view of what looks like a pair of labrador's ears. Fucking old one an' all; still got pink noses, like.

'You got it bad, son, if you're seeing her everywhere. Hey, don't suppose you can see her instead of me, can you?'

'Told you, Mo, I'm skint.'

'Fuck it, a girl's gotta try, Pagga '

I drains the pint and heads off, she gives me a wave and goes back to filling in her claim form for that accident she had with the stairlift. Don't know how she got it up there in the first place meself.

No time for pondering that, though, 'cos what's she's said has puggled me head. She reckons it must be love and she would know, I mean she's a bird for a start and she's seen more cocks than a vasectomy doctor. Fuck it, had to happen sometime. I just needs to sort out the other bit now then, make sure she's in love with me, like, so I don't fall over. That'd be embarrassing.

I'm thinking about things so much I doesn't notice the little gang of hoodies what's got round me as I turn the corner into the back of the shops, about ten of the little fuckers. They all know me, like. Big Pagga, they calls me, I'm like a hero to most of these boys. They's been hearing tales about me from their mothers for years. In fact I recognise one of them, young Duane, I reckons I've done his sister, you know.

'Alright, lads?'

The biggest one moves forward, proper trying to make a claim for leader of the gang by not smiling and by waving a blade about. I decide to humour him and help him out by pretending to be worried.

'Ya talking diss stylee to me, blad, 'cos I is a girl, innit, ya cheeky meff.'

What? Why does no twat talk proper anymore? I can see where this is heading and I can't be arsed, so I shoves the nearest one out the way and moves off. Fucking kids, you try to help them and they takes liberties.

Next thing I know they've all jumped me and I'm on the ground. Must have slipped. They's all on me, though, and I can't move. Young Duane's got his face in front of mine and he's holding a blade near me neck now. You know, thinking of it I didn't do his sister, it was his mam. Must 'ave been about...ooh...fourteen year ago. I smiles to meself; he'll have heard some tales about old Pagga, I'm betting.

I can feel some hands in me pockets and me blood rises. The cheeky little fuckers, I start thrashing about to gets them off when the knife is pushed against me throat. Bastards.

'Luk, 'im pissed 'imself. Yah yahyah.'

Take no notice of that, it's a trick I learnt at fighting school when I was training to be Britain's premier protection operative. They'll get off me now, so they don't get piss on them. Then I'll kill them.

I can feel the weight moving off me legs, told you the piss trick would work, and there's a bit of screaming but I can't see what's going on 'cos young Duane's just staring at me close up. Like he's looking in a mirror or something. Weirdo.

Then he's yanked off and thrown against a wall. There's another hoodie on the scene and he's beating fuck out of all 'em.

'You're lucky he's doing that, you little bastards, 'cos once I get up I'm going to kill all of ya.'

And I will kill them all when I get up. You've got to get up slowly, though, when you've been down like that. That cramp can be murder on the legs, you know.

By the time I'm up and swinging they're all either spark out or fucked off and me little helper's covered in teenage claret – we've all done that though, eh? He looks over, probably to say thanks to me for letting him help me out. It must be that love thing again, though. Me new mate's the spitting image of me spook bird, fuck's sake, me head's a mess, man, he/she gives me a wink and next thing I know I'm on me jack again. There's a siren in the distance and I decide to vacate the area, fucked if I'm getting the blame for this, so I heads back to the bookies. Not that I gets the chance to get in the door, like, two of the fuckers come rushing out with their walking sticks, waving them like swords or summat.

'What are you two at you daft old bastards?' I greet them.

'Fuck off, Pagga, you fat, over-rated twat,' one of them jokes back with me.

'Get out of the way, fatboy, there's a crew of hoodies hanging round and we're going to do the little shits.'

'No need, boys,' I say, 'Pagga Palmer's done the lot already, check the claret and bodies up the road if you don't believe me.'

They nip up for a quick shufty and come back all impressed.

'Fucking hell, you only did it,' says the one with the least amount of wrinkles.

'I thought you was fuck all,' says the one with the badly made falsies, 'just a big fat bag of wind and piss.'

I can feel me hackles rising at this. I knows I didn't actually do them little scrotes, but I would've once I'd gotten up proper. Still, don't hurt to take the glory now and then do it? Clever fucker me, see, have I mentioned that?

'Let's get a cup of coffee in the bookies, Pagga, on us for your heroics, like.'

So we did and you know what? Me nags had only come in and all. Proper good day that was and it only got better, 'cos guess who turned up when I was drinking me winnings at the Badger later on?

Got it in one – you're not such a fuckwit after all, are you? And what made it even better was it really was her this time and not just my imagination.
'Progress report on Plan B 001.'

'Prospective Trojan Horse selected and approached sir.'

'Very good. Quick work, 001. Do you think he's up to the task?'

'Seems pliable enough sir. And big and tough. Should be enough for our needs.'

'Excellent. I'll leave it with you.'

'Thank you sir. Over and out.'
Training Day

So obviously I've picked up me winnings and headed straight back to the Badger, haven't I?

I mean, it's true what they say about money burning a hole in your pocket, ain't it? You can look all blank and shake your head, but I knows, kidda, I knows. I had this mate, right, let's call him Dave...well, that's what his mother did and who are we to argue, eh? He wins a load of cash at the bookies. Manages to get it home without mishap – which is lucky 'cos every fucker knows he's won it and is planning on tapping his napper once or twice to get some beer tokens – and he's in the living room just feeling it in his jeans. Well, you know how it goes. That much money is exciting, ain't it? It's early Saturday evening and _Baywatch_ is on, he's a single man so he ain't betraying nobody, and the inevitable happens.

The fire brigade reckons it was friction that caused the spark that set the cash on fire in his back pocket. You know how the scouts rub two poles together? Well he only had the one to rub, but he still managed it, he should have got a badge for it, really.

After he gets out of hospital and we're all taking the piss out of him in the pub he looks a bit sad, so I cheers him up.

'Hey Dave,' I says, 'you knows how you always wanted a black cock – well, wish no more, my son.'

He doesn't look too happy about it but the rest of the boozer is in uproar – no fucking pleasing some people. Miserable stumpy dicked twat.

Anyways, as I says, it's bad luck to keep that much cash in your poke without spending some to relieve the danger. I'm now the proud owner of twenty two pound and seventy eight pence and I'm gonna spend the lot. Obviously, as a professional protection operative, I know me limits and I remember I'm at work later on.

'Pint of lager and a whisky chaser, Mo.'

'Got a few quid then Pagga, have you?'

'I just wants drinks today, Mo – I needs to keep me strength up for working tonight.'

'Can't blame a girl for trying though Pagga, you can't blame a girl for trying.'

So I'm sloshing them down and listening to the accounts of me bravery echoing round the bar.

'I heard old Pagga there gave a few of 'em a slap and told them to get out of the area, like.'

Old? I ought to fucking give him a slap.

'Well, I heard he beat shit out of all of 'em and told 'em he'd kill 'em all if they came back.'

Oooh, good one.

'Nah, the truth is he beat shit out of 'em 'cos they was about to mug a pensioner, and then when they didn't say sorry he killed the two biggest with his bare hands to teach them a lesson. Won't be seeing them little fuckers around here no more.'

Quality, any advance on that?

'Yous are all wrong. I heard he beat shit out of 'em, dragged 'em all home and killed all their parents for having the cheek to bring devil spawn like that into the world. God's honest truth and may he strike me down if I'm telling porkies.'

You might be in trouble there, son, if the big lad's listening – nice one, though. Gives the Pagga legend a bit of a boost.

'I know what happened...'

Shit, it's Billy the Liar; this'll just be fuckin' stupidly over the top and make me look a twat.

'He was getting a hiding off them little kids when a bird in a hoodie came along and saved his big fat arse. That's what's happened, I know 'cos I was watching them all from my window.'

The bastard. They're all looking at me, then at him. I pull a ' _are you gonna believe Billy the Liar?'_ face and they look undecided. Then, just as I'm looking to see if the fire exit's still padlocked, one of them clouts Billy in the head and throws him out.

'Fuck off, Billy, that's just ridiculous.'

I hears the door go and turn around to tell Billy to fuck off again, but the hairs on the back of me neck prick up as I swivel round and I reckon I know before I even see who it is.

Yup, it's her.

Me first thought is one of relief that she's changed out of that red hoodie. Me second thought is that this must be fate if she's only wandered into a bar that I'm in purely by chance; and me third thought is fuck, I hope she don't think I'm buying her a drink.

The whole bar's looking at her, but she don't give a monkey's; spook training see, they teach you not to show any fear or nothing. I know 'cos I've done a bit meself.

Don't look at me like that, smartarse, 'cos I ain't fucking joking. As the number one protection operative in the immediate vicinity, I've done all sorts of training, I have. Weight training, Football training. Manual handling training. Oh, yeah, all the certificates, me. Me spook training, though, that was a bit special, not everybody does that. You have to know where to look to pick that sort of stuff up.

Listen, I like you, even though you're a cheeky twat you seem alright, so I'll tell you how to go about it in case you fancy being a spook an' all. I mean, you won't be in my league, will you, but not many are, you know what I'm saying.

Anyways, you go into town and you look for a place with a little 'D' sign on the front, that's the first part of your training, see, awareness. If the 'D' is followed by these special spy symbols, and they've gotta be in this order or they don't count, so that's another spook thing, remembering symbols. What was I saying? Oh yeah, they gotta be in this order after the 'D', right, like this: ' _e b e n h a m s'_.

Well, when you see that you walk straight in without looking back, 'cos they're watching, you know, and you looks for the special spook area. It's usually hidden in the _Gift_ section. What do you mean, why?

Right, I'm a clever fucker and you're not, so I'll try to put this easy for ya. You know how you can hide something by blatantly putting it in front of everyone? No?

Well, you know how them politicians hide the fact they're all lying, cheating, whoring, corrupt and immoral bastards by going on the telly and denying everything, even when their pants are still round their ankles and the office junior's still attached to their cock? Yeah, with me now? Good, you've got it. Well, it's exactly like that. Even though it's staring you in the face, because it's so blatant you can get away with it.

So you go to the middle of the shop, find the _Gift_ section and find a stand full of pictures of cars and parachutes and stuff. Again, the name on it's a bluff that all us trained ops know about. I mean, _'Big Day Out'_ , who'd fall for that shite? Jesus, not everyone in this country's thick, present company excepted, no offence like.

What you do then is you poke about the picture things, they're like plastic cases, until you find one with the secret code on it. Now, the code isn't that difficult to crack, but then I am a clever fucker so maybe it is – I'll let you decide.

'Spydays – fun for all the family ages 7 and up.'

See how they hide it? Brilliant!

Anyways, there'll be a picture of a bloke in a dinner suit on the front looking all suave and that, that's so people who isn't in the know gets the wrong idea and think it's to do with restaurants or summit. What you do then is, you takes the case thing up to the counter and hand it to the bird, she takes your cash without a word, proper spook she is, you can tell by the way she chews her gum and ignores you while you pays your hundred and fifty quid. If she was normal she'd be flustered that you knew, but 'cos she's had the training she can hide her nerves, see, just carries on talking to her mate about shagging some gluesniffer called Darren while the supervisor's got his back turned and she's pocketing your cash.

So you've got the goods, now you just have to get home and ring the number and arrange your training. I did it mate, and it's fucking brilliant. Screeching cars, unarmed combat, learning to talk proper and – best of all – you can take as many of the high tech gadgets what they've got as you want. Well, no-one said I could take them, but I did, so fuck 'em. I was surprised at the amount of kids there, but they've gotta train 'em young, haven't they? It was good for 'em an' all when I was pushing in the queues and that for cars and taking their turns as well – character building and that. You can't be a spook and protect this country without a bit of the right stuff in you and I knows I've got the stuff in me, all right. 'Specially after me training and sorting out them kids' dads. It was funny how the spymasters on the course said not to come back; I reckons that's 'cos I'd passed the course and they was making me a sleeper, ready to be called upon when the country needs me.

And that time's now, 'cos she's walking straight towards me. I'm gulping and fingering one of the gadgets in me pocket, _'The Eavesdropper'_ , they call it, fits in your lug and lets you listen to people talking from half a mile away. I got some other stuff at home an' all, but this is me favourite, I don't use it much, though, on account of what I hear people saying about me sometimes, but it's still me favourite. Honest, you wouldn't believe how good it is, I was using it once and I heard these two proper slappers talking in town about Ant an' Dec and a gimp mask, they was saying...oh, hold on, no time for that, she's here.

'Hello, Mr Palmer.'

I can feel meself twitching as her ice blue eyes look me up and down; well, one part of me was twitching, anyways, big part an' all. Well, it was then, but it was warm in the Badger, know what I'm saying?

'Hello again, pet, how can I be of assistance?'

You've got to go through the motions and let them think you're polite and nice until after you've nailed 'em. They can find out about the real you after that – little tip for you there, son.

She looks straight at me, I think she does anyways, I don't really know for sure, 'cos I'm staring straight at her chest – magic, man.

Then I hears that voice cutting right through me defences again; it's definitely love, this, like.

'Your country's in trouble, Mr Palmer, and we need your help.'

Mint.
'Progress report, 001.'

'Second contact made with Trojan sir. Background checks ongoing and leverage points identified. Extremely confident of a positive outcome.'

'Good job. Remember, keep focused on the big picture and finish the job.'

'Yes, sir. Over and out.'
Beach Head

So what's a man to do?

I knows what you would have done, son, don't I? You'd have been straight in and fucked up your chances, wouldn't you? But not me, kidda, no way. I know women and I know how they work.

'What's in it for me, then?'

She leans right in to whisper in me ear and as she does, the back of her hand brushes me leg. Fucking second zip I'd broke that month.

'Your country would be very grateful, but more importantly...so would I.' She doesn't so much say it as breathe it through me ear and into me head. It echoes round me brain for a bit and then heads south. Yup, the zip's proper fucked now.

'Look, Pagger's got a cherry on.'

'Fuck off, Mo.'

'And a hard on.'

'Fuck off, Mo – I still ain't paying for a handjob.'

'Can't blame a girl for trying Pagga.'

My posh bird beckons me outside and that's when I find out how I can be of assistance, alright. I mean, I'm following her, right, thinking she's taking me to shag alley out the back and trying to remember where I left me blobs from last time, I'm hoping I don't have to re-use the one from yesterday – you can only turn 'em inside out so many times, can't you? – when she takes a sharp left and we're next to that fucking white van again.

'I'm not getting in there, love.'

'You don't have to worry about anything, Neville – I would never hurt you.'

I'm trying not to look at her, 'cos if I do I'll lose all self-control and be in the back of that van quicker than Kerry Katona can get on the front pages of a shit magazine with another _'exclusive'_ about _'getting my life back on track'_. Instead I concentrates on the graffiti on the walls leading down shag alley, some new stuff on there. Looks like Mo's dropped her prices, 'bout time really, she had fuck all else left to drop.

Some cheeky twat's wrote something about me an all.

PAGGA PALMER SUX COX IN LIFTS FOR TEN PENCE BY COSGROVE

PAGGA IS A HOM AND SOFT AS SHITE BY BOBBIN

If I find out who's done that I'll kick their fucking heads in.

I'm standing there raging and forget all about me posh spook for a minute, but she's soon back breathing in me ear.

'I need to show you something and I need your help, Nev. Please, jump in the van and we can brief you – you'll get paid.'

I turns to look at her, bright red lipstick shining in the chilly sunlight, me gaze goes downhill fast and it's obvious there's a nip in the air.

'Right you are, pet – but call me Pagga.'

'Okay, Nev...Pagga...in you go.'

The back doors swing open and an arm comes out to help me in. I gulp, but only 'cos I need some fresh air, like, no other reason, no reason at all, then I step in. I'm not scared. When you've faced down the hardest characters in the hardest town in the hardest country in the world, then a little thing like getting into a van full of spooks that you saw kill a bloke in cold blood only the night before is nothing.

No, I'm not scared, I just had a bad pint, that was all.

'Jeezuz, he's facking shat himself.'

'Nah, mate, just farted, like.'

'Scraffy Norvern cant...'

Lucky for that geppy twat he's an officer of the Queen or I have fucking lamped the soft cockney ponce by now. I still might, actually, if he keeps his noise up. Glasses or not.

Once I got into the van I realised there was nowt to be scared of, not that I was anyway like, it's the same as one of them you see on The Bill and that. All screens and wires and buttons that just have to be pressed.

'What's this one do?'

'Don't touch that, you cant – you'll set the smoke spreader off...ohhh, fackin' hell...'

'Cough...cough...what's that one do?'

'For fack's sake, Vic, tell your goon to keep his hands to his fackin' self – no, sir, no need to scramble the jets, false alarm, sir. Sorry, sir.'

My spook bird takes me hand and sits me down at the side of the van. She looks deep into me eyes and, while I know she's bang into me, for the first time in our relationship I'm troubled.

'Vic? You didn't use to be a bloke, did you?'

She just laughs, well, I think she does, I'm watching her tits jiggle.

'It's short for Victoria, Geordie boy,' she says, then she leans in, all husky like in my ear again. 'I promise you, I'm all woman.'

'Right, then, so where we off, pet? Back to yours for coffee and that, eh?'

See, I know when to make me move, she thinks there's a chance of losing me and now I'm reeling her in. Some blokes think they're players, but me, I invented the fucking game, man.

'No, we're going to drop you off at yours and on the way I'll put the proposal to you and you can decide whether you're in...but first, you have to sign this.'

'What is it?'

'The Official Secrets Act – if you tell anyone what I'm about to tell you, then I'll have to kill you.'

She's a joker, that girl. Kill me before she gets the chance to shag me – no chance, man. I'll sign it, anyway, just to humour her, but I know women, me and she's gagging for it. Probably just not allowed to do me till I've signed up to be a spook; aye, that'll be it. Probably have to prove meself on this job before she can get permission off her superiors to give in to her natural urges and get a piece of the Pagga action. Aye, they don't let them shag civvies, do they? Best get on with it, then.

'Right then, pet, what do I need to do, how much will I get paid, and when do I get the spook gadgets?'

She just laughs, crosses her legs again, flashing very nice thighs that I hadn't noticed before, and shakes her head.

'All in good time, my big, hard, northern friend, all in good time.'

I cross me legs.

'Sorry, I didn't realise you could tell.'

I fucking love the way she says 'big' and 'hard', I'm gonna buy pants with no zips, I think, if I'm going to be working with her for much longer.

'What I want you to do is meet me tomorrow night at the big shady looking warehouse on the cliff top at the coast. The one with the strange lights that are on all night, with the really fierce looking security guards. Do you know the one?'

I know the one she means 'cos when we were younger me and some of the lads went to rob it. Don't look at me like that, we all have to make a living, and Mo was younger then, an' all, so she could charge more. Anyways, four of us went in and twenty seconds later only three of us came out, with a pack of Rottweilers nipping at our arses. Never did find out what happened to little Tommy Trampsvest – it was his idea an' all. We said nixy to the law when they came round looking for him – well, no point in all of us getting nicked an' all, was there? If he'd moved quicker he'd have been alright and I wouldn't have had teeth marks in the arse of me strides. Selfish bastard, really, just a fucking excuse that false leg was, 'more life in a tramp's vest', we used to say of the lazy twat. Still, he's gone now and because of him I know where the warehouse is and will probably get a top shag out of it, so I should thank him, really.

And I will. Once he's apologised for that fucking Rottweiler biting me arse.

'Aye. Shall I wait in reception, then?'

I quite fancied that. Coffee from an office bird with sexy glasses and a tight blouse. Her having to kiss me arse 'cos I'm a spook an' that. Not that I needs that kind of power to make sexy office birds kiss me arse, anyway. That thing what happened at the DSS was a totally different matter.

I'm snapped out of it when I twig she's laughing at me.

'You don't knock on the target's door and tell him you're there, silly, do you?'

See? Distracted. Birds always distract me. Make me forget me training an' everything. God's to blame, really, for making me too desirable for them, just another cross to bear for old Pagga and, as that pretend Jock with the freaky blonde hair once croaked, I bears it well.

She must have noticed my dismayed face and thought I was backing out 'cos she looked all sad, and then looked at the geppy twat then back at me.

'He said you wouldn't be able to do it. Can't you try Pagga? Just for me, pleeease?'

Well, firstly I'm raging 'cos that cockney knob has no-classed me, then I'm melting 'cos she looks so sad and then I'm just as horny as fuck when I see them lips pushed together to say 'please'.

'Aye, okay then, but I'll have to give me notice at the pub tonight – did you mention summat about cash earlier?'

'We'll put five thousand pounds into your bank account at the end of the operation. Oh, and Nev...I mean Pagga, if you can't see me around there, then make your own way in. You can do that, can't you? Clever, tough, big boy like you? Remember, though, quiet and invisible.'

Then she leans forward, giving us a good top view down her blouse.

'And there might be a little bonus in it for you at the end...'

Right then, where's the bus stop? I'm heading down the coast.
'Progress report, 001.'

'Trojan acquired, signed, briefed with as much detail as he requires and completely on board. My default approach worked well on this occasion.'

'Excellent. So 'Operation Industrialist' is go?'

'Yes, sir. Further updates as and when. Over and out.'
Door-stopped!

So I've got a lot to think about, right?

The country needs me. I've got to chuck me job in on the door of the Beaver, leave all of me other responsibilities – them Viagras don't sell their selves you know – and travel to the back of beyond all in service of the Queen.

Now I'm a patriotic man, I am, when duty calls I don't falter me. I'm in them trenches with the rest of the boys, propping the flag up, eating mud and taking pot-shots at the enemy, I am. So there's no need to ask me twice.

Well, especially not when there's five grand and the prospect of getting jiggy with Vic the spook in the mixer – and remember that's short for Victoria – she's not a bloke like, I don't care what you say.

So I rock up to the Beaver to start me shift with pride in me heart that I've finally been activated by the powers that be, but there's a tinge of sadness an' all. I mean, I worked hard to get this door, this is the hardest pub in the area and being the head man here means something. I'm at the peak of me chosen profession and giving it up would be hard.

Standing here at the weekends means I've beaten all them teachers who told me I'd be nothing. It means I'd won against the twats that used to beat me up and nick me dinner money and it means I have respect. Mind you, even more important than that, more meaningful than everything else...it means I get birds, loads of 'em.

Case in point being the landlord's daughter. She looks like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, in fairness, like, it probably wouldn't 'cos there's never much room in there to fit anything else when I'm around. Know what I'm saying, kidda?

But, she's the type of lass who wouldn't look twice at Neville Palmer on the street. When Neville turned into Pagga, though, and started knocking charvas out left, right and centre. then she couldn't get enough and that's what being on the door gave me. Respect...and like I said...fanny!

So, as I drag me carcass towards the classily pebble-dashed exterior and the oak style doors the memories come flooding back. Like that time I battered Pieman Pete, my nemesis from school, 'cos he'd grabbed the barmaid's tits. I remember it like it was yesterday.

'Get your hands off her tits, Pete – the doctor said they wouldn't set for another week, you'll leave dents, you twat.'

'Don't speak to me like that Pagga, you were fuck all at school and you're fuck all now. You might be full of steroids and yeast these days, son, but I still remember the skinny twat who wore free school uniform and had patches on the knees of his trousers.'

The bar was full, I hadn't been there long and Pieman had a bit of a rep. Mainly 'cos of his nickname. He'd went into Greggs pissed up with a shotgun and demanded pastries with menaces – stupid twat got three years and now he was out he was trying to be top dog again. He had to learn things had changed and I knew it was me chance to assert myself and move towards me goal of being the top protection operative in the world.

That was what me shrink said I had to do, like, after an 'episode' I had. Set myself targets and work towards them, move away from the past. Maybe we'll talk about that some other time, anyway.

I fingered the little surprise I had for him in me pocket and looked at the Pieman – goals and targets, aye, that was good 'cos all I could see was a fucking big target.

'Hey Pieman, use your loaf, son.'

He fucking hated the nickname and he hated me...only fair, I did shag his sister at school...and his mother after...and his...no, leave it there... she's in a home now.

Anyways, he was coming my way and it was time to make me move.

'She's only trying to earn a crust, man.'

The 'surprise' was now round my fingers and me right hand was up and in position – wouldn't be the first time, neither, but no time for jokes now, mind...

He came at me grunting like a bear having a shit, his big red face matching his big round body. He was raging. That made him careless, told you I was a clever fucker.

'Don't take the piss out of me, you raggy arsed twat.'

I dodged to one side as he telegraphed the right hand he wanted to bury in me face and slapped his fat bald head.

'Now, now Pieman. Let's not mince about – are you chicken or are you just steak and kidding around?'

He went mental and tried to pick a chair up, so while he was bent over with his back to me I clouted him in the back of the head. The steel knuckleduster did its work and he hit the ground hard – the punters all gasped and word spread round town quicker than Jodie Marsh spreads her...butter on her toast.

If little Neville had been present with his National Health glasses, patched up uniform and free school meals voucher, he would have approved. Actually, he'd have glassed the fucker while he was on the floor, but enough of that – Pagga had arrived and life wouldn't be the same again.

Now I was giving it all up, even though it was a good career move it was still a sad day for me.

'Pagga, where the fuck you been, you fat twat?'

Fucking shit job this – I can't wait to leave.

'I've had a bit of business, boss – got something to tell you.'

'Fuck your business. I pay you to start at eight o'clock, not half fucking nine. I had to cover you with young Trev, the glass collector. He looked fucking ridiculous in the bow tie – you know he's got a spotty neck.'

'Yeah, but...'

'I also pay you to keep the shite out, but what's happened?'

'I don't kn...'

'I'll tell you what. Before you graced us with your presence, a load of twocers turned up and kicked off with the squad of football lads that were in. Fuckin' glass everywhere, claret up the walls and Trev's acne left it's mark on the carpet alright. Fucking pus soaked right through to the cellar.'

'I'm here now, I'll sort...'

'No fucking need now, is there? They've all gone. Luckily two proper doormen turned up. Cosgrove and Bobbin dealt with them all, changed my opinion of them lads now, I have. In fact, Pagga, fuck it, you're out. I need someone reliable for this job, not a drunken has been.'

The cheeky bastard. Sacking us before I got the chance to quit. After all the hidings I've given out for him.

'Hold on, boss. I've done the job fine for you in the past. Sorted out people that no-one else would. Remember Stinky Barry? No fucker else would throw him out, would they? Wouldn't even touch him, would they 'cos of the shit on his clobber? He just did what he wanted in every bar in town, but I dealt with him, didn't I?'

'Aye, Pagga, Barry was a feather in your cap, but that was then, this is now. You're yesterday's man. Cosgrove and Bobbin, they're the future.'

Right you prick. Time to play this clever.

'Fair enough, where's me wages, then?'

'Here, I've paid you for the weekend even though you've only done the one night. I'm a fair man Pagga, and I hope you'll respect me for it.'

I take the money off him, give it a quick speed count just to be sure and then, when I'm sure he hasn't diddled me, I drop the nut straight on the fucker.

'Yesterday's man you cheeky prick – how did that feel then?'

'You'be broke by dose, you Bat Funt...'

'I'll tell you what else I broke, you fucker – ask your daughter what happened to her fucking cherry...'

Shite – that was stupid. He'd have put the popped hooter down to experience, but nailing his pride and joy – fuck it, I've got the cash and I'm out of here tomorrow.

'BAAASSSTTTTTAAAARDDDDD. COSGROVE, BOBBIN, GET OUT HERE...'

Shite.

'Right, must be off, got an early start at me new job the morra. Nice working for you, boss – see you around, eh.'

And that's me, finishing one chapter as the number one Personal Protection Operative in the world and starting another as a top spook, with world safety as my responsibility.

Look out James Bond, 'cos Pagga's coming – wouldn't be the first time, neither.
'Progress report, 001.'

'Minor hitch, sir. The Trojan has personal issues with a couple of likely lads in the same industry as him.'

'Is the problem surmountable within the time-frame?'

'I believe so, sir.'

'Good. I'll leave that up to your discretion.'

'Very good, sir. Over and out.'
Bobbin and Peeving

So I heads straight down the road to the Baited Badger. It's what you do, innit, when you've got time off work, you go straight to the boozer. It's even better when it's not expected an' all, and I've even been paid for it – fucking top banana that.

The night's just getting dark and the lights are twinkling inside the boozer – it's all a bit Christmassy, like. Funny how you can see in there now that people can't smoke in pubs anymore, never even knew they had fuckin' windows before that. Nah, tell a lie, I chucked someone through them once. Still a shock though – the place looks busy. I have to stop and think about it; I haven't been in here on a Saturday night for yonks, always working before, wasn't I. Looks like it's proper buzzing, can't wait to get into it and have a right good night – give meself a proper send off and that.

I slam the door open, all full of meself and ready to tell everyone how I told him at the Beaver to shove his job up his arse. Just bursting to proclaim me independence and how I've took meself off the hamster wheel.

'Alright, Pagga, heard you got the push up the road.'

Fuck's sake, talk about bursting your bubble.

'Nah, telt him to shove it, like – got something else lined up.'

'Not what I heard. Story is, you were told to fuck off by Trevor, the glass collector, and he give you a slap when you wouldn't vacate the premises.'

Billy the liar, can't bothered with his shite, so I just give him a look and he gets the message – mind you, booting him in the plums while I distracted him with me look probably helped.

'That's right, crawl off, you one bollocked freak.'

'Has Billy only got one bollock?'

'He has now.'

I've got a pint set up and I'm surrounded at the bar by the regulars, couple of birds listening to me tale as well at the edge of the group, so I'm obviously embellishing a wee bit – hey, all's fair in love and shagging, eh?

'So that was it really. I nutted the gaffer, ransacked the till, made mad passionate love to his daughter and left her in tears when I told her I couldn't marry her 'cos I was a love and leave 'em kind of lad, and then I sorted out Cosgrove and Bobbin when they shoved their noses in.'

Everyone's oohing and aahing at that, like. A couple of the birds lick their lips suggestively when I say 'made love to'. I might use that phrase again, I didn't realise it meant shagging till the other day when I was watching a chick flick on the telly – fucking melts them, by all accounts.

'You sorted out Cosgrove and Bobbin? How did you do that, then?'

Fucking Billy again.

'I telt them to fuck right off or to sort it out there and then – they took the first option.'

Them lasses are grinding against each other now, oh aye, they love a bit of violence, women.

'If that's the case...'

'Billy man, I'm fucking busy here...'

'I'm just saying, if that's what really happened...'

Right he's getting another boot in the plums that twat – can he not see I've got trailer trash hanging off me every word and soon to be hanging off me nadgers?

'Billy, do you want another foot in the knackers? What is your problem?'

'Well, I'm just wondering why, if Cosgrove and Bobbin are so scared of you, they're looking in the windows of this very boozer with "Where's Pagga, 'cos we're going to kick his fucking head in" expressions on their faces?'

Shite.

'What you doing down there Pagga?'

'Lost a contact lens.'

'You don't wear them.'

'Aye, I didn't mean mine. I was in here with a lass the other night and she lost one, I was just looking for it like.'

'Right – nowt to do with Cosgrove and Bobbin looking for you, then?'

'Nah, telt you man, I sorted them two already. Yesterday's men, they are kidda. Are they still there?'

'Nah, they fucked off down the road, probably checking out The Painters Inn and The Hand Shandy looking for you.

That's me off the floor and flexing the guns.

'Lucky for them pair of twats, like. I don't want to be introducing them to the boys here – you don't buy these fuckers at B & Q, know what I'm saying.'

I've still got the crowd round me lapping it up so I kiss the old biceps. Won't be the only thing getting kissed, an' all, the way that Marie Capri Ghia and her mate Chantelle Mercedes Benz are giving me the once over – I reckon I know their mams as well.

'Glad you feel that way like Pagga, 'cos I was just in the Beaver and heard the landlord offering them a grand each to do you in – something to do with his daughter...'

Have you ever thought how sick you would be if you ate a plate full of salt mixed with shit and topped it off with double cream? You'd be puking everywhere, wouldn't you, proper nauseous and that. I was the time I did it. Anyways, imagine just how sick you'd be and then double it.

Then double that.

Then double that again.

That's how sick I was feeling about then.

'The fucker's turned white. You alright Pagga?'

'You don't look well son, what's up?'

'Bad pint, I think, like.'

That's all I can get out. My mind's stopped working. Cosgrove and Bobbin are coming for me.

'He's fucking scared, isn't he? Big soft shite.'

Fucking Billy again – he's always had it in for me that old twat. Even when I was a kid he'd get the other lads to bully us – tosser. Me mam used to go out with him apparently, and then kicked him into touch when she had me. Mustn't have got over it, the bitter twisted old get.

Well, fuck them all, 'cos I'm working for the Queen now. I bids me goodnights and heads off – early night, I think. Just need to get home and get some kip. Me guts are still heaving a bit as I head back to the flat. 'cos it wasn't hoying out time yet there was no fucker about, so the streets were quiet. That means all I could hear is me heart beating every time a shadow dances across a streetlight. Not through fear like, just surprise and adrenaline and that.

That's why I'm a fucking nervous wreck as I rounds the corner to me stairs, not fear – adrenaline. Anyways, there's a figure loitering at the bottom of them, so I has to do a double take...only fucking Bobbin isn't it.

And where he is, Cosgrove is never far away.

I quietly back away, wishing the adrenaline wasn't running down me leg, and park meself round the corner while I consider me options.

  * Steam into him lashing out wildly and hope to spark him out before he has a chance to do me, then hope Cosgrove really isn't here.

  * Sneak off and hope that I can find somewhere else to sleep before coming back early for me gear.

  * Try talking me way out of the predicament I've just found meself in.

  * Hope to fucking God that the twig that just snapped behind me wasn't because it was under Cosgrove's foot.

I spin round like a fucking loony tune to see three of them hoodie fuckers from earlier; that Duane one just keeps staring at me, the weird twat, and I have an idea.

'That bloke round there owes me a hundred quid, if you can take it off him you can keep it.'

'What? Him at your front door, Pagga, or the one at the bottom of the stairs?'

Fuck, that's where Cosgrove is.

'The one at my door owes me money as well – where's the rest of your mob?'

'Round the corner – we come to straighten out what happened today.'

'I tell you what lads...and lass...we'll call it quits. You can have those blokes as a little peace offering – how's that?'

They fucking like that and, after a little huddle, they go in swinging. Cosgrove and Bobbin are handy fuckers, but my charva army take them by surprise. They stand their ground for a minute but they're taking a lot of punishment and judging by the hands going in their pockets they're losing a lot of cash. There's claret everywhere and my two professional rivals decide to fuck off out of the way.

So, job done, now I just need to have a kip and sort some fresh gear out then in a few hours I'll be offski up the coast, well out of the way of those two.

Told you I was a clever fucker.
'Progress report, 001.'

'Trojan appears to have resolved personal issue with hostiles of his own accord – impressively so.'

'Any input needed from your end?'

'No, sir. I may need authorisation to try something further down the line, though, if required.'

'Consider it given.'

'Over and out.'
Metro – Sexual

Next morning I'm up and off. You know how blokes say they need a shit, a shower and a shave? Well, I'm more of a wee, a wank and a Weetabix man myself. All available cash is stashed in me socks, me special spy hearing gadget is in me pocket and the Metro ticket they got me on expenses is safely grasped in my large, granite-like fist.

It's time. This sheriff is leaving town.

I have a quick peek through the blinds before leaving the flat. No sign of the two amigos, but I wait until me taxi has pulled up before I open the door – not through fear, like, no way, just getting me head into spook mode, see. Getting the old napper up to speed and in the game, sort of a warm up like for the dangerous world I'm entering. I mean, you don't see footballers coming straight on the pitch without doing a bit of stretching, do you? Actors and that have to pretend to be trees before they go on the stage, don't they? Well, it's the same with us officers of the Queen, we have to get the brain into gear before it's needed. So that's why I'm careful about leaving the house. I'm not scared, like. Not of them two. Fuck off, I'm not.

The station's mobbed. Some kind of exhibition going on up at the gay bit of town. Strange seeing all them blokes dressed as Dr Spock and Captain Kirk holding hands and clutching little pink cases. There's some fucker dressed as Scotty as well, running about with a big pink dildo shouting 'she canna take it captain, she canna take it.'

I don't get it.

My new bird, Vic, who was never a bloke...ever, said to wander round town a bit when I got up there, like I was shopping. Then go and have a couple of pints and a bit of food somewhere before meeting her at the gate of the place when it gets dark. She was dead specific an' all about not drawing attention to meself and not asking anyone questions about the place. Like I don't know that shit. Entry-level, basic spook stuff, that is. Can't believe she thought I'd need a reminder about that, maybe it's 'cos I'm new and she has to do it, like an induction for health and safety and that.

Anyways, I put on me spook gear on the Metro so I won't stand out when I get there. Nowt flashy, just subtle so I blends in – I know the game, matey, don't you worry about that. It's difficult to try out me special newspaper with the hole cut out of it for spying purposes with me new shades on, and the trilby I got keeps falling off me head, so I put the paper away and pretend to be asleep, but really I have me spook listening device in masquerading as a music player thingy.

'Look at that cock with the big orange raincoat on.'

There's some right plebs on these trains, like. They've fell for me disguise hook, line and sinker – probably think I'm some kind of actor or telly star.

'Is he touching himself through the pockets?'

Fuck me, she's got good eyesight for her age.

'I think I recognise him from somewhere... _Big Brother_?'

Back of the net. It's official, this disguise is a winner.

'Nah. It's that Pagga fucker, innit? Remember, he shagged you last week.'

'Oh, I'd blotted that shameful night out me mind. Here, pass the Lambrini, I cannot cope with the thought of that.'

If I remember right, love, you'd be better off drinking mouthwash.

Luckily it's my stop so I can't blow me disguise by giving them shit back, but she's being blacklisted from the full Pagga experience in the future. That'll teach her.

I head off round the town. The shops are bollocks and the cafe only does one sausage with the all-day breakfast, so fuck that, I'm not wasting the Queen's money on rip-offs like that. Time for a pint and some crisps I reckon – don't want to be bloated with food later, anyway, if I'm going to be fighting to the death with a man with metal teeth or something, do I?

I'm pleasantly surprised to see the bar is proper comfy, almost like one of them Gentlemen's Clubs in that London. And by 'Gentlemen's Club' I don't mean the kind of place where Dirty Doreen from Denton throws things up her chuff while you eat pickled eggs...is that right? Or do I mean she throws pickled eggs up her chuff while you eat her? Anyways, it isn't that kind of Gent's Club, it's a bit posh, like Arthur Daley would have went to, even with a shit Minder like that Ray who replaced Terry – all hairdo and health foods, that soft cockney twat.

Anyways, looking round I felt right at home. This must be what happens when you works for the Queen. And, just so I know I've made it, just to bring home how I've finally laid the ghost of me past, the barman is none other than Big Nose Brown. The spoiled-by-his-rich-parents, swotty, horrible fucker who spent every day of school life looking down on me.

'Can I help you, sir?'

'Pint of lager and a packet of ready salted, mate.'

'Certainly sir...that's not...?'

'Aye, Neville Palmer. Mr Pagga to you, Brown, you twat.'

'Alright Nev...fucking hell, YOU'RE drinking in here? You need to pay with notes, not copper, you know.'

'Less of your cheek, sunshine, you'll have the deep-sea divers in your hand as soon as I get me order. And just so you know, they'll have been paid for by appointment to Her Majesty an' all, we're talking royal warrant, son, so don't make me angry or you'll be slotted – and not in a good way either – know what I'm saying?'

'Right. Obviously I'm just kidding on. Lovely to see you again and that.'

'So you found your level in life then, did you? As I remember you were going to follow Daddy into the insurance business. Not work out, then? Did they need someone with a bit of intelligence?'

'His firm went bust. Still, this pays the bills. Anyway, lovely chatting with you, but I need to get on. Enjoy your visit, sir.'

'Yeah, you run along. I'll call you if I want anything.'

Wanker – that's him told.

There's a load of suited types in the boozer and they're looking my way – they're impressed, I can tell. They've heard the words 'royal' and 'warrant' put two and two together, made four, and now they can't hold me stare. Probably worried they'll get the old Brazilian treatment as if we was in London if they keep on looking and I don't mean on their pubes either. Aye, I think I'm gonna enjoy this life.

I settle back in me chair, confident that I'm the daddy in this place when I notice him. Skinny fucker, long mac, reading a big paper – one of them ones with no birds in with their tits out – and chewing a pen. Must be doing the crossword.

What's made me notice him? I'll tell you. Every time I glance up the fucker's staring at me with hate in his eyes. Mebbes I panelled him outside a bar or something one night? I don't recognise him, like, which is strange because I can remember most people I've hit. You know how some blokes can remember every bird they've ever shagged and some blokes can name all the cards in a pack and that? Well, I can spot an ex-opponent a mile away and he wasn't one. Lucky for him mind, the weedy gimp.

But what is his fucking problem?

I resolve (see how I slip into spook mode) to find out and get up but, just as I'm getting to him, I trip on a wrinkle in the very expensive looking carpet and go flying into some ancient biddy sitting with her old fella.

'Oops, sorry about that, love – you'd think a place like this would be a big lump free zone, wouldn't you?'

All polite and sophisticated, even though I'm a bit embarrassed. This spook stuff just comes natural to me, oh yes.

'Why yes, one would expect a place of this calibre to be free of big lumps – but that doesn't appear to be the case today.'

I disentangle meself, taking care not to brush me hands on her chest – well, it would be bad manners after I'd just took me face out of it – mind you, she's got a cheek, I definitely felt a hand grab me cock when I was sprawled over her, dirty old mare.

I just nod back at her and head to me seat, taking a quick glance at the husband next to her – the old goat's got a gleam in his eye and a hard on...eeeuurgh. I feel all dirty now.

'He's a big lad, isn't he?'

Fucking upper classes – too much rugby, if you ask me.

By the time I've been there a few hours, I'm starving; let's face it, you don't get to my size without stocking up on the old carbs, do you? I need energy for all me training that I do – mind I haven't been for a while – too busy pumping the lasses and looking after the one muscle that really mattered to have time to pump iron as well, know what I mean. Anyway, I still need to keep me strength up 'cos I'm a naturally athletic type and me biceps don't need much work, in fact they more or less train their selves. The last lass I had in the sack was right complimentary about us, you know how the young 'uns use words like 'buff' and that these days to mean you're as good-looking as fuck? Well, she said I had 'moobs' and I while I didn't know what it meant I didn't let on, just another yoof word for 'handsome' and 'hunky fucker' innit?

So I wander to the pub kitchen pretending I'm looking for the bogs. Some of the stuff in it is fucking old, an' all, I've shagged lasses younger than some of the pasties in that fridge, three quid an' all...the robbing bastards. If I had to pay for them I'd be gutted, luckily there's no-one about – probably Pimm's o'clock or summat – so the vittles come my way for nowt. There's some people in the world might think that stealing four Cornish pasties and a pickled egg is a bit over the top, but not me. My thinking is this, it's so easy that if I don't nick them then some other fucker will and it would prey on me mind all the way there that some pikey fucker was eating food that should rightfully be mine. Then I would get to the job in a state of anxiety and the security of the nation would be compromised (honestly I sound like a proper spook already, don't I?). And you can't put a Cornish pasty ahead of the country's welfare, now, can you? Exactly, so shut up about it.

I'm back in me seat necking the scran when I notice him again. Long Mac, skinny fucker, staring us out. Now, I hadn't forgotten about him, I am a professional spy now after all, but he'd slipped me mind for a second while I concentrated on topping up the old battery. This leaves us in a quandary, do I leave me last pasty on the table while I go over there and kick off with him, taking the risk that one of these buggers will nick it – that dirty old goat with the woman whose tits I'd just had me face in would probably shag it – or do I finish it first and take the chance that he might make a move while I'm otherwise engaged?

I take the third way; this is why me bird Victoria chose me, because I can think outside the box – not strictly true like, most of me waking life is spent trying to get inside the box if I'm honest – keeping a close eye on skinny mac I ram the entire pasty in me gob in one hit and get to me feet. It's need to know time.

I stand over him while he pretends not to notice me, it probably looks like I'm playing it cool, but in reality I can't talk for pasty; actually, I can't fucking breathe. So I'm chewing away like a Police Alsation on a May Day protestor's arse when he looks up.

'Fuck do you want, fatty?'

I look round to see who he's talking to – I hadn't realised there was a queue of us. Seeing no-one I twig he's obviously mental. Seeing things and that. This changes my approach, I can't hit him now, can I? He's two pigs short of a full police station. I still can't talk. I try, so he can see I sympathise with his mentalness, but all that comes out is a grunt and a load of flaky bits of pastry and some gristle.

After he's wiped his face clean he tries to stand up, but I push him back down, just to let him know that I understand his plight. Obviously, being mental, he misunderstands this simple gesture and starts shouting.

'FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE, YOU FAT FUCKER? YOU NICK ME BIRD OFF ME AND THEN START SHOVING ME ABOUT. WHY SHE WOULD FANCY A FAT FUCKER LIKE YOU I DON'T KNOW, BUT YOU'RE THE REASON SHE'S DUMPED ME AND I'LL GET RID OF YOU IF IT'S THE LAST THING I DO, YOU FAT PRICK.'

I look round the pub and try to reassure people there's no problem.

'Eeees Mmuntal,' I manage to get out between blasts of pasty flakes and dead dog. They seem to understand and turn away, they don't want to distract an officer of the Queen by making eye contact while I'm busy do they?

So with that problem solved, I turn to the other that's still sitting in his chair and shouting about me shagging his bird. He probably has a point, mini-me has been busy lately and she could have been one of dozens, I hope it isn't the one that got handy with the dildo, though, could be embarrassing if that gets out. He looks like he's about to start shouting something like 'dildo', so I act quickly. Taking his mentalness into account and the fact that it isn't really his fault he's acting like an arsehole and drawing attention to me, I decide to use the velvet glove.

Still breaks the fucker's nose first go, like – you never lose it, do you? –and there's some bad bastards in a warehouse round the corner about to find that out an' all.
'Progress report, 001.'

'Trojan in position, sir.'

'Is he performing as expected?'

'Very much so, sir.'

'Excellent. Keep me updated.'

'Yes sir. Over and out.'
Sneaking in the Back

Skinny Mac still hasn't woken up by the time the sun's going down. Snotty, swotty Brown had been round a couple of times picking up glasses, but I tell him that the mental bastard has done a lot of ale and is sleeping it off. He isn't overly happy with having a bloke spark out in his 'upmarket bar/grill' but can't really do much about it. He does want us to do something about the blood seeping from his nose though, so, just to keep the whinging get quiet, I stuff me pasty wrapper up his nostrils. That's me being the nice one again, eh? Say what you like about me, but I don't hold a grudge, can't even hold a pint sometimes, mind, and it's in me nature to help the bloke out.

'No need to thank us, Brown, you swotty, snobby twat.'

'Where did you get that wrapper from, Palmer? There's a load of pasties went missing from the kitchen earlier.'

'Well, between you and me, kidda, I think sleeping beauty there had them away – look at the crumbs all over his face for a start, eh? Anyway, I've got things to do, so see you later, you sad twat.'

And that's that. I get out the door and head for the sinister looking building up the road.

It's pissing down and all dark and horrible looking. A copper car overtakes me when I'm halfway there and I get a good look at the bloke in the back; it's skinny Mac...and he's cuffed! I can see the copper next to him holding up a pasty wrapper accusingly and giving him the odd backhander. I'm laughing at the fucker when he notices me and starts shouting and screaming and trying to point me out to the bizzy – proper mental like, no doubt about it. Mind you, the copper seems to understand him – probably been on one of them courses they do instead of catching burglars – and he's turning my way.

Now I haven't got a warrant card or nowt and Vic told me that this mission was deniable, you won't know what that means as you're just a civvy – more like a fucking divvy, I think, mind – but it's not good if you get caught...that's all I'm saying, so I have to think quick.

The bizzy car screeches to a halt and the copper gets out and walks towards me while his partner keeps an eye on the mentalist. Gives him another slap an' all – good lad.

'Have you got a moment, sir?'

I know just how to play this.

'Of course, officer. How can I be of assistance?'

'It's a little absurd I'm afraid. We've arrested this man on suspicion of theft and vagrancy, but he alleges that you assaulted him and were, in fact, the perpetrator of the crime of which he has been accused.'

'I think I recognise him. He was in the pub I had a mineral water in earlier, he was trying to sell me a pasty and when I explained I was allergic to them he began shouting at me so I left the premises.'

Brilliant.

' _You're_ allergic to pasties?'

Cheeky. Fucking. Pig. Bastard!

'Yes, officer...and kebabs...'

Fuck it, in for a penny.

He's looking suspicious and lifting his radio to his mouth when his expression changes.

'You heading off up to the big warehouse up the road are you sir?'

Shit.

'Yes. I've ehhmmm got an interview for a job.'

'At this time of night, sir?'

'It's for a nightshift job.'

He's smiling now – I might have got away with this.

'Well, good luck with that, sir. My neighbour Tom runs that place so I'll put in a word for you when I see him tomorrow.'

He's heading back to the car and I can hear him on his radio saying something about they've sent another one, big orange coat and a trilby, yeah...sunglasses in the dark, same place and I'll dispose of the evidence, boss, when I chance it.

'Cheers then, orifice.' That's for the miners, you twat.

He never flickers though, just keeps talking on the radio about how there must be a manpower shortage if they're sending dildos like that now. He must be on about the police training centre, given the state of some of them these days, but I wonder what the other stuff was all about? Still, no time for that, I've got undercover work to do for the Queen.

*

When I get there it's all quiet round the front. Vic and the boys are obviously in there already, like she said, so rather than kick me heels and look suspicious I heads round the back to see if there's somewhere to get in and meet them out of sight.

Along the perimeter fence there's a hut and a gate and...bingo...the door's open. That'll do for me. As I'm heading towards the hut, I see a light flash. Some dopey twat's sparked up a tab, I can see the end glowing – reminds me of a stag-do in Blackpool...no...no time for that – and it gets me blood boiling. Am I the only one who remembers the spook training? I runs up behind the bloke smoking the tab and cuffs him round the back of the head.

'Put that light out, you doughnut!'

He hits the ground like a bag of shit. I don't know me own strength me – I'm some kind of a lethal weapon, like Mel Gibson before he turned mentalist...or is it racist? Can't remember. Anyways, I done the bloke with one punch and even if I did have a brick that I'd handily discovered just before I twatted him, it's still classed as a one-blow knockout. So fuck off with your fair-fighting bollocks, the Marquis of Queensbury never came to my estate.

It's then I twig that the bloke what I've hit isn't actually a spook, is he? No, he's one of them, guarding the place and that, isn't he. They should have known it would take more than one man to stop old Pagga, not fair on them, really, but I don't make the rules, do I?

I drag him into the hut then survey me surroundings. The gate into the place at the back is now unguarded, so I have a choice of holding the position (more spook talk, eh? I'm a natural, me!) for me new team to come this way or taking this bloke's gun and going in alone to capture all the glory and, undoubtedly, a gratitude hump off of Vic. There's no choice at all. With a mental picture of her naked, covered in baby oil and doing that pouty thing, I grab matey's gun and swagger on in there like John Wayne crossed with Clint Eastwood after they've just done a twelve hour shift at a testosterone factory.

Pagga's coming, you fuckers...and not in a good way, neither.
'Progress report, 001.'

'Trojan en-route. Operations team in position.'

'Good, good. Everyone briefed?'

'Of course, sir. You can leave this to me. Both the plans and Thomas Vest will be in the hands of the British Government tonight.'

'Excellent. Knew I could rely on you, 001.'

'Thank you, sir. Over and out.'
The Name's Palmer...Pagga Palmer

So I'm in and it's dead quiet. There's nee machinery blasting or owt. In fact, there's no production of anything going on at all. I thought there might have been rockets being made to go to the moon or something, or big fuck-off nuclear weapons aimed somewhere to kick off a massive war that would see arms dealers make shitloads of money, but nah...nowt.

The place is massive mind, reminds me of Dirty Stan's house when I was a kid. He was a case, him, though. Fucking tracksuit and gold chains all the time, used to get all the kids up at his and play hide and seek – thing was, if he caught yer he played another game involving stuff being hidden.

Eh? Well work it out, you plum.

For fuck's sake. Re-arrange these words, then– 'sausage', 'hide', 'the' – give you a clue?

Right, anyways, now you've caught up I'll continue. Basically we was all raggy arsed little tearaways back then – you ended up raggy-arsed if he had his way an' all! – and he had pool tables, space-invaders, table tennis, records, colour telly, and he always had pop and crisps on tap. You had to go in mob-handed though, safety in numbers and that. Do you ever watch them nature programmes on a Sunday night? Well, you know how the wildebeest always get a drink or cross the river as a herd so they've got more chance of getting past the crocodiles, lions, fucking cheetahs and everyone else who wants a bit of their arse? It was the same at Dirty Stan's – he wanted a piece of your arse an' all, only he didn't have teeth like a lion, just a hard-on like an elephant and colostomy bag that stunk and gave him away if he sneaked in close while you was distracted by _Moon Cresta_.

I wanted to meet _Charlie's Angels_ once and he said something like, 'Stan'll fix it' and said to come into his office for a chat about it. Never mind his office, what he meant was come in his mouth, I reckon, so I fucked off sharpish and never went back. Well, I did, about ten years later in the middle of the night with a lorry, them pool tables never lose their value, you know.

*

'Progress report 001. Is target acquired?'

'Negative. Encountering resistance. Clean up team will need to be prepared for major workload.'

'Assessment?'

'Target located. Resistance not enough to stop us. Operation will be completed. Over and out.'

*

I've confused meself now. That's what happens, see. You won't know this 'cos you're not as clever as me, but I'll let you in on it. Your brain is like a big memory stick from a computer, right? And you know you can only put so much porn...or other stuff...but mainly porn...on a stick before you run out of memory? Well your brain's just like that; you can only fill it up so much before you runs out of space. Stands to reason, don't it, really. And as me brain's pretty full of porn, then there ain't much room for owt else, is there? And don't get all cocky and that either, by 'porn' I mean shagging what I've done, not something on a computer with a fucking droopy-tached bum bandit pretending he's into birds and that poling some fit lass who wishes he was me and not a fucking hairy-lipped bender.

Right?

Good.

So I'm wandering round a big chamber that's got fuck all in it and trying to remember what the mission actually is. Did she tell us? All I can remember's her tits, the promise of five grand and maybe a good, hard shag. Come on, Pagga, rack ya brain, son...nah, just tits still. Fuck it, where's the bog in here? I've thought about her tits for too long now and these pants were tight to start with.

*

'Progress report, 001. Confirm message receipt. Over.'

'Sir, operation proceeding as planned. Over'

'And our late reserve? Is his performance acceptable? Over.'

'He's performing as expected sir. Over.'

'Not what I asked. Is his performance commensurate with the trust placed in him by Her Majesty's Government? Over.'

'There's a strong possibility he may have been captured sir. Permission to extract? Over.'

'Denied. Burn him. Over.'

'Yes sir. Over.'

*

Next thing I know is that while I've been thinking about Vic's jugs of joy a load of blokes with guns have got round us and I'm in the shit. Hold on...one of them's skinny mac bloke...and there's them coppers...and snotty, swotty Brown. Fuck's going on here?

'Aah, Mr Bond. I've been expecting you.'

Who's this fucking doylum then? Wearing some kind of sixties suit, baldy head, big scar through his eye and holding a cat.

Bender.

Deffo.

'Actually shit-for-brains...the name's Palmer...Pagga Palmer.'

Always wanted to say that, mind. Could die a happy man now...well...if I was a hundred and five years old and I'd been nailing wor Vicky for the last sixty years, anyway. Then I'd probably die happy.

'What?'

He looks confused. Proper pissed off even. Never mind that though – I gets to say it AGAIN!

'The name's Palmer...Pagg...'

'Hello again, Neville, you big, fat, stupid twat. Not so cocky now are you, eh? He went to my school, Tommy – I mean Mr Vest – and he's as thick as mince, an' all.'

For fuck's sake, Brown, you fucking fucker! You have one ambition in life and then some wanker has to stamp all over it when you get near the bloody thing. Teachers was always saying 'Palmer, you'll be nothing – no ambition, son,' while swot boy there was getting his hair ruffled and being told he'd go far – not fucking far enough, if you ask me – and now, just cause I gets near the one thing in me life I do want to do, he gets all jealous and blows it for me.

Hold on you sick-minded perv, I don't mean blows it like that, do I? We ain't all like you, is we?

And not content with stamping on me dream of saying 'The name's Palmer...Pagga Palmer...', raising me eyebrow and looking suave and sophisticated twice to a proper bona-fide super-villain in a high-tech super-villain type lair, he says I'm fat an' all. Now, I'm the kind of bloke who doesn't take criticism well. I'm aware that I haven't trained down the gym much lately – mainly because I've been busy, not because Cosgrove and Bobbin are always down there, no, that's not the reason. I've just been busy, that's all.

And for him to call me fat hurts my sensitive nature. Yes, I am sensitive, a man can be a fucking sex-god, able to drink his own weight in lager without falling over and be hard-as-fucking-nails, and still be sensitive. And I am. I'm sensitive.

So I shoot him in the bollocks.

'I might be big, fat and stupid, but I've still got a cock, son.'

The rest lift up their weapons and all I can think of is that I never got to shag Vic. Gutted.

'Neville Palmer? Used to nick empties from the working men's clubs and flog them to the corner shop – that Palmer? The same one who once came here to rob the place and left his Iittle mate with the gammy leg to the mercy of the predator that ran it – that Neville fucking Palmer? I want him alive. Take him to the rope room.'

He's deffo a super-villain, obviously got some kind of dossier (spook talk again, I'm the man, baby) on me already. I half-recognise him an' all, probably seen him on that _Crimewatch_ or something, that'll be it.

Hold on, did the limping twat just say he wanted me alive? Ha. The game's still on, Vicky baby, don't ditch them condoms yet.

And that's that, really. Now we're back at the point where you found me. I hoped the rope room would be some kind of adventure playground type thing where I'd just have to find me way out, but it wasn't. Instead I'm about to get me knackers flayed off with knotted rope because I can't actually tell them something I genuinely don't know. Still going to get kicked to death by Cosgrove and Bobbin if I get out of this and...most important of all...still in with a shout of nailing the lovely Vicky the spook.

I know women, me, and remember, I am one clever fucker. If the first two are odds-on to happen then I reckon the last one is an' all. Might be tricky with flayed off knackers, but I'll have a go.

Oh aye.
'Progress report.'

'Zero casualties sustained. Target in range. Expect mission accomplished in three minutes.'

'Excellent. Your country owes you a great debt.'

'Just doing my job, sir.'

'And the decoy?'

'Lost eyes, sir. No knowledge of location. Presumed deceased.'

'Sad, but necessary. Keep me informed.'

'Yes, sir. Over and out.'

'Over and out.'
Got the Hump

So, as I've said, I'm tied to a chair, stark bollock naked, gonna get tortured, yaddayaddayadda. Think I'm bothered? Well, you're wrong and I'm not even crying, there's just loads of dust in here and I've got a bit of a sty in me eye, that's all.

Anyways, I'm not bothered. I once had a fight with big Humper when I was a teenager and I wasn't scared of him neither.

Well...I was a bit.

Thing is, though, he was massive. Not muscley, like what I am, but fucking obese. Now, you might think that's an easy fight, but you'd be wrong. You're thinking 'just dance round him, tire him out and then knock him out, you dozy pillock,' ain't you? Well, you're lucky I'm tied to this chair if you're thinking that, you fucking gobshite.

You couldn't do that 'cos he was so fat his lard just swallowed up your punches unless you got in close enough to hit his chin, but if you got close he bear-hugged you till you couldn't breathe and when you came round you found out why he was called big Humper. If you hadn't worked it out, then the blood running down your leg and the pain in your arse gave you the idea. That was his thing, see – if he beat you, then you got shagged and it put you off fighting him in the first place. It was all mind games so nobody chanced their arse virginity and thus he rose up the fighting ladder on the estate unchallenged.

Then one day he knocked me kebab out me hand...

Don't know if I've mentioned this, but we was poor growing up. So poor we didn't have satellite telly or nothing. They talk about kids in poverty these days, but sometimes it was all I could do to nick fifty quid out of the old dear's purse. They don't know they're born these days, they really don't. Anyways, he knocked me kebab to the ground and stood there laughing with his little squad of hangers-on and bum-boys. My crew looked up to me as the leader even then, so I had to do something.

'I'm gonna fucking batter you for that Humper.'

He just smiled, grabbed his cock and looked at mine. Fucking shiver went up me spine and I mentally started saying goodbye to me arse cherry.

'I'll do you tomorrow, Palmer...and I do mean DO YOU.'

He turned to walk off, but I realised then and there what was happening. He was putting the fear into me so's when tomorrow came I'd either shit it and not turn up, thus giving him another notch on his fighting scorecard, or I'd be so paralysed with fright 'cos I'd thought about it all night that I'd be soft as shite and get a good fucking...in more ways than one. There was only one thing to do. As he turned, I picked up a brick from where we kicked the shop's new wall in to raid the sweets, and twatted him over the head from behind. He went down like a sack of shite and his so-called mates were on him in seconds. From big Humper to big Rumper in one quick move.

And that's what these fuckers are doing with the whole bollock naked, tied to a chair shit. If they're gonna slot me then they're gonna slot me. And if it's gonna hurt then it's gonna hurt. I can't do nothing about it so I ain't gonna worry, then if the chance comes that I can do something about it I'll be ready and not paralysed with fear.

Told you I was a clever fucker.
'Progress report.'

'Target neutralised. Mission accomplished, sir.'

'Good, good. Return to base.'

'Sir. Demise of decoy not yet confirmed. Permission to check?'

'Denied. Mission accomplished. Back to base.'

'Sir. Say again. You're breaking up. Repeat, demise of decoy not yet confirmed. Permission to check?'

'Denied. Repeat DENIED.'

'Breaking up, sir. Cannot understand. Permission assumed. Over and out.'
The Climax

There's loads of shouting and shooting outside– bit like that stag do I went on in Blackpool when Head-the-ball Henry woke up in that tranny bar actually – and the two guards are a bit nervous looking. Eventually they have a bit of a conflab and decide who's going out to have a look.

Well, I say a conflab, it's a fucking big argument really. One of them ones where they try to keep their voices down and look normal for the public, i.e. me, but really neither of them's backing down 'cos they're both too scared to go out there.

Luckily me spy hearing thing's still stuck in me lug so I can hear every word that's said.

'Go and check, then.'

'Fuck off. Who put you in charge?'

'I'm the number five henchman, you're number ten or something, so get out there.'

'Number five...number ten? What fucking books do you read, you plum? There's loads of friggin' bullets flying out there, dickhead!'

At this point I have a very bad feeling that bullets are going to start flying in here and the shitness of these two will make sure I get one of the fuckers, so I try to lighten the atmosphere a bit.

'I'll go out and have a look...'

'Gag that prick.'

Bollocks.

At this point a top spy would have a plan and somehow disarm the bloke stupid enough to get close in to him while trying to gag him. He would chin him, take his gun, shoot the other one by using the first's body as a shield and then make his escape, probably nailing a couple of top models on the way out.

Sadly I'm only a trainee, so I got what looked...and tasted...like a distinctly sweaty pair of underpants stuffed in me gob. Don't ask how I know what sweaty underpants taste like either, not now we're starting to get on, eh?

Round about now as well, a top spy would have his secret gadget what he'd been given in the lead up to the mission and he would find a way of using it to escape, do the disarming, killing and nailing the top models thing before killing the baddie and saving the world.

And I still had me ear thing!

I worked out that if I twisted me head left and down, then pretended to sneeze whilst jerking (stop sniggering – we're not at school now are we?) me head rapid like then it would fall into me left palm. I could then use the sharp edge on it – from where I'd tried to make sparks on the wall behind the Badger when I was going to set fire to Billy the Liar – to cut open the ropes what were holding us before pretending I wanted to tell them something dead important and knocking fuck out of the one that got closest when I kidded on I couldn't talk loud. Then I could use him as a human shield, kill the second one with his gun, finish the mission...whatever the fuck it was...and sort Vicky out, bigstyle. Fucking mint, let's do it.

'What's that thing that's just fell out of his ear and past his outstretched hand onto the floor?'

Bollocks.

'Looks like a kid's toy.'

Fucking amateurs.

Then one of them gets a burst of static and some garbled shite on his walkie-talkie. I can't quite make out what's said, though.

'Fat lump was a decoy. Real team are here and are taking Mr Vest and the secret plans. Kill him and get up here.'

Nah. Must have been in French or something.

'I said kill him and get up here.'

I haven't a clue what they're talking about, me mind. The reception's terrible on that thing. The two doughnuts in here are heading over with their guns out though – probably to surrender and beg for mercy. Aye...that'll be it.

'Stop pissing about. We NEED YOU NOW. KILL HIM!'

You'd think they'd have invested in better kit, really. Fucking second-division super-villain, if you ask me. Like that pretend football team in Milton Keynes that all real fans hate, this fucker's just playing at it with his shit lair and his walkie-talkies what don't even work so the henchmen don't even know what they're supposed to do and think they have to kill people who are top doormen and protection officers and the dust in here's unbelievable, fucking super-villain my arse, I've got loads of water in me eye 'cos of this dust.

And as some long-haired American fop once said, _I'm staring down a bullet..._ when one part of me, my favourite part as it goes, decides to make his final stand...good lad.

I manage to spit the sweaty kegs out of me gob so I can go out with a bit of dignity at least.

'He's telling you to fuck off an' all, you pair of clowns,' I say. The dust in here's fucking terrible mind, cannot see for water now. 'My name's Pagga Palmer and I grew up with nowt, but I made something of meself, so you pricks do what you have to do 'cos I've had a good life and this'll be a good death!'

Oh, I hope there's CCTV in here, 'cos that'll look fucking brilliant on the news when they find me body.

Then I shut me eyes and wait for the end.

*

Two loud bangs and me first thought is _HA!_ _that didn't hurt at all_. So I opens me peepers and there's two dead henchmen what've stopped arguing for ever. Mint.

Even better, though, wor Vic is stood in front of us all sweaty and slippery and it fair gets me blood up again, I can tell you.

'Oh...I was hoping you'd be in proportion, Mr Palmer.'

Bitch.

God I love her.

'Off you go, chaps. I'll take care of relieving Mr Palmer here.'

Then, as soon as her team are out and it's just me and her, she slips off her gear and stands there to give us a look for a brief second in the light of the exploding factory before climbing on.

I knew she fancied us. Told you I was clever.

'Mr Palmer...Pagga...there's something I have to tell you.'

'I fucking knew you was a bloke!'

There's a proper wicked smile on her face.

'I think I like you tied up, my little Geordie friend.'

'Little? Fuck off, love. Oooh, that's nice.'

'Anyway, my name isn't actually Victoria, it's Emily.'

'Oh right. Spook names and that, I get it. So do I get to call you Emily from now on when we're doing secret missions and that pet, aye?'

'Well, my friends call me Em...'

### Epilogue

One Year Earlier

Victoria's Secret

He was about thirty, shaven-headed and loud. His companions were similar and they appeared to enjoy the effect they had. Relished the fear in ordinary faces and revelled in the feeling of power as Joe Public shrank back from them, profanity preceding them like a rabbit round a dog track as they made their way down the street.

She'd positioned the red dot on the ringleader's head for three seconds without pulling the trigger, the shouting in her earpiece telling her to get on with it, before deciding it would be much more fun to let these boys feel some of the pain they so enjoyed giving out.

Pocketing her gun, she'd stepped into the street, saying softly, 'Want some action, boys?'

*

Shaking her head at the memory, she manipulated the cocktail shaker violently, she hated making Mojito's, particularly the inference from whomever had requested it that she wasn't quite as good at them as they were used to.

I bloody went to public school, learnt things like tap and modern dance. I can hold conversations for hours about politics and world affairs and now I'm working in a bloody bar, she thought bitterly.

And not just any bar; Victoria had ended up in 'Vault', aptly named as a haunt of bankers, businessmen, gangsters and playboys. She knew she wouldn't be here long, but still disliked the place enough to hate her every waking minute here.

_Still, it's my own fault_ , she thought, handing over the drink to the ponytailed eighties throwback that was now leering at her; _should have listened to Daddy, but no, I had to make my own way in the world, didn't I?_

Ponytail was making improper suggestions. She knew she looked good, ice blue eyes under blonde hair, the world's prettiest smile – well so she'd been told– a cut glass accent that turned men to jelly, apparently, and a very inviting cleavage.

Ponytail didn't seem to realise that the invitation wasn't actually extended to him and did his best to introduce himself to her chest region, pausing his descent into her blouse only when a suited arm grabbed him roughly round the neck and unceremoniously hauled him away.

The Geordie bouncer definitely had a thing for her and, if truth be told, she'd easily reciprocate if the chance arose, but sadly, the cleavage wasn't for him, either, not tonight at least.

She glanced round the room and caught the eye of the man she'd set out to snare. He appeared to have some difficulty focusing as first her right breast and then her left got his undivided attention before he managed to look her in the eye.

Victoria, knowing that her new, sexy, bought for the occasion, lacy brassiere was showing her off to her fullest extent gave him a naughty smile before turning away to cover herself up, her mind taking her back to just why she'd ended up in this place.

*

Shaven-head had come forward, leering at the blonde girl who was obviously game for a bit. He'd put out his hand to grab her, looking back at his steroid-addled friends to ensure he had an audience.

Victoria had snapped his wrist with one movement and buried a booted foot deep in his groin with another, his howls of pain had been silenced only by the sound of two black vans screeching up alongside the group and bundling them all in.

Her commanding officer at Thames House had been less than pleased with her performance and she'd been sent on this mission to find out about the latest target and his apparent wealth, despite him not having any means of accumulating it.

He was beside her now, patting her arse, and she sighed inwardly. When she was recruited she had said she'd do these things in the interest of national security, but had rather hoped it would be with fit young oil barons and fellow spies, not middle aged, perma-tanned, sleazeballs.

_Still_ , she thought, glancing over at the Geordie bouncer as he stood impassively at the end of the bar, _I'll make sure there'll be another time for some fun with him when this is over_...
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