Read by Will Goodhand
Ben and Peter sat clutching beer bottles each and watching Sky News. It felt as though the whole of London was being licked by orange and yellow flames and assaulted by gangs of youths. The scenes were occasionally interrupted by a jowly anchor isolated in the safety of a studio alongside an angry politician and a right-wing social commentator. The city looked more like something from Mad Max than the glossy images normally paraded on TV: Birdcage Walk jammed with people celebrating the Royal Wedding; the Gherkin on the opening credits of The Apprentice; or those endless CGI images of how great the Olympic Park was going to be. Although Ben was unsure of what had happened to the city, his city, stunned by the destruction on loop, Peter was full of certainty.
“These people – they’re too afraid of hard graft. Instead they’ve resorted to nicking stuff rather working for it. And who is it who’s going to end up paying for it? Us taxpayers – again.”
Like the Coalition, Peter’s views had become steadily more right-wing over the past year. Ben hadn’t really known Peter to have much of an outlook on life, but recently it seemed that he had an opinion on everything, from public sector pensions (“they’re overpaid in the first place”) to single mothers (“if they can’t keep their legs together they shouldn’t expect handouts.”) Ben suspected the change was the result of his recently being passed over for promotion by candidates whom he considered inferior, and whose gender had made their appointment unavoidable, to ensure the firm didn’t face lawsuits for discrimination. For all Peter’s injured pride, Ben didn’t think that with his large bonuses and pay increases Peter should be complaining whilst he had to cope with a two-year pay-freeze and lived in constant fear of redundancy.
“I don’t know why they don’t just get the rubber bullets out. Look at them, they’re just laughing at the police.”
“Rubber bullets? Isn’t that a little extreme?” said Ben, turning to face Peter.
It was not Peter’s increasingly boorish attitude that really irked Ben the most about his friend. Instead, it was his endless parade of new stuff. Peter had a better flat in a better location, a bigger TV, and nicer sofas. His kitchen was jammed full of gadgets and Ben was once bewildered to find himself deciding that the rotation of girls on Peter’s arm were quicker to laugh at his jokes and certainly a lot less tired-looking than his own girlfriend.
Ben found it increasingly hard not to feel jealous, and Lisa hardly helped. Two weeks previously, Peter had shown off his new set of Le Creuset dishes, which Lisa had cooed about all the way home, and asked if they could get some of their own.
“What’s the point, they’re just posh dishes, aren’t they? Don’t Robert Dyas sell something similar?” he had said. Ben had attempted to make up for this heretical view by buying a set of Jamie Oliver pans on eBay, but the loose handles of his second-hand purchase had more than undone his good deed.
“What a twat!” cried Peter, pointing at the screen as a youth crawled out of the smashed window of a local Poundsaver. “The shame of it!”
“Yeah – suppose his parents or someone see?”
“I didn’t mean that. I meant, what a twat for robbing Poundsaver,” Peter said, gesticulating wildly with the bottle in his hand. “The youth of today have no imagination. All that effort for two bottles of fucking pop. I mean, what’s the point? It’s not even like it’s Coca-Cola or Pepsi, it’s bloody own-brand shit.” Peter was getting so excitable that spittle started to gather round the corner of his mouth, and spraying onto Ben’s t-shirt.
Ben was about to make what he regarded as a deep socio-economic observation, but thought that Peter probably wouldn’t appreciate it. He grunted instead.
“The camera caught someone earlier coming out of a Tesco’s with a bag of fucking basmati rice. Basmati rice! Imagine him with his mates when they come to compare notes. ‘What did you get Bruv?’ ‘I got some Boxfresh trainers, what about you?’ ‘Basmati rice.’ ‘Word’” he said, in what Ben thought was a poor and possibly racist imitation of the kids they had seen interviewed earlier on TV.
"Maybe they were hungry.”
“Ben, you can be a right twat sometimes,” said Peter, laughing.
“All right then, what would you steal?” asked Ben.
Peter sat, pondering the question. “Well, I mean, if I was going to bust into Tesco’s I’d get bloody porcini mushrooms instead of Value basmati. Or some Finest wine or champagne, to toast my get-away,” he smirked.
“And what do you think the boys from the hood would make of that?”
“Well, they’ve got no taste, have they? Workshy twats.”
Ben was heading home, and had to cross Muswell Hill Broadway in order to reach his flat.
As he stood waiting at the pedestrian crossing a group of kids ran past him, before hurling a brick into the window of the shop opposite. Ben shrank back into the doorway behind him, watching as a police car sped down the Broadway before slowing down outside the shop. The gang dispersed down the side-streets as the police car appeared to pause before heading off in pursuit.
Having waited a moment for his heart to slow down, Ben hurried across the road, drawn to the shop to see what damage had been done. He looked through the shattered glass at the display in the window of one of Lisa’s favourite boutique kitchen stores, ’Eaven & Hearth. He mentally ticked off which of the gadgets on display Peter possessed – the espresso machine, the electric wine cooler and the bread maker being the most obvious. Two large bricks were nestled amongst the remnants of two vases, the dried flowers crushed a second time under the weight of the bricks.
In the middle of the shop window was a bright orange Le Creuset casserole dish, with a pair of matching mugs either side. Ben looked around. The Broadway was quiet. No-one was in sight; only the police siren wailed in the streets behind the shop.
He looked at the broken glass left in the frame, before taking his t-shirt off and carefully wrapping it round the palm of his right hand, leaving his fingers free for movement. Reaching in, he took care not to lean too far forward and impale himself on the shards. Ben lifted the first of the mugs out, balancing it on the window ledge when he’d succeeded, and leant back to retrieve the second, placing it beside the first. He turned, ready to put his t-shirt back on again, before looking back into the window and deciding to risk retrieving the casserole dish. Leaning back in, he lifted the lid off first, pulling it out. Ben was surprised at how heavy it was and pinged it with his finger, the note ringing out into the darkness. He had expected it to be made of clay, not enamelled iron, and nodded admiringly at his effort. He reached back in for the dish, gripping it by one of the handles.
Ben was unprepared for how quite how heavy it was, and he stumbled slightly before swinging it out properly. Struggling with the weight as he leaned in through the window, lifting it with one arm, it came out to one side, scraping the glass left in the frame, which scored a gash in the enamel on the side of the casserole dish. As he swung it out, he clipped one of mugs, which clattered to the pavement. He placed the dish on the ground, and picking up the mug noticed that the rim was now chipped.
Putting his t-shirt back on, he started off for home, struggling to juggle what he had taken, eventually stopping to place the mugs inside the dish, and trying not to walk too fast, so as not to provoke a loud rattling for the rest of his journey. When he got home he placed his haul on the kitchen table before heading off to bed.
**
Lisa was awake before him in the morning, and heading into the kitchen Peter saw her looking puzzled at the casserole dish and mugs. “What are these? Peter’s cast-offs?” she said, running her finger around the rim of the chipped mug.
“Er, no … eBay.”
She frowned down at the line in the enamel. “Hmm. Make sure they’re mint condition and put some effort in next time.”
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Posh Dishes by James Holden was read by Will Goodhand at the Liars' League Might & Right event on Tuesday November 2011 at the Phoenix, Cavendish Square, London.
James Holden - Brought up in Yorkshire, James has washed up on the shores of London. He spends his days working as a political geek and his his evenings dreaming about earning money from writing.
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