A literary tribute to the finest bakery chain in the UK, with gratitude towards David Peace.
1985
Breakfast, sweet fucking breakfast. Sweating and shit-scared on Kirkgate. I look at the clock. 8.15. Shakin Stevens singing “Merry Christmas”. Have this and get over to Wakefield cemetery. The Breakfast Special: mug of tea and a bacon roll, ketchup seeping out under the flap. Take a first bite. Blood and vomit. Think of Pauline Batty. Skull bashed in with a spade. Sip the tea. A Bradford sewer. Clear throat. “That will be £1.35, love”. Fumble for change. “Are you alright?” Lady at the counter can see I'm out for the count. Crinkly grey hair, glasses. I nod. Catch my reflection in the window, count the bruises. Matted blood on the scalp, mixed with mud on the pavement where they kicked me. Man in a white raincoat orders a Belgian Bun. Cherry looks like a small of pool of blood. White icing like a cold slab of mortuary flesh.
“How’s it going, Dave?” Shit. Turn round. PC Bob Bates. Last seen in the municipal car park at Selby. “I’ll beat the crap out of you”. And he’d done just that. Bates sits down opposite. “Two sausage rolls for 99p. Can’t go wrong with that. Here, have one”. Reaches over and tries to cram the gritty flesh and pastry into my mouth. “Suck on that, you bastard”. Tasting blood and gristle, gagging, crumbs flying across the table. The café empty. Woman with glasses has gone. “I’m a soup and sandwich combo man myself”. Look up. Detective Sergeant Harris. Known to his pals as “hard as fuck”. Did most of the kicking in Selby. Handy with an iron bar kept in the car boot. Pushes face close up to my mine. Stink of cheap whisky in the moustache. Dips in his bag. “What have we got today? Hello. Gone a bit exotic with the Soup and Sandwich combo. Tuna bloomer and…what have we got here? Ah….a minestrone”. He takes the lid off the plastic cup, pours the soup over my trousers. Orange-brown firewater. Cock burning. Carrots and peas and God knows what else blending with the piss seeping down my inner leg. Black rain pounding on the windows outside. “This is nowt”, says Bates. “Wait until lunchtime”. “Gents is back there”, grins Harris. “Welcome to the north”.
1985
Breakfast, sweet fucking breakfast. Sweating and shit-scared on Kirkgate. I look at the clock. 8.15. Shakin Stevens singing “Merry Christmas”. Have this and get over to Wakefield cemetery. The Breakfast Special: mug of tea and a bacon roll, ketchup seeping out under the flap. Take a first bite. Blood and vomit. Think of Pauline Batty. Skull bashed in with a spade. Sip the tea. A Bradford sewer. Clear throat. “That will be £1.35, love”. Fumble for change. “Are you alright?” Lady at the counter can see I'm out for the count. Crinkly grey hair, glasses. I nod. Catch my reflection in the window, count the bruises. Matted blood on the scalp, mixed with mud on the pavement where they kicked me. Man in a white raincoat orders a Belgian Bun. Cherry looks like a small of pool of blood. White icing like a cold slab of mortuary flesh.
“How’s it going, Dave?” Shit. Turn round. PC Bob Bates. Last seen in the municipal car park at Selby. “I’ll beat the crap out of you”. And he’d done just that. Bates sits down opposite. “Two sausage rolls for 99p. Can’t go wrong with that. Here, have one”. Reaches over and tries to cram the gritty flesh and pastry into my mouth. “Suck on that, you bastard”. Tasting blood and gristle, gagging, crumbs flying across the table. The café empty. Woman with glasses has gone. “I’m a soup and sandwich combo man myself”. Look up. Detective Sergeant Harris. Known to his pals as “hard as fuck”. Did most of the kicking in Selby. Handy with an iron bar kept in the car boot. Pushes face close up to my mine. Stink of cheap whisky in the moustache. Dips in his bag. “What have we got today? Hello. Gone a bit exotic with the Soup and Sandwich combo. Tuna bloomer and…what have we got here? Ah….a minestrone”. He takes the lid off the plastic cup, pours the soup over my trousers. Orange-brown firewater. Cock burning. Carrots and peas and God knows what else blending with the piss seeping down my inner leg. Black rain pounding on the windows outside. “This is nowt”, says Bates. “Wait until lunchtime”. “Gents is back there”, grins Harris. “Welcome to the north”.
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