Free Billy Rags by Ted Lewis Page B

sorting through the mess trying to find their own records. Those who’d already found them were systematically tearing them up and throwing the shreds of their lives up into the air, creating their own little blizzards.
    When Ray Crompton saw me come into the office he waved a thick file above his head.
    â€œHere, Billy,” he said. “I’ve got yours here.”
    I took the file off him and put it on the window sill. Out of the way.
    â€œThere’s Hopper’s as well,” Ray said.
    I picked up that one and did the same as I’d done with my own.
    Over by the window, Walter was talking on the phone.
    â€œIt’s Walter Colman,” he said. There was a pause. He looked at me and grinned. “Honest,” he said down the phone, “it’s right. Listen, if you don’t believe me, I’ll tell you about the last time we met. Right? Fine. It was the Turk’s Head, am I right? Middle of last March. You’d got a message from the Filth that they were out for me so you come along and give me the information in return for me giving you the exclusives if they ever sort it, right? Also you want me to phone you every week from wherever I am so you can let me know what the Filth’s up to. And you put a few misleading paras in your rag so’s the Filth’s legging it all over Manchester. In return for a deposit of two grand and fifty a week till I’m nicked. Right? So who else could it be?”
    He raised his eyes to the ceiling.
    â€œAll right, I’ll give you the number and you can phone back. But make it quick before they tumble, otherwise you’ll miss all the juice.”
    Walter put the phone down.
    â€œThat cunt’s about as trusting as my lawyer.”
    â€œWhen he rings back tell him Billy Cracken sends his best,” I said.
    The pandemonium was getting worse. Some of them were so excited that I thought maybe they were going to start rolling about the floor in ecstasy. Every so often there’d be a scream from the passageway and a load of cons would rush out to repel boarders but it would always be a false alarm and they’d shuffle back in and take it out on what was left of the furniture.
    Then Moffatt came on the scene.
    Everybody except Walter, who was talking to his reporter, crammed outside to the barricades and began to volley him off.
    â€œYou cunt, Moffatt, you heap of shit, you fucking egg, you wanking mother-fucker.”
    It was like the Anfield Kop. Everybody screaming all at once, all the animal hatred and frustration focused on Moffatt who was standing out there like a referee putting down the names in his little notebook. But the roar of abuse didn’t stop and even Moffatt couldn’t take it for very long. He had as much chance of negotiating a settlement as the public hangman. So he stopped trying to promote his stock and retired. Some of the cons stayed at the barricade after Moffatt had gone. I led the others back into the office. Walter was still on the phone.
    â€œFor Christ’s sake,” he screamed at us as we all bundled back in. There was quiet for a moment or two but the hysteria was too great for the racket to be kept down for very long. Walter gave up and I took over the phone and gave the reporter a few facts and then Walter had a word with him. We soon got bored with this so we swallowed the reporter and Walter phoned up his bird, Chloe Raines, the pop singer.
    Then everybody began to queue up for the phone so that they could ring up their birds or their old ladies or anybody else they could think of. I felt a bit out of it because I couldn’t ring Sheila as her Mum wasn’t on the phone then and I couldn’t remember anybody else’s number. Then “Don’t Stop the Carnival” came on over the radio and somebody turned the volume up full blast and everybody began to dance and laugh and shriek and join in with the song. Walter stood by the telephone, clapping his hands in