Utterly Monkey

Utterly Monkey
Nick Laird

A very funny, energetic, wonderfully engaging novel about where we’re from and where we’d like to get to…Danny Williams is talented, upwardly mobile and has left his Northern Irish small town roots well behind him. In his mid-twenties he lives in a stylish London flat and has a job in a top London law firm. However, one innocuous Wednesday night his old mucker from home, Geordie Wilson, arrives at the door. On the run from a loyalist militia, whose operational funds he has taken, he manages to bring everything that Danny has been fleeing from right to his smart London doorstep.Taking place over an intense and gripping five-day period–set in both London and the fictional Irish town of Ballyglass–Nick Laird has written an hilarious, touching and ultimately redemptive novel about friendship.

Utterly Monkey

Nick Laird

FOURTH ESTATE • London and New York

For the Lairds

Table of Contents

Cover Page (#u658680a1-10c7-5dbb-9698-a5b1cfc1ba89)

Title Page (#u812dbc14-ec8f-5bb9-832d-e5aa672a1055)

Dedication (#ud5396d50-e729-5a9e-b1a5-425f01a165a8)

WEDNESDAY, 7 JULY 2004 (#u06730342-a402-519e-9502-4306295808b9)

LATE EVENING (#u84f4a89e-5507-5a0f-8253-0659891d91ac)

THURSDAY, 8 JULY 2004 (#u4492c56e-40ef-5fad-b8ac-2939536eb0ff)

EARLY MORNING AGAIN (#uefd8f29b-ad48-57d4-abdc-2af416cb1290)

AFTERNOON (#u5b2ba0bb-9608-5e63-96b0-18d7a9d7a25c)

THE HAPPENING (#litres_trial_promo)

FRIDAY, 9 JULY 2004 (#litres_trial_promo)

EVENING (#litres_trial_promo)

LATE EVENING (#litres_trial_promo)

LATE NIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

SATURDAY, 10 JULY 2004 (#litres_trial_promo)

AFTERNOON (#litres_trial_promo)

LATE AFTERNOON (#litres_trial_promo)

EVENING (#litres_trial_promo)

LATE EVENING (#litres_trial_promo)

SUNDAY, 11 JULY 2004 (#litres_trial_promo)

AFTERNOON (#litres_trial_promo)

EVENING (#litres_trial_promo)

LATE LATE NIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

MONDAY, 12 JULY 2004 (#litres_trial_promo)

EARLY AFTERNOON (#litres_trial_promo)

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS (#litres_trial_promo)

Also by Nick Laird (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

WEDNESDAY, 7 JULY 2004 (#ulink_b3623ad4-4690-5806-9c37-5fcdbe31b672)

‘For God’s sake bring me a large Scotch.

What a bloody awful country.’

Reginald Maudling,

Secretary of State for Northern Ireland,

on the plane back to London after his

first visit to Belfast, 1 July 1970

Moving is easy. Everyone does it. But actually leaving somewhere is difficult. Early last Wednesday morning a ferry was slowly detaching itself from a dock at the edge of Belfast. On it, a man called Geordie was losing. He’d slotted eleven pound coins into the Texas Hold’Em without success – not counting a pair of Kings which briefly rallied his credits – and had now moved two feet to the left, onto the gambler. The three reels spun out into click – a bell, click – a BAR, click – a melon. Fuck all. Geordie’s small hands gripped each side of the machine as if it was a pulpit. He kept on staring at the symbols, which again and again represented nothing but loss. Then he sniffed loudly, peeled his twenty Regals off the machine’s gummy top and sloped away. Eighteen quid down and they hadn’t yet left the harbour.

The boat, the Ulster Enterprise, was busy, full of families heading over for the long July weekend. Geordie bought a pint of Harp from the gloomy barman and slumped onto a grey horseshoe-shaped sofa in the Poets Bar, then sat forward suddenly and took a pack of playing cards from the black rucksack by his feet. He started dealing out a hand of patience. A short man in a Rangers tracksuit top stopped by his table, swaying a little with the boat, or maybe with drink. His shoulders were broad and bunched with muscle. He held a pint of lager and a pack of Mayfair fags in one hand. The other was in his tracksuit top, distending it like a pregnancy. He had a sky-blue baseball cap with McCrea’s Animal Feed written across it. He looked as if he’d sooner spit on you than speak to you and yet, nodding towards the other pincher of the sofa, he said: ‘All right. This free?’

Belfast, east, hardnut.

‘No, no, go on ahead.’

The man sat down carefully, like he was very fond of himself, and held Geordie’s eye.

‘You think we’ll still have McLeish next season?’ Geordie continued, looking at his tracksuit top.

‘Oh aye, I think so, though he’s a bit too interested in players and not enough in tactics.’

‘You on holiday?’