by Jamie Tuck
~
And soon arrive at The Grange shopping precinct. A grey lake of paving stones laid out in a square between block buildings - masonry and chipboard boxes that arrived one afternoon a few years back, flat-pack from Shops R US. Triumph of ‘60s built, social design.
A decent gust of wind and they'd be away.
Stressed mothers flit between the shops alongside the skivers and the unemployed, gathering supplies for the coming storm - there’s only three minutes left until the school bell rings at the big school on the far side of the estate.
Three minutes.
A pig's head sits in a shop window on the corner, the rest of its body sliced out on trays, eyes closed and empty. A red apple rammed into its mouth, forcing its face into a smile.
It almost looks happy.
‘Poor bastard,’ Berry says.
The butcher, Mr Surtees, reaches into the window and lifts a tray. The spectacles on his nose are the highest prescription possible before the optician would be forced to prescribe a dog.
His eyes swim like fish in bowls, flitting between the trays.
‘Speccy-eyed cunt,’ Berry says.
Mr Surtees had never liked The Berry Family - especially since he’d appeared at their front door holding his weeping daughter’s hand and a broken bike, blaming young Ted for a joyride, to which young Ted had given his standard reply (‘Wasn’t me, wasn’t there.’)
The death smell of meat and sawdust seaps out through the thin strips of red and white tape that guard the open doorway.
Berry taps the double-glazing.
‘Oi nine eyes!’ he shouts.
Mr Surtees looks up, his goggle eyes taking a beat too long to focus through all that fucking glass.
Berry gives him a big rubbery smile and prepares to launch two fingers.
KP nudges his arm.
‘Fanny.’
A girl fidgets from the hairdresser’s, looking in the clothes shop's massive window, moving the new hairdo this way and that until something aside from her fringe catches her eye, and she disappears inside.
‘Saggy tits,’ KP says.
‘Listen to fuckin Elvis,’ Berry snorts. ‘Y’got pretty high standards for such an ugly cunt.’
They head towards Prestos, the supermarket that’s quickly putting all the other shops in the precinct out of business. The big shop’s doors swish open without assistance.
The future has no handles.
Berry glides up the white tiles to a long row of chest freezers packed full of fish fingers, peas and pies and anything else that can survive being embalmed and frozen and then sold on light years later as if nothing happened.
He dives in, arse hanging over the side.
‘Ah, man. Fuckin right!’
The icy wind being pumped around inside chills the sweat against his skin.
He grabs a blue box of ice pops, clear plastic tubes filled with frozen juice - and jerks, arse first, back out of the fridge.
‘Oop.’
He whacks into a trolley packed with dark green tins. A defeated grey-haired man in a cheap blue uniform has a four pack of Heinz baked beans in each hand. He places them on a shelf, lines them up neat.
‘Shit. Sorry Ken.’
His name is stamped into a white plastic rectangle pinned to his chest. Ken Graham, highly skilled on heavy lathes that no longer turn. Now a shelf-stacker at Prestos.
‘Just make sure y'pay eh, son,’ he sighs.
Berry heads to the row of checkouts.
They’re all busy.
‘Fuck’s sakes.’
He tries to judge the speed of each queue, it’s a difficult decision. He takes the left aisle. Two people stand in front of him, all holding baskets. No trolleys.
A wise choice, surely the fastest option.
But he’ll still have to wait.
Nightmare.
‘Fuck’s sakes.’
The woman at the front is taking fucking ages, chatting away to the woman working the till.
There’s the muffled sound of heavy metal music, a masturbatory guitar solo, coming from the guy in the middle.
Berry pushes a finger into the lip of the box. It’s glued tight.
‘Fuckin thing.’
He tries harder, tearing it open. He pulls out a red ice pop, squeezes it tight as his teeth attack the clear plastic. But ice pops are in high demand by mums with young kids and these have not long been dropped by Ken into the freezers.
They’re not yet solid.
Blood red juice geysers off Berry’s lips and onto the back of the man standing in front of him in the queue.
The man’s wearing a pure white t-shirt with the European tour dates of a band called The Scorpions on the back.
‘Shit the fuckin bed!’
There are now a dozen new, nameless dates between Trondheim and the man’s thick black Euro-mullet. Some red dots of strawberry flavoured water may well have flown into that awful haircut.
A big Sony Walkman is clipped to the belt of his faded black jeans.
Berry diverts his eyes to something of sudden yet fascinating importance.
‘Fairy Liquid, only 21p,’ he mumbles. ‘Fuck me, what a bargain . . .’
The man’s basket jerks down the runway to the checkout lady.
‘Hello there,’ she smiles, reaching into it. ‘Lovely day again.’
The guitar solo gets louder as the man pulls the headphones’ metal halo down from his ears to his neck.
He doesn’t say anything.
The tinny sound of the solo wanks ever higher as the guitarist’s fingers crawl up his fretboard.
‘I said ‘lovely day,’’ the lady beams.
She taps his purchases into the till; a red label bottle of Thunderbird wine, a green coil of clothes line, a silver Stanley knife, an ounce of Golden Virginia tobacco and a green pack of Rizla cigarette papers.
He pays and – tap tap, beep beep, chigger chigger, chigger chigger – gets a receipt and change.
‘Thank,’ he says. ‘You.’
Two words.
More than enough to reveal he’s not from these parts.
‘Ooh,’ says the check-out lady - who could well be Ken’s wife, she may even have got him his job here. ‘Where’s that accent from then?’
‘I am from Europe.’
Dead pan.
Berry places his box on the runway, ripped open end pointing into his crotch.
‘Ooh well,’ she waxes, impervious, ‘We’ve pinched your weather.’
He puts the wanking guitar back over his ears and walks away, ignoring her friendly smile.
‘Miserable cunt,’ Berry mutters.
Berry’s box of ice pops heads down the rubber treadmill.
‘Hello pet,’ she says.
‘Hiya.’
She looks at Berry as if he’s buying a bra.
Smiles.
‘Boys don’t wear lipstick.’
‘Wha?’
She smiles again, but says nothing.
‘Bloody hot again Peggy,’ Berry says, filling the silence.
‘Yes,’ tap tap, beep beep, chigger chigger, chigger chigger. ‘But there’s no call for that kind of language now, is there? Seventeen pee.’
He hands over the coins and turns to the door.
They swish open on half-a-dozen kids in dark blue uniforms.
One of them flies by towards the sweet section.
‘Alreet Bez?’
Berry grunts.
He pulls out an ice pop and rips open the clear plastic with his teeth, soaking his tongue and throat with sweet bliss. Orange slush rushing out to every extremity.
‘Ah, fuckin right man!’
Better than a wank, maybe.
He steps into the sunshine and sticks another ice pop in his mouth and slurps at the strawberry flavoured water, it bursts across his chin, he wipes the back of his hand across his lips and look
s up.
‘Fuckinhell.’
A teen tidal wave has crashed over the shopping precinct’s grey courtyard. Blue trousers, light blue shirts and badly knotted ties. A hormone storm cloud, raining down. Hundreds of the bastards, all aged between 11 and 16.
‘Alreet Bez?’ another couple of voices squeak.
He ignores them.
A strawberry pop – frozen only to slush - follows, evaporating into his brain. But the route this one took actually hurt, like an ice pick through the forehead.
‘Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!’ he moans, stamping his feet. ‘Ice cream head! Ice cream head!’
He opens his mouth like a werewolf, to try and stretch away the frozen pain caused by the ice.
Does a little dance.
‘Ice cream head!’ he says, from the back of his throat. ‘Ice cream head!’
‘Hi Ted.’
Holly Wujkowski - everything exactly as it should be, where the artist intended.
Wedge’s twin sister.
Not identical twins, obviously, seeing as Wedge has a cock and Holly a fanny. Plus, she’s 47-minutes Wedge’s senior, the longest stretch of peace Wedge had ever had since. Forty-seven minutes, a hell of a long time when you’ve yet to even be born. Wedge would be still up inside their mother, if the doctor hadn’t reached up in with forceps and fished him out, kicking and screaming.
‘’olly?’ Berry says, mouth still open.
‘You dancin?’ she smiles.
He closes his mouth and jerks upright.
‘You askin? Ha heh heh.’
Hot red blood cells fly into his face.
‘Ha heh heh.’
He sticks the ice pop back into his mouth for want of something to do with his hands.
She’s in her uniform, blue shirt over fully formed breasts. Hair not quite blonde but almost, cut into a bob. She’s already out drinking in real pubs every Friday and Saturday night.
A cretinous zombie begins to rise up from its crypt in Berry’s pants.
Holly’s eyelashes flick down briefly to his crotch.
She smiles.
‘Hiya Holly,’ KP says, a Mars bar at his lips and a two-litre bottle of Lashings ginger beer cooling a soaked armpit.
‘Hi Bryan.’
He points the molten turd at her.
‘Bite?’
‘Ehm, no. No thanks.’
‘What y’up to?’ KP chomp chomps, his mouth like a cement mixer filled with the estate’s entire supply of dog turd.
‘Meetin Fee then goin to town.’
He rips off another lump and nods behind.
‘Just seen her.’
‘Oh, where?’
‘In Prestos. Least I think it was her,’ he says through the Mars bar. ‘Fat arse.’
‘Ha heh heh,’ Berry laughs.
‘Sorry?’
Chomp chomp chomp.
‘Fee,’ he points over his shoulder to Prestos with the Mars bar. ‘She’s got a big fat arse.’
Holly whacks him on the arm, knocking his favourite food to the ground.
The zombie in Berry’s pants is fully involved in proceedings.
‘She’s my friend. She has not got a fat arse. Little Dick.’
‘Yeah she has,’ KP holds his hands out like he’s riding a moped. ‘It’s a great place to park y’bike, right between her cheeks.’
‘Ha heh heh,’ Berry snorts. ‘Ha heh heh.’
Holly raises her fist, KP jerks back to the door.
‘Prick.’
She turns to Berry, her hand outstretched and open and low, palm up - right in front of the zip of his pants.
‘Can I have?’
‘Wha?’
She gives him a crushing Stupid Dumbfuck look.
‘An ice pop. Can I have one?’
The zombie practically bursts out of his trousers and hands her one himself.
‘Course.’
He shuffles the remaining pops in the box up to her face, just like a Stupid Dumbfuck.
She fishes around inside and pulls out a flacid red stick. She squeezes it until it hardens.
A glorious smile tickles the edge of her lips as she grips it in her fist – as if she’d had lots of practise.
‘Hot,’ she breathes.
‘What?’ Berry hears his voice, but doesn’t recall giving his mouth clearance to speak. He’s lost the instruction manual for his brain and is frantically pushing buttons.
‘Hot. Today. Ted,’ she smiles. ‘Hot. It’s hot.’
She puts the ice pop up to her face, tears open the plastic and puts two inches of slush into her mouth.
‘Aye, fuckin scorchio,’ KP answers. ‘I need to wipe the crack of me arse man, feels like a fuckin donkey licked it.’
Berry’s eyes nip closed.
Holly glances at the sweating peanut, then decides she didn’t hear what he said.
‘Where’s the other one then?’
‘Ehm?’ Berry says. ‘Who?’
‘Jay. Your mate. My dick brother.’
Berry nods his head backwards.
‘Park. By the subway.’
‘Burning stuff,’ KP says, rummaging a green ice pop from the box and putting it to his forehead. He turns it in little circles at his temple.
‘Something wrong with that fucker’s brain.’
‘And Sam?’ she says, the way she said the name pokes a jealous hole right through Berry’s rib cage. It exits somewhere between his shoulder blades.
‘Is Sam there?’
Sam Smith was Berry’s best friend at primary school, but had since grown chest hair and was drinking in the same Whitley Bay trainee-drinker pubs as Holly, where ID for those who can almost look the part is never required.
‘Nope,’ KP says, noticing her tone. ‘Fancy him?’
‘Stop being an infant Bryan.’
Twist. Twist. No denial.
‘He’s got to be a bender,’ KP says. ‘Takes it up the arse like a good ‘un, I reckon.’
He bursts the ice pop into his mouth, slurps the glorious slush.
‘Fucker should come out the cupboard.’
She touches KP’s arm.
‘Closet. Bryan. The closet. I’m sure y’safe pet.’
‘Hiya Holz’,’ a girl bleats from the automatic doorway. ‘Hiya boys.’
‘Alright Fee,’ KP says.
‘Ha heh heh.’
Holly beams, kisses her pal on the cheek and joins arms.
‘What yous up to?’ says Fiona Cooper.
‘Nothin, nothin,’ KP says, bending to rescue his melting Mars bar from the pavement. He stuffs it back into his mouth. ‘Just burnin stuff and that.’
‘What?’
‘Bite?’ he asks.
‘Aye, go on then,’ she says and puts her red painted lips around the last drip of diarrhoea hiding in the black wrapper.
‘Y’greedy cow!’ KP says, rolling up the wrapper and throwing it at her smirking head. ‘Y’scranned the lot.’
‘We off then?’ Fee says, rotating the turd in her mouth, she pulls tight on Holly’s arm.
‘Aye pet, let’s go. Bye bye boys. Be good.’
Berry watches Holly cross the paving slabs, tight cheeks wrestling inside her tight skirt.
‘Y’right like,’ Berry says, as he watches the two girls walk away, Fiona Cooper’s arse like a sack of spuds.
‘What?’
‘Fat arse.’
‘Aye. Minger. Wouldn’t touch her wi yours.’
‘Aye, righto,’ Berry snorts. ‘Y’fuckin made for each other man.’
KP's hand shuffles inside the box and he pulls out the final three ice pops, places two against his forehead and sticks the third in his mouth.
‘Fuck me,’ KP says. ‘It must be a hundred fuckin degrees.’
Berry reaches inside the empty box. He punches KP hard on the arm and grabs the last two ice pops from his forehead.
‘Y
’greedy fuck!’
They walk back across the park to the path that leads down to the subway, kicking stones and ignoring school kids.
Wedge is still dropping cardboard into his fire.
They head down the stone path towards him.
KP picks up a stone and – thwack - throws it off the back of Wedge’s head.
‘I won a coconut!’ KP says, running down the final few feet and grabbing Wedge by the head. ‘Mister! Hey Mister! I won a coconut! Ha ha ha.’
Wedge shakes him free.
‘Fuck off man!’
‘Y’sister’s lookin for ya,’ Berry says.
‘Fuck her.’
‘Okay.’