The Peacock Manifesto (Peacock Tales Book 1)

by Stuart David

  ‘A what? What the fuck is that?’ I asked him. ‘Is that like a rent boy?’

  ‘What’s a rent boy?’

  ‘A prostitute. Like a male prostitute.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ he said. ‘I was a party boy. Someone paid me to work in their club, and I’d go around just talking to the customers, getting as much free drink as I wanted.’

  I laughed.

  ‘It sounds to me like you misunderstood them, pal. It sounds to me like you were supposed to be prostituting in there. Was it a gay club?’

  ‘Fuck off, Peacock,’ he said. ‘It was just a club, and that was my job. Partying. It was the best job in the world for a while, but I couldn’t keep it up. It would have killed me.’

  ‘How long did you do it?’

  ‘Eighteen months.’

  ‘Eighteen months as a prostitute, eh?’

  ‘I wasn’t a fucking prostitute. I’ll tell you what though; I’m in the mood for a party tonight.’

  ‘A party? We couldn’t even find a bar, wee man.’

  ‘I can always find a party,’ he said.

  But he didn’t. We had a couple more beers and then went back to our rooms.

  ‘We should have been in Minneapolis tonight,’ Bob said, on the way up in the lift. ‘I’d have found us a party there. You can always find a party in Minneapolis.’

  ‘You can find us one tomorrow night,’ I told him.

  ‘I will,’ he said. ‘You watch me. We should have been there tonight. No-one would have stolen that song.’

  But I was glad we’d come back and got it off the machine. It meant I could relax properly again. When I got to my room I lay down and turned on the TV, and I found a magic program on there—some guy fishing for big-mouthed bass in Canada. And he caught them too.

  I got another beer from the mini-bar and settled down to enjoy it properly. I fucking love fishing programs. I like watching them at home, but this stuff was much more spectacular. And when it finished another one started. It was like a whole channel just dedicated to fishing programs.

  I was in my fucking element.

  Chapter 8

  If anything, the weather was even better the next day. It wasn’t much later than ten o’clock when we climbed into the car, but the sun was already blazing.

  ‘You’re dressed for the weather,’ Bob said to me, and he was right. I’d the vest off, and I was wearing my Hawaiian shirt open. I’d put on my Hawaiian shorts too, and I was wearing the beach flip-flops.

  ‘Have you got everything with you?’ he asked me. ‘You haven’t left anything behind this time? No bits of paper by the bed with the idea for your next hit on it? No thoughts floating about in the room that might invade someone else’s head?’

  ‘Fucking drive,’ I told him, and he laughed. Then we were off.

  I rolled the window down and stuck my head outside. The breeze felt good and I took a look at myself in the wing-mirror. That bruise was almost gone. The wee man wasn’t as hard a hitter as I’d given him credit for.

  ‘What’s all this shit written on here?’ I asked him. ‘ “Objects in the rear view mirror may be closer than they appear.” That’s a fucking Meatloaf song.’

  ‘Pretty much,’ Bob said.

  ‘What’s it written on there for?’

  ‘To prevent accidents.’

  ‘To prevent them? The way I see it, you’d take a look in there, start trying to read that, and then hit the car in front.’

  ‘Put the window up, Peacock,’ he said. ‘It’s starting to get too hot in here.’

  ‘That’s why it’s down.’ I told him.

  ‘Put it up.’

  ‘It’s too fucking hot.’

  He pushed a button and forced it up. I tried to open it again, but it wouldn’t move.

  ‘What the fuck are you playing at?’ I asked him.

  ‘Air conditioning,’ he said. ‘I’m putting the air conditioning on. It’s too hot to have the windows open.’

  I looked at him.

  ‘This country is totally upside down,’ I said. ‘Too hot to have the windows open. I think that maybe happened once in Scotland. 1976 or something. I think I could get used to this place.’

  We stopped for lunch in a place called Madison—a bit further into Wisconsin than we’d got the day before. It was a nice place. Bob stocked up on some magazines at an adult bookstore, and I got myself a fine pair of trousers in a second-hand place. A wide flare and a stylish check. They don’t make them like that anymore, son. They fucking should, but they don’t.

  We sat in the sun for a while before we left, just soaking it up.

  ‘I think I’m going to enjoy this trip,’ I told Bob. ‘The weather’s fucking incredible.’

  ‘I’d enjoy it a lot more if you could drive,’ he said. ‘It’d be quicker too. One of us could sleep while the other one drove. That’s the way to do this shit. No need for motels either.’

  ‘Relax,’ I told him. ‘It’ll be fine. Just fucking take it easy.’

  We bought an Elvis CD on the way back to the car, just to give old Glen a rest. We’d been playing him constantly since we got the car, and I didn’t want to wear the guy out.

  ‘Spark that up,’ I told Bob, as he flicked through one of his magazines. Then I reclined my seat and we were off again.

  The road was wide and open from there, and as we travelled I felt my eyes getting heavy and I reclined the seat further. The next thing I knew the wee man was bumping me on the arm and welcoming me to Minneapolis. I’d been out like a light for the whole fucking trip.

  * * *

  ‘Wake up,’ Bob said, and I groaned. ‘Come on, baby. We’re here.’

  Slowly, I released the seat from its recline and Minneapolis came into view. The seat had come up gently, but when it reached its limit I threw myself forward with a much more powerful force.

  I looked around me.

  ‘What the fuck…’ I said.

  ‘You like it?’

  ‘What the fuck is going on?’ I asked him, and I watched as a car passed us in the outside lane—with six-inch icicles hanging from its under-carriage. All the verges were feet deep in snow.

  ‘Where is this really?’ I asked him. ‘Fucking Russia?’

  He laughed. ‘It’s Minneapolis,’ he said.

  ‘What temperature is it out there?’

  He shrugged, then he pointed.

  We were passing a sign with an electronic display, which changed back and forwards between the time: 19:56, and the temperature: 20 degrees Fahrenheit.

  ‘Twenty degrees?’

  ‘That’s what it says.’

  ‘Twenty? It was fucking eighty in Chicago. What’s twenty degrees in centigrade? How far is that below freezing?’

  ‘What am I, Peacock? A fucking weatherman? Let’s just say it’s cold. Maybe minus ten. It’s fucking cold, baby.’

  ‘And stop fucking calling me that, Bob. Where the fuck did that come from? Is this some kind of weird fucking dream? It must be. It fucking must be. I fall asleep and it’s summer, and then… this. And into the bargain you’ve started calling me baby? It’s a dream, isn’t it? A sick fucking dream.’

  ‘Relax, Peacock,’ Bob said. ‘Relax. I’m just excited. I’m getting into party mode. I call everyone baby in party mode.’

  ‘Well don’t call me it.’

  ‘Okay, okay. Just relax about the fucking weather.’

  ‘Relax? How the fuck can I relax? Look at me, Bob.’ I pointed down at my clothes. ‘I’m dressed for the fucking beach,’ I said.

  Bob laughed.

  ‘You could have fucking warned me,’ I told him.

  ‘That you were dressed for the beach?’

  ‘That it would be like this.’

  ‘I didn’t know, Peacock,’ he said. ‘I told you already, I’m not a fucking weather-man.’

  We found a hotel and Bob drove around in the snow in the carpark. I told him to get a space as close to the door as he could, but there was nothing. He had to park about two
hundred yards away.

  ‘I’ll run across and see if they have rooms,’ he said. And when he came back—nodding—he was fucking blue.

  ‘We’re in,’ he said, and ran round to open the boot.

  I got out and grabbed my case. There were three inches of snow on the ground and I was in my fucking bare feet and flip-flops.

  ‘Run,’ Bob said. ‘Before we fucking die.’

  So I ran, slipping about like a fanny behind him. And then it happened. I hit a big mound of ice and went up on my fucking arse—suitcase skidding across the carpark, and one beach shoe up in the air. Then I heard a shout. The suitcase had caught Bob from behind, and knocked him backwards. And he ended up on his arse too.

  We were a big fucking hit by the time we reached reception. Everyone in the lobby had been watching us through the windows.

  Laurel and fucking Hardy.

  ‘I see this wasn’t the weather you were expecting,’ the guy at the desk said as he checked me in.

  I didn’t fucking answer. I knew how it would go. I’d say something and he’d say ‘What?’, and then ‘What?’. Then I’d swear under my breath, and—miraculously—he’d hear that. Then the agro, then the fucking gun.

  It wasn’t fucking worth it, so I kept my mouth shut.

  ‘How’s the back?’ I asked Bob on the way up in the lift.

  ‘Alright,’ he said. ‘That was quite a fucking shot, Peacock—but I’m alright. How are you?’

  I nodded. ‘I’m okay, son,’ I told him. ‘I’ll be fine once I get changed.’

  The lift slammed to a halt at our floor, and we got out.

  The old couple getting in stared at me like I was a fucking mental patient.

  ‘Evening,’ I said. ‘It’s turned out nice now.’

  They looked at each other and scurried inside, hurriedly pressing buttons.

  Bob started cracking up. ‘I’ll come and get you in about twenty minutes,’ he said.

  ‘No bother, son,’ I told him. ‘I’ll go and see if there’s any of that fishing on TV.’

  * * *

  Now, from there on in—Minneapolis starts to become a bit of a blur. I had a couple of beers from the mini-bar while I watched the fishing program, and a couple more while they served me a fucking enormous rack of ribs at the noisiest fucking restaurant in the world.

  I can remember that alright.

  I can remember me and Bob causing a bit of a fuss trying to get them to turn down the speaker above our table in there. And I don’t think I’ll ever forget that fucking rack of ribs. It must have been two feet long. But the rest of the evening—we’ve been trying our best to piece that together between us. And Bob has a bit more piecing to do than me, quite a bit more. Cause when I went to his room late this morning he wasn’t there, and he still wasn’t back when it was time to check-out.

  I sat in the lobby with my case and my spectacular hangover and no fucking clue about what to do. An hour later he still wasn’t there, and they sent me up with a key to get his stuff out of the room, so’s they could clean it for the next person.

  I was just reaching the terrible crossroads of having to pick up his underwear from the floor, when he came through the door and collapsed onto the bed.

  ‘Oh, fuck…’ he said.

  ‘Where have you been?’ I asked him.

  ‘Oh, no…’ he said. ‘Fuck.’

  ‘We’ve got to go,’ I told him. ‘If we don’t get out they’re going to charge us another night for the room. Come on, party boy.’

  He groaned and sat up on the bed.

  ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Put that stuff in the bag.’

  I checked-out for him while he shakily took the bags to the car.

  ‘I see you’re dressed more appropriately today,’ the guy at the desk laughed. ‘That’s a very nice jacket, sir.’

  ‘Cheers, pal,’ I said. ‘I like it.’

  I fucking love it. I think they call it an Afghan coat—brushed suede with sheepskin lining and a sheepskin collar. It took me fucking ages to find one, and it cost a bomb too. But there’s a fucking stain on it now that worries me, from that night. I’m hoping the wife can get it out.

  Bob looked terrible when I got to the car. It seemed to cause him pain just to put the seatbelt on.

  ‘Alright,’ he said then. ‘Coffee. We need coffee, Peacock. Let’s go.’

  Chapter 9

  Ill as Bob was, we drove a long way that day; all the way through Minnesota, and half way into North Dakota, where we stayed in a place called Bismark. We made a lot of coffee stops along the way, and after the first hour—when Bob just stared at the road with the widest fucking eyes I’d ever seen, and didn’t say a single word—we started to do a lot of piecing together.

  He broke his long silence by shaking his head.

  ‘Oh, God…’ he said. ‘Fuck I feel bad.’

  ‘Where did you end up?’ I asked him.

  ‘I don’t know where it was,’ he said. ‘Somewhere way out in the suburbs.’

  I’d no memory of coming back to the hotel, and neither of us could remember where we’d left each other.

  ‘I woke up on the arm of a chair,’ Bob said. ‘Sitting in this house somewhere. There were about ten other people sleeping in the room, and I saw a couple of girls sleeping on the floor. Then I remembered I’d come there with them.’

  ‘Two of them, eh?’ I laughed. ‘You are the party boy.’

  ‘Oh fuck…’ he said. ‘Oh no… I’m remembering something, Peacock. Something bad. Oh…’

  ‘Something you did?’

  ‘Something we did.’

  I looked at him.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘No… Go away.’

  ‘What the fuck is it?’ I asked him.

  ‘You don’t want to know. Maybe it’s just a false memory.’

  ‘Tell me,’ I said.

  ‘You remember the first club we were in?’ he asked.

  ‘Remind me.’

  ‘It had different levels. It was all dark, with shitty laser lights, and people dancing on the stairs.’

  I could see that, vaguely.

  ‘Do you remember we left there and went looking for a bar?’

  That was a lot less clear to me.

  ‘We found a smaller place,’ Bob said. ‘You’ll remember. You’ll remember us watching a small stage in the corner of the room and laughing.’

  I didn’t remember it at all, but I could feel something unpleasant struggling to the surface—as if I’d lifted a big fucking brick and an ugly creature that lived under there was scuttling to escape.

  ‘Do you remember?’ he asked me.

  ‘I’m trying not to,’ I said. ‘But it doesn’t feel good.’

  ‘It’s not good, Peacock,’ he said. ‘It’s not good at all.’

  He screwed his face up, and then he told me. I felt it like a sharp pain and I winced.

  ‘Ouch,’ I said.

  ‘We don’t want to talk about this ever again, Peacock,’ he said to me. ‘Fuck knows what else we did if we did that.’

  I’ll tell you what we did.

  We did karaoke.

  Bob decided not to drink any more coffee for a while, in case it brought anything else back. But I was already having a wee recollection of my own. I was remembering that we hadn’t left that first club, we’d been thrown out of it. I’d got us thrown out of it.

  The music had suddenly changed from some pretty heavy dance stuff to a Prince song, ‘The Most Beautiful Girl In The World’, and we’d been standing next to this fucking gorgeous lassie at the time.

  I asked Bob if any of that came back to him, and unfortunately it did.

  ‘What was I shouting at her?’ I asked him, and he did a really bad impression of me.

  ‘Hey, darlin’. Darlin’. This is you, pal. This song, this is you.’

  And she’d moved away, and I went behind her—through the crowd of dancers—while she tried to pretend I wasn’t there.

  ‘Hey, darlin’,’ Bob shouted now, crackin
g himself up. ‘Come back, doll. I’m saying, that’s you. This song. That’s you.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ll bother telling the wife about that,’ I said to him. ‘Still, you were the lucky one—eh? Two of them?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘When we got back to that house they both had boyfriends there. I think I sat on the arm of that chair all night—trying to survive the drugs they’d given me.’

  I laughed.

  ‘I wonder what we sang at the karaoke,’ I said.

  ‘I’m sure we’ll remember soon enough,’ Bob sighed. ‘It all comes back in the end.’

  But I didn’t agree.

  ‘There are things I’ve never fucking remembered,’ I told him.

  ‘Never?’

  I shook my head. ‘There’s one night the wife’s always banging on about, but I can’t remember a fucking thing about it.’

  ‘What happened?’ Bob asked.

  So I told him.

  I’d been playing cards at a mate’s house, and we’d got totally fucking legless. Drunk stupid. And the wife tells me he walked over home with me, and we had a few more drinks there. Then, apparently, I decided it’d be rude to let him walk back on his own, so I saw him over to his place. And we kept on like that. Back and forward, back and forward. Fuck knows for how long.

  Bob laughed.

  ‘That’s only the half of it, though,’ I said, and I told him the rest.

  Eventually his wife managed to persuade him to let me go back on my own. Either that or he was finally too drunk to walk anymore. But a while after I’d left, his wife phoned mine to check I’d made it back okay, and I hadn’t. So the wife and a neighbour came out looking for me, and they found me on the bridge across the river. I was over to the side on a bit that was closed off, with one leg dangling through a hole where the wood had crumbled. And I was fast a-fucking-sleep.

  ‘Asleep?’ Bob said.

  ‘Asleep, son. Twenty feet above the river. Apparently they dragged me out of there and shouldered me home, but I’ve never remembered any of it.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Not a bit,’ I told him. ‘Mind you, there’s no way in hell the wife’ll ever let me forget it.’

  Chapter 10

  It took us two more days, and two monster drives, to get from Bismark to Portland. The first day was pretty boring. The road was straight to the horizon, and it was long, and we stopped late that night in Butte, Montana—where we had a few drinks before we slept, mostly to help the wee man calm down.