Hellogon

by John Booth

  “Excuse me, Mr. No?” Peter called after them. Mr. No stopped and turned to gaze serenely at Peter, “How do you know who I am?” Peter asked, as no other questions came to mind.

  “Everybody who is anybody knows who you are,” Mr. No replied solemnly. He turned and walked into the shop.

  Peter brushed down his jeans to try to get rid of the dirt marks they got from rolling on the ground. Mum’s going to be furious with me for getting them dirty so fast, he thought as he walked to the furniture shop. As he entered the deserted shop, he mused on the fact that not one customer had entered the shop during the morning. Perhaps Tuesday’s were particularly poor days for furniture shopping, but he couldn’t help wondering how Solly managed to make any money.

  He was over an hour early getting back to work but Peter had lost his enthusiasm for wandering around the streets. He began work by sweeping the floor with an old broom propped against the furniture he had moved earlier. Solly must have put the broom out for him.

  Peter found it easy to collect a pile of dust and dirt. He could have started anywhere in the shop and achieved similar results. Unfortunately, there wasn’t a dustpan to pick up the dirt. After a few minutes of indecision and a quick look around for a broom cupboard with a dustpan or a bin, Peter decided to sweep the dust out of the front door. This turned out to be a lot less easy than he expected as the dust caught on the lip of the frame and drifted back towards him as it rose up in the air.

  * * *

  Peter worked until five o’clock, only stopping every hour for five minutes to get his breath. He finished re-stacking the furniture by four o’clock and, because he wanted to impress Solly, swept away dust wherever he could find it. The pavement outside Solly’s shop started to look dirty, so Peter swept the dust out into the road.

  At five o’clock, Peter looked around at his work with a certain amount of satisfaction and waited for Solly, determined he wouldn’t sneak up on him for a third time. It was a matter of professional pride.

  “Don’t think I’m paying you for the extra hour’s work,” Solly said from behind Peter. Peter jumped as though someone had stuck a pin in him. He couldn’t believe this little man managed to sneak up on him again. He couldn’t figure out how Solly did it.

  Peter responded defensively. “I didn’t have anything else I wanted to do. I wasn’t expecting you to pay me for it.”

  “That’s okay, then. And next time, use the dustpan and put the dirt in the waste bin.” Solly pointed out where the items were. Peter could have sworn neither was there moments before. “I don’t want the council accusing me of dumping rubbish in the street,” Solly complained.

  As Peter nodded his understanding, Solly pulled another crisp brand new twenty pound note out of his pocket and handed it over. “I will expect you here and ready for work at nine o’clock in the morning.”

  As Peter opened the shop door to go home, Solly called out to him. “Don’t worry about those teenagers. They’ve far too bad a reputation to go to the police.” Peter nodded again and walked out of the shop. He wondered if the locals had video cameras set up along the street, because all of them seemed to know every single thing he did.

  Peter was surprised to find his mother at home when he let himself in the flat. She had taken the washing up bowl from the sink and was soaking her feet in it. Peter wasn’t happy at the thought of using cutlery and plates washed in that bowl before his mother started using it as a foot spa. Now he felt certain he wouldn’t be using it again. It had been disgusting enough before, with dirt marks and flaking plastic sides. He was surprised his mother was willing to put her feet in it.

  “Did you get the clothes you wanted?”

  “Yes dear, though I had to walk for miles and miles before I was sure I’d found the right ones. There are far too many shops in this city, Peter. How did you get on today?”

  Peter told his Mum about his new job in the furniture shop, completely failing to mention the three teenagers when he did it. He handed his mother the two twenty pound notes and the change he got from buying the fish and chips.

  “Peter, I can’t take your money,” Mel protested, though the crisp notes felt good in her hands.

  “Of course you can, Mum. This is my fault in the first place, remember? If it wasn’t for me, you could’ve stayed in The Village for the rest of your life.” Peter knelt down besides his mother and put his arms around hers. “Dad will come back one day and sort them out.”

  Mel smiled at her son, but she felt she needed to correct him on one point. “This wasn’t your fault, Peter. You didn’t do what they said and they admitted they’d no evidence against you. They needed someone to punish for Jeremy’s death and you were the only one available. Never forget that you didn’t do anything wrong.”

  Mel gave Peter one of the twenty pound notes back. “You’ll need some spending money. Half your wage will be more than enough to help us through until I get my first pay check.”

  Mel bought some provisions as part of her travels and she made them both an evening meal. After Peter washed up, carefully putting the washing up bowl to one side and using the sink, he asked his mother if he could go out and take a walk. He thought there must be a cinema nearby and there was a film he wanted to see.

  Mel knew he was well equipped to protect himself and wasn’t worried. Peter told her he would be back by ten o’clock.

  “I’m going to buy us both mobile phones as soon as I can afford it.” Mel gave him a quick hug.

  * * *

  It was still light when Peter walked out onto the High Street. He walked north for about two miles without seeing anything interesting. The kinds of shops repeated every half a mile or so as they served the locals with alcohol, tobacco and loaves of bread. There was no sign of a cinema, though there were shops in buildings that had probably been cinemas back in the nineteen fifties.

  Peter crossed the road and walked back. After he went past their flat he found the High Street changed in nature and became typical of a city centre. There were a lot of bars and restaurants while one street crossing his was lined with clubs and flashing neon signs. The signs indicated whatever else the clubs sold, sex was a significant part of the mix.

  Bouncers stood outside the doors of the clubs. They were big men immaculately dressed in dark three piece suits, frilly shirts and bow ties. Peter wondered if it was a rule that the more violent your job, the smarter you dressed. There were always at least two bouncers on each of the doors and they all carried radios in their top pockets.

  Peter had been trained to make certain kinds of observations. He concluded the bouncers were in contact with each other so they could warn each other of trouble. Peter speculated that a police car driving up the road would stimulate more calls on the radios than a man running up the street waving a large knife.

  Despite his travels, the one thing he hadn’t found was an ordinary cinema, though he found a few specialist cinemas. As it was getting dark he turned around and headed back to the flat, crossing the road so he was on the right side of the High Street.

  By the time he reached the chip shop night had fallen. He got his key out and was about to put it into the door when a thought occurred to him. Peter decided to walk down Hellport Lane to see what it looked like at night. He hoped he might see someone go through the blue door and find out what was going on inside.

  It was difficult to walk down the lane because he could see virtually nothing. He stopped and waited until his eyes adjusted to the low levels of light. He had no idea exactly where the blue door was, as it had vanished in the gloom. However, he found out where it was when he went sprawling onto his hands having tripped over its stone step.

  Peter felt hands grab hold of him and help him to his feet. A car went by on the High Street with headlights so badly adjusted reflections lit up the alley. He found he was staring into the green eyes of the Goth girl from the night before.

  “Don’t think I’m going to let you through the Sunner Door just because everybody aroun
d here seems to think you’re the bloody messiah,” she said with a sneer. There was also an element of something else in her voice too, which sounded like respect, or fear.

  “Who are you?” Peter asked.

  “My name’s Sal Dark, if that means anything to you.”

  Chapter Four

  Sal Dark

  Sal grabbed hold of Peter’s hand and pulled him deeper into the darkness of the alley. “Best if we’re not seen outside The Bird Cave,” she said incomprehensibly. The fact it was pitch black didn’t seem to bother this strange young lady in the slightest as she navigated her way through the darkness without difficulty, dragging Peter along in her wake.

  The alley led to the back of the shops where a series of tall wooden gates stood between high walls overlaid with barbed wire. The sky provided enough light for Peter to get a clear view of lengths of barbed wired coiled into spirals running along the tops of the walls and over the gates, held in place by steel Y shaped bars. Incongruously, there was the odd plant growing out of the wall showing that some particularly hardy species of wildflower was determined not to let the buildings win. Black slots along the walls suggested doors, but Peter was sure that any door they tried would be locked.

  Peter stumbled along behind Sal who held his hand in a very firm and determined way. Even as she dragged him onwards, Peter couldn’t help but think she was the first woman to ever do that to him, other than his mother. They turned up a narrow alley little more than a few feet wide. Peter was not surprised to see the outline of a door blocking the end of it. Its edges outlined with light from whatever lay beyond it.

  When they got to the door, Sal fumbled with it for a few seconds and then pushed it open. Bright neon light flooded into the alley from the street beyond. Sal pulled Peter out into the street and slammed the door shut.

  “Buy me a cappuccino,” Sal demanded and walked off down the street. Peter looked around at the city lights trying to figure out where he was, before giving up and running to catch up with her. They were on a long street lined with shops. The shops looked to be electronic and music stores, though it was difficult to tell exactly what they were because most of them were protected with rolled-down steel shutters. Despite being closed, the shop’s signs were lit and bright neon street lights shone down from above them. Cars and taxis sped past. Horns blared for no apparent reason. Peter saw a taxi driver use his horn just because a car dared to stop at a red light.

  Sal ran up three steps and through the door of a shop, vanishing from sight. Peter followed her, discovering the shop was an old fashioned café. A bell tinkled above the door as he opened it and he saw Sal over at the counter waiting for him. A wizened old man, who looked as though he could have played Merlin’s father without the benefit of make-up, stood on the other side of the counter, looking at her impatiently.

  “Didn’t think you had any money, Sal,” the old man told her without the slightest trace of sympathy. “You know you can’t stay here if you aren’t buying.”

  Sal stuck her tongue out at the old man and made a grand gesture towards Peter as he approached. “My friend, Peter Craig,” Sal stressed Peter’s name, “….is buying me a cappuccino. Aren’t you, Peter?”

  “Yes, I am,” Peter replied cheerfully as he reached into his back pocket for the twenty pound note. “Two cappuccinos, please.”

  The old man gave Peter an appraising look and then shuffled over to work the ancient Gaggia machine. Sal sat down at a small table next to the front window of the café. “Bring mine over when he finishes, Peter,” she told him and then stared out the window as if he no longer existed.

  Peter paid the man for the coffees and put them down on either side of the table before sitting in the chair opposite Sal. Sal looked at the coffee, looked at Peter and gave him a quick smile that lit up her face. She turned her head for a second to look at the array of pastries and sausage rolls in the display area on the counter. Peter saw her lick her lips before turning to stare out of the window again.

  “Would you like a sausage roll?” he asked quietly. Sal looked at him and then down at her hands.

  “Can’t buy you nothin’ in return.”

  Peter ignored her words and got up again. Back at the counter, he bought them both hot sausage rolls served with crisps and salad. He was surprised how little it cost. In fact, everything in the café seemed to be a reasonable price. The old man served him with a sneer on his face. Peter didn’t really care what the old man thought of him or Sal, so he took no notice. He took the plates back to the table and put one down in front of Sal. He wasn’t particularly hungry himself so he didn’t touch his own plate.

  Sal started to wolf down the food as if she hadn’t eaten for days. It gave Peter a chance to observe this strange girl. She wasn’t much older than he was, he could tell now that he could see her up close in the light. Even without the make-up, her eyes would have looked sunken and her face drawn. She probably hadn’t been sleeping much.

  Peter thought she was very pretty, with an oval face that her jet black hair framed in a page boy cut. She looked good to Peter despite the black eyeliner and vivid blue lipstick that normally he would have detested. Sal wore the same clothes he saw her in the previous night. A black V shaped blouse, with some kind of black net material over it, a tiny silver crucifix dangled from a delicate silver chain around her neck. His eyes followed the crucifix down to where it nestled in the valley between her breasts. He could see the edges of a black bra as it poked out from under her blouse.

  Peter pulled his eyes away from the sight, as he wanted to be able to stand up without embarrassment when he needed to and shifted his gaze to less interesting parts of her body. Sal’s hands were slim and petite. They struck him as being more like a child’s than a woman’s. Each of her fingernails was painted a glossy black that was smooth and shiny enough to mirror the world around them. Peter felt he should say something as Sal had almost emptied her plate.

  “Why did you say I couldn’t go through the Summer Door? And what exactly is a Summer Door?”

  Sal almost choked on her crisps and sounded amused. “Not a summer door you prat, the Sunner Door!” As she spoke, she laid particular emphasis on the Ns so he would hear the difference. “Do you want your sausage roll?” Sal asked as she looked at his full plate.

  Peter had forgotten the plate was in front on him. He wordlessly swapped his plate with hers and she began eating again. Peter noted that though Sal corrected him on pronunciation she contrived to tell him nothing. Rather than press her on it, he decided to ask her about something that worried him a lot more. “Have you got a boyfriend called Gaz?”

  Sal’s mouth dropped open and she looked at him as though he was a slug that had just climbed onto the piece of lettuce she was about to eat. “He absolutely fucking isn’t. Where did you get that idea?” Sal voice was as cold as ice and Peter thought he might be in danger of turning her into an enemy before they had the chance to become friends.

  “I had a run-in with him and two of his friends outside the Chinese chip shop on the High Street. He was showing off a gift he bought for his girl friend. I thought he said her name was Sal.” Peter decided not to mention what the particular gift had been.

  “The two with him would have been Colin Harris and Kay Smeddly.” Sal spoke slowly and started twiddling her crucifix between the fingers of her hand. “Gaz Dixon isn’t my friend and he’ll never be my boyfriend.” She looked Peter straight in the eyes and snapped at him, “What did he buy me?”

  “Err, nothing much. I, err…” Peter felt his face begin to heat up.

  “A fat lot of good you’re going to be to the old ones. I knew they were crazy. You can’t even talk straight.”

  “It was a large white vibrator,” Peter told her, stung by her words and attitude into saying the thing he hadn’t wanted to.

  Even beneath the make-up on her face, Peter saw a flush creep over Sal. Her neck looked particularly red. She leaned over the table and pulled Peter over so his face was on
ly inches from hers.

  “All term Gaz Dixon has been telling his little posse,” Sal spoke the word posse with deep contempt “how he was going to have me before we broke up. I let him know I’d rather be poked by a pig. It was my eighteenth birthday three weeks ago and I got careless on my way home. I went down behind the back of the bike sheds, as there’s a short cut through a hole in the fence. He and his posse were waiting for me. Those two bastard friends of his cut off my escape route. Gaz had one of those plastic handled knives they sell for decorating, the ones that use razor blades.” Sal stopped to catch her breath. Peter could see how upset she was.

  “He pushed me against the wall with the knife up against my throat. Then he unzipped himself and pressed his prick against my thighs. He told me I’d better give him some pleasure or else I wouldn’t be so pretty any more.”

  Sal stopped and Peter squeezed her hand. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I can take care of myself. I gave Gaz a smile as if he’d won me over, put my right hand down, and stroked his prick. Then I slipped my hand into his boxers and cupped his balls. He turned his head to grin at his posse who jeered at me and I took my chance. I squeezed his balls as hard as I could and slid down the wall.” As Sal said, the word ‘squeeze’ her grip tightened on Peter’s hand convulsively and Peter wondered how Gaz had escaped intensive care.

  “I didn’t get away scot free though,” Sal moved back from the table, lifted her chin, and stretched the skin on the left side of her neck. An angry red line ran across the side of her throat. It was a fading wound but Peter thought it might never completely disappear. “Whatever he plans to do with that vibrator, I don’t think I’ll find it fun.”

  “He won’t get the chance because it got smashed after the fight.” Peter grinned at the memory. He described his fight with Gaz and the arrival of Mr. No at the chip shop. Peter glossed over the details of the fight and went straight to where he was holding Gaz in a thumb lock.