by Mark Timlin
‘No more than she was before,’ she replied.
Judith grinned. Tracey giggled. I could tell she was getting pissed too.
‘It’s a great party,’ said Dawn. ‘Come and sit down. Have you seen all the pressies we’ve got?’
Behind her, stacked against the wall, was a pile of gift-wrapped boxes.
‘Twenty-four toasters,’ I said.
‘Don’t be so cynical, Daddy,’ said Judith. ‘Mine’s not a toaster.’
Cynical. Now my daughter was calling me cynical.
I sat down and found a half-empty bottle of Becks. I checked it for cigarette ends and took a sip. It was OK.
‘I’m sure it’s not,’ I said. ‘I was only joking.’
Dawn put her hand on my thigh. High up. Judith looked. I moved Dawn’s hand away.
‘Bashful?’ she said.
Judith grinned again. Tracey giggled again, and put her hand over her mouth.
I felt as if the three women at the table were ganging up on me.
‘You’re married now, Daddy,’ said Judith. ‘You’re allowed.’
‘Not in public,’ I said, repeating Robber’s words. ‘And don’t wind me up. It’s not a daughterly thing to do.’
All three women looked at each other, pulled faces and burst out laughing.
‘You can be a pompous sod, Nick,’ said Dawn.
Funnily enough, I can remember an old girlfriend of mine saying exactly the same.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘You’re right.’ And I pulled her close and gave her a big kiss. Tracey and Judith both applauded. ‘Is that better?’ I asked.
Dawn nodded.
‘What time are we off?’ I asked.
‘Not yet,’ said Dawn. ‘I haven’t said hello to everybody. And there’s more to come. And we’ve got to cut the cake. And I want some more pictures taken.’
In the face of that many excuses, what could I do? ‘It’s your honeymoon,’ I said. ‘And if we’re not leaving yet, I’m going to get another drink.’
4
I suppose I should have insisted that we leave then. But I didn’t. Like I said, it was her wedding day as well, after all. Bad mistake. Because from there on in, the reception seemed to take on a life of its own. A life with a death wish.
I went back to the bar and started on the JD again. I was surrounded by old friends and well-wishers, and I suppose all that went to my head. Just like the alcohol.
By three o’clock or so, the place was packed. Simon collared me and told me that the bar tab was getting close to a grand and a half, and that he was going to shut it down and start charging. That was a relief. With the food and all I was looking at a bill for two thousand quid or so. Mind you, that was only two days’ work on my new case, which wasn’t so bad. Thanks, Chris. I told Simon to carry on, and ordered another round.
Every time that I was aware what was happening, I seemed to be talking to someone new. I must have started thirty or forty conversations that went absolutely nowhere. And I must have copped for twenty or thirty drinks that went straight down my throat.
The next time I looked at a clock, it was five-thirty and where the afternoon had gone I knew not.
At six o’clock a cab came to collect Judith to take her back to her mother at the Connaught. She dragged me out into the street with her, and said, ‘Daddy, you’re drunk.’
I agreed.
‘You’re a very bad man.’
I agreed again.
‘But I love you.’
‘And I love you too,’ I said.
‘Mum sent you a wedding present too,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mention it before.’
‘Did she?’ I asked.
Judith nodded.
‘What? A razor blade or a hundred aspirin?’ I asked.
‘That’s not nice, Daddy.’
And it wasn’t.
‘Sorry,’ I said.
‘She thinks about you more than you know.’
‘And I think about her too,’ I said, suddenly a lot more sober than I had been. ‘But it’s too late for all that now.’
Judith nodded once more, and I opened the cab door for her.
‘Give me a ring next week,’ I said. ‘Will I be seeing you soon?’
‘I’ve left a bag at Tracey’s flat. With my other clothes in it. I’ll have to come down and collect it sometime.’
‘The sooner the better. We’ll all go out for dinner. You can stay at the flat.’
‘I’d like that, Daddy,’ she said, and she stepped into the taxi, and for the first time I knew that I was father to a young woman and not a child.
She pulled down the window and leaned out and kissed me. ‘Take care,’ she said. ‘Don’t drive tonight.’
Some fat chance, I thought. State I’m in. Maybe we’d have to get a train to Hastings. The cab pulled away, and I stood waving like a berk, then went back into the bar and someone bought me another drink.
A few minutes later, the real trouble started. Or the real fun. It depends how you look at things like that.
Arsenal had been playing Crystal Palace at Highbury. One of those end-of-the-season matches that aren’t supposed to matter. Except this one did. A London derby. North versus south. It mattered all right. And Crystal Palace beat Arsenal three nil. And the biggest Arsenal fan of all lived close to the bar. Well into Crystal Palace partisan territory. And he’d had to come home on public transport, all the way from north London, still wearing his Arsenal scarf, with all the Crystal Palace boys, and take all the digs on the way. So of course the first thing he wanted was a drink. And we were in his local. Which was shut for a function. But of course I knew him, and let him in. My third big mistake of the day so far.
He collared me in one corner and bought me a drink, and himself four. One after the other. ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘Three fucking nil. I wouldn’t let that cunt of a manager choose a Sunday morning side up Brockwell park. Three fucking nil. And at home. To fucking Crystal Palace of all people. We should have walked it. A doddle. But three nil. I wouldn’t have minded if it was bleeding Chelsea. But fucking Crystal Palace. I ask you.’
I commiserated. Not that I know shit about football. Then I tried to move away, but he grabbed my shoulder and kept talking.
‘And all those bastards on the train on the way home,’ he said. ‘Crystal Palace supporters. They’re fucking animals. Do you know that?’
I nodded.
‘Who do you support?’ he asked me.
‘No one,’ I said.
‘Best thing,’ he said after a moment’s thought. ‘Fucking football sucks. Did you get married today?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Good luck.’
And then the worst possible thing happened. A geezer I knew slightly came over, and seeing the Arsenal scarf, said, ‘Who won?’
‘Crystal fucking Palace,’ said the Arsenal supporter.
‘What was the score?’
‘Three nil.’
‘Fucking great,’ said the geezer, and started dancing about. Just our luck. We’d found a Crystal Palace supporter. Or he’d found us.
‘Do what?’ said the Arsenal fan.
‘Fucking great,’ said the geezer, and went off to tell his mates.
‘Bastard!’ said the Arsenal fan and ordered another drink.
‘I’d leave it if I were you,’ I said. ‘There’s half a dozen of them, and only one of you.’
‘Sod ’em,’ he said. ‘Sorry. It is your party after all. I’ll swallow it. I’ve been swallowing it all afternoon.’
‘Good idea,’ I said. ‘Have a good time,’ and I left him to it.
Except they wouldn’t let him swallow it. They were drunk, and at home as it were, and their team had just thrashed his.
Anyway, I went back to Dawn and Tracey, who were both by that time steamin
g drunk, and had decided to show off the garters they were wearing as part of their wedding outfits. Of course for a pair of ex-strippers it was just like old times. And I’ve got to say that they did have good legs. Better than good.
So there you have it. At one end of the place, a disgruntled football fan being baited by supporters of the team that’s just beaten his, and at the other, two recently retired exotic dancers, dying to prove that they hadn’t lost the knack. And in the middle, about a hundred and fifty drunks whose ears were being battered by a re-mix of a re-make of an old Stevie Wonder tune. A recipe for disaster I’d say, and it wasn’t long in coming.
First of all the Crystal Palace supporters formed a conga line, and forced their way through the crowd singing ‘Paul Merson is a wanker’ to the tune of ‘Don’t worry ’bout a thing’. Then Tracey, not to be outdone, starts to get her kit off. At least Dawn, as the bride, had the decorum to keep her dress on. But not Tracey. Oh no. Before you can say knife, she’s unzipped the back of it, and let it drop to the floor, so’s we can all see that underneath she’s wearing a black corset with suspenders attached. And also, I might say, that her figure is just as good as the last time I saw her in her underclothes. Of course Dawn’s having hysterics at all this. She’s nearly choking with laughter, and calling for more. What a pair! And don’t forget I’ve just got married to one of them.
Meanwhile, the Arsenal supporter has had all he can stand of the Crystal Palace mob, and catches hold of the last one in the conga line as he passes him by for the second time, and clocks him a good ’un right round the ear. And that, as they say, is all she wrote.
Suddenly the place erupted like one of those saloon brawls in an old Western. The Arsenal fan is up on the bar with an empty beer bottle in each hand, wading through the remains of the buffet lunch, and fighting off his rivals in front and Simon and the bar staff behind. The tune on the stereo finishes, and the next one up is ‘Waterloo’ by Abba, which used to be part of Tracey’s set down the clubs, so she starts undoing her stockings and rolling them down her legs. From where I’m standing, by the entrance to the ladies, all I can see is fists flying, best hats being pushed crooked, bodies jumping up on to the bar and being knocked back to the floor, bottles and glasses whizzing through the air, and Tracey coming close to committing a gross public nuisance. Then I catch sight of Inspector Robber, who’s trapped behind an overturned table in one corner, and he’s got out his personal radio. So I push my way through the mêlée, pick up Tracey’s dress and put it round her shoulders, grab her in one hand and Dawn in the other, and make my way to the emergency exit at the back of the restaurant. Luckily Chas had given me back the keys to the Chevy, and told me it was parked in the service road next to the bar. So, dragging the two protesting women, who believe it or not wanted to stay, behind me, I made for the motor, opened it up, pushed them in, and, drunk as I was, got it started, and away towards Tulse Hill, just as I heard the first sirens heading down Knights Hill to break up the fight.
I think Dawn got Tracey dressed, and we went out for a Chinese. To tell you the truth I can’t remember much until the next morning.
5
I was woken up by someone hammering on the street door of my house. I sat upright in bed and almost screamed out in pain. My head felt as if it had been put into a vice and squeezed so tightly that I was surprised my eyeballs weren’t bleeding. My mouth was so dry and coated I almost had to put my fingers under my tongue and massage the saliva glands to get some moisture going. I sat there looking at the curtains in front of me, hoping I was having a bad dream. Then the hammering on the door started again, and was echoed by the hammering inside my cranium, and I knew I wasn’t. This was reality, and I could have done with less of it. I knew it was reality, because I could feel every root of every hair on my head, and they all hurt. I looked at the figure lying next to me, and envied the way she could sleep through all the racket. I got out of bed, went over to the window, drew back the curtains, pulled up the sash and looked out. On the parking area that had once been the front garden of the house two coppers were just about to start knocking on the door again.
‘All right,’ I croaked, ‘I’m here.’
They both stepped back from the porch and looked up. ‘This your car?’ said the taller of the two.
I looked behind him. The Chevy was parked with only its nose on the parking spot. The long body of the car blocked the pavement, and its rear end stuck out into the street.
‘It’s my wife’s,’ I said.
‘Can you tell her to move it?’ said the shorter copper. ‘We’ve had complaints.’
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I’ll get the keys.’
I turned, and went back over to the bed and shook Dawn’s shoulder. She groaned and pulled the pillow over her head. I persisted. She groaned some more and rolled over, pillow and all. I pulled it off her face and did a double take. I hadn’t been in bed with Dawn. On my wedding night, instead of consummating our passion in the bridal suite of the Grand Hotel, Hastings, somehow I’d ended up in my own bed, in my own flat, shacked up with my bride’s matron of honour.
So the next question had to be, where was Dawn?
I shook Tracey’s shoulder again, and she groaned some more, but didn’t wake up. I leaned over her, sat her up and shook her harder. As I did so, the sheet that was covering her slid down her body, and I saw that she was naked to the waist. Jesus! Whatever next?
And still she wouldn’t wake up. So I pinched her nose between my finger and thumb and held it tight. She snorted, snored, coughed and opened her eyes.
‘Whad der fuck are you doid?’ she said.
‘Where’s Dawn?’ I said. Still holding her nose.
‘Whad?’
‘Where’s Dawn?’ I repeated.
‘I dode dow. Led go ob by nobe.’
I did. ‘Where is she?’ I asked again.
Tracey shrugged.
‘And how come you’re in bed with me on my wedding night?’ I asked.
She shrugged again, then said, ‘If you fucked me on your wedding night, does it mean that we’re married?’
‘I didn’t,’ I said. ‘Did I?’
She fluttered her eyelashes at me.
‘Did I?’
More fluttering. I almost felt the draught.
‘Don’t wind me up, Trace,’ I said. ‘Did I or didn’t I?’
‘You couldn’t. Not for the want of trying, mind. You were too pissed.’
I felt a great sense of relief, but that didn’t explain what had happened to Dawn, and why the motor was parked like that.
I struggled into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and forced my bare feet into a pair of loafers. I ran to the tiny bathroom beyond the open-plan kitchen, and threw open the door. The room was empty. I went back and looked for the car keys. They were nowhere to be found.
‘Have you seen the keys to the Chevy?’ I asked.
Tracey shrugged again, and her bare breasts, with their pink nipples hard and erect, jiggled.
‘Christ,’ I said, ‘cover yourself up. There’s two coppers downstairs.’
She smiled. ‘Are they handsome?’ she asked.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t have time to notice.’ The car keys were still nowhere to be seen. ‘Fuck it,’ I said. ‘I’d better go down.’
I opened the flat door and went downstairs and out of the house. The two coppers were looking inside the back window of the car. ‘There’s someone asleep in there,’ said the taller of the two.
‘Or dead,’ said the shorter.
I went and joined them. The windows of the car were steamed up but inside, clearly to be seen, was the figure of a blonde woman in a red dress, with the skirt hiked up around her shapely thighs, stretched out on the back bench seat.
We tried all the doors, but they were locked.
‘Do you know her?’ asked the taller copper.
&nbs
p; ‘It’s my wife,’ I said. ‘We got married yesterday. We should be in Hastings.’
The looks on the coppers’ faces said that they wished we were.
‘But we got delayed,’ I explained. ‘You know how it is.’
It didn’t appear that they did. I knocked on the window by Dawn’s head, but she didn’t move. For one horrible moment I thought that she might be dead, she was so still.
Then Tracey decided to get into the act.
‘What’s going on?’ she said from the open window of my flat.
The three of us standing by the car looked up in unison to see her leaning out of the window, breasts still bare, and her nipples harder than ever in the chill morning air.
After a minute, the taller copper dragged his eyes away and said to me, ‘You’re sure the one you married is in the car?’
‘Quite sure,’ I said. ‘She,’ I gestured in Tracey’s direction, ‘she was matron of honour.’
‘Looks like she took her job seriously,’ said the shorter copper.
I didn’t reply.
‘Nick. What’s the matter?’ Tracey said.
The three of us looked up again.
‘It’s Dawn,’ I replied. ‘She’s asleep in the car.’ I leant down and peered through the window again. ‘And the keys are in the ignition. Trace. Go in and put something on… Please,’ I added.
She looked down at herself, pulled a face, and withdrew. The two coppers looked disappointed.
‘Shall I break the window?’ the shorter copper asked the taller, drawing his truncheon.
‘No,’ I said. ‘They cost a fortune to replace. I’ll wake her. Just give me a minute.’
I banged on the window closest to Dawn’s head again. Hard. With my fist. And I banged the door too, and after a moment I was relieved to see her move her head. I banged harder, and she opened her eyes, and looked up into mine. I mimed rolling down the window, and after a few seconds she sat up, straightened her skirt and did it.
‘Are you all right?’ I asked.
‘Hello, Nick,’ she replied. ‘Are we at the seaside yet?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Not quite.’