by Liza Cody
‘No one,’ Crystal said. ‘I just meant some things you can’t change. Y’know, like you couldn’t learn to wear size 5 shoes, no matter how hard you tried.’
‘Oh, right,’ I said. I thought she was getting at me. But she wasn’t.
‘Yeah,’ Bella said. ‘Einstein was a bloke with small feet and a big …’
‘Shut up!’ said Crystal.
‘I don’t give squat how big his tackle was,’ I said. ‘What we doing stood here on this corner like paper sellers?’
‘This is a good corner,’ Mandy said. ‘The cars slow down ’cos of the traffic lights, see. So if you’re stood here the drivers can give you the once-over, and they’re not going so fast they can’t stop and have a word if they feel like it.’
‘That’s the drill, is it?’ I said. ‘You stand here waiting for drivers?’ What a way to make a living!
‘Sometimes,’ Mandy said. ‘Sometimes you meet someone in the pub, or walking around outside.’
‘Is this where Dawn got clobbered?’ I asked.
‘Have a little respect,’ Bella said. ‘Don’t you ever watch your big mouth?’
‘It’s all right,’ Crystal said. ‘She don’t mean nothing. No, Eva, it wasn’t here. I’ll show you.’
‘I’ll show her,’ Bella said to Crystal. ‘You don’t have to come.’
‘’S all right,’ Crystal said. ‘I want to see too.’
‘Well, anyway,’ Bella said. ‘What happens is this – you’re in the pub, right? And a bloke comes over, and then you get up, and usually he’ll follow you out.’ She started walking, and the rest of us followed.
‘Then there’s this alleyway by the side of the pub,’ she said. She turned down the alley.
It was narrow. There was the pub on one side and the next line of shops on the other. There wasn’t any lighting I could see.
‘Sometimes they can’t wait,’ Bella said, ‘and they want to do the business standing here. Otherwise …’ and she carried on walking about twenty paces. ‘Otherwise you turn into the car park here.’
I said, ‘Is this where …’
‘Yeah,’ said Bella.
The alley went on past the break in the wall. It was dark even in daylight. It was a really horrible place, and even if I hadn’t known it was where Dawn was scrubbed it would’ve given me the squits. Two people could walk side by side down the alley but only by bumping arms and shoulders. We’d walked along it single file – first Bella, then Crystal, then me, and behind me Mandy and Stef.
All the time I was walking along I was looking down the back of Crystal’s neck. She’s only got a thin neck holding up her little monkey head, and I could imagine someone hooking an arm round that thin stalk and snapping her head back, crack. She wouldn’t stand a chance.
‘But usually,’ Stef said, ‘you turn into here.’
If you went through the break in the wall you found yourself in a sort of car park. There were three vans and a lorry there, all unloading goods into the back doors of the shops. There were lots of cars too.
‘It’s a private car park and loading area in the daytime,’ Stef said. ‘But at night, all sorts come here.’
‘If you get in a car at the front of the pub,’ Mandy said, ‘like as not you’d show the driver how to get in here. It’s quiet, see.’
‘The police don’t come by hardly ever,’ Stef said.
‘And it’s only a few steps back to the pub,’ Mandy said.
‘Dump on a dead dog,’ I said. ‘This car park’s crap, but that alley’s frigging deadly. You couldn’t find a riskier place if you searched for a year.’
I turned round, and there was Crystal, still in the alley, looking like she’d grown roots. She’s so dumb. She should’ve known she wouldn’t like it.
‘You’re not going to fucking cry, are you?’ I said.
‘Shut up!’ said Bella. She went back to Crystal and led her by the hand back up the alley to the main road.
The rest of us followed.
‘You’re a stony-hearted bitch,’ Mandy said, from behind me.
Which showed how much she knew. I was only trying to help, but some people haven’t the brains to be grateful.
All the same, I didn’t like her walking behind me up the alley. I don’t like people walking behind me in places where you can’t swing your fists.
Of course if she turned nasty I could deal with her. Easy-peasy lemon squeezy. She was too much of a lard lump to do any mischief. A cow in a field would have more mettle than her.
No. It was the place – walls on both sides and not enough room to turn round without grazing your elbows. It gave me the spooks. It made my teeth feel like sandpaper.
I didn’t like Mandy behind me, so I whipped round. Sudden. Her cow-eyes blinked at me, all fearful. I got one hand under her wobbly jaw and pushed her back against the wall.
‘Who you calling a stony-hearted bitch?’ I said.
Her head sort of shrank into her neck, and her neck shrank into her shoulder.
‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘Don’t.’ She was wobbling all over. And the worst part was that as she shrank down she was strangling herself on my hand. She was fluttering and gobbling like a twelve-stone turkey. Disgusting.
‘You’re disgusting,’ I said. And I let her go.
All the time, Stef just stood there. She didn’t even let out a squeak.
‘You’re disgusting too,’ I said. I was so put out I nearly bopped her.
‘Is that what you do?’ I said.
‘What?’ Mandy said.
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Absolutely fucking nothing? When someone grabs you by the neck? You just go, “don’t, don’t”?’
‘I was frightened,’ she said.
‘You was frightened,’ I said. ‘That’s when you got to do something. When you’re frightened. Don’t you understand? If you’re not frightened, okay, do nothing. If you’re frightened, for Christ’s sake, do something. Shit!’
I was so narked I had to get away from them. The people I fight, fight back. They don’t go wobbly and strangle themselves. If someone whipped round and caught me by the throat I’d …
As I came out on the main road I began to feel better. I know what I’d do if someone had me by the throat. Well, I’d better know, hadn’t I? It happens twice a week in the season.
But how was I going to explain it to Margarine Mandy? The woman was a cringe on two legs.
What puzzled me most, though, was how a woman her size could do sex in a car. It didn’t seem physically possible. So that was two puzzles – how had she lived so long, and how did she do it in a motor? Which narked me off all over again, so I thought I’d go back in the Full Moon and have a drink.
I turned in that direction and saw Crystal talking to a bloke just outside the door, and the polizei sensors in my brain went off – beep-beep-peeep! So I cantered away in the opposite direction. Never talk to the polizei unless they sit on your legs and make you. No good will ever come of it.
I borrowed a van and went to the gym instead.
Mr Deeds was lolling by the window smoking one of his filthy brown whiffs.
He said, ‘I’m arranging a programme for Lewinsham a week today. You available?’
’Course I was. When wasn’t I?
‘Only I thought you was whingeing about your elbow. I thought maybe you weren’t fit.’
What a bim! He only says that sort of bolly ’cos he knows it winds me up. But I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.
‘I’m always fit,’ I said.
‘You never know with females,’ he said. ‘I never could trust anyone who bleeds for five days and doesn’t die.’ And he started coughing. Choking on his joke and his smoke. He could choke his lungs out and I’d use them for a trampoline – the foul-mouthed bim. Women’s stuff is horrible enough without the likes of Mr Deeds poking fun. I went away to change.
I was totally brassed off with the women’s stuff, if you must know. What with Crystal and Dawn, Bella and Stef. And
wondering how Mandy could do it in a motor. The only stuff that’s interesting is my stuff. You can stuff the rest.
And I had a fight next Friday – either against Gypsy Jo again or Stella Bombshell. One or the other. I wish there was more variety but there isn’t. There just aren’t enough women wrestlers, so you meet the same ones over and over. I fought a woman from up north once, and she was magic, but you don’t get that quality in the London area. Maybe one day when I’m famous I’ll go and fight in America. I’d find some good strong opposition over there. I’ve seen it on TV.
All the same, a fight is something to look forward to. I got to have it. Up there, under the lights, strutting, working the crowd. That’s what I want – doing what I’m good at where everyone can see me do it. How many of you suckers can say the same? Eh? Tell me that. How many of you can stand in that cage of light and yell at hundreds of faces – ‘Shut yer face, you rumbums, I’m up here in the light and you’re down there in the dark!’ Go on. How many? That’s what I call job satisfaction.
The only two actually working in the gym that afternoon were Phil Julio and California Carl. Let me tell you about Carl. He’s been to California as many times as I’ve met the Prince of Wales, but he reads the body building mags. And he thinks they grow the best muscles in America. He thinks if he calls himself California, he’ll get some of the credit. That’s how clever he is.
He was doing barbell bicep curls with the heavy weights. Arms is his favourite muscle group, and I have to admit, although the man is a champion heavyweight wanker, his arms are a picture.
As a fighter he’s about as supple as a garden shed, because his real love is his own body which he exhibits whenever he can in Boy Beautiful contests all across the southern counties.
He’s a peroxide blond and he spends a fortune microwaving his skin under sun lamps. He shaves everything. Shaves! I tell a lie. He uses those evil-smelling creams which rot the hair out of its follicles.
Also he does anabolics, anabollox I call them, and he’s touchier than a wild sow with a sore snout.
The women love him.
The other blokes, the ones with dirty minds like Gruff Gordon and Pete Carver, think maybe he’s a woofter, because often he brings a friend almost as pretty as he is to train with. But I reckon the only one he fancies is himself.
But he does work. You got to say that for him. He works.
And he’s having an influence on Flying Phil. Flying Phil used to be an idle sod, half of a father and son tag team, who did a quarter of the work his dad did. But now he streaks his hair and he’s gone in for muscle definition and he’s angling for a solo career.
He’d better watch out. If he keeps on bulking up like he’s doing now he’ll get too heavy for the aerial work and he won’t be Flying Phil any more.
I warmed up on the mat the way Harsh taught me. Phil was working on his lats – pulling down weights behind his head, so I went over for a word.
‘What would you do,’ I said, ‘if a bunch of women asked you to learn ’em self-defence?’
‘Shut up, I’m counting,’ he said. But even though he’s born again as far as work is concerned it doesn’t take much to get Phil to skive off.
‘Self-defence?’ he said. ‘Women? Do me a favour, Eva. I’d never teach women self-defence. They’re hard enough to pull as it is.’
Chapter 5
The next day, at about four thirty in the afternoon, all those women came to the gym. I was so narked I almost toppled over in the middle of a squat. A boiling saucepan couldn’t have felt hotter than my face.
They were all there – Crystal, Bella, Mandy, Stef and the other two, Kath and Lynn. And they were all wearing day-glo shell suits and leggings and lip gloss. I could’ve died.
‘Ay-ay!’ Gruff Gordon said. ‘Quim alert, quim alert.’
And everyone stopped what they were doing except California Carl who was polishing his washboard abdominals in front of the mirror.
‘Where’s Eva?’ Bella said, standing there, fists on hips, chin up. Even stood like that she did not look serious. Her hair was like a mound of blackberries.
‘You don’t want Eva,’ Pete Carver said, moving in.
‘You want a real man,’ Gruff said. Those two go in team-handed like polizei.
‘I’d rather have haemorrhoids,’ Bella said.
‘She fancies me,’ Gruff said.
‘Eva!’ bellowed Mr Deeds. ‘What the fuck’s going on?’ His eyeballs were whizzing around in their sockets, which is a bad sign.
I put my weights down and stayed squatting. I wanted to keep out of the firing zone, but I wasn’t born lucky.
‘Eva’s going to learn us self-defence,’ Crystal said. She was the only one who looked even close to human. But the blokes must’ve been blinded by the day-glo and blusher so they didn’t even see her.
One of the women, Kath as it turned out, had a chest you could’ve balanced tea cups on. Gruff Gordon couldn’t keep his eyes off it. And she couldn’t keep her hands off California.
‘Nice arse,’ she said. She had a voice a track-side bookie would’ve been proud of, so we all heard.
‘Don’t touch, bitch,’ California said. And we all heard that too. It didn’t sound friendly.
‘Ooh,’ she said. ‘Spank me.’
They had all been drinking, except maybe Crystal. She said, ‘Eva, when do we start?’
And the one they called Lynn began to do little kicks and punches in the air – Pinocchio taking the piss out of kung-fu.
‘Ha!’ she squealed. ‘Ah so! Ha!’
At the same time Flying Phil said, ‘Self-defence. That’s what it’s all about, Mr Deeds.’ It’d taken a while but the penny dropped. ‘Eva’s going to teach this herd of scut self-defence.’
Harsh said, ‘How interesting.’ And steam started to fizz out of Mr Deeds’ ears.
He said, ‘If this is one of your fucking stupid jokes, Eva Wylie …’
And I sort of stopped hearing. The rest happened like I was watching TV.
What it looked like was Bella doing a deal with Pete Carver for an upright against the wall. And while that was going down, Stef started to roll a smoko. Gruff Gordon grabbed Kath. Kath grabbed California. California missed Kath with a right armed hay-maker, and Gruff caught it between his pecs.
Mandy, escaping to the door, tripped over a barbell and took Mr Deeds down on to the mat – two suet puddings with arms and legs.
Gruff head-butted California.
Harsh strolled away to the showers.
My meter ran out. The gym was full of freaks and retards, and California was spitting bloody phlegm at Lynn. I did what I’d wanted to do ever since I met him – I sank a putt into Gruff Gordon’s belly.
I don’t know why. I just wanted to. I was very exact about it. The target was just under his ribs. I aimed, fired off my right fist, and jabbed the bull’s-eye. Woof! If I’d done the same thing to California Carl I’d have broken my hand, but that’s because he’s got a gut like a door. Gruff Gordon has a belly like a laundry bag and my knuckles sank right in. If I’d put more behind it I’d have tickled his kidneys – his abs were that spongy.
A shirt couldn’t have folded faster. It was ever so satisfying.
Gruff Gordon doesn’t think women should go in the ring. He’s always on at Mr Deeds to kick me off the programme. Gruff Gordon, who thinks a woman’s place is on her back on the kitchen table with her skirt over her head, folded like a shirt and hit the floor retching.
It was lovely. And if you ever get the chance to wallop someone who has pissed you around for as long as Gruff Gordon has pissed me, you’ll agree. With knobs on.
‘What you done that for?’ Flying Phil asked, all amazed. ‘What’s Gruff done to you?’
I was still a bit over-excited and I couldn’t be bothered to talk so I shouldered him out of the way and went.
Next thing I knew I was driving up to my ma’s block of flats and my hair was wet. I don’t remember having a shower but I must have b
ecause my hair was wet. I don’t remember changing but I must have because I was wearing jeans and a sweat shirt. I don’t remember borrowing a car but I must have because I was driving a yellow Ford Cortina with a little blue doll dangling from the mirror. I don’t remember leaving the gym but I must have because I wasn’t there anymore.
I hate that. It’s weird. You’re in one place, and then you’re in another. And there’s space in between which is empty. I hate the empty space. I’m in charge, right? But who’s in charge when I can’t remember?
Also, I do not want to see my ma. I used to see her regular, but last year she let me down and she ain’t been forgiven yet. She doesn’t believe in family feeling like I do. She could bring us all together but she won’t. She never did. So I’ll go and see her when she has a change of heart, but not before.
I used to think that because she had a hard life herself she couldn’t look after my sister and me the way she wanted to. But last year I decided she never wanted to – she’d rather see us in Council care than make a home for us herself. Making a home was too much like hard work for our ma.
So I’m buggered if I know what I was doing, driving up to her block of flats. It was the last place I wanted to be. Also, if you must know, I was totally cheesed off with people. And if you’re cheesed off with people the last person you want to see is my ma.
So I turned round and went home to Ramses and Lineker. They may not like me much but at least I know where I am with them. And they do what I tell them, if I shout loud enough, which is more than you can say for friggin’ people. Like those five slags and Crystal when they tottered into my gym all tiddly and turned the place arse over elbow. Not understanding or caring how my gym works.
‘Right,’ I shouted at Ramses. ‘You sit there and shut up.’ And I fetched his brush and started to shine him up. I worked on his coat starting at the neck, brushing his hair up the wrong way, inspecting the parting of bluish skin, searching for scabs and fleas. Then, starting at the tail, if he’d had a tail, I brushed all the hair flat again, bit by bit, along all his hard muscles. Afterwards I washed his face and ears with a wet cloth getting into all the folds and crannies of his massive ugly head, feeling that stony scar around his neck, and feeling, all the while, his stony little eyes on me. He sat absolutely still, but he watched me, and while I was searching him for fleas, he was searching me for weakness. He’s waiting, always waiting, for a time when I’m not ready for him.