by Dan Tunstall
George takes a mint and gives the packet back. He runs his hands through his hair and pats it flat again.
I get a handful of bog roll, wet it under the cold tap and bring it back for George to dab his face with. Make himself look a bit more presentable. Not that Gemma’s going to be paying any attention. She’s as pissed as he is.
By the time we’re out of the toilets it’s nearly quarter to one. The pub has started emptying as people head home or go on to nightclubs. Back in our corner, Dylan and Nikita are all over one another and Gemma’s fast asleep. I help Robbie manoeuvre George onto the bench beside Gemma and I sit down next to Steph. She looks extra pleased to see us. She’s not had anyone to talk to for a while.
“We should get going,” I say. “Some people are struggling.”
Steph smiles at George and Gemma. She knows who I mean.
I look at Robbie. He agrees.
I check the bottles and glasses on the table. Everyone’s drinks are gone. I nudge Dylan.
“We’re going to get off.”
Dylan nods and whispers something in Nikita’s ear that makes her giggle.
George shakes Gemma awake and they lever themselves up against the back of the bench. Steph gets Cartman. Finally we’re all ready.
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s make a move.”
thirteen
“Shit,” Dylan says as we step into the street.
“What’s happened?”
I look around. Whitbourne has changed while we’ve been in the Highcross Arms. Everywhere I turn, it’s carnage. Blokes pissing in shop doorways, drunks lying in the gutters, people bleeding, women crying.
“This is why my mum and dad don’t come here at night,” Robbie says.
We start up the alley towards the centre of town, doing our best to avoid the casualties. I’m up front with Steph. Dylan and Nikita are behind us. Robbie’s at the back end, shepherding Gemma and George along.
Being out in the fresh air seems to be having an effect on me. And not a good one. The pissedness that was creeping up in the pub has taken complete hold now. It’s all getting a bit surreal. The sounds of Whitbourne at night are muffled and other-worldly. All around me, shop windows are filled with bright coloured lights. I feel as if I’m floating along in an insulated technicolour bubble.
Steph glances back in time to see George staggering off the edge of the kerb. His legs are like elastic bands. Gemma tries to help him stay upright and ends up touching down herself.
Steph pulls a face. She seems completely sober.
“I think we should try to find something to eat,” she says. “Something to soak up all the booze those two have put away.”
“Mmm,” I say. I leave it at that. I’m a bit worried I might be slurring my words. In the pub, with the loud music, it wasn’t so obvious. Out here, there would be no hiding it. I don’t want Steph to think I’m a lightweight.
I spot a chippy on the corner. There’s a queue, but it’s not too long. We peer through the window. A big doner is twirling on a spit at the back, while a hairy bloke in a vest shaves bits off it with a knife. There’s a lovely smell in the air, but maybe a doner and chips isn’t the best meal for Gemma and George at this point in time. We keep going.
Up in the main shopping area there’s more carnage. Two women are having a screaming match that’s just on the verge of turning physical. There’s a bloke face down in a wooden tub of petunias. Another one is sitting on the plinth of a statue. His shirt is hanging off him in strips.
We still need to find somewhere to eat. Over on the far side of the square I see a familiar sight. Down a narrow lane, the big yellow M of McDonald’s.
Steph’s seen it too. We look at each other and nod.
Maccy D’s is warm and bright and packed. Gentle music is playing, keeping everyone calm. People are milling around aimlessly, with and without trays, and the food queues are stretching back to the door. I figure we’re going to be eating out in the street until a group of girls stands up and moves away from a table down to the left. Dylan and Nikita are off like a shot, gathering as many chairs as they can while Robbie steers George and Gemma through the crowd.
Me and Steph stay standing up.
“We’ll get the food,” I say, pleased to hear that my voice sounds okay after all. “Big Mac meals, yeah?”
“Spot-on,” Robbie says.
Steph tosses Cartman across to Nikita, then we join the end of a queue. There are a lot of staff working and it’s not long until we’re getting near the counter. A bearded bloke in a lilac shirt is standing at the bottom of the food chutes keeping his minions on their toes. He’s barking orders into the cooking area like Whitbourne’s own Gordon Ramsay.
The girl at the till gives me an unconvincing smile. According to her name badge, she’s called Cleo.
“Seven Big Mac meals, please,” I say.
Cleo frowns.
I feel like I need to explain.
“They’re not all for me.”
Cleo grunts and taps the screen in front of her.
“What drinks would you like with those?” she asks.
I look at Steph.
“Diet Cokes?”
I nod, turning back to Cleo.
“Yeah. Diet Cokes with all of them, please.”
Cleo punches the information into her till. I settle the bill and Cleo sets about piling two trays with seven Big Mac meals. Steph gets the food, I get the drinks and we weave across to where the rest of the gang are sitting, stopping off to get straws, serviettes and mini paper cups of sauce on the way.
Back at the table we unload the trays. I open my Big Mac box, tip my fries into the lid and take a huge gulp of my Diet Coke. It’s nice to have something other than lager pouring down my throat.
George and Gemma are still looking rough, propped against each other like two fallen trees after a gale. Robbie and Dylan are starting to show the effects of a second evening of boozing. The only people who are still full of life are Steph and Nikita. I’m somewhere in between, trying hard to keep myself on the straight and narrow.
I look around the restaurant for something to concentrate on. The floor is polished grey tiles. The tables are matt green formica and the seats are padded with fake brown leather. To the left is a flight of stairs leading to a first floor. There are posters on the walls of Happy Meal toys and giant-size Quarter Pounders With Cheese and McChicken Sandwiches. In my muddled state, none of it seems to mean anything.
I lift the top off my burger, fish out the gherkins and dump them in my empty fries carton. I take a bite of my Big Mac. As I chew, my eyes settle on the piece of paper lining one of the trays. Facts and figures about the benefits of taking an hour of exercise every day. It’s the sort of stuff I wouldn’t normally bother with, but right now it’s just the thing to focus my mind. Slowly but surely, the bubble I’ve been floating in starts to melt away.
The restaurant gradually gets less busy over the next half an hour. There’s nobody wanting our table, so we take our time, letting the food go down.
Dylan squashes his Big Mac box and shoves it into his empty drink cup.
“What are we going to do next then?” he asks. “It’s only just gone one o’clock.”
Robbie rummages with his finger in his ear.
“We could hit the clubs,” he says.
I point at George and Gemma.
“Do you think they’d let those two in?”
Nobody needs to answer that. George looks at me. He knows I’m talking about him, but he doesn’t know what I’m saying. He grins a dazed grin.
“Stop messing,” he says.
Nikita’s got a suggestion.
“We should finish up in here, then get a couple of taxis back to Wonderland. We can carry things on back there, either in the chalet or in your caravan.”
That sounds like a good call. I smile and nod, looking at Steph. She smiles too.
We all start piling our rubbish onto the trays, getting ready to go. As I stand up, I hear a
noise from the first floor. A bit of rowdiness. There’s a group of lads coming down the stairs. Six of them, led by a big bloke with gelled hair and dodgy Nikes.
Without a word, I dive into my seat again. Steph’s seen who it is. She almost crushes my hand in hers.
“Keep low,” she hisses.
Robbie and Dylan have got their backs to the staircase, but they can see that something’s up.
“Kirkie,” I whisper.
The lads are at the bottom of the steps now. They’re shouting and swearing, hanging off one another. The one who looks like a bulldog in a woolly hat pulls a handful of straws from the dispenser and throws them onto the floor. He looks around at his mates, a hurt expression crossing his face as he realises none of them has noticed. There’s some more shouting, a few threats aimed at staff and customers, and they’re making for the exit.
I let out a breath and collapse against the back of my chair. Kirkie’s in the street and his mates are following. As long as we keep our heads down for the next minute or so, it’ll all be okay.
The last of the gang through the door is the little kid in the red cap. Just before he leaves he turns, sweeping his eyes across the whole restaurant. As a reflex, I put my hand up to cover my face. I don’t think he’s seen me. But I know who he has seen. The bloke it’s almost impossible to hide. George.
Red Cap’s eyes light up. He grabs the collar of the lad in front of him and shouts into the street for Kirkie and the rest to come back.
The world seems to have slowed to half speed. I don’t know if that’s good or bad. It’s giving me time to think, but the thoughts aren’t nice. I find myself scanning back over the entire history of our problems with Kirkie’s lot. How it’s escalated. What would have happened if we’d got to that pedestrian crossing a couple of seconds earlier or later? What if Dylan hadn’t grabbed his balls? I thought the whole thing was funny at first. It was even a bit of a joke on the beach. I’m not laughing now.
Kirkie’s gang have all piled inside. As they advance, a horrible feeling of inevitability is sinking in. Third time unlucky. We’re not going to be able to negotiate our way out of this one. There’s not going to be policemen or lifeguards to break it up, and the local lads aren’t looking to tax us now. They want our blood.
Nobody’s saying anything. We’re way beyond words. The other people in the restaurant are starting to take cover. They know this is serious shit. Kirkie’s grinning. Lightbulb Head and Red Cap have got a kind of wild look on their faces. The other lads seem a bit less gung-ho, but the thing is, they’re all ready to rumble. It’s what they do. Not like us. I’ve never had a fight in my life and neither has Robbie. Dylan thinks he’s hard but has never had to back it up, and George couldn’t punch his way out of a wet paper bag.
I stand up and move round to the front of the table, keeping the girls out of the firing line. Robbie and Dylan follow suit. Even George is on his feet. Whatever happens next, we’re as ready as we’ll ever be. Gemma and Nikita are frozen where they sit. Steph’s wearing the strange expression of fear mixed with sadness that I first saw last night. I still can’t actually believe that it’s all about to go off. It just doesn’t compute. But then the lad in the white anorak with the red tartan shoulders is lunging across the table at me and I know it’s for real. I swing my fist and hit something. His head? His elbow? I’m not sure. He totters backwards then lunges in again.
All hell is breaking loose. It’s like one of those scenes in a martial arts film where the characters hover above the ground, executing somersaults and chops. But in here it’s not black-clad Ninjas swishing about. It’s chavs in caps and hoodies and baggy jeans and lime green Adidas. And instead of nunchucks and throwing stars and samurai swords, it’s trays and half-filled cups of Diet Coke and melting ice cubes. There’s not a lot of skill on show. If this was a martial arts film, the audience would be demanding their money back.
The whole restaurant is in chaos. The customers who haven’t found cover yet are scattering all over the place, running and diving under tables, screaming and shouting. Outside the windows, concerned faces are peeping in wondering what all the noise is about. Behind the counter the staff are playing statues, mouths open, eyes wide. I notice the bloke in the lilac shirt, Gordon Ramsay, push a girl out of the way and scuttle off into the kitchen.
Considering we’re outnumbered six to four and one of our gang is so pissed he can hardly stand up, we’re not doing too badly in the first few seconds of combat. I manage to get hold of the tartan shoulders of the lad in the anorak as he has another go. I push him down onto the floor, aiming and missing with a couple of kicks. Robbie whacks the fat kid with the buck teeth in the mouth, sending the fag behind his ear skittering to the floor and Dylan launches a left hook at Bulldog Boy.
But that’s only the first wave. The heavy artillery is up next. Lightbulb Head is coming for me, Kirkie’s making for Robbie and Red Cap is arrowing in at George.
I duck down, but something crashes into the top of my skull, sending me sprawling across the table. Before I can get myself back upright there are punches whistling in from all directions. It’s not just Lightbulb Head, it’s the buck toothed kid too. I wrestle myself round and see that Kirkie’s got Robbie in a headlock while Bulldog Boy swings his cheap trainers at Dylan. There’s a ringing in my ears. I feel dizzy and sick. We’re going to get battered.
George still doesn’t know what’s occurring. Red Cap is staring at him, goading him, while George stands there, arms dangling by his sides. Red Cap darts to the left then jumps forward. Without thinking, George clenches his fist and brings it up to defend himself. And as he does, he connects flush with Red Cap’s jaw. There’s a crunching sound and Red Cap spins round, crashing to the floor. It looks like he’s out cold.
The fighting stops. There are confused looks all round. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Red Cap is moving now, pushing himself up. And as he gets to his feet, Gemma starts screaming.
At first I don’t know what’s going on. But then I see. A flash of silver in Red Cap’s hand. He’s got a blade. He’s been made to look like a twat and now he wants payback. His little eyes are glittering with hatred.
Gemma lets out another high-pitched, eardrum-shattering scream. The sound is so loud, so startling, that everyone seems to be rooted to the spot. Even Kirkie and his boys. In that split second a channel opens up, right through the middle of the restaurant, all the way to the door. It’s our chance to run and we’ve got to take it. This isn’t the time or place to be playing the hero. Somebody’s going to be heading for the mortuary.
“Go,” I yell. “Go.”
Snatching up a chair and making like a lion-tamer, I stand guard as Steph leads the charge to the street. Once everyone’s past me, I chuck the chair and leg it.
Once we’re outside, I grab Steph’s hand, check everyone’s with us, put my head down and run. We race back up the alley heading for the middle of town, dodging through the nightclubbers and the pissheads. I spin round, hoping to see that we’re in the clear, that Kirkie’s mob haven’t bothered to give chase, but it’s bad news. They’re bundling out of the doors and charging after us like a pack of wild dogs, skittling people all over the place.
In the central shopping area we bear left towards a T-junction then go right at Primark, in the general direction of the Bus Depot. We’re flying along on pure adrenaline, but in the corner of my eye I can see George is running out of steam. His head is starting to droop and his arms and legs aren’t flailing the way they were a few hundred metres back. He stumbles across the pavement, grabs hold of a lamppost and hangs on like a drowning man. He’s fighting for air, wheezing like a pair of bellows.
We all skid to a halt. Gemma’s on the point of crying, but there isn’t time for sympathy. I take hold of the front of George’s shirt and try to yank him along with me. It’s no good. He won’t let go of the lamppost. I shoot a glance back down the street. We’ve put quite a bit of distance between us and the locals, but this is giving
them the chance to close the gap. I finally manage to pull George away from the post, manhandling him round to face me.
“George, you’re going to get us killed,” I scream. I mean it. I’m shaking him like a huge rag doll, trying to get the message across.
George’s eyes are vacant. I look over his shoulder and see Lightbulb Head, Red Cap and Bulldog Boy steaming our way. I shake him again and he snaps back to the real world. He blinks a couple of times and nods to show that he knows what’s needed.
We set off again, hurtling hard and fast, along past the crossing where all our troubles started. The further out of town we get, the darker it is. Only one in five streetlights seems to be working. My lungs are burning and everything around me is a blur. Without warning, a drunken bloke in a red fez staggers out from behind a wheelie bin, shouting and shaking drips from his dick. Robbie, Dylan and Nikita skip round him and keep going, but I haven’t got time to adjust my stride. The next thing I know, I’m flat on the tarmac, staring up at the night sky framed by the faces of Steph, Gemma and George.
Steph’s the one close to tears now.
“Chris,” she says, her voice cracking. “Chris, you’ve got to get up.”
I don’t know if I’m hurt or not, but my adrenaline’s still in full flow. I scramble up, looking back along the road, expecting to see Kirkie’s mob charging into view, but there’s no sign of them. A thought crosses my mind. We might have got away. The bloke in the fez is groaning, pulling himself onto all fours.
“You alright?” Steph asks, calmer now.
I shake out my arms and legs, checking that they’re working. They seem to be. There’s grit embedded in my hands, my knees are skinned and my head’s throbbing, but apart from that I’m in one piece.
“Yeah, reckon so,” I say. “You’d better check on him, though.” I point to the spot where Fez Man was grovelling a few seconds before, but he’s already on his feet, shuffling his way back to the sights and sounds of Whitbourne town centre.
Robbie and the others have twigged what’s happened now, and they’re jogging back to where we’re standing.