Future Queens of England

by Ryan Matthews

  Future Queens

  of England

  By

  Ryan Matthews

  For my Family

  Chapter One

  Tony studied his face in the mirror. A wry smile flickered across his lips; he liked what he saw. He looked hard as nails. His rugged face made him seem older than his twenty-two years and he wore it like a badge of honour. He arched his back and stretched, his arms craning up toward the ceiling. From under the sleeve of his shirt his tattoo momentarily appeared and disappeared as if gasping for oxygen before being dragged back under by a wave of polyester. He belched loudly, patted his beer gut and smiled.

  “All paid for,” he chuckled, as he stroked it fondly.

  The mirror returned his stare.

  He smirked to himself, I probably should have worn my suit today instead of jeans and football shirt, but this thought quickly disappeared as his nostrils flared. He hated the stench of public toilets. He hated public toilets, full stop. He knew what certain people used them for. “Dirty bastards,” he whispered to himself.

  Tony relaxed a little and reached down, squeezing a large hairy-knuckled hand into the pocket of his jeans. This applied some pressure to his waistline and his bladder twinged in protest. It reminded him of the reason for coming into the toilet in the first place. He took out a crumpled letter and tried to remove the creases. He quickly scanned it, searching for something in particular. His eyes stopped suddenly as they found what they were looking for. ‘10 am’, it stated, and he glanced at his watch. The dial showed 10:07 – at least, that’s what he thought it showed; it was barely readable through the deeply scratched face.

  “Just enough time for a slash,” he muttered. “I’ll keep the swines waiting. After all, being late is hardly a crime.” At least it wasn’t compared to what he was here for.

  He walked to the urinal and found it was broken, clogged with cigarette butts and filled to the brim with a soup of urine. Normally this sort of thing wouldn’t bother Tony; he would usually add his own contribution to the soup. He looked down at his old trainers and curled the toes of his right foot. The material stretched to reveal a small hole. He looked again at the broken urinal, which was a centimetre away from overflowing, and the telltale puddle of piddle beneath it. Tony then considered the fullness of his bladder and took a couple of steps backwards as he thought better of it.

  With a tut he turned and kicked open a cubicle door. He unzipped his fly and started to urinate, absent-mindedly reading the graffiti as he relieved himself into the toilet and onto the floor in equal measures.

  He soon grew bored with perusing the phone numbers and badly drawn naked women, but his bladder was still not empty. With the index finger of his spare hand he rootled his left nostril and with impressive dexterity removed an offending item and wiped it on the cubicle wall. He finished urinating and spoke aloud to the graffiti in front of him: “Ah that’s better,” then turned and left without flushing, his trainers squeaking on the stained and sticky floor.

  On leaving the toilets Tony saw an apologetically dressed man. He meandered across the crowded entrance towards him, past the sorry looking people in the waiting room. He had to laugh. What a mix of chavs, twockers, wasters and wannabe hard men they were, but they all had several things in common; they had taken out their earrings, shaved as best they could and borrowed ill-fitting suits from friends and family to try and make a good impression. They looked so nervous, so scared, but not Tony. He strode through them like a bantam cock. A few of them looked up at him. Tony didn’t return their stares; they weren’t worthy. They watched him pass and then returned to their shoe-gazing and regret soaked flashbacks of the events that had led to them being here today.

  “Where have you been?” asked Tony’s solicitor, Bob, tapping his watch irritably.

  “I was taking a slash.”

  Bob tutted. “Look, they’re waiting for you in there and now we’re late.”

  Tony scratched his arm. “Christ, keep your hair on!” he snorted.

  “I asked you to wear a suit today, Tony,” he whined.

  “Is this a fashion parade or a court hearing?”

  “But you look a real mess,” Bob continued. “It doesn’t give a very good impression.”

  Tony immediately retaliated. “I could say the same about you, Bob.”

  “It’ll have to do. Come on,” Bob said, tiring of this conversation and conscious of the time. He put one hand on the door and another on the small of Tony’s back and gave both a gentle push. Tony arched instinctively. He wasn’t comfortable being touched.

  Bob pushed open the double doors and they entered the court room. He walked to the front and sat down, Tony following casually behind.

  The magistrate put down his papers and said, “Glad you could make it”.

  “Please accept our apologies,” snivelled Bob. “My client was unavoidably delayed.”

  “Let us commence,” began the magistrate. He banged his gavel. To him, the sound signified the start of a ceremony, waking the gods from their slumber to judge these mortals. “I am so glad that you made as much effort with your appearance as you did with your punctuality.” His words were chosen carefully to let Tony know who was in charge here. “You look like you’ve just rolled out of bed.”

  “Maybe so,” started Tony, “though if I may be so bold, this court room could do with a lick of paint. I mean, I have to say that I am also very disappointed. I was expecting a grand old hall filled with solid oak furniture, portraits and the smell of old books.” Tony surveyed the room with a mock sneer. “Instead, I appear to have stumbled into the Temple of Formica – it’s all industrial carpets, fluorescent lighting with a certain whiff of a 1980s’ community centre about it.”

  “I guess we are both equally disappointed then,” the magistrate replied, realising that this guy might be a worthy contender.

  Never being one to know where to draw the line, Tony declared: “I feel short-changed.”

  “Be quiet, Tony,” whispered Bob, “don’t antagonise him.”

  The magistrate stared over the rim of his glasses at Tony for a moment, and his mouth moved as if he was about to respond, but he thought better of it. He shuffled his papers and straightened his back.

  “Can the prosecution stand,” he bellowed authoritatively.

  The prosecution rose.

  “On the night of 28th July the police were called to the scene of a disturbance at an establishment known as The Pink Moon. Mr Horwood and some of his insalubrious associates had recently been ejected from The Three Cocks public house on the high street after making lewd and suggestive comments to the female bar staff. Apparently, this public house serves speciality beers, one of which Mr Horwood appears to have developed a taste for, but for reasons unknown the landlord had decided to stop offering Mr Horwood’s favourite beer. Unfortunately, Mr Horwood took objection to this and a small ruckus erupted. One of the male members of the bar staff quickly intervened and ejected Mr Horwood and his cohorts.”

  The prosecution paused for a moment to look around the room. Satisfied that he had everyone’s attention, he continued.

  “After Mr Horwood and friends were ejected from The Three Cocks they rampaged along the high street, interfering traffic cones and performing lewd acts with them until they reached the premises of The Pink Moon. Our witness statements declare that on entering the beer garden Mr Horwood and his cohorts began to shout abuse at the patrons of The Pink Moon. Mr Horwood, fuelled on adrenaline and alcohol, assaulted several customers. The police were called and Mr Horwood and company fled the scene.”

  He paused for a moment to let the words sink in. Tony’s solicitor shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

  The prosecutor lo
oked over at Tony and spoke again.

  “They were quickly picked up when they were discovered urinating outside a public convenience. The prosecution therefore requests that based upon the aforementioned evidence, Mr Horwood is a menace to society and this court should find him guilty on all counts.”

  He looked at the magistrate and spoke firmly. “The prosecution rests.” Then he sat down, looking quite pleased with himself.

  The magistrate made some notes and then looked at Tony and Bob.

  “Would the representation of Mr Horwood please present his defence?”

  Bob was hunched over, rocking ever so slightly. He felt like a fraud representing the likes of Tony, but nevertheless, he rose to his feet, cleared his throat and began.

  “Your Honour, my client feels unduly victimised by these accusations and refutes several of the charges.”

  The magistrate looked quizzical. “How so?” he said.

  “My client has been singled out and made an example of.” He paused for a moment. “Look, who’s to say who threw the beer glass in the crowded beer garden?”

  The prosecution jumped to his feet. “Your Honour, may I interject? I have eight signed statements from witnesses who say that they saw Mr Horwood launch a missile into the crowd.”

  “Oh,” said Bob, ruefully.

  “Witnesses. Is that what you’re calling them these days? I call them benders, queers, bum bandits…” Tony chimed in.

  “Silence,” ordered the magistrate. “Please keep your client under control.”

  “Yes, Your Honour,” said Bob apologetically, shooting Tony a look.

  The magistrate spoke again.

  “The prosecution has submitted statements from several members of the public clearly stating that Mr Horwood was acting as the ringleader and main instigator of the violence on the night of 28th July.”

  “Ah, yes, well you can’t trust members of the public, can you?” said Bob. “Just look what happened to Socrates when the public were consulted.” He looked rather pleased with himself.

  “Well, I wish we could still administer hemlock as a punishment,” the magistrate admonished. “Anyway, I would hardly compare your client to Socrates.”

  Tony looked up quickly. “Oi, who are you to judge me?”

  “I rest my case,” snorted the magistrate. He folded his arms and looked around smugly to see if anyone else found this statement as ironic as he did.

  Tony whispered to his solicitor and his solicitor nodded in agreement.

  “My client refutes the charges of urinating outside a public convenience,” Bob declared purposefully.

  No sooner had the final word left his lips when Tony interrupted. “I can’t get done for that. I needed a piss, but I wasn’t willing to enter those public toilets. They were so close to that gay pub, I didn’t dare enter them for fear of someone entering me.”

  “But urinating in public is still an offence,” said the magistrate gravely.

  “Objection!” shouted Tony.

  “Objection?” scorned the magistrate. “Objection? You’ve seen too much American television, Mr Horwood.”

  “But pissing in public is not an offence,” continued Tony, appearing not to have heard. The courtroom fell silent. “Before I started to piss I raised my hand and shouted aloud three times at the top of my voice, ‘I’m in pain. I’m in pain. I’m in pain’. That makes it legal.”

  The magistrate stared in disbelief. “This is simply not true!” he cried.

  Tony began to explain. “Well, my mate Neil at the pub told me that this makes it legal and he is a clever swine. He wears glasses and his team always wins the pub quiz.” Staring defiantly into the magistrate’s eyes, he said: “I rest my case.” And with that, he sat back down while his solicitor stood bewildered.

  The magistrate removed his glasses and rubbed his face with the palm of his hand and let out a sigh.

  “I hate to burst your bubble Mr Horwood, but your f r i e n d” – he dragged out the word and hardened his tone – “is sadly mistaken.”

  Tony refuted this. “He also told me it’s legal to piss against the rear wheels of someone else’s car as long as you have your right hand on the vehicle the whole time that you are peeing.”

  The magistrate rolled his eyes. “And at which school of law did ‘your friend’” – making inverted commas in the air with his fingers – “learn all these gems of legal information?”

  “Oh, he didn’t learn it at school,” explained Tony, “I think he read it on the internet.”

  The magistrate rolled back in his chair. “Well then, it must be true!”

  “Ah, so you agree then?” said Tony.

  “No,” scoffed the magistrate, “I was being facetious. Does the defence actually have a defence?”

  Bob’s cheeks coloured, “Erm, actually no, not really.”

  “Okay,” said the magistrate, “are you finished then?”

  “The defence rests,” Bob said softly and sat down, defeated.

  No sooner had the seat of his trousers touched the chair when the magistrate bellowed, with obvious enjoyment: “Can the defence stand!”

  Tony and Bob rose to their feet.

  “How do you plead?” enquired the magistrate.

  “Not guilty,” replied Bob.

  “Please take a seat while I consider the evidence.” The magistrates tone was cold and expressionless. “This won’t take long.”

  For a few moments there was an uncomfortable silence, while from elsewhere in the building came the faint but persistent sound of a baby crying.

  Eventually, the magistrate cleared his throat and delivered his verdict with a serious expression.

  “The court has heard evidence that on the night of 28th July, Mr Tony Horwood committed the following offences: drunk and disorderly, urinating outside a public convenience, and actual bodily harms towards the clientele of The Pink Moon public house. This court finds the defendant guilty on all counts.”

  From the dock Bob bowed his head just as Tony looked up and smirked defiantly at the magistrate.

  “You are hereby sentenced to twelve months’ community service.”

  Tony laughed out loud. “Twelve months community service? Easy!”

  “Yes, err, well,” the magistrate said, stumbling over his words. He wasn’t expecting this. Maybe he had underestimated his opponent.

  The magistrate concentrated for a moment, his eyes darting from left to right while his brain processed his thoughts. “Perhaps community service is not the answer for a recidivist like you.” His lips formed a sardonic smile. “Ah, I know. I have just the thing for you.” He paused and stared Tony right in the eyes and announced a new punishment. “I sentence you to an academic year at the Finishing School for Future Queens of England.”

  Tony looked genuinely puzzled. “What’s that? Is it some kind of boot camp?”

  “No,” smiled the magistrate, “although ‘camp’ is one way of describing it.” He was really enjoying himself now.

  Bob leaned over and muttered into his ear.

  “You what?” squealed Tony, abandoning all cool and nonchalance.

  “Ah, Mr Horwood. I believe the penny is just about to drop.” The magistrate drank in the expression on Tony’s face. He studied his eyes and the panic within. He gazed at Tony’s brow and at the appearance and disappearance of the lines washing in likes waves onto a beach. He imagined for a moment that he could hear the cogs inside Tony’s head as they slowly turned and processed this information. He pictured Tony’s synapses firing in a random and chaotic pattern like a firework factory that has been set ablaze. Then suddenly, something fell into place, the atmosphere in the room seemed to change. He watched Tony intently, half expecting a cuckoo to spring out of his mouth.

  Tony’s lips parted and instead of a cuckoo two words sprang out: “Gay school?”

  “You’ve got it, Mr Horwood. You’ll be spending the next few months at the Finishing School for Future Queens of England, or ‘gay school’, a
s you so eloquently put it.”

  “What! You’re seriously going to put me in there…with them?”

  The magistrate began to relax. He’d won this battle and spoke slowly and smugly. “Yes, it will do you good to mix with a different sort,” and started to write on his notepad absentmindedly.

  “I won’t go,”

  The magistrate looked up, “If you refuse to go then you’ll break the conditions of your sentence and I will have no choice other than to send you to prison instead.”

  “Prison! Are you serious?”

  “Totally.”

  Tony gritted his teeth. “If you send me to that gay school I’ll smack their heads in and get kicked out.” He clenched and unclenched his fists as if cracking invisible walnuts. His dirty nails sank into his palms leaving semi-circular indentations that quickly dissipated.

  The magistrate looked serious for a moment. “If you get kicked out then you break the terms of your sentence and you’ll go to prison. Also, Mr Horwood, there will be hundreds of gay men at the school and there is only one of you.” He had Tony’s undivided attention now. “You may not be the sharpest tool in the box, but you’re not stupid. I suspect that when you are not with your likeminded friends and when sober you may display a slightly more pusillanimous side to your character.”

  Tony scratched his head. “I have no idea what you just said. I will take them out one by one if I have to.”

  The magistrate laughed. “There are approximately four hundred students there and you’ll be at the school for a full school year. Simple mathematics, Mr Horwood, simple mathematics.” He rubbed his hands together with glee. “Between classes you will have neither the time nor the energy to duff anybody up.” He watched Tony as he appeared to consider the numbers and the timescales presented to him. “Anyway, I suspect that you will start to empathise with your fellow students once you’ve settled in.” He sighed. There was no fun in this now. The battle had been won. His mind wandered, he was hungry. “Should I eat in or go out tonight?”

  His thoughts were rudely interrupted as Tony spoke: “They’ll all be after me in there, won’t they?”