Three Way

by Daniel Grant

  ‘You saw, didn’t you?’ she asks.

  ‘Uh…saw what?’ I feign. She shoots me a disbelieving look and I say, ‘Okay yes.’ She sits down opposite me.

  ‘It’s not what you think.’

  ‘Ash, I don’t care who you do, or uh…see.’

  ‘It’s just a stupid thing,’ she replies. ‘He’s old enough to be my dad.’

  ‘Hey, stop justifying yourself. I don’t care, as long as you’re happy,’ I say. She shakes her head and sighs.

  ‘How’d it go with the Swedish one?’ The question throws me suddenly and I fluster for an answer.

  ‘It…went okay, you know. As good as could be expected I guess.’

  ‘She didn’t want a reconciliation then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That sucks.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘Not really. But hey, nothing I can do about it, right?’

  ‘Fraid not. What a pair we are.’

  ‘So are you like, going out with that guy?’

  ‘Norman? No, we’re just…’ she shakes her head, trying to think, ‘I don’t really know what we are.’

  ‘Can’t believe you’re seeing a guy called Norman.’

  ‘Why is that funny?’

  ‘Norm? Ash, please.’

  ‘I didn’t christen him,’ she replies. I shake my head.

  ‘Man, my opinion of you has really dropped.’

  ‘Yeah, because you have such high standards.’ I look at her, considering how to respond. ‘Look, he’s probably just a stopgap after Gary. Bit like you.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Well, we seem to have ended up in bed since I started living with you.’ I nod slowly and smile.

  ‘Hmm, yeah well...so have you and Norm-’

  ‘None of your business, Hayward.’

  ‘He’s a large man.’

  ‘Stop right there.’

  ‘I’m just trying to work out the physics with the glasses.’ She tilts her head, her expression suddenly annoyed.

  ‘Hey, play nice, okay,’ she says.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘What about that Barbie doll you’re seeing? She can’t exactly be top of the gene pool.’

  ‘Lauren? Well, she runs a bank, she’s not stupid.’

  ‘High maintenance though. Looks like a princess to me.’

  ‘She’s not really. At least, not from what I’ve seen.’

  ‘Uh huh. You wait. Auntie Ashley is always right.’ We sit quietly for a moment before I say,

  ‘Norman,’ I repeat, smiling. She looks at me and smiles, rolling her eyes.

  Ashley is eventually called away to do some work. I wait patiently in the hope she might get a little more time. But every time I see her she’s busy. I decide maybe I should just speak to her at home and grab my coat.

  ‘Hey, I’ll see you later,’ I call. She waves.

  ‘See you back there,’ she replies.

  ‘Ciao,’ I say, waving. I open the door and step outside.

  I do some window shopping on my way home. There’s nothing I want or can afford. Within twenty minutes I’m back at my place. I see Tristan having a smoke. Refreshingly, it looks like a cigarette this time, rather than hemp.

  ‘Your dog’s barking,’ Tristan says.

  ‘I don’t have a dog,’ I reply. This small detail confuses him. He frowns, trying to work out whatever it is he’s thinking.

  ‘No you have a dog and it was barking its nuts off.’

  ‘Mate, I don’t have a dog.’

  ‘Well what the fuck was all that barking?’

  ‘Could have been Parker. He’s got a new girlfriend.’ Tristan eyes me suspiciously then nods slowly.

  ‘Yeah. Parker,’ he says, slowly. I put my keys in my door and open it.

  ‘Those things will kill you,’ I say, glancing at the cigarette.

  ‘Yeah well, so will AIDS,’ he replies. We stare at each other, neither really having a response to that one. I opt for going inside.

  I walk into the kitchen and set about making myself a coffee. I hear talking outside and stand in the kitchen listening.

  ‘…what dog? Wait a minute, you saying my girlfriend’s a dog?’ I hear a muffled unintelligible response.

  ‘Right. Mate, I really don’t have time for this, cheers though,’ Parker’s voice is clear. I hear the front door open and go back to making the coffee. The door slams. ‘You here, bitch?’ he calls.

  ‘Yep, in here,’ I reply. Parker walks in wearing a comically tight T-shirt that reads ‘Off The Market.’

  ‘Man, what the fuck is Tristan’s problem? Did you hear what he just called Nicola?’ I feign ignorance and shake my head. ‘A dog. I nearly decked him. Cocksucker.’

  ‘I wouldn’t pay much attention to Tristan to be honest, he does drugs.’

  ‘Yeah right. You making coffee?’

  ‘No, I’m building a rocket.’

  ‘Why do you have to be such a shitkicker?’

  ‘I dunno, it’s the only thing I’m really good at.’

  ‘Can I have a coffee as well, please?’ Parker asks. I sigh and open the Nescafe jar again. Parker is quiet for a bit then says, ‘So, what’d you think?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Nicola.’

  ‘Oh. Yeah, she seems nice.’

  ‘Yeah. Sorry I didn’t tell you about her before. Just, you’ve been a bit down about Svetla and I didn’t want to rub your nose in it.’

  ‘You wouldn’t. How long have you two been together?’

  ‘Few weeks. It’s nice. Really working well.’

  ‘Good man. That’s great. But she’s not a school friend.’ I say. He sighs and shakes his head.

  ‘I don’t even know why she said that. We used to work together when I was at the pub. Maybe she took the whole ‘let’s go out in secret’ thing a bit too seriously.’

  ‘No worries, all good.’ I boil the kettle again and pour water into Parker’s cup.

  ‘Yeah. The only thing is she uh…I dunno.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Probably shouldn’t tell you.’

  ‘Come on dude, give me some credit,’ I say, giving Parker his cup of coffee and taking a sip from mine.

  ‘Well, okay. She farts.’ My eyes dart up to him and I burn my upper lip on the coffee.

  ‘What?’

  ‘She farts. Like, all the time.’

  ‘So what? So do you.’

  ‘I know but, she’s a girl. Girl’s aren’t supposed to fart, not this early into the relationship anyway. It’s like she doesn’t care.’ I laugh. ‘What? Come on.’

  ‘Seriously, everyone farts. Even girls.’

  ‘I know but they really smell. I don’t know whether it’s her diet or what but they make me feel sick.’

  ‘Shit man, that’s uh…that’s an interesting problem.’

  ‘Yeah great, now what do I do about it?’

  ‘I dunno, maybe talk to her?’

  ‘Oh yeah right, ‘hey baby, listen can we have a chat about your farting?’ I’d be dumped in a second.’

  ‘She doesn’t do it during sex, does she?’

  ‘So far no, but can you imagine?’

  ‘Yeah, that would be bad.’

  ‘No shit,’ he says. We stand sipping our coffee.

  ‘I don’t know man, I got nothing,’ I say.

  ‘Fucking useless.’

  Thursday. The newsdesk sends me down to a far right demonstration at Kings Cross. I love these things. My cameraman is called Martin and he’s more used to working in war zones, so this should be a walk in the park. The sun is out and although this part of London is always slightly shabby, the morning light makes the place more pleasant than normal.

  I walk down towards the House at Home pub where the police have told me the demonstrators will gather. I hear them before I see them. Turning the corner into Caledonian Road, I see a number of men with shaved heads, English flags draped around them. Some of them hold pints of lager. They are
shouting football slogans at a line of blue-capped policemen. I stand with Martin as he knocks off a couple of shots. They’re loud but not violent. I stick close to Martin, just behind him, watching his back as he films. The police then herd the protestors into a group and they start marching towards…uh, hang on let me check the map on my iPhone. So Kings Cross is here. Ah, they’re heading to Aldgate. Should be fun. The march is rowdy but peaceful. The looks on people’s faces as they spot the march for the first time is classic. A mixture of horror and the occasional surprised smile.

  Finally we get to Aldgate where the organisers have set up a makeshift stage and speakers. There are a lot of police - a line of regular police in uniform. Behind them, a line in riot gear and helmets. The next line is police dogs with handlers and just for good measure they finish their deployment with a row of police on horseback. All in all there must be about two hundred police and around fifty demonstrators. Oh, and there’s a police helicopter circling as well. The dogs bark at the protestors with real ferocity. The guy on the mic ignores them and gets started.

  ‘We’re here to exercise our democratic right to stand in the middle of our city, in our country and say whatever the fuck we want!’ he shouts. The crowd goes nuts. Martin moves to get a better shot. We carefully make our way through the crowd towards the stage and film some shots of the crowd from a slightly higher vantage point.

  ‘Happy?’ I ask Martin. He nods. We jump down and Martin starts filming more shaved-headed people. The man on the stage continues his rant. I look to my right and am struck to see a gorgeous girl. Long brown hair, slim build and tight hot pants. I look at her, she smiles. I smile back, slightly embarrassed. Is she a reporter? Not in those pants, she isn’t. Bloody lovely though. She mouths ‘I love you’ and smiles again. My heart soars. Jesus, this can’t be happening. Who the hell is she?

  ‘We don’t want the fucking immigrants over here taking our jobs. It’s hard enough for regular English people to get a job and now the government wants to make the borders even easier for the foreigners to get in!’ the guy on the mic looks like he might burst a blood vessel. The crowd shouts in outrage. The girl smiles at me again then turns and shouts with them. And the pieces of the puzzle suddenly slot together. This stunning, sexy girl swings way too far to the right. How disappointing. She claps with the crowd then looks back to me, smiling again. This time, I don’t smile back. Martin starts moving through the crowd again, I follow him.

  ‘Fucking media scum,’ I hear one person say as we move past. I ignore it. The atmosphere has changed slightly.

  ‘Watch it, reporter man!’ another shouts.

  ‘That’s a nice camera,’ says a man with a large swastika tattoo on his right arm. He looks like a bear. Martin glances up to him.

  ‘Time to go,’ I say.

  ‘Oi mate, who’d you work for?’ asks tattoo man.

  ‘TBN,’ I reply, friendly.

  ‘You the bloke that did that report last week about us being a bunch of fucking racists?’

  ‘Nope, nothing to do with me,’ I reply, nervous now.

  ‘Bet it was him,’ says another. ‘Look at him, fucking mummy’s boy.’

  Suddenly one goes to grab Martin’s camera. He yanks it back.

  ‘FUCK OFF!’ Martin says. Before I know what’s happening I feel an elbow smash into my left cheek. The force sends me to the floor. The police move in. A bottle is thrown, I hear the glass smash. My face is thumping. I try to stand, Martin grabs my shirt. His nose is bleeding.

  ‘Time to get out of here,’ he says. I push through the crowd making my way towards the police line.

  ‘GET BACK,’ shouts a riot policeman, holding his nightstick aloft. I pull out my press card.

  ‘TBN, let me through. He’s injured.’ The policeman steps aside and lets us through, the line closing behind us. I look at Martin.

  ‘You okay?’ I ask.

  ‘Yeah,’ he replies touching his nose, ‘that was fucking awesome. Let me get my nose sorted and we can get back in there.’

  ‘No way. That’s it, we’re done.’

  ‘It’s still going on, we need to film this,’ says Martin.

  ‘No one gives a shit about these guys, they’d have to set fire to half of London before we gave this lot any coverage. We’re leaving.’

  ‘What happened to you?’ Paul asks when we get back to the newsdesk.

  ‘Your Nazi friends decided to tear me a new one,’ I reply.

  ‘They’re not my Nazi friends,’ Paul replies.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Julie asks, walking around the desk to get a closer inspection of the damage.

  ‘Yeah, looks worse than it is. Just a bruise,’ I say. She peers into my face, frowning and bearing her teeth.

  ‘Ouch. That looks sore,’ she says.

  ‘It is sore, Julie. My date on Saturday is going to be all the more special looking like the elephant man,’ I say, glancing at Paul.

  ‘Sorry Ollie. Did it kick off?’ Paul asks.

  ‘Not really, just me and a couple of the Hitler Youth playing fisty cuffs.’

  ‘Go and clean yourself up, I may have an interview doing in Oxford later,’ he says. I stare at him.

  ‘Are you serious?’ I ask, an incredulous tone creeping into my voice. Paul shrugs and frowns.

  ‘What?’ he says.

  ‘Paul, I’ve just has three types of shit beaten out of me. Maybe I could…I dunno, get my cheek x-rayed or something?’

  ‘Sorry mate, there’s no one else to do it,’ he says. I shake my head. Unbelievable. The fucker is going to deploy me again. Most bosses, when you’ve gone through something like this, would have said ‘hey Ollie, looks like you just went through a real shit time, take the rest of the day off.’ Not Paul. Nope, just suck it up and get back to work. Julie gives me a sympathetic look. I nod, accepting no one is going to get me out of this.

  ‘What’s the interview?’

  When I get home from Oxford (late because the trains are screwed), it’s gone eight. Parker and Ashley sit in front of the TV, eating pizza. They both look up when I walk in.

  ‘Jesus, what happened to you?’ Parker asks. I throw my bag down.

  ‘Fucking Nazis is what happened to me. I was sent down to a far right march and this was their equivalent of a goody bag and a thank you for coming present.’ Ashley stands up and walks over to me, she tries to touch my cheek. I back away.

  ‘That looks sore,’ she says.

  ‘Yeah it is, I might even say it hurts,’ I reply. I look at the pizza, most of it gone. ‘Any left for me?’ Ashley and Parker look at each other.

  ‘Uh, you can have the rest if you like,’ Parker says. I look at the half-eaten piece that remains then back at Parker.

  ‘So you want me to finish your leftovers? That’s my dinner, is it?’

  ‘Dude I know you’ve had a bad day but there’s no point taking it out on us, I don’t know when you’re coming back. You never let me know when you’ll be home any more.’

  ‘You guys are like an old married couple,’ says Ashley.

  ‘He’s older than me,’ says Parker, a vague attempt at a joke. I nod my head, resigned.

  ‘Well, it’s good to see you guys not at each others throats,’ I say. They glance at each other again.

  I walk into the kitchen and over to the freezer. We have an oversupply of frozen peas. I yank two packets out to see what else might be available.

  ‘Do you want me to make you something?’ Ashley says, coming up behind me. I turn to face her.

  ‘No, it’s fine cheers,’ I reply. I pull out a bag of oven chips and some frozen chicken nuggets.

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘Guy elbowed me in the face. Cameraman got a busted nose but he wanted to go back in.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yeah I know. Don’t get people like that who just want to get in there for the thrill of it. I like my face.’

  ‘You have a nice face,’ Ashley says, ‘just a bad day.’

  ‘Yeah
. I’m sure Lauren will really dig this look.’ I turn on the oven.

  ‘She might. You’ve got a cool story to go with it. Girls like guys who get into trouble.’

  ‘Nazi trouble?’

  ‘Were they really Nazis?’

  ‘Far right. Debatable.’ I pour the chips and chicken nuggets onto a baking tray and pop it in the oven. ‘At least you and Parker seem to be getting on better.’

  ‘Yeah, we had a little chat. He asked me about Gary. It was…surprisingly nice. I’ve sort of missed him.’

  ‘Good, I’m glad. How was the rest of your day? How’s Norm?’ She shoots me an evil stare.

  ‘Norman,’ she says.

  ‘Right, Norman.’

  ‘He’s good, we might be going away this weekend. He wants to take me to Cromer in Norfolk.’

  ‘Sounds nice.’

  ‘Yeah. I know he’s older but he’s kinda…cool.’

  ‘As long as you’re happy. So, no more shagging, right?’

  ‘Well, it’s not that serious,’ she says. I frown.

  ‘Ash-’

  ‘What? We’re just going away, I’m not marrying the guy. If I still want to fool around then I can.’

  ‘Sounds dodgy to me. Not sure Lauren would be too happy about me ‘fooling around’ with you.’

  ‘Well, what she doesn’t know...’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  ‘Speaking of which, those chips will take half an hour,’ she says, smiling.

  ‘You are bad,’ I say, chuckling. She moves towards me, putting her arm around my waist. I hear Parker heading towards us from the living room. I move Ashley’s hand away from me and quickly turn towards the sink. Parker walks in, puts his plate down and heads out. I glance at Ashley who smiles, I shake my head.

  ‘You started it,’ she whispers, smiling.

  Saturday. When I exit Canada Water tube station, I’m hit by a blinding sun and a balmy seventy-two degrees. I’m wearing a white Calvin Klein slim-fit shirt and stonewashed navy-blue jeans, although now I’m out in the sun, I wish I’d worn shorts. I’ve also got a plastic bag with a six-pack of Fosters. I get out my iPhone and look up the address. James Kennedy lives about five minutes east of here, I start walking. The sun is hot on my neck and I arrive in a partial sweat. The building is a modern apartment block close to the river. I find the intercom on the door and buzz the top floor. A male voice answers.