It was by The Pork Café that I met Syd, looking quite dapper in a shiny leather coat. He was going in for his dinner, ‘It’s a lovely steak pie in ’ere,’ and asked me to tag along – I accepted when he offered to pay.
‘Y’like the coat then?’ he said, as we made ourselves comfortable in smokers’ corner.
‘It’s all right,’ I grunted.
‘Guess ’ow much.’
‘Dunno.’
‘Go on, guess.’
‘Fifty?’
‘’igher.’
‘Eighty?’
‘’igher.’
‘How should I know how much it cost?’
He grinned wider than a post box. ‘Three-’undred and fifty notes. Double breasted, silk linin’ – y’won’t see anyone round ’ere wearin’ one.’
He appeared overly chuffed with his clobber, disgustingly so, and I couldn’t help but frown. As such, awkwardness lingered for a moment, the radio offering a chance for the Spice Girls to yell ‘spice up your life.’ I reckoned I’d have preferred a less radical salt-and-vinegaring up of my life.
‘I’ve been away for a couple a days,’ said Syd, pausing to light a fag. ‘Me and two other lads went up Leeds way to sort somert for Chas.’
‘What?’
‘Can’t say – but it paid well.’ He looked down on his coat and grinned. ‘Ever been to Otley?’
Prat. You’re a tragic prat.
‘Chas ’as been well pissed off since I got back though.’
‘Really,’ I said, preoccupied.
‘Yeh. It’s been bad. Pigs turned up at ’is ’ouse yesterd’y mornin’ – went through everythin’ and left it a right shit tip.’
I wonder if Syd can flog the ring for me?
‘’e got wind of it beforehand like and got a package down to Leon at chip shop…’
Naa. I’d probably have to give him a cut.
‘But when they cun’t find nowt at ’is ’ouse, they went down the shop. Leon’s changin’ the oil and shits ’imself. Chucks a grand’s worth a whizz in the fryer…’
Still, I don’t mind spending a penny to pick up a pound.
‘Then the pigs search Leon and find some wackie. They’re already pissed off cos they’ve got nowt on Chas – so they cart ’im off instead. When word gets out, it’s too late, yer old lady’s opened up the shop and she’s fryin’ away, servin’ whizz and chips to anyone who wants it, and Chas’s got visions of little old ladies bombin’ ’bout like… well like they’re on fuckin’ whizz.’
I laughed an arse crawler’s laugh.
‘But get this: it turns out that in the panic ’e’d got ridda the wrong package. The other stuff’s safe and sound and the pigs’d gone straight past it! Bone idle. Only now he’s missin’ a couple a so called “personal items”.’
‘What?’
‘An anniversary present or somert – I was too busy tryin’ to get out of ’is way. ’e was cheesed off I can tell y’that.’
Syd sucked on his fag and paused to enjoy the hit of nicotine. It seemed a good moment to ask.
‘Listen,’ I said, a little coy. ‘Do you reckon you can do us a favour?’
He smirked at me. ‘Y’after some more mags? I’ve only got a few, but y’can ’ave ’em all for a fiver – some a the pages a stuck together.’
I felt my face flush. ‘No. Can you flog something for us?’
‘What?’
Under the table, discretely, I pulled the matchbox from my jeans pocket.
‘That was it!’ he blurted. ‘I remember now – it was a ring.’
I looked puzzled.
‘One with a fuck-off ruby in it.’
‘Eh?’
‘What Chas’s lost. It was ’is mam’s fortieth weddin’ present. I remember now, ’e was rantin’ ’bout it’s the only thin’ ’e’s got left of ’er.’
The world seemed to pause as my thoughts scattered, danced about and regrouped at about the point of me understanding where my ring had come from.
‘Mind,’ said Syd, ‘I ’eard she was a right old witch – she used to whack ’im with a big stick – I mean y’d think ’e’d wanna forget.’
I panicked, clasped the matchbox inside my fist and sat with my heart beating like someone was trying to get out from inside me.
‘Whoever’s got it won’t ’ave any use for a ring anyway – not after Chas’s chopped their fingers off.’ Syd grinned, either through jest or sadistic pleasure: fear was tampering with my perception. ‘Any’ow, what’s this thingy y’want me to price up?’
‘Nothing!’ I said shortly.
‘What’s up?’
‘Nowt. I’ve just… er… changed my mind.’ I pushed the matchbox down to the deepest depths of my pocket, visions of bloody injuries creeping up on me, panic blurring any clear thoughts. ‘So what’s next?’ I said, with as much composure as I could grasp.
Syd peered, sucking a breath through his teeth. ‘Well the word’s out. It’ll turn up sooner or later, or when someone’s ’ad a kickin’.’
I jumped to my feet. ‘I’ve gotta go now.’
‘Yer pie’s on its way.’
‘You know how it is. Things to do.’
‘I’ve already paid for it.’
‘Soz.’
Hurrying out, I clattered into a full tray of food – I didn’t stop to make sense of the waitress’s cursing.
Five
I am the king of
your pitiful life.
There was only one place I could flee – where Bovril was a beverage and the people could flatulate the theme tune to Coronation Street – there just wasn’t anywhere else.
When I barged in, Dad was slumped in the living room and snoring like a fog horn. My entrance provoked little more than a snort and a flicker from the telly. I wanted him to wake up and bellow at me what to do in his spectacularly arrogant way; I wanted Mum to abandon her fish frying and care about me instead of the price of twenty Silk Cut; and I wanted my sister to come home for once, simply to know she was there. I made straight for my room and curled up. I lay there, dwelling on this bloody ring, but my brain, baking in panic, wasn’t at its most astute. Soon I was out of control, conjectures flying about, all coming to land on a picture of me getting my head kicked in.
A door slammed. The noise resonated and bounced off the bedroom walls – for a second it seemed I could actually see it. I heard mumbling, chunky footsteps passed through the hallway, and then a voice overwhelmed the flat with an abrasiveness that could have grated concrete:
‘Where is he?’
I jolted, a pulse of fear turning my legs to jelly. Unsteadily, I ventured out into the hallway, the door to the living room stood half open, and as I stood back against the wall, a gap below the hinge afforded me a stealthy view of what lay behind.
‘Chas!’ Dad stared up from his chair, wide eyes glazed with fear. His usually ample mouth appeared lost for words. ‘I, er…’
The figure looming over him was fat, face showing an unhealthy shade of red and teeth masticating an imaginary chunk of brick. Chas snorted, like a horse, catching hold of a Silver Jubilee tea cup that lived on the mantelpiece and smashing it across Dad’s comb-over. ‘To focus your mind, Morris.’
Dad gurned, clearly in pain, and gave a succession of quick nods that appeared perfunctory and in fear of the remaining mantelpiece display being dismantled via his head.
The front door stood not ten paces away, the hallway, strewn with discarded jackets and shoes, seemed negotiable with pussy footsteps. How to pass the living room incognito remained to be fathomed – that is, after I’d finished fathoming: Whose fucking great idea was it to come back to this shit hole? And: I’m Fucked.
Back in the living room, Chas’s attention was distracted by a photograph on the wall. He seemed to recognise the scene despite yea
rs of sunlight having faded the image to a haze. ‘Well, well,’ he said dourly. He yanked the frame, taking it from the wall and using a handkerchief to wipe away years of absent housekeeping . ‘1965, we won the cup. How old were we then? Fifteen?’
It was a picture of Dad as a snotling, standing proud in a line-up of West Hull Boys RL team.
Chas pointed someone out. ‘There I am – prop. I got a pounding that season.’
Prop was very apt. He was built like a beer barrel – short and inclining outwards towards the middle. Despite his neatly fitting suit, I could easily imagine him brawling in a scrum.
‘Funny eh, what life deals out?’ Chas forced half a grin that was blatantly insincere. ‘Here we are, thirty-odd years on, me now a successful businessman and you…’ He glanced around our minging abode. ‘Well, you know what I mean.’
For a second, I thought I saw a flash of shame cross Dad’s eyes. ‘Look, about that couple of quid I owe you, I can pay next week. But I’m skint see. It’s our lass’s fault.’
Chas held the photograph aloft, stretching enough to flash his girth, then expediting said portrait towards Dad’s head. He diverted at the final millisecond, the frame splitting as he dropped it onto the carpet and released a laugh from deep within his belly. Dad remained rigid, fingernails clinging to the chair arm – he seemed nonplussed as he joined in Chas’s mirth.
Chas stopped laughing, of a sudden, and I saw a second man step out from the kitchen. The man filled the doorway and cast such a shadow over the room I could have mistaken him for an eclipse – he was colossal. As he stepped forward, a bald head radiated pink in the light, I saw no beard, no tash, not even eyebrows, there wasn’t a strand of hair on his whole head. His presence evoked a whimper from Dad. At once, I knew who the man must be.
He was The Slap.
The relationship was well fabled – two young outcasts who had found solace in each other’s misery: Chas had moved from the opposite side of Hull, from a rival school and superior rugby team, while The Slap was a big, quiet lad afflicted with a peculiar condition which left him with not one fibre of hair on his whole body. They were both bullied viciously. As legend had it, the two of them jumped the local pools collector, a cantankerous old git who’d been doing the round for years. He gave a struggle and refused to hand over any cash, so The Slap showed no compunction in kicking it out of him – the old man died of his injuries shortly after. Such violence sent the shits up people, no-one would dare be a grass, and this marked the beginning of Chas’s rise to tinpot villain. The Slap, however, practically vanished. Time passed and he was exaggerated to the point of mythical beast – a sighting of him became an event in itself. Most people, including me, reckoned he was just an imaginary friend of which Chas had failed to outgrow.
But not so, since I found myself staring at this great Tonka truck of a man. Still and silent, his poise was almost austere. I fidgeted, began to pant, as though desperate for a piss. I could think only to hide, shutting myself inside the junk cupboard, crouching, hands smothering my breathing. My ear pressed against the back of the cupboard, with such force I could hear my blood flow, the room behind muffled.
‘Last time, Morris,’ said Chas. ‘Where’s your lad?’
Dad blurted a reply: ‘Went out. This morning. Not seen him. Honest.’
‘When’s he back?’
‘Dunno. Really. I don’t.’
‘Is he a good boy, Morris? Keeps out of trouble?’
Dad sounded bemused. ‘I, er, well suppose…’
‘A very personal item of mine was taken yesterday.’ I thought I could hear Chas’s teeth grind. ‘Something very dear to me.’
‘Sorry about that, very sorry,’ Dad mumbled.
‘It belonged to Ma – a gift from Dad on their fortieth wedding anniversary. He passed away two months later. Now Ma’s gone as well and it’s the only thing I have left to remember her by.’
‘But how can I help mate – I mean, well, it’s not like, I mean, it’s not got owt to do with me.’
‘This personal item is a ring, Morris – a very expensive ring. And I have it on good authority that Hetty Jones’s grandlad was down Arthur Longie’s shop this morning trying to get rid of it.’
The absoluteness of Chas’s voice seemed to delay Dad’s reply, as he perhaps took time to reflect. ‘But he’s a dickhead.’
‘A dickhead who’s got my fucking ring.’
Anxiety forced my leg to twitch, striking a shelf, then toppling a miniature Christmas tree – a reactionary leg split to catch said decoration spread me over the cupboard floor like a Ginger Jones pâté.
‘So you’d better hope you get to your son before we do,’ said Chas. ‘And now he’s been warned, if I find he’s flogged my ring to some dirty little Del Boy, I won’t be responsible for what happens. Do you understand me?’
‘Yeh. I understand Chas,’ said Dad. ‘Crystal clear.’
The front door slammed.
‘What the bloody hell’s going on in here?’ said Mum.
‘Hello Eileen,’ said Chas.
‘What’s happened?’
‘A slight accident I’m afraid.’
‘Just keep your gob shut woman,’ said Dad.
Mum’s voice rose an octave. ‘I’ve had that cup for years – it’s a limited edition. Now look at the state of it! Is this what I get for finishing a hard shift?’
Dad sounded panicky. ‘Give over woman. What the hell you doing?’
‘Fixing it!’
Footsteps stomped out into the hall, vibrating through me. A second later the cupboard door swung open. Mum stared, then a thud as I dropped the miniature Christmas tree. There was a tube of super glue in an old biscuit tin, which I offered to her, miming in earnest for her to keep quiet – but it was like trying to silence an air-raid siren.
She hollered at me. ‘What you doing in here, idiot?’
I didn’t hesitate to flee the cupboard, Mum withering into a heap as I shoved her aside. I made flight for the front door, negotiating the mess in the hall like a game of hopscotch. Out on the landing, seconds passed in an eternity, the lift unresponsive to my desperate button prods. The Slap was soon behind, followed closely by Chas, and they came for me like a freight train.
‘I want my ring!’ balled Chas. ‘You can’t run – I’ll always find you.’
His threat hung in the air – I thought better of waiting for the lift. So to the stairwell, twenty-six flights, down, down, down, feet pounding up the rear. Fear kept me going like a Duracell battery, on and on and on. Ground level appeared a couple of fry-ups short of heart failure, but still on and on and on. Out into the estate, without direction, I shoved my way through school kids larking football, down a side passage, palpitations revving when I saw nothing in front but—
Brick wall.
The ground seemed to shake under The Slap’s pursuit – I had no choice but to shin it. A running jump, I grabbed on, kicking my legs furiously. The Slap charged, trench coat streaming – in a second I was pinned by my throat. I froze, as if he were a grizzly bear and I was pretending to be dead. With his face pressed close, I saw the imperfections were vast, an accident of God’s hobby as a panel beater. He kept so silent, but with a fixed scowl that commanded surrender.
‘OK. Let go,’ said Chas, his voice scraping along the passage.
The Slap obeyed, I cowered as The Chip Shop King strolled over, sweating, his suit ruffled.
‘Where is it?’ he said.
I gazed up, resigned to my fate.
‘I said where is it?’
‘I-i-in my pocket.’ I fumbled over my jeans with jelly hands.
‘Do you think I’m a fool, eh? A clown here to entertain you?’
‘I’m sorry—’
‘Someone should teach you a lesson – the way I had to learn.’ I caught my reflection in his eyes and it seemed to di
stort with a glimmer of anger. ‘My ma had a stick for when I misbehaved, three lashes on the bones of my arse. She was a vicious bitch. Your daddy was liberal with his fists too; until I was big enough to hit back. You never forget a good beating, it’s character building.’ He prodded me with a stumpy finger – his scorn was palpable. ‘And I want to see how much character you’ve got.’
Fear grasped control of me and triggered a knee-jerk reaction. My leg twitched, jabbed up and caught Chas clean between the legs. A cringe-making yelp reverberated and he jack-knifed, clinging to his bollocks. As he staggered back, his boot clipped a dustbin, he lost his feet and hit the ground like a giant sack of King Edwards.
Everything was then very still. Chas sprawled over the concrete, face down amongst teabags, spaghetti bolognaise and various other contents of a dustbin – but he was breathing, so presumably wasn’t dead. The Slap moved in, narrow eyes moving between the slumped sack of villainy and myself.
‘It was an accident. I’m sorry!’ I blurted.
He knelt beside Chas, prodding for a trace of consciousness, and I imagined the Chip Shop King to be some kind of mother ship, without which all minions had begun to malfunction.
‘An ambulance. I can call an ambulance,’ I said, clasping my hands to disguise the tremor. ‘Have you got a mobile?’
The Slap remained still, silent. His hand clenched, jerking towards me, then still again. A second surge saw him remove his trench coat and cover Chas – as a robotic arm upholstering a car seat.
‘There’s a pub in the next street, I could run there and—’
A gate opened further along the passage, a man in overalls puffing on a cigarette as he guided a bicycle through. He stared, taking a good drag and then a protracted exhalation. ‘What’s going on here?’
‘There’s been an accident,’ I said, the words pouncing. ‘Can I use your phone?’
The Slap extended his legs – like hydraulic cylinders raising him to full brick shithouse. The man dropped his cigarette.
Strange Affairs, Ginger Hairs Page 3