Strange Affairs, Ginger Hairs

by Arthur Grimestead

  ‘What kind of accident?’ said the man.

  ‘I just need to use your phone,’ I snapped.

  The man sniffed, fidgeted on his feet and then pointed back through the gate. ‘Better come this way.’

  Edging forward, I held up my hands in a don’t shoot kind of way. ‘I-I’m going to get help,’ I said.

  The Slap’s eyes trailed my tiptoe steps – he lunged. I stumbled against the wall, flinching as his breath warmed my face. His gaze seemed impotent, he looked back to Chas, hand clenching, then back to me, back to Chas – all suggesting fizzled connections inside his meat head.

  ‘There’s a phone in the house,’ said the man, his voice sounding forced and somewhat reluctant.

  I shuffled my feet, building courage for a sidestep. The Slap appeared to have seized. Slyly, I moved across the wall, the man dressed in overalls drew closer. I took a long breath, glancing back at The Slap.

  And then I ran away.

  Back on the street I moved faster than I thought I was capable. My legs switched to cruise control and continued unawares as I gasped for breath and battled lactic acid. Six streets passed and my body seemed to double in weight. I struggled forward, as if a giant elastic band was pulling me back, but I could carry myself no longer. I hailed the assistance of a number thirty-eight. All I had was some loose shrapnel, but it turned out enough for a ride. I sat on the back seat, alone and trembling. My head was mush, I couldn’t comprehend the shit I’d stirred. I had no clue what to do or even where I was going, but as home soon became the distance, one thing was glaringly clear – I couldn’t go back.

  Six

  I’ll be your

  best friend.

  Sleeping rough. Or rough sleeping. That night, either way described my range of affordable accommodation. I mooched around the city centre. My T-shirt and jeans were feeble protection against a choppy November breeze and I cuddled myself. Darkness had crept up. Music boomed from every pub like a pneumatic drill, and as the theme bars flashed arrogantly, so they filled with kids out of their heads on cheap booze. The city centre seemed much more sinister post eight o’clock, scallywags and pushers lurking in shop doorways, emerging from the crannies of the gaudy bars and mucky pubs – I reckoned cosmopolitanism had been delayed at Manchester since 1996. My pace became urgent. I stopped before exhaustion, and after someone called me a ginger tosser – a back alley and a cardboard box my bed for the night. The ring remained within the depths of my pocket, such a little thing weighing so heavily. The simple solution was to give it back, I knew that, just not how. I could hardly drop by on Chas: ‘All right mate, here’s the ring you were going to kill me for. By the way, how’s that bump on your head?’ No, it had to be delivered – and by someone I could trust.

  My sister was like me – she hated home. We talked sometimes. Sometimes we laughed. Her way was to be somewhere else and let boys fiddle with her.

  But she was OK.

  Morning arrived with all the cheeriness of living in a cardboard box beneath a grey sky. My musing had congealed into something you might call a plan, guiding me to a telephone box. In Hull, such oldie telephone boxes were a cream colour – the only place in England to rebel against the ubiquitous red. I dropped a scavenged twenty-pence into the slot, my dialling evoking a cringe as I felt a peculiar moistness to the buttons. Outside, I watched a gaunt man step out from Jackson’s supermarket and open a can of super strength lager. Inside, smelt of piss.

  Ring ring.

  Ring ring.

  She has to be home, it’s her giro day.

  Ring-bloody-ring.

  Pick the phone up you lazy bastards.

  Ring…

  ‘’ello?’ said a voice.

  Eh? A man? That’s not Dad…

  ‘’ello?’

  ‘Is Mary there?’ I mumbled.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Mary.’

  ‘Naa.’

  ‘Well, er, when is she back?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Who is it?’ said the voice.

  ‘A friend.’

  ‘Which friend?’

  ‘Er…’

  ‘Is that Ginger?’

  What? Shit!

  ‘It is innit?’ said the voice.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Shit! Y’re in some shit mate!’

  ‘How—’

  ‘It’s Syd mate.’

  Syd? Hang on a minute. ‘What you doing there?’

  ‘Started goin’ out with yer Mary.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Out.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Where’s Dad?’

  ‘Watchin’ telly with yer old lady. I’ve just brought ’em some cheap baccy. Wanna speak to ’em?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Calm down Charlie Brown.’

  ‘Look. When did Mary say she’d be back?’

  ‘Dunno mate. Tell y’what though, Chas is after yer blood.’

  I took a nervous breath. ‘You must have an idea where she is?’

  ‘Naa. Probably shoppin’.’

  Fuck… I can’t wait for Mary to decide on shoes or hair colour or tampons. ‘Listen, I need you to do something for me,’ I said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Come and meet me.’

  ‘What? Where?’

  ‘I’ll tell you in a minute; but first I want you to go in my room…’

  ‘Yer room?’

  ‘Just listen!’

  He was quiet.

  ‘Go in my room, and between my mattresses there’s a magazine with something in it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘My passport – it’s with my jobseekers’ book – I use it for ID.’

  ‘No I mean what mag?’

  ‘Big Ones Monthly!’ I snapped, echoing around the phone box.

  He chortled. ‘OK mate.’

  ‘And Syd…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Say it’s double glazing on the phone.’

  ‘Whatever y’say mate.’

  I waited, smiling nervously to a man waiting outside.

  Finally, after much fidgeting, Syd returned.

  ‘Got it.’ I could almost hear him grinning.

  ‘I need you to bring it to me.’

  ‘The porno?’

  ‘My passport.’

  ‘It’ll ’ave to be this afters – I’m busy at the mo.’

  ‘Meet me at the train station, in half an hour.’

  ‘Are y’avin’ a laugh? I’ve got things need doin’.’

  ‘And I need you to lend me two-hundred quid.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Please?’

  It was quiet for a moment. And another moment. ‘Y’ll owe me a biggy!’ he said.

  ‘Thanks. And Syd?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Not a word to anyone – and I mean anyone.’

  ‘No probs mate.’

  ‘Thanks… mate.’

  With that our conversation concluded.

  Outside, the man leered at me. ‘Big Ones Monthly?’

  I blushed and trotted off. ‘It’s a fishing magazine.’

  Seven

  What d’you say?

  Take my hand.

  Amongst the bustle of Paragon Railway Station, I propped myself beside WHSmith – preoccupied with conspicuous attempts to look inconspicuous. Bodies spilled onto the concourse in flurries, having alighted from such exotic extremities as Selby. I felt myself fidget. Glancing up, massive iron arches supported a glass roof that appeared as fragile as my mental state. Syd was late. I expected he would be because he was an idiot – but it still unnerved me. So long as the ring weighed my pocket I’d be a wreck, and I yearned the r
elief of passing on its burden.

  And then? I was only more determined to get away.

  ‘All right Ginger?’ A passport waggled in my face. ‘What’s up?’

  There he was, my skinny speccy saviour.

  ‘You’re late,’ I said.

  ‘Bleedin’ buses innit.’

  ‘Anyone know you’re here?’

  ‘Chill out. Nobody knows nowt.’

  He handed over my passport – I snatched it.

  ‘Y’ll need that – Chas ever finds ye ’e’ll kill ye.’

  No shit.

  ‘Got yer cash too.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Next week’s bloody wages!’ He pulled an envelope from his inside pocket.

  ‘Not here,’ I said.

  I peeped around before leading him across the concourse. We passed the fancy doors of the Station Hotel, my glance inside reciprocated by some prim looking old woman – I didn’t know her, yet somehow she made me feel like a naughty schoolchild. I quickened my pace. Out into the car park, behind a hole in the fence, we settled on the sidings beside the disused platforms.

  ‘I shagged Becky Smith round these parts,’ said Syd, ‘bent ’er over them buffers.’

  ‘The money?’

  He handed me the envelope nonchalantly. ‘When’s this comin’ back. I’m no charity.’

  ‘When I can. I promise.’

  He gave a tut. ‘The last promise I got round ’ere cost me one a them paternity tests.’

  ‘Listen,’ I said, ‘I need you to do something else.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘About the ring.’

  ‘What’s the score? Y’floggin’ it?’

  ‘When you see Chas…’ I dug it from my pocket, holing it out on an open hand. ‘Give him a present.’

  Syd stepped back. ‘No way.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Not like this.’

  I stared at him.

  ‘I mean… ’e’d flip if ’e thought I was in on it.’

  ‘Just tell him it was a mistake.’

  ‘No.’

  I forced the ring onto him. ‘Say you kicked my head in to get it – say anything – just make sure he gets it.’

  His face seemed to pull in different directions. ‘Y’can’t just give it back – ’e wants to see ye… y’ve gotta get what’s comin’.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Not like this.’ He flicked his hand away and the ring jangled across the tracks. ‘Make me fight y’for it.’

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’

  ‘Pick it up.’

  ‘Eh?’ I pulled a face.

  ‘Pick it up!’

  I bent down, not because of Syd, but because I could imagine, painfully, what Chas would do if I lost the ring.

  Syd kicked me in the face.

  I fell.

  ‘D-don’t move,’ he mumbled.

  I held my head, blood trickling through my fingers. My senses were mudded, the world all at once distanced, as though my head were under water. The pain was acute and wholly disorientating.

  Syd pulled me from the track, propping me against the buffers, his voice tremulous. ‘Soz Ginger, I am.’

  Pain restricted my communication to a dull grunt. I gazed up at him, my eyes re-focusing continually.

  Turning away, Syd took out his mobile. ‘It’s me… Yeh. Behind the station… Naa. No trouble… Where? Couple a minutes?… Yeh. See ye.’

  Still, I couldn’t beat the pain to speak.

  I watched Syd light a fag. He inhaled deeply, flicking the ash, and as he glanced back, for a moment our eyes held. He picked up the ring and it glimmered on his palm. It seemed to command his attention, as though it held the meaning of life. The moment lasted, long enough to whistle a decent tune, and then, finally, he looked at me and said: ‘Mate, I’ve got loyalties.’

  I’d have called him a bastard, but the pain just allowed me to groan.

  ‘I dint wanna ’urt ye, honest.’

  Honest? Ha – fucking – ha.

  ‘Still mates though? I mean, this is just business.’

  I blinked away a droplet.

  ‘Yeh, just business,’ he said decidedly.

  I closed my eyes and drifted. Syd kept talking but my head throbbed louder. I was hurting, but I could take it – as he said, it was just business.

  The world inside my mind was peaceful. Reality was distant and I could be anything, anywhere I wanted. I could be happy.

  But there were voices, at first just whispers, but they amplified, to shouts, to bellows, and soon my sunny-seaside-ice-cream-van delusions became intolerable. They’d come to drag me back.

  ‘What have you done to him?’

  ‘I only kicked him in ’is ’ed.’

  ‘How many times?’

  ‘Dunno. Twice?’

  ‘Dickhead.’

  ‘I thought it’s what y’wanted?’

  ‘This was my pleasure.’

  ‘Soz.’

  ‘He’s totally gone.’

  ‘Naa.’

  ‘And there’s too much blood. I’ve taught you to be tidy.’

  ‘It’s ’is ’ed innit – yer ’ed always bleeds buckets.’

  ‘Can he hear us?’

  ‘Dunno. Maybe.’

  My face was slapped, hard. ‘Can you hear me?’

  I groaned – the voice went through me like a fingernail running down a blackboard.

  ‘You with it?’

  I opened my eyes to Chas’s fat face, its redness making me squint.

  ‘Good.’

  He punched me.

  I screamed.

  ‘That’s better.’ He moved up close, giving a sample of his less than hygienic breath. A lump on his forehead stuck out like a small plumb, I reckoned a memento from our last encounter. ‘Now, listen to me. I’ve got my ring, so I’m pacified.’

  Funny, my throbbing nose doesn’t quite see it like that.

  ‘I can see you’ve had a kicking, so maybe I’ll take that as even. Understand?’

  I groaned.

  ‘I know you’re not a daft lad, so I know you’re not gonna say anything. Right? No grudges, and no pigs.’

  Groan.

  ‘Good lad.’

  I slumped a little further. Chas dug his hands beneath my pits and sat me up. He peered at me, kind of curiously. ‘You know, you’ve got bollocks.’

  Yes, I often play with them.

  ‘More than your old man, that’s for certain. You remind me of me when I was your age – nobody going nowhere, waiting for your chance to show ’em.’ He moved closer still, his tone alluding less to physical harm. ‘I know what it’s like to be a loser, you’ve gotta find those bollocks and go for it. You have, and some. Trouble is you fucked with the wrong fella.’

  I really didn’t want to fuck, it just kind of happened, and then… well, I was fucked.

  ‘You see, you’ve gotta have that bit extra, something upstairs. Example: Syd over there – he’s eager, maybe he’s got bollocks – but he’s daft. I say, he does. He’s a puppet.’

  ‘What?’ said Syd.

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘But…’

  Chas glowered.

  Syd trotted off.

  ‘As I said – he’s a puppet. But that’s only entertaining for so long. I need someone who shows a bit of noddle – someone who can shift a mobile phone and know not to knock at the house it was lifted from. I’ve been thinking, maybe you’ve got more than the usual dickheads round here.’

  I gave an empty stare.

  ‘What do you say? Work for me?’

  A job?

  ‘Hundred a week – keep signing and you’ll clear another fifty.’

  With real money?

&
nbsp; His face moved so close I could feel his breath on my eyeballs. ‘I’m giving you a chance to be somebody, rise above the losers and earn respect. Your whole family’s a joke – dad: sloven, mum: crone, sister: trollop. You can be different. Come on, what do you say?’

  It was quiet, his breathing was heavy. The sight, the smell and the viciousness of his words: I was wholly repulsed. I drew what little energy I could muster. His horrible, fat face was grinning – I could bear no more.

  I spat blood at him.

  Chas didn’t move. Time seemed to freeze but for the spit trickling down his face, its red trail like war paint. He rose to his feet, smeared his face with a calm brush of his sleeve, staring, not a twitch betraying the thoughts in his head. Then, from the depths of his bowels came a bellowing laugh – it was excruciating: ‘Your funeral our kid.’

  As he stepped away, a shadow came down, vast and dark enough to render a chill. I saw The Slap. He was towering, silent, ready at the snap of a finger.

  And so that finger snapped.

  The 2:15 arriving from Bridlington hid my cries from the world.

  PART TWO

  September 1999

  Eight

  Coffee, tea and misery is an

  exquisite brand of company.

  I gazed over a corrugated roof, the vents like tin mushrooms, regimented and poised to attack. They divulged the workings of the factory below via an unambiguous pong to any nostril within a half mile.

  Fish.

  My desk stood by a first floor window, within such proximity that sometimes I could taste the air. Still, at least I worked in the office above the fish factory – and the only fish I had to negotiate was a haddock in a top hat smiling back from the headed letter paper.

  I sighed and dropped my tuna mayo sandwich into the bin – the last thing I wanted was fish for my bloody lunch.

  ‘Not eating, Ginger?’ said Brian, appearing next to me.

  I didn’t reply, his stealthy movement across the office rather off-putting.

  ‘Everyone should have three meals a day, we owe it to ourselves. Our body is our temple.’

  ‘Not hungry,’ I mumbled.

  My stomach growled in disagreement.

  He prodded me. ‘Sounds like someone’s telling fibs. Have some of my couscous, I made it fresh this morning.’