‘Why would I do that?’
‘No-one knows about you, you’d be safe, no-one would know.’
‘Like hell.’
‘I can’t go through this again.’
‘Just this morning, chuck, you walloped me in the face.’
‘And I’m sorry, really. But please take it. It’d just be until…’ My sentence petered to a whimper.
‘You stupid bastard,’ said Brian, following through with a protracted exhalation. He offered a half smile, though I perceived the sentiment similar to pity sex. ‘Maybe, if it’s just… only until you sort things. Temporary foster care, that’s all.’
Two men entered the room in haste, joined at the mouth like Siamese twins.
Yikes!
‘Excuse me.’ Brian scowled. ‘Engaged!’
For a moment, they parted. One giggled, the other shrugged – and they fondled heavily as they left. Outside, a car passed by, awkwardness making the sound very interesting indeed.
‘So,’ said Brian a while later. ‘It seems all you can do is sit tight.’
‘Don’t tell anyone about this,’ I said, looking away as he tucked the ring into some fold of his leather pants. ‘I need to get my head straight.’
‘Fine.’ He continued with a brighter voice, though it sounded forced: ‘Listen chuck, fancy a drink?’
In turn, I forced a smile. ‘Why not.’
Back at the party, we squeezed our way through sweaty bodies, ending by the bar. I stood with my arms folded, a little more at ease in my protective huddle. Brian’s presence seemed to command prompt service, and he placed in front of me a tall glass containing a kind of gloopy concoction. I tasted through a straw, tentatively.
I nodded. ‘Nice.’
‘It’s one of our special cocktails,’ said Brian.
‘What’s it called?’
‘A Cock Sucking Bandit.’
With that, I made an excuse and left.
Two days later
Eighteen
I’ll squeeze every inch
of your pitiful life.
As I left Redbourne Street Police Station, answering bail had made me feel like a white, less murderous O.J. Simpson – that lived in ’Ull. I knew only that the investigation was ongoing, and that I should answer extended bail in a couple of weeks. I found this quite unsatisfactory and considered a formal complaint; but then I remembered the wad of cash inside my toilet tank, and thought it best I didn’t push my luck. Indeed, despite the tease, I dared not disturb the swag nor chance thoughts on how to spend it – a bit like the ring thing really.
‘Taxi for Ginger?’
Across the street, my eyes were drawn to a black cab, engine chugging like a tractor. The driver caught my glance and our eyes held for long enough to make it exceedingly awkward if I walked on. His arm hung lazily from the window, slapping the door panel like a letch on a hooker’s arse.
‘Come on then pal, chop chop,’ he said, his voice hoarse. ‘Meter’s on.’
I shook my head. ‘Not for me.’
‘You’re Ginger?’
I nodded.
‘Then I’m at your service, pal. Prepaid.’
Assuming that police bail came with a free ride, I shrugged, trotted across the road and climbed into the back. ‘Can you take me to—’
Without warning, the doors locked and the cab took off, tipping me across the backseat.
‘St. George’s Road please,’ I said, straightening myself up.
The driver shifted through the gears, a moment in the rear-view mirror showing him as middle-aged and rough looking in a shaven head kind of way. ‘The back seat – there’s a letter,’ he said flatly.
On such prompting, I noticed a folded sheet of A4 resting beside me – inside I found a photograph. The image elicited a retch and conjured such emotion that I felt dizzy. The photo was of me, in a bloody heap by the railway sidings. The reverse read in bold capitals: REMEMBER? As a paralysis held body and mind, the universe seemed to pause and my existence became vacuous. My eyes were fixed, taking multiple snapshots of the photo and feeding the exposures into my head. Each mental representation renewed the pain, as though being punched and kicked by the invisible man. I vomited, and it projected over the back seat – bilious and absent of chunk, it seeped into the upholstery to leave nothing more than a shadow.
‘Oi,’ said the driver, his eyes wide in the rear-view mirror. ‘That’s a standard thirty quid clean-up charge.’
Folding out the sheet of A4, I found within my grasp an HMP Visitation Pass for Hull Prison, prisoner name: Charles Holder.
My nausea returned. ‘What does he…’ I abandoned the question, reckoning the answer to be inescapably bleak.
‘Just doin’ me job pal, that’s all,’ said the driver, peering into the rear-view mirror. Such indifference seemed thinly veiled, a menace to his eyes suggesting he’d have been ready to bundle me into the cab regardless of my co-operation.
I closed my eyes, trusting only in my most basic of instincts – to survive.
I squinted through the streaky window. An enigma of spalling Victorian walls seemed to wrap around the cab, behind the moss of which I could easily imagine rapists playing ping-pong. Inside, I was shown to a table, in a room, watched over by many suspicious eyes. I squirmed as all around me more people came, sat at tables and gazed into oblivion with the same absence. In single file, the rogues entered. Some of them were huge tattooed brutes that shook the ground as they marched to their loved ones; others were small, slimy and seemed to leave a trail across the room. So, as I sat there, around me lovers touching and cherishing what little time they had, I happened upon my own reunion. A man was sitting before me. He wasn’t a loved one – he was a cunt. Perhaps there was someone, somewhere, who wanted to touch him, but that person wasn’t here. Just me. And I judged him a cunt.
Chas stared at me. His face was red, moulded to fit a frown that was rigid and I reckoned had been permanent for many weeks. I looked back at him, glancing away when our eyes held. He seemed less, I mean physically there was less of him, his barrel shaped body drained by a good few pints.
‘There’s lots of people I can’t trust,’ he said.
I paused. ‘I, er, I don’t understand…’
‘Can I trust you?’
He means the ring, right? He must mean the ring. Fuck what do I say? How do I… ‘But why? I mean… Why did—’
‘Can I trust you?’
Nervousness set in like Parkinson’s, and I nodded like the dog in the back of Uncle Ray’s car.
‘That’s good.’
I plucked a little courage. ‘I don’t want… like before…’
‘Behave yourself and there’ll be no problem.’
‘Right.’
‘How’s Morris?’ he croaked, like there was a breeze block in his throat.
‘Dad? He’s, er, OK… I think.’
‘How’s he coping with the split? They’d been together a good few years, right?’
‘Well, I… er, I don’t see that much of him.’
‘That’s good. He’s a parasite.’
‘How did you…?’
‘I pick things up. I hear your old lady’s staying with you?’
I nodded.
‘Must be cosy.’
‘Not exactly.’
‘Too much gob – she drives Leon mad down the fish restaurant.’
If Chas was capable of smiling, the facial twitch I then witnessed was one such expression. It quickly vanished.
‘You see much of Syd?’ he said.
‘No.’
‘Does a bit of bootlegging for your old man I hear?’
I shrugged. ‘I don’t see him – neither of them.’
‘I reckon I can understand that. He betrayed you.’
I looked away – recoll
ecting was still painful.
‘Look kid, I’m making no apologies. I needed you here, so I pulled a dirty trick. Believe me, I’ve done much worse.’ He cleared his throat. ‘But it’s in the past now – it’s all in the past.’
‘Why am I here?’ I said, tentatively.
Chas took a deep breath. ‘You know what happened to me?’
I nodded.
‘I was betrayed too.’
If only he knew – I couldn’t keep eye contact.
‘You’re here to help me with something.’
‘Me?’
He moved in close and lowered his voice. ‘Someone grassed.’ Chas’s face had reddened, almost enough to do away with the lights. ‘Five people knew about the marina that night – no-one else. Four of that five are in here – a couple more of my lads on Micky Mouse shit. Nearly everyone who works for me has had the pigs up their arses – except one. That one knew about the marina, he knew everything. The voice of reason tells me the other lads wouldn’t rat on themselves – if this sticks we’re facing a lot of years. So that leaves one: the one who knew it all yet gets no bother.’ His breath was heavy on my face. ‘What does that say to you?’
‘I’m glad I’m not that one.’
‘So guess who.’
‘I don’t… er…’
Chas almost spat at me: ‘Sydney Clough.’
‘Syd?’
‘I thought he’d bottled it that night – decided he was out of his depth. No. He was down the pigs spewing out.’ He inhaled like a solvent abuser. ‘And you know the worst insult?’
I shook my head.
‘Before it kicked off, I’d trusted Syd with Ma’s ring.’
What?
‘Trusted him to keep it from prying eyes. And now he double-crosses me.’
So Syd sent me the ring?
‘If he thinks he’s found a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow…’
And I passed it to Brian.
‘…He’ll see soon enough that I don’t take that kind of disrespect.’
Why the hell did I bring Brian into this? It’s such a mess! I can’t think… ‘OK,’ I said, ‘Well… thanks for letting me know…’
‘Sit down!’
I sat.
‘Listen.’
I listened.
‘I want you to find Syd.’
That’s not so bad.
‘Take back what’s mine.’
So I go see Brian, get the ring and then tell a few fibs…
‘And then take away the problem.’
OK, that is bad.
‘Pardon?’ I mumbled.
‘Take care of it.’ Chas’s voice scraped my spine and jabbed each vertebrae on the way.
I stared at him.
‘The pigs are on my lads day and night – I can’t risk it. It’s a matter of trust and I’m putting that trust in you. You’re a lucky lad.’
Yes, I’ve really hit the jackpot.
‘I’ll see you all right – don’t worry about that.’
‘But me?… I mean, I’m not…’
‘I need it safe. Simple. You minded it before – if I struggled for it you must have something about you. Besides, you owe Syd. Am I right?’
I shut my eyes. I couldn’t comprehend what was being asked of me, it seemed surreal. Nothing could have prepared me for such a smack in the face. In fact, I would have preferred a smack in the face.
‘I can’t… I mean…’ I took a long, deep breath. ‘What if?’
‘If?’
I spilled the words quickly. ‘If I can’t do it – if I won’t do it?’
It was quiet for a moment.
‘I think we’ve been there before kid.’
Indeed we had, I wasn’t keen on going back.
I opened my eyes and stared into nothing. Chas spoke and I grunted intermittently, God only knows what he was saying, what I agreed to. I was drowned in thought yet I couldn’t tell a single one. Seconds passed, minutes, perhaps hours. All I knew was that my head was in a bad place.
Soon, a screw called out we had five minutes left. The room was again reality and there became a busyness. Goodbyes stained the air with snot and the occasional escaped tear. There was a loud sobbing, in particular. Accentuating, it made the people mumble, and I followed the room’s attention to see a man, hands clasped with an older lady, openly crying like a child.
It was The Slap.
I gawped. He was like a balloon model, but made from muscle sausages, and seeing this huge, hairless lump blubbering so – it was really shocking.
After a while Chas said: ‘Can’t cope – seeing his nan. Too much shame.’
I looked at him.
‘She brought the kid up – mother never wanted to know.’
I could have felt sad – but I didn’t.
And so time was called. Goodbye slobbers preceded slow, clingy exits. Goodbye punches preceded quick, obscenity driven ejections. Everyone avoided The Slap like he was syphilis.
We became the last dregs. Chas helped four screws prise The Slap from his nan – I would have been embarrassed had I not a sack of woe. The struggle faded and the room held three.
‘Come on Chip Shop – you too,’ said a screw.
Chas glanced back and pointed at me. ‘Be clever.’
I looked up, but said nothing.
Nineteen
Whatever I wish,
it smells of fish.
I’d never been a huge drinker. A few bottles of Newcastle Brown once taught me I could long-jump the length of a Ford Sierra; and then a kebab taught me I could vomit the length of three. This had warranted selective abstinence, but that night, like many other lonely, woeful people on the planet, my despairing moments were accompanied by a massive intake of alcohol. I staggered about town, hugging my bottle of cider like it was precious pornography. Incapacity kidded me into thinking a two litre bottle of White Strike had simply made me ‘merry’, and as such, I found myself kicking at the front door of a house. Before long, there was light, an open widow, and someone shouting from the house over the fence.
‘What business have you here?’ said a woman, the bedroom behind glowing a kind of brothely-pink.
I burped in her direction. ‘Business of the mind your own sort.’
‘I’m calling the police!’
‘No-one’s in,’ I said.
There was a pause, before she screamed at me: ‘That’s the shed you twat.’
I had wondered why someone had a ride-on mower in their front room. I pressed my face against the window. It was a very big shed, bigger than my bedsit. I considered this – I reckoned I could have lived happily in such a shed.
You see, unlike the streets/landfills I was accustomed to walking, I found myself in a place where dog shit was scooped and the street lights didn’t flicker. Had I not been intoxicated, I would have noticed a very large house next to the lawnmower shed, I would have noticed the Lexus in the drive, and I would have noticed the empty swimming pool I then fell into.
Failing that, I would have definitely noticed the ‘beware of dog’ sign, I would have noticed the growling, and I would have noticed the saliva strung fangs as I clambered up.
The dog bit me and I fell back in.
I screamed like a girl, clasping my hand tight to my chest. Intoxication numbed me a little, and as the pain subsided, so too my wails faded into the cold night air. I slumped in the swimming pool – the barking above me was incessant and the dog’s heavy breath created a mist that hung overhead. I simply sprawled over the bottom. Seconds became minutes became a smear of time. High up, the night sky was clear, glittering – I was sure I saw a shooting star. I made a wish, though alas, a kebab remained elusive.
‘Don’t move you little shit!’ A voice cut the air with a horrible shrill: ‘Don’t speak, and d
on’t think I won’t chop you up.’
My bleary eyes fixed on a half-naked girl – wielding a garden spade. Beside her, the dog growled, as if performing a duet.
‘Fancy the Lexus do you?’ she yelled, struggling to keep the towel covering her modesty. ‘Suzi likes chewing on testicles.’ The dog barked in reply. ‘And she’ll enjoy shitting you out in the neighbour’s flower bed.’
Notwithstanding the eroticism of flushed female flesh clutching a long wooden handle, the situation was potentially quite serious. I reckoned a sharp spade could equal a sharp scream – and hardly orgasmic. There were two reasons for my casual sprawling. Firstly, I was drunk – which is self-explanatory; and secondly, the realisation of where I was, what I was doing there, and whom was threatening me was battling such drunkenness.
‘Look at me!’ said the girl.
I obeyed.
‘You may speak before Suzi eats you.’
I paused. ‘Hello Ms Fish.’
It was quiet.
‘What?’ she said.
‘It’s me.’
She squinted. ‘Just who the hell are you?’
‘I need help,’ I said.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘A gun.’
‘It’s you.’
Me indeed.
‘You look like a tramp… and you’re drunk. Just wait until I tell Daddy.’
‘Shall I put on a tie?’
‘Get out of my pool!’
I struggled to move, but could manage no more than a slump.
‘Get out of here – I never want to see you again.’
‘Help me.’
‘Use the steps you shit.’
I felt a lump in my throat. ‘Help me.’
‘Speak up!’
A tear tickled my cheek. ‘I don’t know what to do.’
‘Try a shower.’
And so the feeble grip I held over my emotion was relinquished – I cried like a snotling.
‘What’s the matter with you? Get a grip.’
‘I don’t want to kill him.’
‘What?’
‘I can’t – I won’t.’
Ms Fish lowered her spade. ‘I don’t understand. Stop blubbing.’
‘Scare him away – maybe I could tell him to go away and never come back. No-one’d know.’
Strange Affairs, Ginger Hairs Page 10