Strange Affairs, Ginger Hairs

by Arthur Grimestead

  ‘Neither did Mr Fish.’

  ‘Not quite the same thing, chuck.’

  ‘I didn’t realise there were subtle grades of not giving a toss.’

  Seemingly in recognition of the cantankerous taint to my tone, Brian moved on with the conversation. ‘I still can’t believe you covered for the little fish – and for all that time.’

  I shrugged. ‘Truth’s out now.’

  ‘For what good it’s done. I ask you – British justice! And I hope those other bloody brutes rot in hell.’

  ‘Don’t remind me.’

  ‘But you’re a hero.’

  ‘They’re not actually dead, remember.’

  Brian pulled a face. ‘Then they should rot behind bars!’

  I cut my thoughts and continued with a more dourly voice. ‘My dad was up in court yesterday.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘He’s got to pay back three grand.’

  ‘Well I suppose that’s good?’

  ‘Kind of. Only thing is he fell down the steps outside the court – apparently he’s broken his leg in three places.’

  ‘God. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Well, at least now he’s got a real reason to claim disability.’

  ‘If you want to look at it that way.’

  ‘Mum was all over him too – it’s like they’ve never been apart.’

  Brian shrugged and stuck his face back in his magazine. ‘And so the natural order of the world is restored. We can all get back to normal now, eh? Let’s look forward to the millennium bug annihilating humanity.’

  I paused. There wasn’t a normal anymore – not for me. Normal was driving a scooter beneath the city, plotting an abduction, defiling a beautiful lady. Maybe the old normal was still there, somewhere; but I couldn’t see it – I didn’t want to see it.

  ‘Brian?’

  He didn’t look up from his magazine. ‘Yeh?’

  ‘I’ve got something to say.’

  ‘Go on then, chuck.’

  ‘It’s time for change.’

  ‘That’s the third time this afternoon.’

  ‘Now.’

  ‘Can’t you wait until after tea break – I brought us both a bun.’

  I stood up. ‘See you Brian.’

  He didn’t move as I passed him. ‘You coming to line dancing tonight then?’

  I looked back briefly, then kept walking.

  All the way to the kettle. I switched it on. ‘You know what Brian?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  I smiled. ‘I’d love to come.’

  Forty-Two

  Maybe it’s today I ride

  my horse into the sunset.

  That afternoon, I left work early, taking a bus across the city – and perhaps existence felt a little less futile.

  I stood before a fairly inconspicuous house. It was bright outside, but bloody cold, and trotting up to the front door, I shivered. The doorbell made a sound like a bad game of Operation, and a man was keen to answer.

  ‘You Ginger?’ he said. His tone was polite, though he was unshaven and smelt of sweat.

  I nodded.

  ‘Come on through.’ He grinned and held the door open. ‘Out the back fella.’

  I stepped inside, a little cautiously, and he directed me through a messy house. Out the back, the fenced-in garden contained a hoard of old washing machines, spare wheels, a kitchen sink and similar presumed scrap. There was a patch of green grass, uncontaminated by the rubbish around.

  And there she stood.

  My hands were cold as I pulled from my back pocket a clipping from the local trade mag and compared her to a picture I’d circled in biro. She was a GS Vespa, metallic blue and cream, a little worn, but beautifully so.

  ‘Like I said,’ the man mumbled, ‘she needs a bit of attention.’

  I bent my knees and felt underneath. ‘Some rust down there.’

  ‘She’s still a good runner.’

  ‘How much then?’

  ‘Well the advert says…’

  I sniffed, but didn’t look at him. I wanted her, I was sure of that. Straightening up, I faced the man. ‘Bit much.’

  ‘I’ll knock off a tonne, but that’s it. It’s for the kids you see – I wanna take ’em to Florida.’

  ‘I’ve got cash.’

  As I pulled a sandwich bag from my underpants, the man pulled a face. ‘Strange place to keep it,’ he said.

  ‘It’s kind of a habit,’ I said, tugging on the seal. ‘So how much again?’

  ‘Like I just said…’

  I grinned. ‘Deal.’

  The Preston Straight was a road, so called by its lack of curvy characteristics, popular with hairy bikers keen on speed and the seeming anonymity of the countryside. I commanded my new Vespa along this road. The sound of an overactive hairdryer sustained under my twisting of the throttle, a noise that resonated across the countryside. The wind chill made my teeth chatter, my fingers so cold I practically lost sensation – but I was happy. I was happy to feel the open air; hear the buzz of the engine; see the fields whizz by. My wheels consumed the road, with each twist of the throttle and each acceleration, I felt totally in control. It was a feeling I’d forgotten, indeed, I’d known little of. But I liked it. I smiled to myself.

  Epilogue

  The Lion Hotel Line Dancing Quintet finished sixth (out of six) in the regional dance finals, losing on account of a technicality: They were crap.

  HOLDER, Charles. Passed away at the Royal Infirmary on 30th November aged 50 years, loving husband to the late Samantha, much loved dad and granddad. Service to be held in the Small Chapel, Chanterlands Crematorium on Thursday 12th December at 10.30am. Flowers welcome but donations to Dove House Hospice may be left at the service.

  HOLDER, Charles. Dad, you’re with the angels now. My heart is broken, I will miss your big hugs so much. Love you forever, Cindy. XXX

  Night night Granddad, love Shane and Brittney. XXX

  HOLDER, Charles. Dear brother of William, in-law Pauline. Still can’t believe you’re gone. Miss you loads mate. Love Billy, Pauline and the girls.

  HOLDER, Charles. A good friend that will be sadly missed. Sympathy to Cindy and family. Rest in peace – Arthur Long (Longie).

  HOLDER, Charles. Never forget the way you looked after me when there was no-one else. Will miss you ‘Uncle Charlie’. Leon.

  HOLDER, Charles. Sadly missed. Rest in peace son. Mum.