Red Gloves, Volumes I & II

by Christopher Fowler

  Dudley was ancient and yellow with nicotine, but vanity required him to dye his hair and eyebrows a peculiar shade of chestnut. He never shaved properly, and had been living in a single room in a bed & breakfast joint on the front ever since his wife killed herself. He smelled of sweat, rolling tobacco and Old Spice.

  ‘I’m doing a guest spot in the second act because their comic got fired for always being pissed during rehearsals. But I told them I’m not doing it Chinese, I’ll play it straight, thank you very much. I sing ‘Windmills of Your Mind’, do some newspaper tearing and balloon animals, let Barnacle Bill tell a couple of off-colour jokes, then I’m off over to the Lord Nelson for a pint.’ Barnacle Bill was Dudley’s ventriloquist’s dummy. Quite what he was doing in Aladdin was anyone’s guess. With its lascivious wink, rolling eyes, peeling lips and dry, startled hair the dummy tended to have a terrifying effect on children. Lately, Dudley had been dying his hair darker and was starting to look more like his dummy than ever. Both had been at their peak of popularity during the war, and were soon to be shut up in boxes.

  ‘What’s it like, being in a panto?’ Harry asked.

  ‘Fucking awful. Widow Twankey went to prison for child molesting a few years back. How he got the job here I’ll never know. Must know someone on the council. It’s not right. We have to get children up on stage and make them do a dance. Barnacle Bill shouted at one of them last week and the little fucker pissed himself. I gave his arm a right good pinch as he left the stage. It stinks up there.’

  ‘Do you get comps?’

  ‘I wouldn’t bother, there’s nobody in except a party of spastics from Rhyll, and they’re making a hell of a noise. I don’t think they’re getting any of the jokes. They’re probably throwing shit at each other by now.’

  ‘You’re not supposed to say spastics.’

  ‘Who fucking cares down here? It’s not exactly the London Palladium, is it?’

  ‘Is there an orchestra?’

  ‘No, Eileen’s on the piano and there’s a bloke with a drum kit. But he’s only got one arm.’

  ‘Shark?’

  ‘Thalidomide. There’s a wiggly little hand at the end. Gives me the creeps.’

  Toby and Harry kept walking. They passed the rock shop, where stretches of sickly peppermint folded back and forth on metal spindles like elasticated innards. The window was filled with edible novelty items: giant false teeth, bacon and eggs, an outsized baby’s dummy, a bright pink penis. Behind the counter an enormously fat girl in hoop earrings and a tiny skintight top stared at them as if she was wondering how they might taste.

  At the next corner, four old people stood watching while a fifth attempted to park his car. The car was small and the space was huge, but the driver managed to hit both the vehicle behind and the one in front several times over. The pensioners stood there watching, without offering any advice or help. Finally the car was parked two feet from the kerb and the group crept on, their excitement over.

  ‘You know that Morrissey song, “Everyday Is Like Sunday”?’ asked Harry. ‘Do you think he wrote it about Cole Bay?’

  ‘What, “the coastal town they forgot to close down”? Yeah, probably. How much longer?’

  Harry checked his mobile. ‘Forty-five minutes. Wanna go in the funfair?’

  ‘Not really, but we’re here now.’ They walked in beneath the broken coloured bulbs of the Cole Bay Kursaal and headed for the ghost train. The Kursaal used to be called Funland, but the council changed the name after too many accidents gave the place a bad reputation.

  The ghost train’s plywood frontage had been painted with crude copies of Scooby-Doo characters, along with some skeletons and demons cribbed from old Marvel comics. From within came a shriek of unoiled metal and a wail like a ghost calling through a hooter. Toby and Harry bypassed the deserted ticket counter—Charleen, the girl who worked there, was round the back having a fag—and flicked on the power as they passed the ride’s main junction box. Jumping into the first narrow carriage, they rolled off, banging through the doors into darkness. An acrid tang of electricity and damp cloth filled their nostrils. The car twisted about on its miniature track, its wheels crackling with errant voltage as they passed a dummy of Dracula that looked more like a leprous orchestra conductor.

  ‘So, are you in?’ Toby shouted as they juddered around a Day-Glo graveyard.

  ‘It’s up to you,’ said Harry, who always followed Toby’s instructions. ‘I guess so. Are we really going to the pictures?’

  ‘No, of course not. Go home and get your stuff, then meet me at the arcade.’ That was it. Toby’s mind was made up. Harry felt a pitch in his stomach, and knew it was real now. They would run away and leave this miserable cemetery behind for good.

  When the ghost train carriage returned to its station at the front of the ride, it was empty.

  Harry knew what he had to do. He ran back along the street toward his parents’ house. Meanwhile, Toby walked into the Paradise Penny Arcade. He passed the old man who spent his life rhythmically shoveling coins into the Penny Rapids, passed the Skee-Ball slides, the Driving Test, the Flick-A-Ball slots and came up against the creepy Jolly Jack Tar in its wooden case. The damned thing was a museum piece, and had been giving him nightmares ever since he was a baby. Its skin was just plaster, its rictus smile mere painted wood, but it looked leathery and cancerous, like an embalmed corpse. When a ten-pence piece was inserted, it rocked back and forth squealing with laughter while a crackly organ recording of ‘I Do Like to Be Beside the Seaside’ played. The sailor grinned and eyed him from the side of its head, as if to say I know what you’re up to.

  He carried on past banks of beeping, squealing money-stealers and jerky out-of-date video games, to the change booth. He knocked on the scratched, filthy glass, startling Winfrey.

  ‘Fuck off, Toby, you nearly gave me a fucking heart attack,’ Winfrey complained, wiping mustard pickle from his T-shirt. He set down his sandwich and stared blearily through the glass. He had a red spiderweb tattooed across his forehead and had several teeth missing, so that at first glance it looked as if he had fallen through a plate glass window. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘What time are you cashing up?’

  ‘My shift ends in twenty minutes, but Michelle can’t get here until half past. You gonna mind the booth for me?’

  ‘What’s it worth?’

  ‘I’ll give you a quid. If you’re gonna hang around, don’t fuck up the machines with plastic.’

  ‘Yeah, all right. I’m waiting for Harry anyway.’ He made his way over to a one-arm bandit, watched until Winfrey had turned his back and inserted a coin-shaped piece of plastic into the slot. He waited for the tumblers to trip, then removed it. While he was playing, he checked the railway timetable in his pocket.

  He became aware that a gigantic woman was standing beside him. She looked like something from a seaside postcard. She was wearing a red and white spotted cap the size of a Christmas pudding above a shiny purple wig, a billowing green and yellow gown with metal saucepans fixed over breasts like beach balls, Union Jack bloomers and striped leggings. She pursed bee-sting lips and batted her false eyelashes at him. Her doughy face was coated in Belisha-beacon-coloured makeup that ended in a line across her wobbly chin. ‘I hope you’re not trying to cheat the machines, little boy,’ she said in a bizarre falsetto.

  Toby turned to look at her. ‘Who are you supposed to be?’ He took an involuntary step back.

  ‘I’m the Widow. All the little boys and girls come to see me. Haven’t you been to see me?’ Widow Twankey fluttered and simpered, waggling her padded hips. She had come off stage between numbers to have a couple of ciggies and a few slugs of scotch from her hip flask. ‘Aladdin’s singing his ballad. He’ll drag it out for twenty minutes at least. Thinks someone from the telly will spot him and make him a star. Fat fucking chance.’ Twankey’s voice had dropped to a normal male register now, but still retained an unpleasantly theatrical sibilance. ‘Show me what you’ve got in your
hand.’ Pudgy beringed fingers slapped his knuckles. Toby opened his fist to reveal the clear plastic coin.

  ‘Perhaps I should tell old Winfrey what you’re up to, stealing his money.’

  ‘No, don’t.’

  ‘Then come and give your old auntie a kiss.’

  ‘You’re not my auntie.’

  ‘No, but you can fucking pretend for a minute, unless you want Winfrey to call the cops on you.’ The widow came close enough for Toby to smell whisky on her breath. She wetly pursed her lips. Toby grimaced and allowed her to plant a kiss on his cheek. As she did so, she slid her hand over the top of his right thigh and the crotch of his jeans. ‘You’ve got some good muscles on you for a young ’un,’ she hissed, giving his cock a squeeze. ‘Big for your age. Come and see matron after the show and I’ll take you backstage if you like. I keep special presents for my favourite boys and girls back there.’ The widow gave a slow, exaggerated wink and released him. ‘Now run along and play.’

  Harry ran in with the duffel bag and was holding it high. ‘I’ve got it,’ he said excitedly as the pantomime dame sailed past him.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, stop waving it around.’ Toby snatched it away and pulled him into the shadows behind the machines, beyond the range of Winfrey’s convex ceiling mirrors. He pulled opened the bag and checked its contents.

  ‘It belonged to my brother. Do you know how it works?’

  ‘Of course I know. Give me a minute, will you?’

  ‘I brought you something else as well. It’s at the bottom.’

  Toby pulled up a rusty tin and examined the label. It read: Government Issue Imperial Brand Rodent Exterminator. Caution: Contains Warfarin and Caustic Soda. ‘How old is this?’

  ‘Really old. But it should still work on seagulls. Are we going back on the pier to try it out?’

  ‘No,’ said Toby. ‘We’re never going back on the pier.’

  ‘Never? But I thought we could kill loads of them before we left.’

  Toby ignored him. He pocketed the items he needed and passed the bag back to Harry. ‘Come on.’

  Stepping from the shadows, he made his way over to Winfrey’s booth. Winfrey was picking his way through a pile of filthy ten-pound notes that had been softening with overhandling. As soon as he saw the boy he snapped a red rubber band around the bundle and slid it into his bank bag. Winfrey’s takings at the arcade weren’t high, but his lads sold amphetamines around the town and used him to launder the cash for a cut.

  ‘If you want to get off, I’ll cover for you,’ said Toby.

  ‘Hang on, I haven’t finished me tea yet.’

  Behind them, Harry was banging on the Penny Falls to make the coins slip from the steel shelves. ‘Oi, you little fucker,’ Winfrey shouted, fumbling his way out of the booth.

  Toby slipped inside and pulled the lid off the rusty tin Harry had brought along. He thrust his hand into the white powder, emptying as much as he could into Winfrey’s tea, which reeked of whisky. The powder went everywhere, but he managed to blow it off the counter and wipe the rim of the mug before Winfrey came back. The cashier grabbed his nylon jacket and pulled it over his shoulders. ‘Your little pal is going to get into trouble and end up inside, like his brother,’ he warned. ‘Fucking rubbish, that whole family.’

  As Winfrey drank down his tea, Toby watched blankly, wondering if he could taste any difference. Apparently not. He couldn’t imagine the cashier had any taste buds left, given the amount he drank. Winfrey drained his mug completely, leaving a rime of white powder around his cracked lips.

  Toby retreated to the far side of the arcade, keeping one eye on the booth. ‘Unbelievable,’ he muttered, ‘he can’t even taste rat poison. I put half the pot in.’

  Harry hadn’t heard. He had been hypnotised by a two-pound coin that was hovering on the edge of a narrow metal platform in the Coin Cascade machine. Toby craned back at the booth, watching for signs of pain and death.

  ‘Hello, Toby.’ He whirled around to find Michelle standing beside him. ‘I thought you two were off to the flicks.’

  ‘There’s still time. You’re early.’

  ‘I was looking for you. I know you’re up to something, both of you.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Don’t fuck me about. You’re going somewhere. You’re getting out.’

  ‘Who said that?’

  ‘I hear everything that’s going on. Take me with you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Take me with you. I have to leave this place, Toby. I’m going mental. I can’t stay here any longer. I can’t even go home because of my folks.’

  He looked at her bare midriff. ‘Aren’t you cold?’

  ‘I’m trying to get air on it. My belly button ring went septic. Of course I’m not cold. I’m never cold anymore. I’m fucking pregnant.’

  ‘I didn’t know.’

  She looked to the sky, blinking. ‘That’s a surprise, everyone else in this shithole town does.’

  ‘Who’s the father?’

  ‘What am I, psychic? Maybe I should go and ask Gypsy Rosalee.’ She shifted her weight to the other foot and looked at him with desperation in her eyes. ‘So what do you think? Can I come?’

  ‘I can’t, Michelle. Especially not if you’re pregnant.’

  ‘But you and Harry are going.’

  ‘I’m not taking Harry with me.’

  ‘Does he know that?’

  ‘No. I just decided.’

  ‘But you can’t leave him behind. He worships you. What’s he going to do without you?’ She peered over at the booth. ‘Shit, what’s wrong with Winfrey?’

  Toby looked around and saw Winfrey’s face pressed hard against the glass, as if he was trying to force his way through it. He was drooling and spitting, grinding his forehead.

  ‘Stay here a second,’ he said, panicked, and ran over to the booth as Harry picked up that something was wrong and followed after him.

  Toby knew exactly where to kick the booth door to open it. Winfrey had thrown up over himself, the counter, the till, his paperwork. He must have eaten a couple of pizzas earlier, because everything was red. He clutched feebly at Toby as the boy tore the bank bag from his grip and popped it open. The takings weren’t inside.

  ‘Where’s the money?’ Toby asked.

  ‘My guts are killing me.’ Winfrey spat again. ‘Give me a hand outside.’

  ‘The takings. They’re gone.’

  ‘No, I gave ’em to Eddie to bank for me.’

  ‘Eddie? Who’s Eddie?’

  ‘The widow. Widow Twankey.’ He coughed and licked at his lips, wiping up the remains of the powder. Dark blood leaked over his lower teeth, onto his T-shirt. He tried to stand and slipped from his stool. There was a terrible smell. Winfrey had soiled himself.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Michelle called. ‘What’s going on?’ But before she could reach them Toby had grabbed Harry’s hand and was dragging him away towards the rear exit.

  The boys found themselves in the stinking trash-filled alleyway behind the arcade that was meant to be kept clear in case of fire. ‘Toby, you’re taking me with you, aren’t you?’ Harry asked anxiously.

  ‘I can’t, Harry. You’re too young. You’d get us caught.’

  ‘I’m only two years younger than you.’

  ‘I’m sorry, mate.’

  ‘You said I could come with you.’

  ‘Listen.’ Toby stopped in the alley and squeezed his eyes shut, not turning around. ‘You can’t come because I don’t want you with me. You’re just a kid. You’d be a drag on my style, all right? Go on home.’

  ‘But Toby—’

  ‘Look, just fuck off, will you?’

  He bit his cheek, waiting and listening, refusing to turn. He heard a whimper like a dog being kicked, followed by footsteps stamping away. Part of his heart went with Harry.

  He pushed open the unguarded fire door of the Crow’s Nest theatre and climbed the concrete steps in darkness. The show had fi
nished; he had seen the clusters of homebound children drifting past the arcade. The building smelled of fresh-cut wood, cheap scent, mildew. He followed the only light source to another short staircase and found himself in the backstage area. Passing between the flats of Wishee Washee’s laundry house, he entered an artificial forest that owed more to the Sussex Downs than the China steppes.

  ‘There you are, you little scamp,’ drawled Widow Twankey. She was sitting on a giant polystyrene toadstool leisurely smoking a cigarette. She wore a hat with a miniature line of Union Jack knickers suspended across it. ‘This is the only time I can bear this fucking place. When the tinies have all fucked off home. It’s the screaming that does my head in. It sounds like pigs being slaughtered in here some afternoons.’

  Toby looked about. A backpack sat beside the widow’s stockinged right ankle. The dame was studying the glowing tip of her cigarette. ‘I suppose you’ve come for your gift.’

  ‘Why are you still in that outfit?’

  ‘Aladdin’s fucking Cinderella in my dressing room. Well, she’s the Emperor of China’s daughter in this production, but if she thinks she’s doing Cinderella at Christmas she’s another thought coming. The bitch couldn’t carry a note in a bucket. Besides.’ He hitched up his bosom. ‘I like being in drag. It’s a good place to hide.’

  Twankey rose to his feet. ‘Christ, my knees are fucking killing me. Come on then, let’s go to Ali Baba’s cave.’ She sailed back into a darkened area of the stage. Toby followed and found himself surrounded by plywood treasure chests filled with gold-painted plastic trinkets, as if the genie’s fabled cavern had fallen on hard times and had been reduced to a pound store. ‘Winfrey lent us this lot from his arcade. What a load of shit.’ The dame plonked herself down on a stack of money bags marked with cartoon dollar signs. ‘Come here. Want to see what the widow’s got for you?’ Twankey pulled him close and began fumbling in her red, white and blue bloomers.