by Gary Davison
I went into the living room.
Sam was still out of it.
I checked out the window, the sky was dark grey and it was raining hard. The queue at the bus stop was dotted with bright coloured brollies.
I made us both a coffee and kicked Sam’s feet as I came back in.
He stirred, then slowly sat up.
‘Well, well, well,’ I said. ‘If it isn’t the Mighty Flash, who likes to do a lot of work for charity.’
I handed him the coffee.
‘I feel ill.’
‘You don’t say.’
‘Is there any’ he went to stand up, then held his head with his finger tips and sat back down. ‘Fizzy pop, Al.’
I got him a Diet Coke.
‘So,’ I said. ‘No work?’
He shook his head.
‘Not even a little promotional work for your forth coming mercy streak?’
‘What you on about?’
‘Don’t tell me you can’t remember your star performance on the Night Owls?’
Sam was sitting forward, massaging his eyes with the heels of his palms. ‘We didn’t get through, did we?’
I went through his finest hour in detail, finishing with the raffle. ‘Your exact words were, “I haven’t had it for a while, Alan, so the winner will be in for a right good night, if you know what I mean, mate”.’
Sam dashed into the bathroom and violently threw up.
He retched a couple more times, then washed up, before coming back out, full of purpose. ‘You’re talking shite,’ he said. ‘It’s coming back. I mentioned the Darlington fans, didn’t I?’
On the plus side, the listeners loved him and every woman in the northeast wanted to bed him. And why should he be that bothered if he embarrassed himself when no one knew who he was?
‘What if someone sussed my voice?’
‘Unlikely, didn’t even sound like you.’
He lifted his hand, ‘I remember, it’s coming back, that arsehole Robson saying I was a paedophile. That’s what sent me off on one.’
‘He didn’t say that. He just went on about the mask and you exposing yourself to children.’
‘Did I really offer to shag whoever won the raffle?’
I nodded. ‘In a sleazy, muffled voice, you said something about unleashing your sex starved python.’
Sam dropped to his knees laughing and rolled onto his back, hysterical.
His laughing fit got me going and I ended up face down on the sofa, smacking the cushion with one hand and holding my gut with the other. The radio, getting out of the stadium last night, and him – of all people – making a tit of himself, was too much, and in the end I had to leave the room.
Standing in the kitchen, I held onto the bench top, taking deep breaths, trying desperately not to start giggling, then I thought of something and went back in.
‘What if a bloke wins the raffle?’
The two of us were silently laughing so hard that all We marched off into separate rooms. you could hear was the occasional yelp as we gasped for air. The captions for a gay streaker were endless, but I couldn’t get the words out for laughing.
We marched off into separate rooms
We tried coming back out twice, but just being in the same room set us off again.
We eventually got on speaking terms, but Sam kept saying, ‘Seriously though, did I say….’ Seriously though, was doing me right in and I had to ban the words from his vocabulary.
I switched the TV on, just in time to catch The Jeremy Kyle Show.
The Jeremy Kyle Show is the best morning show I’ve ever seen. It’s similar to the Jerry Springer Show, except it’s big on emotion and not violence. I think I’ve seen one fight in all the time I’ve been watching it. Jeremy Kyle’s about five-seven, early forties, with short brown hair tufted up at the front, and was a DJ for over ten years. The best thing about The Jeremy Kyle Show is Jeremy Kyle. He gets so emotionally involved, you’d think he was a member of the guest’s family. I’ve seen him hell-bent on giving some skunk-smoking layabout a hard time because he does nothing for his young family – they’re usually seventeen-to-twenty-year-olds with two kids – only to change his mind halfway through when the lad bears his soul and Jeremy sees beyond the paranoia and black broken teeth that he really does love his family and has lost his way due to his dope addiction. By this stage, Jeremy is dramatically dishing out his words of wisdom and the importance of doing it FOR THE KIDS. It’s always for the kids.
I thought the guests must be on a fortune to reveal all about themselves and their families, but apparently it’s the specialist help they receive after the show that’s the attraction. The format of the show’s like this: Jeremy Kyle chats to the person with the gripe first and makes sure they know how they feel towards the accused – no change of heart because they’re on TV. He then brings them together on stage and somehow gets them to argue like they were back home in their own living room. I remember when a young teenage son with an anger problem started arguing with his father because his father had stolen his cigarettes that morning. The kid stormed off and punched a wall and the father sat back with a ‘told you so’ look on his face, and the mother went after the son. In just a few minutes, you knew them so well and what everyday life was like for them.
Today’s show was: HAS MY MUM HAD A BABY WITH MY HUSBAND!
The daughter was eighteen, had two kids to her boyfriend and was six months pregnant. The mother had a two-year-old daughter, which the older daughter believed her boyfriend had fathered.
Sam always takes the piss when I mention the show, saying it’s staged and that I’ll be watching wrestling next. Today, he was rooting for the daughter and slagging the mother off.
Just as they were about to announce the DNA results, the phone rang.
‘Just leave it!’ Sam snapped.
I went and answered it.
‘Hello.’
It was a woman with a squeaky voice asking for Sam.
‘Em, who’s calling?’
‘Is that Alex?’
‘Eh, yeah, who’s this?’
‘Cagey or what? It’s Becky! From Sam’s place!’
I cleared my throat and straightened up. ‘Becky! How goes it?’
‘Not bad, not bad. You sound rough, heavy night?’
‘Sort of.’
‘Look, I’ve just been asked to find out if Sam’s okay. He’s not turned in. Is he all right?’
‘Yeah, well no, he’s a bit…’
‘Hung over. Don’t worry, I’ll cover for him. So…’ Sam was shouting at the TV, oblivious that work was on the phone.
‘So,’ I said. ‘You, eh, you up for the weekend, then?’
She went quiet. ‘The weekend? What’s happening at the weekend?’
I held my hand over the receiver and hissed at Sam. ‘Hoy! Wanker!’
Sam held his hand up to silence me.
I could have killed him. It was Thursday and the bastard hadn’t even asked her yet.
I took my hand off the receiver and stammered, ‘Eh, I’m getting crossed wires I think.’
‘Of course I’m looking forward to the weekend! I can’t wait! What about you? We’re going to have a good night, or what?’
I’d forgotten just how lively Becky was. At the Christmas party, she was dragging me up to dance every two minutes and drinking anything she could get her hands on. It was only when I’ve had the time of my life came on, that I declined and made for the door and she ran after me and launched herself onto my back, clutching her bottle of schnapps.
‘So you’re definitely up for it?’
‘Why wouldn’t I be? You haven’t had that lovely hair cut, have you?’
‘I’ve got a skinhead now.’
‘No, you haven’t. Look I’ll have to go, the boss is coming. See you Sunday, bye-bye.’
I hung up.
After The Jeremy Kyle Show, we sat on our sofas in silence.
After a while Sam said, ‘I’m going to do it, Al.’
‘You don’t have to. No one knows it was you last night. And you don’t owe the Sellhursts a thing. We don’t even know them.’
Sam was doing this to prove to himself that he was who he thought he was. He’d risk humiliating himself and his mother to find out for sure that he was nothing like his father. If it took something as extreme as this to convince him, then so be it.
We went to get dressed.
When I came back, Sam was standing at the mirror adjusting his beanie. ‘What did you say before last night’s streak?’
I shook my head.
‘If I get out of the stadium they’ll make a film out of it.’ He rested a hand on my shoulder. ‘Al, even if we don’t make it out this time they’ll make a film out of it – starring you and me.’
He was right.
‘Imagine,’ I said.
‘Imagine. Throw the charity angle in and everyone’s a winner.’
I went into the kitchen to check the phone book for the Sellhurst’s address.
When I came back he was reading my dream journal.
‘Giving Becky one from behind. Nice.’
I snatched it off him.
‘I can’t believe you’re still pissing about with that dream shit.’
I pulled my parka on. ‘Shit, is it? How come you slog your guts out in a sweat shop all day and have no money, and I don’t, and have no money?’
‘Because you’re bone-idle and scrounge off your mother and I prefer to graft and pay my way.’
‘Because I’m in tune with my subconscious and know what’s right for me.’ We made for the door. ‘At least, I was until all this started.’
We went out into the pouring rain and headed for the West Layton estate.
7
The rain had stopped by the time we reached the West Layton estate. We stood on the corner of the Sellhurst’s street next to a small graffitied sub-station.
The street was empty, except for four teenagers hanging around at the far end next to the school fence. The houses were prefab terraces with metal cladding and two foot high concrete garden walls. The house numbers had been crudely painted on the garden walls and dustbins.
Sam was scraping his shoe on the kerb. ‘So you’re happy to decide your career path based on what you can suss out from your dreams, even though you admit there’s no way of knowing for sure if you’re doing it right?’
‘Life path. It’s not just about work. It’s about your whole psyche and tapping into your subconscious. And what I said was, there’s no guarantee that a person is analysing their dreams properly, no matter which method they use if they’re not being totally honest.’
The kids were getting curious and had moved along the fence towards us.
‘What if you can’t remember any of your dreams?’
‘What, never?’
Sam shook his head.
‘That’s because you’re too hyper. You don’t chill out enough.’
The teenagers were nearly upon us, so we made for number sixty-five.
The Sellhursts lived on a corner. A bare, waist-height privet ran the full perimeter of the garden. The front garden was covered in small white stones right up to the window, and the side garden was patchy grass. The concrete path leading to the front door was cracked in places and had fallen away.
Neither of us made a move towards the door.
Sam said, ‘So you reckon if I wake up during this REM sleep I’ll remember something?’
I nodded. ‘Without doubt. But you can’t base everything on one dream, you need to record loads.’
The Sellhurst’s front door opened and Suzie Sellhurst stepped out and leant against the doorframe and folded her arms. Suzie Sellhurst was about five-four, late forties, slim, and had short black hair parted at the side, which fell partly over her right eye. She was wearing a green and white check Asda tabard over a pink t-shirt and skin-tight bleached jeans. She had deep lines either side of her mouth that disappeared when she couldn’t hold her smile back any longer.
‘Come on in, boys,’ she said in a husky voice. ‘I’ve been expecting you.’
We followed her inside and along the narrow passageway and into the kitchen.
The kitchen was small and bare and white. Apart from the rustling of our coats, the house was silent.
Suzie stood at the back door and took a draw of the cigarette that had been burning in the ashtray, then stubbed it out.
Sam and I spread out a little and unbuttoned our coats.
Suzie, arms folded and biting her bottom lip, said, ‘Come on then, put a girl out of her misery. Which one of you is it?’
Sam pulled his beanie off and ruffled his hair. ‘Which one do you think?’
I straightened up.
Suzie coyly twisted from side to side and looked us both up and down.
Her eyes settled on Sam. ‘Tell me it’s you, Blondie.’
Sam swept her off her feet and over his shoulder and ran out the back door. He sprinted up the garden, round the washing line post, and zigzagged back. Suzie was still screaming when he set her down on the step and came back inside. She stood at the back door, dramatically fanning her face with both hands. ‘If I was ten years younger,’ she panted. ‘No, make that five.’
Suzie Sellhurst was in her forties and hadn’t aged particularly well.
Suzie Sellhurst was attractive – especially when she spoke.
Suzie Sellhurst – once she knew who HE was – was so attracted to him she could hardly look him in the face.
Christopher was shouting from his room.
Suzie went to see to him.
Christopher was shouting from
After a few minutes, she wheeled
After a few minutes, she wheeled her son through the tight openings and into the kitchen.
Christopher was completely bald. His hands, neck, face and head, were all the same unblemished pink colour. He looked like a huge baby, too big for a pram.
Suzie knelt in front of him. ‘You’ll never guess who this is?’
Christopher looked up at both of us and shook his head.
She nodded at Sam. ‘The Faccome Flash.’
His mouth opened and kept on opening, like a drawbridge, until we could see his tonsils.
Sam did a mock run on his tiptoes around the tiny kitchen and grabbed Christopher’s arms and gently punched the air with them.
Christopher eventually let out a squeal that I thought was never going to end.
Suzie choked up and turned away and reached for her cigarettes.
Sam knelt down and talked football with Christopher.
I joined Suzie at the door and lit up and started telling her our plans.
Suzie insisted on hearing our story from the start. I told her about the first streak and then seeing her in the bar altering the sponsored walk poster. I told her about last night and she was in stitches at how we’d escaped. I wanted to tell her that we weren’t superheroes and were doing this as much for ourselves as we were for Christopher. I wanted to talk the situation down and treat any success as a bonus. Instead, I told her we expected huge publicity after last night’s radio show and that Brian at the Fiddler’s was backing our campaign and would be dealing with all the sponsorship and donations. Sam chipped in and said he was picking the posters up tonight and was going to try for corporate sponsorship by advertising on his body.
I can’t ever remember either of us running off at the mouth like this before and if Christopher hadn’t interrupted us, God knows what we would have said.
‘Mam, Mam, Mam, he’s going to streak at Newcastle next!’
‘What’s that?’ Sam said, checking Christopher’s fixture list.
I mumbled, ‘Eh, definitely Newcastle, is it?’
‘Got to be, they’re the only ones playing at home. Here, look.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Sam said, in too deep a voice. ‘The mighty Toon Army.’
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing or saying.
I was desperate to get ou
t of there and after Sam had promised to drop the posters off tonight so Suzie could distribute them first thing tomorrow along with the collection buckets, we made for the door.
We jogged along the street, heads down against the rain, occasionally turning back to wave, until we reached the substation.
‘Shit shit shit shit shit
Sam grabbed me by the shoulders. ‘Fucking Newcastle, Al. Fucking Newcastle!’
The two of us marched back and forth across the road throwing our arms up in the air like a couple of air traffic controllers malfunctioning, barking single words at each other: posters, Newcastle, tomorrow…
The rain was stotting off the pavement.
Tickets, Brian, police…
The surface water was up to our ankles.
Newcastle, posters, tomorrow…
A car came round the corner and snapped us out of it and we started down the bank, looking for shelter. The first bus stop was full, so we kept on running.
Sam hung a left along a lane and stood tight up against a wall.
I joined him.
It was so dark it could have been midnight.
We stood there in silence for ages.
The rain never let up.
Sam said. ‘I could try and do the posters tonight.’
We walked through the pothole puddles and out onto the bank.
‘I could see Brian. See what he says.’
Sam nodded.
An old woman, hunched over and dressed as a yellow polka dot umbrella, was struggling along the pavement towards the bus stop. The bus was coming and she wasn’t going to make it. Sam went over to the woman and I stood on the road and flagged the bus down. The driver indicated to pull over and I suddenly felt short of breath. I stepped back. Sam helped her on and as it pulled away, I quickly looked at the driver: it wasn’t Jack Nicholson or anyone who looked like him.
We kept on walking.
‘What was wrong back there?’ Sam asked.
I shook my head.
‘Didn’t look like nothing. Did you recognise that driver?’
I didn’t answer.
We reached town and stood under the canopy of the Fruit and Veg shop.