by John King
Then the sun was forcing his eyes open and Karen was in her dressing gown next to the bed, a purple effort that rode above her knees, saying she had to get to work. She kissed him on the mouth. A long, warm kiss. She said she could always phone in sick if he wanted. She’d never done that before. It wasn’t the right thing really, because she had responsibilities, but maybe staying home one day wasn’t that bad a thing to do if there was a good enough reason. Will didn’t need much persuading and was awake now, sliding her dressing gown apart. Karen pushed herself into the bed and for the next couple of hours everything centred on the bedroom.
Will sat up sipping his coffee, the smell of the soup Karen was making in the kitchen working its way under the door. It was raining out. The wind was blowing and the sun had been hidden by thick cloud. He was starving. It was yesterday dinner-time when he’d last eaten, apart from the biscuits, and the drink had made him even more hungry than normal. It was a good day to be shut indoors. It was the right weather for chips with brown sauce, crumpets with melted butter and jam, a nice tin of soup with the toast. He was tired after just four and a half hours of sleep, but beyond it now. His balls ached. After months of sexual inactivity, Karen’s enthusiasm was a shock. He started wondering how long it was since she’d last had a shag, he meant made love, then dismissed the thought. There was no need to ruin things thinking like that. Maybe after the soup he’d be able to rest up a bit. The shop would just have to stay closed, but there wasn’t exactly going to be a flood of eager punters braving the weather to spend their fortunes on his collection of tatty furniture and chipped ornaments.
The teddy bear, who Karen said was called Ted, sat next to him. Will was sure the expression had changed. There wasn’t the same noncommittal grin he’d noticed before, more a knowing leer with a bit of resentment thrown in as a bonus. Will stroked the bear’s muzzle without response. It was just a toy. The blow was sticking around longer and longer. He turned quickly to see if it was watching him, but Ted hadn’t moved. Poor little fucker, forced to listen while his childhood sweetheart made love with a strange man. Next time he would have to go and sit in the living room. Will laughed at himself and lobbed the bear in the air, catching him by the right ear. He held Ted out in front at arm’s length. The expression hadn’t changed. He was giving nothing away.
‘Talking to Ted, are you?’ Karen asked as she came into the room. ‘What was he saying to you, Teddy dear?’
She gave Will the tray she was carrying and lifted the bear to her head. She looked at Will, then back at the bear. She frowned.
‘Ted says you threw him in the air and made him feel sick, and that you caught him by the ear. He says that his ear is hurting. He thinks you don’t like him, and if you’re not careful he’ll get you when you’re asleep. You should treat him nice or he’ll make you sorry.’
Will looked at the bear, then down at his soup. It was homemade and vegetable and a bit too healthy-looking for his tastes. Thick brown bread was buttered on a plate. He preferred his bread white and ready sliced, but said nothing. And you couldn’t beat soup from a tin. Just get the old can-opener working, dump it in the saucepan, give it a few minutes over the flame while you buttered the toast, and there was a four-star meal ready and waiting. His mouth watered at the thought. He looked back at Ted, then Karen.
‘Don’t look so worried,’ she laughed. ‘Ted and me don’t have any secrets from each other. We tell each other everything.’
Karen went to the kitchen for her soup. Will looked at the bear. It must’ve been a lucky guess. But he was beginning to dislike the toy, with its cocky grin and glass eyes. She came back and got into bed.
‘How did you know I threw him in the air and caught him by the ear?’ Will asked. ‘I wasn’t talking to him though.’
‘I saw you through the crack in the door. You looked scared when I told you what he said. Toys can’t talk. They’re just toys, nothing more. Something for when you’re a kid. Ted’s a memory more than anything else.’
Will nodded. He was tired and his brain was misfiring. It was nice putting emotions into things which could never have that quality. That was what religious icons came down to really. Karen’s mum shifting her feelings somewhere they couldn’t do any harm, avoiding debate, hearing the sort of answers that made everything alright. If it helped her accept her own death then maybe it was okay, even if it was a con.
‘They were fine when I phoned up and said I wouldn’t be in,’ Karen said, blowing on her soup and waiting for it to cool down. ‘I was a bit nervous lying like that, but they told me to go to bed and rest. I said I had the flu. I said okay, that I’d go back and spend the day sleeping, but they didn’t know I had a man waiting for me.’
She rubbed the inside of Will’s leg and he was glad they both had trays on their laps. He didn’t fancy sex again right now. He was a bit worn out. Karen had enough energy for them both.
‘You didn’t sleep well last night, did you?’ Karen asked.
‘I’m usually alright,’ he answered. ‘Just one of those nights.’
‘Thanks for staying. Sorry I was going on a bit. I was depressed yesterday thinking of my mum. It was a nice night out. And it was even better when we got back, wasn’t it?’
Will guessed he was going red and sipped from a spoonful of soup. It didn’t taste bad for something homemade. He stirred it and noticed chopped carrots, mushrooms, onions, and a couple of bits of what must’ve been potato. He didn’t fancy the bread much. He made the effort seeing as how Karen had fixed it for him, treating him like a king. It had to be the first time in his life since he was ill as a kid that someone had made him food in bed. The bread was alright. A bit chewy and that, but nothing he couldn’t handle.
‘It was a great night,’ he admitted, feeling the enthusiasm in his voice but reasoning that it was okay to be open.
‘What do you think of the soup? I made it with miso.’
‘It’s great.’
Will wanted to ask what miso was, but felt a bit of a prat. He’d ask one of the lads, and if they didn’t know he’d go down the library and look it up in a dictionary. He was getting into the soup now, not pushing himself any more.
‘I made the bread yesterday. Do you like it? You’ve only had a couple of bites. I don’t like all that processed rubbish. You don’t know what shit they’ve put in it and I never touch anything that’s been in a tin. It’s unnatural. I’m sure cancer comes from tinned food and preservatives. It seems a bit of a coincidence it’s such a big killer in the West. My mum should’ve had a go at the food corporations rather than putting everything down to fate and trusting in God’s mysterious ways. It was just easier for her to believe all the propaganda she was fed as a kid.’
‘The bread’s good. I’ve never met anyone who makes their own bread before. Never met anyone who makes their own soup.’
‘It’s easy enough, nothing special. Just a bit of DIY.’
Will wanted to tell Karen that he knew a couple of blokes like that. His old mates the Lager Twins. They were DIY merchants, preferring a J Arthur Rank to sex with a woman. You’d never catch VD that way. It was on hand any time of day, literally. Karen might have laughed but it wasn’t the kind of humour he was going to introduce at such an early stage. He wanted things to be perfect. Romance, love, all that kind of stuff. Karen understood better than him. Maybe the Sex Division should split in two. Balti and Harry could form the Skin Flute League, where each wank scored a single point. It would be a local derby really, because they lived in the same flat and would have to constantly outdo each other in the quantity stakes. Quality wouldn’t even come into the daily Skin Flute derbies. It would be non-league football, but would be better than constant battles against relegation where the beautiful game would be corrupted and reduced to a coarse scramble for points.
Will chewed the homemade bread as Karen went through the details of how she had made it, thinking of the Sex Division. If she ever found out he was in something like that she’d probably send him
packing. Will felt righteousness take over. Karen would look at him in another way. Gone forever would be the caring, gentle Will she was obviously attracted to, and in his place a pisshead would rear up, or worse than that, a Carter cut-out. As for the Sex Division, he would never be able to claim the points of last night. It would ruin everything. But bollocks to all that. He would keep Karen away from the others for as long as he could, but eventually they would probably meet. Not that anyone would say anything, but he wouldn’t feel good about it all the same.
Will had to get out of the Sex Division. Had to go into liquidation. A loss of assets. Sell his ground. Whatever it took. He didn’t want to belong. He’d never liked the idea in the first place. Imagine meeting Johan Carter in The Unity when he was a bit pissed, maybe going into one, Karen telling Will what a wanker he was and that he could fuck off. It had to be done. He was getting paranoid. He’d been smoking too much blow. But it was only exaggerating things he already felt.
When they’d finished eating Karen took the plates away and washed them. She came back soon after, smiling, asking Will if he had anything left for desert. She took her dressing gown off and he admired her body. Despite himself he was aroused and the woman he thought he was probably going to fall in love with pulled the duvet back and got in next to him. He noticed that one of her earrings had fallen out. He was on for a three-pointer that would never be entered into the statistics. Will was with Karen for pleasure, not points. They were together for the purest of reasons.
PART TWO
DREAMSCAPE
The Hide was heaving and the boys were steaming, Carter well into a blonde number, her two mates waiting for Harry and Balti to show a bit of interest. Harry leant back against the wall and considered the options while Balti remained tucked into the side of the jukebox. One Step Beyond by Madness was playing and usually they’d go into a bit of sax imitation, maybe do a Suggs or something, but knew the girls would think they were a couple of muppets. Harry was thinking of saying something but couldn’t really be bothered, and he’d had a good wank that morning before the football, sitting back in the bath with the water scorching hot burning the week’s paint and turps from his pores, lager dregs melting away, his first chance to bang the bishop since Monday. Balti was weighing their chances up, thinking they looked okay but were a bit too fucking trendy for his liking, too fucking cocky for their own good. They were obviously out of it or they wouldn’t be eyeing up a couple of herberts. He’d had a skinful and the last Saturday of the football season was always a sad time.
‘Where’d you get the earrings then?’ he asked, leaning forward and almost falling into the woman’s chest, the support of the jukebox removed forcing him to stand on his own two feet, instantly regretting a shit chat-up line. When he looked more closely at the face in front of him, he realised she was the same age or older, that she had probably heard of Madness after all.
‘A mate of mine brought them back from Goa. He DJs over there. They’re silver and the stone in the middle’s a ruby. They cost a tenth of the price you’d pay in London.’
‘I used to wear an earring, when I was younger like, but every time I got in a row someone pulled it out trying to rip my ear off. Nothing special mind. Just a silver hoop.’
‘I was thinking of having my nose pierced but everyone does that now,’ she said, eyes widening, circled with slightly smudged eyeliner. ‘I’ve had my right nipple done, and my friend’s got a stud through her lip.’
Balti looked sideways and saw the ring-free mouth, then thought about it for a moment. He wondered what it was like shagging a bird with a butterfly tucked in between her legs. A bit rough probably. You’d have to be careful. The one doing the talking was looking round like Mango did, checking for a reaction, a bit of recognition. She was nice though, despite the pose. The gear was a bit expensive and fashionable in that naff way that left him cold, all designer dago bollocks. But that was her trademark and if she’d been a heifer, or not paid him attention, just ignored the shit line and made him look a cunt, then he’d have been forced to dismiss her as one more dyke who didn’t know what she was missing. One more dyke in a brave lager culture suffering from mass outbreaks of lesbianism.
Harry was moving now, uneven on his feet, feeling the effects, Madness replaced by some industrial effort neither of them could identify. For a second Balti wished he was back home where he could decide what music he listened to, like Will, who was sitting in with Karen again, the miserable git, but bollocks, he was having a laugh and if he’d been in Will’s shoes, with a cracker like that on the go, a bit of class, then he’d be doing the same. At least he’d remembered to set the video for Match Of The Day. The Dutchman had played another blinder for the Blues. He wanted to see it again. All the flicks and feints, the surging runs ghosting past the opposition with an ease that made his team-mates look like Sunday league players. Even Carter had ditched Johan and was going on about Ruud’s genius. Next thing he’d be growing his hair and wearing dreadlocks.
The idea of Carter in Gullit-style dreadlocks set him off. With the football season at an end, and that riot in Birmingham having run its course, the papers were looking round for a new public enemy. As ever, summer meant hippies, ravers and travellers were about to take the strain. Balti had always dismissed white blokes with dreadlocks as wankers. He didn’t hold an opinion about Stonehenge and pagan rights of worship, though the media usually went into one when the summer solstice came round, denouncing the anarchist threat to democracy and the Christian way of life. The tabloids were comics anyway so he didn’t take them seriously. He was starting to see the logic. Karen had set him straight, following the line of descent back to punk, the way the anarchist movement had rearranged and developed itself. She was alright Karen. And it showed what could be done. He didn’t believe in all that nonsense, witchcraft and everything, knowing that it was too much drugs that did their heads in, but getting away made sense. He’d been signing on for five months now, going for jobs he never got, just sitting around. That was no life. He wasn’t talking about Glastonbury either. That was just more wank. Paying through your nose to stand in a field. Playing at being something you weren’t. They should bomb the part-timers. Like the football. All those cunts who came to five or six games a season and sat in the most expensive seats. Going walkabout for a couple of months would be a laugh. It was supposed to be alien, like it couldn’t be part of your life because of the pictures you saw and the interviews you heard, but when Karen cut through the prejudice then it made sense. Like it didn’t have to belong to someone else.
She was great Karen. He wouldn’t mind meeting someone like that. None of the lads had seen her for the first couple of months and then Will brought her down the pub and everything was sweet. She got her round in. Everyone liked her. She had her view and could make you think things through. It was another angle. She wasn’t some sloppy cow giggling the whole time, or some flash case rabbiting on trying to boost her ego. Karen was solid. Hundred per cent. She came down quite often now and none of the lads complained like they usually did when a bird tagged along. She wasn’t a mother figure, nothing like that, more a sister. But even that wasn’t right. Just a mate really. She had a different slant. Made them think. Most of all she was honest. She fitted in perfect with Will. Balti didn’t like posers. Mango pissed him off. Something chronic. This bird was pissing him off as well. But she was a good-looker. He didn’t know how important that was, the sex appeal and everything, whether he should play the game and bite his lip, hoping to get his leg over. Act all impressed because she had a ring through her tit.
‘I started stretching my bollocks last year,’ Balti lied. ‘Had the weights nailed on and my sack soon began sagging. Once I’d gained a couple of inches on the old scrotum I added more weights and my balls are down round my knees now. It took a while, but they got there in the end. It’s something you just have to stick with and force yourself through the pain. I’m suffering for my body art. All you need is the time and a bit of p
atience. I’ve got time at the moment, being self-employed and that, though you get a bit impatient because you’re so keen to see the end result.’
He patted his left leg. She looked a bit wary. Like she thought it was a wind-up but wasn’t sure, trying to picture a stretched sack and a couple of chestnuts floating in the void. She powered into his face looking for an answer, but Balti kept his dignity and refused to crack a smile. She seemed a bit pissed off now. She sipped her drink and looked past them, then meaningfully at her mate, then her shoes which Balti reckoned must’ve left a serious dent in her wages. A waste of money you saw more clearly when you were living on pennies.
‘I keep them tucked down my left peg because I’m right-footed and don’t want to strain the veins. I can swing them side to side. My mate’s the same. We’re the Bollock Brothers. Surprised you haven’t heard about us. We’re famous round here. Balls down to our knees and now we’re working on the guts, filling up nicely.’
‘Nice one, Scrote,’ Harry shouted, grabbing his mate by the knee, pretending to squeeze his bollocks. ‘Just like knicker elastic. With all that weight attached it means the skin stretches and when you let it go again it snaps back to the body. It’s like playing ping-pong.’