by Laura Hird
‘Look love, ta for the offer, but you better go.’
The legs spread a little wider.
‘Go on. You know you want to.’
She must be a junkie or something. Even if my cock wasn’t frazzled with Prozac, I wouldn’t touch that. I wish she’d cover up her bits and get off my bus, but I’m scared to touch her. A tiny crumb of my DNA on her skirt and I’d be buggered. Retrieving the cash box, I open the door and get out.
‘No offence, love. I’m a married man. I just want home to my cocoa.’
I’m smiling, trying to keep it friendly, but she lets out a wail and marches off the bus, towards the group of drivers. By the time she realises the exit’s in the other direction, they’ve spotted her. Once they start laughing and shouting, she can’t get out of there quick enough.
I get back on the bus and pretend to check things to give her time to leave, then walk across towards the rest of them to thunderous applause and whistling. A driver I only know by sight drops his trousers and starts running after her, shouting, ‘Me next, me next.’
‘Weh hey, who’s been despunked on the 33 tonight?’
‘Did you make her take her falsers out first?’
‘What’s on the end of your prick, Vic?’
What is this? I nod my head as I approach.
‘Nah, nah, nothing like that. Sorry to disappoint you boys.’
‘Aw c’moan,’ says young Stevie. ‘Everyone’s had her. Did she spread her legs and offer it to you? That’s the usual routine.’
‘Dunno what you’re on about,’ I smile.
None of them believe me.
‘C’mon, we winnae tell the missus. Did you fire a quick one up her or what?’
‘You saw me pull in just a minute ago. Even I’m no that quick.’
‘C’moan, tell us. It’s the only excitement we get round here.’
‘I’ve no idea what you’re on about, Stevie. She asked me to drive her to the depot, then she got off, end of story. Who is she, like?’
Angus, a grandfather, elaborates. ‘You no hear? It’s been in the paper and everything. She’s been doing it about a month now. She has an insatiable appetite for bus drivers’ cocks.’
‘What, have you shagged her?’
His yellow teeth shine out from his white beard. ‘I couldnae really say.’
The other four men start pissing themselves laughing.
‘You’re kidding me, Angus. She’s a junkie. She looked mentally disturbed.’
‘What woman isnae? Look Vic, a lassie half my age offers me it on a plate. I’m 57 years old, ken. Ah cannae afford to be too choosy.’
Stevie lights a fag and starts swaggering about. ‘Me and another two guys had her up the back ova 44. Y’kin do anything w’her. She’s mad for it. I cannae believe you didnae poke’r, man. God sent her down for our morale.’
Is it just me? I can’t believe it. Bloody Angus as well. I thought he was just interested in his pigeons. Who am I working with here? I need away from this.
‘Ocht well, I just hope she doesnae have the virus or we’re due for a bit of a staffing crisis.’
This silences them briefly, but they’re back exchanging gruesome anecdotes by the time I leave. Jesus. When I finally escape into the fresh air, I almost puke behind a car. Do none of them have daughters? What if Joni did something like that? Would they all get fired into her just the same? I definitely wouldn’t have done it, even if I had been capable. I’m sure I wouldn’t. The whole incident turns over in my head as I try to get a taxi. Whatever way I look at it, though, it still seems just awful. The human race goes down another notch in my estimation.
Chapter Fifteen
JAKE
I’M GOING DOWN Sean’s for a shot on the Internet before school. Well, to tell the truth, it’s his sister, Eva, I’m really interested in seeing. When I was down last night, she kept putting her arm round me, pretending to show me things on the computer, so close I could smell her chewing gum. She looks a bit like Demi Moore, except not so fat and she’s got these amazing turquoise eyes. It wouldn’t surprise me if she was a beautiful alien from the planet Babe.
As I walk down the stairs, my head’s fizzing with ideas about how I can touch her without it looking obvious, and clever things I can say to impress her. When it’s her that answers the door, though, I almost collapse with nerves. As I stumble towards Sean’s room, I pretend to suddenly be fascinated by the paintings and canvases that line the hall. It’s mostly modern what-the-fuck sorta stuff with splashes of colour and crucifixy-type bits but it must be good,’ cause their mum doesn’t have a proper job, but they’ve got plenty money. God knows why they’re living in a poxy place like this.
Sean’s banging the desk in a rage when I go through.
‘The fucker’s crashed. I was printing out stuff on spontaneous human combustion – barrie photos of half-burnt legs with the shoes still on, fuck.’
We try everything to get it working – shake the keyboard, swing the mouse in the air, then whack it off the table, punch the monitor – but the error message’s just frozen on the screen. Pushing herself onto Sean’s seat, lovely Eva comes to the rescue.
‘No, no, no, you’ve got to be gentle,’ she whispers, pressing it off, then on again, running her fingers across the screen as if it’s a face she’s about to kiss. The machine, like me, responds to her coaxing, grumbles, then tinkles the Microsoft tune. I start to think that she’s maybe an angel. When she tries to get us back online, and it’s too busy for us to get through, I’m sort of relieved. An angel would never get off with me anyway. She tells us it’s impossible to get on, once America’s woken up. See fucking Americans? Even in a boxroom in Gorgie, they still run your fucking life.
Eva gives us half a packet of Marlboro Lights to make up for it. Is she trying to impress me? Imagine Joni doing something like that. She’d be more likely to stub fags out on me.
As soon as we’re out the stair, Sean starts chasing me in and out the cars, through shops, into old ladies. I’m Mr Orange and he, Mr Blond, has just found out I’m an undercover cop. We were planning to have a shoot-out in the swing park, but when we get along there’s a bunch of pukey wee second years sharing a fag without inhaling. They all look up, expecting a fight. We stop in our tracks and try to look cool. Sean lights a Marlboro for me and I hold the smoke in as long as possible to show them how it should be done. Jason keeks out from under the chute and we go over.
‘No seen you around,’ he mumbles, staring at the railings.
‘I’ve been at Sean’s.’ I gesture to Mr Blonde. ‘He’s got the Internet but we cannae get into it. He was trying to print out photos of folk who’d exploded.’
‘Oh, good for Sean,’ he whines. What’s his problem? He’s not still in a mood about me chucking that baby rat at him in Biology, surely.
‘Aw, c’mon Jace, dinnae be like that. What’re you doing after play time? I’ve got poofy-baws for Gym, I cannae face it. We could take Sean up the farm. It’s dead funny, Sean. We chuck stones at the cows. They fucking hate it.’
Jason scowls at him.
‘What team d’you support? Celtic?’
‘The Hibees.’
A lump of phlegm lands about a foot from Sean’s trainers. ‘Fuck, that’s even worse. Youz winnae even be in the Premier Division next season.’
Sean shrugs.
‘I dinnae support teams just ’cause they’re winning.’
‘Obviously, Fenian shite,’ Jason gobs again, before disappearing down the street, singing, ‘Hello, hello, we are the Gorgie boys.’ Proddy wanker.
‘Was that your pal? You better go after him.’
‘Nah, it’s awright. He’s just in a couple of my classes. I dinnae even know him that well.’
We take our time walking down to school, so we don’t catch up with the tosser. What’s he on about anyway? His old dear’s shagging a Paki so he’s hardly one to talk.
We’ve just walked in the main door when Joni suddenly accosts us fr
om nowhere. She skives so much it’s weird seeing her here. It looks unnatural.
‘You havnae seen Rosie, have you, rat-face?’
‘I thought you’d fawn out w’her.’
‘Aaaaye, I have. That’s why I’m looking for her, doh.’
‘I suppose that makes some sort of sense,’ says Sean. Immediately, Joni’s all smiley and flirty and giving him fish eyes. When she discovers he’s the boy downstairs I’ve been going to see, it makes her even worse. I’m glad someone I know’s finally being nice to him but she’s like a dog on heat. She better not try to steal him off me, he’s my pal. I pretend we’ve got someone to meet, just to get him away from the slag.
Sean’s got double Geography and me English. We arrange to meet outside the library at lunch time. As I walk along, into the class, Miss Barnes is suddenly there in front of me, looking so much better than I remember. It actually looks like there’s a halo round her.
‘Morning, Jake.’
Managing only a red-faced grunt, I crash into my seat and hide behind my jotter. God, I’ve been concentrating so much on Eva, I’ve not even had time to think about Miss Barnes. Life suddenly seems full of possibilities. She drifts around, handing back poems from last week. She usually reads out her three favourites, so I’m praying she doesn’t give me mine. She’ll definitely have liked it. It’ll make her understand me more. The very idea causes a flutter in my pants. God, not here, please.
Fuck, she’s just put mine on my desk. I look round, not quite believing it, trying to work out whose she’s holding onto. Fucking typical – diabetic Elaine, Paki Geena and Todd ‘three girlfriends’ Mackay. Turning back to my rejected poem, I read the comments and just want to die.
‘Well written, with plenty of feeling, but slightly déja vu for a Radiohead fan like myself. 65%.’
Fuck, I only copied a couple of lines out of ‘Creep’. I was listening to it after I’d finished the poem and just thought these two bits would make it better. I can’t move. She’ll think it’s all choried bits now. Her liking Radiohead’s made me like her even more, though. I usually concentrate when she reads out her favourite poems, so I can guess what she liked about them, and try to copy it. I’m in too much of a daze to take anything in, though, fucking lazy-eyed bastards!
When the lesson finally ends, I try to sneak out behind a group of lassies, but she calls me back. I have to stand at her desk, shuffling and sweaty, until everyone’s left. Closing the door, she turns to me.
‘Don’t look so frightened, Jake. I just want a wee word.’
‘Please Miss, I didnae know it was Radiohead, honest. I’ve maybe heard it somewhere without realising and it’s gone into my subconscious or something but ah didnae ken.’
My bum cheeks are trembling. I’m going to fart if she doesn’t stop staring at me.
‘At least you made an effort. The rest of it was so good, though, that’s the thing. You don’t need to copy other people. I want to know what you have to say, not anyone else, OK?’
‘Aye, Miss, I’m sorry, I’m really sorry… sorry,’ I mumble from inside my invisible shell. She tells me to relax, but as I make for the door it’s like I’ve never realised how complicated walking was before. I want to know what you have to say, not anyone else. What did she mean by that? Was she trying to tell me something? What a babe. I wonder what her first name is?
Skipping along the corridor, I check the main entrance, before going to Gym. I thought Jason might have changed his mind about skiving. No such luck. That bastard Daniel’s in my class as well.
We were supposed to be doing gymnastics, but someone’s vandalised the vaulting horse, taken the top of it and pulled one of its legs off. No doubt a revenge attack by some laddie Mr Russell’s tried to shag. We play basketball instead, which is much better. I get picked last on Daniel’s team, but that’s because he’s a bullying Celtic bastard. I’m actually better at basketball than any of them and he knows it. I end up playing really shite, though, because I keep getting tackled while trying to avoid going near sphincter-boy and his disgusting poofy aftershave. I’m scared if I breath it in, I’ll turn into a poof as well.
By the end of the first period, there’s no score and we’re all playing so badly the queeny bastard stops the game and insists we spend the rest of the lesson practising throws. It’s not fair. Just because the rest of them are crap. When he’s in the store cupboard, getting more balls, Daniel slams the door and locks it. The sight of the wiggling handle and the sound of the old fanny banging to get out is all it takes to turn everyone ballistic. Everything remotely moveable – balls, bollards, bean bags, chairs – gets kicked about the gym to the chant of ‘POOF, POOF, POOF, POOF.’ Even a couple of lassies start paggering – tearing at each other’s hair, scratching like angry cats. It’s brilliant. It’s like a prison riot.
As the gym’s separate from the rest of the school, nobody hears, so this goes on for most of the lesson. By the time the bell goes, I think most of us have forgotten the jobbie jabber’s even in the cupboard. Daniel shushes us down and puts his ear against the door. It’s gone completely silent. Fuck, will we all get the jail if he’s had a heart attack? It was Daniel that done it. The rest of us were just too scared to stop him. It was brilliant, though. Even more so when, as it is, in fact, lunch time and we only get an hour, we decide to leave the bastard in there. I’m sure someone’ll find him eventually.
Chapter Sixteen
ANGIE
DESPITE SHOWERING THIS morning, Raymond’s smell is still oozing out of me as I watch him settle dog bets.
‘Is that me? D’you want more tonight?’
Nodding, I look down at the settling desk we had our maiden fuck against last night. It was all over in about 60 seconds but Jesus, was it the most exciting, uncontrollable 60 seconds I’ve ever experienced. Just to be taken like that, almost like rape. To be treated like some kind of slut. Sooner a frenzied minute than a passionless, predictable 15 of marital banging that I have to dredge my distant memory for fantasies to enable me to remain awake throughout. Marital banging, which is, in itself, a distant memory.
It was only a matter of time. Practically all my relationships, prior to getting hitched, were work-related. It’s more civilised than picking up strangers in clubs, you know. The last time I did that, I met Vic.
With the fibreglass screen to disguise our drinky breath from the punters, Raymond and I take it in turns to go for swifties at lunch time. A Chinese guy’s in for most of the afternoon. He wins three in a row, over a grand, but keeps betting till he’s lost it all. The addicts are like that – it’s the losing, not the winning, that really matters. Today, it is Lady Gabriel in the 4.37 at Sunderland that renders Charlie Chan finally penniless. He leaves, exhilarated.
As I make for the loo, with my bag, in the break before the 4.45 at Nottingham, Raymond grabs my hand.
‘Take your knickers off,’ he whispers as old Sid staggers up with a 10-pence reverse forecast, ‘I can’t smell me any more.’
Slipping them off as I pee, I’m slimy by the time I wipe myself. He can do that to me just with his voice. I take a slug from the quarter-bottle I bought at lunch time, before I’m calm enough to go back through. As I take a, by now, irate Sid’s bet, Raymond pushes his hand up my skirt and fingers deep into me. Sid’s still whingeing about missing the last price when he takes them out again. I give him ten to one, and everyone’s happy.
A big, purple-faced, intense-looking man slaps down a £500 win bet on Largesse in the next race. I hand it to Raymond to clear with Head Office in line with their crusade against betting syndicates. When I attempt to serve the next customer, the purple-faced man blocks his way.
‘What’s the focking problem? Where’s me bet?’
I explain the procedure to him as calmly as possible, but he keeps interrupting. Why are the stroppy ones always fucking Irish? Catholic too, no doubt.
‘Just put d’focking bet on, will yah.’
‘Take a seat. It won’t take a minut
e to check.’
Again I try to take someone else’s bet, only to have them knocked to the ground by the thug.
‘Look, youz of got me focking money. What sort of focking Mickey Mouse shop is this that you can’t just take a focking bet without crying to d’boss?’
Raymond finally gets through to Head Office, but can hardly make out what they’re saying for this stupid Irish twat blowing a gasket. Slamming the phone down, he puts the bet through the till, slowly counts the wad of 50-pound notes, runs them through the camera, then defiantly thrusts the underside of the man’s bet under the barrier.
‘Look, pal, I don’t need to serve you. Speak to a member of my staff like that again and I fucking won’t.’
The man gives him the finger and goes and sits at the back of the shop to watch the race.
‘He better not fucking win,’ Raymond whispers, looking pale. ‘I banked all the money earlier. We don’t have enough to pay him.’ He retrieves the bet from the camera to check it’s win and not each way. ‘Bugger it. Fall, you bastard, fall!’
A crowd of regulars gather round the Irish git, shouting on his horse, even though they’ve all bet different runners. Just because he’s had a go at us, two-faced wasters. Largesse, seemingly spurred on by their yelps of encouragement, romps home at twelve to one. Irish boy’s up for his winnings before they’ve even declared. Raymond phones our nearest branch to try and scrape the money together. Then he phones a taxi for me to go and pick it up, ignoring the man, who, by now, is tearing up piles of unused betting slips as he kicks a stool around. Some of the more half-witted regulars start to get wound up as well, yelling abuse at us, calling us robbing bastards, accusing us of not giving them good prices. Fucking lemmings. It’s like Spartacus.
By the time the taxi arrives, Irish boy’s gone storming off, apparently to get a gun, having issued very convincing death threats to us both. Raymond phones the police, then sees me out to the cab. I beg him to lock up till I get back, but he refuses. Head Office really frown upon such losses of revenue. As I pull away, I’m terrified that the next time I see his face, it’s going to be splattered across the form for Sandown in today’s Racing Post.
