Acid Casuals

by Nicholas Blincoe

  Their boss turned round. ‘Don’t be discussing my business with anyone.’

  That had them running off, their sportsbags swinging emptily at their side. All four disappeared into the men’s changing room, opposite Estela.

  Two bantamweights had got up in the ring, both of them naturals at the weight but upwardly mobile with good muscles. They began dancing round each other, not so much sparring as showing out a range of moves. One would lead with a right, the other would see it coming and swerve. Then they took an about-face and repeated the manoeuvre. Estela stepped out and took a tour of the ring. One of the bantams gave his partner a nod. When they broke off to look her over, she lit them up with a wink and turned her tail.

  Michael had come up behind her. ‘You here to mess with other people’s schedules or do some work?’

  ‘Okay, let’s work.’

  She dropped her hands to her hips and rotated her neck, scanning the room without breaking her exercise. ‘Nice place.’

  Michael said, ‘You’ve been here before.’

  No, she hadn’t. ‘I never used to keep myself in shape.’ There had been nothing to keep in shape. Back then, she relied on late nights and amphetamines and she had kept herself thin.

  Burgess had run a troupe of freaks, all of them wired on the speed they made themselves. All of them hooked into different circuitry. Bernard Chadwick had his own lunatic weight-loss programme, salting his potato chips with sulphate and downing them with pints of Snakebite. Michael lived out an obsession with Manchester City that was one part fashion parade, one part guerrilla war. And there was Junk with his alarming turns. It was a fact, she had been the closest to normal. Burgess was, perhaps, the worst. He was always frazzled and rarely slept. Each morning, the fading of the streetlights became his excuse to telephone and tell her she was Number One, she understood the pressures he was under…

  No, without doubt, Burgess was the craziest. Absolutely no doubt on the night Michael drove her to his office. Burgess paid the outstanding half of Michael’s fee with hands that would not stop twitching. Once Michael had left for the bar, the twitches spread to his face until his face swarmed in a mass of spasms and contortions. He wouldn’t hear a word, he could not take a refusal.

  Estela shook herself out, bouncing on her toes and feeling the clinging weight of her breasts as they loosened and re-aligned themselves inside the tight lycra leotard. Michael stood in front of her until he realised exactly what he was looking at and hurriedly turned away. She followed him to the free weights.

  ‘Who were those men you were talking to?’

  Michael shook his head, as though he was clearing it. ‘No one.’

  ‘They your neighbourhood gangstas?’

  ‘Yeah, so they think. The one with the tramlines calls himself the Taz-Man.’

  She thought, cute name. ‘Am I going to get to see them?’

  ‘I’m not introducing you.’

  ‘Who asked? What I mean, am I going to see them stripped down, working on a sweat?’

  Michael looked disgusted. ‘I’m not your fucking pimp.’ He grabbed a pair of dumbbells and began working on some swift reps, half-turned away from her so he missed her grin. ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘they’re not here to work out.’

  Estela got herself a skipping-rope and slipped into her training rhythm. Ahead of her, skewed on a makeshift ledge, was a TV set she had never noticed. On-line: a flustered blonde with a microphone and chequered suit, teetering on bow-fronted shoes as she asked passers-by for their opinions on God knew what. Estela kept her eyes ahead on the two bantamweights. She found, the faster she skipped, the slower they boxed. It was some trick.

  From out of the men’s changing room, she heard the Taz-Man say, ‘We on tee-vee? Crank up the volume on that motherfucker.’

  One of his boys came loping out of the changing rooms. He reached up to the shelf for the remote control and whacked up the sound. Mutton Woman was asking about fear and the current situation; whoever she dragged on camera agreed there were reasons to be scared, currently.

  The boy caught sight of Estela as he turned. He could hardly miss her, skipping in the centre of the hall. And she never missed a beat, running through three different steps in lightning time. He may have come over, his grin anticipated some kind of move, but he was called back to the changing room by his boss. The smile turned into a promise. Later.

  She was skipping purely for the bantams when a tiny man in a pork-pie hat stopped play. His head stuck through the ropes, he started bawling them out, saying, ‘Who told you this was a fucking dance class? You wan’ sweet-talk wid each other, you do it on your own fucking time.’

  The little man soon had them speeded up, the crosses and dodges became more real. Estela slowed her own pace a little, wondering which of the two would connect first. The man was shouting ‘Work him, work him’ but she didn’t know who he was coaching, maybe both, without discrimination.

  She had no interest in the television. She barely glanced at it. But then she heard an announcer name Bernard Chadwick and looked up to see the car he had used to kidnap Theresa, mounted inside the TV screen in wide-angled and foreshortened relief. The Lexus was scarred now, its complexion defaced by bullet holes and broken glass. Estela could not begin to guess what it was doing there, semi-derelict against a Moss Side street. But whatever cloud of bad luck Bernard had run into, she knew it had something to do with Junk. She once cast Junk’s chart; she knew what kind of hapless star ruled his life.

  The television trailed stills of the shot-up restaurant while a voice-over audited the damage. This was the report the Taz-Man had been waiting on. Before the end of first dissolve he had marched his posse out into the gym. A shade self-critical, he nodded at each of the pictures as they flashed by. But he took his bows when his boys began whooping his achievement.

  The whoops grew louder throughout the report. At first, the boxing coach had only rubbed nervously at the back of his pork-pie hat. Now, he stopped the sparring session with a bark and signalled his boys to get out of the ring. As they slid through the ropes and made for the changing room, he kept between the Taz-Man and his two fighters like he was shielding them with his body.

  The following news item had nothing to interest them. The Taz-Man turned away, and found Estela. She had stopped skipping but she didn’t return his look. Up on the TV set, side view, cropped and framed, there was a photograph of Theresa. The picture appeared to have been lifted from a video. Theresa was recognisable but nameless. The newscaster was telling her audience that the police wished to interview this woman.

  The TV was muffled by the voice of the Taz-Man, calling out to the two Thai boxers. Estela tried to catch the last of the report but only heard the newscaster sign off: ‘In a prepared statement, the Chief Constable said that Manchester owes its police a vast debt of gratitude for holding the line against the forces of crime and, when an incident does occur, reacting with speed and professionalism on behalf of the city they serve and protect.’ Then nothing more before the adverts.

  The Taz-Man hadn’t been idle while Estela watched the TV. He had persuaded the boxing girls to take it to the ring. As they walked by Estela their heads were tilted together, floating whispers over indecisive giggles. The Taz-Man stood waiting for them inside the ring. One girl swung her way through the ropes. After stripping off her arm guards, the other joined her.

  The Taz-Man got between them, saying, ‘You gonna fight clean or you gonna do it dirty?’ He held out his arms as though he were the only thing keeping them from tearing each other apart.

  His posse hugged the sides of the canvas, shouting either for Fidelia or for Michelle. The girls touched gloves, retreated and moved forward. The first kicks were puppy dogs, slapped down easily. The Taz-Man slunk around them, playing the referee, air-kissing their hard round butts.

  Estela found a place at the edge of the ring. She watched as one girl threw a couple of punches, recognising in her stance the shape of the combination that would follow. T
he defending girl blocked to her front and the attacker tried to catch her out with a kick to the ear. It had no hope of connecting, telegraphed from so far down the line.

  Estela counted the aborted manoeuvres. The two girls were so familiar with each other’s style, it was impossible to tell if either would ever cut it, full contact. She hoisted herself up to the ring. A second after she spoke, all action stopped. ‘Why don’ I have a go? I’ll take either or both of you.’

  The girls were staring at her, too unsure, their arms swinging at their sides with the weight of the gloves. The Taz-Man was for it, ‘Motherfucker. Bitch is game.’ Around the skirt, the Taz-Man’s posse began beating afresh on the canvas, whistling up to the ring.

  Estela slipped under the ropes. The Taz-Man met her, ring centre, his hand on her backside. ‘Which one’f you bitches going mix it?’ The two girls had reverted to attitude, sneering at Estela like they didn’t mind which of them put her down on her fucking arse.

  Everyone heard Michael roar, ‘She’s not fighting. Get out the fucking ring, Estela.’

  The Taz-Man couldn’t believe it, ‘You what, guy?’

  ‘Out the fucking ring, Estela. Now.’

  Estela shook her head. The Taz-Man said, ‘Don’t look like your bitch is going anywhere, Crossy.’

  Estela leant into the Taz-Man’s encircling arm. ‘Maybe I should fight him, instead.’

  The Taz-Man was pure grin. ‘Yeah. Fight him.’

  Michael stopped in his tracks. ‘No. No way.’

  Taz-Man wanted to know exactly how pussy he was.

  Estela said, ‘Come on up, Michael. Let’s have some fun.’

  ‘I’m not doing it. I asked you, now, get out the fucking ring.’

  ‘We don’t have to fight. Put on the arm shields, help me practise a few kicks.’

  Michael looked down at the red padded shields the girls had left by the ring. He hesitated, but he picked them up and climbed up to the ropes. He said to the Taz-Man, ‘Give me some fucking room, man.’

  The Taz-Man followed the two girls out of the ring, saying, ‘Don’t go hurting yourself, Crossy.’

  Michael slipped his arms into the shields and took up a position, forearms covering his body. Estela let a kick fly almost before he was ready. He blocked it firmly. Estela bounced back into position, smiling. The Taz-Man and his posse were clapping, ‘Motherfucker.’

  Michael knew she could have crushed either of the girls. He was blocking everything she threw at him but he had problems: the worst, making it look as though he wasn’t trying too hard, doing nothing but stroll round the canvas. Way below, Estela could hear the Taz-Man urging her on, telling her to lay the motherfucker out.

  She gave him three from the left leg, each of them launched in a side are and all aimed at the same height. The trick was the speed, but it was really only a trick. They were easy enough to stop. She delivered the fourth with a feint from her right leg, but Michael saw through it. He put it down with the same economical gesture he’d used for every earlier one.

  Estela sprung back with another roundhouse but this time she followed the feint with a punch to his face. His head snapped back, his defence way out of line, waiting for a kick that never arrived. In the tenth of a second he took to shake off the punch, Estela had swivelled to her left. All he saw, she was no longer dead ahead. Then a back heel smashed into his ear and he staggered on to his knees.

  It took Michael longer to shake it off. His head swung from side to side only half a beat out of time with the jackal laughter that echoed round the hall. He was ripping the shields off his arms before he had time to think it through. Up on his feet, he was ready to punch her out. Estela waited. She had a smile ready for him. She had a bounce in her that set her breasts into locomotion.

  She saw the look pan across his face, a slow-wipe as he realised what it would look like. He would be trying to stomp a woman, and he wouldn’t even be able to do it cleanly.

  He turned his back and climbed out of the ring. The Taz-Man was waiting. ‘Nice. Nice, Michael. Now you know why your sons are down with the ConCho. They want a positive role model for the hood. Someone like me, stead of Daddy pussy, whipped by a bitch.’

  Michael shrugged past. But the laughter followed him.

  Chapter Twenty Two

  The Passenger Club was a large square room, a one-time sports hall. Around the size of a basketball court, with its bleachers removed, the club was overlooked by a high, wide stage. The DJ stood at its summit, the lower edges were filled with people dancing, throwing poses – some of them simply talking. The music was lover’s rock, perhaps some jazz-tinged hip-hop loops every now and again. Soon, all those softer tunes would come to an end, Theresa knew it. They were the low-key preliminaries. The volume was still way, way down. The wheels of disco lights above the dance floor turned listlessly. But the place was totally rammed and everyone was counting the beats until it ignited.

  Theresa felt over-dressed and heavily white. Clutching a duffel bag the size of a sack, she was jittered. She had been to the Passenger Club before. A few years back, she was as likely to go there as the Gravity but recently the city had begun to redivide, like an amoeba that can’t flow in two directions without splitting its heart open. Techno and its derivatives, musical and chemical, had got paler. Her friends, acid casuals and ravers, had begun to shun hip hop. It was a question of space; other-worlds against the inner-city. When ragga re-ignited the dance halls, they left that alone, too. It was too, too heavy. Let its bass heavy lines work on the asphalt, techno’s electronic bleeps were communicating with the solar system: black holes and white space.

  Now she was deep into the Passenger Club, she found herself looking for an easy ride between the two scenes. Wherever she went, these days, there was little that remained sexy about Ecstasy. At once mellow and energetic, every tablet either undershot or overshot the sexual moment. In the Passenger Club, the lust-in-waiting was tangible, it just about dripped off the walls. She could smell it around her but found it difficult to get a grip on its single-mindedness. Sometimes, its insistence sounded less than erotic and closer to pure braying, hardened to ambiguities and afraid of catching itself slipping.

  Theresa was conscious of Cozy’s left shoulder brushing against her right. He hadn’t gone so far as holding her hand, but he was staying close. If Yen had been with her, he might not even notice he’d stepped out of their usual world. Yen’s gift, his unnerving stupidity, meant he could go anywhere. Theresa had hoped that Cozy was straight out of the same mould as Yen, but he wasn’t. A night and a day of murder, car chases, shootings and theft had left him quiet, and quietly trying to cope. If he had been Yen, he’d be skipping across the dance floor. He’d be up among the dancers on the stage, totally out of control and urging the crowd to get on One. He would slip amongst the black string vests, lycra dresses and pin-rolled trousers without a thought. Yen would never have noticed any reason to worry.

  Theresa turned to Cozy: ‘Are you okay?’

  He said that he was. ‘Yeah, fine. I can wing this.’

  He hadn’t denied being nervous, though. It was one more way that he proved he wasn’t stupid. He knew when to hide what he felt and when to open up. He knew enough to act stupid when he worked for Burgess. Still, he had seen what was going on – he knew where Burgess’s profits came from. He knew it wasn’t from selling package deals to Corfu. Theresa touched his arm softly.

  It hadn’t been easy for him but he had stayed, through it all.

  *

  She had waited until they left the Croner Hotel, and then she had told him. They were going to break into the travel agents. They were going to ransack all its files, they were going to clear it out. Cozy had grown paler, his lips thinned out to pinched white lines but he had finally agreed. They were his fingers that skipped across the keyboards, sifting through security-coded computer files. She wouldn’t have known how to access them, or even guessed what they meant. While Cozy worked, she stood around, eyeing her reflection in the
blackest parts of the VDU screen. She thanked Jesus that he wasn’t stupid, but she wished to the razored tips of her nerve ends that he felt a little of what she was feeling.

  Now, with the job behind them, he had eased off that exact neurotic pitch. Inside the Passenger Club, he was just plain nervous. Theresa, on the other hand, was edging up to another note. She could feel it buzzing inside her. She hadn’t quite got to it, that’s all.

  The wad of computer print-outs and counterfoils in her duffel bag were growing heavier, as though they were absorbing all the sound, the atmosphere and the sweat of the Passenger Club. She wouldn’t have to hold on to the stolen files much longer; let Estela have them all. Buried somewhere within them was the story of the Burgess money-laundering operation. Through all the information that Cozy had selected from the travel agency’s computer, were traces of Burgess’s illicit deals, from lost ten grands to the odd fifty thousand pounds, all of it spirited from one country to another while Burgess creamed off his percentages. ‘It’s all there,’ Cozy had said. Theresa had been too excited to listen properly as Cozy tried to explain the scam.

  The weight of the bag was making her perspire at about ten times the normal rate. Clutching it tight, she may as well have taken a set of suitcases into a sauna. At the door to the Club, the bouncer had asked her, ‘What’s this? You doing your homework while you’re here?’

  She had shaken her head. She would have passed by him but she thought to ask if he knew Michael Cross. Would he know where she could find him? He looked down at her, saying, ‘He’s not here, love. Maybe later, you’ll find him upstairs. With the other old men.’

  She pushed her way through the dancers, swivelling around their sashays, knowing Cozy would hold fast to her tail. Whatever she was feeling, it hadn’t spread to him. He was getting over it, getting over it, getting on. He wasn’t looking for anything new. He hadn’t got the biggest best fucking kick out of breaking his way into the travel shop. He hadn’t gone for it with enthusiasm. And so, now it was over, it wasn’t like he’d wrung himself out and landed in post-orgasm limbo. For certain, he wasn’t thinking that he was maybe ready for more.