But Jonny Ross always gets his way.
As soon as I make my way to the bar I spot Hoppy, slumped up against the fruit machine. The big bastard’s probably been there for hours, blown most of his dole money already. And then when he’s drunk and skint, he’ll be swinging punches at one of us. He’s not the best of friends, but he’s a hard fucker. And someone like that is always handy to have in your corner, especially on a match day.
The watered-down beer is cheap here, so I offer to go on rounds with Ginge. Hopefully, if I can time it right, Ginge will have to buy me a drink in the stadium. And in that place, they’re twice the price. It’s not exactly the greatest of scams, but it usually works a treat on him. In school, I learned fuck all. But beer-maths? I’m a bloody genius.
I take the two pints of beer over to the table. Ginge is sitting next to Nathan. He’s probably my least favourite person to hang out with. He’s lippy, tight, always ends up fighting, and he’s a total racist. Which doesn’t really bother me, because even I get a little racist when I see his scrawny, white arms, his thin little legs, seeming even smaller with those black skinny-jeans on. Stupid prick. And that blond shaved head makes him look like a newborn baby. But what can you do? He’s Jonny’s younger brother. He’s protected, and has been all his life. And no one fucks with the Ross family.
“What’s up, my nigger?” Nathan says in a lousy American accent. Just because the little twat listens to Jay-Z, he thinks he can throw out the N word.
“Shut the fuck up, Nath,” Ginge says, nudging him in the ribs. “You can’t go shouting out things like that.”
Nathan lets out a chuckle. “Calm down, you prick, I was only joking. He knows that, don’t you Alf?”
I’m above his shit, so I throw him a sarcastic grin as I sit down at the table. I take a huge swig of beer, imagining how great it would be to smash his head in. “Where’s your brother?” I ask him.
He motions with his head behind me. “He’s in the bog having a line. He’s got us some great coke. Nothing like that stuff we had last time. This shit will blow your head off.”
“None for me today,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m skint. I’ve only got enough for a couple of pints.”
“What? On match day? Don’t be a pussy.”
Ignoring his dig, I take a sip of my beer, and glance over at Hoppy. He’s shaking the fruit machine, clearly just lost a shitload of coin. God knows why he even bothers. All he goes on about is how much he loses. Mr Unlucky.
He gives it a quick kick and starts to walk towards us, his face pink with aggression. I wonder how much he’s lost this time.
“All right, Hoppy?” I ask, praying that he doesn’t take his loss out on one of us. I mean, the guy’s twice my size, and that Swansea top is ready to pop off at the seams. Not sure if it’s shrunk in the wash, or he’s trying to show off his chunky arms. “No luck today then, mate?”
He sits down heavily next to Nathan, gulps down half his pint in one go, and then burps loudly; the sharp burbling sound echoes around the pub. I tighten up a little when I see the old couple frowning from the next table. “Fuck all luck, Alf,” he says, wiping the froth from his lips. “I’m sure that thing’s rigged.”
“It’s not worth it, Hop,” Ginge says. “Those machines only pay off after someone’s been on it for hours.”
Hoppy turns to him and scowls. “You don’t think I know that, Ginge? I’ve been popping coins for an hour before you lot got here.” He finishes what’s left of his drink, belches again, and then gets up. “Right then, whose round is it?”
“I’m on rounds with Ginge,” I say. “Can’t afford to go on with everyone; I’m totally skint this month.”
“He’s a pussy,” says Nathan, nudging him. “He reckons he’s not having any of Jonny’s coke.”
“What?” Hoppy blurts out, sitting back down, eyes bursting from their sockets, as if I’ve just come out of the closet. “You’ve got to, Alf. It’s fucking awesome sniff! Best I’ve ever had. Practically uncut.”
Yeah, I’ve heard that one before. Straight from the fields of Colombia, I bet. “I’d love to, mate, but I’ve only got enough for a few pints today.”
“Then I’ll lend you the sixty,” Hoppy offers. “Come on, Alf. Man up.”
I shake my head. “I can’t. I’ll never get to pay you back. I’ll be eighteen in four months; I’ve got to find somewhere to live. Wendy and Phil are never gonna keep me on.”
“Fuck ‘em, then,” Ginge says. “And fuck your foster dad. You can crash with me until you’re back on your feet. Mum won’t care, and my sister has moved in with her boyfriend, so the place is practically empty.”
“See!” Hoppy says with his face lit up, knowing full-well that I’m a sucker for peer pressure.
And great cocaine.
“I’ll think about it,” I say, taking a slow drink of beer, trying my best to ration it. “So what’s the score gonna be today, guys? I bet you’ve been down to the bookies this week, Hop.”
“Damn right,” Hoppy replies, nodding his head excitedly as he walks over to the bar. “I put a ton on Swansea beating Cardiff 2-1. Easy money.”
“I reckon 3-2,” I say. “Cardiff are looking pretty good. Reese and Turner are injured, so we’ve only got one decent striker: Davies.”
“What about Thomas?” Nathan asks. “He’s had a good season.”
“Thomas is fucking shit,” I hear Jonny say from behind me.
I turn and smile. “There he is—the man of the hour. Where’ve you been hiding?”
Jonny sniffs loudly and dabs his nostrils with a piece of toilet paper. “What happened to the mini-Afro, Alfie? It suited you, mate.”
“It had to go,” I reply. “It was a pain in the ass to keep clean.”
He nods, and then looks over at Ginge. “You’ve got your own Afro coming yourself.” He picks up his brother’s pint and takes a huge swig. “But it’s fucking ginger.”
“Nothing wrong with this colour,” Ginge replies, his tone playful, even though it’s obviously forced. “It’s all the rage these days, Jon. Ginger’s the new blond.”
“How the fuck is it all the rage, you dick?” Jonny asks. “No one wants to be a ginger.”
“Prince Harry’s a ginger,” Ginge replies. “And the girls love him.”
Jonny laughs out loud. “Yeah, but he’s a Prince. You work at fucking Burger-Land. It’s not quite the same.”
Ginge starts to drink his pint quickly, clearly desperate not to show his discomfort. No one wants an argument with Jonny Ross. Why the hell would they? Shaved head, cracked front tooth, dog bite scar on his left cheek. I mean, he’s a scary bastard, even to me—and I’ve known him for six years. Fuck, not even Hoppy would get into a fight with the guy—and he’s twice the size.
“So what do you think the score will be, Jonny?” I ask, trying to keep the conversation light before Ginge ends up saying something stupid. “Close game or what?”
“Fuck knows,” Jonny replies. “As long as we beat those Cardiff cunts, I’m happy.” He reaches into the pocket of his navy shorts for something. “Right, onto business. How many do you want?”
It’s coke.
“I’ll take a gram, Jon,” Ginge says, taking out a handful of notes from his pocket. “Sixty, yeah?”
Jonny nods as he takes the money. He then discreetly slips the coke under the table. Taking it from him, Ginge inspects the clear bag filled with white powder and stuffs it into his pocket.
“Alfie?” Jonny asks to me. “How many?”
I pause for a moment, about to decline his offer. But as the alcohol races around my bloodstream, bonding with the excitement of the game, I can’t help but say, “Put me down for one.”
He subtly hands it over to me. “That’s sixty quid.”
“I’ve got this one,” Hoppy says, standing over the table, a pint in each hand, and a bag of pistachios under his left arm. “This rude boy’s skint.” He sets one of the drinks in front of Jonny.
“Chee
rs, Hop,” I say, patting him on his arm as he sits down. “I’ll pay you back.”
“I know you will, Alf,” Hoppy says, “but there’s no rush.”
“Can I have a gram?” Nathan asks. “Or a half will do me.”
Jonny glares at his brother, a deep grimace on his forehead. “You can fuck right off.”
“Come on, bro, you know I’m good for it.”
“It’s not about the money. You’re too young, Nath. You can’t handle it. The last time you took this shit, you smashed up the kitchen. And who did Mum accuse of spiking you with drugs? Me! So, no chance. You can stick with the beer.”
“It won’t happen again, Jon. I promise. I just took too much; that’s all.”
Without even looking at his brother, Jonny shakes his head. “The answer’s no. Now don’t ask me again.”
“That’s bullshit!” Nathan snaps. “You let that black bastard have one, and he hasn’t got a pot to piss in!”
I can feel my neck and shoulder muscles tighten as I hold off the urge to reach over the table, grab his head and ram that stupid, weasel-face into the table.
But I don’t—because I’m not an idiot.
“Shut the fuck up, Nath,” Ginge snaps. “Don’t call him that.”
Jonny throws Ginge a madman glower, wide eyes glazed over with a shitload of cocaine. “Watch your fucking mouth,” Jonny threatens. “My brother’s a little shit—but he’s my brother. You got that?”
I prod Ginge in his side to stop him speaking. “Don’t argue ‘cause of me, guys,” I say. “I can take a joke. Let’s forget about it, yeah? We’ve got the game coming up.”
The table falls silent for a painful few seconds. I’m used to awkward silences by now. I can’t remember a time when one of us hasn’t upset Jonny. And funny enough, Nathan’s never far away when that happens.
“So boys, what’s the plan then?” Hoppy asks, breaking the tension. “Finish these pints, a quick line in the bogs, and then head off to the stadium, yeah?”
“Sounds good to me,” I say. “Can’t wait to get in there, wipe the grins off those Cardiff wankers.”
“Best get there early,” Ginge suggests. “There’s gonna be twenty-one thousand people down there. First sell out in two years.”
Jonny shakes his head and then glances at the entrance doors. “No rush, lads.”
“If we leave it too late, the buses will fill up,” Hoppy points out. “And it’ll take us at least an hour to walk.”
“I don’t care,” Jonny says. “I’m waiting for someone.”
“Who?” Hoppy asks.
“An old friend I caught up with on Facebook.”
“Do we know him?” I ask, trying to work out who the hell’s he talking about. I thought I knew everyone.
“He’s that fucker from Cardiff,” Jonny says. “Always shooting his mouth off online.”
“And he’s coming here?” Ginge asks. “To The Farmers?”
“Yeah,” Jonny replies. “So he says. Doubt if him and his pussy mates have got the balls.” He pulls out his flick-knife, keeping it low. It’s about four inches long with a chrome handle. “But we’ll be ready for them, won’t we, boys?”
“Damn fucking right,” Nathan says, confidently, pulling his knife out and dropping it on the table.
“Hide that, you stupid twat!” Jonny barks, grabbing the knife and stuffing it into his brother’s jeans pocket. “You wanna get run in?”
“Do we really need them?” I ask. “I mean, how much trouble is there gonna be? There’ll be loads of police, and I doubt your Facebook friend will even show up.”
“So my brother was right,” Jonny says, shaking his head in disgust, “you are a fucking pussy.”
“I’m not a pussy, Jon. I ain’t scared of anyone. I just don’t think we need them, that’s all.”
“What happens if they pull a knife on you like they did with Hoppy last year?” Jonny asks. “There’s no way I’m letting some Cardiff cocksucker stick me. No fucking chance.” He looks over the table, down at my shorts. “So, where is it then? Show me?”
Anyone else and they’d be making a joke about me showing him my cock—but not with Jonny. And certainly not now when there’s a scent of violence in the air.
I let out a defeated breath, and then quickly show Jonny my knife. “Happy now?” I ask as I nervously slip it back into my pocket.
Jonny grins. “See, I knew you weren’t a pussy, Alf.”
I return a forced smile. Anything to keep him sweet.
4
My funds are practically dried up. We’ve drunk way too much already, and we’ve missed any hope of catching the bus to the game. Hopefully, Jonny will pay for a taxi. He’s a dick, but he’s not short of a quid or two. He gets sixty quid a gram, and I know damn-well that he only pays about twenty for each one. And that’s just the coke. God knows what he gets for all the other shit he sells.
The Farmers Arms is getting busy. I can’t seem to get the barman’s attention. I’d shout something to him, tell him to move his fat ass, but I ain’t got any fake I.D.
Roll on, eighteen. I’ll be homeless, but at least I’ll get served everywhere.
To my left there’s a girl, also trying to get served. She’s around my age, but could be a little older. I’ve been watching her since she came in fifteen minutes ago. She’s caught me looking at her a couple of times. I don’t usually go for blondes; I’m more of a brunette kind of guy—but I’m sure I can make an exception. Maybe it’s the four pints of beer, but those white curves are really doing it for me. She’s still slim, but that ass in those tight black jeans; and tits—fucking hell. Pert. I wouldn’t kick her out of bed.
Luckily, none of the guys have spotted her yet. Not that they pose much of a threat to me. All they’re good at is shouting, Nice ass, love! or Get your tits out! They’re not classy like me.
I take in a lungful of beer-smelling air, and I go in for the kill.
“Haven’t seen you in here before,” I say. Smooth, Alfie. Really fucking smooth. George Clooney is shitting his pants.
She turns to me; her eyes like blue sapphires, her cheeks puffy. Really cute. “Sorry? What did you say?” she asks, leaning in to hear over the background noise.
Awesome—a second stab at a first impression. “I said the service here is terrible. Don’t you think?”
She smiles and nods. “I know. I’ve been waiting here for five minutes. I think the barman is blind.”
“I take it you’re not watching the game then?” I ask, moving a little closer to her.
“Damn right I am,” she replies, her tone filled with excitement.
“Oh, right. I just thought—”
“You just thought that a football stadium is no place for a girl, right?”
Great start, Alf. I squirm, but then I spot the smirk on her thick red lips. “Hey, I’m all for women watching football. As long as they’re home in time to clean the kitchen.”
She playfully nudges me. “Very funny. So how are you getting to the game?”
“God knows. We’ve missed any hope of catching the bus. And walking’s out of the question.”
“Well, we’ve got a minibus booked,” she says, “but there might be room for one more.”
“Thanks for the offer,” I reply, “but I’m with four other mates.”
“Okay, no problem.”
“I’m Alfie, by the way,” I offer my hand. “Alfie Button.”
“Natalie.” She shakes my hand. Her grip is loose, as if she’s more used to getting a kiss on the cheek. “Cool name, Alfie.”
“Thanks.”
The barman finally comes over and serves her. I almost offer to pay for her drink, but I don’t want to come across too strong. Plus, I can’t afford it. Once he hands her over two vodkas and lemonades, the barman turns to me and takes my order.
“So who’ve you come with?” I ask, as two beers are set down in front of me.
“With my friend, Mari-Emma. My brother, Curtis, and a few of his
friends are on their way, too.”
My drink is nearly overflowing with froth, so I sip the top. “Well, maybe we could all meet up after the game or something. Go for a few drinks in Swansea.”
Natalie snorts. “Doubtful.”
“Why?”
She stares at my jersey and smiles. “Because I’m Cardiff all the way, Alfie.”
I laugh. “Cardiff? Okay, fair enough. I won’t hold it against you.”
Jonny might, though.
“I’m sure you won’t.” She picks up her drinks, ready to leave. “Right, well, maybe I’ll see you at the game then.”
If the guys find out I’m willing to sleep with the enemy, they’ll rip me a new asshole.
But what the hell!
“Can I have your number, Natalie?” I ask her, surprised that I didn’t get the words in the wrong order.
She looks at me up and down, as if inspecting the goods, and then puts her drinks on the bar. “Yeah, why not?” She pulls out her mobile phone from her handbag. She pushes a few buttons, and within a couple of seconds I hear a beep coming from my phone. I pull it out and see a Facebook friend request from her.
“That was quick, Natalie.”
“Well, there weren’t exactly a lot of Alfie Buttons to choose from.”
“Thanks. I’ll message you some time; maybe to help you through the painful defeat today.”
“Ha! In your dreams.” She starts to walk away, but stops when she sees a group of about twenty boys enter the pub. “There’s my brother now,” she says, pointing to the blond boy in the front. He’s around my age, dressed in light blue shorts and a Cardiff jersey.
Before I can even open my mouth, I watch Jonny ram his fist into her brother’s jaw. Then Hoppy throws his pint glass in their direction. It misses them completely, smashing onto the door behind them.
“Shit,” I mutter.
This is the guy Jonny’s been waiting for.
5
I catch one of them in the chest with a swift kick, propelling him into an empty table. Glasses smash over the floor. I taste blood when a fist from nowhere smacks me in the mouth. Turning, with both hands protecting my jaw, I manage to avoid the second punch with a quick duck, and then I punch him in the gut. I see Ginge pinned to the floor by a guy twice his size. Racing over to them, I slam my right fist into the guy’s temple, knocking him clean out. I yank Ginge up. No time for praise—he can thank me later. I spot Hoppy, kneeling over someone, pounding his giant knuckles into the guy’s face. A bottle of beer comes hurtling towards my head. I lift my arm; it bounces painfully off my wrist and smashes on the hard floor. I get to the culprit in a split second, grabbing him by his Cardiff jersey, and driving my head into his nose. The cracking of cartilage goes through me as he drops to his knees, cupping his face, blood pouring between his fingers. Nathan is on the floor, getting kicked by two boys. Before I can reach him, I’m thrown down to the floor as well, pinned by a lump of a guy. His heavy hands are wrapped around my throat, squeezing. I try to pry them off, trying to wriggle free, but it’s no use. I can’t breathe. The room starts to blur. I think I’m gonna pass out.
Burn The Dead Box Set [Books 1-3] Page 33
