Gang War

by Graham Johnson

  ‘You OK?’ Dylan asks.

  ‘Oh! It’s you . . . Sleepyhead.’ She smiles. ‘Hi. Are you OK?’

  ‘Yeah,’ says Dylan, conscious that he’s talking too loudly and of his accent.

  ‘Do you need any help?’

  ‘Just looking for a book.’

  ‘Anything in particular?’

  ‘Erm . . . no, just looking really.’

  ‘Well, books on sleeping are over here . . .’

  ‘Bit cheeky, aren’t you?’ She laughs. ‘What about books on on-top birds?’

  Half-smiling, she says, ‘Birds . . . ornithology is over in that section.’

  Her name is Elizabeth.

  He meets her outside the library at half seven. It’s already dark but the night is electric with hope. They get a taxi. She slides into the back, laughing, her jeans gliding over the leatherette. As she collapses back, her thighs are angled high for a moment, reminding Dylan of those paparazzi pictures of celebrities falling into limousines. Her boots match the shiny black handles on the doors.

  ‘Shall we go to Lark Lane?’ she asks. Dylan nods. She tells the driver, ‘Kelly’s Wine Bar on Lark Lane, please.’ The driver looks at Dylan in the rear-view mirror. It’s the same one who took him to the brass-house the other night with Nogger and Casey. Dylan throws him a score as he gets out, even though there’s only a tenner on the clock.

  He’s never been before but Dylan loves Kelly’s Wine Bar. Wooden benches, candles dripping down the sides of wine bottles. He loves the fact that she’s come straight from work, wearing the same clothes she had on in the library. She’s ravenously tearing at the bowl of bread on the table, juggling menus and ordering. A young working woman.

  ‘Excellent, isn’t it?’ he says.

  ‘Haven’t you ever been here? Do you mean you’ve lived in Liverpool all your life and you haven’t been to Kelly’s or Lark Lane?’

  ‘No. Is that a problem, like?’

  ‘Where about are you from?’

  ‘The North End. Bit of a different scenario by ours, d’you know what I mean? Bit bleak.’

  She’s 18, a year older than Dylan. She tells him that she’s just working in the library part time. She’s a student at John Moores. Dylan makes out he knows what John Moores is.

  ‘What are you learning about?’

  ‘Philosophy.’

  ‘What do you do?’ Elizabeth asks him.

  ‘Nothing, really. Bit of graft now and again.’

  He’s choosing his words carefully. He doesn’t want to lie to this girl, or play the romantic urchin to the posh wool either.

  ‘Graft – like work?’

  ‘Just buying and selling stuff.’ That reminds him that he has a bag of weed and a bag of charlie on him. Usually, he’d have had her in the bogs by now, snorting, getting a little nosh off her to say ta. But he doesn’t feel like getting it out. He wants to eat with this girl, tear up the big chunks of warm bread with her, try the stinking cheeses that keep arriving.

  She pours several glugs of red wine into an oversized glass. A lad in a black shirt and slim back trousers delivers a heavy block of well-oiled wood to the table. On it are thick wedges of different-coloured cheeses. Big-value portions. Dylan’s never been out for a meal before. Food is for on the move, for in your pockets – cola cubes, sausage rolls, all-day breakfast pasties.

  Spreading some Camembert on his bread, he says, ‘Wow! It stinks.’

  ‘Lovely. Try some of this,’ she says, putting a spoon of something in his mouth.

  ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘A small village.’

  ‘In the countryside?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Dylan swigs his wine, laughing. ‘That’s good, innit?’

  ‘What? Haven’t you ever been to the country?’

  Dylan, playing the wag, the knowing urchin, tells her: ‘See cows, throws bricks at them, girl.’ Smiling, he says, ‘Sorry. Where about?’

  ‘Have you ever heard of Cerne Abbas?’

  Dylan laughs as the candle flames dance in the dark, rain-streaked windows, steamy and cosy. ‘No.’

  ‘It’s in Dorset.’ Elizabeth’s smiling now. ‘Have you ever seen a picture of the giant carved into the hill, in chalk. The one with the big willy.’

  Dylan, buzzing, tells her, ‘You live in a mad place, you, girl.’

  ‘It’s an ancient thing. A fertility symbol. If you’re a virgin, you’re supposed to sit on it.’

  ‘What? On his big, chalk cock? That’s mad. Do you ever sit on it?’

  ‘Not any more. I’m not a virgin.’ She smiles flirtatiously.

  Dylan laughs, looking at her, his eyes tracking his prey like a lizard’s. She’s mischievously biting a stick of celery. He’s gonna say something about his own giant cock but checks himself. Less of the behaviourals – for now.

  ‘And where exactly does the mysterious Dylan Olsen live?’ asks Elizabeth.

  Dylan’s made up that she used his full name. ‘L11,’ he says, not being arsed to give much away.

  ‘A number not a place? And where might this L11 be?’

  ‘North end of the city.’

  ‘And what’s it like up the North End?’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘All right. That’s it? I’ve told you about the giant cock on our hill. And all you can say is “all right”. Haven’t you got anything that can compete with my naked giant? It sounds shit where you live.’

  ‘Well it just goes a bit messy now and again. D’you get me?’

  ‘Messy? Do you mean there’s a lot of litter?’

  ‘Well, yeah. And a few of the lads are a bit sick. Bit too sick. Too much sometimes.’

  ‘Do you mean they’re all ill?’

  ‘Well, a good few of them have to go to A&E now and again. But it’s best not to. Case there’s comebacks. Just wear a vest, don’t you? No need to go anywhere then, is there?’

  ‘And you all wear vests? You and all these sick men wear vests? And there’s a lot of rubbish? Well, Dylan Olsen, I’m glad we didn’t go for a drink round by your house tonight. It sounds fucking terrible.’

  Dylan bursts out laughing. You have to hand it to her. She’s game. She’s on it.

  ‘Well, maybe I just didn’t explain it right . . .’

  Both of them laugh again.

  They go on to the Students’ Union. Dylan loves it. The music’s loud and cool, bouncy house, psychedelic. There’s a massive crackle of noise at the bar. Loud talk. No hard talk, just lots of laughing and screaming. It’s different from the places he usually goes. No shadow-boxing on the spot. No German-soldier faces, shaved head, teeth clenched, grimacing Russian-Front-style on the podium. No punters getting dropped outside with handguns.

  The girls are gorgeous – less make-up and Gucci than he’s used to, but their boho chic is well crafted and they’re fit. There are English-rose types in short black skirts over ribbed woollen tights, white shirts, see-through under the lights. Film-star Asian birds, skinny as fuck with long black hair; there’s one trendy Indian girl with a fringe that covers one eye, wearing skinny jeans and an electric-blue pashmina. A group of Spanish girls are stood by a red leatherette alcove. They’re neat, rich-looking, conservative, in crew-neck jumpers, with long bobs and thick, sleek sunglasses. Dylan clocks a couple of black girls near the fire exit who stand out because they look more clubby, as though they’ve got somewhere better to go. The tall one is wearing a shiny lime-green dress with a snakeskin pattern on it, and flicks her hair Naomi-style when she laughs. The other one, pure Sugababes material, twirls on her heels as she craftily blows cigarette smoke out of the open door. Tall girls from down south stride past in jeans and boots, wispy scarves tied around their necks. There are loads of girls in dramatic make-up, plenty of Peaches Geldof/Amy Winehouse types.

  But Elizabeth is in a different league. She’s back from the bar with two pints already, dancing a bit, smiling madly. Big, mad let-ons to her mates. They scream, kiss each other twice and hug. As th
ey step back, they eye up Dylan, mischievously, lustful. They whisper questions to her about her ‘new friend’. ‘He looks like a townie,’ says one. Dylan hears and laughs out loud. ‘Yes, I live in a town. That much is true.’ He’s gracious, polite, has them laughing straight away. Throws in a few funnies and that. But not too many – just enough.

  ‘So you study philosophy here?’ he asks Elizabeth. ‘Mad, innit? What is it exactly?’

  ‘It’s just about thinking about how you live.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, most people don’t think about anything, really. Just get by and do what they’re told.’

  ‘Right, like, I only think when I’m out grafting. Planning and that.’ Dylan checks himself. ‘You can’t think that much when you’re watching the telly or on the Wii or chillin’ to Biggie.’

  ‘That’s it. All that shit is just distractions to stop you thinking about what’s really important.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like what makes you happy.’

  ‘Dough, innit? Nice phat car, boss kennel, decent swag . . . these are a few of my favourite things.’ Wry smile.

  ‘But that’s because you’ve been brainwashed into thinking that, bombarded with commercial propaganda since you’ve been old enough to watch CITV and Milkshake. Adverts, celebrity culture, women’s mags, Peter and fucking Jordan driving a new Range Rover, footie players in their cribs with their WAGs.’

  Dylan shudders at the thought of Casey but quickly gets rid of the image. ‘Yeah,’ he says, thinking about it, ‘suppose they have got right into our heads.’

  A lot of people would go laddish on her at this point, mock themselves for not talking bollocks for once, for going off-message, away from the usual shit of guns, beefs, birds, footie. Or they’d slaughter her for being too weird. But deep down he knows she’s right.

  All he says is, ‘But look at this nice little Roley here.’ He shows her his £5,500 Rolex (which he steam-ironed out of a drug dealer).

  ‘And?’

  ‘That gives me a buzz, makes me feel happy.’

  ‘But, Dylan – it’s an illusion.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you can’t link your happiness to your status and money. If you’re rich and happy one day, you could be poor and miserable the next. You’ll constantly be up and down.’

  ‘You’re right. That’s mad, innit? I’ll get rid of it.’

  Outside at closing time there are no taxis about. They start to walk home in the sideways rain. Elizabeth, shivering under Dylan’s Peter Storm, says, ‘Let’s get the night bus.’ Dylan can’t be arsed with the bus. He’s had enough bohemia for one night. No fucking cabs anywhere. Twats putting their lights off when they go past scuffians, so that they can pick up juicier fares in town.

  Just then, Dylan spots a Red Road private hire. They’re not supposed to pick up on the streets, but Dylan collars him at the lights, leaning into his window. He’s made up to see Bunter. He’s a graft taxi driver, uses his cab to ferry gear around.

  ‘All right, Dylan? What are you doing around here? Got some graft on the go?’

  ‘No, lad. Just been in town with some bird and . . .’

  ‘Go ’ead, lad. Loads of pussy and that?’ Bunter shouts.

  Dylan can see that Bunter, in his chippy-stained grey sweatshirt and trackies reeking of groin odour, is turned on. Fucking perv is getting a semi-on, a predatory look in his eyes. ‘Where is the little darling, then?’ he asks, sliding around in his seat, scoping for Elizabeth, half thinking he’ll be on Dylan’s strange – back seat, little nosh.

  Dylan feels rage rising up in him, but he lets it go. They need the lift. ‘Do us a favour, Bunter. Take us round the park. For a score, lad.’ More than double the usual, because Bunter’s taking a risk by picking up on the street instead of taking a booking through the blower.

  Bunter eyes Elizabeth over Dylan’s shoulder. She’s stood in a shop doorway, laughing with her mates. ‘Look at the snatch on that. D’you fancy taking her OT ways? Top flange, her, mate. There’s a little field behind the power station in Runcorn. Got some roeys, there.’

  ‘What the fuck are you on about?’

  ‘Rohypnol.’ He shakes out four rhomboid-shaped blue tablets from his ciggie box. ‘Just knocks the pussy clean out. Don’t know what the fuck’s going on. Wallop them everywhere. Up the arse and all that.’ Dylan can’t believe what he’s hearing, lets it go at first cos it’s too much.

  Bunter carries on, oblivious: ‘Got this little contract taking kids to school and back. Take a little 12-year-old every day. But she’s a fucking darling, d’you know worramean? Fucking big arse on her, big tits, all there. As far as I’m concerned, she’s fair game, mate. No matter how fucking 12 she is. Stopped at Mackie D’s one night. Splosh! Pill into her Coke. Fell asleep. Took her back The Boot. New Loon, Nogger got on me. Three-piper, la. Boss. Afterwards, put her little knickers on, dropped her off to her ma and da and her little brothers.

  ‘So d’you fancy it?’

  Dylan has his blade out, the tip under Bunter’s chin. He’s leaning into the window with his back to Elizabeth. ‘Listen, you little fucking fiddler, I’ll cut your fucking bollocks off. I know Nogger’s into what he’s into. But that doesn’t mean it’s fucking right. Or that I’m rooting for him.’

  Bunter’s on a whitener now, the tip of the blade nestling in the bristles on his throat. ‘OK, D. Just chatting shit. No offence.’

  Dylan, looking from side to side, tells him, ‘Don’t say another fucking word. Keep your eyes off the bird and just take us to where we want to go, OK?’

  Dylan slots the knife back down his bollocks, turns and smiles at Elizabeth. ‘Come ’ead, girl. Got a ride.’

  The taxi pulls up outside her pad and she runs to open the door. Dylan throws Bunter 30 notes. ‘Scruffy twat.’

  ‘Thanks, D.’

  Her flat’s in an old, creaking Victorian villa. Amityville. The wind shakes drops of rainwater off the leaves of the looming oaks that brush the roof of the house. No lights on. Park-black skies.

  ‘I’m here on my own,’ says Elizabeth, smiling, the rain streaking down her firm cheeks. ‘I live on the top floor but the rest is empty.’

  ‘Yeah?’ says Dylan, loving her independence, her fearlessness.

  He kisses her, a long, sloppy one, his tummy turning over. She breaks off, gently pouting against his ears and his neck, and then pulls him closer. He cups her hair to his nose: a faint smell of coconut, the red standing out even in the dark. The intimacy of their mouths is strangely at odds with their hands fumbling over thick coats.

  ‘That was nice,’ she says. ‘Beautiful kisser, Dylan Olsen.’

  Her flat is cool. Pure Definitely Maybe: stripped wooden floors; a fleshy-pink Indian silk bedcover, old and worn, with swirly silver embroidery; an Afghan rug. Dylan’s onto the woven AK-47 patterns straight away.

  ‘Where d’you get that?’

  ‘I got it when I was travelling.’

  She takes two mugs out of the Belfast sink in the corner. ‘Tea?’ Dylan smiles a yes, still looking around. As the kettle whistles on the little gas stove, she takes her damp red cardi off. Dylan clocks how her braless tits battle against the white T-shirt, her dark, strong nipples teasing underneath.

  ‘Here’s a postcard of the rude man from where I live.’ Dylan loves it: the ancient mystery of it, snuggled above a village next to a stream.

  ‘Looks like a boss little place to go on holiday. Have a little sit down on the hill. Go for a quiet pint in . . .’

  ‘Where do you usually go on holiday?’

  ‘Never been abroad. Not even to a Champions League game. Can’t be arsed spending that kind of money. It’s only a footie match, innit? Can cost you two grand for three days.’

  ‘Well, Dylan Olsen, we can’t have that, can we?’

  She disappears behind a three-panelled Chinese screen in the corner – black lacquer, fading paintings of red, blue and gold dragons – and pop
s out wearing a kimono. Playfully, she pushes him back on the bed and climbs on top of him.

  ‘I want you to pretend that we’re on a beach somewhere,’ she says, sliding the silk off one shoulder. Dylan laughs, buzzing off the mischief. ‘And we’re all alone. Under the palm trees.’ Off the other shoulder. ‘Imagine the sea lapping at your feet.’ She unties the belt and the kimono drops on the bed. To reveal her in a bikini, nylon, clean, white. ‘The sun beating down. And me lying next to you.’

  Afterwards, crashed safe and hot under the heavy, dark sheets, his icy breath lit by the moon, Elizabeth lying across his chest, Dylan knows that this is the girl he wants to spend the rest of his life with. He wants to live with her in this flat. Fuck all that nonsense with Nogger. It seems childish and small-time now. What was all that about? He could get a little job. Maybe even go to college. A world of possibilities lying ahead.

  CHAPTER 14

  MAC-10

  The lads are standing in the door of the chemist’s on the parade. Nogger’s got an abscess. He’s moaning: ‘Can’t go the fucking doctor’s till tomorrow.’ There’s a big golf ball of pus hanging off his jawbone. He’s swigging from a big bottle of Corsodyl mouthwash, holding it like a bottle of Stella, then spitting it out as people walk into the chemist, between laughing and arsing about – and going back into the chemist out of the cold and to chat up the counter bird.

  Clean white uniform. She’s been Tangoed in Tanorama. Miss Midriff with a McFat face. Britney pigtails and bobbles. She loves the young gangsters.

  ‘She asked me how old I was,’ Nogger tells the lads. ‘And she didn’t need to know that, did she? She wants to know, her.’ Neck out like a chicken, head moving from side to side, score-knower smile, certain she fancies him. ‘I’m telling you, she wants to know.’

  One of the lads agrees: ‘Innit.’

  A stranger walks past. Whizzer shouts ‘ocifer’ in case he’s a jack, to let him know that they know. But he can’t be. His face is too skeletor. Nogger collars him before he gets to the chippy. ‘Brave, innit?’ he says.