by Nigel Bird
He lets go before I snap.
Only takes a second or two to stare him out.
I turn my back on him. Open the door.
“Anyone,” he reminds me, “and you’re finished, Joe...”
I slam the door as I leave, hear plaster dust the floor as the hinges take the brunt of my anger.
hamster cage
The inside of my mouth’s like the bottom of a hamster cage. Not that I’ve ever tasted a hamster cage or even owned a hamster, but it’s what I imagine it would be like if I ran my tongue over the bottom of one.
Wouldn’t be so bad if that was the only symptom. My head’s throbbing. Aching like I was using myself as a punch-bag during the night.
It hurts when I stay still. When I move, my stomach joins in, imagining it’s on the ocean waves or something and ready to empty itself at any moment.
Only thing I can think of to get me through it is a proper fry up and a bottle of pop.
Course Wolf’s out cold when I go to look in his room. I even brave the fart-stink and go in there to give him a shake. Only thing I achieve is to get his nose to blow bubbles.
The fridge is empty, bar a beer and an opened tin of beans.
What’s left of the milk is on the sideboard with the lid off. I don’t need to smell it to know that it’s rank. Just the thought makes my stomach churn.
Thankfully I get to the sink before I hurl.
Feels good to get it all out, the dark-brown gunk that blocks the plug like tea leaves. Wouldn’t fancy fingering through that to read my fortune.
I put on the hot tap. Spin my finger in the puke to force the lumps through the holes and wipe myself clean.
Best thing to do would be to wander out to the café, get to eat without having to do the washing up, maybe choose a horse or two from the Racing Post and then veg in front of the telly all afternoon watching my selections fall at the first hurdle.
Good news is I don’t need to dress. I’m still wearing my clothes from yesterday – black combats, polo-necked shirt and my green and purple stripy jumper.
I go into the bathroom, clean my teeth, give myself a deodorant squirt under the arms and splash water on my face.
Boots on and I give Wolf a call.
“Fancy popping down the Sunrise?” I don’t shout it, but it’s a bit more than a whisper.
No response. I make a fist and punch the air, then regret it when it feels like my skull’s just cracked from front to back.
I open the door quietly and shut it with a bang.
It’s one of those lovely winter days, the sun bright and an edge to the cold like everything’s clean and pure.
There’s a spring in my step. Feels good to be out. As long as I don’t need to throw up I’ll be absolutely dandy.
As I’m imagining the cold drink slipping down my throat and the grease of my egg and chips giving my stomach a good lining, I see something I’m not expecting.
Pulling into Hilldrop Road, Emma’s black Fiat. I check the plate. MMR, there’s no mistake.
Shit.
What the hell’s she doing?
Doesn’t she know I’ve gone to Preston?
Only one thing for it, I run into the driveway I’m about to cross, jump over the garden wall like I’m a trained Commando and lie as flat as I can.
My face is about an inch from a turd. Looks like cat, but I’m no expert.
Smells like the bathroom after Wolf’s treated himself to a curry.
That stomach of mine twitches again. Convulses and sends a gush of bile through my mouth and onto the soil. Tastes bitter as myrrh.
Coast must be clear by now. I stand up and look down at myself.
Have to say I’m not proud.
The door to the house opens. A little guy opens the door. The turban on his head makes him look fierce, or perhaps it’s the kitchen knife he’s waving in the air.
I’m not hanging around to find out which it is.
I do my best appeasing sign, listen to the bloke mouthing off in a language I don’t understand and back out of his drive.
Soon as I’m on the pavement I run. Sprint like a whippet up to the corner. By the time I get there, I’m out of puff.
Working out Emma’s possible route out of my road, I reckon the Sunrise is my best option.
I’m running like hell, dodging the old ladies and the gay men crowding round the health food shop.
One of the guys steps into my way.
Too late for me to do anything about it, I take the hit and tumble like a gymnast.
The guy’s over straight away, his perfect quiff, tight Tee-shirt and boyish looks mean he’s a guy I could go for if I was that way pre-disposed. Despising myself for even thinking such a thing, I flush it out straight away. Want to wash my mind out with soap.
I take his hand and accept his apologies without a thought.
As I rise to my feet, I see it again, the black Fiat MMR pulling up just ahead.
“No worries,” I tell the guy who seems reluctant to let me go. I’m backing off for the second time of the day and it’s not even eleven o’clock.
Emma gets out of the car.
I wave. Smile. Wander over. Try and ignore the scowl on her face.
the girl in the black Fiat
She looks amazing. Shades pushed back on her head, lips red as the strawberries on her summer dress.
When I get close I notice the goose-bumps and guess that vanity won out over warmth.
“Thought you were in Preston,” she says with her hands on her hips and using her best sarcastic voice.
“Change of plan.”
I get a whiff of her perfume. It’s the perfect antidote to the hangover. I imagine sex and a sleep. Perfect.
Her nose wrinkles. Her eyebrows look stained with red from a fresh-plucking. “You smell like a litter tray.”
‘Should try a French kiss then,’ I think. ‘Then you’ll know about the bottom of a hamster cage smells.’ Instead of speaking, I look at myself from the toes up. The stain at the bottom of my trousers could be anything brown. Cat shit, most likely.
“I came round to leave you a surprise,” she says. “Instead I got Wolf in yesterday’s boxers. Not a pretty sight.”
I don’t mention the state of my own.
She goes back to the car. Picks out an envelope and opens it as she comes back. As she gets close, she swings her arm like she’s throwing a punch and I see stars, literally. Silver stars and moons rain down on me, fall down the back on my jumper, cover my hair and the ground. “There’s your fucking surprise.”
She thrusts the envelope into my hand and turns away.
“To think I’m selling my house and leaving my fucking husband for this,” she shouts over her shoulder.
The blokes chatting outside Bumblebee’s aren’t even trying not to laugh. I join them just to hide my embarrassment.
I no longer feel like having a breakfast cooked for me or being out in public in these clothes.
The Fiat’s engine roars. It screeches to the junction. The tyres squeal as it screws round the corner. The girl in the strawberry dress doesn’t bother to look back.
I open the envelope. Pull out a card. There’s a picture of the back of a man’s head, his hair shaved into the shape of a heart then painted blue.
Inside it says ‘Don’t worry honey. Nearly there. I love you and you have a VCW (pto)*.’ It was the registration of my missing Nissan.
I follow the instruction. Go to the back of the card. Big letters this time, “a VERY CUTE WILLY xxxxxxx.’
My VCW twitches. Grows a little bigger. All it needs is sex and a sleep.
I cross over the road and enter the fish and chip shop.
Capaldi’s
“All right Joe,” Mr Capaldi says. “Any hot tips?” The thick scar across his face and the size of his hands mean there’s never any trouble at his place.
“Nothing today.”
“So what can I get you?”
“Cod and chips twice, mushy peas,
curry sauce, bottle of Lucozade and a battered sausage.”
Mr Capaldi nods. Shakes up the chips in the fryer and removes one for testing. He bites into it. “Two minutes,” he says, thick Italian making him sound like the gangster he probably is. “Got a hot one for you.”
He writes something on one of his chip papers as he wraps lunch and winks.
A couple of Gooners come in, red and white scarves, football shirts and Arsenal caps.
“All right, boys,” Mr Capaldi says. “Easy home win today. 3-1 the boys.”
tips
At home I unwrap our lunch. Read Mr Capaldi’s scrawl.
‘2:30 Ascot – Bananarama. 3:10 Uttox – If You See Me.’
“How much cash you got on you Wolf?” Emma was right about him and yesterday’s boxers.
He’s having a good scratch as he comes in, one hand on top the other down below.
I think about the 3-1 score-line prediction. Three singles, three doubles and a treble, I reckon.
Wolf points at the chip wrapper with the hand that’s just been inside his pants.
“20-1 that one,” he says.
“Then we better get our money on quick.”
R-A-M-O-N-E-S
If Mr Capaldi had been able to buy-off the Arsenal football team, I might have been able to give up work.
Instead, a big win double and a couple of singles and we’re out celebrating in the best way we could find.
First it was down to Camden to procure a few E’s and sink a couple of beers at the Bull And Gate.
Took the tube to Brixton and planned on an evening at The Fridge.
I come up on the escalators on the way out. Reckon Wolf does too. He lights up a smoke and, even though I’m feeling the love, I’m scared to hell that someone’s going to come over and slap a fine on him.
The fine never arrives.
“You feeling it?” I ask.
“Yeah man. Skin up.”
“I thought you had the gear.”
Wolf laughs like he’s insane. “Fucking hell, Joe.” He puts his hands on his knees to steady himself and starts to cough, the sort of coughing they carry you off in.
“Man I’m needing a smoke.”
“We’re in Brixton. Shouldn’t be a problem.”
Thing is it’s not our turf and things have a habit of kicking off round here. Soon as I get south of the river it’s like the map’s been turned upside down.
Never mind. I feel like I’m wearing some kind of protective cloak, as if nothing or no one can touch me. Besides, Wolf’s hard as Mike Tyson in steel toe-caps.
Everyone looks amazing. The girls, even in their coats, have figures I want to get to know better. The street lights on their skin makes them shine. I want to stop them all. Tell them. Tell them about their skin and how beautiful they are. Touch them and take them home and show them just how happy I can make them.
Wolf takes the lead. His eyes are popping, but he’s still got his street smarts. We turn off the main road and walk into the first pub that looks like it’s got a bit of a jump going on inside.
Times like this I wish I was black. Not just so I can look good or dance like I was born to hit the floor or grow locks, but so I wouldn’t stand out so much. I’m still feeling the love on the inside, but even I can tell from the looks we’re getting that love is the last thing on the minds of half the people when they see us.
It smells like a tropical evening, coconut joss-sticks burning in bundles in the flower box to disguise the smell of dope.
An enormous Rasta on the door asks the question, “Ganja?”
Wolf nods, so tiny a movement that I barely notice. He walks over to the bar and I take his slipstream.
Another guy comes over. Got to be 80 years old this gent, stooped and leathered by time. “How much”
“Quarter.”
“Thirty pounds.”
Wolf must have had it ready. Put it together when I wasn’t paying attention. The notes slip from one hand to another like they’ve been practicing close magic.
“Two Red Stripe,” he says to the barman.
I can’t believe what I’m seeing. It’s like we’re in a movie. Scoring drugs has never had such a kick to it.
The beers arrive and I take my chance and go over to the end of the bar where the only girls in the place are standing. Wonder why it took me so long to notice them.
“Fucking amazing pub innit?” For some reason I’m impersonating a cockney. “Fancy a night at the Fridge?”
Can’t take my eyes off the big girl’s cleavage. It’s got all the promise of satisfaction that Mick Jagger was searching for.
Before I can find out whether they’re coming or not, someone drags me from behind.
My reflexes seem to be on holiday. I don’t do anything to stop being pulled, not even use my feet to keep upright.
The hands that have me pick me up before I hit the ground. Push me against the bar.
Wolf moves his face close, grinning. “Wouldn’t mind being the meat in the sandwich either, but you’re going to have to pace yourself, bro’ Joe.”
I sip my beer. Sip it again, then gulp the rest down in one. Finest beer I’ve ever tasted. Right temperature, right fizz, great flavour.
“Another?” I turn to ask Wolf, but he’s gone. He’s wandering into the gents.
“Two more please,” I tell the man behind the bar. He’s slow to pull them. Keeps looking at some of the guys at the bar and moving his face like he’s communicating in code.
The good feeling leaves me for a while.
I’m standing at the bar thinking I’m living the last night of my life.
Wolf appears and the tingles in my scalp come back.
“Sorted?” I ask.
“Taken for a bloody ride.” He holds out his hand. Ripped off by about 20 quid I reckon.
I pick it up. Give it a smell. It’s got the thick sweetness that’ll give us a good smoke, but that’s not the point.
The Rasta from the door walks through and stares at me. He doesn’t speak, but I reckon I can read his mind. “You chumps think you’re going to get anything else from me, you’ve got another thing coming.”
I wander over. I don’t like people thinking like that about me. Maybe he’ll listen to reason.
The old guy gets in my way. Puts his hand up to my chest and stops me.
I could break him, but then I love the old dude.
“Better get going, son,” he says.
It confuses the hell out of me. Seems like he’s friendly but wants me to go.
Wolf appears again. He’s like my own personal bodyguard.
“He ripped us off,” I tell the old guy.
Wolf pulls my coat and I’m out through the door before I have the chance to say goodbye.
Fridge
There’s a chill in the air, not that you’d know it from looking around. The girls are in their flimsiest dresses, the blokes in cool Ts and trainers. I fucking love it.
Problem with the nip in the air is that it brings me down. I want another wave of happy to wash over me.
Wolf passes the spliff he’s rolled.
I put it to my lips and take a big draw.
The gear’s sweet. Makes my mouth water for a moment, then dries it out straight away. More importantly it opens a faucet inside me, sets that wave in motion, tickles the inside of my skull and moves on to excite my body.
“I need to drink,” I say. Wolf’s hardly with me. He’s staring at a couple of women over by the phone box, the angle of his gaze firmly down.
“Fridge?”
“Yeah. I need to warm up, get these juices flowing.”
I turn to pass on the smoke. Realise Wolf’s not there.
Takes me a while to spot him, his black leathers camouflaging him in the night, over by the girls he’d been ogling.
Suits me. I get to Bogart the joint.
I wander over in my own time and when I get there it’s easy to see what the attraction is.
There are five
of them, all throwing their heads back laughing. It’s like Wolf’s on his own carnival ride.
This one girl, the one in the middle, lifts her skirt to flash a Brazilian strip where her pants could have been. The yellow of the skirt-material reminds me of sunflowers, all bright round the outside and in the middle is a cooling darkness full of seeds.
How Wolf does it, I have no idea.
She’s got a broad grin across her face. Looks like somewhere between a ‘come on’ and a ‘how much is it worth?’ sort of smile.
Wolf, taking his turn in the ‘I’ll show you mine’ game unzips his jacket and pulls up his top. The light catches the nipple studs and the girl in the red shell-suit reaches over and gives it a twiddle.
His face softens like marshmallows on a camp-fire. A sound comes out of his mouth that’s somewhere between walrus and whale-hole.
“That the on switch?” one of the girls asks and they all roll their heads in titters.
“Try the off one,” the girl with the Brazilian tells her.
“You turn me on, off, turn me on,” Wolf says. “It’s a pleasure/pain thing.”
I’m half tempted to have a go myself, see if I can get a bit closer to pain than pleasure.
From the road comes the beat of heavy rap, bass booming and making the air vibrate. Couple of guys lean out of the windows of a car, something big and flash. BMW maybe or a Merc.
They’re wearing shades even though it’s night and there’s enough gold round their necks to start another rush.
It’s a drive-by, I reckon. Not one of those tame TV killings, but a real-life live action shooting just for our entertainment.
Reckon I’ve got it wrong when the car stops.
Big guy in the front opens the door using the outside handle. Opens up the back door like he’s a footman or there’s child-locks.
Three guys get out. Dressed in white head to toe.
The car lifts about a foot from the ground as they exit – it’s a wonder the suspension isn’t fucked, but I guess that’s what you get when you pay for the best.
First man walks over to me. There’s something in his hand, just a lump of metal far as I can see, like he might need for spares if he loses some of the caps from his teeth.
