by Anton Marks
Inconveniences aside, it was worth every damn minute.
“Don’t you think they’re too long?” Y said after appraising them thoroughly.
“These?” Patra asked spreading her fingers again to take a better look herself. “No way, they’re perfect.” She then stared intently at Y. “You dissin’ me?”
“Would I do that?” Y asked innocently. “Okay I know before they invented dishwashers you used to throw your plates in the bin and I suppose you can get away with riding your bike but how are you going to put on gloves and box without shattering them?”
Patra nodded, smiling slyly.
“Don’t worry I’ve got it all worked out, sugahhh.”
“Have you now?”
“As a matter of fact, yeah, I have. All my training for the next two weeks will be shadow boxing so they’ll be safe. What’s worrying me is being away from my baby for all that time. It’s gonna be hard without all that power between my legs.”
“I believe yuh.” Y burst into raucous laughter. Patra’s amorous references to her Kawasaki Ninja ZX would make a casual listener blush. “That brings me on to my next point. You not having a man for so long and by now forgetting what bit goes where, I can think of somewhere else those claws are going to be dangerous.”
Patra’s face brightened with a sense of understanding.
“Daaayum!” She emphasized. “You know, that just up an’ slipped my mind. You’d better soak those babies off girlfriend because I want nothing to come between me an my clit.”
Y couldn’t contain herself as Patra’s contrived deep south accent fizzled out.
“Try getting it on with those deadly weapons at the tips of your fingers. That could be messy.” Y made a funny face and shivered.
“Nasty!” Patra emphasized then looked over to Y’s hands. All neat and more importantly long.
“Hey bitch! Practise what you preach,” Patra pointed accusingly at Y’s fingers although not as long as her own but growing.
Y flinched.
“Si yah! I’m only making my real nails grow out, giving them a breather from the extensions.”
“Yeah, right!” Patra shook her head and spoke to the ceiling. “She’s fucking wid me and we’re both in the same shit.”
“Speak for yourself gal. I’ve got something stiff and black waiting for me later,” Patra nearly fell off her swivel chair with the hilarity of that lying statement.
“It’s waiting for you alright. Black, ten inches long and vibrating like a motherfucker.”
“Shhhhh!” Y chided. “There are virgins present in the room.”
“Where? I ain’t seen none.”
They laughed some more and then Y settled back to finish what she had started.
Armed with Patra’s chosen design of the bust of Queen Nefertiti, she stood up and walked over to assorted pieces of equipment she stored beside the far wall. On a trolley, neatly set on a fluffy towel was the air gun and its component parts. They sat there gleaming on a bed of white, like tools to be used by a punctilious surgeon in an operating room. She started to assemble her air gun where she stood and soon felt an uncharacteristic silence descend on what was before a boisterous vibe.
Y immediately involved her in a topic she knew she felt passionately about.
“I can bet Daddy must be feeling pleased his daughter has given up the idea of being a dispatch rider for the more glamorous world of modeling.”
Patra kissed her teeth with unshielded disgust, a tableau of all the family conflicts boldly coming to the forefront of her mind.
“I’ve told my mama about my plans so I suppose he knows where I’m coming from. They sleep in the same bed. But I wasn’t going to tell him, shit. Hey Pop’s, let’s have a father to daughter talk. What do you say? Shit man.”
The dredged up angst was self evident in her voice and Y felt like pond scum for nudging the conversation in that direction but Patra didn’t talk much about it. And Y being the person she was felt concerned about that.
Y walked back over to her work station with the air gun fully assembled and turned to face her again.
She asked her.
“Do you ever think he will ever accept you, for you?”
Patra shook her head.
“No fucking way. Unless I suddenly decide to complete my MA in Business Studies, find what he considers a respectable job, marry into a known family of good breeding in Atlanta and have two point five children he could dote on and doing that shit on my hands and knees, begging for forgiveness while I kiss his black ass, no way!”
Y leaned back into her chair and looked at the glow of resolve shining in her eyes and those firm set lips, understanding why this family feud would remain at stalemate. She was much more like her father than she would choose to admit and both being the star sign of Taurus meant neither would give in without a fight.
Ms Ramona Cleopatra Jones left the US almost begging the UK for political asylum. The States were suffocating her with its conservative views on being a woman, in particular a Black woman with her own set of values that weren’t considered acceptable. From what she had read before coming here about Europe’s open mindedness and her thirst for adventure, Britain was a no brainer. It had become home very quickly and, although it broke her mama’s heart to see her go, preacher Jones was relieved. Ever since then Patra was in a constant state of rebellion against everything her father stood for. When the posse sat and talked about their childhoods, the issue of Patra’s preacher father’s lack of love for her was expressed with anger and bitterness. The girls shared an empathy with her.
The entire direction that Patra’s life took was meant to be the antithesis of everything her father believed in and represented.
Mr Ignatius Jones was a self-made millionaire who had emigrated from Barbados to the States in the days when it wasn’t the fashionable thing to do. Over the years he had worked his way up to a level of prominence and as well as being a wealthy businessman, he was a Baptist lay preacher and community leader.
A goddamn hypocrite, were the words his daughter used to describe him and justifiably in her eyes. For a father to treat a child with such contempt through her formative years because of his grief that his only two sons were conceived still born was unforgivable. Yet on a fundamental level she was trying to forgive herself, for heaping the blame for her father’s actions on her shoulders and not where they should have been. She was making it right for herself and nobody else. It just so happened that what made her feel genuinely free and alive were affronts to everything her father had worked hard to achieve. Thank God for Mama Jones.
Patra was never left in the dark concerning her family back in the States and she talked to her mother once a week at least. Only Mama Jones remained proud of her opinionated, adrenaline junky, bi-sexual daughter.
Regrets.
Hell no!
Patra wouldn’t change a thing.
Y and Suzy were her family here and they accepted her for who she was. Back home they would have to deal with the naked truth or kiss her svelte Apple Bottom ass.
Y snapped on her face mask and took Patra’s index finger and applied oil to its edges. Placing it gently on a plastic column, she held the template in place over the nail bed and made a sweeping blast with her air gun. The Kemetic Queen’s image stood bold on Patras nail. Y nodded with satisfaction at the first stage and reached for another gun loaded with gold.
A loud slam on her front door made her pause in mid application.
Who the hell was that knocking on her door like they owned the damn place?
Usually the doorbell was used by most visitors; it was so outrageous and in your face - shaped like a hairy bum and the tune it played was rather tacky Hawaii-Five-O theme - no one ever thought of gaining her attention in any other way.
It had to be someone with no sense of humor, an inflated sense of their own self worth or someone believing their own hype. Mam’s choice Jamaican colloquialism rang in Y’s head, smelling dem arm, an tink a ch
arm.
A second barrage of bangs from her Victorian knocker reverberated through the house.
Who is this?
Y stood up about to storm out to her hallway but decided before she did anything rash, like alienating a potential client in the process, to check her appointments. She activated her Smartphone and her digital diary app. It was clear. No one was due for the next forty five minutes and that client was a regular who didn’t like waiting around.
This was unannounced company.
Y excused herself, just as Patra’s mobile went off and her friend expertly flipped it open and was away in verbal fourth gear as she left the room.
Y grabbed a jumper on her way out and slipped it quickly over her head, concealing most of her formal uniform. She looked through the peep hole first and saw the distant image of two men in suits peering in at her.
She opened the door part way and peered out.
“Can I help you...gentlemen?” She said icily. And it better be friggin’ good, was the thought.
One of the men - slender, effeminate with an air of perceived superiority about him - stepped forward and said.
“Are you Ms Yvonne Sinclair, resident of this address?”
“Who wants to know?” Y asked.
One of the officials obviously told by some deluded female that he was smooth - worst of all he believed it - reached into his jacket pocket and ran his business card along her field of vision sarcastically.
Windsor Housing Association stood out in bold gold letters with his name and credentials.
Y said nothing while smooth bwoy consulted a clipboard he had taken from under his arm.
He tapped it with his pen and looked over to his colleague, who himself had moved closer to the doorway. Y’s heart began to rattle against her rib cage as it dawned on her what was about to go down.
Smooth bwoy seemed to be satisfied that he was talking to the right person and proceeded.
“It has come to Windsor Housing Association’s attention that you have contravened clause 114 in paragraph 14 of your contract relating to business enterprises functioning from your domicile address. With that said we are requesting access. So no further action will be taken against you, we will need to search your premises for proof for or against this claim.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Y said sweetly. “You must have the wrong address.”
Y started shouldering the door shut before she had finished the sentence but to her frustration it was inexplicably jarred open.
She looked down.
Shiny yet fashionable steel tipped Dr Martens were wedged between the door frame and the door itself. Smooth bwoy’s colleague had just performed what she imagined to be his sole purpose and grinned as its importance was made clear to yet another satisfied customer.
“I don’t think so, ma’am,” Smooth boy spat smugly and proceeded to leaf through legal documents which he was convinced gave him the right to force his way into Y’s life uninvited.
Her anger barometer nudged up two notches but Y’s usual response was subdued not that the Housing Officers would realize that especially as she flung the door open and stepped out to face them. Already her half concocted story boasting a cast of two main villains in suits and casting herself as the innocent tenant was gaining traction in her mind. For anyone who would listen to her side of the story after the fallout it would be presented warm and sincere from the oven of her mind. Y smiled crookedly almost amused by her own hesitation to take action. This reluctance to act, considering her actions like a chess player was happening with annoying regularity and was usually accompanied with the nagging voice of good reason. Y took stock of her situation before acting.
Good ting too!
Maybe she was beginning to understand the rules of this warped game of fate that was hell bent on challenging them every step of the way.
Just as Y stepped out to face the housing men, two uniformed police officers seemed to appear from the hedges and as her eyes wandered further afield, her breath caught in her throat.
A very familiar green Range Rover sat at the far side of the road and Ms Granger rocking her mother of pearl necklace was being helped into the same car.
Strange, her appointment was in forty five minutes. What was she doing here so early?
Y’s eyes locked onto the scene in bewilderment as if it was a performance she had seen before but was still unclear about the outcome.
Her mouth partially open, she watched with intense interest while a younger woman courteously closed the passenger door shut for her client and then turned.
Then the penny dropped
Sandy Brewster her erstwhile part time boss, who had been none too pleased when Y resigned turning down a full time position on her team, smiled a smile that literally cut her snide face in half with the delight she felt.
Y blinked.
“You bad minded bitch!” Y growled.
Patra arrived just behind and caught the tail end of Y’s outburst. Already making a succinct evaluation of the situation she was punching away on her electronic third ear for reinforcements.
Not that it mattered.
Suzy wouldn’t get there in time anyway and Y had brushed past the men in the suits and was approaching Sandy Brewster’s 4x4 at a steady clip.
Patra could only see Y’s movements from the doorway, the two men getting off the floor, Five-O on Y’s tail and the SUV’s tyres burning rubber as the panicked driver, emergency brakes still in place, tried to escape the approaching mad woman.
Patra knew this was serious but could do nothing more than laugh and feel genuinely sorry for whoever was in the vehicle. Then she wondered if Y would get off with a caution and that made her smile even more.
Odeon Leicester Square, Central London
21.00
Leroy ‘Minty’ Thelwell loved the lure of the big screen. Maybe it was those memorable Saturday matinees as a yout at the Carib in Kingston, Jamaica that had left such a lasting impression on him. It was the only place where he and his spars could vicariously share the violent thrills with the movie heroes they idolised while the political wars raged about them.
Deh good old days.
So that was why when ‘runnings’ permitted and Deacon could survive without him he would travel all the way from Peckham, reserving the best seat at the Odeon Leicester Square to tek in his love in all its glorious colour and surround sound.
Tonight was the grand opening of a new Alex Weh movie. High octane choreographed violence, lovingly directed by one of Hong Kong’s masters of that art form.
Then there were the guns.
The sexy purveyors of death and destruction.
All big, all shiny and packing fire power that left him salivating at the film’s end.
He smiled at the thought of asking his Cypriot contact to source one of those pieces being used by the star bwoy. Make the gun runner lose more of his already thinning hair line in its acquisition.
Minty watched the credits scrolling from the screen for a second more and rose from his seat as the lights came on dimly. He was glad he had decided to take a break away from Deacon and the operation today. Giving himself some space to relax and chill. He had achieved that and more this evening and that was one of the reasons why his eyes searched the hazy interior, making particular note of the sisters departing.
He wanted his time away from business to last a bit longer and he knew how.
Turning quickly from aisle to aisle he hoped the woman who had made his pulse race with her stunning good looks wouldn’t just disappear in the ever dwindling rush of movie goers. But he saw nothing of her.
Disappointed, he tempered his frustration with the lingering buzz of the films climatic ending and stepped into the foyer. Some of the patrons hung around, chatting amongst the promotional posters and gimmicks like monkeys in a paper jungle. Wanting to step down from the staircase and join the exiting chaos, he realised a bottle neck had formed and he was unable to move. Minty main
tained his cool looking over the slowly dwindling numbers and it was then he sensed it. A pin prick of heat that slowly spread from the nape of his neck, as if he had been injected with some fast acting anesthesia that would engulf his whole body and render him immobile. His hand shot up to the point behind his neck feeling for the offending sting but instead coming away with a clear moistness between his fingers.
Then the tingling feeling subsided.
He turned slowly and met the woman in red with her brown eyes like wooden embers, flawless dark skin and lips that were succulent and red. His balls reacted before his mind did and shrank protectively but his manhood, well that told another story. One that did not care for what his hardwired early warning system had so eloquently alerted him to.
Her red dress alone demanded attention on its own merits. It was if the material was poured onto her like intelligent liquid chocolate that took on the design requested by it’s creator and set as fabric with the perfect color and texture. It made every luscious curve, from the mounds of her breasts to the symmetry of her thighs, even more appealing.
Every red blooded brother lucky enough to be in the cinema’s foyer at that time seemed to be drawn to her like the gravitational pull of a stellar object.
What’s more, she obviously had an unrivalled appreciation for class. No need to make the first move, enthrall her with his gangster exploits or his ‘bad bwoy’ contacts.
