by Miles Hadley
Jamal had told Gary that she had gone to a posh school in Jamaica. It was there that she had met Jamal’s father, who was a musician in a band. They had moved to the estate years back, when things had been better. But Jamal said that his dad had left him when he was little. She is a good woman, Gary thought, as she offered them all a cup of tea. He accepted the offer and asked her how she was.
‘Oh, you know, Gaz, up and down,’ she replied sadly.
Jamal put his arm around her. ‘We’ll get through it, won’t we, Mum?’
Gary observed her putting her hands on Jamal’s and she smiled. ‘Too right we will, son. We’re fighters. That’s what we are.’
The Downtown Posse piled into Jamal’s bedroom and Gary asked Jamal how his mum was really doing.
Jamal replied. ‘Like she said, ups and downs. The stupid fuckers have brought in new tests and all. Without them, she can’t get no benefits.’
‘That’s not right, is it?’ said Gary. ‘How can they test someone with...’
‘Don’t fucking ask,’ Jamal interjected.
They began playing video games and listened to the angry words of Dregz. They became more and more relaxed as they drew on their tokes. Eventually, Gary began to chuckle as he inhaled. His phone went off again. It was Crystal. She was on her way.
‘Is Michelle coming?’ Deano asked.
Gary detected a slight hint of excitement in his voice and replied, chuckling, ‘You’ll have to fucking wait and see, won’t you?’
Jamal started laughing. ‘You so want to pork her, don’t you?’
‘Fuck off!’ Deano blushed.
Gary started mimicking Deano in a falsetto voice. ‘Is Michelle coming?’ He began to laugh. ‘Is Michelle coming?’
‘Fuck you, Gaz. She is fit as fuck and you know it,’ Deano retorted, giving a tick in annoyance.
‘She’s not bad,’ Gary replied. ‘How about Crystal? Would you give her a seeing to?’
‘I prefer blondes myself.’
‘She’s not a proper blonde, you dufus,’ Jamal said, hitting Deano. ‘You know she dyes it?’
‘I wonder if it’s all dyed?’ Deano remarked, giving a dirty cackle.
‘You dirty mother!’ Gary laughed at him.
Eventually, Crystal arrived at the flat. However, to Deano’s dismay, she was alone.
‘All right, fellas?’ she said, after giving Gary a peck on the cheek. She asked for a toke and Jamal handed her the half-used roll-up. She inhaled deeply.
Gary watched her as, after a few minutes, she began to giggle. He put his arm around her and cajoled Deano to beat the fuck out of Jamal on the video game. Deano was the underdog and, whenever Gary saw an underdog, he instinctively supported them.
3
The M1 had been hell on earth. At least Archie had the comfort of the Range Rover and Dave Brubeck. It had been one jazzed-up speedy trip yesterday and now another on the fucking M1. He had tailgated, not waited. Not his style – not his life to be trapped on the forever slow lane. He was young and his life was fast – competition fierce. If there was one thing that being a schoolboy at Melton had taught him it was overtake, overtake, overtake. Swear when something obstructed his progress. Curse. Tell them, the ones below, to get a fucking move on – stop being so bloody slow about things.
He finally arrived. Parking was an utter nightmare in Soho, but he did it.
‘You’re late.’
‘Sorry, Silv. Traffic!’
‘And you look like shit.’
‘Got any aspirin?’
‘Cupboard in the kitchen. Get a move on. Got to get the lighting right. Models are coming any minute now.’
‘Right, right... what was the job again?’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Archie. I’ve told you umpteen times. Newspaper? Broadsheet? Faux fur collection for their “Style” section?’ Silvio brushed back his sleek, gelled black hair irritably.
‘Oh, yes. Totally. I remember.’
‘Wash your face as well. You’re green.’
‘Must be the...’
‘Poppers? Speed? Cocaine?’
‘Actually... it was a cocktail. All of them.’
‘Oh my God, Arch. You people make me sick.’
‘Think I’m going to be sick in a minute…’
Archie rushed to the toilet, slamming the door behind him, seconds before all that he had consumed the previous night in the Risely dining room exited his body. Exited and spewed in the crudest of ways. His body convulsed and convulsed.
‘That taste…’ he murmured. ‘Fucking awful.’
His body convulsed again, emitting second helpings.
‘Christ almighty,’ he exclaimed. ‘Won’t be doing that again in a hurry.’
He left the toilet and downed a glass of water that Silvio handed to him.
‘Honestly, Archie. Sometimes I don’t know why I chose you.’
‘Weren’t you impressed by my portfolio?’ asked Archie.
‘It was okay, yes,’ said Silvio. ‘But seriously, Archie, you have to focus, focus on the fucking job. See this fucking lens? It’s focusing, focusing, focusing. See it? Now I want you to do the fucking same.’
Archie gulped down some water before pushing back a lock of his semi-long ginger hair. He bent down and looked through the camera at the set.
‘Thoughts?’ Silvio asked.
‘What?’
‘The light! Thoughts?’
‘Well, it’s a bit tricky to know before the models arrive.’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ shouted Silvio. ‘What have I told you? Focus, Archie! I couldn’t give a shit if they’ve arrived or not. The light always has to be perfect!’
‘Who are the models?’ Archie asked. ‘Anyone we know?’
‘Petronella Heighton-Leigh, Penelope Wittard and Genevieve Crichton.’
Archie knew two of the models already and thought they were both shit-hot. In fact, he’d had the pleasure of doing a solo shoot with Petronella Heighton-Leigh – and that was not just with his camera, he remembered, smiling to himself.
Eventually, the models arrived. The whole afternoon turned out to be one of the sexiest and comical farces of Archie’s promising photographic career. He chuckled to himself as he observed and snapped the models, who were all over the place, pouting their lips and flouting their bodies in every available faux fur that the otherwise staid family broadsheet had to offer.
Archie had a bright idea. Silvio had two large vintage Persian rugs. Archie wanted to ape a photograph that Beaton had done, just for fun. All of the models, as well as Silvio and a male technician, wrapped themselves in the rugs in a girl-boy, girl-boy manner. They looked up at Archie’s camera. It turned out to be a great shot and Archie thought that he would treasure it for ever. It was not the same captured moment as in the Beaton, but was nevertheless good.
After the shoot, Archie looked at Petronella and gave her a wink. She winked back at him while she and the other models changed back into their everyday clothes. As they left, she brushed her hand past his and said in a sultry voice, ‘Call me sometime.’
‘You’re not free this evening?’
‘No, I’m with my boyfriend. Going to Cha’s.’
‘Cha’s? What’s it like? Good food?’
‘Don’t know,’ said Petronella. ‘If it’s good, you can take me, and if it’s excellent you can “take” me again for afters…’
He laughed and they kissed briefly. God, she was a hotty – a leggy, doe-eyed hotty.
Once the models had left, Archie drove through the traffic to the Hodgkin-Smiths’ Chelsea residence, where he was due to swap residence with his parents.
Again, parking was a nightmare and there was a typically cool reception from his father, Iain Hodgkin-Smith. Archie’s father typically wore a small-checked, brown shirt with
brown tie and tweed jacket. Quite a dapper dresser in an old-fashioned way. He rarely went to Savile Row anymore, hence the slightly worn edges of his jacket. Archie was never sure when his transition from hippy clothes to boring country garb actually occurred. Once in the hallway, he was hit by the familiar whiff encountered only at their Chelsea house – dogs, mouldy books, and wood polish.
After the initial formal Hodgkin-Smith handshake, polite pleasantries were exchanged. Then…
‘You’d better not have had that godawful friend over at Risely.’
‘Which one, Pa?’
‘You bloody well know which one.’
‘But Razza’s a saint,’ said Archie. ‘Ma said so herself.’
‘Not him. Arbuthnott-Percy.’
‘Oh. Henry. I don’t know why you hate him so much.’
‘Oh, come off it, Archie!’ said Iain angrily. ‘You know what he did. Cost an arm and a leg to get it restored. Bloody shit. I’ve always been sceptical of that family, what with that Pulfret place in the northern wilds. What is it he does again?’
‘High-end concierge service. Caters for the nouveau riche. Mainly foreigners.’
‘Sounds like a bloody racket to me,’ said Iain. ‘You know how they got their money in the first place?’
‘No. How?’ asked Archie.
‘Shipping blacks everywhere. Putting them to work on their sugar plantations. Dirty money. Rotten, dirty money. Old money, yes, but still dirty. We’ve always been Tories, but there is one thing we never got mixed up in – the slave trade. Completely and utterly unchristian. Any idiot, even at the time, could have told you.’
‘But Pa! That was centuries ago!’
‘Damn it, Archie! That boy is a brigand and he is not welcome at Risely.’
‘It’s not as bad as what I heard you got up to…’
‘Archie, that’s enough!’
‘Heard Grandpapa nearly forced the trust to disinherit you!’ said Archie. ‘Bit of a free-loving hippy weren’t you, Pa?’
‘I said enough!’ said Mr Hodgkin-Smith. ‘If I find that you’ve been spreading that about, I’ll force the trust to disinherit you!’
‘Then who will it go to?’
‘My sister’s family. Anthony, your cousin.’
‘What? Him? He’s a boring old fart!’
‘Boring or not, he seems a sensible young man.’
‘Sensible and a bore.’
‘Archie! I will not have you speak ill of your cousin!’
‘Besides, he’s not a proper Hodgkin-Smith.’
‘He can have a triple-barrelled name.’
‘What? Armstrong-Hodgkin-Smith?’ said Archie. ‘Sounds ridiculous! As an aside, is Betty still cleaning this place?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘My studio. Looks like there’s dust on the sills. I can’t afford to have dust anywhere with my equipment.’
‘What’s the problem?’ Archie’s mother came down the sweeping staircase, collar turned upwards, baring her pearls and pulling her faded luggage behind her. She was beautiful in an older way. She still walked erect, as if balancing books on her head.
‘Dust in his studio,’ Archie’s father muttered. ‘Apparently.’
‘What?’ said Mrs Hodgkin-Smith. ‘The old nursery? Let me take a look... I have to admit, she is getting a bit old. She probably can’t see very well.’
‘Sack her and get another,’ said Archie. ‘She’ll ruin my equipment.’
‘Archie!’ his mother exclaimed. ‘We can’t just go around sacking everyone willy-nilly. She’s been in our service for over thirty years! Her mother before that!’
‘Pension her off then. She’s useless,’ replied Archie.
‘Keep your voice down. You have no idea how much she loved you when you were little.’
‘Is she here?’
‘Yes. She’s been baking flapjacks.’
‘Take them to Risely and feed them to the dogs,’ said Archie. ‘Can’t stand her flapjacks. She always burns them.’
‘Archie! I’m warning you! I will do it!’ Archie’s father exploded.
‘Do what?’
‘Your cousin, Archie! Your cousin!’
‘You wouldn’t dare!’ said Archie. ‘Anyway, it’s getting late, Pa! It’ll be rush hour soon. You know how you hate the M1 in rush hour!’
His mother interjected. A soothing, soft voice. ‘Darling, he’s right. We’ll be late for dinner. Here... load up the car. I’ll have a quick chat with Betty and set the satnav.’
Archie’s father went out, taking the luggage with him. There was a loud exclamation. ‘Christ sake!’
‘What now, darling?’
‘Have you seen the state of the Range Rover?’ Mr Hodgkin-Smith replied. ‘Coke cans, crisp packets! You, Archie Hodgkin-Smith, are a complete and utter pig! Get out here and clean it. Now!’
‘Pa,’ Archie chuckled. ‘I was hungry!’
‘Oh, I see. So you won’t eat good food like Betty’s flapjacks, but you eat crap. Junk food, Archie – junk food! Oh, my God! You haven’t?’ Mr Hodgkin-Smith held up a crumpled McDonald’s bag.
‘Pa, you simply must try their cheeseburgers,’ said Archie. ‘Believe me, if you tasted one...’
‘Get this crap out of my car!’ said his father. ‘Complete and utter crap! I refuse to set foot in such an... such an Institution!’
‘Look!’ Archie exclaimed, pointing. ‘It’s Jake Coxwell!’
‘Who in God’s name is Jake Coxwell?’ said Mr Hodgkin-Smith.
‘You know them, Pa. Practically our neighbours. Horse breeding? Go back centuries. You bought that Hunter off them, two years ago...’ Archie waved to the newcomer. ‘Jakey boy! Over here!’
‘Hello, Arch! Mr Hodgkin-Smith, nice to see you looking so well.’ Jakey shook Mr Hodgkin-Smith by the hand.
‘Please. Call me Iain,’ said Mr Hodgkin-Smith. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’m just going to see where my wife has gone. We’re aiming to get back to Risely before the rush hour.’
‘Jakey,’ said Archie, lowering his voice. ‘You just missed the wildest shag fest at Risely. Seriously, it was fucking awesome.’
‘Couldn’t go,’ replied Jakey. ‘Like I said, I’m still seeing Cressilla Fraser-Bing.’
‘Ah, still pinging Bingy’s bing, eh?’
‘You could put it that way,’ Jake laughed.
‘How long have you been seeing her?’
‘About three months now.’
‘Getting serious... Jakey boy! You dirty devil!’
‘What are you doing here, anyway?’ asked Jake.
‘Just did the most amazing photo shoot with some shit-hot-looking models. Jake, seriously, you should have taken up photography, instead of stinking of horseshit like your forebears.’
‘You bastard,’ Jake chuckled. ‘So mate, Morrelli’s?’
‘Yes, mate. When is it again?’
‘Next week. Friday evening.’
‘See you there.’
4
As Gary approached the little council house, his home, he could hear a heated argument in guttural slang. As he opened the front door, the television blared out an altercation between two people. Gary heard Jeremy Kyle, the presenter, cajole and goad them. The audience kept applauding. Gary hated Jeremy Kyle. He knew that the show was usually about people on the estates, but hated the way in which everything about them was exaggerated; it was as if it was a national showcase of the poor as contemptible feral scum. It made him sick and, as he heard the audience applauding, he thought that what made it worse was that his stupid sister never missed a show.
As he looked into the living room, the sound of the audience applauding continued. There was silence for a moment, during which the show’s bodyguards had to restrain the male. He was dressed in sports gear, like Gary, but he had a s
allower face and kept desperately trying to hit his overweight mother-in-law and threaten her.
Gary listened and watched as the sanctimonious voice of Kyle continued. ‘Are you, Sharon, prepared to forgive Warren?’
Kyle had his hand on his chin, his brow furrowed in a deep, quizzical frown. Gary watched as the Sharon in question appeared to think for a moment, before rapidly extricating her wide posterior from the armchair and attempted to hit Warren, her mouth open in rage. Gary observed as two heavyset bodyguards came rushing onto the stage to restrain the two people, who were firing salvos of expletives at such a rate that the censor beeps almost completely obscured their voices.
A fucking circus, Gary thought angrily to himself. That’s what it is, a fucking circus act. Poke them. Prod them. Sod them. As if they were fucking circus animals. That’s it, Britain! Laugh, piss on them, fuck them, dick them in, dick us in, fuck us all for your own sicko, psycho entertainment. And when you are finished, Britain. When you are finished with us, don’t forget to piss and trample all over our graves when we are gone.
Gary looked at his sister, Sheila, on the couch and smiled to himself. Absorbing it all like a sponge. Sicko, psycho Sheila, absorbing it all so that perhaps, perhaps, she might regurgitate some of the drama with Gary in the future. She was picking her feet. No doubt resting while Warren slept soundly upstairs. Warren. The little nephew of his. Doomed, thought Gary, to a life of shittiness, too. Doomed to maybe appear on that programme as well. To line men like Kyle’s pockets again and again. To entertain the nation, with sicko, psycho-reality drama.
Gary went up to his room. Sheila had not noticed him. She was too absorbed in her Britain. Televised circus acty-shitty, Britty crap. He shook his head as he went up the dank, narrow stairs, taking off his Nike cap as he did so. He went into his room and lay on his crappy bed, looking up at the poster. She was not a topless model. She was a girl who he imagined had class. A sophisticated model. Her linen dress slipping off her shoulders as she pouted suggestively at him. She looked English, but could just as easily have been Italian or French.
He imagined all the sultry voices she might have, but that he would probably never hear. The sexy French one was his favourite. The younger Joanna Lumley one came a close second. He imagined her as his girl; by his side, talking about sexy, intelligent topics. He imagined himself attired in a classy suit, sitting with her in some Parisienne café. He even had names for her. Paulette for the French version and Rose for the English. His English Rose. Flourishing with him in a bright future. Being a bit naughty, a bit sexy, but always intelligent and always eyeing him with those gorgeous doe eyes, lids fluttering suggestively.
