Strange Affairs, Ginger Hairs

by Arthur Grimestead

  Copyright © 2019 Arthur Grimestead

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

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  ISBN 9781838598709

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  To all who helped, heartfelt thanks.

  To all who hindered, fuck you.

  for music to accompany this novel, visit:

  www.arthurgrimestead.com

  Contents

  PART ONE November 1998

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  PART TWO September 1999

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  PART THREE Nine days later

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Two days later

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  PART FOUR Two days later

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  PART FIVE Two hours later

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  PART SIX Thirty minutes later

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  One month later

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Epilogue

  PART ONE

  November 1998

  One

  Hello good fella, are

  you well my friend?

  I awoke, and my first thought was: I’m going to kill myself.

  I wasn’t desperate, I just couldn’t be bothered to get out of bed.

  Staring at the ceiling, I trailed my thoughts around a swirl of Artex. A minute passed, during which I did not die.

  You see, I had a general fear of death; a fancy for melodrama; and it was signing-on day. If I couldn’t be bothered to get out of bed, I probably couldn’t be bothered to kill myself.

  A woman gazed over me, pouting her silicone-enhanced lips. The poster of Page Three Lucy dominated my room – well worth the KitKat I swapped it for. Her breasts were captivating and always cheered me, albeit with a predictable transience.

  I rolled over, reaching for a half depleted cola bottle. Just out of grasp, my finger tickled the label – I asked the cola genie for fewer spots, no holes in my underwear and the ability to be recognised by persons other than the Jobcentre staff. Indeed, I had to be there in an hour to mark the pinnacle of another vocation-less fortnight. My bed was calling me to hide under the duvet and pretend Lucy lay with me, but the sniff of money-for-nothing won out. Hastily, I pulled on yesterday’s jeans and socks, encasing the stench of the latter in a pair of Three Stripe trainers. Then, collecting my dog-eared benefit book, I blew Lucy a kiss and set off to the land of the jobseeker.

  I sat waiting for a number thirty-eight to take me into town. The bus shelter was shrunk to microscopic proportions under a looming tower block, somewhere at the top being my recently departed abode. As I looked up, the grey amalgamation of concrete ascended into the sky and seemed to infect Mother Nature with its greyness. The sun always seemed shy round our way. People walked as if they couldn’t be bothered, hands in pockets and dragging along their feet – even the sprogs of the teenaged mothers seemed too lazy to cry.

  Someone plonked down beside me. ‘All right Ginger?’

  I looked up.

  ‘How’s it goin’?’

  It was Syd, a skinny weasel-like kid, who wore glasses so thick he could probably see into next week.

  ‘Been up to owt?’

  I shrugged my shoulders. ‘Dunno really.’

  ‘Where y’off now?’

  ‘Sign on,’ I grunted.

  ‘Oh. Seen owt’a Wacko?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m supposed to be meetin’ ’im. I’ve got ’im one a these.’ He pulled open a Kwik Save carrier, revealing a hoard of mobile phones and offering them like a bag of sweets. ‘At least ’undred quid y’d pay at Carphone Ware’ouse. Y’can ’ave one for fifty?’

  I grunted, shaking my head. ‘I’m skint.’

  ‘The world’s moved on from carrier pigeon – get the fuck with it!’ He snatched back the tangle of antennas, his tone nudging superior. ‘I got on t’internet last week – gettin’ porno piped in 24/7.’

  I ignored him, though secretly I was jealous. ‘So where did you get that lot?’ I said, nodding towards his swag bag.

  ‘Chip Shop Chas. ’e’s got even more of ’em.’

  I groaned. ‘You back in with him?’

  ‘’e’s all right Chas.’

  ‘He’s well dodgy.’

  ‘I could get y’bit’a work with ’im. Make some proper wonga instead’a broodin’ on dole.’

  I gave a tut. ‘No ta.’

  ‘Suit yerself.’ Syd lit a fag and inhaled as if it were his life support. ‘Y’wun’t know a good thing if it bit yer ’and off.’

  ‘Everyone knows that chip shop’s a front.’

  ‘So what?’

  So… nothing, absolutely nothing – it’s not like I give a shit. I care more about the price of Tampax. I was quiet and gazed at the kerb.

  ‘This time next year y’ll still be signin’ on,’ said Syd, pointing his fag rather accusingly. ‘While I’m signin’ a big cheque for a big new Jag.’

  ‘Yeh right.’

  ‘I’m tellin’ ye, Chas runs this estate. Every break-in, every two-’undred percent loan, it all goes back to ’im. But ’e’s careful, y’see, and nothin’ ever sticks. I mean, what else is there?’

  ‘You could try being honest.’

  Syd laughed.

  ‘So everyone has to burgle houses for a living?’ I snapped.

  ‘Dunt everyone do that already?’

  ‘I don’t.’

  He blew a lung full of smoke in my face. ‘Y’know, even at school y’dint ’ave a clue.’

  ‘I did better than you,’ I spluttered.

  ‘GCSE Astronomy? What does that qualify y’for? The Russel
l Grant fan club?’

  I frowned. ‘That’s astrology.’

  ‘Forget all that bollocks. Get a degree in life and the first thing y’ll learn is y’don’t get owt for nowt ’less y’go and take it.’

  ‘What do you know about life? You’re younger than me.’

  ‘Enough not to be a miserable twat bag on dole.’ He pulled out a wad of cash, waving it in my face. ‘I’ve shifted twelve phones for Chas this week – twen’y percent for me – that’s ’undred and twen’y quid.’

  ‘Dirty money.’

  ‘Only if y’wipe yer arse on it.’

  I ignored him as my bus appeared – late as usual.

  Syd held out a fiver. ‘There y’go Ginger, treat yerself.’

  A man of principle would have snubbed him, but five quid covered a Big Mac and a milkshake. I snatched it and stood up.

  ‘See y’around then,’ said Syd.

  I said nothing and caught the bus to town.

  ‘Can I see your job search log?’ said Sandra, New Deal Personal Advisor.

  ‘It’s at home,’ I said – the desk between us seemed like a judge’s bench.

  ‘You need to show your efforts to find work, Mr Jones.’

  I offered a perfunctory glance towards the noticeboard, pointing at random. ‘Can I apply for that one?’

  ‘We encourage clients to apply for as many jobs as possible.’

  ‘Right.’

  Her tone dropped. ‘Or face sanctions.’

  As I sat opposing Sandra’s pointy nose, I felt very dissatisfied with the way New Labour were making me jump through hoops for money – New Deal was a bad deal.

  ‘Administrative Assistant, Choice Seafood,’ said Sandra, reading from her computer screen. ‘You’d like to make an application now?’

  I shrugged. ‘If you say so.’

  She sniffed, fidgeted in her seat and then continued to read. ‘Do you have previous experience within a busy office environment?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you computer literate?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Qualifications?’

  ‘Kind of.’

  Her French tips gave an exaggerated wrap over the enter key and her nose returned to pointing in my direction. ‘I’ve arranged an interview for you, next Thursday 10.30am.’

  My stomach seemed to capsize. ‘What?’

  ‘A New Deal placement is a gateway into employment,’ she said, smiling. ‘Often, no experience is necessary.’

  ‘But I’m busy next week.’

  ‘I could refer your case to a decision maker, Mr Jones. But that could mean sanctions.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Anything else we can do for you today?’

  ‘I need to sign on,’ I mumbled, offering my benefit book.

  ‘Well, I’m breaking for lunch right now, so if you’d like to re-join the queue and wait for one of my colleagues…’

  I dragged myself up, pulling a face, and mooched to the back of the queue.

  Two

  I could have been the

  mayor, the lord, the king.

  I stood outside a bogey green door, flushed and a little out of breath. Scraped into the paint was the number 52 – someone had nicked the brass digits and sold them to number 25. Bracing myself, I opened the door.

  ‘I’m back!’

  There was no reply.

  In the living room, obesity anchored Dad to his armchair. He didn’t look up from the telly.

  So, I ignored him and mooched through to the kitchen. There I found Mum over the hob, sucking on a stub of Silk Cut. She looked at me hard, her long greying hair pulled back and her forehead shining. ‘I’m doing Dad’s dinner first – you’ll have to wait.’

  A sausage spat at her, she flipped it, coughed and seasoned the food with spittle. Hunger was never really satisfied in our home, just battered into submission.

  Returning to the living room, I could remember what we’d had for dinner all that week by looking at the stains on Dad’s shirt.

  ‘Where you been ugly git?’ he said.

  ‘Jobcentre.’

  He grunted. Some design programme had a greater command for his attention, and I watched with him for a moment. I wondered what Carol Smillie would make of our flat – considering Mum’s forty-a-day habit had colour co-ordinated everything a strange brown that, if you scratched it, stuck beneath your fingernails.

  ‘A woman from Social’s coming to see Dad later,’ shouted Mum from the kitchen.

  ‘What for?’ I said.

  ‘Ask Dad – they sent him a letter.’

  Dad frowned. ‘Checking I’m not working on the side. It’s an insult.’

  ‘You are working on the side,’ I said.

  ‘Na – don’t count if it’s a matter of survival. Anyway, a bit of bootlegged baccy never hurt anyone.’

  In 1970, Dad had had to give up a career in forklift truck operation because of a bad leg. While on a break he’d attacked a vending machine that refused to supply him a Pepsi. The result was a broken toe, which then became arthritic – sufficient disability for him to live off state benefit for the rest of his life.

  Mum went on: ‘So you’re staying in. I’ve got a longer shift at chip shop again.’

  This was cause for complaint. ‘What do I have to be here for?’

  ‘I’m supposed to be laid up,’ said Dad. ‘You’ve got to do things for me.’

  ‘Like what?’

  His stomach wobbled as he raised his voice. ‘Everything, owt to do with benefits and I’m an invalid. I’m not giving it back to that grinning-shit-face Blair.’

  I looked away. ‘As if I’ve got nothing better to do.’

  ‘You never have anything better to do – you’re a lazy sod.’

  I kept quiet as Mum brought him his dinner.

  ‘And speaking of which,’ said Mum, settling a lap tray across Dad’s legs. ‘Your board’s going up.’

  ‘What?’ I blurted.

  ‘Eighty,’ she said.

  Dad smiled at his food. ‘Only fair.’

  ‘I can’t afford—’

  ‘No-one ever gave us charity,’ said Mum.

  ‘Nope,’ said Dad. ‘Get a lodger if we need to.’

  ‘No way!’

  Dad appeared more concerned with his sausages. ‘Bit well done aren’t they?’

  Mum sniffed, trudging back towards the kitchen. ‘Mary never came home again last night,’ she mumbled.

  ‘A right little tart that one’s turned into,’ said Dad.

  My voice gave a disbelieving squeak. ‘So you’re kicking me out?’

  ‘Pay your way, no problem,’ said Dad.

  ‘I’ll stay with friends,’ I snapped.

  He was enticed to look up from his food. ‘What bloody friends?’

  This was a fair point – I’d always known grassing-up the Year Ten amyl nitrate incident would come back to haunt me. Also, I could have been more sympathetic when John Southwick started chemotherapy – but he never did give back my copies of Fiesta magazine.

  Dad squeezed a bottle of HP as if it were for stress relief – the top burst and turned his fry up into a plate of brown sludge. ‘Bollocks! I’m not eating that.’ He gestured with his cutlery. ‘Here, you have it.’

  ‘I don’t like brown sauce. It tastes like battery acid,’ I said.

  ‘Guess you’ll go hungry then won’t you.’

  I pulled a face, hunger enticing me to take the plate and chance a taste. With a bent fork, I stabbed a sausage and dived in with a chomp. My God it was horrible. I dropped the plate onto Dad’s lap tray, my stomach retching.

  Dad cringed. ‘Give over. I can’t hear the telly.’

  ‘I can’t eat this,’ I said through a splutter.

  ‘T
hen make yourself bloody useful for once – go make me a cuppa.’ He held out a mug which stated he was ‘too sexy for his tea’.

  ‘And who’ll make the tea if you evict me?’ I snapped.

  ‘Mum’s not going anywhere. Anyway, what’s an extra twenty?’

  ‘Everything I get!’

  Dad shrugged. ‘Times are hard.’

  I snatched his mug, kicking my feet into the kitchen. Mum was quiet as I prepared a concoction of teapot dregs, globs of sour milk and sugar – warmed a little in the microwave. Returning a minute later, Dad gestured petulantly for me to rest the drink on the coffee table. I obeyed as the doorbell sounded with a short jingling blast of the theme from Happy Days.

  ‘Door!’ said Dad.

  Again, I obeyed, answering to the fresh face of a very pretty lady.

  ‘Hi,’ she said brightly. ‘I’m Carla Penny from the Department of Social Security. You had a letter?’

  The lady fitted into an oversized trouser suit rather awkwardly, her blouse slightly low cut and her cleavage making me feel warm below the waist. ‘Er…’

  ‘May I come in?’

  I held the door open and she entered with unassuming steps, perhaps unappreciative of my attention to her jiggly bits. I nodded towards the living room, following behind.

  ‘Mr Jones?’ she said.

  Dad took a moment to switch his gaze from the telly, grunting as he gave her a look over, lazily, as though she wasn’t a person at all, but a very long form that he couldn’t be bothered to fill in. He then grunted at me and talked past her. ‘What’s going on? Who’s this?’

  ‘I’m Carla Penny from the Department of Social Security,’ said the lady, sidestepping back into Dad’s eyeline. ‘I’m here a little earlier than planned, but I was already in the neighbourhood and I thought… How are you?’

  Dad frowned and looked back at the telly. ‘Be a lot better without you sneaking up on me.’

  ‘Perhaps if I’m interrupting lunch, I could… Er—’

  ‘Go buy a watch and learn to tell the time?’

  ‘Sit down,’ I said, my amicable tone eliciting a smile from the lady and helping to temper the mood. She glanced around, tentatively, and settled on the edge of the settee. As she fumbled in her bag, a slight tremor to her hand betrayed one of two things: a) she had early Parkinson’s Disease; or b) she was a rookie. A quick wink from Dad confirmed that he too had clocked her.