‘No.’ I frowned so hard it felt like my forehead being cut in two. Brian reminded me of a ferret – he was always there, sniffing around. I often thought he’d run up my trouser leg given half a chance.
He sat back at his desk. ‘So what’s the particular reason for your mood today?’
‘Piss off.’
Brian gave a tut. ‘Charming! Sounds to me like you need to release some pent up frustration.’
‘I’m fine. Thank you.’
‘What about Donna on packing row two? She’s hot for you.’
‘She smells.’
‘An occupational hazard Ginger. You don’t smell too sweet yourself.’
‘I hate fish.’
Brian shook his head. ‘All you ever do is come to work and mope, then go back to that grotty bedsit, and mope.’
‘But it’s my bedsit, my rules, my life.’ I looked away. ‘And by the way, I don’t mope, I’m a deep thinker.’
‘You’re a God-awful misery. Come to line dancing – we’d have a ball.’
‘Prancing about to Cotton-Eye-Joe? Not my scene.’
‘Well, feel free to wallow.’
I did feel free, and wallowed in the prospect of the coming afternoon lingering in a ‘can’t be bothered to work’ kind of a way. I mean, a paper willy can only entertain for so long – and I didn’t know how to make a pair of tits. I was startled from such considerations by a visitor:
‘Good afternoon gentlemen. Working hard? Good, good!’
Brian stood to attention. ‘Hello sir. How are you?’
‘Fine Bri, just fine. Ginger?’
I grunted.
‘That’s great.’
This recently arrived person was Mr Fish – he may have had a proper name, but I didn’t much care.
He grinned, flashing a gold tooth. ‘Keeping my factory in good shape?’
‘Of course, sir,’ said Brian.
‘Good, good. Well gentlemen, today, I’ve brought my daughter along.’
The bloated rich bastard stepped aside, tucking his thumbs beneath his braces. Beside him, I noticed a disgustingly primped girl, made up in a flaunting frock like a cover of Cosmopolitan magazine. She was pretty enough to make me stare and reserve a mental snapshot for moments alone. As she acknowledged us with a short flare of her nostrils, I named her Ms Fish.
‘I’m giving a tour of the factory – the ins and outs of how everything works.’ Mr Fish looked to his daughter and offered a soppy smile. ‘After all sweetheart, it will all be yours one day.’
She appeared to squirm, and stepped away from a fatherly embrace.
‘Right, well then,’ said Mr Fish, clearing his throat. ‘We’ve seen all the way from bread-crumb bucket to finished fish finger – here the journey ends.’ He opened his arms to Brian and I. ‘This is the control centre, the brain behind the whole operation. Tell her what you do gentlemen.’
It was quiet.
Hmm. What do I do?
Still quiet.
Let me think…
‘OK,’ said Mr Fish, glancing to his watch. ‘The way to go is to leave the three of you alone – what better way to explain than to see you in action?’
Brian’s nose twitched. ‘Well, sir, I’m not sure—’
‘’bout time I blew away the cobwebs in my office. I’ll give you half an hour.’
Mr Fish gave a decided nod, smiling to his daughter and swinging his arms as he left the room. Ms Fish flared her nostrils and tossed a glance over the office, her blue eyes so beautifully condescending.
‘Get me a coffee,’ she said flatly.
Brian pulled a face. ‘Sorry?’
‘You heard me.’
‘Manners cost nothing.’
She flicked her hair behind her shoulder – it was blonde, but not naturally – locking eyeballs with Brian. ‘Stop slopping about, get your hands out of your pockets and make me a fucking coffee. Please.’
‘Pardon me!’ said Brian, indignant to the point of speaking like a girl. ‘But we couldn’t possibly spare the time. We have important work to do.’
‘Like I said – slopping about, hands in pockets fiddling with your testicles. You hardly need to give me a demonstration.’
A sudden itch ensured she got one anyway. ‘What’s your problem?’ I said, frowning.
‘It speaks! Woken up have we?’ As I offered two fingers, she laughed like a moustached supervillain. ‘All it takes is one word from me and you’re both out of here. I’d show a little more respect.’
‘People earn respect,’ said Brian, his arms flapping.
‘No. It’s inherent. Now, I want a coffee.’
I glanced at Brian, our reply was unanimous. ‘Piss off.’
Ms Fish returned a false smile, taking a moment to moisten her lips, before wailing: ‘Daaaaddy!’
Stumpy legs carried Mr Fish through in a sweat. ‘What? What’s happened?’
‘They won’t make me a coffee,’ she mumbled, cuddling herself.
‘What?’ He gestured to us petulantly. ‘Make her a bloody coffee.’
‘Fresh out of coffee sir, that’s all,’ said Brian.
‘I see a jar there.’
Brian gave a tut and shoved me. ‘I told you.’
‘I never said we’d ran out.’
‘Gentlemen, I expect better!’ Mr Fish observed us, several short sniffs suggesting a process of deliberation. After a while, his voice dropped and he spoke rather sternly: ‘The accountant needs this month’s time-sheets to be signed and sealed by the end of play today.’
‘Again? We had to stay late twice last month,’ said Brian.
‘A couple of extra hours – you can have time and a half.’
‘But—’
‘Problem, Bri?’
‘No, sir.’
‘That’s what I thought.’ Daddy Fish and daughter Fish turned, almost in unison, and left the office.
Brian appeared close to spitting. ‘Bitch. I bet she’s a Scorpio.’
I shrugged, flopped back in my seat and fiddled with my testicles.
Nine
If only the world would
stop and take a hike.
The day had been long, and there was yet longer to go. I was tired, tired of every-bloody-thing.
‘How you doing, chuck?’ said Brian, packing up his desk.
I flicked a pile of time-sheets and they fell onto the floor.
‘We’re only getting paid until seven you know? You’ll be here all night at that rate.’
I shrugged. ‘I need a holiday. I reckon I should have flogged that ring and buggered off some place hot.’
‘Like I haven’t heard that a million times before. You need to make some changes Ginger.’
‘A job’s a job.’
‘I don’t mean that.’ He waved his arms earnestly. ‘You’re nineteen years old – you can do whatever you want! Strive for new experiences, set yourself goals.’
‘I did, I’m here and it’s shit.’
‘You can’t set up base in one place, sit on your arse and expect to be happily-ever-after. Life’s a learning curve. Look.’ He tossed me a magazine. ‘Suzi Star says Cancer will have an adventure this week.’
‘What the hell do you know?’
‘I know I’m happier than you.’
I pulled a face.
Brian gave a resigned sigh and stood up. ‘Well that’s me done… You don’t fancy giving me a lift on that scooter of yours? Line dancing starts at seven – I’ll never get to The Lion in ten minutes. Buy you a pint?’
I stuck up two fingers.
‘Suit yourself. See you tomorrow then, misery guts.’
I ignored him.
Alone, I rocked back in my chair and allowed my muscles to unwind. The room reflected in the darkness of the
window and I saw myself – a clean white shirt and fucking ginger hair.
I sighed.
A year ago, life had been Kilroy and avoiding puke on the jobcentre steps. I’d lodged in a flea pit with strangers called Mum and Dad – and I was so spotty.
Much had happened. Now, thanks to Tony Blair’s New Deal, I was oh so self-sufficient – and I had OXY 10 cream.
I was alone.
A second reflection appeared. ‘Still here Ginger?’
I didn’t bother to look around, the only other person stupid enough to be there so late was the old-git security bloke. ‘I reckon it’ll be another late one,’ I said.
‘Overtime?’
‘Yeh. Not that I get a choice.’
‘Don’t miss Eurotrash – a good bit of flesh on show tonight. I’m taping it.’
I grunted, looking around as he hobbled away. I didn’t know why he had a limp – I didn’t know who he was really.
So, me and the time-sheets.
I laid my head on the desk, resting my eyes for a moment. Video Extra had a free kebab offer with every rental, and I thought any ⑱ contains strong sex would do nicely to see me off to sleep that night. Anything to help me sleep would be better than lying awake with thoughts of days, events, people gone by…
I dropped from the edge of slumber and said hello again to reality. My senses warmed and I wiped drool from my chin – my watch showing half eleven and a four hour zonk-out. I heard movement, not far away, pussy footsteps, scurrying. The sound seemed too nifty for the old-git security bloke, and as such, curiosity ventured me out into the corridor. I’d heard a rumour of the security bloke stripping off and wriggling about in the boss’s leather chair – such a mental image induced a shudder as I followed the carpet to Mr Fish’s office. I found the door ajar, the room behind presenting itself with the tastelessness of someone with too much money – wood panelling, bizarre porcelain shapes and a naked security bloke. He sat still, eyes closed with a contented grin, his skin sagging, so leathery and old.
‘Ugh, cover up!’ I shouted, prodding him with a gold pen.
The chair swivelled, and as his face moved away, so the leathered back came around. I could smell TCP.
And I could see blood.
His bald spot showed a gash that was jagged, vital fluid drizzled over the back of the chair, a pool upon the carpet. I hid beneath my hands, screwed up my eyes.
Deep breaths – in through the nose, out through the mouth.
I peeked through my hands.
Bugger, he’s still there.
‘Get a grip Ginger, get a grip,’ I repeated, and again. I took a longer look. He was breathing, maybe. ‘Ambulance!’
Across the desk, I dialled a phone in the shape of a dollar symbol. ‘Ambulance… And police! I’m at—’
The line went dead.
The old git looked dead.
And someone was pointing a gun in my face.
‘You shouldn’t be here,’ said a voice, muffled.
‘T-time-sheets,’ I stuttered.
‘It’s late?’
‘I-it’s my job.’ I could see only gun, and as the weapon pressed into my forehead, I thanked God for my stellar anal tone. ‘W-what do you want?’
‘Close your eyes.’ The voice was deep, sounding forced – a disguise.
I did as I was told, quickly and without a peep.
‘Turn around.’ The gun dug into the base of my head. ‘OK. Open your eyes… Walk this way, to the painting.’ It was of a fish. ‘Take it down.’
A safe?
‘Key in the numbers I tell you.’
I was dictated a number of digits, which I prodded into a keypad.
‘Open the safe…’
That’s a lot of money!
‘Good.’
A leather bag was dropped beside me.
‘Fill it.’
I scooped out thousands and thousands of pounds, my hands like piss in the wind.
‘Zip it.’ The gun was eased from my head. ‘Put your hands up against the wall… Don’t turn around.’
The fear in my hands gave a salsa beat as they wrapped on the wall panelling.
‘Now don’t move.’
I didn’t.
It fell quiet, I could hear blood drip. The salsa slowed, thank you ladies and gentlemen, and now the waltz, echoing into a trickle.
And so it stayed, for what seemed like a fortnight.
Drip.
Drip, drip.
I glanced to a side. The security bloke was still leaking. So much red, thickening pools draining his existence.
I could be killed!
I shuddered.
Oh why me? Can’t we just talk about this?
I took a deep breath, took a hold of my quivering and turned around.
No-one.
The relief was brief – Woo-hoo!
I stumbled out into the corridor, down the iron steps, across the factory floor. Out through the loading bay, I found my Lambretta rusting in the dark. A frantic kick-start proved impotent. Sirens sounded far away, moving in. Again, I tried the kick-start – the engine spluttered, died – as an old friend arrived to thwart my escape.
The gun.
If the gun had been a girl, I’d have reckoned it fancied me. It wasn’t, so I guessed it was trying to kill me. Darkness concealed the figure attached – though I could imagine a grimace of the ‘I’m going to fucking kill you’ variety.
Sirens were no more than a street away. The scene was still, as though the pause button had been pressed. My heart pounded like it was trying to escape, my whole body moist. The gun lowered a little, the figure stepped forward. I strained to see what had been revealed from the shadows. Sirens were almost upon us. A flash of headlights caught a moment that lingered in its brightness. Never before had my mouth dropped out of control. She was beautiful.
She was Ms Fish.
Ten
Daddy is rich,
rich on fish.
The lollipop lady outside my school always used to buy me a packet of Maltesers for my birthday – she was wonderful.
Then one day she was sent to jail for a hit and run.
As then, I had the same ‘how can this be’ feeling towards Ms Fish. She prodded me with her weapon, her black figure effortlessly superior. Our eyes held – they were so blue, I could have lived forever in those eyes.
‘Make the scooter work. Now, you shit!’
I obeyed the gun, the engine firing on the first kick-start.
She pulled on a balaclava, swung the bag over her shoulder and climbed on behind me, digging the barrel into my kidney.
An ambulance, a police car, there all at once, so much light, sound, I felt drowned.
‘Go!’
We took off across the car park like shit off the proverbial stick, onto the street, our buzz resonating along the looming bricks of industry.
‘Where?’ I screamed.
She jabbed the gun harder. We followed to wherever my quivering hands may have steered.
And the sirens came with us.
‘They’re behind. Go faster.’ Her breath tingled in my ear.
I tightened my grip on the throttle. ‘This is faster.’
Blue lights sparkled in my mirror, the accompanying holler reaching deep into my guts. Adrenaline was all I had, it held me like a puppet – static without control, but Ms Fish had her hand up my backside.
I cut up the kerb – the bump strangely pleasurable – onto the passage behind the old oil seed mill. My mirrors shattered and bent inwards, sparks galore as they grated the brick. It was a rough ride down to the riverside, Ms Fish easing the gun to hold on tight. Out at the far end, the water was calm, on the surface a shimmer of light mocking our movement. Such a clear night made it cold, and as I gripped the throttle, I saw
my fingers were a girlie pink. We made ahead, negotiating the skeletons of riverside industry, and killing the stillness with our incessant buzz.
‘Follow the river to Drypool Bridge,’ said a voice in my ear.
‘What?’
‘Drypool Bridge!’
A stray oil drum obstructed our path, forcing me to stop of a sudden. Ms Fish jolted forward, bounced off my back and hit the ground.
I looked down, gripping the throttle to prevent my hand from shaking. ‘You OK?’ I mumbled.
She was a heap, but a very pretty heap. Her head appeared from somewhere between her legs, and through the clinging weave of her polo neck, I noticed two erect nipples.
Oh right, she’s still got that gun.
She stood up, and pulling away her balaclava, her blonde hair spilled over her ears. ‘You shit. I’ll kill you.’
You can load those nipples and shoot me.
‘Say something!’
I stared at her, so beautifully ruffled. ‘G-ginger,’ I mumbled.
‘What?’
‘People call me Ginger – not Shit.’
She pressed the gun into my forehead. ‘Drypool Bridge – Shit. Now.’
Maybe I should stop looking at her tits…
‘Look at my face!’
Yep.
She lowered the gun and struck me across the face – I couldn’t help but vocalise the pain, my wail hung in the air like a fog horn. Her eyes opened wide and she pulled me from the scooter.
‘I know what you want,’ she said.
This all to end. A warm bath. A mug of Horlicks. Are you a mind reader, madam?
She moved in close, her breath warming my neck. ‘Me. Don’t deny it.’
‘What?’ I blurted.
‘I know.’ Her voice became deeper as she trailed a finger down from her belly button to God-knows-where. ‘You want it.’
Yes, fair comment.
‘The question is, what you going to do about it?’
But you’re a fantasy, a bit of posh ready to compromise yourself when I can’t be bothered to lift the mattress for a copy of Big Ones Monthly.
I gave an audible gulp, an erect nipple between us. We were still. I felt uncomfortable, like I wanted to whistle.
‘Well?’ she said.
Strange Affairs, Ginger Hairs Page 5
