‘W-what do you want me to do?’
She pulled up her top lip arrogantly, almost like Elvis. ‘Don’t give me questions… give me cock.’
Such requests were infrequent enough for me to remain rooted to the spot.
Gently, she took my hand and placed it in-between her legs. She gasped. ‘You must never tell – I’ll deny everything…’ Her voice dropped further and rode upon her heavy breath. ‘Quickly.’
So I kissed her. Her arms closed around me and we drooled over one another, the gun hanging loosely behind my head. I fiddled and squeezed, like when the nozzle on the tomato sauce got blocked. Her gloved hands probed under my shirt. My skin tingled under the leather, goose bumps sprouting at her every touch. A wind picked up, wrapping us in her lovely long hair and making me retch as a strand tickled the back of my throat. She pulled away, and in the grope of a breast, we were hit by the most intense light. I was blinded by its purity – it was angelic. We grasped one another, the wind beat our faces, so strong we had to gasp for breath. My senses were overloaded, I thought it was my calling – though I could think of more convenient times.
And then, like an articulated lorry, came a voice:
‘Police! Stop, hands behind your head, lay on the ground.’
Unless God was a helicopter, I’d been hideously mistaken.
Ms Fish untangled herself from me, ‘The scooter. Go!’ She enticed her helpless accessory by digging the gun into my kidney – I wished my erection would go away.
I kicked the scooter into action, swung around and we took off. The helicopter hovered above and we glowed in its spotlight. I battered the throttle, weaved a path through cranes and containers, yet the spotlight held us centre stage. I cut across Drypool Bridge, following the opposite bank into the old town.
‘We can’t outrun the police,’ I shouted.
Ms Fish growled. ‘Keep going.’
Sirens sounded in the near distance and I pulled back on the throttle. Humber Street headed through the early morning fruit market and out onto the marina. We passed Minerva Hotel, the old Pilot Office and completed a circle back to the riverside. There was nowhere to go – the end was closing in.
Our presence echoed and filled the streets, the spotlight as bright as day. Ahead, our destination appeared as a wall of corrugated iron, and our speed suggested this was urgently desirable. I eased the throttle, and Ms Fish pointed over my shoulder. There was a hole, perhaps big enough if we huddled.
Indeed.
Cautious steering found us over the riverbank, a cobbled path descending to the mud and water.
I paused.
‘Down,’ said Ms Fish.
‘What?’
The gun was so persuasive.
I edged forward. The sirens were closer.
‘Move.’
A tentative pace took us down over the cobbles, the scooter spluttering under my nervousness.
‘This is suicide,’ I yelped.
‘All the way.’
We came to rest, water tickling the front tyre.
I took a deep, shaky breath. ‘What now? I can’t bloody swim.’
‘Look.’
The spotlight swayed gently, splashing its light onto the riverbank.
‘The sewer?’ I said.
‘The old smuggling network, the tunnels stretch miles under the city centre. No helicopter can follow in there. Now move.’
I obeyed, steering the scooter a little up the bank. The wheels spun in the mud, sliding from behind as though I’d filled it with vodka. Ms Fish grabbed me tight – I quite liked that. I made sure we slid about some more.
The hole was capped with a huge grate, the hatch having been forced. My battered scooter fitted comfortably into the putridness. The headlight penetrated deeply, showing a vast slime-lined subway – and my God how it reeked.
‘I think I’m going to puke,’ I said, gagging as the stench hit the back of my throat.
She pointed the gun onward. I obeyed, of course.
We sped through squelchy stuff, our echo giving the sound of a hundred scooters. The distant darkness enticed us to deeper darkness, intersections branching to the same but different. I imagined the people above, drinking, dancing, sleeping, making love, each oblivious to the felons beneath them – for that’s what we were. Perhaps, deep in the city’s intestine, we were safe now.
I crashed.
I hit something big and sufficiently solid to catapult us over the top and land us ten yards down the tunnel. The slime broke my fall wonderfully well – though did little for my sex appeal. Ms Fish screamed and cursed.
‘You OK?’ I said.
‘I’m rolling about in shit!’
Indeed she was – it was strangely arousing.
The scooter was a tangle, the headlight pointing to more muck dripping above us.
Ms Fish scrambled to her feet. ‘I should shoot you right now.’ She pointed a dildo at me.
‘Wonder how that got round the u-bend,’ I gasped.
She shrieked, dropped it and began to sift through the shit.
If only Daddy could see you now.
‘It’s gone.’ She screamed and kicked the scooter.
The headlight jarred, and like a heavenly beam, showed a small inlet, dripping.
‘Enough!’ said Ms Fish. She dragged her swag bag, stuffed it up the inlet and proceeded to crawl behind.
‘What about me?’
‘Exactly. What about you?’
I watched her bottom squeeze in, and like the Pied Piper, it called for me to follow. We fumbled and slipped in a vaguely upwards direction – I took full advantage of the bottom touching opportunities, racing to a tally of six.
‘You stuck?’ I said.
‘I can hear people on the street.’
We fumbled some more.
‘Help me lift the cover,’ she said.
I wriggled up beside her, our bodies so close I could feel her heartbeat.
She looked disgusted with me. ‘Lift.’
Our joint effort budged it only a couple of inches.
‘Again?’
A bigger effort produced a loud grunt and slid the cover onto the street.
‘After you,’ I said.
She sniffed, tossed the cash up first and was quick to scramble after it. Her bottom brushed over my face – I followed.
Gasps and mumbles greeted us as we emerged outside LA’s nightclub. A couple of spangly outfits received specks of slime, and a couple of boyfriends looked rather unimpressed – further indication for us to keep running.
I followed Ms Fish across the street, round the back of the taxi office.
‘What now?’
‘Now? Now you piss off.’
‘What?’
‘You’ve expired your usefulness.’
‘But… the police.’
‘Just deal with it.’
She glared at me. She was still beautiful, so very. With a gentle touch, I wiped the slime from her face.
‘Don’t even think about it.’
‘I thought—’
‘You thought wrong.’ She tossed me a bundle of notes. ‘For the rust bucket.’
‘But—’
‘But nothing.’ She walked away.
I watched the darkness take her, a confidence to her step that only beautiful people have.
What a ride.
What a fantastic arse.
Eleven
Smiles are so outdated
and laughter’s overrated.
My bedsit smelled.
I could never quite place it. The woman upstairs said a man had died in there once – perhaps the smell was suggesting they’d never found him. I don’t know if all this had anything to do with the stain on the mattress.
Like a mole, I lived in a hole.
But I was home.
In the hall, the girl next door passed with a man on her arm – she gave most of her massages at night. Upstairs, the theme to Kojak echoed through the building – that bloody woman had her telly on 24/7.
But I was home.
I opened my door and blundered into the darkness. The electricity had been off for two days because I hadn’t had fifty pence for the meter. I groped the wad I’d shoved down my pants and felt a pleasant tingle – the meter didn’t take fifty-pound notes. Perhaps, for a second, I thought about the police – then I tried not to think. I lit a candle and reckoned on a bath. Anyway, I knew it wasn’t my fault – she had a fucking gun, and who ever pointed a gun affectionately?
Oo, I remember, I’ve got some lovely bubble bath.
I dragged my weary self into the bathroom. The candle flickered in time to my stumble and we danced together, I felt almost elegant. I wanted to shout ‘I’m alive’, for I wasn’t dead. But I was quiet. My hands were shaking and I spilled my bubble bath. ‘Oh God,’ I wailed, ‘not the bubble bath!’
I slumped on the floor and cried.
Twelve
When we’re close we’re held
apart, either side of no affection.
I awoke in much the same place. The sun blasted through a sheet covering the window, creating the silhouette of a sick stain on the wall. My face warmed in such rays, the muck from the night before like a protein face-pack.
Life returned, then I remembered.
My guts churned inside me. I remembered the security bloke, I remembered Ms Fish and I remembered the money.
Fuck.
Nervousness took a hold like poison and I shivered. I dug the swag from my pants, my eyes darting around the bathroom as I grasped desperately for a thought of what to do.
Upon a tiny shelf by the sink, stored in a re-sealable sandwich bag, I kept my toothbrush. Apparently, every bathroom contains millions of microscopic faecal particles, just floating around in the air. That thought had always made me retch – hence the rather anal habit (pun unintended) of bagging my toothbrush.
I sacrificed my sanitation, exchanging my toothbrush for a wad of cash and pressing the sandwich bag so tight it made my fingers go white. My eyes then settled upon the toilet. I opened up the tank, tossed in the cash and slammed it shut.
Phew! Breathing space.
‘Oi!’ a voice cried out from behind me.
Startled, I hit my head on the sink.
There was heavy breathing, like a cement mixer. The sound elicited the fear of a perverted intruder, an imminent sexual assault. I grabbed the nearest makeshift weapon, scrabbled across the bathroom and out into the living room/master bedroom/kitchen. I pointed a loofah as threateningly as I could fake. Across the room, a skinny figure cast a shadow easily mistakable for a person made of celery sticks. A haze of cigarette smoke encircled me – Silk Cut. Childhood exposure had made such cigarettes a member of the family. Indeed, as the fog cleared, I noticed a familiar taint of coal tar soap to the air. Any fear of rape faded, and through strained eyes, I squinted towards the door and a person I once knew.
‘Mum!’
She hollered. ‘What you playing at? What’s that smell? You stink.’
I spluttered as she blew a lung full of smoke into the room.
‘Is that all you’ve got to say after all this time?’
I just looked at her.
‘Well?’
Fine – I’m a fugitive, I’m an accessory to robbery and I’m so fucking scared I feel like my innards are putrefying. How’s that? ‘I’ve been busy,’ I said.
‘You’ve been selfish.’
I shrugged, though the action felt rather feeble. ‘Work and stuff.’
‘You could have been dead for all I knew.’
‘I’m not.’
She grumbled through her fag. ‘Sometimes I shudder to think what I’ve brought up.’
Fuck, I don’t need this. I don’t need you. I dropped the loofah, my frame slumping. Mum reminded me of a bad taste, the type that comes back every time you belch. ‘What you doing here?’ I said. ‘The council fumigating fleas again? Bet Dad’ll be happy.’
Her fag trembled upon her lip, dropping ash onto the floor. ‘I’ve left Dad at home – you might try locking your bloody front door.’
‘It’ll take more than fumigation to get rid of him.’
Mum sniffed. ‘Not my problem.’
‘He should get his fat arse out of that chair – at least make the little buggers work for his blood.’
She snapped. ‘There’s no fleas.’
You know what? I don’t even care. If you had any clue of what happened to me last night… I looked at her – she was like a mop, short with greying, greasy hair that straggled behind her ears. Actually, even if you did know, you’d still be mean and emotionally debilitated. You haven’t got a fucking clue. I frowned. ‘What you doing here then?’
‘I’ve left him.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve left him.’
My mouth dropped, literally.
‘It’s over.’ She sliced the air. ‘End of story.’
I was simply stunned. ‘What? You’ve put up with him for twenty years – a few more won’t make much difference.’
‘Things have changed. I’ve grown.’
I almost choked. ‘Hang on a minute, just slow down.’
‘Your father’s ignorant. I don’t wanna be part of his life.’
Astonishment took my voice to another level. ‘But… who’ll do stuff for him? I’m not.’
She gave a sarcastic snort. ‘He’s no more disabled than me. When Social find out the truth he’s had it.’
‘But you’re both mean and miserable. You go together.’
‘Maybe I’ve realised things can change.’
Mum’s life was habitual, her marriage was habitual – change came only from the TV remote. ‘So… you’ve met someone?’ I said.
She inhaled deeply, dropped her fag and gazed at the cobwebs on the ceiling. ‘I told you, I’ve just grown as a person.’
I’d have thought it was a wind up, but Mum didn’t have a sense of humour.
She rubbed her sleeves, looking awkward, her grubby cardigan clinging to the skin and bone. ‘I’ve thought about Islam,’ she said.
I stared at her.
‘Been thinking a while now.’
My power of speech seemed to be lost.
‘You know what I mean? Muslims and that?’
Yes, I know what the words mean – what confuses me is the open mouth from whence they came.
‘Like Nelson Mandela.’
My verbal backlog cleared a little: ‘Nelson-bloody-Mandela! What the hell are you on about?’
‘Like I said.’
‘But he’s not…’
‘What?’
‘Bloody hell! You? Religion? God?
‘Why not?’
‘You can’t just be a Muslim. You need to… I mean…’ I was bloody flummoxed. ‘You just can’t.’
‘No law against it.’
‘What is this? Hormones, or you been at the gin?’
There was something in her voice, it was unusual, kind of warm. ‘It was the Arab woman who brings the Betterware catalogue,’ she said. ‘I found a copy of the Qur’an in my Shredded Wheat tidy.’
‘Sounds like veggie meat.’
‘Show respect!’ She inflated her chest.
I pulled a face back in return. Mum’s only ever this passionate when Tom Selleck’s on telly – my God, she’s serious!
Mum gazed, at nothing in
particular, almost wondrously. ‘I admit, at first, I used it to prop up the wonky bed leg – but then football was on and Dad started shouting at the telly again. I went to bed for some peace – got bored – so I read the Qur’an.’ She smiled, briefly. It was unnerving: I’d seen her smile once before – 1996 I think – when she won a sweep on how many horses would die in the Grand National.
‘It takes you all week to get through Woman’s Own.’
She glanced away. ‘It was a short version, with 3D pictures.’
‘A pop-up book?’
‘It was meant for her nephew – Quran Stories For Kids. You pulled a tab to cover Mohammed’s wife in a hijab.’
I turned away – it was the stupidest thing I’d ever heard. ‘I haven’t got time for this.’
‘Listen! The point I’m making is respect.’
‘Eh?’
‘You haven’t seen the Betterware woman, how her husband adores her – he treats her like a princess every day. Last week it was her birthday: he filled the house with her favourite flowers and scattered rose petals wherever she walked.’
‘Did he clean up afterwards?’ I said.
‘That’s not the frigging point! Do you know what I got on my birthday? Fish and chips. And I had to bring the bugger in from chip shop.’
‘Well their type like to be over-the-top.’
‘They respect their women. And it’s about bloody time I was respected.’
‘By pretending to be a Muslim?’
‘I’m not! I’m making a point. I’m not some silly bint who can’t control her hormones. I’m a woman. A woman. And I used to dance. I danced. And Dad danced with me. And it didn’t matter that he had two left feet. And now I don’t dance. I don’t fucking dance! Because I fell in love. I used to be in love!’
I didn’t know what to say, so I ignored her and made for the bathroom, but she came for me like one of those charity street hustlers. Right – I need to shower, change and get to work… Work! Oh fuck! It’s all such a mess. I mean, what the hell am I supposed to do? Just turn up? Mooch through the door like it’s a regular mind-numbing-job-hating-fish-fragranced day?
‘I’ve left your father!’
You know, Mum, being a short, antagonistic distraction could well have been the nicest thing you’ve ever done for me. But now, like a thunderclap, it’s all back in my head, and…
Strange Affairs, Ginger Hairs Page 6
