Hmm, tricky. ‘I got confused,’ I said.
‘Some people might call that delirium.’
‘He was black,’ I said. ‘I mean, black clothes, a balaclava.’
‘You need to give me more than that.’
‘It’s all I’ve got – a gun was in my face.’
‘You’re not helping me sunbeam.’
‘I’m trying.’
‘So why didn’t you call us? Eh?’
‘I’d have been dead meat – dead meat. He said I’d be hunted, and horrible things would happen – that’s what he said. So, I was quiet.’
‘Definitely “he”?’
I nodded. Course, by that I mean ‘she’…
‘Anything else?’
I shook my head. A ‘she’ I almost fucked, by the way.
‘Think hard.’
I think if I don’t tell, maybe I will fuck her… Or not lose my job. Either is fine.
‘Something familiar? A voice? A mannerism?’
‘Not really,’ I said.
‘Right,’ said Tash, readjusting his girth. ‘We’re gonna go back, start again. Yeh? Pick through yesterday in detail – minute by minute.’
‘I really don’t think I’ll remember—’
‘OK?’
I glanced to John Edmund, who appeared to find more engagement from a greenish stain over his lapel. As such, I looked back to Tash and shrugged. ‘OK.’
So that’s what happened. Tash wanted to know everything about that day, questions came like artillery fire and everything from breakfast cereals to pooping habits were need to know. For the most part, I was happy to oblige – it’s not like it mattered to me if he became privy to my preferred brand of bog roll. But, as we came to the meat and potato questions, I remained steadfast with my answers: I saw nothing, I knew nothing and I was shit scared. This gained me little sympathy, my stuttering and minimal eye contact, combined with an unwillingness to fess up, seemed to project a kind of false vulnerability that antagonised everyone. Though the perceived falseness was, in fact, false – it was just me.
After, roughly, the time it takes to change a duvet cover – ages – the questions stopped, as did the tape recorder, and Tash peered: ‘You want some time to think?’
‘No,’ I said.
‘You do realise we’ll have to make further enquiries?’
I shrugged.
‘In the meantime, you won’t be allowed back to work.’
‘What?’
‘And you’ll have to answer bail.’
I felt a tingle. He’s going to let me go?
‘So if there’s anything else rattling around in your head – say it now.’
‘Not really,’ I mumbled.
Tash fished inside his jacket pocket, dropping a card and a packet of Nicorette gum onto the table – he passed me the card. ‘If by some miracle you remember something, call me. Either way, we’ll be seeing each other again.’
I sat and huddled into myself. Dare I think I’ve fooled them? I’m not in jail, so that’s good. But… maybe I should have told them the truth, I mean, what do I owe her? She’s so—
Tash pressed out a piece of Nicorette from its blister packet, the first chomp pretty vicious, and I reckoned on him wishing it to be my head. ‘Stay out of trouble sunbeam, eh?’
In reply, I gave some kind of vague expression that didn’t really mean anything, scared that if I made the wrong move I’d suddenly be the highest bidder on a night back in the cell.
‘Duty sergeant’ll sort out your bail,’ said Tash, the two policemen then standing. ‘Don’t go booking any holidays.’
They both left the room without looking back.
It was very quiet, before John Edmund cleared his throat: ‘Well, all said and done, I think that went quite well.’
Having wandered along the road, I settled my bum upon church steps a few hundred yards up from the police station. The Church had been derelict years since, feelings toward Methodism presumably as cold as the steps made my cheeks. My slight tremor, however, did not stem from a chill, more the extraordinary events of the past twenty-four hours and my brain’s attempts in processing them. The most recent were foremost and readily accessible: I had been told to answer bail every two weeks, reporting to Redbourne Street Police Station; and work had been declared a no-go zone, the precise conditions of which were lost amongst the haze inside my head. Simply, it was all a mind fuck.
‘What have you told them?’ said a voice, interrupting my cogitation.
I looked up. Ms Fish stood before me, parting the haze like Moses, but with better tits. Her smart, tight pencil skirt offered little room to manoeuvre as she took the four steps up to me, her pointy heels placed with firm self-assurance. As she leaned in, I felt her breath on my face. Her voice was soft: ‘What have you told them?’ She blew into my ear, it tingled, it was nice – before she bawled: ‘Answer me!’
I jumped and spat out a knee-jerk reaction. ‘Nothing, I’ve said nothing.’
She scowled.
‘I mean… I told the truth, kind of. But not—’
‘Fuck!’
‘I haven’t said… I mean… well… that it was you.’
‘What was me? Nothing was me.’
I watched a bead of sweat trickle down her chest and disappear to a wondrous place.
‘You saw nothing. OK?’ she growled. ‘Nothing. No faces. You keep to that story.’
I nodded to her chest.
‘Got that?’
I nodded to her face.
Ms Fish stood up straight, collected herself, and perhaps was a little less heated. ‘I’m glad we’re on the same frequency.’
Again, her chest held my attention.
‘And if you wondered…’
I looked up.
‘I just like money.’
A moment’s thought kept me quiet. I don’t think I’ll ever like money as much as that…
‘What about work?’ I blurted.
‘Huh?’
‘I can’t go back – the police said. Not until…’
She smiled, certainly not sweetly, and brushed her fingers through my hair. ‘I am sorry. But hey, maybe it’s for the best.’
‘I’ll get paid?’
‘What do you think I gave you last night? Lunch money?’
‘No, but—’
‘It’s best for all concerned we keep our distance. I’ll make sure Daddy gives you an adequate reference.’
‘No way!’
‘Way, there’s nothing else to say.’
‘Then I’ll tell the truth – the real truth.’
‘Like hell you will.’
‘Nothing to stop me.’
‘Cut the crap you bastard.’
We paused, staring at one another. The moment prolonged, extending into a face off, like opposing alley cats goading the first pounce. After a while, Ms Fish blinked, looked away and sniffed.
‘Stay away from the factory and stay away from me – your wages will be paid as normal.’
I nodded, though she was already walking off. The clop of her heels faded into a backdrop of the city’s hustle and bustle. Alone once more, a few minutes helped me un-tense and gradually I released some of the tension from my muscles, and a little wind. As I glanced around, the world seemed normal, and I felt, well, fine. I couldn’t help but laugh out loud as the enormity, and indeed stupidity, of what had happened hit home. A confidence swelled inside me and for a moment I felt capable of anything.
Of course, it wouldn’t last, and the reality of being me would soon shrivel that confidence to whence it came. But for the time being, I sat back upon the church steps, grinned and thought about Ms Fish’s breasts.
I felt on top of the world.
Fourteen
Maybe if we spent some ti
me,
we could understand each other.
‘So how long do you expect to stay?’ I said, curtly. The events of that day had buried Mum’s lodging to the back of my mind. On my return home, her greeting evoked quite a frown. ‘This is a bedsit for one, don’t forget.’
‘I’ve got cancer,’ said Mum.
‘What?’
‘And AIDS.’
I yelped. ‘You can’t say things like that.’
She settled into the only chair, mother and furniture creaking in unison. ‘Show a bit of kindness while you can.’
‘You’re not moving in – either go back to Dad or sort something else.’
‘I’ll live on the street.’
‘Your choice.’
‘I mean it.’ She lit a fag, exaggerating as she inhaled. ‘I don’t know what’s happened, I really don’t. I can’t think how it got to this.’
Well think harder. Think of a solution. Then piss off. I flopped on the bed.
‘You see, there’s givers and takers in life – and I’ve given all my life. Give. Give. Give. That’s it.’
Really? It seems such gifts have gone, gone, gone.
‘For what? Eh? You’re all takers. Everything’s changed! Dad can’t see it. He can’t think further than his next bloody meat pie. He won’t listen.’ Mum began to gesticulate with her fag. ‘Back in the day we was a handsome couple.’
Back before colour TVs. And eyes.
‘He was a smooth little bugger too – he used to balance a Mars Bar on his top lip, tell me to squint my eyes and imagine he was Tom Selleck. He was no Magnum PI, but he made me laugh. I think that’s how I ended up with you in my belly.’
Oh here we go – another moan about ‘the dancing’.
‘Course, that’s when I had to dump the dancing. I’ll never forget, it broke my heart, I’d just been offered a second Top of the Pops. And that would’ve been the big one, the big break, I just know it – Lionel Richie was on that week.’
I sprawled out and looked at the ceiling. ‘Whatever.’
She spluttered over her fag. ‘Just you remember all I’ve done for you. I could’ve been on at The Palladium or Broadway. Who knows where dancing would’ve gotten me? But not here, that’s for certain.’
‘And now you’re a Muslim?’ I snapped.
‘What?’
‘Have you forgotten already?’
‘No.’
‘So how does that follow? I mean really, how does being a Muslim make up for not dancing?’
‘I’m easing myself in, it’s not definite yet.’
‘It’s not like buying a new settee, Mum.’ I struggled up and frowned at her, I couldn’t be bothered playing games. ‘So what do you fancy for tea?’
She shrugged, puffed on her fag and aimed the smoke in my general direction.
‘Go do that outside.’
‘And catch my death? And what about rapists?’
‘I need some fresh air.’
As Mum occupied herself with a copy of Woman’s Own, I stood and made for the door.
Mum said after me: ‘I fancy Chinese – but you’ll have to pay.’
Out in the corridor, the woman next door was escorting a gentleman caller to her bedsit, Mum shouted something about egg fu yung and the man winked at me.
‘Good time?’ he said, I think translating Mum’s food order into an act of deviancy/general age of recipient.
I shrugged. ‘She’s going free to any good home… Actually, any home.’
The women next door gave a tut and dragged his custom to her private parlour.
I stepped outside – it was all very clear really.
Mum had to go.
Fifteen
You’re so obsessed with the world
around and how it’s done you wrong.
Saturday – the day of dirty magazines and leisurely self-abuse. I’d followed such an agenda for months, but now Mum had appeared and the bathroom door didn’t have a lock. So, this Saturday, I was deviating from the norm.
As I alighted the number thirty-eight, a codger by the bus stop grabbed my arm. ‘Got a light, pal?’ he said.
‘No.’
‘A quid for the bus?’
I kicked his cripple stick. ‘Go fuck yourself.’
You see, I was feeling somewhat tense. Opposing, stood a block of flats: a big, bland lump that tainted the landscape. Ten months respite had changed very little – it was like an old photo of a bad haircut – and having gone cold turkey, its exuding negativity caught me off-guard. Memories intruded, refreshing past emotions. As such, I kept my head down and quickened my stride, vowing my visit would be fleeting.
The door to flat 52 was a canvas of splatters and growths, each having its own mucky history. In a past life, I’d opposed the door many times, bracing myself – now you could hardly tell the door was green. Indeed, the bell was now nothing but a wire sticking from the door frame, and with little inclination for courtesy, I let myself in. There was no reply as I called out. In the living room, the telly mumbled amongst God knows how many dirty plates and dishes; and having exhausted the crockery, it looked like Dad had moved to eating meals from Mum’s 70s vinyl collection. Voices drew my attention back into the hall. The stagnant air was stirred a little as my old bedroom spilled a conversation, closer steps making it coherent. Naturally, I earwigged.
‘Just remember I’m looking after this baccy for a friend,’ said Dad.
‘I’m not bloody Customs.’
‘Look, we have to get rid of it – now.’
‘My mate’ll be ’ere in ten minutes.’
‘So will Social you tosser.’
I’d recognised the second voice immediately, a repulsion all-consuming and making me shudder. As I stepped into the doorway, I saw Dad rummaging through piles and piles of baccy, the duty on which could have fed and housed several DSS cases. Beside him, the second man looked up, the scene seeming to pause and force us to stare at one another. The months had held him in a time warp, he was the very same speccy weasel – the very same Syd.
‘All right Ginger?’ he said brightly. ‘Long time no see.’
I didn’t move – I just didn’t know what to do.
Dad flinched and looked up, his fat face with the fear of a kid stealing his mum’s ciggies. The fear turned to a frown as he recognised his son. ‘What you doing here? Eh? Sneaking up on me! I’ll batter you.’ He raised his hand, and probably would have hit me if his sheer size hadn’t reduced his movements to laboured wobbles.
Syd grinned, seemingly oblivious to his dishonour. ‘’ow y’been then mate? I ’ear y’re workin’ now? Fish factory innit?’
Was. And bail restrictions prohibit head-butting…
‘I’m still workin’ with Chas – I’m in on some big deals now – and I’m playin’ with your Mary on me days off. I’m a man a multi-talents me. Yep, I’m on the up – and I’m gonna ’ave some big wonga to play with soon… Anyway, it’s good to see y’fella.’
‘Cunt.’
‘Eh?’
‘Cunt.’
‘’ang on mate, there’s no need for nastiness—’
‘After what you did?’
He sighed, as if to be spared a rigmarole. ‘C’mon Ginger, that was yonks ago.’
‘I spent three days in hospital.’
‘Y’know it were just business – it never meant nowt about us bein’ mates. I mean, y’re still a mate.’
‘You’re a cunt.’
Syd shrugged. ‘So y’re Peter Perfect then?’
I was quiet. It was a necessity to think of myself better than him, he set such a low benchmark – simply washing my hands after taking a piss made me better. Yet I stood there, amidst an untriumphant return, effectively jobless and on bail for armed robbery. On paper that qualified me an even bigger cun
t than the two opposed. I mean, I never thought I could be the one to rot in prison.
Dad piped up. ‘As fascinating as this is girls – there’s the small matter of all my baccy.’ He grunted at me. ‘And while you’re here, you can help us shift it – make yourself useful.’
‘I’m here about Mum,’ I said, snapping onto his distraction.
There was a pause, then Dad looked away and burped.
‘Well?’
He gave a grunt.
‘You’ve got to ask her to come home.’
‘Not a bloody chance!’ he blurted.
‘She’s your wife. Does that mean nothing?’
‘Don’t mention her in this flat.’
‘What?’
‘Owt to do with her’s barred.’
‘What you on about? There’s more of her here than you. Her silver jubilee stuff, her glam rock LPs, her fag burns on the settee – she’s here whether you like it or not.’
‘Only till I get a good price.’
‘So you’re happy doing your own dinner and tea? Bollocks.’
‘She drove me bloody mad. She started doing all this weird and spicy food. We never had meat pie for a week – I’m not putting up with that.’
‘But now she’s driving me mad.’
‘Not my problem.’
‘But can’t you see she’s doing this for you? She wants you to notice her, respect her.’
Dad gestured at the baccy petulantly. ‘If you’re not gonna help, bugger off.’
Syd grabbed an armful. ‘Dump it in the ’allway till Jim gets ’ere.’
I frowned. ‘For God’s sake, just talk to her.’
‘Forget it,’ said Dad. He plonked on the bed, sweating like the filthiest of pigs. ‘It’s over. We don’t even speak the same language.’
‘You never did.’
‘I’m not sharing my bed with that.’
‘But—’
‘Full stop!’
I glared at him.
‘Now help Syd shift that lot.’
‘Help him yourself.’ I picked up a bundle of baccy and drop-kicked it out into the hallway.
‘Dickhead.’
I stomped out.
‘Listen Ginger,’ said Syd, stacking the baccy with the care of a dustman. ‘I don’t want no ’ard feelings or owt like that. So I was thinkin’, I’ve got a bit a business comin’ up. Thought y’might be interested?’
Strange Affairs, Ginger Hairs Page 8
