‘I need to see you,’ I said.
‘It’s stupid o’clock, Ginger!’
‘I need to see you. Right now.’
‘Oh.’ I heard him gulp, the deeper tone with which he continued suggesting an enormous misinterpretation. ‘Well, why didn’t you just say?’
With no thoughts more cunning, I chose to not set him straight. ‘I, er, didn’t know how,’ I said quickly.
‘But it’s so sudden.’
‘These things happen.’
‘I never really thought—’
‘Brian, just get here. And bring that ring.’
‘Pardon? Why?’
I paused, then cringing as I said: ‘Dressing-up.’
‘Oh, Ginger!’
I ended the call.
Back in the room, I wondered if it would just be easier to get shot. The Slap was still threatening as such, and the reasons of resistance were headed the same way as reasons to be cheerful.
‘Very good,’ said Chas. His voice reminded me of a late night jazz DJ growling from a car radio.
‘Brian’s probably twenty minutes away,’ I said, timidly.
Chas gave a grunt, a moment’s quietness affording me a glance to Ms Fish, then to Syd, both clearly petrified, and with my own shaky bones alongside, The Slap loomed over us like a guilty secret and the fear of retribution.
Then Chas said: ‘We wait.’
Twenty-Five
Grasp with both hands
what life may have to hold.
The red LEDs of my alarm clock showed that fourteen minutes had passed between Chas ending the call and a gentle rapping from out in the hall – it seemed Brian was six minutes keener than I’d anticipated.
The Slap settled his eyes over me, his impatient gun waggle an instruction to answer the door. I separated myself from Ms Fish and followed his command, pulling down on the latch with snail paced preciseness.
‘Ginger?’ The voice was soft, inquisitive, arriving in advance of the door reaching full gape. ‘Ginger?’ Brian stood opposed, framed by the door jamb – he raised a carefully tweezed eyebrow. ‘I can’t believe that you… I mean, after all this time, in the office…’
‘I’m sorry—’
His gaze had drifted over my shoulder, the high frequency of the following yelp confirmation he had clocked The Slap. ‘Ginger!’
I looked back, ducking instinctively as The Slap took aim. ‘No. Please.’ My arms stretched out like a birdman, I straightened up to form a human shield. ‘Brian’s not a part of this, he’s just—’
Behind me, I heard a thud, then performing a kind of lopsided pirouette that was almost tragic in its lack of grace, I saw Brian in the hall, sprawled over the linoleum, his spiky hair reminiscent of hedgehog road kill.
Oh God!
I crouched, substituting my lack of first aid knowledge with panic-stricken prods. Several moments of prodding brought me to realise that if Brian had taken a bullet, said bullet must have passed through me, and I felt fine – notwithstanding The Slap’s gun, the hostage situation and my general dissatisfaction with life, that is. No, I was sure no shot had been fired. Indeed, Brian was breathing – it appeared he’d fainted.
Thank you God. Really, thank you.
I looked back to The Slap, his gaze vacant, distributing gun points between the hall and the bedsit. He offered several gestures via his weapon, I seized the meanings: ‘Close the fucking door!’ and ‘Drag the gay into the bedsit.’ So I did.
I flipped Brian onto his back, laying him beside my bed, delicately so. Kneeling over him, I found it hard to comprehend the fuck-up I was making of everyone’s lives – though I did appear to be very good at it.
The Slap handed me his phone, wide eyes darting from one hostage to another.
‘Everyone sitting comfortably?’ said Chas.
I took a deep breath. ‘Yeh.’
He growled: ‘Better get what’s mine.’
My fear had become a predictable response to Chas’s voice, it compelled my jelly fingers to probe the bulge over Brian’s pocket. His jeans were tight, a fraction of an inch from a compression fracture, and even though his cock appeared as an entirely separate bulge, I couldn’t help but cringe as three of my digits entered the denim. My fumbling was swift, I withdrew pinching a drawstring pouch.
‘Take it,’ I blurted. The pouch was of a purple velvet, I held it at arm’s length. ‘The ring’s in there.’ Well, I hope it is. Please don’t let it be a condom or flavoured body paint or a vibrating cock ring.
The Slap scowled as I plonked said pouch into his digger hand. Using his teeth to tear the velvet, he spat the remnants with such force that a spray of spittle struck my forehead, feeling like a hail shower. The veins of his temple inflated, he concentrated over the ring, then tucking it away inside his trench coat, he tossed me back to Ms Fish as though flicking something from his finger.
I brought the phone to my ear. ‘H-he’s got it,’ I said.
There was a pause, Chas took a long breath. ‘That’s very good.’
‘So… I mean… what happens now?’
He laughed. ‘Bye Ginger.’
The line went dead.
I kind of got the feeling we were all heading in that general direction. I looked at The Slap, like a statue, expressionless, four dickheads at the point of his gun. The pose held, for what seemed like a fortnight, ample time to contemplate one’s death.
Syd stepped forward, arms outstretched, like The Angel of the North. ‘Listen. Y’gotta ’ear me out.’ His voice rendered a kind of breathless delirium. ‘I dunno what Chas’s told ye, but it weren’t me!’
The Slap was still.
‘I’m no grass, ’onest I aint.’
Be quiet Syd, for God’s sake.
Ms Fish and I scrambled across the floor, huddling into a corner. Brian stirred, groaning as he struggled to sit upright.
‘Just listen,’ said Syd, mixing his words with spittle.
It was quiet for a moment.
Boom.
The Slap shot him.
The noise was painful. I squeezed my eyes shut, clutched at Ms Fish. Syd was dead. I didn’t need to look – it fell so silent. The stillness sustained, goading. As I dared to peek, I saw The Slap settle his gun over us both. I’d never been more certain of anything in my life.
We were going to die.
Twenty-Six
You’re lipstick is red,
Sydney is dead.
It’s kind of strange – knowing that you have seconds to live. It’s not much time to fit in all the things you’ve been meaning to get round to – a haircut, a new pair of pants, a girlfriend – the list went on; though time, it appeared, would not.
Ms Fish clenched her eyes, shivering. I thought I should say something, but I was quiet, frozen by a pointed gun. There was a yelp, I glanced to see Brian sit up, vomit and then pass out again – it seemed he’d eaten carrots recently.
Meanwhile, the moment was close, The Slap’s finger jittered against the trigger.
Go to sleep my baby.
Close your pretty eyes…
Am I dead? I don’t feel dead. But then how would I know? I’ve never been dead before. Everything feels in order…
I opened my eyes.
I saw a gun.
I shut them again.
The whole thing was taking a lot longer than I’d anticipated. Still, perhaps one shouldn’t hurry death… No. It’s definitely taking too long.
I opened my eyes once more, grasping courage to keep them that way. The Slap remained, as did the gun at the end of his arm – his face void of expression, like a snooker ball.
But I’m alive!
He reached out, tugged the sheets from my bed, dropping them over Syd. As the sheets settled, so Syd’s blood was drawn into the fibres. A gun waggle summ
oned us to rise, Ms Fish and I standing together.
‘Wrap him,’ said The Slap. His voice was shit-making. I mean, he sounded bored, like he was the talking clock and he’d said the same ‘the time is now’ fifty thousand times that day – there was no emotion. I much preferred the mute.
I did as I was told, looking at the ceiling, down at the bare bed, anything but at what my hands were doing. Syd was warm, like he was just sleeping – but people don’t spill pints of blood when they’re sleeping.
Then I caught sight of Brian, he was sleeping, kind of. Slumped beside my bed, his face had retained its fear and looked like a Halloween mask – it made me think there were too many bodies strewn over my bedsit floor. Ms Fish whimpered, and I looked up as The Slap took aim.
‘No!’ My voice was a roar and seemed to be functioning of its own accord, damned if it was going to let another friend die. ‘He’s not a witness – he’s barely spent five seconds conscious! Leave him. Please, just leave him.’
The Slap lowered his gun, though perhaps he had already decided to do so. I reckoned a second murder had only been postponed, equal three way betting on which one of us would be next. He took a hold of Ms Fish, quenching a yelp as he closed his big digger hand over her face.
‘Outside. Take him,’ he said.
I screwed up my face, took hold of Syd’s dirty trainers and dragged him across the floor. Out in the hall I could hear screams as the woman next door pleasured a client – it covered the thud as Syd’s head struck the doorstep. Blood smeared the floor like some kind of hellish slug trail. The Slap followed after me, Ms Fish a puppet to his gun. The Sierra had been parked hurriedly across the footpath, and as I dropped Syd beside, the noise rebounded through the stillness. It would have been blatant to any early-morning curtain twitcher, and I clung to the hope that someone might send the police to rescue us.
Seduced by The Slap’s gun, I picked up Syd’s skin and bone and spilled him into the boot – retching as his blood smeared my T-shirt.
‘Drive,’ said The Slap.
‘I-I can’t.’
‘Drive.’
‘I don’t know how!’
Ms Fish spoke through a gasp. ‘I can drive.’
He paused, then shoved her to me. ‘Get in.’
We obeyed the gun.
Inside smelt of vanilla, and the seats were real leather. Ms Fish clipped her seat belt into place, her tremulous hand brushed back and she lifted her top a little. Tucked into her waistline I saw our own spud gun. ‘Put on your seat belt,’ she mumbled.
I did.
The Slap folded himself to fit the back seat, gun moving rhythmically between our heads. ‘Drive,’ he said.
Ms Fish grasped the steering wheel tight, though her hands were still shaking. ‘Where?’
‘Drive.’
We took off, in no particular direction, though I reckoned our final destination would be just that. I clung to my seat for dear life. Ms Fish’s eyes were wide, I think a little recklessness had mixed with the fear, but hey, if we were going to die anyway…
The empty streets reverberated, tyres squealing like they’d just caught their husbands’ in bed with a floozy. Such speed would have made me nervous, had I not a gun in the back of my head.
‘Snuff Mill,’ said The Slap.
I screwed up my face – I didn’t think we were going there for a picnic.
We got faster.
God. I’m going to die…
I snatched the gun from Ms Fish, pointing back to The Slap.
Still we got faster.
‘I’ll fucking shoot you.’ The words scraped along my throat like a string of barbed wire – I sounded more likely to cry than to commit murder.
The Slap was still, pointing, not a twitch to betray his thinking.
We stared at one another.
‘Think of your nan,’ I blurted.
He stared.
‘I saw you – inside. You were crying. What if she could see you now?’
The car swerved.
There was a shot.
The windscreen shattered.
Ms Fish screamed.
Another shot.
Imagine being packed into a box and thrown down a long flight of stairs – that’s what it felt like. Ms Fish hugged the steering wheel, seeming to think she had control as the car sprawled over the street. A row of parked cars appeared, an imminent destination.
Ms Fish glanced at me.
The cars came closer.
She accelerated.
I closed my eyes.
I can’t remember a great deal of what happened then. The sound of dry, clashing metal, the notion of being in a washing machine during a spin cycle – and then the world cut out.
My eyes opened a while later, or so I assume – unconsciousness is a long way from the nearest clock. My head hurt, I knew that.
‘Ginger? Ginger!’
The front of the car was mangled – and spread over the bonnet, like he’d been cut from a butcher’s hook, was The Slap.
I heard a voice. ‘Are you OK?’
I took a moment to focus on Ms Fish. She was bloody, but smirked at me.
‘Are you OK!’
I held my head and shrugged.
Ms Fish wiped an oozing laceration to her forehead, glancing to the lump of meat in front of us. ‘No seat belt you see.’
‘I think he’s breathing.’
She shrugged.
I unstrapped myself and kicked open the side door. My legs felt like dangly string and I dropped to my knees – Ms Fish tried to help, but I just lay in the road.
She held a tissue over her wound and brushed her blood-mingled hair behind her ear. ‘Is anything broken?’
‘My head hurts,’ I mumbled.
‘Someone should look at that.’
No shit.
She sat with me.
My head ached for a thousand Anadin – I wanted to be safe, snuggled in the fortress of my own bed. I couldn’t grasp what had happened to me, it was like trying to pick out a whisper from the opposite side of a packed football ground. There was so much noise in my head but it was gibberish. I gave up and tried to cry, but my eyes were dry and stingy.
It was quiet.
‘I don’t know what to say,’ said Ms Fish.
‘No?’
She smiled a little. ‘We could be friends, almost.’
‘Almost?’
‘Different people, different worlds.’
‘And one big collision.’
‘Yes, very big.’
Fuck, my head hurts.
‘I think the police’ll be quite interested,’ she said.
My voice sounded more desperate than I’d have liked. ‘But what shall we tell the police?’
She crossed her lips with a finger. I struggled to look up at the carnage – it would have taken a big rug to sweep under all that shit.
We sat together, bloody, but I was glad to be alive, to have someone sat beside me. I just had nothing left – not strength, nor fight nor thought.
I beheld my partner in crime. Her pretty, bloody face showed a wide stare, sporadic blinks seeming to take snapshots of the mess we’d created. She stirred a little and looked back at me – as if she remembered she’d left the iron on.
‘Ginger?’
I looked as attentive as I was capable.
‘What about that ring?’
As I peered back, a hallucination framed her eyes in the ring’s outline. ‘Don’t,’ I muttered.
She appeared to hesitate, presumably initiating the weird thought processes that made her her.
I closed my eyes. ‘Just don’t.’
‘But…’
I lay back over the road and drifted off.
‘Ginger…?’
When
I opened my eyes, I reckoned Ms Fish would be gone.
Twenty-Seven
Diamonds and pearls
could sustain this girl.
My world had been still for a while. During that while I had lost myself in a lovely quietness, simply drifting. Now, that quietness was rescinding. I could make out hurried footsteps somewhere close. I heard voices too, reverberating, without clarity, like I had water in my ears. My eyes felt so heavy.
‘What’s the matter with him?’
‘We’re not sure.’
‘Will he be all right?’
‘You’ll have to wait outside.’
My eyes were opened forcibly and a piercing light felt like a laser on my retina. I was lying down, I could see ceiling tiles and two strip-lights glowing.
‘Ginger? Can you hear me?’
‘What?’ I mumbled.
‘You’ve been in an accident.’
You reckon?
‘You’re in the Hull Royal Infirmary.’
‘But…’
‘Do you know what day it is?’
I was quiet. The pain in my head was an acute throb and I felt sick. Hospital eh? This must be one hell of a hangover. A nurse in scrubs peered over me.
‘Can you tell me your address Ginger? Do you know where you live?’ she said.
Of course I know where I live, miss.
‘No? What about your date of birth?’
Yes. ‘Er…’
‘OK. Don’t worry.’
I’m not.
‘Can you look forward for me Ginger?’ She shone the light into each eye again.
‘OK. How do you feel Ginger? Any pain?’
‘My head hurts.’
‘Where exactly?’
‘Inside.’
‘Can you describe the pain?’
‘I feel…’ I lurched downwards and was sick on her shoes. She handed me a bowl which I spat into.
‘Sorry.’
Across the room a commotion caught my attention. A trolley burst through double doors, the man upon it strapped to a spinal board, the neck brace and ventilation would have otherwise provided a disguise, had the man not been colossal – The Slap sure looked peaky.
Strange Affairs, Ginger Hairs Page 14
