Blood Relatives

by Stevan Alcock

  ‘Give her one from me!’ he shouted.

  I legged it to Blandford Gardens, then stopped at the end of t’ road, doubled up wi’ a stitch. I knew at once that the Matterhorn Man worn’t home. The house wor in darkness. The street wor eerily empty, wi’ all t’ cars parked where they wor last week, like they’d never been driven. The sun wor slowly sinking behind t’ buildings opposite. I rapped on t’ door. The knocker had a dead knell. I waited, then rapped again. Standing in t’ gutter, I scoured up at the bedroom window. Where it happened. Where it should be happening now.

  Before Jim, I’d never slept under a duvet before. Before Jim, I’d never even shared a bed wi’ a man, a proper grown-up man, wi’ a grown-up man’s stubble, and dark breath, hands wi’ hairs sprouting from t’ backs of t’ fingers, muscular calves and the amazing, perfect, slightly kinked cock.

  At first it hurt a bit, like he wor trying to jab it in me, but that wor only cos I wor all tensed up. Jim said I had to learn to relax and imagine I wor drawing him in, and that it wor like learning to swim or riding a bicycle, wi’ practice and persuasion I’d soon be flying. Jim wor patient and gently insistent, and then suddenly I wor up in t’ clouds and there wor no bringing me down again ’til t’ inevitable happened.

  And afterward I lay on t’ purple nylon sheets wi’ my head on Jim’s chest, listening to t’ squelches and gurgles in Jim’s stomach mingling wi’ Pink Floyd’s Meddle LP on t’ stereo, feeling warm and safe and sated ’til Jim said it wor time for him to go put the hearts in Jammie Dodgers and for me to go home.

  I peered through t’ letterbox into t’ hallway. All wor dull and silent.

  Flummoxed, I plonked mesen on t’ bay window sill, tapping my shoe-end against t’ brick. I decided to take mesen round t’ block a while. Maybe I’d just been unlucky and Jim had slipped out to t’ shop for some ciggies.

  I gave it a good half-hour, then, still finding no one at home, I trudged off toward t’ city centre. At the junction wi’ Woodhouse Lane I found mesen facing the Fenton, a pub, I remembered now, that Jim said he frequented. I chortled. I’d find Jim again, easy peasy.

  I ducked into t’ Fenton, hiked mesen onto a bar stool on t’ public bar side and ordered a pint of lager and lime. There wor a couple of flat-capped men in t’ lounge bar and, two stools along on my side, a rough-looking woman in a gaudy dress. Sixty dressed as thirty.

  I drank heedlessly, tracing circles in t’ beer slops. I wor downing the dregs of my third pint when I heard t’ rough old bird say, ‘You want to go easy or you won’t last.’

  Setting my empty down on t’ slop mat, I looked stonily into her face. A face that wor t’ wreckage of another age. Even her voice had been shredded by t’ years. She creaked out a smile, displaying the last of her wobbly, lipstick-stained teeth, and told me her name wor Dora. I nodded at her like I wor batting away a fly. She pulled her fingers through her dyed straw hair and adjusted one strap of her dress.

  ‘You not talking, stranger?’

  I slid off my stool and headed for t’ door.

  ‘Hey, handsome, where yer going?’ she called out in her rickety voice. ‘Aw, don’t go yet. Buy me a G & T if you like? I’m good company …’

  I trudged the quarter mile back into t’ city centre, a foul fog filling my brain, cutting through t’ Merrion Centre shopping mall, which wor empty and silent save for t’ flickering buzz of a faulty photo booth, passed on by t’ multi-storey and out through a filthy underpass. I wor burstin’ and the gents toilet in t’ underpass hadn’t been locked, so I reeled in. It reeked of piss.

  I worn’t alone. There wor this old geezer by t’ cubicles, toying wi’ himsen, and a younger one at the trough. I pissed long and hard, sending an arc up the metal trough back. The young’un shot a glance at me and I glanced back. He worn’t much older than me. He wor half-cock, and I could feel mesen getting the same.

  I nodded toward t’ cubicles, but he shook his head to mean that we should go elsewhere. I followed him out and up a back stairwell of t’ multi-storey. Only when we reached the very top did he turn toward me.

  ‘Safe enough here,’ he said, unzipping himsen.

  I looked about. Anyone coming up them stairs would be heard long before they reached us. There wor no cars on t’ roof, so no one would surprise us from that direction neither.

  ‘You live round here?’ I said.

  ‘Just up the road. Neville Street.’

  Neville Street – the parallel cul-de-sac to Blandford Gardens.

  ‘Can’t we go back there?’

  ‘I live wi’ my mum and older sister.’

  ‘You don’t know a Jim, do you? Lives in Blandford Gardens. Drinks in t’ Fenton.’

  His eyes widened. ‘Aye, I know Jim. Been round his place loads of times.’

  ‘Have you now?’

  ‘Aye. I slip round there at night sometimes when my folks are all tucked up.’

  A cold anger uncoiled in me. Still, I unzipped mesen and he dropped to his knees and took my dick in his gob even though I worn’t fully hard cos of t’ lager and the blather. I closed my eyes and concentrated on getting a stiffy. Not that I needed to. He wor good, didn’t get his teeth in t’ way and could deep-throat. Jim had trained him well, I thought. Opening my eyes now that I wor hard, I took hold of his head wi’ both hands and held him there. I wor soon going to spunk off, so I thrust deeper and made him splutter from near on gagging. He tried to pull back, but I tightened my grip on his head, thrusting into his gob ’til I basted his tonsils. I pulled out, and spunk ran across his lips and down his chin.

  Then I hit him.

  Unbalanced by my punch, he fell sideways. He looked up at me disbelievingly, like a trusting dog.

  I hit him again, in t’ face this time, and blood oozed from a nostril. He made no sound, not a whimper. The less the reaction, the more I wanted to force one – a cry of pain, a plea to stop, even an attempt to defend himsen – but he did nowt. So I thwacked him again, hard, my fist landing firmly above his left ear. Just say summat, I wor thinking, say summat and I’ll stop. But he sat there, like a disused glove puppet, his gob half-open, his dick still peeping out of his fly.

  I kicked him one last time in t’ ribs and ran down t’ stairs in threes and fours, cut back through t’ Merrion Centre and over t’ road. As I crossed it I caught sight of t’ old geezer emerging from t’ underpass, two plain-clothed coppers escorting him by t’ arms.

  When I wor next delivering to Blandford Gardens, I found the Matterhorn Man all chirrupy, like there wor nowt wrong. I fathomed that the Neville Street tyke had kept shtumm. He invited me in while he looked for his velvet bag of change, which he’d mislaid in t’ kitchen somewhere.

  There wor someone parked on t’ moss-green sofa, beneath t’ Matterhorn. His head jerked up toward me as I passed by t’ open lounge door.

  Jim said the man wor his older brother, Steve. Anyone could see right away that he wor Jim’s brother. Knock Jim over t’ bonce wi’ a fairground mallet and that wor what he might look like: a podgier, squarer version of Jim, wi’ an extra chin, shorter legs, a beer belly and splurging love handles. Jim took it upon himsen to introduce me, which must have looked a bit odd, presenting the Corona delivery boy. I stretched out a hand, being polite. Steve looked at it wi’ an expression that slithered between uncertainty and hostility, then shook it briefly. He wore a signet ring. He looked underslept.

  I excused mesen and went into t’ kitchen. Jim smiled ruefully.

  ‘Sorry, kid, he just turned up out of the blue. He cannae stay. It’s not the first time he’s done this. I’m guessing his missus has kicked him out again – that’s usually what this is about.’

  He kissed me on t’ nose. ‘It might be best you don’t call by after your work for a wee while. Just until he’s gone.’

  ‘How long will that be?’

  Jim had found his velvet change bag by t’ toaster.

  ‘Last time was about three weeks. Blethered on about getting a job and all that, but all
he did was doss around the hoose all day. Trouble with Steve is he thinks the world owes him. In the end I gave him some dosh and put him on a coach back to Glasgow.’

  ‘Three week!’

  Jim kneaded the nape of my neck. ‘He’ll not be staying that long this time, don’t you worry.’

  ‘Does he know?’

  ‘He knows, but I wouldn’t want to give him the extra ammunition, if you get my drift.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning that you being underage jailbait, it’s better that he disnae know. I cannae trust Steve not to use something like that.’

  Jim handed me t’ money for his usual order, and an extra bottle of Coke for Steve.

  I said, ‘What about t’other one? Has he been warned off an’ all?’

  Jim fiddled wi’ t’ drawstring of t’ velvet bag.

  ‘What other one?’

  Craner had his feet up on t’ desk, flicking paperclips at the tits of Miss July on t’ wall calendar. It had barely rained since t’ end of May. We wor out on t’ road from dawn to dusk. Sales of pop wor skyrocketing. We sold it, drank it, sweated it, pissed it up the sides of walls and into hedges. Eric had even pissed full an empty bottle of limeade, and somehow we sold that. Craner hauled his eyes off Miss July’s tits and onto my face.

  ‘I hope you had a wash, Thorpy, cos by mid-morn in this heat you’re gonna stink like a wrestler’s laundry basket.’

  ‘Always wash, Mr Craner. Just wondering if t’ round-book wor ready.’

  He tossed the round-book toward me. It fell short by my boots. I picked it up.

  ‘So, Thorpy, who’s going to win the cricket at Headingley, eh? England or the West Indies?’

  ‘Dunno, Mr Craner. Don’t follow it none.’

  Friggin’ cricket ruled that week. Wherever we delivered, doors wor slung open, sash windows raised or lowered, radios cranked up to distortion, every last soul hanging on to t’ plummy vowels of t’ cricket commentators. Some folk had set up their TVs in t’ back yard, wi’ t’ cable running through an open window. Folk who never watched cricket wor watching cricket. Pubs had brought in TVs to drum up extra trade. Even kids had got the cricket bug, overarming tennis balls toward chalked stumps on brick walls or tapping cheap bats into t’ ground in front of upended box stumps.

  Up at Headingley cricket ground, the Windies wor giving England a pasting.

  Craner arched his eyebrows over t’ rims of his glasses and flicked off another paperclip. This one pinged against Miss July’s left eye.

  ‘Don’t follow cricket? Even my good friends at the Ukrainian Club are following the cricket. They don’t know a bloody thing about it, but they’re following it all t’ same. They know what’s important in this life, Mr Thorpe.’

  ‘Didn’t know you wor a Yu-ker-ranium, Mr Craner.’

  ‘My grandfolks wor from Lvov. Came to this country before t’ first war, changed their name to Craner. So now you know. Corona supplies the Ukrainian Club wi’ soft drinks and mixers. A lot of ’em are ex-forces that got left in Yorkshire at t’ end of t’ war. Same as for t’ Poles. Lvov wor part of Poland back then. Did you know that?’

  ‘No, Mr Craner.’

  I wor thinking they could come from t’ moon for all it mattered.

  ‘All t’ things you don’t know or show no interest in. Connections, boy. To get on in life you have to show interest and propagate connections. It’s no good sitting back and waiting for life to grab you by t’ goolies. Remember that and you’ll make summat of yersen.’

  ‘Like you, Mr Craner?’

  ‘Aye, like me.’

  ‘Use your connections?’ Eric said. ‘Is that what he said?’

  We wor parked up by t’ side of t’ road, scoffing lunch. We’d peeled off our shirts and the sun wor baking our bods through t’ windscreen, our reddened arms and necks contrasting wi’ t’ paleness of t’ rest. I liked sitting there half-naked, wi’ Eric half-naked alongside me.

  I said, ‘Well, it wor Mitch’s connection to Craner that got me this job, so there must be summat in it.’

  ‘I wouldn’t trust Craner an inch. Not an inch. As for that shite about cricket and U-Cranes … I bet Craner don’t even know where U-Crane is.’

  ‘Hey, geddit? U-Crane? Craner? Funny one, that.’

  ‘No bloody wonder we’re losing the cricket,’ Eric said, ‘what wi’ it being so hot and the pitch so parched and playing like it is. Put up a few banana trees and they’ll think they’re back home.’

  We ate slobbily, shovelling fried duck and eggy rice wi’ ‘special curry sauce’ into our mouths, washing it down wi’ swigs of pop. Sauce droplets slithered off our plastic forks and, I clocked, splattered onto Eric’s crotch area.

  ‘Bloody ’ell,’ he muttered to himsen, rubbing the spots wi’ his hankie. ‘Bloody effin’ ’ell. These keks wor clean on this morning.’

  He mopped his forehead wi’ t’ same hankie, screwing his face up at the sun.

  ‘Must be up in t’ 90s today. Granddad’s as pleased as punch. Says it’ll bring on his allotment lovely, all this sunshine will. He’s out there every day, tendering, watering. Won’t last, mind.’

  Eric rolled up the Sun and squished a wasp against t’ windscreen.

  ‘So, tell Eric, who is she?’

  ‘Who is she what?’

  ‘The girl, stupid. You know – Saturday afternoons? You all tetchy and eager to finish the round and cash up and get away at day’s end. Come on, spill all. We’ve all been there.’

  I flicked the dirt from under a fingernail. The distant tower blocks shimmered in t’ heat. Somewhere nearby, an ice-cream van tinkled listlessly.

  ‘Ain’t no one.’

  ‘Ain’t no one? Is she blonde? Dark? Pretty? Don’t tell me, she’s already got a boyfriend and you’re seeing her on t’ sly? Married? If you want any advice on the best way to …’

  ‘I don’t need no advice. There’s some stuff I prefer to keep to mesen.’

  Eric scented the air like a gun dog.

  ‘Vanessa’s right, you’re a dark horse all right.’

  He scrunched up his foil tray and tossed it into t’ road. He pulled on his shirt.

  ‘We’d best get on,’ he said, turning the ignition key. The engine spluttered into life.

  ‘Aye,’ I said, buttoning up my own shirt. ‘We’d best get on.’

  The heat wave lasted ’til t’ end of August. The grass withered away, leaving brown, naked patches, the sunbathers and park picnickers turned red and weary. Allotments, including Eric’s granddad’s, wilted away and fell foul to insect plagues and hosepipe bans. The government put up standpipes. Van washing, even washing the outsides of t’ bottles, had been banned, and everything wor looking grimy. In t’ queues for water, neighbours rediscovered each other and chattered like finches set free.

  It wor August Bank Holiday before t’ heavens finally opened, but not before t’ Windies had crushed England in t’ final Test at Lord’s. Every West Indian on t’ round wor celebrating to our faces. Back at t’ depot, our two West Indian drivers, Phillip and Chester, wor hollering to all who could hear, ‘Who said we’d grovel? Eh? Didn’t the England captain say it, eh? Didn’t he say he’d make dem West Indies grovel?’

  I shrugged. ‘I couldn’t give a rat’s behind about cricket.’

  Chester wagged his finger at me. ‘You’s saying that now! You’s be saying that now!’

  If it wor too hot for cricket, it wor surely too hot for murder. That summer, nowt happened.

  For t’ next few weeks I wor riled to find Jim’s good-for-nowt brother answering the door to Blandford Gardens. I longed for him to skedaddle back to where he came from. But three week became a month, and a month became three. He wor a friggin’ scrounger and a layabout if ever I saw one. He’d taken to ordering an extra couple of bottles of Coke for himsen on Jim’s money. Spent his Saturday afternoons watching Grandstand, and most likely spent his evenings in t’ pub.

  I asked after Jim, keeping it casual, but Steve al
ways said he wor either out or kipping. Besides, what wi’ t’ hot weather an’ all, sometimes we only finished the round after Jim wor on his way to t’ bikkie factory. To put the hearts in Jammie Dodgers.

  Then one afternoon I found a note in an envelope under t’ empties. I tore it open.

  Just one bottle of tonic water and one Coke. Jim. x

  He’d left the exact change. I folded and pocketed the envelope and swapped over t’ bottles. Steve had finally pissed off back to Glasgow or wherever. I spent the rest of t’ round singing and whistling and joking wi’ Eric, and at the end of t’ day I told him to drop me in town. I ran full pelt the quarter mile to Blandford Gardens rather than wait for t’ bus.

  Again, there wor no one home. It wor that dead hour of t’ day – too early for t’ pubs, but t’ shops wor already shut. I hung about for a while, my mood sinking wi’ t’ lowering early-autumn sun. I mooched off about t’ neighbouring streets and then up past Leeds Uni. I found mesen idling before t’ window of some feminist bookshop, fumed up about Jim being out even though Steve had gone, not wanting to go home and undecided about what to do wi’ mesen.

  The bookshop wor closed. The plate window wor a proper jamboree of notice cards, adverts and magazine covers wi’ names like Spare Rib, Marxism Today and Leeds Other Paper. On t’ far wall above a tatty sofa wor a pro-abortion poster and a Che Guevara poster. Studenty-politico-women’s-commie-lesbo stuff. I wor thinking about breaking in, or at least bricking the window, cos smashing summat up might make me feel better about t’ world, when my eye wor drawn to a word on a lavender-coloured card that wor taped to t’ side window. I took a furtive gander. The card read:

  No mention of t’ friggin’ time.

  As soon as I pushed through t’ pub saloon doors I knew I wor way too early. Apart from a few gruff old men strung along t’ bar and a teenage couple snogging in a corner, the Empress wor deserted.

  I ordered a lager and lime and pitched up at a low corner table. I sat there a friggin’ age, shredding beer mats. Eventually two women entered, one of them portering a cardboard box.

  At once I wor as alert as a fox. I watched ’em blathering on to t’ barmaid, who wor pulling two pints of bitter. Maybe, I thought, I should introduce mesen. Hello, I’m Rick. Is this the Gay Lib meeting? Like the friggin’ AA. What if they worn’t lesbos at all? What if tonight wor quiz night? One of ’em even had long blonde hair. What if, being lesbos, they didn’t speak to men? ‘Some lesbos are separatists,’ Jim had said, ‘who think all men should be castrated.’ I crossed my legs. ‘Some of them,’ Jim had said, ‘tried to buy an island off the coast of Scotland,’ either to put all t’ men on or for themsens, he couldn’t quite recall. They wanted to de-sex the Isle of Man, and Manchester and manhole cover, and chimneybreast wor to become chimney-chest. And ‘women’ wor now spelt ‘wimmin’. What’s more, Jim had said, all lesbos wor trouble, always getting into fights and being aggressive. Once, he said, a lesbo had threatened him wi’ a snooker cue, though he didn’t say why, leaving me to think that all lesbos threaten men wi’ snooker cues.