Streakers

by Gary Davison

  One daring barrel of a woman came behind the bar and grabbed Sam’s crotch and we had to lift her off her feet to remove her. She gained instant celebrity status and began stripping off.

  Not long after we called last orders, two uniformed policeman came in. They had a word with Brian, then started ripping the Flash posters down. BOOOOOOOS echoed round and on their way out their helmets were whipped off and every missed lunge to retrieve them was followed by a WEHAAAY!

  More black uniforms piled through the door and they began making arrests. A tall skinny lad wearing a Burberry baseball cap refused to go and held onto the fruit machine. They prised him off but his girlfriend grabbed his hand and dug her heels into a side partition and hung on, and on, then suddenly catapulted herself over her boyfriend and onto the copper and gouged at his face. The copper was squealing and the lad broke free as his girlfriend was wrestled to the floor. He waded straight back in and the whole place went up. Within seconds, just about every black uniform had a woman with a stiletto in her hand hanging off his back. A bar stool smashed off the optics behind me and I ducked down and crawled out the back door.

  Sam and I went out the side doors and walked up the back lane, stopping short of the corner as two lads came towards us fighting. The smaller of the lads was swinging wildly and trying to ram his head into the other lad’s stomach. They came together against the wall and the taller lad punched down on the other lad’s head and back. The smaller lad dropped to his knees and Sam stepped in.

  ‘Whoa! Whoa! He’s had enough!’

  The taller lad stepped back, arms open. ‘Fuck off. Now.’

  Sam: ‘Like I said, he’s had enough.’

  The lad reached into his pocket and brought out his police badge.

  Sam slapped it out of his hand and stepped up close. ‘He’s had enough.’

  The lad picked his badge up and walked backwards, pointing at Sam.

  I helped the smaller lad off the ground. His face was covered in blood and his shirt was ripped up the back, exposing red and purple scrapes on his white skin. His elbows and knuckles were badly scuffed and he could hardly stand up. I asked him if he needed an ambulance and he mumbled, ‘Never seen him coming, never seen him coming’, then staggered off down the lane.

  A group of lads, who all seemed to be wearing white shirts splattered with blood, were into it just along from us. Five on five it looked, with two rolling around the floor and the rest running at each other then backing off. The two on the floor got up and wrestled standing up, throwing the head and knees in, they bounced off the phone box and fell through the café window.

  The furniture shop on the corner had been ransacked and a mattress pulled out onto the street and set alight. Cars parked down neighbouring alleyways had been run over like toys.

  The last of the men and women – kicking, screaming and spitting – were dragged into the police vans.

  Through the broken front window of the Fiddler’s we could see Brian, standing alone in the middle of the bar, hands clasped together and resting on his stomach.

  11

  Saturday Lunchtime.

  The bar was empty, save for the old-timers and two bouncers sat on stools at the front door. I was sat at the end of the bar, head in hands, reading the early edition of the Evening Chronicle. Tony Horn, the Metro Radio morning DJ, had written, ‘After the Faccome Flash’s appearance on Friday’s show the phone lines were jammed with well-wishers for his forth coming charity streak at St James’ Park. The Flash was as accommodating off air as he was on, a real down-to-earth lad, who has found himself a hero of the people and who is prepared to go for it one last time to raise money for his chosen charity. The debate on whether he should be doing this is gathering momentum and local MP, Alistair Fisher, called the show to urge people not to encourage someone to break the law, even for charity. I have a very strong opinion on charity and believe you should hire the best people to make the most money. Gone are the days of tin shaking. Charity is big business and in this case, the Faccome Flash has considerably raised the profile of Christopher Sellhurst’s condition and by the end of Friday’s show there had even been offers of corporate sponsorship. It’s not for me to say whether it’s legal or not to support The Faccome Flash, but what I would say is that on the 17th March 2001, Billy Connolly kept his promise for comic relief and streaked naked around the statue of Eros in Piccadilly Circus. A group of over 50 men, sporting Connelly wigs, danced a highland fling in the nude not long after and all this was shown on BBC television.’

  Earlier, the Northumbria Police Chief Constable had been interviewed on TV and had condemned last night’s violence and said that the streaker had committed offences beyond the laws he had already broken himself, by inciting criminal activity. The reporter questioned the police’s timing in removing the posters from the pub walls and their heavy-handed tactics afterwards. She suggested that the police had been insulted by the content of the posters and had taken it upon themselves to flex their authority in retaliation. The Chief Constable reiterated that it was the duty of every police officer to stop anyone breaking the law or encouraging criminal activity, which the posters clearly did. He rambled on about the fine relationship the coastal towns had enjoyed with the police and compared it with the town this morning, which was ‘extremely tense and requires a strong police presence to ensure public safety’. After several pledges had been made to advertise on the Flash’s body, he warned local media and businesses about their involvement in supporting an illegal event and that fines imposed would be aimed at deterring any similar events in the future and that the police would be doing all they could to arrest the streaker before Saturday.

  Another part-timer came in at one o’clock and I was out the door before Brian could lay another guilt-trip on me and get me in front of those books.

  I made my way through the crowds and into the barbers.

  After my haircut, I went into Next and tried a few shirts on and chose a long-sleeved pinstripe with a white collar and cuffs, similar to the Paul Smith range that was out, but a quarter of the price. I also bought a pair of black boxer shorts, similar to the Calvin Klein ones that grip your thigh. When I got in, I put the heating on, lit the oil burner and downed a glass of warm milk and crashed out on the sofa.

  ‘You’ve got be kidding me.’

  I sat up and pulled myself together. ‘What you on about?’

  ‘That shirt,’ Sam said, passing me a can of lager.

  ‘Are you blind, or what? If there’s anything going to stop you getting your leg over tomorrow, that shirt’s it.’ ‘Bollocks.’

  ‘Did you not see how many were wearing them last night in the bar?’

  ‘Not that many.’

  ‘Not that many? It was like a vicar’s convention, due to the fact… oh, hold on,’ he said, checking in the bag, ‘you’ve even went for the snide one from Next. Classy.’

  ‘I’m on a budget, and tomorrow’s going to cost a bomb as it is. I’m telling you now, I’ll buy the first round, then it’s Dutch after that.’ Sam was shaking his head at me. ‘I’m on a budget. I’ve had to sub of Brian as it is and I still haven’t got any decent jeans, apart from’

  ‘Not those worn-out Diesel?’

  ‘those worn-out Diesel?’

  ‘When I said you were guaranteed a ride, I meant with a little effort.’

  ‘This is why I can’t be arsed with a steady bird, the costs are ridiculous.’

  ‘You’re ridiculous and I hope you’re not taking a lend of Brian.’

  ‘He still owes me – AND – I’ve got Monday and Tuesday full days to do.’

  Sam peeked into the bag and brought out my boxers. ‘How is she going to resist you?’

  ‘Unlike you, I don’t need all the gadgets, natural charm sees me through.’

  ‘Are you taking a pocket calculator to reckon up There was a knock at the door. after each round, or are you going to rely on mental arithmetic?’

  Sam answered and said, ‘Cheers, Franky. No
probs, mate, I’ll drop it along tomorrow morning. You’re a pal, cheers, okay, no probs, tomorrow, then, bye, bye.’ Sam eventually shut the door and handed me the DVD player. ‘You set it up and I’ll get the vodka and fan mail.’

  12

  Sunday Night

  The Grapes is slightly more upmarket than the Fiddler’s and was at half capacity when Becky and Eve arrived, twenty minutes late, followed by another one of my shirts, taking the count to four. I turned away and ordered another vodka-tonic.

  Sam went over to greet them and I checked Becky out through the mirror. She was even smaller than I remembered, with a blonde bob, cut short at the back in an inverted V, making her neck look long and thin. She was wearing black criss-cross tights, a green tartan mini-skirt and a black sparkly short-sleeved top that gathered at the shoulders and low down at the back and – she was giving me the finger back through the mirror. I waved and she made her way over.

  ‘How’s you?’ she said.

  I leant down and kissed her on the cheek.

  ‘Not bad, you?’

  ‘Sound, sound. Get me a voddy and Red Bull and one for Evey. Eve!’

  ‘You’re looking well,’ I said.

  ‘You what?’

  I leant right down and repeated myself.

  ‘Thanks. Like y’shirt,’ she said, and pursed her lips. ‘Ha, ha.’

  Becky linked my arm and we moved away from the bar and sat in a booth at the front window and started chatting about the last time we had seen each other at the Christmas do. She pretended to be mortified that we’d ended up in the doorway and we both blamed the peach schnapps for the day-after amnesia.

  She sunk her first treble vodka in three gulps, then started on Eve’s, ‘as she looks a bit busy’. After a long tale about Eve’s ex, a psychotic, text-pest anorak, still in love with her, I went to the bar. When I returned, Becky was at the pool table, expertly chalking her cue.

  ‘You any good?’ I asked.

  ‘Might be.’

  We started playing and after only two visits to the table she was on the black.

  ‘Loser gets the drinks,’ she said, settling down to her shot.

  ‘On the next game, make this a warm-up.’

  She rested her cue against the table. ‘I forgot, you’re a right skintflint, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m on a budget.’

  She came round the table. ‘What was it you were telling me last time?’

  ‘About the writing?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘something about buying time until you found your inner something or other.’ She beckoned me down to her level and gently touched my face, then pounced on me, shooting her tongue into my mouth and clasping her legs around my waist, forcing me back against the chalkboard.

  As suddenly as she started, she broke off, still biting my lip.

  ‘Ok, tight-wad,’ she said, picking the cue back up. ‘I pot this, you pay.’

  As she was about to play her shot, I nipped her backside and she missed.

  I had an easy red into the middle, then the black over the pocket.

  I chalked the cue and sauntered round the table, checking the angles, eventually stretching over the green cloth, ready to take the shot. Becky stood alongside me with her back to the table. Casual as you like, she slipped her right arm underneath the cue and around my waist, leaned over my back, and with her left hand, started vigorously rubbing and squeezing my balls, like she was milking a cow. I spun around and she straddled me across the pool table and began devouring my face.

  Two lads looking for a game interrupted the mauling and I lowered Becky to the floor.

  She quickly led me through the bar and out into the rain.

  ‘What’s up?’ I asked.

  She flagged a taxi over. ‘We’re going back to yours.’

  Armed with a half empty bottle of peach schnapps, we fell through the flat door and into my room. Becky shoved me onto the bed and pulled my jeans off by the ankles, then whipped her top and bra off, while wriggling out of her skirt. She finished stripping and jumped on top and was soon in her stride, violently bucking forwards and groaning, totally oblivious to me as she went for it.

  … As she was finishing, she pressed down hard with the heel of her left palm in the centre of my stomach; steadied herself on the wall with her right hand and slowed right down: long, deliberate, arched moves, each finished with a deep, Aaaahhh. Finally, she let out a prolonged moan and slowly dug her nails into my stomach until she was rigid – held it, slapped me across the face, then collapsed onto my chest.

  We lay there for ages, giggling, messing with each other’s hair, downing peach schnapps, Becky biting my neck and shoulders, Becky slapping me when my hand slipped below, Becky momentarily going down on me, Becky squeezing me tight and sobbing, Becky falling asleep in her tears. Becky catching me trying to finish myself off…

  ‘Got any dope?’ she asked, leaning up on my chest.

  I stretched and interlocked my fingers behind my head. ‘Never touch the stuff.’

  ‘You’re joking. I thought you’d be bang into it.’

  ‘Can’t see the point in it. Well, I can, you get stoned, and if you’ve got problems and want to be out of it, fair enough. But it’s just a temporary measure. Soon as it wears off, your mind goes back to the same place. That’s why tapping into your unconscious mind is so good, you get long-term results.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Well, it depends how far you get into it, but basically, by tapping into your unconscious you find out more about yourself than your waking mind knows. So the decisions you make better suit the real you, and not the you who you think you are, if you know what I mean?’

  ‘Mmmmm. Example.’

  ‘Okay. Say you had a problem with someone at work and you were dreaming about them. Analysing your dream is a way of finding out what’s really troubling you about them, and it might not be what you think.’

  ‘Too complicated.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘It just is. Why go to all that bother when you could just go over and have it out with them? Get it sorted there and then.’

  ‘What if having it out with them isn’t the solution?’

  ‘How can it not be?’

  ‘What if you have it out with them and afterwards still feel shitty? The reason why you’re pissed off could be down to loads of things.’

  ‘Too complicated.’

  ‘Ever heard the saying, “sleep on it”?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Ever tried it?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Ever worked?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘When you’ve slept on a problem, have you ever come up with an answer that seemed impossible the day before?’

  ‘Mmmm, can’t remember, although I did consider murdering my ex most nights, but didn’t.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘That’s got nothing to do with my subconscious. That’s because the bastard came in so late I’d fallen asleep.’

  ‘When your conscious mind is contemplating doing something out of character, like murdering your ex, your unconscious mind works at restoring the balance, so when you wake up you feel like giving him a good hiding rather than killing him.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘You know when your mother says “I know you better than you know yourself?”’

  ‘Boooring.’

  ‘By tapping into your unconscious’

  ‘Got any tabs?’

  I sighed.

  ‘Yeah, we’ll have to go in the front room to have one, though.’

  Becky walked out butt-naked and stood in front of the Flash poster.

  I stood next to her and gave her a cigarette and we lit up.

  ‘Any idea who it is?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘It’s not you.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  ‘It’s true, though, have you not seen the phone video?’

  I declined her offer to watch it and went over
to the window.

  Sam had left the heating on and it was sweltering.

  Becky shuffled in front of me and we both leant out the window and I got deja vu.

  The streetlights were a mixture of yellow and white spreading as far as you could see, broken up by brilliant-white strips of motorway.

  ‘Fancy something to eat?’ Becky said. ‘I’m starving.’

  ‘Yeah, what do you want? I think we’ve got some chips and battered cod.’

  She scrunched her face up and walked over to the phone and rang Domino’s. I watched her as she went through the menu: cluster of freckles on her neck below the inverted V, narrow bony shoulders and tiny backside, red from leaning against me at the window. She finished ordering and I snaffled a bottle of Sam’s vodka and we turned the lights off and flicked the hifi on.

  The phone ringing interrupted us.

  We both got up and I answered it – pizza man at the bottom of the stairs.

  Becky grabbed the phone. ‘Can you bring it up please? I can’t, no, you’ll have to bring it up, 805. No, I can’t. I’m naked, I’ve just been having sex, thanks.’

  She leapt into my arms and I swung her round and round and we fell onto the floor and went right at it again.

  The doorbell rang and I prised her hands from around my neck and dropped her onto the sofa. I put my dressing gown on and answered the door. I paid the young delivery lad and closed the door. Becky opened it and gave him a full frontal, followed by a sultry wave.

  After the pizza and a few more vodkas, we started to get really pissed again and Becky asked me if I believed in love at first sight. I said I did, then without thinking I said, ‘But we’ve met before, haven’t we?’ She didn’t reply, then marched into my room and got dressed. I followed her in and pulled my jeans on. Before I had a chance to get my shirt on, she had me across the bed, pulling my hair and biting my shoulders. She pushed me onto the floor and with a vodka bottle in one hand, sat astride me again…