by Gary Davison
I gave her my parka and I took Sam’s denim jacket and beanie and walked her to the bus stop.
The bus took a while, in which time Becky became starving again and needed a kebab. We walked into town and she paid for two doners and a chips between us. We stood at the bus stop, watching the drunks bouncing off the shop shutters and staggering into doorways with their flies undone. Becky looked like one of the kids off The Lion The Witch and The Wardrobe in the parka. She turned around, cradling the kebab. ‘So,’ she said, ‘you want to see me again?’
I bent down and kissed her. ‘Course I do.’
She closed the kebab tray and tucked it under her arm and took out her mobile. ‘Give me your number.’
‘I haven’t got a mobile.’
She stared at me.
‘Seriously, I haven’t got one. I can give you the flat number.’
She hurled the kebab in my face. ‘Fuck off, liar!’
I stood there; head hanging limp, arms by my side.
I carefully scooped the sauce and lettuce from my eyes.
The bus pulled up and she got on.
She sat at the window staring straight ahead and gave me the finger as she passed.
I finished brushing myself down and made for the flat.
Halfway up the bank I saw Sam, heading along the path next to the railway line. He was on his own, shoulders hunched, hands in pockets and head down against the drizzle. I started after him. The lights were out in the park and I broke into a jog until I had passed through and made it up the embankment and onto the footpath. Sam was out of sight now, but I knew where he was headed.
Further along, the tarmac path had fallen away and I had to grab the wooden spiked fence to steady myself going round the corner. I stuck to the fence line all the way down to the allotments, then cut across the football fields and out onto Denham Ave. I pulled the collar up on my jacket and made for the cemetery gates.
The stone chapel and crematorium buildings were lit up, casting light on the first few rows of gravestones. I climbed over the fence and walked up the footpath and into the dark.
Sam was sat on a bench facing his father’s grave. His pin-striped shirt was soaked to his skin. I sat in the shadows out of sight.
I remember when Sam’s father used to come home after being away for days. You’d hear the commotion as he tried to negotiate his way along the back fences, mortal drunk. He’d fall into the long grass or shadowbox a tree or take a piss where he stood. One day, he took the short cut over the hill and rolled down it so fast that when he hit the bottom, he went into a forward flip and cleared our fence and landed face down on the lawn. Thud! Sam’s mother was stood at the back door, chain smoking. I was at the bathroom window and could only see the toe of one of her slippers on the step and her right hand holding the cigarette.
An hour later, Sam’s dad slowly got to his feet, staggered sideways and fell into the rose bushes, cutting his face and hands. He got up again, this time with more purpose, only to rip a sleeve from his suit jacket and tear his pants. Sitting awkwardly on the grass, he pointed up at me and shouted something. My mother suddenly opened the door and went to help him up.
‘Leave him.’ I felt sick when I heard Sam’s mother’s voice. I closed the window and never watched him come home again.
I took a slow walk up and sat next to Sam. I pulled a crushed box of cigarettes from my inside pocket and lit us both one.
We sat quiet, smoking.
Time passed.
Sam turned and looked at me, then looked away.
He looked at me again.
‘What?’
He pulled a ring of onion off my hat, examined me further, then tilted my chin up and moved my shirt collar to one side. ‘What the hell happened to you?’
I shook my head and started walking. collar to one side. ‘What the hell happened
‘Come on, then,’ Sam said. ‘Did you get her back or what?’
‘I’m telling you, she’s a proper psycho, her.’
We scaled the fence and started jogging back.
13
Monday afternoon.
Brian pulled his waistcoat tight, stepped forward, and dabbed at the till screen, ringing in a single gin. I cleared it. Shoulders back, he straightened the waistcoat and prodded the wrong button again.
‘How the hell can you not see that green button?’
‘I just can’t.’
‘Are you colour blind?’
He shook his head.
‘Well what, then? Surely you can see with them glasses.’
He shook his head again.
‘You can’t see with your own glasses?’
‘They’re just for reading, really.’
‘So where are your normal glasses?’
He looked at the floor.
I sighed.
‘Why don’t you get an eye test, Brian? And get some new specs.’
‘I’ve got proper glasses.’
‘So where are they, then?’
‘She’s got them.’
‘She?’
‘My ex-wife. These are hers.’
He shrugged. The glasses were staying and he wasn’t going to be opening the till – well, not intentionally. So his presentation went like this: into the office where he’d show them the up-to-date books, oh yes, keep on top of the paperwork and the place nearly runs itself, then through to the lounge where he’d casually point out the poster for Thursday’s Flash Karaoke Night, the Flash is giving us his costume after Saturday, the knows – points above the bar – pride of place, and also tells them his plans to increase revenue after Saturday’s streak which included Flash merchandise, mats, pint glasses etc., regular fund raising nights for the Christopher Sellhurst Charity, and cheap beer for daytime drinkers, 10p off a pint means the world to apensioner, the knows.
The phone rang and Brian answered it. He handed it
‘Hello.’
‘It’s me.’
I paused. ‘You alright?’
‘So, so. Look, I just want to drop your coat off. You in later, or are you at work?’
‘I’m not working but you can drop it at either, or give it to Sam.’
Long pause.
‘I haven’t got
‘I haven’t got it at work.’
‘Well, drop it round, if you don’t mind.’
‘Be after five.’
‘No probs.’
‘See you then.’
‘See you then.’
Brian lifted his eyebrows.
‘You don’t want to know.’
‘Sam said you were going steady, like.’
‘You what?’
He nodded. ‘Aye, told me this morning when he rang in about the mail. Said you said she could be the one.’
‘Just for that, you can finish off in here yourself.’
I got my jacket and came from behind the bar.
One of the old-timers was waiting to be served. ‘Hear you’re going steady, Al. ‘Bout time, kid, you’re not as young as you were.’
When I got back to the flat, I went through the last few days of the dream journal and picked out the reoccurring elements. The hospital, Sam, Jack Nicholson, Tommy, Becky and I’m sure the gold and silver thing in a bag was a goldfish. I looked up goldfish. In Buddhism, the golden fish is the symbol of enlightenment. English dictionary, enlightenment – give information to. The goldfish had been in every dream since Sam had started streaking and fucked up my whole dream pattern. I lay back on the sofa, massaging my eyes, thinking only of the goldfish.
The phone ringing woke me.
I got up and answered it. ‘Yeah?’
‘Hi, it’s me.’
‘You alright?’
‘Just wondering if you fancied a Chinese, my treat.’
‘Eh, yeah, yeah. What time is it?’
‘Six o’clock. You okay? You sound funny.’
‘Yeah, yeah, sound, definitely, a Chinese, yeah.’
‘Is Sam in?’
‘Eh,
no, I don’t think so.’
‘Okay, see you in about twenty mins.’
‘See you then.’
I dived in the shower and brushed my teeth.
I went down and met Becky at the door.
She set the Chinese down and flung her arms around me.
I kissed the top of her head and we went upstairs.
‘After you,’ I said, showing her in.
She walked in and gasped, dropping the Chinese on the floor.
I followed her in.
Sam was standing in the middle of the living room in black underpants and a black mask with black and white tassels hanging down to his shoulders.
Time stood still.
I closed the door.
Sam strutted over to us, nodded, and went into his room.
Becky, hand still over her mouth, bimbled over to the sofa and sat down. Knees tight together, she stared at the floor.
She suddenly jumped up. ‘Is it really him? Is he really The Flash? Is Sam the Flash? Al? Is he really? I mean properly?’
Sam came out in his running gear, waved, and went out the door.
‘He’s the one,’ I said, en route to the kitchen.
‘I can’t believe it. I physically can’t take in that the bloke that walks past me every day is the Flash. Are you having me on? Is he really, Al? I mean the real Flash? On the radio and everything?’
I nodded.
‘I can’t believe it. I really can’t. I mean he’s properly famous and, well, you know, down there. I mean, all this time at work and he was walking about right in front of us and we never knew. Honestly, Al? You’re not having me on?’
I came out with the two plates piled high and Becky followed me to the sofa.
‘You just don’t know the minute. It’s true, you just don’t know a person, do you? Who would have thought Sam the printer was The Flash. Yards away from us at work every day, and blessed with, well, you know.’
I nodded.
‘Christ if the girls knew. If they KNEW! He’d have been mobbed the first day. And Josey, my mother’s mate – she’s a bit of a one, puts it about a bit – what she would do for him I couldn’t repeat.’ She took in a mouthful of food. ‘Looking at the phone video, you’d never have guessed. No way, physically you’d never have guessed, probably because you’re too busy looking at his, you know.
‘Who would have thought, Sam, built like that, working feet away from me and Evey. Evey! The lucky so and so and she knocked him back! Can you believe it? If she had known, there’s no way she’d have knocked him back. I mean, is there anybody, being realistic, who could?’
I put my fork down. ‘Feel free to go in his room and wait. He’ll be about, oooh what, forty minutes, make yourself comfortable. I’m sure he’d be delighted to oblige.’
She stared at me. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Well, could you resist? “Being realistic is there anybody who could?”.’
She bounced her plate off my forehead, covering me in hot Chinese.
We both jumped up.
‘You bastard! You think I’m that easy! Fuck you!’
She marched to the door. ‘You’ll never see me again!’
I ran out onto the landing and shouted down the stairs. ‘And don’t come back!’
She ran back up the stairs and I backed into the doorway.
‘You know your fucking trouble! You don’t know a good thing when it’s happening to you! Well, you’ve blown it! It’s over!’
She ran down the stairs.
I slammed the door and went inside to clean the maniac’s mess up.
I was on my hands and knees scraping rice onto a plate when Sam arrived back.
He stood over me, trying not to laugh. ‘What is it with you, her and food?’
I pushed past him and scraped the rice into the bin. ‘She’s officially banned from here and The Fiddler’s. She’s psychotic. By rights I should call the mental health department and have her sectioned.’
Sam took a shower and came back in with a couple of vodkas.
We sat on our sofas.
I lit up and gave him a couple off.
Sam said, ‘Do you not think that it’s just passion between you boiling over?’
‘I’ve only been out with her for a total of about five hours and she’s swilled me twice.’
‘You did say she was a tremendous ride.’
‘At what cost, though? She’ll stab me next time.’
‘I think you’ve fallen for her and you can’t handle it.’
‘Yeah, right.’
Sam walked over to the window. ‘Al, you’ll have to go down, she’s still at the bus stop.’
‘It’ll only make it worse the more encouragement she gets.’
Sam steered me out onto the landing and handed me my parka.
I walked down the stairs.
As I opened the front door the bus pulled up.
I went back upstairs.
‘Probably for the best,’ I said, picking my glass up.
‘You could always ring her.’
‘It’ll never work between me and her. She’s divorced, hung up, looking for commitment. Me’
‘Shit scared to do anything unless you’ve managed to suss out every eventuality.’
‘What you fail to understand is that I know the real me.’
‘Life’ll pass you by if you don’t take chances.’
‘Is that right? Before all this, who was bricking it to leave work and go travelling?’
‘No, I wasn’t.’
‘Aye, you were. Worried about this, worried about that.’
‘So how come I’m streaking in front of 52, 000 on Saturday if I haven’t got bottle?’
‘Never said you didn’t have bottle. All I’m saying is that not buying into conventional life like me, is taking a bigger risk than having a rock steady career like you. I want to travel the world, see how others live. For all I know, there could be a much better life elsewhere that I could be living. You only get one shot, Sam. Travelling broadens your horizons, adding to your psyche, which up until sixteen has been moulded for you.’
‘Don’t start.’
‘True, though.’
‘I’d go travelling tomorrow.’
‘Yeah, right.’
‘After Saturday. No matter what, we’re away.’
‘Yeah, right.’
He stuck his hand out and I half-heartedly shook it. ‘After Saturday, then.’
‘After Saturday.’
14
Tuesday Morning
I sat up in bed, panting and sweating and tried to piece the dream together.
I was streaking across the pitch and Sam was chasing me, then we were in the flat and Sam was sat on his sofa in black underpants and the gimp mask trying to unzip the mouth. I got up to get a drink and noticed there was another door next to the kitchen, light coming from beneath it. I opened it and went in. I’m not sure what was behind the door, but I ended up walking down a hospital corridor with Sam, then I was in a wheelchair and he was pushing me.
We went into one of the rooms and Becky, dressed in a nurse’s uniform, white sussies and heels, was whipping someone’s bare backside. It was Sam and his head was turned to the side and he was laughing hysterically after every lash.
… Back in the flat, I stood and looked at the two extra doors between the kitchen and my room, both of which matched the other doors in the flat, down to the flaking paint. I opened the second new door and stepped into the cold and immediately recognised our garage from the old house where we’d had the fire. I walked around, rubbing my arms trying to keep warm. Sat in the corner, pulling hypodermic needles out of boxes and lining them up on the floor, were Sam and Jack Nicholson. The door leading into the house suddenly opened and my friend’s mother from the bar, the one that claimed to be pure filth, poked her head in and said something to them and they got up and went through the door. Back at the flat, I was sat on my sofa with Becky, who was still in her nurse’s outfit and Sam and J
ack were on the other sofa, their bare legs entwined like they were an item.
I’m dreaming of Sam because I admire him and would like to have the bottle he has. The only hole in that theory is that he’s always chasing me in the dreams, which indicates we have a similar quality. I have a completely different outlook on life to him and I couldn’t do this streaking under any circumstances – life or death, no way. So what quality do we share and why is my subconscious so determined that I should realise what it is?
Jack Nicholson got into my dreams after I watched One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest the other night. What’s worrying is that he hasn’t left and it’s been over a week. I’ve dreamt of movie stars before, the last one I think was Kate Winslet after watching Titanic. Two days max and she was gone. Jack Nicholson’s been in every dream and the only help I can get from the dream book is that I aspire to be like him.
I tossed and turned and eventually got up and went and made a coffee. After a smoke at the window I settled in front of the TV just as the phone rang. I answered it.
‘Hello.’
‘Stick Radio One on! I’m on Chris Moyles in five minutes!’
‘YOU-ARE-TAKING-THE-PISS!’
‘I’ve already spoken to him! Bang
‘I’ve already spoken to him! Bang a tape in and record it!’
I dived in front of the hifi and swept the videotapes and cassettes onto the floor, rummaged through them and stuck a tape in.
“CHRIS MOYLES SHOW: INTERNATIONAL RADIO 1…”
Chris Moyles: On the line we have the one and only The Faccome Flash!
Studio screamed and clapped.
- Flash my man! How are you, mate?
- I’m well, Chris, yourself?
A woman screamed and whistled.
- Please. You don’t even know if it’s true yet.
- Oh, it’s true, Chris.
Studio went up again.
