by Gary Davison
‘And I can’t find Tommy anywhere. Have you seen him?’
‘Never seen him all week. Have you tried the club.’
She had.
‘His flat?’
‘Neighbours said they haven’t seen him coming or going all week. That’s not to say he hasn’t been. I know he had a good win last week, so he’ll probably be enjoying himself. Which explains why he hasn’t been round to see me.’
Brian kept opening the door.
‘I wouldn’t worry too much, he’ll surface when he’s ready. I’ll go round tomorrow. Wake the lazy git up.’
‘You don’t think there’s anything seriously wrong with him, do you? He hasn’t said anything to you, has he? You know he tells me nothing, Alex, so I need you to be honest. He hasn’t confided in you, has he?’
‘How could he? I haven’t seen him.’
‘It’s not like you two not to see each other for a week, is it?’
‘It’s only because I’ve been working days this week.’
‘I suppose.’
‘Look, I really have to go.’
‘Oh, before I forget, I’ve cut a writing competition out of the paper for you. It’s for non-published writers with a novel.’
‘Sound, I’ll get it off you tomorrow.’
‘And you’ll go round and see Tommy?’
‘Like I said.’
‘And you’ll let
‘And you’ll let me know what’s what?’
‘See you tomorrow.’
I hung up.
Brian opened the door again.
‘I’m coming.’
He rolled his eyes.
‘What?’
Becky was stood in the corner of the bar on her own. She was wearing a dogtooth coat with big lapels and a Doctor Who scarf. She had shopping bags over her arm and a big black leather handbag over her shoulder. I showed her through the side door and into Brian’s office.
I sat on the corner of Brian’s desk, arms folded.
Becky handed me a white carrier bag.
I frowned. ‘For me?’
She nodded.
It was a Paul Smith shirt.
I stood up and wraped my arms around her.
After a while, she started crying.
‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing, nothing. It’s nothing.’
We started kissing and I lifted her up onto Brian’s desk and ripped her knickers down and off at the feet and she frantically undid my jeans.
There was a knock at the door, then Brian stuck his head in.‘Al, you’ll have to come out, we can’t cope.’
‘Can you give us five minutes?’
‘They’re trying to pull Sam over the counter and You-Know-Who is back in.’
‘Come on,’ Becky said, getting down off the desk. ‘I’ll give you a hand. I used to work in the Ship years ago. Come on.’
She steered Brian out and we piled along the corridor.
17
Friday Morning
Becky and I were sitting crossed-legged on the floor, going through the morning papers. All the tabloids had Sam and Chris Moyles on the front page and the story was that Moyles was going to be suspended for backing The Flash.
Moyles’ guest this morning was the Northumbria Police Chief Constable, who was making a second appeal to the public to come forward if they knew The Flash’s identity. After Moyles had reeled off a list of famous streakers that hadn’t been charged, he accused the police of wanting to make an example of The Flash because he was making fools of them.
The Chief Constable said that this streaker was repeatedly breaking laws that could include indecent exposure, outraging public decency, breach of the peace and public nuisance. He also said that it could take years to get over copycat streakers or worse crimes incited by this streaker, because the story was getting so much publicity and the streaker was seen by many, including Moyles, as a hero.
Chris Moyles started getting lippy and the Chief Constable warned him about his own involvement, ‘which we’re looking at in great detail’. The interview finished with Moyles thanking the Chief Constable for his time then playing the Benny Hill theme tune.
The This Morning show were doing a report from outside the Fiddler’s and they estimated that over £80,000 had been collected for the Christopher Sellhurst Charity and that a further £40,000 had been pledged by companies to advertise on the Flash’s body. It all ended light heartedly with the female reporter rooting for the ‘ultimate man’.
I switched the radio over to Metro and Tony Horn, who had campaigned for The Flash all week both on air and in his newspaper column, made the prediction that ‘against all odds the North East’s own super hero will escape and ride off into the sunset’.
Becky had lost it big-time and she was starting to freak me out with a never-ending list of dangers that we faced tomorrow, now that things had gone ‘national’. National police strategy, national security, national coverage, national pile of shit in my pants if I listened a second longer.
I walked her to the bus stop.
When I got back to the flat, I decided not to watch any more TV or listen to the radio and I didn’t phone Sam. God knows how he was keeping it together.
I got my coat and headed to Tommy’s.
Tommy lived about a quarter of a mile from my mother’s in three–high retirement flats called Albany Court. I took the long way round, avoiding my mother’s and enjoying the fresh air and sunshine. I walked along the footpath adjacent to Albany Court and peered over the fence and Tommy’s curtains were the only ones drawn.
The caretaker was sat outside, which meant the front door was unlocked. I jogged up the two flights of stairs to Tommy’s flat and banged on his door. Again. And again.
Mr Allen at number seven came out. He was tiny and always wore a mustard cardigan and thick-rimmed square glasses. Tommy called him Corbett. He was my mother’s spy and Tommy rapped on his door and shouted through his letterbox when he came in pissed, ‘to give the nosy fucker something to grass about’.
‘Not been in for days,’ Mr Allen said, shaking his head. ‘Must have eventually given him accommodation at the Lonely Heart’s Club.
’ I stuck my tongue out at him and walked away.
Outside, I walked over to the caretaker who shook his head as I approached. I gave him the finger and walked down the gravel drive and away.
After waiting two hours, I got to see Tommy’s doctor. Doctor Black was old school and had been giving Tommy prescription painkillers and signing him off on the sick without any examination for years. Tommy used to send his wife up to collect his prescriptions and now he had conned my mother into doing it.
Doctor Black shrugged when I expressed our concerns for Tommy and I had to agree. What could anybody say to Tommy that would make him change his ways? One piece of good news was that he wasn’t in hospital otherwise Black would have known about it. I thought about breaking into his flat, but I knew the caretaker would have been in already. Tommy reckoned the caretaker made a fortune nicking the deceased’s belongings before the family got there. Tommy reckoned everyone was making a fortune doing this or that.
I traced his route to my mother’s, the club, the off-licence and the bookies. Nothing. The only other explanation I could think of, apart from him lying in some gutter, was that he had found some new pub to frequent with the influx of cash from his win.
Time was getting on so I made for the Fiddler’s.
18
Friday Night
Brian had every member of staff, including Becky, crammed behind the bar, while he squeezed onto the seats next to the old-timers with his dishcloth and pint. The place was rocking as much, if not more, than last night and the police had doubled their presence inside and outside the bar.
Becky was doing my head in and I made my excuses and left before last orders. I stopped on the bank and sat on a bench and lit a cigarette.
I looked across the park at the footpath next to the railway line and pictured him tearing onto the pitc
h at Darlington, hand aloft, panting when he joined me in the bar, running through the streets laughing and collapsing onto the train platform.
The escape route wasn’t any further than Darlington and the only extra security would be on the touchlines. Like Sam had said, there are only so many people that can stand in front of an exit door and every time we’d been to a decent match, there had only ever been one.
Take out the crowd, the fact it was Newcastle v Man U, and the situation was the same as before. He could do it. I knew he could and I’d make it to Fluid Bar. Even if I slipped on the cobbles I’d be up, the adrenaline pumping. I’d make it because I had to. Because my best mate, sitting up at his father’s grave, couldn’t take being caught and shamed. I know he couldn’t and now that it was here, he was digging deep, preparing himself, blocking out all this madness.
I waited until the last of the revellers had either been taken away by the police or had gone home. I smoked a cigarette, thought about going up to the grave to sit with him, thought better of it, then went back to the flat to wait.
19
Saturday Morning
The sound of the phone ringing woke me.
I rolled off the sofa and answered it.
It was Sam.
‘Where are you?’
‘Al, listen. I’ve been nicked.’
‘Eh?’
‘I’ve been nicked! I’m in Facomme police station now.’
‘You what?’
‘Get down here, this is the only call I’ve got.’
The line went dead.
I grabbed my jacket and ran out the door.
An officer showed me into Sam’s cell and locked the door behind me.
Sam got up from his concrete bed and we hugged.
‘Tell me it’s not what I think it is,’ I said.
He shook his head and shuffled around the tiny cell.
‘I’ll ring my cousin, Shaun. You know, the solicitor? But I need to know exactly what’s been said. Do they know or what?’
He stood, hands outstretched, touching the pale wall. ‘They know.’
I checked for cameras, then whispered, ‘What evidence do they have? They can’t lock you up for something you haven’t done yet.’
‘That’s all they said when they nicked me at work.’
‘At work!’ I started pacing. ‘That’s not on. Shaun’ll sort this. Soon as I ring him he’ll get you out.’
Sam sat down, head in hands.
‘Look, I’ll have you out in an hour. He’s got contacts. Judges, barristers, he knows everyone. They can’t lock you up on a hunch.’
‘They’re not letting me out until after full-time.’
Keys rattled in the lock.
Sam looked up and said, ‘Everything you need is under my bedside drawers, Al. You’ve got to do.’
‘Don’t be fucking ridiculous. How can I do it? How can I fucking do it? Think about it. Think about what you’re saying. That’s a non-starter and you know it. Let’s think rationally, which is how we’re going to get you out of here before kick-off.’
I barged through the crowds, getting pushed one way then the other. I made it to the phone box outside The Fiddler’s and rang Shaun. He answered. I told him everything. In between gasps he said, ‘Honestly, mate, if they’ve got him locked up that’s exactly where he’ll stay until after the final whistle. Tony Blair or the Queen couldn’t even help, he’s been taking the piss out of the law.’
I dropped the receiver and stared through the scratched and graffitied glass of the phone box at the bedlam before me. I pushed the door open and tunnelled my way through coats, scarves, screaming, balloons, chinking donation buckets, burgers, candy floss. I NEEDED AIRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!
I sat on the same bench as last night, taking long, deep breaths. I looked down at the sea of red and white, black and white, the camera crews, then dropped onto my hands and knees and retched. I couldn’t do this. Couldn’t do this, spew, couldn’t do this, couldn’t do this, spew, everything you need is under the drawers, spew, spew, spew…
I sat back up on the bench. I had time. What to do? What to do? I checked either side of me, then discreetly put my hand down the front of my jeans. It was smaller than it had ever been before. Minute. The size of a newborn child’s. Smaller. I got the gushes again and started walking.
I was on my hands and knees in the bathroom when Becky arrived.
‘Alex!’ She helped me over to the sofa. ‘Eve rang, not knowing that Sam was who he was, and told me that he’d been arrested at work and they all thought it was drugs because of all the designer shirts he wears, but I knew otherwise. What are we going to do? Will he be out in time? What if he’s not? The sponsorship and everything. Al?’
I hung right out of the window, feet barely touching the ground.
Becky brought me a glass of water.
After I finished it, I let the glass slip out of my hands and watched it all the way down.
I wanted Becky to ramble on, tell me how impossible it was with what I was packing, but she just rubbed my back and cuddled into me.
20
‘Okay,’ I said, turning around. ‘Super-fast super-well-hung Sam isn’t doing the streak. He’s banged up until after full-time. Guaranteed. No getting him out. Not happening. So you tell me where that leaves us, eh?’
Becky handed me a lit cigarette.
‘He asked me to do it. How the hell can I do it? I can’t make it out, so that means I’ll get caught and get seen with what will be the smallest knob in history by the time I hit the turf.’
Becky handed me another glass of water.
‘So here I am at the side of the pitch, mask on, tiny knob out and all the players and officials are rolling around laughing and then I try to make it out and the fun really starts. Fuck me, they’ll have a field day. The only hope is that they catch me quick. Which defeats the object which gets me, back, to…’ Becky had undone my jeans and went down on me, ‘back to where we, errr… started. Which is, errr, that…’
‘See!’ she said, triumphantly standing back. ‘You run on the pitch like that and you’ll fool a few people.’
‘I run out like this and I’ll be locked up for life for being a paedophile.’
I leant back out of the window.
‘I can’t do this,’ I said, coming back in.
‘Course you can.’
‘I won’t be able to run on the pitch without spewing. I know I won’t.’
‘I’ll help.’
‘My life’ll be ruined. I’ll have to emigrate.’
‘If you like, just before you put the mask on, I’ll suck you off. It’ll still be up by the time you run on the field.’
‘Can you imagine the look on people’s faces when you suddenly drop to your knees?’
‘I’ll do it, Al,’ she said, putting her arms around me. ‘Then all you need to worry about is getting out.’
The second I thought about the edge of the pitch, that moment, the bile rose up my throat. I physically couldn’t do this.
I hung back out of the window.
It was sunny and cold.
Droves of Faccome FC supporters were heading for the train station, kids with balloons, mams in scarves and hats, dads singing, already pissed up, teenagers in Flash masks and grandmas and granddads in their Sunday best. Most of them didn’t even have match tickets.
I took my t-shirt and jeans off, then my underpants and walked over to Sam’s sofa and pulled the folder out from under his cushion and handed it to Becky along with the marker pens. I stood in front of the mirror, hands spread-eagled on the wall. ‘Start with my back and use the stencils to get the company logos as near as you can to what’s on the sheet.’
21
I knelt in front of Sam’s bedside drawers, reached under for the mask and jerked back when I felt something cold. Lying on my stomach, I got hold of the jeans and eased them out, then sat back on my honkers. The gimp mask wasn’t the only thing he’d bought from the sex shop that day.
<
br /> Using toilet paper, I picked the rubber dildo up and examined it. The base and balls had been hollowed out and elastic sewn around the edge. I went into the kitchen and pulled on rubber gloves and scrubbed the whole thing with disinfectant, rinsed it, then did the same again.
Back in Sam’s room, I pulled a condom on, then the dildo and pranced around in front of his full-length mirror, shaking it this way and that, diving onto the bed, twisting and turning and pretending to take a piss. All this time! All this attention! The women! And not a word, even to me!
I walked back and forth, watching it slap against my thighs. What it would be like to have this for real? I spun around, jumped up and down. It never budged.
‘How disappointing is that?’ Becky said, standing in the doorway.
I held it with one hand. ‘Feel the weight of it. How real?’
‘Not as good as the real thing, though, is it? And here’s me looking at Sam, thinking…
’ ‘Thinking what?’
Becky stared at me, then grinned. ‘Are we going to make it out of there, or what?’
Wouldn’t be so bad getting caught now. In fact, getting caught as long as King Rubber Dong stayed on would be a good thing. Even if it came off when they got hold of me, it would be their word against the 52,000 who had seen it first hand. I’d be on every newspaper, all the TV interviews, the man that no one could catch revealed to the world. Exposed and shamed and stepping into his best mate’s shoes, that no one could ever fill. Jesus Christ, how the hell was I going to make it out of there?
I rang Tommy’s number.
‘Tommy?’
‘Al?’
‘Where you been?’
The phone went muffled.
‘I’ve only hit the jackpot, haven’t I?’ he whispered.
‘I heard you had a decent win.’
