by Gary Davison
Amber said the same things a hundred times in different words, how she loved me, how she felt safe, how we only needed each other and I was the one for her.
And I believed her. Fuck’s sakes, I believed her one hundred percent. Nothing else mattered anymore.
I haven’t a clue how long we sat there moulded together, letting it all out, but the drums were drowning the reggae music out again, the carnival people were back on the streets and the bar was full. I leapt up, thrusting my hands under Amber’s armpits and lifting her high into the air. I dragged her through the bar, stopping briefly to stuff all the cash I had on me into Kyle’s top pocket.
We hit the cobbles running, spinning around, kissing and running for our lives, down Church Street, screaming and shouting, jumping over an old man passed out on the kerb, through the town square, swinging each other around and around, smacking into people, laughing; we didn’t give a shit. WE DIDN’T GIVE A SHIT!
We kept on running and jumped the steps into the park, and stumbled forward and fell. The cavalry soldiers we landed on made way for us, and we got stuck into each other like we were in the front room back at the flat. I swear we would have done it there and then if we hadn’t ran out of steam.
Amber collapsed on top of me and slid to the side.
There wasn’t room to stretch an arm or leg.
The sun was blinding.
Air horns sounded.
A brass band past on the top road, the sound amplifying as it dipped under the flyover.
A DJ was working the crowd over in the square.
We shared a smoke, then fell asleep.
16
I was lying on my back, drifting in and out of consciousness.
I kept feeling for Amber, squeezing her hand.
I tried not to think about my father, but he kept on coming. I hoped he could see me now, see how happy I was, see that I was my own person, see that everything he had done to try and make me be like him, had failed; see how wrong he was.
I’d have loved to be able to walk down a high street and see him in some plush wine bar like I had before, young secretary in a short skirt, up on her tiptoes kissing him. I’d storm straight in with my girl and my mates, down shots, tear the place up, have the time of our lives, while he stood watching, running his hands through his hair, agitated to fuck and bitter. Bitter that I wasn’t standing next to him with some bird from the office boasting about business deals.
I think the only reason my father left me everything in his will was because he hoped that one day, when everything else I had done had come to nothing, I’d somehow find my way into his chair and make him proud. That’s the only reason I can think of, because before he died, he despised me.
Things came to a head between us when I was fourteen. I’d been in private school for about three years. Despite additional tutoring, my grades were getting worse and worse. I was still harbouring hopes that he’d send me to the comprehensive my friends had gone to after St George’s, even though it would’ve been difficult to fit in, it would have been better than where I was.
It was a couple of days after some exam results that my father and I had our biggest bust-up. I was standing in the kitchen, fixing a sandwich, when he came in from work. He was red-faced, had no tie on and I immediately knew he’d been to a corporate do all afternoon. My only surprise was that he didn’t have a young secretary with him. In the past, when I’d seen him drunk so early in the evening, after being introduced to his female ‘business colleague’ I’d go straight to my room and keep the headphones on so I couldn’t hear them at it.
This time, because he had nothing else to entertain him, he wouldn’t let me past.
My father sat at the table and stretched his legs out.
I picked my sandwich up and went to step over his legs but he lifted them up.
I stepped back and waited.
He continued staring at me.
I tried again, and again he lifted his legs, catching me on the shins.
I leant back against the kitchen bench and started eating my sandwich.
His eyes were heavy and bloodshot, his mouth thin and turned down.
I was curious to hear what terrible life lay ahead of me now that I was officially a loser.
The only sounds were the kitchen clock ticking and the fridge humming.
I kept catching his stares, holding the gaze long enough to let him know I wasn’t bothered what he had to say.
His lip curled up at one side into a cruel smile.
“You’re a mistake, you know that, don’t you?”
I kept eating my sandwich – slow, deliberate bites.
He pushed himself up using the table, opened the glass cabinet and made himself a gin and tonic. He sat back down, snipped the end off his cigar and rolled it between his fingers.
I finished eating, turned my back on him and began making some orange juice.
“Your mother trapped me. Fucking bitch. Should have seen it coming.”
“More like you trapped her,” I muttered.
“You what?’
“Nothing.”
“What did you just say?”
I picked my drink up and as I stepped over his legs, he kicked me hard in the stomach. I kicked him back and he sprung out of his seat, grabbing me by the neck and shoulders.
“You’re a fucking embarrassment!”
I swung my elbow back to get him off me and cracked him in the face and we both fell back over onto the floor. I was up quick but he grabbed my ankle, his long nails digging into my skin.
I broke away, ran up stairs and locked myself in the bathroom.
He screamed and shouted, and smashed up the kitchen.
I heard a door slam, but I didn’t go to the window to see him. I’d spent years at the front window waiting to see who he brought home. Now I didn’t care, and now I knew for sure that he didn’t care about me either.
* * *
I’d been awake a while, squirming on my back, shielding my eyes from the sun, before I sat forward. I felt well rough. The cavalry soldiers next to us had been replaced by a quartet of hippies jamming with a guitar. The one bunked right up to me had blond scruffy dreadlocks matted together with red beads, and stank of sweat and whatever else hippies dowse themselves in to smell so bad.
A bottle of water appeared in front of me, courtesy of one of them. I thanked him and downed most of the bottle. At least they recognised a daytime hangover when they saw one. What I needed was a beer to take the edge off.
Amber pulled herself up using my knee and said she felt ill.
The hippies obliged with the water again.
I’ve got to say, apart from the prick that tried to tap Amber up, everyone we’d met at the festival had been spot-on. I’ve never known such warmness and generosity. They’d welcomed us so much that I now felt like one of them. Amber and I propped each other up and drifted off, people watching.
Four lads, wearing red shorts and painted silver from head to toe, were playing hand tennis against the monument. From what I could gather by the high-fives being dished out, to win a point the ball had to come back off the stairs and pass the opposing team. If the ball hit the top of a step or whatever on a serve and went skew-whiff, the point was played again. I watched them for ages, totally engrossed in the tight fought match.
When they stopped for a breather and sat up on the steps, I became agitated, not agitated, puzzled. What was I trying to work out here? Why was I still staring at the skinny lad after the game had finished? Why had I been rooting for him to win and not the others?
“I don’t believe it.”
Amber had been watching something else. “What’s up?”
“Check out the lads out playing tennis.”
“What about them?”
“You not notice anything strange about them?”
Amber studied them, then clasped a hand over her mouth.
“Jesus no! It can’t be!”
“It is. That there in all his glory is
our very own Cam Brazelle.”
“Eh? Eeee! Yeah! I never noticed him, I saw Gregg first. How fat?”
I was gobsmacked. The rugby player with the bouncing silver tits and love handles was Gregg! I swear I would never have sussed him if I sat there for a month!
When the game resumed we were glued, rolling over laughing as the two of them went at it, and they were going great guns, high –fiving and bumping bellies like true champs. When they huddled together to discuss tactics they looked like David and Goliath, two silver warriors using finesse and brute force to overcome the enemy. They were taking the game so seriously, it was hilarious, and we were right into it too, desperate for them to win.
There was another break in the action so we headed over, thanking the hippies as we left. They were sat on the steps in the shade.
Cam saw us and ran over, flinging his arms around Amber like he hadn’t seen her in years.
“Where the hell you been?” he said, grabbing me. “We’ve not moved from here. Where you been?”
Gregg came tumbling down the steps with his silver arms outstretched like a steel girder. After crushing us in a sweaty headlock and smothering us in kisses, he stepped back, arms outstretched again. “Fucking class, or what?”
“Class, or what?” Cam repeated, standing alongside him.
The last time I’d seen Gregg he was apprehensively following Cam, swearing blind that if any of the weirdoes came near him he’d do them properly – no questions asked.
Amber and I circled them, like we’d discovered a rare breed of animal in the outback. We’d seen some crazy sights here, but none more so than these two.
“What the hell?” Amber said, hands on hips.
This was probably Cam’s dream party, being able to be so open, within reason. But Gregg? Fuck’s sakes. I wanted to ask him how the change had come about.
How had Fat Tuesday loosened him up so much in a few hours? How had being here made him strip to a pair of red shorts and prance around with THAT body, and not give a shit? Amber wrapped her arms around my neck and kissed my cheeks and forehead and then lips, and I realised it wasn’t my place to ask that of anyone
.“Give them one, then,” Gregg said.
Cam jogged to the stairs and returned with a purple, green and gold haversack. He glanced over his shoulder, then brought out a tiny clear plastic bag. “Don’t be alarmed,” he said, all hands. “It’s tremendous gear. We’ve had one each and feel great.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“Harry Potters.”
“Harry Potters?”
“You never heard of Harry Potters?” Gregg said, taking a pill out of the bag. He reached for the water and necked it. “The best you can get. No side-effects.”
Amber took her shades off. “Yeah, but-what-are-they? If it’s anything like acid, you can count me out.”
“And me. It’ll be far too tricky here on acid and don’t forget we’re in hiding, gents.”
“It’s E,” Cam explained. “Totally mellow, everybody’s into it, look.” He opened the little bag and there were about twenty white tablets branded with a pair of glasses.
“What’s it like mixed with beer?” I asked.
Gregg gave us a reassuring hug and whispered, “Even better with beer.”
Cam said that the buzz was much more subtle compared to acid. A completely different high that gave you boundless energy and made you want to dance all night. I’d read once that a girl died taking E and that dehydration was a major factor in her body not being able to cope. Cam reckoned that they often laced the E with all sorts of shit, but these ones were pure – or close to.
He also said, with a wink, that E made you horny as fuck. My mind jumbled up at that point and a mixture of Amber and me in the tent was being rudely interrupted by flashes of Cam being horny as fuck with the cavalry soldiers and hippies. I shivered and had to stop thinking about being horny all together.
Gregg said it would take an hour to work, by which time they would have finished playing doubles and a parade was due to start.
Amber and I took one pill each and headed for the entrance to go see Teatime, arranging to meet at the monument in forty-five minutes.
* * *
Teatime had been waiting patiently by the tent door for us and he turned himself inside out when he saw us. We fed him, topped his water bowl up and sat with him for a while and laughed about those two playing tennis.
Amber confessed that she thought, but she wasn’t sure, and I wasn’t to say anything, that Cam might be gay. She had her suspicions before, but after seeing him here, she thought, but wasn’t sure, that he might swing both ways. I promised I wouldn’t say anything.
Gregg led the way along Riverside Road, passed St Michael’s Square and into the bottom end of Abbotsvale. The streets here seemed even narrower than at the top end and the temperature dropped significantly. The buildings were all terraces and constructed with grey and pink slate. The slate was about two inches thick and laid at such an angle it gave the impression that the buildings were leaning in over, closing out even more light.
The hike was all up hill and we stopped for a rest at the first crossroads.
The next street was darker again and a couple of prostitutes were leaning against a wall, smoking. One of them must have been in her late-fifties and was wearing a big gold belt pulled tight to hide her gut and push the wrinkled flesh up into her bra to pass as a pair of tits. After we passed, they went back inside.
The street was empty, save for a black man on the other side. He was wearing a fur body warmer and white wellies; it had to be the same one we saw on the flyover on the way in. When he saw us, he crossed over and we noticed he wasn’t wearing anything down below. I stepped onto the road, pulling Amber with me and focused on the ball of light ahead.
“Aye, aye,” Gregg said, as the bloke passed. “Did you see the size of his tool?”
Cam was on the road with us. “Obviously not on the E, is he?”
My face was burning up. I wasn’t sure if it was the beer sweating out, the uphill power walking, the E kicking in, or all three. I was on edge, hemmed in and short of breath. This part of town was for the lowlifes, a no-go area for the public. That’s why we hadn’t seen any police. Each doorway we passed I expected someone to jump out and approach us. It felt like the whole town was rocking apart from this one street.
Reaching the top, we stepped out into the sunlight and civilisation. I glanced back down and after the first few doorways I could only see shadows crossing the street.
We made our way towards the fountain and took refuge outside The Milestone pub. There were stalls set out in a horseshoe around one side of the fountain, and a few more behind in the small grassed park, selling everything from cakes and Indian head massages to Mardi Gras clothing and CDs.
Gregg went over to two girls sat at their stall. They were nude to the waist, painted green and wearing blonde wigs. For $20, they painted people silver, gold or green, or I guess a combination of the three. He bummed a light off one of them and as he did the girl yanked him towards her and they began necking furiously. When she’d finished devouring him, she slapped him on the backside and sent him back over.
“I swear to God,” he said. “I’ll never miss a Fat Tuesday – ever.”
The painted girls beckoned me over. I shook my head and pointed at Amber, but they were adamant. Amber and I walked over.
“Half price for you two lovers, seeing as it’s your first time.”
Was it that obvious? I checked myself out in the pub window: adidas trainers, washed-out jeans, Zorro mask pulled down onto my neck and a grubby white t-shirt – hardly outrageous. I sat down and they both went to work on me. When they had finished the top half, the cheekier of the girls started unbuttoning my jeans. I grabbed her hand. Fuck that, I wasn’t strolling around in shorts, not with my legs.
Amber was pacing next to me. “Go on! Get “em off!”
The girls joined in the chant, along with Gregg an
d Cam. I couldn’t believe Amber was being so brazen. I let go of the girl’s hand and screamed at Cam to go buy me some shorts.
The girls grabbed a leg each and I held on tight to my boxers, conscious of the shrivel I had on. The E could have kicked in, the drink, instant fear of my trousers being taken down by strangers, fuck knows, but it wasn’t happening downstairs.
This changed in an instant when the cheekier of the girls started painting the tops of my thighs. She hiked my boxers up and painted using her hands in a gentle massaging motion. When she’d finished, she leant forward to whisper in my left ear. I lowered my head, blocking Amber’s view of my right side. The girl slipped her hand inside my boxers, took a hold, and squeezed hard four times. After the last squeeze she gave it three slow pulls and one sharp, before standing up. “Now you have a good one, won’t you?” she said, smiling.
Amber was bouncing around, ecstatic at what I looked like, oblivious to the tent in my lap. The quieter of the girls steered me to the seat opposite, where I quickly leant forward, praying it would go down.
Amber was next up, all smiles, laughing with the girls, until they tried to take her vest off. “No, no, just the arms and legs, thanks.”
The cheeky girl sat back. “You’ve got to be out of your mind,” she said, then leaning forward and feeling Amber’s tits with both hands. “What I would give for these.”
Amber was rigid.
I jumped up. “Go on! Who gives a shit?”
Her eyes darted between the girls and me, and she lifted her arms up with a shriek. “I can’t believe I’m doing this!”
She looked petrified.
“Put your vest back on, honey,” the quieter of the girls said, when they’d finished. “That way you can flash for your beads.” She winked at Amber and launched her bra into a cheering crowd of St Trinian girls.
Amber and I thanked them, and walked a few steps towards Cam and Gregg and stopped. I had goosebumps round the back and side of my head and along my jawline. My heart was racing. I could hardly catch my breath. My face was tingling, down my neck and shoulder….
“You’re rushing,” Cam was saying, arm over my shoulders. “The best or what?”
