Friday Night Street, Ch12-18

PART THREE



12

By the time’s breakfast’s done, Pepsi’s decided I’m close enough to know her secret. She wants to go to the boozer first, though. Get an early pint in before the match starts. Turns out she’s a bleeding Chelsea supporter.

That was the least of my surprises about her, though. Over a lager top and a vodka red bull, she tells me she’s a floor-kissing Mecca- pecker.

         “I do a lot of fasting, and I’m doing it for something other than myself you see, so it’s not like dieting at all. Trouble with dieting is, you’re on a losing battle, cos the desire to eat and the desire to be thin just take turns getting the upper hand. My religion, though, that never gets subverted to whims of my own personal desires. That’s kind of what’s religion’s all about.”

         “But I thought Muslim birds had to wear scarves across their faces. And I’ve never heard of no wife of Islam out on the piss and getting porked up on a Friday night. That’s gotta give Mohammad a frown, surely.”

         “Look, I read the Koran, right? And I like what it says. It speaks to me, you know what I mean?”

         I didn’t, but I nodded anyway.

         “Now that doesn’t mean I have to believe that every word in it has been passed down exactly as the Prophet sang it, because it wasn’t written down by the Prophet, but only by others later on. At first, see, it was an oral tradition, pure and uncorrupted. Later, when it got written down, the religion had already been caught up in sectarianism and politics. Who knows how many quietly had a say in what went into it? Even though I believe Mohammad received the word of god, and mostly it’s as they tell it in the Koran, I know Mohammad didn’t write anything down. So who’s to say what was written down is what the Prophet was really told? Who’s to say that over all these years and all the translations, and all the interpretations, what I read in my £9.99 Penguin English edition is the true word of God?  The way I see it, I don’t have to buy into any parts of the religion that don’t make sense just cos some fucker says this or that in a book in Waterstones. I’ve studied it, you see, and I’ve studied it hard. I have my own interpretation; the rest is all bull till God tells me otherwise.”

         “Don’t you get shit from other Muslims, though?”

         “I would, but that’s why I keep it a secret. A muslim doesn’t need a mosque to connect with God and the rest of the faithful. You can do it anywhere.”

         “What do you mean, the rest of the faithful? I thought you said you had your own interpretation. Don’t tell me you got your own little sect going.”

         “No. I mean the rest of Islam. So long as you obey the fundamental precepts of the religion sincerely and truly, we’re all the faithful. Whether we know it or not.”

         “Doesn’t no-sex-before-marriage count as a fundamental precept, then?”

         “No. That’s just male patriarchal bullshit made up to ensure the blokes get a virgin. Not relevant to me or my relationship with God.”

         “Oh well, it’s all beyond me.” I said, though the truth was all this religious talk just bored the balls off me, though I still couldn’t quite square what she was telling me with what I knew about her.

         “Look at it this way,” she said. “Most Christians accept other people as Christians, don’t they, even though they might fundamentally disagree with, I dunno, say puffs being priests, right?”

         “I suppose so.”

         “And most Christians buy into parts of the bible they like, but not others, too. Jesus didn’t write anything down either. The bible was written centuries after he was dead. Then there’s Moses. See, not many Christians will tell you that Moses is a pretty rotten old fucker. In the bible he slaughters people and rapes their daughters.”

         “Fuck off. That’s not in the bible. I thought he parted the seas, or some shit, and led everyone out of Isreal.”

         “Yeah, but that’s not even the half of it. There’s a bit when Moses is addressing the Jewish army after a battle, and it goes ‘And Moses said unto them, Have ye saved all the women alive? Behold, for they have caused a plague among the congregation of the Lord. Now, kill every woman that hath known a man by lying with him, but all the women-children who have not known a man by lying with him, keep alive for yourselves.’ Sounds pretty fucking rotten to me, but you won’t here many reverends quoting this from the pulpit. That’s what fucks me off about all these critics of Islam. They’re always going on how we’re a religion of the sword and shit. You should read the fucking bible if you want to see real blood and guts.”

         Well, I’m not about to get into an argument about religion with someone who can quote shit straight like a preacher.

“You should have met Alicia’s brother. You two could have yabbered on all day.”

         “You say it likes he’s dead or something.”

         “He is,” I tell her, and that’s when she wants to hear the rest of my story.

         





13



“All this honour and loyalty shit, but what Johnny doesn’t know is precious little Alicia is up to no good,” Dickie was telling Bald Graham as he pressed the keys on the phone.

Dickie had heard stories, but he needed to get the facts straight if he was going to use this as his cover. It could work a treat. On the one hand, he could tell me he’d spent the night watching my back, checking out stories that my bird was cheating on me. On the other, he avoided the potential problem of being in the know and keeping quiet if I found out from someone else.

“Alicia, sweetheart,” he begins when she picks up the phone, “Dickie da Dickie calling for your fine self. How ya doing, darling?” He knows she doesn’t have much time for him, but that just encourages him to act even more like they are best friends.

“He’s not here,” she says without preamble.

“Yeah, I know darling, I wasn’t looking for the big fella. Actually, it was you I wanted.”

“Oh? What for?” Her tone is flat and impatient.

“Well, I better not answer that or I’ll be getting meself in trouble, won’t I?” Dickie laughed down the phone, a little unconvincingly. There was no reply, so he went on.

“Anyway, point is dearie, I’ve been worrying about me Johnny fella on account of some stories I’ve been hearing about what I’d otherwise assume was your very good self.”

“What stories?” She was still trying to sound flat and uninterested, but it came back a bit quick. Dickie thought he detected tension in the way she said it.

“Well, look at it this way. I know you’re a good girl, but I’ve got people coming to me with all sorts of bad, and I’m looking out for the rep of me man. So you see I need to be putting things straight for these people. Do you see where I’m coming from?”

“I don’t see anything. I’m not interested in your little boys club and what tales you tell each other while pretending to be men. Do you know what time it is?”

“Is Scratch there?” Dickie asked suddenly, taking a gamble. There was a good long pause, and he knew he’d got her.

“What?” she finally said. The shake in her voice was audible.

“You see, bitch, the big boy might be blinded by love or just dumb fucking loyalty, who knows, but I’m from the real world. I know all about you, so you better come clean and tell me how it is from your end, or else I’ll likely assume something even worse when I put the case to your fella. Now, how’s it going to be?”

“You don’t know shit.”

“Well, we’ll see what I don’t know when I pay little Scratchy a visit and put his balls in an iron vice and pour petrol over his head. Great cure for dandruff, I hear. And all that’s before Johnny gets hold of him, darling. Now, tell me again what I don’t know.”

Dickie looked over at Bald Graham, who was looking up at the ceiling and giving out silent guffaws. He wasn’t paying attention, though. Dickie threw an empty can at him. “Turn on the answerphone”, he mouthed silently, gesturing to the base unit on the bedside table.





Alicia had known for a long time that Scratch was what she wanted. He was a bit out of control and always whingeing about his debts, but the raw material was there. He had a brain, and a job and was definitely top of the league where looks were concerned. A bit too much drunken flirting in the pub one night, and he’d taken her aside when I’d disappeared for a slash.

“Look, it’s not like I don’t fancy you, but you’re with Johnny. He’s a mate.”

She knew then that she could get him. She had all the physical assets to tempt someone like Scratch. She could see it in the way his eyes hovered around her face, and then made darting raids down her top whenever he thought she wasn’t looking. His little speech was aimed at convincing himself, not her.

Easy, for sure. She also knew that losing me was a simple enough task. A bit too much nagging, a bit of pushing here, a bit of shouting there; get my back up on something fundamental and I’d have no choice but to walk. None of that was the problem.

The problem was that she figured I wouldn’t just sit back and let Scratch pick up where I’d left off. She knew fine well that your mates don’t go out with your ex. People like me can’t stand for that, and Scratch wouldn’t stand up to me. Therefore, if Alicia wanted Scratch, something would have to be done.

And that would take time, which raised another problem. She couldn’t take the risk of someone moving in on Scratch. Now that she’d decided to have him, this threat seemed imminent and inevitable, even though he’d never had a steady girlfriend in all the time she’d known him. The answer was to hook him in first, and deal with the problem of me later. She knew then that this ran the risk of someone finding out, of me finding out, and of the whole thing turning into an ugly, messy disaster. Still, now that everything was nearly sorted, she couldn’t believe this prick Dickie was going to blow it all up in her face at the last minute. Just one more night was all she had needed.

Right, she told herself. Get yourself together. One thing at a time. She needed to know what Michael had done with me after going to the nick before she could deal with this. As usual, his cryptic text was high on style and low on content. That meant she needed to stall prickface on the phone.

“Look, you want the truth?”

“Sure sweetheart, tell me how it is.”

She sighed, confidingly. “OK, come over. I’m not telling this story down the phone. You’ve got to hear my side of it. I could do with someone to talk to about all this anyway. Just you and me, yeah?” she said softly, “and bring us something to drink.”



In one way, it hadn’t gone the way Dickie had hoped; in another way, it had resulted in an unexpected possibility. The vague suggestion that he might get to put one in Alicia’s pants was stirring up his hormones; the timing, though, was lousy.

“Scrub that shit off the answerphone,” he told Bald Graham.

“What for? That’s what you wanted wasn’t it?” He was getting tired of the waiting. He wanted to get on with the job.

“We haven’t got time for a drivelling sob-story, mate. Besides, chances are he’ll turn up there, then everything’s for nothing.”

Bald Graham had a point.

“Look at it this way, if he turns up I get in and out quick while they have a barney or make it up, either way Johnny won’t want to know where I’m going. If he doesn’t turn up, I’ll give her half an hour to spin her yarn then make an excuse to get out. You call me, yeah?”

Privately, Dickie had it figured slightly differently. He’d go in. Let her start talking, then quickly move onto the proposition that she give him a quick one to keep his mouth shut. It would have sounded unlikely an hour ago, but what with her confession that she’d been putting it about, plus the implication of inviting him over for a chat with alcohol, all added up to an open and shut case in his speed-driven mind. “It’s in her interests to keep me quiet, and what better way to guarantee it?” he told himself. It was a water-tight argument. The half-formed thought that this didn’t solve his original problem concerning me and his whereabouts for the evening was pushed aside. Things had moved on since then.

“Get the stuff. Take me on the bike and wait outside. Half an hour tops, then we do the job.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” complained Bald Graham, “do we have to?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He knew better than to argue with Dickie.

“Sex and armed robbery, what a great night this was going to be”, Dickie thought to himself happily. There was a knock on the door, and he tucked the old pistol inside his jacket. Flashing images of being caught with his pants down at Alicia’s interrupted his idea of the perfect adventure as he opened the door to Junior and Brian.







14



When Natalie told Alicia she was going on holiday for a couple of weeks, she knew this was the opportunity she’d been waiting for. At first, she thought she might just tip off the Old Bill, but Natalie said something that gave her a better idea.

“These fucking men,” she’d complained drunkenly one night, “we should pack ‘em all off to sea and never see the bastards again.” Natalie was a bit of a man-hater, but Alicia didn’t have her down as a dike. Just past it and frustrated with what she’d ended up with.

“You know, this guy I’m seeing, he keeps saying how we could disappear together on a bloody container ship – that’s romantic isn’t it? – and no-one would ever know. Arsehole.” She stated emphatically, downing another Sambuka.

They’d met in the pub. Alicia had ID’d her on a busy Saturday night.

“I’m bloody over thirty, love!” she’d laughed back at her. “I’m buying you drinks all night, darling.”

The idea came to her in stages. Scratch could drop the information to me that a house round the corner was empty; Natalie pointed out her boyfriend was always ranting against all kinds of injustices but was basically a weak, frightened little boy looking for revenge against the world.

“Keep him in the dark. He’s got to think the burglary is real. Then it’ll be easy to get him and your husband on board. Make ‘em think it’s all their idea.”

She wasn’t sure what Natalie wanted out of this, except revenge against men in general and a bit of excitement in particular, but she seemed committed enough.

“Damn right” she said, taking the next Sambuka. Natalie knew she could manipulate those two blindfolded.

“You’ll have to keep the boyfriend away from the nick. If Johnny spots him, it’s all over.”

“So what’s he look like, this fella of yours?” asked Natalie.

She must have known I’d insist on walking home, but she had to make sure there was no mix up. That’s where Michael came in. He’d never know he’d been used. She gave Natalie the registration number of Michael’s car.

“Look for the motor and you’ll find my brother. The big guy he comes out with. That’ll be Johnny. Don’t worry, he won’t get in the car, he’s got this annoying habit of walking everywhere.”

“You sure he’ll get into trouble though? What if he just has a quiet drink and goes home?”

Alicia smiled. “Don’t worry darling. I know how to put him in a fighting mood.” All she needed was a patsy to set him off.

“That big Irish idiot that’s always in here bothering Debbie.” Natalie suggested, nodding her head at the other barmaid. It took some time convincing Debbie to take Paddy out on a promise, but they sweetened it with notes and the guarantee that he’d have his amorous intentions knocked the hell out of him.

Still, that only led to Natalie’s increasing worry about how she and her weedy boyfriend were supposed to overpower me.

“What if he doesn’t get in the car? You said he always walks.”

She told her how to do it. “He’ll get in because you’re not offering to take him anywhere.” she’d said, “Use his pride and a can of Mace, you’ll be fine.”

Alicia insisted they made an attempt to get Dickie, too. She knew that part of the plan was hare-brained, but the others were so out of their league they were clueless. All Alicia was interested in was that they tried. If it all went wrong, it had to look like it was all about the robbery. At least that would give them some sort of defence.





It was obvious now that they’d fucked up getting Dickie. What she didn’t know was whether they’d got me or not. She resisted the temptation to call Natalie. She didn’t want there to be any evidence she was involved. On the other hand, she reasoned that if I was in the bag, she could give them Dickie for free. She loathed the creep.

Of course, Scratch wasn’t happy. “Don’t be dumb. One, he’s harder than me; and two, even if I clobber him, he’ll know it was you that set him up.”

“Men,” she thought, “how did they ever get to be in charge?”

“Look, sweetie, once his pants are down he won’t me able to do much. Secondly, there’s no reason why he has to wake up at all, is there? Blackmailing little shit.”

Scratch had never been comfortable with the whole escapade to start with, but then he’d not been asked to do much. Now, it was getting out of hand.

“Alicia, are you talking about killing him?”

“Yeah, and he was talking about pouring petrol on your head and putting a match to it; as we speak he’s on his way round here to shag your girlfriend. What exactly is your problem?”

“What do you expect me to do?”

She told him. It was easy. Minimal input, she said.

“Leave all the guilt and worrying to me,” she cooed.

It was like manipulating a child, she sighed to herself. The tit wank helped, of course, though ‘intoxicated by breasts’ wouldn’t stand up as much of a defence for him in court, Alicia mused to herself.



CHAPTER 15



“I need to know where Johnny is” Alicia had sounded worried on the phone.

“Do you know anyone at 19 C______  Street?” Michael asked her.

“No. Why? What’s that got to do with anything?”

“I’m not sure”, he told her, “but it has something to do with Johnny. He’s probably just gone home”, he suggesged, but she said she’d already rang and there was no answer. “In bed?” Michael offered.

He said he’d go and check the Subway place, even though it had been hours since he’d seen him there, but really he wanted to talk to Stuart. He wanted to know what was going on.

The forecourt was empty when he got back to the garage, but for some reason he decided to leave the car on the street and walk over to the shop. Stuart was counting crisp packets in the middle aisle.

“Can we talk?”

Stuart shrugged to show he didn’t care, but privately the speed made him welcome the distraction. Without a word, he led Michael into a small storeroom.

“What can I do for you?” He had such a natural aura of sexual provocation, Michael wondered if the boy was even aware of it himself. Automatically, Michael stepped towards the boy and kissed him on the lips.

“Not here.”

“Where, then?” Michael said petulantly, sensing another tease.

“Follow me.”

They walked back into the shop area and through to the lavatories.

“Oh, classic.”

“It’s up to you,” Stuart replied, indicating he was in no mood to be apologetic.

“When in Rome,” Michael said to himself affectedly, and locked the door behind them.





Stuart told Michael to stay in the toilet. He said he didn’t want any customers to see them coming out together.

“I’ll come and get you once I’ve checked it’s clear.”

“Right, no hurry.” He wanted some time to clean himself up in privacy.

The cubicle was a large single unit bathroom. A sink, a urinal and the toilet each took a wall clockwise from the door. He locked the door after Stuart went out, and sat on the toilet, his head in his hands.

“This is not what I’m here for,” he said aloud. He’d forgotten about the intrigue that had brought him back to the garage, and was thinking more of his general disappointment at finding himself having illicit and perfunctory sex in a toilet at the age of forty. “God, when am I going to get a life?” he asked himself.

The act itself had been minimally satisfying, despite that fact they were at it for what seemed like an age. The drugs stopped either of them coming in a hurry. Michael was starting to feel numb and a little bored when the boy’s quickening grunts suddenly raised his own pulse enough to see the job through. Still, he could have got just as much pleasure from masturbating. It wasn’t climaxing itself that led him to go through the motions. The ‘thrill of the chase’ was a major part of it, for sure. Later, he’d relive in his mind those nervous, exciting moments leading up to Stuart’s conquest, though he couldn’t summon them now in the immediate aftermath of coitus. But that wasn’t the only thing that propelled him into these situations; it was also the pleasure of recounting his adventures afterwards. Most of Michael’s friends had something he didn’t: relationships. They could always rely on him to entertain them at dinner parties with tales of his exploits. Now he had a new adventure to tell them about, and something about the prospect of the telling made it all the more exciting for him; he would be able to narrate the events of the night in a way far more exciting than they actually were to experience. He couldn’t help admitting that the thought of a new adventure to add to his collection of tales had crossed his mind more than once on the drive back to the garage.

His eyes were fixed on the ‘American Standard’ logo on the urinal as these habitual thoughts cycled through his mind. He’d been here before, so many times. He tried to accept that there was nothing unnatural about his actions or feelings: that he was just following the stimulus-response of attraction and desire. Even if the experience itself had not been earth-shattering, it would have its rewards, and when he looked back on his life from a ripe old age, he might just remember this adventure as one of the things he was glad to have done. Better that, than to have lived out a boring, conventional life like everyone else.

And yet the truth and neat logic of it all didn’t stop him feeling disconsolate; didn’t stop him envying his friends’ stable relationships and less adventurous lives. The consoling idea that he was acting in accordance with bodily drives didn’t sit well with his belief in self-determination and an autonomous will. As he considered the practicality of washing himself off in the toilet, the utterly other-worldly thought occurred to him of whether these anxieties were supposed to be answered by his faith, or if his faith was just another contradiction he had to live with.

Looking around, he saw that the only way to clean up was to completely undress, use the handsoap, and then scoop water from the basin over his groin. Since there was no towel, he’d have to sit and wait for himself to dry before putting his trousers back on. What a farce. As he washed, he made a mental note to include in his dinner-party account a joke about how public lavatories were just so inadequately designed for sanitation.

He remembered then that he had come here, at least ostensibly, to find out what Stuart knew about the men at the party, the yellow Vauxhall and Johnny Wilde. It’d been a long time since Stuart had gone outside to see if the coast was clear, but no knock had come. He finally decided to pull up his trousers. A loud bang rattled the lavatory door just as he stood up, making him fall back down onto the toilet seat.





16



Bald Graham waited first half an hour, and then forty-five minutes. He’d tried calling, but Dickie wasn’t picking up.

He was sitting on the bike in the street in the dead of night, with a loaded shotgun tucked in his jacket pocket. His arse was numb and he was bloody cold.

“This is fucking ridiculous,” he said aloud. He’d have to go in and get Dickie.

He rang the bell and waited. He wondered whether he should just kick the door in. What was Dickie playing at? This job had been top priority for months. What was he buggering about now for?

“Fuck me”, Bald Graham said in astonishment, as the door finally opened.

Alicia stood in front of him, wearing nothing but an electric blue G-string and a matching push-up bra. She had enormous tits, Bald Graham noted appreciatively.

She didn’t say anything in reply to his comment, but took his hand and led him into the living room.

“What’s going on, darling?” he said, staring at her arse till she stopped in the middle of the room and turned around. He couldn’t decide which was better, her tits, her arse, or her face. She was all-over quality.

“Where’s Dickie?” he said, making a pretence of looking around, but really just wanting to give his eyes a breather before taking in another fill of her.

“Sleeping,” she said, coquettishly.

Fucking hell, thought Graham. He’s only gone and shagged this bird, and now he’s sleeping it off! She might have been fit, but how could he just forget about the job just like that? What a twat.

“I wanted to have a party,” she said, acting-up like a spoiled schoolgirl. She walked up to him and pushed her tits in his stomach.

“Jesus. What a tart,” thought Bald Graham. He knew it was all laid on, but that didn’t stop him getting a hard-on. She turned around and pushed her arse into him, then took both his hands and put them on her tits. He started to squeeze and fondle them while she arched her back and undid his belt.

“Do you want to help me party?” she said, still using the schoolgirl voice. She walked away from him and bent over the sofa, sticking her smooth round arse out invitingly and smiling at him over her shoulder.

“Fuck me,” Bald Graham said again, even more astonished. He was out of his boots and trousers faster than a fireman down a pole.

Bald Graham almost ran at her. He had his knob ready in one hand as he hooked a finger under her G-string to move it aside. Then he heard the hammer being cocked behind him.

He turned round expecting to see Dickie. He surely wasn’t going to begrudge him having a go after he’d already given her one, was he?

“Who the fuck are you?” Bald Graham asked in surprise. “And what are you doing with Dickie’s gun?”

“He’s sleeping.” Scratch said, his voice shaking. He could feel his hand about to start doing the same.

“Sleeping! Fucking hell. I’ve had enough of this. I don’t know what he’s doing sleeping, but I’ve got a job to do.” He started pulling his pants and boots on. “I’ve been waiting for this for months, and I’ve been farting about all night while he ducks and dives. If he wants to sleep that’s up to him, but there’s at least twenty grand sitting waiting for me in an all-night garage. Now look, pal. If you can point that thing at me, you can just as easily point it at someone else. You want in or not?”

Scratch and Alicia looked blankly at each other.

“Sorry darling,” Bald Graham said, misreading it completely, “perhaps another time.”

Dumb fucker, she thought incredulously. Still, the flattery caused her to give him an instinctive smile. Having seen the size of him, she was half regretting that Scratch hadn’t come in just a minute or two later.

“You want in, pal, or not? I haven’t got all night.”

“Twenty grand, you said?”

“Each.” Bald Graham exaggerated. He needed a partner.

“Fucking right, I’m in.” Scratch saw the opportunity to pay off a few debts with that, not to mention buy a lot of coke. It also got him out of Alicia’s house.

“Right, then, get that bash hat on, and borrow Dickie’s leather. You tell him he’s missed the party, love”, he said to Alicia, pausing long enough to take in a last long look at her. He shook his head in admiration, causing her to smile again.

He smiled back and they exchanged a look. It wasn’t lost on Scratch, who glared at her as he followed Bald Graham out of the door.





After they went out, Alicia went into the kitchen where Dickie was. She’d had to take her clothes off because they were covered in his blood and vomit. She’d brought him into the kitchen, and let him lift her up onto the unit. She’d wrapped her thighs round him as tight as she could and pushed his head in her tits. He didn’t get it until he heard someone running up fast from behind. She had him so tight he couldn’t even move to see who was coming, but he must have heard the yell as Scratch plunged the big kitchen knife into his back. He fell and took her with him onto the floor. He was spewing down her top and mini-skirt as she pulled herself out from underneath. Scratch just stood there, wide-eyed and panting.

“Now what?” he said. “What are we going to do with the body?”

Then they both noticed the gun that had dropped out of his pocket as he’d fallen.

“He came to fucking kill me!” Alicia exclaimed.

A mobile phone started ringing underneath the body, and Scratch threw up in the sink. After a while, someone rang the door bell.





Alicia hadn’t had time to think this through. She had some vague idea his body could get thrown on the container ship Natalie kept talking about. Or hid in their lock-up. Or chucked in the canal. She didn’t care really, but now the adrenaline had worn off, she just wanted it out. She wanted it cleaned up and put behind her.

It was then she realised there was no one left to help her. She would have to do it herself.

Evidence, she thought. Get rid of the evidence. She’d brought him into the kitchen because of the tiled floor. She knew it was going to be messy, but she hadn’t expected him to throw up all over her clothes. They’d have to go. Clean the floor she could do. But what about the body? She couldn’t figure what to do with the loathsome lump sprawled in front of her, or how she was going to move it.

She realised then that staring at it wasn’t helping; in fact, it was stopping her from thinking. She stepped over the body to close the kitchen blinds, wondering why she hadn’t thought about that before. Then she turned off the light and shut the door behind her, settling down to a fag on the sofa in the living room.

He could lie in there until tomorrow, she thought to herself, so long as Johnny didn’t come round. If that happened, she’d have to keep him out of the kitchen. Bloody Johnny. She had half a mind to go back in the kitchen and get the knife out of Dickie’s body. If Johnny came round she’d stick the bloody thing in him herself. This was all his doing anyway. If he wasn’t such an arse she could have just dumped him like any other boyfriend and got on with her life.

Still, she abandoned the idea of getting the knife. She didn’t want to go back in there. She didn’t want to see all that blood and vomit. She didn’t want to pull the knife out of his back and have to clean it.

She sat motionless in the living room, chain smoking in her push-up bra and G-string, wondering if she could sit in the house alone with a dead body in her kitchen till Scratch came home.  Then she remembered she wasn’t wearing any clothes, and decided the best thing she could do to make herself feel better was go upstairs and get dressed.





17



“What the fuck are you doing here?”

To my surprise, it’s Shotgun that says it. How the hell does he know Alicia’s brother? He casts a glance down at one of the counter boys and mutters something to himself.

“I was just looking for Johnny, actually,” he says sort of nervously, gesturing to me.

“Enough, enough! Get down on your fucking knees!” Scratch’s shouting at me hysterically. He strides right up to me and puts the gun to my forehead.

“Go on, get down!”

I’m not moving, not for Scratch. Shotgun’s just standing there, looking uncertain.

“Johnny? What, Johnny Wilde? That’s you is it?” I can see a half-smile through his bash hat visor. My eyes flick between him and Scratch, who seems to have completely lost it.

“I swear I’ll fucking shoot you. I’ve stabbed your mate, shagged your bird, shot that cunt lying there, and now I’m robbing a fucking garage, and some fucker’s coming out of the toilet like it’s a bloody train station. Don’t believe for one second I won’t shoot you, Johnny. I’ve had a bastard ’nuff. It wasn’t meant to be like this. It just went off.”

He’s looking at Brian, so I suppose he’s talking about the relic in his hand, but he could have meant everything.

My head’s still trying to take it all in when I notice an ape-like look of dawning consciousness spreading across Shotgun’s stupid face.

“Hang on. What do you mean you’ve stabbed his mate? You talking about Dickie? You told me he was sleeping?”

“Are you talking about my sister?” Alicia’s brother adds in.

I’m waiting for Scratch to take his eyes off me so I can hit him, but he seems transfixed by fear or confusion, I’m not sure what. He doesn’t answer Shotgun or the other one, he just keeps staring at me.

“What are you talking about Scratch?” I say to him quietly.

“You dumb twat. Me and Alicia, we killed Dickie, he was going to tell you everything. And Alicia, she planned for these lot,” he looks down at the dying Brian, “to kidnap you.”

I’m trying to force evidence and reason into a coherent view of things, but while my mind’s chugging along like a child’s toy in need of a new battery, Shotgun’s moving towards Scratch and shouting like he’s having a bout of Tourette’s.

“You killed Dickie? You were gonna kill me, you and that bird? Is that it? You motherfucking bastard, fuckshit cunting…wanker.”

Then there’s an even louder bang than before, not three feet away from me. I watch as the blast throws Scratch’s body to the ground, the ancient pistol tumbling out of his hand and across the floor. I turn back to Shotgun, only to see the side of his motorbike helmet sprout a small hole, and a whole load of blood explodes against the inside of his visor. He drops like a stone. I think it’s all over, until I notice spider cracks running through the shopfront window from the hole left by the marksman’s bullet. Like the curtain coming down after the last act of a theatre show, the whole sheet of plate glass falls to the floor with an almighty crash.





18



Brian’s dead. He bled to death on the shop floor while we were waiting for the paramedics.

“One thing I’d like to know,” he says to me in the still moments before night finally dawns into day.

The filth are everywhere. Radios are crackling and bobbies are ID-ing everyone as we sit huddled around Brian and the magazine rack.

“Why did you want to rob my house? I’d never done anything to you.”

I shrugged. “I needed some cash. Would you rather I’d robbed someone else?”

“Why rob anyone? Why do you think you’ve got a right to take things from other people?”

“You took money from my old dear, quick enough. What did you ever give her in return?”

“Insurance,” he said.

“She never needed it.”

“That’s not the point. It’s a promise. If she’d have been unlucky, if someone like you had picked on her house, she would have been able to claim something back.”

“So what you complaining about, then? Don’t people like you need people like me? No robbers, no need for insurance.”

“That’s the way the world is, fair enough. But it doesn’t answer why you do what you do. Are you saying you wouldn’t rob people if they weren’t insured?”

“I chose you because you were insured.”

“But I bet it wasn’t your first time, was it?” He pauses for breath and an answer, but I don’t give him one. He takes it as a yes. “And did you know the others had insurance?”

“Look. The answer’s no, if the truth be told, but I never claimed to be no Robin bleedin’ Hood. Sometimes you just do stuff without thinking about it. Maybe in retrospect it doesn’t fit in with who you are, or what you think you’re about.”

And maybe sometimes you don’t realise the truth of something till it comes, thoughtlessly, straight out of your own mouth.

“You still haven’t answered my question. Why do you think you have the right to take stuff that isn’t yours?”

The truth was because I had no respect for people who slaved their lives away in shitty jobs just to buy plastic and metal toys to make themselves feel like life’s got a point. I didn’t value the crap they wasted their money on, and I didn’t see why they should value it either. I didn’t rob people because I wanted things or status, I just needed money to buy some gear, or get hammered or do whatever to pass the time away.

Still, what with everything that had happened, and seeing those two idiots sticking up the garage in particular, it had all got me to thinking there wasn’t much difference between them and me. Any of them. And I didn’t like that idea at all. Petty criminals treading on people for their own ends. That’s all they were; that’s all I was. But I’m more than that, on the inside. I always have been.



It turns out there’s only five grand in cash in Shotgun’s pocket from the takings. Most people pay by plastic these days anyway; you’d have thought Scratch of all people would have known that. I can’t see why he’d bother getting involved in a caper like this anyway, save for the excitement of it. I never had him down for this sort of thing; or for doing the dirty on me with Alicia, but that’s by-the-by in the light of all that’s happened. The body count in the garage is three. If what Scratch said is true about Dickie, four of them have lost their dumb lives for a bit of a thrill and a few quid.

The plod see us to the General Infirmary for a check-up. I’m wondering where Alicia is. I need to have words with her as soon as, but it doesn’t take long for the uniforms to start asking questions while we’re waiting to see the doctors. I keep telling them I’m fine and I’ve got nothing to say, but you know it’s never that easy with those knuckleheads. They always have to fill out their forms, check their records, make it all fit into their two-dimensional world of record-keeping, and do it all in as slow a manner as possible, as if that will somehow make the bullshit you give them any more useful.

Alicia’s brother is looking a bit worse for wear, but he’s worried about his sister most of all. He can’t get his head round any of it.

“I’m sure what that boy said is untrue,” he says to me. “I don’t believe Alicia would cheat on you, or is capable of any of this. She’s been worried about you all night.”

Unfortunately for him, Natalie had spilled all the details. Well, she just let it all pour out of her in an incoherent rant from the time the paramedics made it clear Brian was dead. She could hardly stop talking until the nurses at the hospital took her away and sedated her. I suppose Alicia’s brother had missed most of it, or not understood what she was talking about, or was just in plain denial. It didn’t matter. I could feel something of what he was going through: he needed to talk to the one he trusted most, the only one who could tell him whether the rest of the world was lying, or that his sister was in fact a person he hardly knew. A person I hardly knew, too.

When the plod finally dispensed with us, me and him caught a taxi to Alicia’s. It was nearly seven in the morning by now, and I barely had time for this before the funeral.

He’s ringing the bell on her front door, while I wait at the end of the garden path. I’ve no idea what I want from this, or even if I want it. In the taxi, he’d said something about it all had to make sense somehow. I think that’s where me and him fundamentally differ. I know this kind of sense is something you make up, something you choose to believe – like stories about supernatural fathers in the sky or the importance of climbing ‘a career ladder’ – just to give your mind a rest from asking ceaseless questions.

I lose patience with his futile efforts. I march up to the door and put the boot in.

Inside, the kitchen door is closed, which it never is. I push it open and see Dickie lying there. I close the door and go into the living room. Nothing. Alicia’s brother comes running down the stairs.

“She’s not here,” he says. There’s the sound of hope or something in his voice, like he thinks her absence might be due to something or someone that could explain away the nasty things he doesn’t want to be true.

“That young lad, the insurance boy, he said something about Portsmouth. We could get my car.”

I look at him and wonder why he’s talking to me like this, like he needs my permission, or maybe he just wants me to go with him. Either was odd. She was his family, not mine, after all.

“You do what you have to do. I’ve got a funeral to go to.”



--Friday Night Street continues in the next instalment...--