Dream Guy (9 page)

Smokey was a committed twenty-cigs-a-day man, although where he got a fiver or more for fags was anybody’s guess, which was another thing Joe didn’t want to get tangled up in. Smokey was hanging with people who were dealing in all sorts of stuff.

He’d offered Joe some fake perfume for Mum’s birthday, but since Joe had carefully saved up and knew exactly what he was going to get her, he’d passed on the offer of a knockoff that smelled to him like cat’s pee. It was only a matter of time before Smokey got really dodgy.

About three weeks into term, it had become obvious that Smokey was not taking school remotely seriously. They had been hanging about on the edge of the sports field at lunchtime, watching a five-a-side match. Smokey had run into the middle of the field, snaffled the ball and taken it all the way down to the opposite goal where he scored, then ran off the field with the ten players he’d ticked off streaming after him, hurling abuse in his general direction and threatening worse for later.

“Why do you get such a kick out of pissing people off?” Joe had asked.

“Why do you get such a kick out of being an arse-licker?”

Joe didn’t react. He just turned his back on Smokey and walked away. Later Smokey had sidled up to him and said, “No hard feelings, mate. Just having a laugh.” But Joe knew it wasn’t just a laugh. Smokey thought he was a stuck-up swot, and he thought Smokey was a total waste of space. But they masked their feelings and still made the same jokes they’d always made, hanging out more from force of habit than friendship. Once Joe had tried to ask what Smokey really wanted out of life. He’d given a glib answer.

“Packet of fags, nice evening down the boozer and a bit of tail now and again. Have you noticed Sharon Beasely’s knockers? Wouldn’t mind a bit of that.”

The thing that Joe didn’t understand was that Smokey came from just as bland a middle-class family as he did.

Smokey was the third of four kids. His dad ran his own print business and his mum was an accountant. They had a nice house, and they occasionally socialized with the Knightley parents. Smokey’s pointless and somewhat feeble impression of the Hard Man of Azalea Drive was a pose. It had certainly escaped the notice of most of their peers, including Charlie Meek, who had it in for Smokey as much as he did for Joe.

Still, Joe felt bad about lying to Smokey. He ought to make it up to him somehow. The ideal way would be a night on the town, wearing sharp suits, boozing, clubbing, picking up pretty girls, dancing and generally pretending to take part in a cheesy ad for an alcopop. Joe had no worries about creating such a night out. If he’d managed to dream a posse of Ottoman Empire geezers into his room and out again, he could certainly manage a night on the razzle.

Back home, Joe got all his homework out of the way.

Ben and Liesel were safely at dance class until seven p.m. Then he worked on a sketch for his father. Before long, Mrs. Knightley was calling up the stairs for Joe to come for a ride in his extraordinary prize. They were fully insured, the number plates had been delivered and as soon as she had screwed them into position, she was going to take the car for a spin.

It was glorious. Mum took the car gingerly down the road then onto the dual carriageway, heading for the airport. She went in a loop round a section of the motorway then home via the backstreets. The car growled and purred and crooned as they drove around, and it almost seemed disappointed to be heading back into the garage. The drive left Joe and his mother equally exhilarated.

“I’m surprised we haven’t seen Silas around here. Haven’t you told anyone at school about this?” Mrs. Knightley pulled the garage door down and double-checked the lock.

“Nah, not until we know whether we can keep it.”

“We’re keeping it, sweetheart. If they want to run tests, they can come here and run them. They can’t impound the car. I’ve checked.”

“You’re brilliant, Mum.”

She kissed Joe’s cheek as he brushed past her into the house. “Cheeky so and so. You’re only saying that because you’ve got exactly what you want. We’d be on much safer ground if you could find that lottery ticket, kiddo. In the meantime, I can wangle it so that possession is nine-tenths of the law.”

Liesel and Ben were waiting for their supper. Joe scarcely noticed what he was eating, eager to get back to his current drawing then to bed.

Once he’d switched the light off, he lay back and thought about what kind of night out Smokey would find memorable.

A fast car was essential. Flash suits, pretty girls, clubs. Things that teenagers thought about and grown-ups got to do—or at least expensive ads gave the impression that they got to do them. He imagined getting ready with Smokey for a night on the town. Smokey would wear aftershave—lots—and garish colors, a yellow shirt with a purple suit. Joe would look quieter—a black suit with a Nehru collar and a black shirt. Their wallets would be full. They’d have money to burn, maybe three or four hundred quid. They’d arrive at a club in a black limousine. As they got out, they’d be waved in past the queue of punters, then they’d be inside, and it would be sleek and smart, with girls who looked like models but with a bit more flesh on them.

And there they were. Smokey turned to Joe and clapped him on the shoulder.

“This is the business, mate.”

Joe smiled back, then Smokey swaggered up to the bar. “Red Bull and vodka please. Twice,” he shouted over the music.

Joe shook his head. “It’s okay, I’ll get my own. You go and find someone to chat up.”

Smokey threw himself into the crowd that was pulsating to the Chemical Brothers. Joe turned back and ordered himself some water. He caught glimpses of Smokey—an arm, a leg, a gyrating shoulder or the back of his head. He watched the other people. The music hurt his head, so he turned the volume down—not for the clubbers, just for himself, as though he were using an iPod that delivered silence instead of tracks. The dancers throbbed and punched the air, people swarmed about—upstairs, into dark crannies. Lights swirled and flashed, a smoke machine pumped out a mist in which Joe spotted hands groping for thighs or breasts, hips pumping together, feet tangling. A girl in a trance swayed by the side of the dance floor, her arms up, her eyes closed, defenseless and carried somewhere else by the beat.

Joe sipped his water and saw a man reaching into a handbag and extracting a mobile phone, which he pocketed. Then the thief moved on to another table and another, snaffling change, wallets, a stray earring. It seemed so obvious, but the people behind the bar were too busy to notice and the punters were lost in their world of rhythm and flirtation. The thing was, there were bouncers. They wouldn’t want the club to get the reputation of being a place where you got ripped off. Joe slipped from his barstool and headed to the corridor where more and more people were jammed in their effort to be seen at the right place.

He reached the door and the night air was a relief after the dense sweatiness of the actual club. He tapped a bouncer on the arm.

“Excuse me. There’s a guy in there cleaning out people’s bags and pockets.”

The bouncer turned to Joe, frowning, his eyes old. “What’s he look like?”

“Twenties, brown hair in a sort of quiff, big nose, dark suit, dark shirt, stringy red tie, black and white shoes.”

“If we pick him up, will you hang around long enough to identify him?”

It occurred to Joe that if this ended up in a police statement, he’d have some talking to do. Explaining what a fourteen year old had been doing getting into a club intended for over-eighteens, for starters. Explaining what he was doing in a club when he was meant to be safely in bed. Explaining where he’d gotten a pocket full of cash. But Joe shrugged and agreed to identify the guy. The bouncer summoned two other men with bald bullet heads, tuxedos and bow ties. They cleared their way down the corridor and back into the main club. They fanned out across the dance floor, looking out for the guy Joe had described.

One found him. The others took him in a pincer movement, hustled him out of the place and into a small back room. Then they called Joe. By the time he got into the office, they’d stripped the guy down and his haul for the night was on the table—three mobile phones, a couple of wallets, the single pearl-and-diamond earring, a lot of loose change and a fistful of notes. The man shrugged, as though he got caught quite regularly. But he watched Joe with chilly curiosity that made them all uneasy. A bouncer got Joe to write down his name and address then took him back into the main club. He led Joe to the bar.

“Get this guy a bottle of champagne on the house, will you?”

Smokey came up, each arm around the waist of a girl. One was dark, with heavy eyeliner and a full mouth and the other had auburn hair in a sleek French knot and wore a long, flowery skirt, a matching top and had a brown leather belt resting on her hips.

She was very pretty, but she shoved Smokey’s arm away as though his fingers stung. She was about to turn away in a strop when Joe held out a flute of champagne.

“I like your style,” said Smokey, reaching out for a glass. “This is my mate, Joe. Right, mate?” The Red Bull and vodka mix had gone straight to Smokey’s head, and he slurred his words. The dark-haired girl giggled as though he were Matt Lucas and David Walliams rolled into one. She was drunk or stoned or both. “This is Denise, isn’t it?” She nodded and held out her hand for a glass as well. Joe passed her his own. He hadn’t taken a drink from it, and they’d only given him three glasses, but he didn’t care.

“And this is Angela. That’s right, isn’t it? Angela.”

Angela with the auburn hair gave him a defensive grin that failed to reach her eyes. She swigged from the glass. “Denise, I’m out of here. Do you want to get a taxi with me or not?”

“Not. See you, Ange.”

“See you. Don’t do anything too stupid.” Her glance drifted to Smokey, her lip curled and her eyes hardened. She turned and left. Denise threw her arms around Smokey’s neck and nuzzled him. She whispered in his ear. Joe felt uncomfortable.

“I’m going home, Smokey. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Send the limo back, yeah?”

“Limo?” shrieked Denise. “You got a limo?”

Smokey nodded and she tightened her grip on him. Joe was not sure what would happen if he and Smokey separated, but he’d had enough of the nightclub. He didn’t want to drink. He was intimidated by the women and he felt uneasy about the way the thief had stared at him in the small office.

“If I can, I will. Have a good night.”

As Joe walked outside, he saw Angela waiting for a taxi. The limousine pulled up. The chauffeur opened the door. Angela stared in disbelief.

“Can we give you a lift?” Joe waited at the open door. She glanced at the chauffeur, a man with a grandfatherly face. Then she looked at Joe. He met her eyes, and she turned away first, then she climbed in. She huddled in the far corner of the car.

“Where to then?” asked the driver.

The girl leaned forward and gave the name of her street.

It wasn’t far from Joe’s home. The car rolled away, and she sat back, still tense. Joe started an idle conversation with her about how often she went clubbing, but she bit out monosyllabic answers so he left it. What was the point in trying to get to know a person he’d never see again? Soon enough they reached her front door. She gave a perfunctory thank you and rushed out of the car.

“Back home then?”

Joe nodded and found himself dozing off.

The next thing he knew, the alarm was ringing. He was back in bed, and it was morning. Dazed, he dressed, went downstairs, ate, left for school and met Smokey in the same place as yesterday.

Smokey looked absolutely shell-shocked.

“Did the limo make it back then?” Joe asked.

“I don’t know. She took me back to hers. It was weird. I was there, and we were snogging away, then I conked out and when I woke up, I was trying to snog my pillow at home.”

“Really?” Joe could just see his friend trying to make out with a pillow.

“Yeah, really, no suit, no dosh, no limo, no slapper in the bed next to me.”

“She
was
a slapper.”

“I know. She looked good in the club though. Good body, great arse.” Smokey cocked his head. “So what’s going on, Joe? How’d we get there? It was like a dream, going into some club and everyone treating us as if we were over eighteen.”

Joe hesitated. “I can’t really explain it.”

“I think you can. What I don’t get is why you did it. You hate discos and loud music and boozing. What was in it for you?”

“I wanted to see whether I could make it happen.”

“And you did, didn’t you? Just like the fish. I knew you made that happen, no matter what you said.”

Both boys were silent. Joe wasn’t comfortable with Smokey knowing about this. There’d be pressure. It had been stupid to give way to misplaced guilt and a desire to show off. Now that Smokey knew, there’d be requests and hassles, sure enough.

“I’ll tell you what. Next time we go out for a night on the town, at least let me get a little bit further. I want a bit more than a snog next time.”

“I thought you said you’d slept with Kelly Reynolds,” Joe commented.

Smokey mumbled and shuffled.

“What did you say?” Joe pressed.

“I didn’t think you’d ever ask me right out, and I knew you wouldn’t ask her. But as it happens, no, we…er…didn’t get that far.”

“She dumped you, didn’t she?”

“No need to go into details.” Smokey went on the offensive. “So how d’you do this stuff then?”

“I can’t really explain. It hasn’t happened that often yet. I’m still getting used to it. It’s basically when I fall asleep.”

“You could do anything. Win the lottery. Fly. Leap tall buildings in a single bound. How long has this been going on?”

“Not long, just a couple of days. I don’t know how it works yet. I told you. I’m still getting used to it.” The bell went, but Smokey wanted more information.