In Loco Parentis (18 page)

When I get close I notice the goose-bumps and guess that vanity won out over warmth.

“Thought you were in Preston,” she says with her hands on her hips and using her best sarcastic voice.

“Change of plan.”

I get a whiff of her perfume. It's the perfect antidote to the hangover. I imagine sex and a sleep. Perfect.

Her nose wrinkles. Her eyebrows look stained with red from a fresh-plucking. “You smell like a litter tray.”

‘Should try a French kiss then,' I think. ‘Then you'll know about the bottom of a hamster cage smells.' Instead of speaking, I look at myself from the toes up. The stain at the bottom of my trousers could be anything brown. Cat shit, most likely.

“I came round to leave you a surprise,” she says. “Instead I got Wolf in yesterday's boxers. Not a pretty sight.”

I don't mention the state of my own.

She goes back to the car. Picks out an envelope and opens it as she comes back. As she gets close, she swings her arm like she's throwing a punch and I see stars, literally. Silver stars and moons rain down on me, fall down the back on my jumper, cover my hair and the ground. “There's your fucking surprise.”

She thrusts the envelope into my hand and turns away.

“To think I'm selling my house and leaving my fucking husband for this,” she shouts over her shoulder.

The blokes chatting outside Bumblebee's aren't even trying not to laugh. I join them just to hide my embarrassment.

I no longer feel like having a breakfast cooked for me or being out in public in these clothes.

The Fiat's engine roars. It screeches to the junction. The tyres squeal as it screws round the corner. The girl in the strawberry dress doesn't bother to look back.

I open the envelope. Pull out a card. There's a picture of the back of a man's head, his hair shaved into the shape of a heart then painted blue.

Inside it says ‘Don't worry honey. Nearly there. I love you and you have a VCW (pto)*.' It was the registration of my missing Nissan.

I follow the instruction. Go to the back of the card. Big letters this time, “a VERY CUTE WILLY xxxxxxx.'

My VCW twitches. Grows a little bigger. All it needs is sex and a sleep.

I cross over the road and enter the fish and chip shop.

Capaldi's

“All right Joe,” Mr Capaldi says. “Any hot tips?” The thick scar across his face and the size of his hands mean there's never any trouble at his place.

“Nothing today.”

“So what can I get you?”

“Cod and chips twice, mushy peas, curry sauce, bottle of Lucozade and a battered sausage.”

Mr Capaldi nods. Shakes up the chips in the fryer and removes one for testing. He bites into it. “Two minutes,” he says, thick Italian making him sound like the gangster he probably is. “Got a hot one for you.”

He writes something on one of his chip papers as he wraps lunch and winks.

A couple of Gooners come in, red and white scarves, football shirts and Arsenal caps.

“All right, boys,” Mr Capaldi says. “Easy home win today. 3-1 the boys.”

tips

At home I unwrap our lunch. Read Mr Capaldi's scrawl.

‘2:30 Ascot – Bananarama. 3:10 Uttox – If You See Me.'

“How much cash you got on you Wolf?” Emma was right about him and yesterday's boxers.

He's having a good scratch as he comes in, one hand on top the other down below.

I think about the 3-1 score-line prediction. Three singles, three doubles and a treble, I reckon.

Wolf points at the chip wrapper with the hand that's just been inside his pants.

“20-1 that one,” he says.

“Then we better get our money on quick.”

R-A-M-O-N-E-S

If Mr Capaldi had been able to buy-off the Arsenal football team, I might have been able to give up work.

Instead, a big win double and a couple of singles and we're out celebrating in the best way we could find.

First it was down to Camden to procure a few E's and sink a couple of beers at the Bull And Gate.

Took the tube to Brixton and planned on an evening at The Fridge.

I come up on the escalators on the way out. Reckon Wolf does too. He lights up a smoke and, even though I'm feeling the love, I'm scared to hell that someone's going to come over and slap a fine on him.

The fine never arrives.

“You feeling it?” I ask.

“Yeah man. Skin up.”

“I thought you had the gear.”

Wolf laughs like he's insane. “Fucking hell, Joe.” He puts his hands on his knees to steady himself and starts to cough, the sort of coughing they carry you off in.

“Man I'm needing a smoke.”

“We're in Brixton. Shouldn't be a problem.”

Thing is it's not our turf and things have a habit of kicking off round here. Soon as I get south of the river it's like the map's been turned upside down.

Never mind. I feel like I'm wearing some kind of protective cloak, as if nothing or no one can touch me. Besides, Wolf's hard as Mike Tyson in steel toe-caps.

Everyone looks amazing. The girls, even in their coats, have figures I want to get to know better. The street lights on their skin makes them shine. I want to stop them all. Tell them. Tell them about their skin and how beautiful they are. Touch them and take them home and show them just how happy I can make them.

Wolf takes the lead. His eyes are popping, but he's still got his street smarts. We turn off the main road and walk into the first pub that looks like it's got a bit of a jump going on inside.

Times like this I wish I was black. Not just so I can look good or dance like I was born to hit the floor or grow locks, but so I wouldn't stand out so much. I'm still feeling the love on the inside, but even I can tell from the looks we're getting that love is the last thing on the minds of half the people when they see us.

It smells like a tropical evening, coconut joss-sticks burning in bundles in the flower box to disguise the smell of dope.

An enormous Rasta on the door asks the question, “Ganja?”

Wolf nods, so tiny a movement that I barely notice. He walks over to the bar and I take his slipstream.

Another guy comes over. Got to be 80 years old this gent, stooped and leathered by time. “How much”

“Quarter.”

“Thirty pounds.”

Wolf must have had it ready. Put it together when I wasn't paying attention. The notes slip from one hand to another like they've been practicing close magic.

“Two Red Stripe,” he says to the barman.

I can't believe what I'm seeing. It's like we're in a movie. Scoring drugs has never had such a kick to it.

The beers arrive and I take my chance and go over to the end of the bar where the only girls in the place are standing. Wonder why it took me so long to notice them.

“Fucking amazing pub innit?” For some reason I'm impersonating a cockney. “Fancy a night at the Fridge?”

Can't take my eyes off the big girl's cleavage. It's got all the promise of satisfaction that Mick Jagger was searching for.

Before I can find out whether they're coming or not, someone drags me from behind.

My reflexes seem to be on holiday. I don't do anything to stop being pulled, not even use my feet to keep upright.

The hands that have me pick me up before I hit the ground. Push me against the bar.

Wolf moves his face close, grinning. “Wouldn't mind being the meat in the sandwich either, but you're going to have to pace yourself, bro' Joe.”

I sip my beer. Sip it again, then gulp the rest down in one. Finest beer I've ever tasted. Right temperature, right fizz, great flavour.

“Another?” I turn to ask Wolf, but he's gone. He's wandering into the gents.

“Two more please,” I tell the man behind the bar. He's slow to pull them. Keeps looking at some of the guys at the bar and moving his face like he's communicating in code.

The good feeling leaves me for a while.

I'm standing at the bar thinking I'm living the last night of my life.

Wolf appears and the tingles in my scalp come back.

“Sorted?” I ask.

“Taken for a bloody ride.” He holds out his hand. Ripped off by about 20 quid I reckon.

I pick it up. Give it a smell. It's got the thick sweetness that'll give us a good smoke, but that's not the point.

The Rasta from the door walks through and stares at me. He doesn't speak, but I reckon I can read his mind. “You chumps think you're going to get anything else from me, you've got another thing coming.”

I wander over. I don't like people thinking like that about me. Maybe he'll listen to reason.

The old guy gets in my way. Puts his hand up to my chest and stops me.

I could break him, but then I love the old dude.

“Better get going, son,” he says.

It confuses the hell out of me. Seems like he's friendly but wants me to go.

Wolf appears again. He's like my own personal bodyguard.

“He ripped us off,” I tell the old guy.

Wolf pulls my coat and I'm out through the door before I have the chance to say goodbye.

Fridge

There's a chill in the air, not that you'd know it from looking around. The girls are in their flimsiest dresses, the blokes in cool Ts and trainers. I fucking love it.

Problem with the nip in the air is that it brings me down. I want another wave of happy to wash over me.

Wolf passes the spliff he's rolled.

I put it to my lips and take a big draw.

The gear's sweet. Makes my mouth water for a moment, then dries it out straight away. More importantly it opens a faucet inside me, sets that wave in motion, tickles the inside of my skull and moves on to excite my body.

“I need to drink,” I say. Wolf's hardly with me. He's staring at a couple of women over by the phone box, the angle of his gaze firmly down.

“Fridge?”

“Yeah. I need to warm up, get these juices flowing.”

I turn to pass on the smoke. Realise Wolf's not there.

Takes me a while to spot him, his black leathers camouflaging him in the night, over by the girls he'd been ogling.

Suits me. I get to Bogart the joint.

I wander over in my own time and when I get there it's easy to see what the attraction is.

There are five of them, all throwing their heads back laughing. It's like Wolf's on his own carnival ride.

This one girl, the one in the middle, lifts her skirt to flash a Brazilian strip where her pants could have been. The yellow of the skirt-material reminds me of sunflowers, all bright round the outside and in the middle is a cooling darkness full of seeds.

How Wolf does it, I have no idea.

She's got a broad grin across her face. Looks like somewhere between a ‘come on' and a ‘how much is it worth?' sort of smile.

Wolf, taking his turn in the ‘I'll show you mine' game unzips his jacket and pulls up his top. The light catches the nipple studs and the girl in the red shell-suit reaches over and gives it a twiddle.

His face softens like marshmallows on a camp-fire. A sound comes out of his mouth that's somewhere between walrus and whale-hole.

“That the on switch?” one of the girls asks and they all roll their heads in titters.

“Try the off one,” the girl with the Brazilian tells her.

“You turn me on, off, turn me on,” Wolf says. “It's a pleasure/pain thing.”

I'm half tempted to have a go myself, see if I can get a bit closer to pain than pleasure.

From the road comes the beat of heavy rap, bass booming and making the air vibrate. Couple of guys lean out of the windows of a car, something big and flash. BMW maybe or a Merc.

They're wearing shades even though it's night and there's enough gold round their necks to start another rush.

It's a drive-by, I reckon. Not one of those tame TV killings, but a real-life live action shooting just for our entertainment.

Reckon I've got it wrong when the car stops.

Big guy in the front opens the door using the outside handle. Opens up the back door like he's a footman or there's child-locks.

Three guys get out. Dressed in white head to toe.

The car lifts about a foot from the ground as they exit – it's a wonder the suspension isn't fucked, but I guess that's what you get when you pay for the best.

First man walks over to me. There's something in his hand, just a lump of metal far as I can see, like he might need for spares if he loses some of the caps from his teeth.

“You ladies get in the car,” he says. It's not loud. I barely hear it. Nothing wrong with the girls hearing though. They're straight over and in, all of them in the back seat.

“What you doing with my pussy?” he asks.

I look up at Wolf. He's obviously trying to get ready for action, but mainly it looks like he's suppressing a laugh.

Course I don't say anything right off. I'm thinking through my options. Maybe the middle-class twang of reason will do it.

“Axed you a question.”

Ah, shit. Two on Wolf, two on me. Looks like we're going to take a kicking. Should I ask him who his dentist is in case I need some fancy caps of my own?

“We were just...”

Some things you don't see until they're right in front of you.

There's this fist in my face, coming at me at a rate of knots, the glint of the rings signalling my demise.

I feel the crunch, but not the pain. I sense my knees buckling and try to keep them straight.

Wolf's hunched over already, kick in the balls I reckon from the way he shouts.

I take another on the jaw. This time there's nothing to be done.

The world looks different from the pavement. Everything looks bigger, somehow.

The shoes that come for me look like small boats. One in the nose. I feel that one. Hurts like it's been knocked back into my hypothalamus. There's another in my stomach. Someone stamps on my head with a heel. My body switches off. Tingles spread from my brain to my toes and my fingers like electricity. I wait for it to go away, but it stays. There's panic and hope mixed up like some home-made pill. This must be how a drowning man feels, going under yet stretching for a breath.