In Loco Parentis (21 page)

Does that mean smell travels faster than sound?

“I've brought us some tea, Joe.” Wolf pops his head round the bedroom door. Looks straight at me and strides over, his arms open wide and a concerned look on his face.

“Bloody hell, Joe,” he says, “It's me that should be sobbing, mate.”

Maybe he's right. I try to tell him, but all that comes out is another wail.

“S'OK buddy. Let it all out.” The way he hugs me practically squeezes the anguish from my soul. His face rubs against my cheek. Feels like I'm being sandpapered. The smell of fags clings to his clothes and wafts of ale come from his mouth. “Tell Wolfy all about it.”

I think about when he arrived at my door, homeless and alone. The way he collapsed under the weight of his pain.

Inside I feel something grow. Like a tumour. Dark and potent. “It's all black, Wolf,” I whisper. “It's all so bloody black.”

His arms tighten. My spine cracks. I bury my head into his shoulder and hold on for dear life.

More Wailing

Sat opposite Dr India and I'm still wailing. I've never cried in his chair before, no matter what brutal truths I've revealed.

I realise that this outburst has cost me a tenner already. Just makes me cry all the louder.

I grip the arms of the chair hoping I won't fall off, feel my body sway backwards and forwards like I'm a nut-job. And I can' t stop.

When I open my eyes he's out of focus. Too many tears in there to be able to see properly. I give my face a rub with my sleeve then clear the snot from my nose.

India reaches out for the box of tissues. Reaches in and pulls one until it pokes out like a napkin. He passes them over and I take it to blow my nose.

“I'm screwed,” I tell him when I'm done. “Screwed.”

“Go on,” is all he says.

“Even when I know what I should do, I'm too much of a bloody coward. I might as well leave here and go and suck on my exhaust pipe. No fucker wants me. No fucker except Jenny. And I'll mess that up like I mess up everything. Like I'm carrying cancer. Like I'm just the kiss of bloody death.”

My hand shapes a fist. Slams down onto the arm of the chair. I try not to show it, but it hurts like buggery.

The doctor looks over at me, the corners of his lips bending up at the corners. I could swear that he's giving me a smile.

I furrow my brow. Raise my eyebrows.

“I think,” he says slowly, “we're on the verge of a breakthrough,” he says and I laugh for the first time in a while.

provisions

After the session, I thought it would be a good time to get some more therapy of the retail variety.

How stupid can you get? Rush hour on a Thursday evening.

It's Waitrose I choose. There's a first time for everything. Main reason is it'll save a good ten minutes walk if I go here instead of Sainsbury's.

Place is packed. So's my basket.

The music blares from the speakers. ‘Tis the season to be jolly'. Fa la la la la la fucking la la.

I can feel the sweat on my back and hanging like droplets above my lips. If it wouldn't lose my place in the queue I'd pop into the freezer section for a cool down.

My line seems to be for the over-60s. There's no sign saying it, though. Must just be some unwritten rule they have.

The folk I'm standing with aren't the usual faces of Holloway. These are the well-to-do crowd who pop in on the way home from the City, slumming it as they head off to Highbury or Highgate or some such.

The lady in front of me stares into my basket. Pulls a face then looks me in the eye. Maybe she's noticed the reduced-price labels. Snooty cow. If it hadn't been for sell-by-dates I wouldn't have been able to buy enough for a salad.

The ringing of the scanner's getting on my nerves. The old bag in front of me peeks into my shopping again. There's a hook to her nose I don't care for. Makes me want to straighten it for free. She raises her eye-brows and gives a little tut, as if she's upset by the state of the Empire these days.

My heart starts pumping hard.

I don't know why, but I lean forward to get a look at her basket. Safely balanced on a New York Style cheesecake is a box of quail's eggs, their speckled brown visible through the clear plastic. Not a reduced-price label in sight.

My hand's in there before I can control it, picks up the eggs and brings them close to my face. My mouth speaks, too. “What's the point of these?” I ask.

Course she doesn't answer. Just reaches out to take them back.

My hand's too quick. Pulls them away from her like we're playing some teasing game.

“Really,” she says, her voice carrying the perfect tone of contempt.

“I mean it,” I say. “What's the point? You keeping a load of little people at home or something?”

She turns away and looks round. “Security,” she shouts. “Security.”

The man from the door wanders over. We might be in a posh supermarket, but they don't spend any more on the uniforms of the muscle than they do anywhere else.

They do, however, seem to have paid for the real deal when they were hiring.

This guy's huge. Unnatural looking. A brick shit-house with a cement extension.

He's over as fast as he can swagger.

I'm palpitating like crazy, feeling the eyes of every customer in the place on me.

“Ma'am,” the guy says, a thick slice of Irish in the accent.

“This hooligan has my eggs,” she says.

She's right. I do. Caught red-handed.

The muscle squeezes his way round the back of the till and over in my direction. I see the way his legs are practically bursting the seams of his trousers and deodorant has stained chalky rings under the armpits of his cheap, blue shirt.

“One's broken,” I say. “Look. You can see it from the bottom.” I hold up the box and, sure enough, there's some grey gunk all over one of the compartments. “I'm terribly sorry if I offended you, but I couldn't have you disappointing the little people, could I?”

The anger's gone. If I had a tail, it would be between my legs. “Sorry if I caused any offence.”

She takes her eggs, apparently taking care to avoid making any contact with my fingers. There's no thank you. No nothing. A snooty look, a twist of the body and the basket's in front of her, safely out of view.

“Show's over,” the security guard shouts to everyone, pushing his cap back on his head like nothing's happened.

It's not over as far as I'm concerned. I've still got to do the walk of shame past the till before I can be clear of the embarrassment.

I pull my head in, shorten my neck and slump, whistling along to Bing as he dreams of a White Christmas for the umpteenth year in succession.

getting a handle on things

The pavements of the Holloway Road are heaving. Most of the shops have stalls outside them with people browsing and generally getting in the way.

There's cheap tinsel, Christmas cards, reindeer, outdoor lights, trees. Even got Hanukkah spinning tops and candles. The whole thing's out of control.

Christmas? Bah.

I'm freezing even though I'm boiling up on the inside.

Keep playing the scene in the supermarket on the screen in my head. The guy coming over, me shamed into submission.

I try it different ways, taking the eggs out and throwing them one by one and running out with my head held high.

The handles of the bags cut into my fingers. I'm cursing myself for not having gloves and cursing Wolf for somehow deciding I'm his chief cook, bottle washer and shopper. Can't believe I agreed to make us a meal so we could talk things over, put my woes on the table alongside the pizza and the wine.

It's not until I'm about to turn onto the Camden Road that I see the first scarf and glove stall. Ten quid a pair they're looking for. Jog on.

Stopping, I put down the bags. Try to straighten my fingers.

They're permanently bent, the red lines on the verge of drawing blood.

I think about leaving the bags where they are. Maybe give them to one of the homeless guys who are busy benefiting from the Christmas cheer.

Instead, I pick them up. Walk on.

Every step of the way I talk to Wolf. Give it to him straight. Tell him he's going to have to start pulling his weight or else. Rehearse for my big moment and then see the turning for Hilldrop Road.

note

When I walk into the flat, I see the note on the table.

“Something came up. Hang in there Dude. Wolf.”

Next to the writing there's a little sketch. I'd say it was a crocodile if I didn't know better.

I go to kick the chair, but a shopping bag gets in the way. How dare it. I swing the bag full force into the wall then throw it into the mirror.

Something inside the bag explodes. Yoghurt by the looks of the mess of pink cream that's sprayed itself over everything. Can't even get my outbursts right.

“Fuck,” I shout at the yoghurt. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

I put down the rest of the shopping, unbutton my coat and let it drop to the floor.

In the bedroom I go straight for my records, the front ten or so all out of their sleeves. If I could get my hands on that Wolf I'd string him up by the bollocks and get him to repeat after me, ‘when you've played a record, you put it back in the sleeve'.

From the ‘E' section I take out
Elvis sings Leiber and Stoller
. Slide out the sleeve and slip the vinyl disc carefully onto my hand. Move it around to let the light play on the grooves.

There's a tiny mark on the label, but the playing surface is mint.

I put it on the turntable, move the needle onto track 2 and turn up the volume.

In comes the brass section, blasting like the birth of rock and roll.

My hips swing. I curl my lip. Get ready to sing along.

“If you're looking for trouble,” ba, da, ba, da, da, “You've come to the right place.”

This isn't the Elvis of the late movies, the sweet and handsome lover-boy. This is Elvis raw as a skinned snake, all venom and bile.

I sing loud all the way through. Blur the places where I'm not sure what he's saying.

When it's done, I go over and pick up the arm. Take it back to the beginning and start it over again.

And again.

And again.

After the fourth time, the phone rings. I think about not answering, but the prospect of pouring my misery down the phone to Wolf to show him just how pissed-off with him I am is just a little too appealing to resist.

I turn off the volume, sit on the bed and pick up.

“Joe?” I can practically hear the grin. “You've got to come quick”

It's not what I expected, I'll give him that.

“Eh?”

“Need you, Joe. Get your arse over.”

“Over where?”

“Stokey. The Carpenters' place.”

“The Carpenters'?” My heart does this strange loop inside me, does something between sinking and bursting with adrenalin at the same time. “What the hell are you doing there?”

“Soon as you can,” he says, and the phone goes dead. So do my senses.

Knock Knock

The Carpenters' front door is one of those Victorian classics, all hard wood and hand—craft.

I put my gloves on before touching the big brass knocker, just like Wolf said. Pull the hood further down over my face. The street's quiet and dark, the light rain keeping people indoors. Even so, my pulse is going like it wants to get out.

The door opens a crack. Wolf's face appears, a big grin that spooks the hell out of me. Feels more like Halloween than Christmas.

“Trick or treat?” I ask and wipe my feet on the ‘WELCOME' of the mat.

“Treat,” he says, opening the door and pulling me in. “Definitely a treat.”

When I'm in, he closes the door behind me.

Place smells of meat and frying onions. Makes my mouth water.

“No looking.” It's Wolf. He puts his hands over my eyes. “Straight on.”

Course I don't close my eyes. I love this man, but trust him to keep me in one piece, I'm not so sure.

I watch my boots, the toes scuffed to hell, as I go carefully along the lush, blue carpet.

At the kitchen, the flooring changes to tiles. Terracotta. The fingers over my eyes press down. I squirm. Fear for my eyeballs.

“Ready?” No way. Never was, never will be. “Surprise.”

The fingers come away and my sight adjusts. When it returns to normal I wish I was blind.

There they are. The Carpenters slumped against the wall.

My lungs suck in air. Hard. Like I've been under water and have just broken through the surface.

Carol, she'd look OK if she wasn't such a funny colour. She's pure white.

Phil looks like something from a ghost train. His eyes would give Marty Feldman's a run for their money. His tongue flops out of his mouth, swollen and tinged with blue.

“Da da,” Wolf says with music in his voice, like it's a gift he's giving.

I freeze. Not that I'm cold. Just can't move is all.

Wolf picks up a sandwich from the table, bites out an enormous chunk and walks over. Takes me in his arms and hugs like hell. “S'all right buddy,” he mumbles through the bread. “You don't need to say a word.”

I know a man who can

“We need to work quick.” Now I've phoned Mike, I'm calm. Well calmer. I have his voice in my head telling me to keep my focus. To keep breathing. To do what needs doing. It'll be better still when he arrives.

Wolf seems unsure. Looks more interested in what he can liberate from the fridge than anything else. It's like he doesn't mind if we get caught.

I mind.

I go over to Phil. Ugly bastard.

“Seriously. Mike'll be here in half an hour. We need to strip them and get them into bed before then.”

He takes out a polystyrene tub, takes off the lid and dips in his finger. Puts a load of pink goo into his mouth.