Read by Alex Mann
Waiting for the bus there’s just me and two girls who I recognise but whose names I don’t know. The fat one had definitely been in the year above me at school; the other one works at the in-store bakery, I think.
They eye me, fatty pulling greedily on her fag. I think about cadging one, but reckon they’d tell me to fuck off. Best not get on their wrong side. They’ll be with a crowd on the bus when it gets here.
I shuffle into the shelter. It’s damp and all the rubbish is up one end: dead leaves, ripped pages of porn mag, tab butts. I write my name in the dust using only my left foot. Too late I see the oil on the floor and now on the toe end of my Kickers. Fuck it. In the dark, I grab some leaves to wipe them. A bodge job, but I get the worst off. I step out onto the pavement, and spit into the gutter.
The bus arrives and we board. It’s chocker. At the back it’s so thick with smoke I can’t see anyone, but can hear swearing and laughter. Sharpy greets me from somewhere in the middle. “Wa hey! You beauty!” he waves. I pick him out in the fug and make my way down the aisle, avoiding handbags and stray feet.
“I had to beat all kinds of nobheads off from this seat yknaa!” he says. I shove in past him. “Fucking freezing at that bus stop. Why was the bus so late?”
“People fucking about getting cans. Usual shite. Anyway, I thought you’d have cracked on to them slappers who you were waiting with”. We cackle.
“Doesn’t she work in bakery, the skinny one?”
Sharpy nods “Aye. Dawn. Dawn of the bread” He laughs. “And the fatty, that’s her who Wormy shagged in the bogs at Monteros”.
I splutter “No way?! Her? Jesus! Anyway, I heard he never actually fucked her cos the bouncers come in and hoyed them out.”
“Aye well, the Worm likes to brag.”
He pulls two cans from a bag under the seat. We open them and slurp before the lager fizzes out.
The lights of the town are visible through the bus window. “Bout 10 minutes till we’re there” I say. “You got much cash?”
“Thirty. What about you?”
“Almost twenty. Should be enough if we get some of them free entry tickets.”
Sharpy’s not impressed but nods.
We hear movement behind us. Sharpy looks round. “Alright Chalky”, he shouts.
A bloke whose face I know from the store waddles towards us. “Alright Sharpy son.” He doesn’t acknowledge me.
“Aye not so bad. Decent turn out eh?”
“Aye” Chalky’s gut is pressed up against our seat. “Canny like. Nowt like a night on the toon, is there?” and winks, lecherous.
Sharpy’s laughs too. I join in, trying to be part of this.
“You got any of them free tickets left?” Chalky rolls his eyes and then laughs. “Why aye son. I’ll be back wi one in a minute.” Sharpy yanks a thumb at me. “One for him an all?” he asks. Chalky grunts and lurches away into the smog.
“Chalky’s in charge then?” I say to Sharpy.
“Aye, he works on Wines and Spirits. Every few months he gets a load of free tickets for one of the night clubs. He books up the bus and invites all the lads and lasses from the store. There’s always loads sign up. Canny idea like.”
“Mm,” I agree. “Cheers for sorting the ticket for us”.
He nods, and runs his hand over his shaven head. We finish the cans and scrunch them back into the bag. Chalky returns later with the tickets, and carries on dishing them out down the aisle.
I look out of the bus into the darkness. Even though I do a couple of shifts a week at the store for beer money, it’s not my life. It feels miles apart from sixth form.
In the condensation on the window Sharpy draws a huge cock and balls. The girls across the aisle screech with laughter.
The bus drops us at 8.30 outside the Queens. It’s rammed. We drink quickly. Three pints in, I squeeze into the bogs; when I get back Sharpy is back at the bar and has got us a double round in. Whiskies. Taste sour and sharp. My stomach heaves, but I keep it down. My head’s throbbing.
“Don’t get fucked”, I keep saying to myself. We leave the pub and straggle down the hill to the quayside and the club.
In the queue, music and high pitched voices blaring from inside, I dig Chalky’s ticket out my pocket. The bouncer has a good look at me. In the dark, you can’t see the oil on my shoes, but he’s not liking my jeans and jumper, my Stone Roses hair. Most of the others in the queue are in Sharpy’s uniform – close cropped hair slick with gel, chinos, dark silk shirt and polished brogues.
The lasses are mostly underage, crimped hair and highlights. “Lamb dressed as mutton” mutters Sharpy. The queue is long. “Haway on man, lerrus in!” shouts someone behind, agitated.
The bouncer is distracted and waves me through.
Inside it’s wild. Dry ice and fag smoke sting my eyes; aftershave and hair spray my nose. Sharpy is charging toward the dancefloor, shouting over the pounding music “Wa hey! Wa hey! You fucking beauty! Let’s get MORTAL!”
We’re deep in the crowd. The whole club is shaking and I shake with it. Faces and bodies move in and out of view; the tempo doesn’t slow. I see Dawn and the other girl from the bus stop; their blond hair bouncing, encircled by hard looking lads, loving it. Then they are out of sight; the lights dim and the bass kicks in. The crowd roars and the dancefloor is swarmed as more people pour on.
I let my body move, barely noticing where I am as time goes on, head ducking in and out of the rhythm. Then I’m thirsty, my throat is baking and I’m drenched in sweat. Opening my eyes hurts and it takes time to get back to the bar.
There’s Sharpy right in front of me. I make a drinking motion to him. He gives me a double thumbs up, catching a girl in the tit with his elbow. She laughs with him and he turns away.
Rooting through my pocket, I’ve only coins now. I get a pint, and thinking quickly, just an orange juice for Sharpy. I have to do it mostly with hand signals. It’s loud and I’m really fucked.
I shuffle back to the dance floor and find my voice “Here you go, vodka and orange man” I lie. Sharpy grins, throws it back down his neck then closes his eyes and punches the air. I’m a twat, I know. We dance on.
Later, it seems like things are winding down when the DJ puts on a favourite and everyone’s back on the floor. Suddenly Sharpy is away. I move by myself for a while but feel self conscious. He returns with what looks like two full pints, and a bottle of something – maybe Holsten Pils.
I squeeze over to him. “Cheers man, I thought you’d be out of money.” He winks “Brains, man, brains”. The glasses aren’t full, and there’s lipstick on one of them. “You’ve nicked them!” I laugh wildly. He grins and nods. I can see behind him a table with a row of drinks left while their owners dance. Then a girl comes to the table, followed by two men. Big bastards. “Come on Sharpy, let’s go” and we duck onto the dance floor. A row has started, but we are soon lost in the crowd.
The lights come on just before two and we’re shoved out of the club, down the steps and back onto the cold quayside. Our fellow travellers are there but no bus.
“What money you got left?” Sharpy asks. I count “couple of quid and some shrapnel”. “Me an’ all,” he replies. “I’m starving. Let’s get some food” and we lurch off toward the takeaway down the road.
Inside it’s busy. It stinks of chip fat and sweat. There’s laughter but also tension in the air. People jostle to get served. On the wall I notice a poster for cod and chips. Two fish are grinning, declaring “We are now skinless and boneless.” For some reason I find this hilarious, as does Sharpy. He shouts over the noise “I’m skinless me!” I join in, “Aye, and I’m boneless” I wobble my legs and arms. We hug each other laughing. “You beauty” he shouts. Somehow we now find ourselves at the counter.
I get a pasty. Sharpy, a burger. “Aye, plenty onions” he says.
We start wolfing before we even leave the shop, and walk back up the hill. It’s quieter now outside as most people have gone. Suddenly I feel a sharp whack on my ankle “Fuck!” I scream and stumble into the road, losing my pasty. Sharpy is on the deck, and fists are pummelling him. A bloke on top of him is shouting “Clever cunt eh? steal me fucking drink eh? Steal me fucking drink and think it’s funny? Not fucking laughing now you bastard, are you?” and he’s smacking Sharpy’s head.
My ankle is agony but I am hit again, slapped. It’s a girl. “You an’ all, I seen you. Thieving bastard!” she’s screaming, and kicks me once more, her pointed toe crunching into my calf this time. Fuck! Sharpy’s arms are trying to protect his face, so his attacker kicks him in the ribs. I can hear his head smack off the concrete. Bone crunches and his shirt rips. He’s screaming.
Oh fuck. I want to piss myself. I can see blood coming from his mouth. With the girl is another man who throws down his chips and bounds toward me.
I run. I turn and run. Across the road I can hear them shout “Aye, run you bastard. You berra hope we don’t catch you!” I don’t look back but can hear the clack of heels tottering after me. I run harder. I spot a broken bit of fence and am soon through and onto waste land. Its black, and I know I’m alone, but I can still hear a voice shouting “You spineless bastard!” And then I realise it’s my own voice I can hear.
I kneel and retch. After a while it’s quiet. I head back to the road, still afraid. The bus is there. And the flashing lights of an ambulance. I can make out Chalky’s bulk.
I’m limping, making my ankle out to be worse than it is.
Sharpy’s dazed, sitting up being tended, face raw, bleeding. His shirt covered in blood and dirt. I try to get close to him but can’t. His ear looks like it’s been chewed, and is hanging off his head. He tries to focus, and looks down at his grazed arm. He mutters “You beauty” but doesn’t look up.
I’m shaking, and my legs aren’t solid any more.
“Get yourself on that bus, son” says Chalky to me, coldly. I move toward Sharpy, but my route is blocked as Dawn helps him tenderly into the ambulance.
It’s now really cold. I get on the bus, find a seat and begin to cry, trying to make sure no-one hears.
--
Skinless and Boneless by Jim Minton was read by Alex Mann at the Liars’ League Brains & Beauty event on Tuesday 14 September 2010 at The Phoenix, Cavendish Square, London
A north easterner, now living in Walthamstow, Jim Minton is living proof that background need be no barrier to mediocrity. He’s still learning, but is enjoying writing about ordinary blokes and their hang ups. Plentiful material there, so if you want to read more, just ask.
Alex Mann graduated from LAMDA in 2009 and made his professional debut in the RSC's 2010 production of Dunsinane by David Greig at the Hampstead Theatre. He lives in Hackney.
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