Business all right, Steve?
Not bad.
Ray been in yet?
Ain't seen him.
He nods, shifts his weight. For a fat man, he has small feet. Stephen once said he looked like Danny De Vito. He'd nutted a man for less than that, but Stephen was a mate of Ray's and, well, it didn't do to upset Ray.
My birthday last week, he tells Stephen.
Yeah?
Oh yeah. Me, Ray, and Tel.
What d'you do?
What didn't we do? Oh, we had it large. He laughs, leans forward, whispers to Stephen. Two grand we spent. In one night.
On what?
What d'you think? Got fucked up in here, bought a load of gear and went down to Nightmoves. Nothing like a load of beautiful young ladies getting their kit off for you on your birthday. He leans back, stretches. That'll show Stephen.
Shame you had to pay 'em, Stephen says with a smirk before walking away towards the toilets. I'm going to ignore that, thinks Dave as he leans forward, eating up the space left behind. I'm going to let that one go. He looks up. Ray's just come in the door. Dave smiles.
Got something for me, Raymond?
Is a pig's arse bacon?
They shake hands. Dave goes to the toilet, wrap in hand. Stephen's heading out. Dave keeps moving, racks one up in the karzy. That's better. Clear-headed now. The day finally fading. The bullshit he's had to put up with from that prat at number 4. Dave, can you just help me with this. Dave, can you just help me with that. Dave, can you kiss my arse. That was the problem with these posh bints. It started out one thing, ends up they don't want a sparky they want a fucking house boy. Fucked if he was going to be anyone's house boy. He comes out of the toilet, fired up, bumps straight into Terry.
You all right, T?
Always.
Want a line?
Got one, ta.
Drink?
Go on, then.
He joins Ray by the bar. Buys him and Terry a drink. Mark's there too now, and Kenny and Bill. They're firmed up. All the middle class twats are on the other side of the bar, in their poncy fucking trilby hats and skinny trousers, which do not look cool no matter what a prat like Pete fucking Doherty might say. No, it was good to be on the right side, and now he had the firm he was protected. It was a warm feeling.
All right, darling, he says to one of the birds as she passes behind him to buy fags from the machine. She doesn't answer.
Do I smell or something, Tel?
Terry smiles.
I reckon they're all dykes in here tonight anyway. Still, as long as she's of the opposite sex and has a pulse, eh Terrence?
You really are a cunt of a man, Terry says, laughing.
Eleven comes round quickly and he's had a skinful. They all have. Been dancing. I could be wrong, I could be right. Play decent tunes here. Likes that. Wrap's finished. Needs to buy more but Ray's busy with the posh twats, all clucking for a line now they're pissed. That idiot Eamon or Ronan, whatever his name is, fucking plastic paddy at any rate, he's drunk now and shouting, his eyebrows so thick surprised he can see anything through them. And there's that cute girl at the end of the bar. Is she looking at him? You never knew with these birds. It wasn't out of the question. She could do with rewiring. Ha ha.
Like to get my pliers round that, he says to Stephen.
Dream on, mate.
Why did he say that? Fucking twat thinks he knows everything.
Fuck off.
She's out of your league.
We'll see about that, Stephen. He looks over at the girl. She's sweet. Kind even. And the chest on her! Impressive, that's what it was. No harm in saying hello. Stephen could go fuck himself. He was feeling good. Ain't no stopping us now.
He makes his way round the edge of the bar. She's talking to her mate now. Don't like the look of her. Bit frosty. Probably a dyke. Still. The other one's cute. No harm trying.
Hello, darling.
The girl looks at him, then at her mate. They both start laughing.
Fancy a drink?
Frosty bitch leans forward.
Yeah, we'll have two sambuccas thanks. Black ones.
I wasn't asking you, he thinks, but doesn't say anything. You can't upset the mate. He buys them all a shot.
That's the last one, says Paul. Bloody spoilsport. What does he think he looks like tonight with that stupid scarf: Rupert the Fucking Bear?
They all down their drinks. The mate is in no hurry to leave. Can't she see she's cramping his style?
Last orders, Paul shouts.
Fuck off, Paulie.
What's that, Dave? Paul glares.
The girls look at him.
Nothing, he mumbles.
He needs to talk to this one on her own. Can't do it with frosty tits there.
I've seen you here before, he begins, but it doesn't sound right. Nothing's coming out right. The girl's looking at him like she feels sorry for him. That's not how it's supposed to be.
Start drinking up now, ladies and gentlemen.
It's now or never.
Do you want to come home with me? He whispers it into the girl's ear. She almost jumps.
Are you off your head? And now she's turned towards the mate and they're both laughing again and moving away. And he's left alone at the bar, everyone around him laughing, joking, together. He looks up. Stephen's staring over, big smirk on his face. What a cunt.
What you staring at?
You.
He should show Stephen. He should show him a thing or two. It wouldn't be hard. He might be a small man but he knows how to take care of himself. What he needs is a line. Where's Ray? He can't see him. The bar's emptied out; the firm decimated. He'll deal with Stephen tomorrow. Right now he needs to move the car. Can't leave it on a yellow. Bit pissed now, but so what? He doesn't live far. Can feel his temples throbbing. Starts up the motor. Turns onto Bethnal Green Road. Floors it. Something dashes in front of the van, knocks against his bumper. Bloody idiot. Just had that fixed; cost an arm and a leg, 'n all. Get out of the way, he yells through the closed windows, shaking his fists. But no one hears him. What's that frosty girl from the pub doing on the pavement anyway? And why's she screaming at him, the daft cow? It's not as if he's done anything wrong. Twists his neck, tries to get a better butcher's. But the back window's all misted up and he can't see. Too late to stop now in any case. Speaking of stopping, maybe he should drop by Nightmoves. That Russian bird was lovely. Tall as well; great pins. One lovely lady before bed.
He drives on, hunched over the wheel, past kebab shops, Turkish grocers, mosques. Ain't what it used to be round here. First the Pakis, now the posh cunts. He passes a cafe, its neon sign flashing: Global Village. Global Village, my arse. That was the problem. There wasn't enough room for the old boys anymore. They were being squeezed out. Got to stick together. Can't let the rest of them take over. He turns on his radio. Van Morrison. He likes Van Morrison. Now there is a man. He drums the steering wheel. Hums the tune. Well here it comes…dum dum dum dum dum…Here comes the Night.
Emily Pedder is a London-based writer. Her short fiction has appeared in several magazines (Telltales, Mslexia etc), and in 2001 she co-founded Matter, a literary anthology promoting new writers. She completed her first novel in 2004 and is now working on her second, for which she won an Arts Council Grant.
Comments