Authors: Richard Parry
Val laughed out loud.
“I think so, yes.
Now your turn.”
Someone called down the end of the bar.
Danny gave him an apologetic look, and headed off again.
Val reached for his second beer, starting in on it.
Sure, his arm still hurt, but at least his chest and shoulders had eased up.
The alcohol was good for something at least.
She arrived back, wiping the bar in front of him.
“Got to look busy.
The boss just asked me if I was wasting time down here.”
“What did you tell him?”
“It’s too long.”
“What?”
“My name.
It’s too long for the name badge.”
“You told your boss your name was too long?”
She threw the bar cloth at him.
He got his hands up, fending it off.
It landed on the bar top, where she scooped it back up.
“Lucky.
I’ll get you next time.”
“I consider myself reprimanded.
Your name’s too long?
So what’s it short for?”
“I don’t think I want to tell you that.”
“What’ll it take for you to tell me that?”
“Is that your third question?”
“No.
My third question is why are you still talking to me?”
Val gestured around the bar.
“I’m no one.”
She looked sideways at him.
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.
I’m not even a musician.”
“Will you come back tomorrow?”
“Is that your third question?”
“That’s my third question.
You come back tomorrow, and maybe I’ll tell you what it’s short for.
I finish earlier.”
She left again, this time replaced at this end of the bar by another guy.
Val nodded at him, held up his empty bottle.
Another round couldn’t hurt.
Yeah.
He’d come back tomorrow.
CHAPTER EIGHT
When they stepped out of Presence Unlisted, it was well on the wrong side of midnight.
The streets were empty of people; it wasn’t a hard Friday or Saturday night, and the big crowds were saving their money to buy happiness on a more popular evening.
The cool of the early morning was an old friend, reminding Val of the comfort of bed to come.
He probably should have been there hours ago.
They wouldn’t even find an open MacDonald's at this hour.
John leaned against a lamppost, head down.
He groaned.
“I think I’m going to hurl.”
“I’m not going to hold your hair back.”
Despite them both having drunk the small bar out of Peroni, Val was still buoyant.
The alcohol just couldn’t touch him tonight.
Sure, he was a bit unsteady on his feet, and he’d probably feel like John looked closer to arriving at home in a few hours.
Right now he just felt —
“No really, I’m going to hurl.”
John’s back curled a little.
— He felt happy.
He looked back over his shoulder at the doorway of the bar.
The details of the evening were losing clarity, their sharp edges blurring and becoming indistinct through overuse.
All except the conversation he’d had with Danny.
He knew he’d be back — nothing would stand in the way of that.
That memory wouldn’t fade, and he knew however drunk he’d become he’d remember it in the morning.
He was interrupted by the sound of John throwing up into the gutter.
“Shit man.
Don’t get it on your shoes.”
John retched again, then turned and gave Val the universal gesture, middle finger extended upwards.
He looked grey, eyes slightly unfocussed.
“Yeah, fair enough.
I’m betting you’ve got work tomorrow too.”
Val chuckled.
“Let’s find you a cab.”
He helped John upright, half carrying, half steering him as they walked away from the bar.
Typical.
Any time you didn’t need a taxi you’d find the cab ranks full of them, eager faces imploring you to take the easy route and just hop on in.
Right now there wasn’t a cab in sight, the rain slick tarmac free of almost any traffic at this hour.
A lone street cleaning machine was trundling away from them, the howl of the brushes muted by distance.
Now that was a shitty job, stuck in a tiny cab and scrubbing the streets of people’s waste, day after day.
Still. The guy was probably warm in that cab.
An empty bus passed them, the lit sign proudly proclaiming, “NOT IN SERVICE.”
The two of them stumbled further afield in search of a ride home.
John mumbled something.
“What?”
“I said, if we’re — wait, I need to throw up again.”
“Christ.
I’ve known schoolgirls who can hold their beer better.
How do you even get drunk on beer anyway?”
“You know schoolgirls?
We need to —”
The rest of this was cut off as John retched again.
He straightened, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.
“Hell.
We probably need to find a side street or something.”
“Thanks, Socrates.”
Val shrugged.
Statistically speaking John was probably right — there were less cabs where there were more people, so if they found a quieter area of the city they’d be more likely to get that elusive ride home.
He steered their steps in a different direction.
They stumbled past a vagrant, wrapped up in a dirty blanket and some newspapers.
“Fuck.
We’re idiots.”
Val started to pat his pockets down.
“What are you looking for?”
“Well, we could just call for a cab.
Beats walking the entire city looking for one.
Fuck.
I can’t find my phone.”
“It’s cool.
Uncle John’s got his.”
John offered Val his phone, who took it and started tapping in a number on the small touch surface.
“I haven’t been this drunk since I was last in Vegas.
Tomorrow’s going to be hard work.
I’ve got clients.
You know what a hot gymnasium is like with a hangover?”
Val noticed them first as he hung up the call with the cab company.
It was the way they walked that hit him first, the over-arrogant swagger of those with something to prove.
It was a group of perhaps ten young men, looking for trouble to belong to them.
The usual warning signs were there, plain to see.
Hoodies, drawn up over the heads.
Baseball caps underneath.
Too-loose jeans hanging low, underneath hunched postures.
A couple of them were smoking.
He looked at John.
“We should probably go somewhere.”
“What?”
John was slurring.
Val handed the phone back to him.
“Cab will be here in ten.”
He pointed to the group with his chin.
“Those fools.”
John squinted.
“Ten minutes?
A lot can happen in ten minutes.”
Val nodded, the look on his face saying it all.
They both turned to cross the road, to get some distance.
It was too late, of course.
A whoop came from behind them as they were spotted, and the group ran in a haphazard clump towards them.
Very quickly they were surrounded, ringed to prevent easy escape.
Val hadn’t been in a fight.
Not since school, and those didn’t really count.
John had always been there to sort it out.
True to form, out came the signature Miles megawatt smile, ever so slightly loose from too much beer.
“Guys.”
They were young.
Just kids, really.
Val could see that now, through the collection of mismatched clothing and wannabe gang patches, there wasn’t one amongst them over 22 years old.
Damn.
Kids always had something to prove.
One of them stepped forward a bit.
It was hard to see his face under the hood, the flat peak cap poking out from underneath.
His breath puffed in the cold, and he flicked his cigarette stub to the ground.
“You guys trying to,” and he glanced for the reassurance of the crowd to those around him, “Get away from us?
You cunts trying to run?”
John’s smile didn’t fade.
He wasn’t trying for eye contact, and he was still swaying on his feet a little.
“Run?
Shit no.
We just called a cab, man.
Thought we’d wait over here.”
He gestured at a bus shelter nearby, brightly lit advertisements surrounding an area of dry seating.
The leader nodded, as if agreeing.
“That’s good.
We don’t like it, do we boys?
We don’t like it when they run.”
Jitters and nasty laughter rippled around the ring.
Someone behind Val — he didn’t see who — pushed him hard on the back.
He stumbled forward towards the leader, who pushed back again from the front.
“Hey now.
Watch your step.
You almost ran into me.”
Val felt nervous, a sick wet feeling in the pit of his stomach.
John stepped in front of Val, hands up.
“Hey.
No need for that.
We —”
The leader broke in.
“You a faggot?
This your queen bitch here?
Well.
You’ve got to pay.
A faggot tax.”
More laughter.
Someone pushed Val from the side, making him stumble again.
“Well, see now lads, there’s a problem —”
John was interrupted again, this time the leader’s voice angry.
“Ain’t no problem, cunt.
I said you got to pay.
You and your fag pal here.”
He seemed to consider.
“Want to see my blade?”
Someone kicked the back of Val’s leg, and he went down on one knee.
As he started to rise again, one of them punched him hard in the kidney, and he cried out.
He could hear the heavy, eager breathing of the group around them.
John moved then, swinging with a boxer’s grace slightly muddy with alcohol.
It was good enough and he hit one of the thugs in the face once, twice, before wrapping the kid up in a hold and slamming a knee into his gut.
The youth fell back, and John turned around and delivered another jab followed by an uppercut to the one who’d hit Val in the kidney.
One of them stepped in to try and grab John, but he was too slow.
John batted the kid’s hands aside, grabbed his hair, and slammed his fist into the youth’s face.
They stepped back a few paces, watching as John turned slowly in place.
Waiting.
It was as John reached a hand down to try and help Val back up that they caught him from the side, a punch Val didn’t even see coming hitting his friend in jaw.
John staggered, and the leader stepped in to deliver a punch to his gut.
They grabbed John from the sides, held his arms, and delivered more punches to his face, his stomach.
Val was still on the ground, a clump of them landing kicks in on his body.
He’d got his hands up over his head somehow, but their boots hit his body over and over.
All of this was done without words, an efficiency of violence as the group used fist or foot against flesh.
The leader lost interest in John when he passed out, his head lolling loosely.
They let go his arms, his body hitting the pavement like a sack of meal.
Stepping around John, he approached Val, crouching down to be closer.
The group stopped their beating, stepping back to catch their breath.
“This is it, see?
See it fag?
I said look at it!”
He reached and slapped the side of Val’s head.
He’d drawn a small, thin blade.
Tapping the point against his palm, he said, “Got this from my bro.
Every week, I cut someone with it.
Every week.
And it’s getting towards the end of the week, and no one’s been cut yet.”
With that, he stabbed sharply down, the blade cutting into Val’s leg.
Val’s cry of pain seemed to galvanise their leader, who stabbed again and again, going into a frenzy.
The little blade entered arms, legs, chest, stomach.
The leader paused then, panting, and looked up at the group around him.
They were standing in silent vigil.
“What?”
Blood dripped from the end of the knife, and was all over his hands, his jeans, and his boots.
He looked down at the body, and seemed surprised to see Val dragging himself away.