Sawn-Off Tales (4 page)

A Good System

I
WAS WORKING
in Kendal's café then. You had to assume the woman he came in with was his wife. They were given, as everyone was, a long metal stand with the order number on it. It's a good system, we should have it here. Their little boy sat holding it.

When you're a waitress you don't miss a thing. So I immediately saw his eyes meet the eyes of a woman in a black furry coat. Then I heard the loud rasp as she slid her chair back and the tick tick of her heels crossing the room. The man looked up at her — he was terrified, frozen. Then she punched him in the face and returned to her friend.

I remember the silence in the room and the little boy holding the order number higher and higher like it was some sort of distress signal.

 

 

We Like it Here

T
HE SORTING HALL
was said to be a special department where people with no useful function were sent. No-one knew if it really existed. One lunchtime he scoured Industry House, from the rooftop to the basement, looking for it. He saw suited executives nibbling biscuits, girls tapping at computers, men at drawing boards and, in a room marked
Training
, a group building a structure with toilet-roll holders. But there was no trace of the sorting hall.

Back at his desk they had already brought the afternoon's bins. He looked forward to examining the contents as there was always something exciting. He began to classify, measure and catalogue. A tissue, which he placed in a twizzle bag and labelled. A crumpled A4 sheet to be smoothed out and placed in a file. A crisp packet.

He enjoyed his job. He would leave Industry House altogether if anything ever changed.

 

 

No Turning

T
HIS STREET IS
a dead-end and people are always using our drive to turn round when they're lost and it does my dad's head in. This family reversed up, but instead of screeching off again, they sat for ages arguing over the map. So my dad went out. The bushy-haired driver smiled. ‘We're looking for the ferry.'

We never went to the ferry, we never went anywhere.

‘Can't you read?' my dad moaned, pointing to his slapped-up
NO TURNING
sign.

The man shrugged.

But he was surprised when my dad screamed down the road in mum's car to stop in a cloud of dust and block them in.

 

We kept them for two hours. The girl was my age and she hated these holidays, driving for miles in a steaming car. I let her have a go of my Gameboy. I'm glad my dad kidnapped them; I hope he does it again.

 

 

Last Chance to Turn Around

S
HE'D BEEN COMING
every week. Late forties, right age for the hey-day, had some of the moves as well, a slide and a nifty shuffle on the backbeat. She was normally with a bloke, but she was alone tonight and after my set she beckoned me over, handed me a scratched 45 and said, ‘ I've been meaning to return it.' It was Tobi Legend,
Time Will Pass You By
.

‘You gave it to me.'

‘Me?'

‘Twisted Wheel, 1974.'

Something about the way she sipped her wine struck a chord and I suddenly remembered her.

‘I'll never forget that night,' she said. ‘It wasn't a fair exchange.'

 

I stared into the hole in the centre of the disc as if it was a time-tunnel, sucking me down thirty swirling years. I had nothing to give her back. We sat and soaked in the songs till the landlord chucked us out.

 

 

Mask

H
ER NOSE HAD
a cute little ridge and he stroked it with his thumb. ‘I think Sharon suspects,' he said.

She looked into his eyes. Tips of her red hair clung to his face with static. ‘As long as we're careful, Richard.'

Driving back, Richard couldn't stop thinking about her. The car was bathed in her perfume, Hugo Boss surrounded him like a Ready brek halo. That's when he panicked. He sniffed his fingers and rubbed them on the seat, but the smell wouldn't shift. What could he do? Sharon would be onto him like a hyena. His eyes fell on a half-eaten cheese baguette sweating on the dash. He stopped the car on a dark bridge, removed his shirt and, remembering something about pulse points, applied slimy sandwich filling to his wrists, throat and under his arms. He relaxed and shoved his seat into recline. Below him chains of crimson tail-lights danced and he felt he was floating over a fairy grotto.

 

 

The Kids Are Alright

W
HEN I HEARD
about the boy whose parents dressed him as a girl till the age of twelve I thought, lucky kid. My parents dressed me till I was thirteen as popular crooner Perry Como. They even encouraged me to carry, but not smoke, a beautiful briar wood pipe and I would stab the air with its stem to emphasise a point and suck on it when deep in thought. Yet I wasn't unhappy; it was normal. My cousin had it much worse, as Max Bygraves.

One day I was house-training the dog. The sleeve to
Swing Out Perry
was on the floor and before I could stop him, Engelbert squatted and squeezed a neat little turd right in the middle of Perry's polished inane features.

The next day my mother let me have my fringe cut like Dave Hill out of Slade. Kids have to be allowed to express themselves.

 

 

Tasting Notes

H
ERE SHE COMES
, Rentaghost Girl. Every month it's the same. She lifts it, eyes it, sniffs and slurps, then scribbles some twaddle about eighties cop shows, psychedelic garage bands, and Rentaghost. To her, every wine tastes like seventies kids' sitcom, Rentaghost.

This one was a pinot noir with no
grand cru
status, but a nice jagged aftertaste, owing to the vine's roots struggling deep through limestone rock. I jumped in first. ‘I get Harvey Kietel, late James Ellroy and a John Zorn sax solo.'

Rentaghost Girl flapped her notebook. ‘I'm sorry,' she said. ‘I have a cold tonight and everything tastes like Pardon My Genie, but I do think you might have this wrong. Open your mouth.' I did, and she dipped a finger into the wine and rubbed it over my tongue, gums, lips and around the insides of my cheeks. ‘Now,' she said, ‘can you taste the seventies?'

 

 

Wednesday Night's Alright for Fighting

‘
A
CCOUNTANCY'S NOT AS
boring as everyone thinks. There's lots of testosterone. They shout, actually shout at each other, and someone once got punched. Physical violence, that's accountancy nowadays. So it was always a tough week for him, I knew that, and normally we'd only meet at weekends, but I rang him one Wednesday and said, “Do you want come over?” — he was only down the road in Didsbury — and he says no, he's got early meetings, he can't drink or anything, and I said not a drink, just come and see me — you know, see me. And he says, “oh,” goes quiet, then says, “I don't do that during the week, normally.” Can you imagine? Doesn't do it during the week? The bloke I'm with now goes like a ferret.'

‘What's his job?'

‘Sales. It's all about presentation skills, apparently.'