Ten Storey Love Song (11 page)

Labyrinth
. But I wouldn’t sing! I want to dance, how good would it be to dance up there! God, it’s getting busy in here …’ Pamela pulls a face, and says in the nicest possible way, ‘Shut up.’ Pamela’s a bit grumpy tonight – she’s knackered after a long shift at the nursery (the kids are hell sometimes, and every time she wants a cigarette she has to play hide-and-seek with them and run off to the furthest reaches of the playing field), her pill hasn’t worked yet, and she’s still gutted Mandy’s shagging Dave Morton. Dave stands a bit awkwardly with a plastic pint in his fist, feeling a bit out of place in his Hackett jumper and Clarks loafers. He’s back in training now for the professional football team, and unfortunately he’s got a drugs test tomorrow – so no pills for Dave tonight, as usual – and he gazes at Mandy through sleepy peepers. She’s skinny as a climbing frame, and sometimes when Dave climbs into bed with her they knock hip-bones and kneecaps and their sex makes the most beautiful African clave music. Those two go off to the bathroom for a bit of a breather and an incoherent chit-chat, and Pamela slides up to Bobby and asks, ‘How’s it going?’ Bobby grins and gurns and tells her about London and the bent art dealer, and they hug and Bobby gives her another pill since hers isn’t working too well. Half an hour later Bobby and Georgie wander upstairs for a little boogie, and they find Pamela dancing manically on the stage with two boys round her waist and her arms in the air. Bobby laughs, feeling great, and him and his girlfriend swing each other like a couple in the fifties hearing rock and roll for the first time. Georgie’s very floppy and gurgly and staggers to most of the songs, whereas Bobby’s all focused and ecstatic and in his moon boots. They don’t like the Libertines, so when those lot come on they retreat back to one of the park-bench affairs dotted around the walls and plonk down next to Johnnie and Ellen. The seat bounces in time with people’s feet dancing in time to the music. It’s quite difficult to talk, but Bobby shouts ‘Alright’ to Johnnie and Ellen and they both nod with big round cheery faces. Johnnie’s got his arm round Ellen and she’s hugging his right knee, and they look so happy and in love. Most of the night they’ve just been sat there watching kids dance, kissing each other, cuddling, telling each other really nice things. ‘It’s mint how we’re back on track now,’ Johnnie yells in Ellen’s ear, touching her hip. How weird it was for them to be apart just because of Kleenex! Johnnie thinks it’s his fault, and Ellen thinks it’s hers. ‘I proper missed you,’ he says, all doe-eyed and creamy-mouthed, ‘I proper did.’ Ellen nods with her lids shut, lashes moving gently in time with the snare drum. ‘I love yooou,’ she gushes. Johnnie gives her another squeeze as the Libertines burst into the Kinks’ ‘Victoria’, watching Bobby and Georgie totter off to the dancefloor again. Johnnie dribbles, ‘I love you toooo,’ then they have a luxurious snog and they laugh because it’s all so wonderful and romantic and Hollywoodish. The disco lights for this particular song are red and blue, which equals purple. ‘I still wanna say sorry for being weird last week,’ Johnnie says, speaking very direct and dramatic like you do on pills sometimes. He goes, ‘I shouldn’t have done that to Angelo. I was just frustrated, I don’t know why. I mean, I just get jealous when you’re over his, but I’m not saying you shagged him or owt like that. I mean, you didn’t, did you?’ For a long long time Johnnie’s wanted to know the truth about Ellen and Angelo (as long as the answer’s no). It’s been tearing him up – admittedly, he’d rather not know if the answer’s yes (it’d kill him – he’d be inclined to dump Ellen, and the prospect of not being with her scares him), but when you’re on pills you’re probably in the best mindset to find out once and for all. At first Ellen looks at him and her heart goes squelch, still cuddling and holding hands with her boyfriend. She blinks an invisible tear back in her eye, then strokes his paw and says, ‘Naw, of course I never.’ Before Johnnie clocks her guilty doll’s face, he swamps her with arms and hands and kisses, and he feels like his life’s worthwhile again and all the crime’s worthwhile and the drugs are worthwhile and the whole big struggle’s worthwhile, all for Ellen. He shouts to her, ‘I love you I love you,’ then he needs to go to the toilet desperately and runs off quickly through groups of people bashing into each other. He pretends he’s bursting for a piss, but in actual fact he locks himself in one of the cubicles and sits down and cries buckets of joy into his hands. He feels like he’s the luckiest person on earth. It’s been such a crazy rollercoaster with Ellen, and he’s been so worried and worked-up about her (having stress-dreams at night where his teeth all crumble and fall out in big painful chunks), and now finally he feels thankful to be alive again. How fantastic it is, to be crying and crying and crying in that pissy-floored toilet! Johnnie gurgles saltwater, then wipes his streaming eyes with the bottom of his Lacoste T-shirt and rushes back out of that cubicle to go and hug Ellen again and maybe tell her he’s been weeping with happiness or maybe not. In the end he doesn’t need to; Ellen can see all the red and wet round his eyelids and, although she feels despicable for lying, she knows she’s done the right thing. The two of them carry on kissing and singing each other’s praises, and soon it’s the end of the night and the lights gently pop on around them. Nights always go so fast when you’re on ecstasy, since there’s no time to be bored whatsoever. As Johnnie and Ellen sit there like teddy bears on a shop counter, gradually Bobby and Georgie and Mandy and all them congregate around with rusty limbs from dancing too much. Everyone looks lovely, all the couples wrapped up in each other like a perfect vision of the world, everyone smiling, everyone feeling wonderful inside. Pamela comes over in a bit, having lost her two new boyfriends and her left shoe, munching her lip gloss and dithering about. Katey, the one from the pear-coloured tower block, takes her under her wing and then they all stumble back down the steps and into the swirly night air. All the pillheads start wobbling about, chattering to strangers getting kicked out, not like Dave Morton and Georgie who stand all grumpy and knackered by the car park edges. Even though there’s eight of them, Johnnie’s still feeling dandy and he says, ‘’Ere, we can all squeeze in the Sunny like, if youse don’t mind walking back to the Linny?’ Johnnie starts marching off down Parliament Road with Ellen under his arm, and even though she goes ‘Naw, Johnnie, I dunno if it’s a good idea,’ everyone else seems to think so, and the group of them follow the crinkled pavement back into town. It’s a nice night for a stroll, but unfortunately they end up rousing all the families in the houses as the gobby e-heads pass by. ‘Swear down, I’ll be sound driving,’ Mr and Mrs Evans from number 64 hear quite clearly out their open window. ‘I’m still fucking buzzing, me,’ little baby Shane hears from his cot in 55, waking up and bawling his eyes out. ‘God, I never did get on that ceiling,’ the dog from 49 catches, rushing out of his shitty kennel and barking as Mandy stampedes past. She craps herself, grabs onto Dave’s bulky arm, then the two of them laugh and carry on pacing down the dead street. It takes about twenty-five minutes for the gang to reach the Linthorpe car park, rubbing shoulders with all the other people from other chucking-out times round town: the sad lonely people looking for girls and taxis, the rock-hard ruffians looking for a fight because they haven’t pulled, the greedy pigs nibbling pizzas, and the happy drug fiends riding the streets like a conveyor belt. Johnnie and Ellen are first to reach the Nissan, sat on its tod in the cold lumpy car park. Johnnie’s still gurning, and still happy to pile everyone into the Sunny, as long as they hurry up! Bobby the Artist and Georgie arrive after a bit, followed by Mandy and Dave Morton, who keep lagging behind for snogs and gropes in the veins of the town. Last come Pamela and Katey, keeping a safe distance behind Mandy so they can bitch about her as well as get fags from the twenty-four-hour shop and not share any with her. ‘Howay, then, it’s gonna be a fucking squeeze,’ Johnnie gargles, waving his limbs about. He motions for Ellen to join him in the front, then Bobby and Georgie and Mandy and Dave get in the back with Katey laid across their laps, and Pamela grudgingly clambers in the boot although she’s still buzzing her tits off. It’s a bit like that trick where they try to squeeze loads of Chinks into a Mini, except on ecstasy. In particular, Bobby the Artist enjoys having Katey’s left booby pressed into his groin and the other one pressed into his crushed hand. ‘God, I bet youse fuck the suspension,’ Johnnie slurps, setting off at about two miles an hour. Ahh, but it’s nice to have all his friends squashed in one place like a Christmas stocking, and there’s promise of a party back at Peach House once they reach dry land. Johnnie loves speeding, but he can only reach 41mph on Roman Road, and it’s very obvious to all the people passing by it’s a car chock-full of gurning gorillas. Johnnie tells them to keep their heads down in case there’s any police, but in the back everyone’s chatting and giggling and feeling each other up, not arsed. The town tumbles past the windows. Johnnie tries to floor it after the lights keep going green, but he’s still getting overtaken by taxis and lads on push-bikes. The tank starts groaning as they reach Keith Road, which must have been named after a person called Keith. Johnnie slows to about 20mph going up and down the dips, the car feeling like a rock super-glued to the earth. He gazes at the wonderful skinny trees straddling the avenue. Are they oak, beech, pine, or fir? He wonders how all the estates got their names – like Beechwood, Thorntree, Netherfields, Brambles Farm – and he imagines the town a thousand years ago, all rolling plains and forests and men with straw in their mouths. He wonders if Keith used to be a famous farmer. Dreaming away, Johnnie finds himself in one of those lovely, thoughtful still-on-pills moods, jaw swinging from one side of his face to the other. Then suddenly, against all the odds, the Ford Focus in front slams on its brakes and, had Johnnie not been travelling at a girly 20mph, he might’ve ploughed into the back of it. ‘Screeeech!’ say all the tyres. The Sunny comes to a halt six centimetres from the Focus’s bumper, and Johnnie just sits there in shocked silence with feet all shaky on the emergency stop pedals. ‘Fucking hell!’ Ellen shrieks. Johnnie stares into space. ‘What a fucking dickhead,’ Dave Morton says from the back. ‘What’s he fucking doing?!’ Soon everyone in the back of the Sunny starts moaning and cursing the Focus, especially Katey since she’s got an elbow in her spine. They all could’ve died. Johnnie bursts a cough out of his head. The last time he got blocked in by another car, he was down a back-alley and it was an angry taxi driver he’d just done a runner from. ‘Here, mebbies just give him a beep,’ Bobby suggests, quite contented really being squadged between all the girls. In the boot, Pamela’s thinking, ‘God, I wish I got those boys’ numbers.’ She’s been occupying herself in there, quite enjoying the fairground aspect of getting thrown around. Why has it stopped? Back in the front, Johnnie squints, trying to see who’s driving the Focus and whether they’re eligible for a slap. Just as he’s about to whack his paw on the lion-roar horn, the Focus driver leaps out of the car, looking quite moody. He seems about thirtyish, crew cut, navy blue jumper but not that muscly, and Johnnie reckons he could batter him given half a chance. Perhaps everyone’s beginning to feel a bit paranoid coming down off the pills (Mandy whines: ‘Is it an illusion?’), but Johnnie’s convinced the fellow’s after a fight. It’s not unheard of round these parts for lads to throw bricks through people’s windows just for kicks, but forcing someone to smash into the back of your own car? What a wanker. Johnnie’s almost tempted to slide the Sunny into the cunt’s path and wipe him out, but perhaps that’s going a bit far. Instead, he clenches and unclenches his fists, firing himself up for a good old fashioned punch-up with the Black Rebel Ford Focus Club, when suddenly the man turns to face Johnnie and he sees the badge on his jumper CLEVELAND POLICE. Johnnie shits it. With eight of them crushed in the Sunny – most of them on pills, most of all the driver – Johnnie suddenly backs down, taps all the locks down, and puts his foot down. He pushes the Nissan into first then rams it over the left kerb, squeezing round the Focus and the wonderful spindly trees, then quickly down Keith’s road. ‘Fuck!’ Dave Morton swears, dreading his expulsion from the famous football team. Everyone’s a jittery mess. ‘Can’t believe the fucking scum tried to block us in!’ Johnnie yells, all pissed off now that he didn’t knack Mr Focus anyhow. He keeps glancing in the misty mirror as he tears down the remainder of the street, conjuring up 59mph this time, and fortunately there doesn’t seem to be any following blue lights or woo-woo-woops! Just to be on the safe side, Johnnie ignores the red lights at Belle Vue roundabout as well as the reds further down Marton Road, and thankfully God decides not to send any innocent vehicles in his flight-path. The Ford Focus man fades into a teeny bug in the rear-view mirror. Mr Mark Regan, a dog lover, scratches underneath his CLEVELAND GAS LTD sweater, feeling a bit shaky too. He feels terrible. He watches the Nissan Sunny jet off towards Belle Vue in such a hurry, then glances down at the beautiful grey greyhound laid under his front wheels, splattered to death. He doesn’t know what to do. Maybe he’s a little tired from such a long shift at the power plant, but the hound just came out of nowhere and he couldn’t stop the car in time. The sickly memory of the dog going thump on the left side of the bonnet then crunch underneath the tyres will haunt him for months. All he wanted was to get home as quickly as poss and get back into Barbara’s arms, and now look what he’s done. The greyhound lies twisted in a puddle of black blood. Sniffing back tears, Mark Regan stands shivering in the crisp silence of Keith Road, uncertain what to do. The image of the greyhound charging out of number
14’s gate flashes in his memory bank, and he wonders if he really could’ve done anything to save its life. All around the murder scene, the houses are dark and silent and sinister. Getting his breath back, Mark Regan supposes the best thing to do is knock on door number 14 and explain what’s happened, only it’s half-past three in the morning and he can’t see the news being taken very sportingly. ‘Excuse me, sorry for waking you up, but I’ve murdered your dog,’ he mumbles to himself, grimacing. Glancing up and down the street, Mark Regan rolls his sleeves above the elbow, dreading the repercussions. But, just as he’s about to step into number 14’s garden, Mark has a far better (less incriminating) idea. He swallows back a bit of sick, then crouches next to the beautiful grey greyhound and pulls it out from the wheels of his shiny Focus. The dog’s absolutely saturated with blood, and it trails a dark red stripe as Mr Regan drags it into 14’s front yard. At first one of the hind legs gets caught on the rusty metal gate but, after a bit of yanking, the leg snaps and comes free. Mark feels ill. He tugs the greyhound softly onto the patch of scrubby lawn, arranging its sticky limbs in a fairly decent order, then he gathers a couple of twigs from the hedging and sticks a makeshift cross in the soil. His red hands make him feel green. Sniffing and snortling, Mr Mark Regan tiptoes gently back to his car, hops in, then cringes when the engine makes a loud noise starting up. He tries to regulate his breathing, huff puff huff puff, then he drives off towards Belle Vue very very carefully, keeping a lookout for more stray animals. He can’t wait to get back home to Barbara. He thinks he’s done the noble thing, getting the beautiful dead grey greyhound off the road but, as he turns cautiously onto Marton Road, suddenly a horrible thought hits him: what if he hasn’t put the hound in the right garden? Trembling, one mile ahead of Mr Regan, Johnnie and his cronies ease themselves to a 30mph dawdle the rest of the way home, hearts still stammering and mouths still squealing. The ones in the back try to keep their heads in each other’s laps, out of sight. ‘Was that aliens, trying to beam us up?!’ Mandy thinks out loud, scratching her neck uncontrollably. ‘I saw the green in his eyes …’ she carries on, but to be fair it’s not actually that spooky for a person to have green eyes. Johnnie shudders on the steering wheel, desperate to get home but feeling inclined to stop at every light now and stick to the speed limit. Ellen rubs his leg, trying to calm him down. He takes a breath of the hot sweaty air, skirting the estates rather than steaming through, and his forehead finally stops pouring out water as the juicy giant Peach looms into view. He says a little prayer up to God (his mam and dad are devout Catholics and, although Johnnie never goes to church with them, he does say hello to God now and then), then parks the Sunny out of sight between a Volvo estate and the Biffa bins. ‘Thank fuck for that,’ he mumbles, though he’s still on the para. What did the bobbies want? Did they get his registration? Why did he run two red lights? He’s vibrating like a five-foot dildo, huffing and puffing the tangy night air. Ellen gives him a hug, watching everyone tumble out of the Nissan like toys tumbling out of a toy-box, and Pamela emerges from the boot looking white and ghostly. Her dress has twizzled itself 180 degrees round her abdomen, and she stumbles into Peach House repeating, ‘That was mint, that was mint.’ Even when someone explains to her about the police she’s still smiling and her eyes are dropping out everywhere. Falling around, the lot of them proceed into the building, Johnnie and Ellen tagging on the end of the line after locking up the stupid car. From up one floor Bobby the Artist yells, ‘Howay round mine, there’s more pills to be had. Johnnie! Johnnie! Party round ours …’ Johnnie hears the words, but he’s too exasperated and stressed to carry on with the others, and for some reason Ellen keeps feeling his arse and snogging his earlobes and the two of them scuttle off to 5E instead. Ellen puts the chain on the door and drags him through to the red/white bedroom. Johnnie tries to ignore all thoughts of Ford Focuses when Ellen starts to undress, almost frenzied as she unbuttons her top and slides out of the patent miniskirt. Johnnie’s heart starts beating in a 4/5 tempo, tugging off garments and letting them fly around like jazzy poltergeists. In his checked boxers, Johnnie clambers onto the bed and envelops Ellen in a great big swampy hug. He pushes her down on the mattress, trying to be quite macho and sexy with his firm kissing and ultra hands-on approach. Ellen mmmms with pleasure, egging him on, and she leans back on her hands as Johnnie tears off her knicks. For some reason Ellen’s shaven all her fanny hair off (bored in the shower, plus paranoid she found a crab-egg after shagging Angelo but it was actually a bit of fluff), and Johnnie smiles as he slides his finger down her rashed gash. She’s quite drippy. ‘Do you want me to lick you out?’ he asks, giving her a Sean Connery eyebrow. ‘Mmm, yes police, Johnnie,’ Ellen replies, opening her grand canyon legs. Johnnie’s not quite sure what he just heard (the party’s just started beneath them, to the sound of Bardo Pond’s ‘Dilate’ at volume 88), but in any case he jumps into Ellen’s fanny face-first. He gargles her name in her wee hole. He has a bit of trouble opening her flaps with his mouth, and at one point he accidentally bites down on her clit and a bit of lip, and Ellen reels back in pain. Johnnie says sorry and, realising he’s spoiled the moment, sits up all sheepish with a floppy knob. Ellen tells him not to worry though and, despite the sore bits, carries on kissing him on the lips and elsewhere. ‘Here, I’ll sort you out,’ she says. Ellen gets down on all-fours, looking into his eyes like a sex-crazed slut, and she takes his dangly cock in one hand and starts kneading it, stretching it, stroking it, embarrassing it. What a waste of time. ‘Why carn’t you get it up?’ she asks, slightly ashamed of herself.‘ Is it me?’ Johnnie just shrugs then shakes his head, thundery pangs of frustration clanging him about the head. He’s desperate for a shag, but his brain’s all in tatters and the more he tells his dick to liven up, the more it defies him. It’s just one of those nights – a fucking shit one. And the more Johnnie tugs and curses his flaccid wobbly bits, the more Ellen thinks it’s her fault. ‘Aw, Johnnie, I was looking Ford to this all night,’ she continues, biting her lip in a provocative manner, but it’s still no use. Johnnie feels a little heave-ho in his stomach, bordering on sickness, and he wishes there was a pair of scissors nearby to just put his cock out of its misery. Grrr! And it doesn’t really help when Ellen starts wanking herself off in front of him. She does look quite lovely, sliding one finger round her cunt with her tits out and a filthy look on her face, but Johnnie’s knob’s still just a sad old grave-marker that’s fallen down. ‘Police, Johnnie,’ Ellen pleads, trying to be sexy, ‘just Focus on me, Johnnie … Copper look at