The Dark Part of Me (10 page)

‘So, you back for good?’ I said, shooting him a sneaky glance.

He shrugged, tipping back in his chair. ‘Hope not.’

‘You gonna get a job like your old man wants?’ Bomber sucked greedily on the joint, holding it in then opening his mouth wide as a goldfish, blowing smoke rings. His face swam in and
out of focus.

Scott reached for the joint and Bomber passed it over. ‘I’ve got some debts to pay off. But I’m not staying in this shithole for long.’ He took a drag. ‘Tell me
what there is to do here except go on slurpee runs to the seven-eleven.’

‘Man, it’s not that bad,’ said Muzza. ‘You should check out the Valley.’

‘Yeah, Woody,’ Bomber added, ‘there’s a big rave next Saturday at Arena. Oblivion or some shit like that. They’re headlining some decent DJs from Europe. I can hook
us up with some A-class.’ Bomber thought he was the fucking business but he was just desperate to appear cool in front of Scott. But then, we were all a bit in awe of him just because
he’d been living in London for two years.

‘Yeah, maybe.’ Scott re-lit, toking hard to get it going. Before, he’d always been against drugs, even pot. I watched him inhale. No coughing or spluttering. Perhaps the Asian
chick had got him into it. I pictured him fucking her stoned, rolling around in some king-sized hotel bed, and it made the bourbon bubble inside me.

‘Give us a go,’ I demanded, trying to focus on a stubbly patch of his jaw.

Looking straight at me, he took another puff, pinching the remaining stub between his thumb and middle finger. ‘Since when do you spliff?’ he said, exhaling smoothly.

‘Fair while. At work, mostly,’ I said, enjoying his attention.

‘The coffee shop?’

‘Yeah. Trish and me. When we’re bored or fucked off.’ It sounded like bullshit but it was the truth. ‘What about you? You never used to.’

‘Things change.’

‘We were wasted all the time over there,’ said Bomber, talking through the smoke. ‘Weren’t we, Woody? And not just weed. Every weekend, off our tits raving. It was
mental. And the chicks… ’

I looked over at Scott but he was studying the carpet, picking fluff out of it with forced intent. I wanted to get up and shake him, until the truth about the Asian chick came tumbling out, but
I sat there, my eyes boring into the top of his sandy head.

‘Yeah, man. We had ourselves some prime pommie pussy.’ Bomber jabbed at the air with his rapper fist. ‘Muzz, you sure missed out, man.’

‘Yeah, thanks for reminding me,’ said Muzza.

‘If it was so good, why didn’t you stay, then, Bomber?’ I flared, knocking back some more bourbon.

‘Too cold for him,’ said Scott, looking up at last. ‘He might look like a hard man but he couldn’t hack the winter, could ya, mate?’

‘That’s crap. I was skint.’

‘Yeah, that’s your story and you stick to it,’ Scott grinned.

‘Fuck yers all,’ said Bomber. ‘Just remember who gets your gear, hey?’

‘It doesn’t matter. I’ve got myself a new supplier.’ Scott kicked me gently. ‘Hey, babe?’

‘Who?’ said Muzz, confused.

Scott passed me his dying joint. ‘So, how good’s your shit?’

I sucked hard on the soggy end but it was dead. ‘What? Yeah. Not bad. Pretty good.’

‘Great, ’cause your shit’s shit, Bomber,’ said Scott. ‘All leaf. You should have tried the gear I was getting before I left. From this Paki guy who grew it in his
basement. Fuck, I miss London.’ Scott turned to me. ‘So, can you get us some off this Trish girl?’

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘No problem.’ I didn’t know what Trish could get but in the next breath, I’d promised him ten ecstasy pills and a fifty bag of speed. Right
then, I would’ve promised the heavens and oceans and all the fucking universes in between.

‘Fab.’ He bent down and kissed me on the cheek. His face was close enough for me to pash him. His mouth hovered on the edge of my vision like a gorgeous bird, his lips all glossy. I
imagined reaching out, touching them, my finger tracing the top, then the bottom lip, slipping inside, his tongue soft and wet, warm and pink and lovely. In and out. Round and round. Scott was back
in his chair, acres away from me.

I knocked back some more bourbon and wondered how long it’d be before Bomber and Muzza racked off.

‘Hey, Woody,’ Bomber said. ‘What happened to that Asian bitch you were doing?’

I swivelled my back to him, not wanting to hear it, but the bastard couldn’t help but revel.

‘Fuck off, Bomber,’ Scott said.

‘You should have seen her, Muzz, she was so fuck-ing nas-ty.’

‘Yeah?’ said Muzz, egging him on. ‘I heard some stories about her, alright.’

‘Shut the fuck up,’ said Scott, dead serious.

‘Yeah, man. Bad like you wouldn’t believe. Great arse. Pins up to her cunt. You know it.’ Bomber jumped up on the bed and started air-fucking. ‘I could hear Woody banging
her through the walls. She’d scream and carry on and shit like a filthy fucking chinky-whore.’

I looked over at Scott, wanting him to save me, to say it was all bullshit, but he was staring daggers at Bomber. ‘Fucking shut it or you’ll be sorry,’ was all he said.

‘Nah, Woody. Admit it. You were one lucky prick getting your cock into that every night. Oh, man, she had the tightest fucking arse I’d ever seen.’

Scott flashed past me, wrestling Bomber onto the bed, and pummelling him in the stomach. Muzza piled on top. They were all laughing, tangled on the bed like some fucking orgy to which I
wasn’t invited. The room smudged and blurred a myriad dirty colours. A flaming comet of booze rocketed from my gut, burning up my oesophagus. I peeled myself off the floor and raced, arms
streaming, feet thundering, out through the rumpus and the side door to the front lawn where I spewed all over Mrs Greenwood’s prize marigolds.

I lay down in the middle of the road, pretending to be dead. Even at that time of night the tarmac was warm as the beach. I pressed my ear to the ground and could hear tiny,
groaning noises as the bitumen sighed off its heat. When Scott came out, he would see me lying like I was dead on the road, my legs crooked as if they’d been smashed and broken. Then
he’d remember how he loved me, just like before. Just like after the car crash when we fucked in the wet grass and I came so hard I thought I was dying.

I could hear a car coming up the road. It approached slowly, its tyres crunching on the loose gravel. I lay still, holding my breath, pinned like a butterfly to the road, waiting for Scott to
come flying off the lawn and whisk me up in his arms. The car rolled closer towards me, engine smooth and purring. I melted into the ground. The tar-baby screamed,
‘Get up! Get
up!’
into my ear, but I closed my eyes and thought about dying, wondering how it would be. The crunch of my bones. The squelch of my skin popping under hot rubber. I smiled and sank
further into the tarmac, just then quite happy to die. But the car braked sharply, gravel spraying over me. My body bathed in white headlight. The sulphur pong of unleaded petrol and the clean tang
of new chrome filled my nostrils. I lay motionless, listening to my heartbeat, waiting for Scott to save me. Classical music was coming from somewhere, and I could feel heat from the radiator. He
bent over me, scooping me off the tarmac. I was all floppy-flimsy as he carried me across the road in his strong arms and set me down on the lawn. The grass was cool and springy beneath my
feet.

‘What the hell were you doing?’

The voice was familiar but it wasn’t Scott’s. I opened my eyes. A man, tall and dark, loomed over me. He was wearing a long, grey trench with silver buttons. His hands fluttered like
white birds out from the cuffs of his coat. I peered into his face, but it was hidden behind a black curtain of tangled hair.

‘Danny?’

I turned at the crunch of footsteps on the drive. Scott was striding towards us. I wondered if he’d recognize Danny from school days.

‘Hey, Danny, how’s it going?’ Scott sounded casual, like he was talking to a mate.

Danny tucked his hair behind his ears. He stared at Scott, his black eyes huge and dilated despite the brilliant light. ‘I just got out,’ he said.

Scott was nodding. ‘Great.’ And then, as if searching for something else to say, ‘I’ve just got back from London.’

‘I just got out,’ Danny repeated as he stepped forwards and patted Scott on the shoulder.

‘Yeah?’ Scott glanced at Danny’s hand on his shoulder. ‘You just said that, mate.’

There was a mega-weird vibe in the air.

Danny withdrew his hand from Scott’s shoulder. ‘London, hey.’ His expression was blank. Suddenly, he burst into a kind of jig on the spot. ‘They’re changing the
guards at Buckingham Palace. Christopher Robin went down on Alice.’ His voice was low and whimsical, spoken in fits and starts. ‘Did you visit Queenie?’

Scott cleared his throat as I grabbed his hand. ‘Nah.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘But it was pretty wild.’

‘Wild.’ Danny repeated, deadpan. ‘Lots of girls?’

‘Yeah. Nah.’ Scott glanced at me. ‘I mean, we, me and Bomber, we had some crazy times. That’s all.’

‘And how is the old Bomber these days?’ Danny asked.

‘Not bad.’ Scott turned to me, lowering his voice. ‘Babe, you’d better go home now.’

But I didn’t want to go home. I clenched his hand tighter.

Scott nodded at Danny. ‘Mind giving her a lift?’

‘Sure.’ Danny turned and headed back to the car.

‘He’s a psycho,’ I whispered to Scott. ‘What’s he doing here anyway?’

‘Fuck knows.’ Scott shrugged. ‘Go on. I’ll call you tomorrow.’

‘You coming, Rosie?’ Danny stood waiting, his arms draped over the open car door.

Scott shoved me forwards.

‘But what about… ’

‘The fellas are staying over,’ Scott said. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow.’

I leaned over to kiss him but he turned his head and my lips caught on his stubbled cheek.

‘Prickles,’ I said.

‘I warned you.’ Scott backed away, giving Danny a wave. ‘See ya, mate.’

Danny nodded and ducked inside the car.

I stood in the middle of the road, watching Scott cross the lawn and disappear inside the house. Shielding my eyes from the headlights, I looked over at the car. Danny was sitting behind the
steering wheel of Mr Bailey’s gun-metal Lexus. I wasn’t too keen about getting in the car with him. After all those years he was like a stranger to me.

When I’d last known him, he was a pretty normal fourteen-year-old, despite what he’d been through with his mum. When he first started high school, he used to have mates over all the
time. Hollie and I would hear them downstairs, in the billiards room, getting drunk on his dad’s vintage. One time, when Hollie was having a bath, I crept downstairs with a kitchen stool and
spied on them, through the glass panel above the door. At the time, I didn’t know their names. They were just Danny’s mates. The skinny one with glasses (Muzza) and the beefy one with
dark, curly hair (Bomber). The freckly ginger one (Matty Taylor) and the tall, good-looking one with sandy hair (Scott). They sat cross-legged or stretched out on the carpet, drinking burgundy from
the bottle, rap music playing low. Muzza puffed on a cigarette, before passing it over to Bomber. Danny sat to the side, his back against the wall, his knees bent up to his chest, watching his
mates laugh at something on the telly. I focused on the screen but couldn’t make a picture from the pink fuzziness. The sound made no sense either, a series of grunts and groans but no words.
I couldn’t work it out. The picture froze. Scott got up and went over to the telly, pointing with his finger at something in the middle. The others were all curled up in balls and rolling
around, clutching their stomachs. Bomber knelt down and licked the screen with his tongue. That got them laughing even harder. I was desperate to know what was so funny, but Hollie was calling me
so I leapt down off the stool and ran back upstairs.

The car horn made me jump. Danny stuck his head out of the window. ‘Are you coming or not?’

I staggered over to the Lexus and got inside. The door swung shut with an expensive thud. The taste of vomit sat bitter in my mouth, as I slouched down in the slippery, leather seat and said,
slurring my words, ‘Drive slow, alright?’

Without a glance in my direction, Danny u-turned and sped off, his knuckles viced around the steering wheel. Opera blared from the speakers and when I asked him what it was he said it was the
most beautiful piece of music he’d ever heard.

‘The final scene from
Tristan and Isolde
,’ he said. But it filled me with wretched want, so I made him turn it off. I must’ve fallen asleep because next thing we were
pulling up outside my house and Danny was shaking me awake with his cold, cold hands.