back into
the flat, flicking the fag-end over the balcony. “Well get a good look, maggot,
‘cause it’s all you’ll ever get.”
“Might be enough for now,” he
said, jostling his hands in his pockets and waggling his tongue.
“Barry, business,” she shouted
again, drawing a distant grunt from inside. “Looks like you’ve had one good
slap down. You looking for another or you actually buying something?”
“I ain’t buying. Ain’t in the
buying game no more. Got business of my own. Someone dossing with your
neighbour owes me.”
“Tough shit.”
“Fuck off, it ain’t.”
“Ain’t got a clue, have you.
‘Bout how things work.”
“We ain’t at school now,
Whitney. Don’t look like them GCSE’s got you any further than shaggin’ old
Barry. And that’s only fifty yards from your mam’s, I reckon.”
“I’ll tell you what I know,
shithead. This is where Barry lives so that makes everything you can see
Barry’s. He don’t mind you selling seeds and stalks to students. He might mind
you coming over here and pissing on his lamp-post.”
Kevin broke eye contact with
Whitney, resisting the urge to cuff her, to see her splayed on the floor rather
than squared up to him with hands on hips. He spat over the balcony and heard
the gush and spatter of Barry’s first piss of the day. He should walk away, but
he’d just be taking a bloodless beating. To stand his ground meant a bit more
pain and maybe a few less teeth, not a bad price for the world to know he had
bollocks.
“You’ll want to be nice to me,
some time soon.” Dropping his eyes to the floor, he slouched back towards the
stairwell.
“Come back when you’ve grown
up, dickhead.”
He hauled himself to the second
floor, wheezing again but not resting this time, crossed the length of the
block to the opposite stairwell and vaulted down the stairs, jarring ribs and
spine and seeing flecks of broken lightning. A glance through the fire door
showed him Whitney going back inside, hands cupping a new smoke.
Flattened against the wall, he
found himself outside Ali Bongo’s flat. He knocked, quietly, pointlessly, then
harder, teeth gritted as the sound echoed around the court. Did he hear a grating
noise, a window sliding, something about to be jammed against the door? What
was he doing? He had to have this, couldn’t not have it.
He reached into his boxers and
pulled out a souvenir of thieving for scrap; an inch-thick length of insulated
copper wire, a beautiful cosh with jagged ends; easy on the hand, hard on the
head. Turning, he gripped the door frame on either side, braced himself and
kicked hard at the lock, only then noticing the cracked and pitted paintwork
surrounding it.
It gave with amazing ease and
an unmistakable crunch of splintered wood and fractured glass; the job must
have been half done already. Counting out the seconds with heaving breaths,
Kevin darted inside, heard a bellow and thudding steps from next door, flung
the door shut, saw it bounce uselessly open again from a split and warped
frame, looked for something to wedge against it, seeing only a mound of mail,
beer cans, encrusted filth everywhere and a window wedged wide open with a
flat-screen TV. He winced at the high-octane reek of alcohol, sweat and piss,
and something else. A roll-up burned in an ash-tray.
He ran to the window and
clutched the sill, to see Firth looking back up at him as he rounded a corner,
his blotched face and limping, stooped gait making him almost a reflection; or perhaps
a prediction, he thought, as a bulky figure filled the door to the flat
brandishing a baseball bat.
Time was strolling away from
him and he was stumbling to keep up. Harkness winced as the luminous digits of
the bedside clock on his undisturbed side of the bed tumbled into eight am and
it started bleating at him. Had he really imagined he’d need a wake up call or
had that been someone else’s idea? His phone joined the chorus with a
the flat, flicking the fag-end over the balcony. “Well get a good look, maggot,
‘cause it’s all you’ll ever get.”
“Might be enough for now,” he
said, jostling his hands in his pockets and waggling his tongue.
“Barry, business,” she shouted
again, drawing a distant grunt from inside. “Looks like you’ve had one good
slap down. You looking for another or you actually buying something?”
“I ain’t buying. Ain’t in the
buying game no more. Got business of my own. Someone dossing with your
neighbour owes me.”
“Tough shit.”
“Fuck off, it ain’t.”
“Ain’t got a clue, have you.
‘Bout how things work.”
“We ain’t at school now,
Whitney. Don’t look like them GCSE’s got you any further than shaggin’ old
Barry. And that’s only fifty yards from your mam’s, I reckon.”
“I’ll tell you what I know,
shithead. This is where Barry lives so that makes everything you can see
Barry’s. He don’t mind you selling seeds and stalks to students. He might mind
you coming over here and pissing on his lamp-post.”
Kevin broke eye contact with
Whitney, resisting the urge to cuff her, to see her splayed on the floor rather
than squared up to him with hands on hips. He spat over the balcony and heard
the gush and spatter of Barry’s first piss of the day. He should walk away, but
he’d just be taking a bloodless beating. To stand his ground meant a bit more
pain and maybe a few less teeth, not a bad price for the world to know he had
bollocks.
“You’ll want to be nice to me,
some time soon.” Dropping his eyes to the floor, he slouched back towards the
stairwell.
“Come back when you’ve grown
up, dickhead.”
He hauled himself to the second
floor, wheezing again but not resting this time, crossed the length of the
block to the opposite stairwell and vaulted down the stairs, jarring ribs and
spine and seeing flecks of broken lightning. A glance through the fire door
showed him Whitney going back inside, hands cupping a new smoke.
Flattened against the wall, he
found himself outside Ali Bongo’s flat. He knocked, quietly, pointlessly, then
harder, teeth gritted as the sound echoed around the court. Did he hear a grating
noise, a window sliding, something about to be jammed against the door? What
was he doing? He had to have this, couldn’t not have it.
He reached into his boxers and
pulled out a souvenir of thieving for scrap; an inch-thick length of insulated
copper wire, a beautiful cosh with jagged ends; easy on the hand, hard on the
head. Turning, he gripped the door frame on either side, braced himself and
kicked hard at the lock, only then noticing the cracked and pitted paintwork
surrounding it.
It gave with amazing ease and
an unmistakable crunch of splintered wood and fractured glass; the job must
have been half done already. Counting out the seconds with heaving breaths,
Kevin darted inside, heard a bellow and thudding steps from next door, flung
the door shut, saw it bounce uselessly open again from a split and warped
frame, looked for something to wedge against it, seeing only a mound of mail,
beer cans, encrusted filth everywhere and a window wedged wide open with a
flat-screen TV. He winced at the high-octane reek of alcohol, sweat and piss,
and something else. A roll-up burned in an ash-tray.
He ran to the window and
clutched the sill, to see Firth looking back up at him as he rounded a corner,
his blotched face and limping, stooped gait making him almost a reflection; or perhaps
a prediction, he thought, as a bulky figure filled the door to the flat
brandishing a baseball bat.
Time was strolling away from
him and he was stumbling to keep up. Harkness winced as the luminous digits of
the bedside clock on his undisturbed side of the bed tumbled into eight am and
it started bleating at him. Had he really imagined he’d need a wake up call or
had that been someone else’s idea? His phone joined the chorus with a
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