that,’ he replied.
His mum gave him one of her slightly cow-eyed smiles, no doubt planning the bloody wedding invites. Darrin buried his irritation at the pair of them and made for the door.
It had been freezing all week and it felt like life outside of school, the Centre and Tommy had contracted to almost nothing. Junior had got in touch late on Thursday to let him know he was back in circulation and that he too hadn’t heard anything from M.
That evening Pasquale cycled down to M’s place, opened the front gate and wheeled his bike to the scratched up front door. There were no lights on and nobody home, he turned away, taking note of the brimming plastic bag that was propped up at the side of the house full of empties of Special Brew and a cask of wine. As he trudged back to M’s front gate the fat guy from next door was carefully parking his shit-box out in front of M’s house. The man wheezed his way out of the driver’s seat and gave Pasquale a bit of hairy eyeball then a watery smile of recognition.
‘After Matthew are yer lad?’
Fuck, the guy had a loud voice.
He nodded a yes.
‘Not seen him all week - Mum was in there last night, with that new bloke of hers. He’s from down Langford they reckon.’
‘Hmm OK - right.’ He mumbled back.
‘Got a job apparently!’
Pasquale looked quickly up at the fat man.
The guy looked at him and laughed, loudly.
‘The bloke lad, not bloody Matthew or his mum - bloody hell!’
Pasquale grimaced a half smile at the fat fucker’s merriment, the big man chortling happily as he waddled towards his brightly lit home.
He cycled away and returned straight home, his mum had made a shepherd’s pie and, with a little effort, he pushed M to the back of his mind.
He called Junior a little later on and told him about his unsuccessful visit, but Junior didn’t offer any comment or speculation. He could picture his friend shrugging his shoulders - one of Junior’s stock ‘what can yer do?’ mannerisms.
They agreed to go down to the Community Centre tomorrow - no M meant that they’d probably be straight and be straight in too and, besides, he was Tommy’s star pupil. Maybe Stella would be there, she’d been giving him a couple of looks at school and she was well tasty.
Tommy had finished his part of the Building Communities funding application early Friday morning and dropped it off to Pauline just before lunch.
‘What do you reckon to the chances then Pauline?’
‘No better than fifty-fifty I’d say Thomas, we have the advantage of the track record but given the bloody voracious Olympics - it’s no better than that I’m afraid.’
Tommy snorted softly. ‘People do love their circuses don’t they?’
Pauline nodded, it was an old chestnut of theirs, one that they were happy to regularly trot out and play with. Pauline had lived in Amsterdam for much of her twenties and while she was there she had had been involved in the city’s radical fringe politics. She’d shown him a batch of old photos at last year’s summer get together at her place; Pauline with dyedspiky hair and some fetching, if out there apparel. In most of the pictures she was pictured arm in arm with an intense looking bearded boyfriend who’d been a political prisoner in Chile. Pauline had spent almost a decade hanging out with anarchists, living in squats, having regular dust ups with the Amsterdam rozzers and producing a radical newsletter - the Great Leap Forward. She laughed whenever they touched upon it, but her eyes always took on a certain light too. Red until she’s dead our Pauline, he thought, old school radical.
‘You down at the ‘rave’ tonight then Pauline?’
‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world Thomas, particularly if you promise to get up for Beyonce again.’
He laughed and coloured slightly.
‘Still got it eh Pauline?’
‘Well you have something Thomas - that’s for sure.’
They swapped some cursory info about his dad and he asked her
His mum gave him one of her slightly cow-eyed smiles, no doubt planning the bloody wedding invites. Darrin buried his irritation at the pair of them and made for the door.
It had been freezing all week and it felt like life outside of school, the Centre and Tommy had contracted to almost nothing. Junior had got in touch late on Thursday to let him know he was back in circulation and that he too hadn’t heard anything from M.
That evening Pasquale cycled down to M’s place, opened the front gate and wheeled his bike to the scratched up front door. There were no lights on and nobody home, he turned away, taking note of the brimming plastic bag that was propped up at the side of the house full of empties of Special Brew and a cask of wine. As he trudged back to M’s front gate the fat guy from next door was carefully parking his shit-box out in front of M’s house. The man wheezed his way out of the driver’s seat and gave Pasquale a bit of hairy eyeball then a watery smile of recognition.
‘After Matthew are yer lad?’
Fuck, the guy had a loud voice.
He nodded a yes.
‘Not seen him all week - Mum was in there last night, with that new bloke of hers. He’s from down Langford they reckon.’
‘Hmm OK - right.’ He mumbled back.
‘Got a job apparently!’
Pasquale looked quickly up at the fat man.
The guy looked at him and laughed, loudly.
‘The bloke lad, not bloody Matthew or his mum - bloody hell!’
Pasquale grimaced a half smile at the fat fucker’s merriment, the big man chortling happily as he waddled towards his brightly lit home.
He cycled away and returned straight home, his mum had made a shepherd’s pie and, with a little effort, he pushed M to the back of his mind.
He called Junior a little later on and told him about his unsuccessful visit, but Junior didn’t offer any comment or speculation. He could picture his friend shrugging his shoulders - one of Junior’s stock ‘what can yer do?’ mannerisms.
They agreed to go down to the Community Centre tomorrow - no M meant that they’d probably be straight and be straight in too and, besides, he was Tommy’s star pupil. Maybe Stella would be there, she’d been giving him a couple of looks at school and she was well tasty.
Tommy had finished his part of the Building Communities funding application early Friday morning and dropped it off to Pauline just before lunch.
‘What do you reckon to the chances then Pauline?’
‘No better than fifty-fifty I’d say Thomas, we have the advantage of the track record but given the bloody voracious Olympics - it’s no better than that I’m afraid.’
Tommy snorted softly. ‘People do love their circuses don’t they?’
Pauline nodded, it was an old chestnut of theirs, one that they were happy to regularly trot out and play with. Pauline had lived in Amsterdam for much of her twenties and while she was there she had had been involved in the city’s radical fringe politics. She’d shown him a batch of old photos at last year’s summer get together at her place; Pauline with dyedspiky hair and some fetching, if out there apparel. In most of the pictures she was pictured arm in arm with an intense looking bearded boyfriend who’d been a political prisoner in Chile. Pauline had spent almost a decade hanging out with anarchists, living in squats, having regular dust ups with the Amsterdam rozzers and producing a radical newsletter - the Great Leap Forward. She laughed whenever they touched upon it, but her eyes always took on a certain light too. Red until she’s dead our Pauline, he thought, old school radical.
‘You down at the ‘rave’ tonight then Pauline?’
‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world Thomas, particularly if you promise to get up for Beyonce again.’
He laughed and coloured slightly.
‘Still got it eh Pauline?’
‘Well you have something Thomas - that’s for sure.’
They swapped some cursory info about his dad and he asked her
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