cold away.
He put his hands in his pockets. Lonely without Jamal.
But the cash compensated. And much as he liked Jamal, he knew which he would prefer to have with him.
He looked down the street, waiting for the Saab to come round again, noticed a potential customer. A big, well-muscled man. Shaved head. Bag slung over his shoulder. He drew near, almost level.
And Dean recognized him.
‘Aw shit, man,’ Dean said. ‘What you want now?’
The man stopped walking, put his hands in front of him, palms up, like he was in an old war movie, surrendering.
‘It’s all right,’ he said, ‘I’m not here on business. I’m not going to ask you anything.’
‘Yeah?’ said Dean warily. ‘I told you I ain’t heard from Jamal. Don’t know where he is.’
The man smiled. There was that blue tooth again. The one Dean couldn’t take his eyes off. The one that gave him the creeps.
‘That’s OK,’ said the skinhead. ‘I’m not looking for him any more.’
‘Yeah? Then what d’you want?’
He pulled something out of his trouser pocket. A fifty-pound note.
‘I’ve come to see you.’
Dean smiled, relaxed slightly at the sight of the money. ‘Well, that’s different, innit? Where d’you wanna go? You gotta car?’
The man shook his head.
‘Have to be the hotel, then.’ Dean made to walk away. ‘Come—’
‘Not the hotel.’
‘Where, then?’
‘I’ve got somewhere in mind.’
And there was that smile again. That creepy smile. Dean became uneasy. The fifty was waved in his face.
‘Here,’ Spooky Tooth said. ‘That’s upfront. There’ll be another one afterwards.’
Dean plucked the note, smiled. That went a long way towards calming his fears.
‘After you,’ he said.
Dean was led up York Way, past old warehouses turned into bars and nightclubs, down a set of narrow concrete steps towards the canal.
‘You got a name, then?’
‘Alan,’ said the man after a moment’s thought.
‘Alan it is.’
Weeds, cans, needles and other detritus were strewn on the towpath and the embankment. Inner-city flowers. Occasional rusting shopping trolleys and bicycles rose from the water, looking in the darkness like ancient sea serpents, sunken cities. The overhead lights were bulbless, the walls graffitied and tagged. Under the bridge’s arch and beyond, shadows consumated furtive lusts. Rats scavenged around them. Dean knew the place, had used it before.
‘I know a good spot. Come on.’
He led Dean away from the lights of the main road, the thump of the bars and nightclubs no more than a distant heartbeat. Derelict, half-demolished buildings fronted an even more barren part of the canal. Desolate. Deserted. Even the rats were absent.
Alan led him into one of the old buildings. Dean shivered from more than the cold. The place had a bad atmosphere. Like something horrific had once happened there and the echoes could still be felt.
‘I like somewhere with a bit of atmosphere,’ he said, fronting, thinking of the other fifty-pound note, wondering what he would have to do for it.
Alan smiled. Said nothing. Undid his belt, began to open his jeans.
‘Come on, Dean,’ he said. ‘You should be doing this. It’s what I’m paying you for.’
Dean kneeled down before him, began unbuttoning. He found Alan’s already hardening penis, pulled it out. Felt along the shaft. Then stopped, gasping.
‘Fuckin’ ’ell, what’s that?’
Alan smiled. ‘You like it? Ten millimetres thick. Three centimetres wide.’ Pride in his tone.
Augmented by metal, it felt like some medieval instrument of torture.
‘Does that hurt?’
‘No,’ said Alan, a small note of sadness in his voice. ‘Not even when you pull it.’ He placed his hands on the back of Dean’s head, forced him forward. ‘So pull it.’
Dean got to work. It was difficult. He couldn’t breathe through his mouth. And it hurt his fillings. Alan was shuffling about, too, which made it hard to concentrate. He was about to stop, say
He put his hands in his pockets. Lonely without Jamal.
But the cash compensated. And much as he liked Jamal, he knew which he would prefer to have with him.
He looked down the street, waiting for the Saab to come round again, noticed a potential customer. A big, well-muscled man. Shaved head. Bag slung over his shoulder. He drew near, almost level.
And Dean recognized him.
‘Aw shit, man,’ Dean said. ‘What you want now?’
The man stopped walking, put his hands in front of him, palms up, like he was in an old war movie, surrendering.
‘It’s all right,’ he said, ‘I’m not here on business. I’m not going to ask you anything.’
‘Yeah?’ said Dean warily. ‘I told you I ain’t heard from Jamal. Don’t know where he is.’
The man smiled. There was that blue tooth again. The one Dean couldn’t take his eyes off. The one that gave him the creeps.
‘That’s OK,’ said the skinhead. ‘I’m not looking for him any more.’
‘Yeah? Then what d’you want?’
He pulled something out of his trouser pocket. A fifty-pound note.
‘I’ve come to see you.’
Dean smiled, relaxed slightly at the sight of the money. ‘Well, that’s different, innit? Where d’you wanna go? You gotta car?’
The man shook his head.
‘Have to be the hotel, then.’ Dean made to walk away. ‘Come—’
‘Not the hotel.’
‘Where, then?’
‘I’ve got somewhere in mind.’
And there was that smile again. That creepy smile. Dean became uneasy. The fifty was waved in his face.
‘Here,’ Spooky Tooth said. ‘That’s upfront. There’ll be another one afterwards.’
Dean plucked the note, smiled. That went a long way towards calming his fears.
‘After you,’ he said.
Dean was led up York Way, past old warehouses turned into bars and nightclubs, down a set of narrow concrete steps towards the canal.
‘You got a name, then?’
‘Alan,’ said the man after a moment’s thought.
‘Alan it is.’
Weeds, cans, needles and other detritus were strewn on the towpath and the embankment. Inner-city flowers. Occasional rusting shopping trolleys and bicycles rose from the water, looking in the darkness like ancient sea serpents, sunken cities. The overhead lights were bulbless, the walls graffitied and tagged. Under the bridge’s arch and beyond, shadows consumated furtive lusts. Rats scavenged around them. Dean knew the place, had used it before.
‘I know a good spot. Come on.’
He led Dean away from the lights of the main road, the thump of the bars and nightclubs no more than a distant heartbeat. Derelict, half-demolished buildings fronted an even more barren part of the canal. Desolate. Deserted. Even the rats were absent.
Alan led him into one of the old buildings. Dean shivered from more than the cold. The place had a bad atmosphere. Like something horrific had once happened there and the echoes could still be felt.
‘I like somewhere with a bit of atmosphere,’ he said, fronting, thinking of the other fifty-pound note, wondering what he would have to do for it.
Alan smiled. Said nothing. Undid his belt, began to open his jeans.
‘Come on, Dean,’ he said. ‘You should be doing this. It’s what I’m paying you for.’
Dean kneeled down before him, began unbuttoning. He found Alan’s already hardening penis, pulled it out. Felt along the shaft. Then stopped, gasping.
‘Fuckin’ ’ell, what’s that?’
Alan smiled. ‘You like it? Ten millimetres thick. Three centimetres wide.’ Pride in his tone.
Augmented by metal, it felt like some medieval instrument of torture.
‘Does that hurt?’
‘No,’ said Alan, a small note of sadness in his voice. ‘Not even when you pull it.’ He placed his hands on the back of Dean’s head, forced him forward. ‘So pull it.’
Dean got to work. It was difficult. He couldn’t breathe through his mouth. And it hurt his fillings. Alan was shuffling about, too, which made it hard to concentrate. He was about to stop, say
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