Friction (11 page)

‘How are you, Mrs Stott?' says the shopkeeper as she arrives at the till.

‘Oh, I'm fine, dear, thank you,' says the old lady, skin dripping from her wrist like time.

How awful of me, thinks Johnny. I've spoiled this lovely moment of community and charity by bringing a picture
of a naked girl to the counter – a girl who wants to be fucked like a dog. What's the old woman thinking? Am I destroying her faith in society? Is this the final straw? Will she think, ‘Two magazines? Seems a little excessive,' and lose all her faith in life, humanity and youth? Will she go home and throw herself down the stairs and smash her body to pieces? Johnny looks down at the little old creature; it has clearly noticed the magazines. He stares into her eyes. They look as hard as rock; turned to stone by nearly a century of stimulus.

‘Disgusting,' she murmurs. ‘Absolutely disgusting.'

Fine. ‘Disgusting' I can deal with, thinks Johnny. It
is
disgusting. A girl being fucked like a dog, pretending to be younger than she is, it's tantamount to paedophilia. I agree, he thinks, it is disgusting, fine. He turns to the shopkeeper for judgement. That's what he wants, he's standing by his choices. Fucking judge me. Make up your mind, you shopkeeping cow.
Razzle
.
Just 18
. How much? How bad? I don't mind. I might just go home and fuck this girl like a dog. I might just decide I want to come on her back – grant her wish. Try and stop me, you silly little Asian woman with your superstitions and your wonderful work ethic. Sell me these fucking magazines!

‘Four pounds forty-five please, sir.' The shopkeeper is smiling politely. Johnny hands her a five-pound note. He feels as if blood might be leaking from his ears. ‘Would you like a bag?' she asks.

‘Yes, please,' says Johnny. The shopkeeper tears a plastic bag from a large stack under the counter. She shakes it open and gestures to Johnny to help her pack his porn: she holds it open wide as he places the two magazines inside. This is like history, thinks Johnny. An
entente cordiale
between the
repulsive, sex-obsessed West, and wherever this woman's from. Some little recess in the East. We should go for a drink, thinks Johnny. We could fuck. Yes. You could diet – make your body a little less unfathomable. We could get together, date for a while, talk world peace, age, race, culture. What we need is more harmony. Yes. Pink socks. Help. You could cook curry. Help. Like a dog. On her back. Help. Help, you exotic bitch, I need you, help me. Rebecca?

‘Goodbye.'

‘Goodbye.'

Johnny walks to the door, his thoughts tripping each other up in his head. The cool air high-fives him, he gasps, back in the land of the living. It feels like freedom, what an adventure, I should be knighted, hahahahaha, oh God, oh God, my mind's on fire, water, water. He walks quickly in the direction of Kingswood Road.

‘I'm football crazy, I'm football mad,' sings Johnny, to himself. Delirious. Swinging the carrier bag back and forth in his left hand. You see, he has an idea that may cause Zakir to crack. An idea that might make Zakir angry and turn his brain into a sex milkshake. Johnny's brain is a sex milkshake. And you and me, well, we'd fuck anything that moved, wouldn't we?

‘I'm football crazy, I'm football mad, duh duh duh dah, duh dah duh dah duh dah!' sings Johnny, as he passes a gaggle of denim youths.

Johnny has a plan to crack Zakir. If someone else were present on this occasion, you or me, for example, or both of us, we'd probably try to stop him. We'd grab his shoulder and bring him to a stop on the pavement. We'd try to make it clear that Zakir is a clever young man who doubtless has an admirable degree of self-awareness regarding his own
sexuality. We'd say that Zakir is probably very much aware of the state of global sexuality in general. We'd make Johnny listen, show him he's being rather inane and insulting, encourage him to use the porno himself, but not to bother Zakir. You need to resolve your feelings for Rebecca, we'd say, presumably that's what's provoking all this. If he wasn't for reasoning with, then eventually, one of us would have to shout: ‘For fuck's sake, Johnny, don't even think about putting
Razzle
under Zakir's pillow! Do not do it!'

But sadly, he's on his own and on his way; key in the front door, turning, making straight for the stairs, lest the element of surprise be lost.

‘Hey, Johnny, come and watch the match, it's nil–nil, fuggin amazing.'

‘Hi, Zakir.' You invincible little shit. You stupid Mr Universe. You boring bastard with your mind of calm and contented thoughts; drones that stand in single file waiting to be used. Ever heard of emotions and agony? thinks Johnny, idiotically, as he silently pushes the door to Zakir's bedroom open and creeps towards the bed. Let's see how this goes down your annoying Indian throat, shall we? Let's see how you handle these girls, Zakir. They'll eat you alive. They'll show you how hard it is to be white, idle, Western and young. They'll tell you what a hero I am, for keeping things together and not buckling under the pressure of sex; its temptresses, creators, doers and sellers. Time to be led into temptation, Zakir. It's time you learned to see in the dark.

The cover photo of
Razzle
is taken from above the girl, as if the cameraman had stood on a chair and pointed the camera down at her. ‘Shoot your mess on my tits and face,' says the girl, or that's how the caption reads, at least. She
means it, too, thinks Johnny, her cruel eyes looking up at his. He slips the magazine under Zakir's pillow. Wait there, girls, then paint his brain red as he sleeps. Having hidden the porn, Johnny darts into his own room and deposits
Just 18
among the pants and socks in his underwear drawer. I'll leave it there for later. I'll come to bed later and masturbate over my favourite pictures, flicking between the best pages with my left hand. Johnny must think something like this because that's exactly what he does. Later on, in about an hour or so, I think. I think, he must, I think.

Johnny returns to the living room. Zakir is sitting on the floor eating a remarkably well-cooked meal. He shares his attention equally between the television and Edward Said's seminal text,
Orientalism
.

‘Hey, man, sit down. It's fuggin tense.' Zakir gestures to the sofa with his left hand, adding a little seasoning to his dinner with his right.

‘Who's winning?' enquires Johnny, his mind on nothing but the girl in the pink socks and her desire to be fucked like a dog.

‘It's nil–nil. England are fuggin terrible.'

‘Right. Are you working tomorrow, Zakir?'

‘Not tomorrow, no, Thursday. Tomorrow I'm going to Oldham for a conference on the relationship between British democracy and racial minorities.'

‘Oh right, democracy.'

‘Yes.'

‘Yeh, yeh.'

‘Oh my God what a fuggin miss!' On television, a stocky player with a cramped and mischievous face balloons the ball over the bar. He turns and swears loudly at the sky. The camera zooms in. Zakir turns to Johnny with a look
of shocked joy smudged all over his cute little face. Johnny makes a mental note: I've become a twat.

If Zakir takes offence, Johnny will claim that he thought he was acting in Zakir's best sexual interests. He will claim that he felt that Zakir had hinted that he might want to look at a porn magazine, that it was all a very unfortunate misunderstanding. A practical joke. They aren't friends, there is nothing to lose. But, nevertheless, Johnny tries to think of ways in which his actions might be considered to be a practical joke. It's unlikely. Zakir will most likely be offended, or, at best, perplexed. One thing is for sure: it is a reckless and cruel decision that has resulted in
Razzle
resting under Zakir's pillow. This house on Kingswood Road will never be the same again.

‘Yeeeeeeeesssssssssssss! Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeessssssssssss!' screams Zakir, first at the TV and then at Johnny. A goal, a goal, a goal. He goes football crazy, football mad. Neither of them realises that they are, in effect, entering the final minutes of their naff friendship. Zakir dances around the living room. He grabs Johnny by the wrists and tries to lead him in a merry dance. Johnny's brain disconnects from his skull and gets lodged in his neck. Upstairs, under Zakir's pillow, inside the poor porno, the girls wait, pussies prised. Mental note: total twat.

Tonight the porn mag will poison the house with honesty, bad taste and ignorant reality. Nothing will be said, or openly discussed, but the innocent porno will give birth to silence and tension. Pointlessness will reign and Johnny will cower in a bad light. Zakir will discover the glossed pages and flick through them in disbelief. Johnny, he will think, this could only have been Johnny. Tomorrow, Johnny will notice fire in Zakir's eyes. He will fear retribution, an act
of domestic terrorism; a toaster in the bath, a knife in the back.

Zakir will leave the house within the month to live with someone else. A kinder, cleverer, more articulate person, he hopes. I imagine.

Johnny is a nobody.

Tonight he will have his first sex with a porno. Dramatic masturbation. Amateur romance.

But Johnny is a nobody.

A story.

Forget it.

COLIN PLACES HIS
beer on the table and takes a seat next to Boy 2, opposite Boy 1. The three of them often meet for drinks after work. When it's sunny, like today, they come to Deansgate Locks, to The Bar, or Revolution. It's nice to sit outside as the sun sets. It's a lovely activity.

The initial motivation for these after-work drinks was an attempt to replicate American leisure. If television is to be believed, which it is, then Americans enjoy carelessly rendezvousing with buddies after work to discuss labour, love and each other. All three lads secretly admire the brightly coloured people on American television. All of them are tied to specific establishments where they're known and can enjoy themselves by bantering with their friends. A coffeehouse, a bar, a bowling alley. Anywhere that a micro-community can be fostered and a sense of optimism and friendship can be allied to the sale of snacks and drinks.

Naturally, the efforts of Boy 2, Boy 1 and Colin never quite achieve the delightful and hilarious heights of American
friendships. And, of course, they can hardly compete with relationships depicted on TV, only aspire to them. But they enjoy these moments nonetheless, particularly when the sun is out and they can think of things to talk about.

There is something in Colin's eye. He pulls at the lower lid then plunges his finger right into the corner where a small triangle of red exists. It's gone. He blinks and stares down at the canal which runs alongside the bars and restaurants of Deansgate Locks. He hasn't touched his beer. Boy 1 and Boy 2 discuss the match.

‘I only saw the second half.'

‘They should have lost. England were fucking shit.'

My God, England is relaxed. It's like the chill-out room of an unfashionable club. Boy 1 and Boy 2 discuss a dubious case of offside in last night's game. Colin drifts. He doesn't listen when Boy 2 claims to have fingered a girl in the pub in which he watched the match. ‘Under the table,' Boy 2 explains, ‘I finger-fucked her.' But no one ever believes Boy 2. He's a dick.

Around 1992, some scholars suggest that History has come to an end. In 2001, however, the issue of global terror nudged History back to life. Nowadays, it proceeds in unspectacular fairy steps. Political periods come and go, offering crises, war and upheaval, but they lack dynamism and impact. They do nothing to stem the drip-drip of neutered, empty time. We're quietly drowning. Help. Items on the news will always try and garner evidence to the contrary, but it just isn't true. They find evidence of escalating drug abuse, depression, terror, clashes of civilisations and political dissatisfaction, but most viewers are alienated by this culture of doom and gloom. The shiny lives led by the living contrast awkwardly with the forecasting of apocalypse and societal collapse. Nobody sees it coming.

It was in America and Germany from 1890 to 1915 that industrial innovators invented methods aimed at increasing the energy efficiency of their work force. The aim was to make work less tiring and give workers enough energy to approach their leisure time with vigour and imagination. The plan worked. It spread across Europe. As the twenty-first century irons its shirt, checks its hair and prepares to go out pubbing and clubbing, leisure time is the only real time. Very few people break a sweat at work. Most get dangerously bored, but few find themselves lacking in enthusiasm when it comes to charging headlong into a period of leisure. Leisure is what people live for, what people do, how people behave and how they wear themselves out.

‘I swear, she let me. My finger stank of fish.'

Take the three gentlemen at this table, sipping expensive lager and twitching self-consciously in response to small changes in their environment. All three watch in silence as new sets of people come and go. They strain to hear the conversations of others around them. They're fascinated, surprisingly ignorant of the ways in which other people pass their time.

For Boys 1 and 2, situations like this still possess a sexual dimension. They starve after the flesh that tenses and perspires around them: the businesswomen in grey suits and shiny shoes. The beautiful girls who come from the salons and boutiques of the city centre in search of eligible men with money, style and good cars. Boy 1 has eyes capable of burning the clothes off passing girls. A one-track mind. Laser lust. A reflex to incorporate these strangers into a thousand fantasies, contort them into innumerable shapes.

For Colin, of course, the situation is different. He stays
alert. His thoughts shudder and shake. His brain threatens to send him spinning round sabotaging these sick, sick women. These dead and buried men. Colin makes do, spends time cautiously, relax, relax.