Southsiders (12 page)

“Twelve pounds mate,” the guy said.

Jesse passed over a brown and a blue and swung the tree over his shoulder. “Keep the change.” It made the purchase seem like even more of a luxury, but Jesse didn’t mind. For now he felt like it was his mission to pass on goodwill to all men, women, children and animals.

“Happy Christmas, sir,” the guy said, and Jesse wandered home under a gathering storm feeling like he’d grown up overnight.

*

T
here was something about the door to his flat that made Jesse stop and think before putting his key into the lock. On the chrome handle were greasy finger marks and they’d definitely not been there when he’d left. His first thought was that the postman might have called and tried the handle, but that didn’t explain the new smell. The aroma of stale sweat, alcohol and cigarette smoke bore more resemblance to the doorway of the Southie than to his stairwell.

The smell only got stronger inside.

Instinctively Jesse dropped the tree, went straight into the kitchen and took the big chopping knife from the block. He gripped the handle tightly in his fist then he remembered the way James Dean used his blade in
Rebel Without A Cause
, directed by Nicholas Ray back in 1955 for Warner Brothers – First National Pictures. He relaxed his grip to see how that felt.

It was all about being able to manipulate the knife rather than just stab with it. His dad had told him that. Taught him how to prod and flick so that an assailant would never know where he was coming from next.

The big knife didn’t allow for that. He put it back in the block and swapped it for one of the smaller ones. That one felt just fine.

He went into the living room. The fairy lights were flashing, just like before he’d gone out for the tree and the laptop was still on the coffee table. He stepped back out and tried his room. Nothing more than a neatly made bed, his posters and books.

The bathroom was as immaculate as he’d left it, the glint of the mirror a testament to the polishing of the day before.

Only place he still needed to check was the main bedroom. The door was open a crack, but there was no light coming from it.

Jesse tiptoed over and listened. When he took his final steps, he heard a noise. It was the snuffling of an animal and a pretty big one by the sound of it.

A shudder of revulsion passed through him, followed by the pimpling of his skin. Depending on the creature, one knife might not be enough.

He went back to the kitchen. From the cupboard he took out the rubber gloves he used when he was cleaning in case he had to handle something ugly. After he’d put them on, he rummaged around in the drawer until he found the apron his mum wore when she baked. Last time he could remember her making a cake was a few birthdays ago and it looked like there was still some of the mix on the front of it when he put it on. It was one of those comedy tabards that was supposed to make the wearer look like a fat old lady in the nude, the boobs sagging down to the tummy button and a wooden spoon carefully positioned to block out the V of her pubic hair. Sad thing was, when his mum wore it the joke wasn’t at all funny, just made it look like she’d popped out of the bath. To finish off, he took another chopping knife from the block.

Double-handed, he went back to the bedroom and listened. The snuffling noises were still there and nothing seemed to be moving.

If it were a sleeping dog, Jesse decided it would be better to let it lie. He gently pushed his way in using his shoulder so that his weapons were ready for action.

First thing he noticed were the records tossed around on the floor. He thought immediately of Tony Fish, breaking in and robbing him. The guy had his address, after all, as well as the inside track on the kind of vinyl gems that were in the flat. “The sneaky bastard,” Jesse muttered under his breath.

Which was just the moment when he realised it wasn’t Fish after all.

Sprawled there on the bed was the large, twisted figure of his dad.

Jesse felt his head fill with steam, the pressure building until he wanted to let it out either as a scream or as tears. His body temperature escalated until it came close to matching his heart-rate, about two-hundred per, he reckoned. It might have been joy that he was feeling, but it might equally have been fury. Most likely a mixture of the two, a cocktail of emotions that always seemed ready to combust when they came together.

His dad lay still, his angular body on the crumpled duvet, his boots still on his feet and getting things all grubby. His snuffling was filling the air with the unpleasant stench of stale booze. When Jesse got closer, he noticed the marks on his father’s face. First off there was the dried blood that had crusted around the base of his nostrils. Next there was the swelling on the side of his mouth, blue and lumpy, as though he’d walked into a wrecking ball. To cap off the look, there were three scratches down his cheek. The wounds were red and sore-looking and were deep enough to make Jesse wince at the sight. They made a strange collection, those cuts and bruises. The scratches had a feminine aura, mainly because he didn’t think that blokes did that kind of thing to each other. The lumps, on the other hand, seemed full of the wrath of testosterone. If his dad had been attacked by a couple, things might be explained away. Or if he’d been attacking a woman and a hero stepped in to save the day, it would also make sense. If it was just the single assailant, though, there was only woman he knew who could punch like a heavyweight.

The image of his mother shook him back to the situation at hand. He looked at the way his dad’s head was lolling down by his record collection, as if he’d been looking through it for something. Elvis most likely. “That’s All Right”, which of course it wasn’t any more.

Jesse knew immediately that whatever he was feeling, identifying the emotion would have to wait. What mattered most was that he got the records back from Tony Fish before his father woke up. By the looks of things, the only saving grace was that he had time on his side.

––––––––

W
hen he got to the door of the pawnbroker’s Jesse pulled up his buff and made sure his hood was tied tight at the bottom. It was going to be a quick in-and-out job as far as he was concerned, but there was no point making things difficult by getting himself recognised.

He checked his bag to make sure he had everything. He had the two knives from the flat, as well as a hammer, just in case the shop was closed and he had to go through the glass.

Happy it was all going to be a breeze, Jesse pushed open the door and walked quickly to the counter.

It was the kind of thing he saw planned on the TV all the time. Go straight in, look at no one, do the job in hand and leave as quickly as possible. The only difference to watching things happen on the box was the buzz that was coursing through his veins as if his blood cells had suddenly mutated and become radio-active.

The adrenaline was doing its job well, keeping Jesse focussed. He saw the record on the shelf behind the counter through the gap between buff and hood and went straight to it. His eyes were focussed on the sunbursts of the cover and nothing else. He saw his hands reach out and grab the disk. Felt the reassuring cold of the card and the rim of the hard vinyl underneath.

Taking it away with him was a piece of piss.

Or it would have been if he hadn’t felt a grip of steel at his wrist. The grip gave a tiny twist, enough to bend Jesse’s bones around unnaturally as if they were about to break. The idea of his arm snapping was enough to get him to drop the record, which is when he felt the pain. It burned a little, but he’d felt worse.

Through the slit of his vision, he looked down and was able to see the reason for the change of events. Holding on to his arm was an enormous hand, the kind that might have demolished houses or slapped giants. “Ow,” he shouted, then, “Ouch. Get off me.”

The hand tightened its grip, sending pins and needles to Jesse’s fingers. It seemed to be a situation where neither fight nor flight would be enough. He’d need to do one and then the other in quick succession. With an arm out of action and the other flailing about uselessly, he went at the captor with his teeth. His incisors took hold and tightened. The bones and blood vessels of the knuckle made it hard for him to latch on. He ended up with a flap of skin in his mouth and bit as hard as he could. He tasted the iron of the blood and bit harder.

Another hand, just like the one Jesse was eating, grabbed his coat by the back of the hood and lifted him off the floor. Jesse’s legs kicked out, but all that achieved was to send him circling in the air. The bag he’d taken with him banged against his thigh as if it was calling out to him. He managed to steady himself, reached into the bag and got his hands on the handle of the smaller knife. He slashed the blade wildly, not really sure what he was aiming for.

After slicing the air a couple of times, he managed to connect. Felt the knife work through a resistance of some sort.

The body at the end of the arms began bobbing up and down, then coughing out a laugh that was deeper than the king singing “I Got A Woman” live in Memphis back in ‘74. “Bloody hell, Jesse. It’s true what they say about fathers and sons then, is it?”

The panic flowed through Jesse’s body at the speed of light, touching all of his nerves and reflexes and making them jump wildly like mutant spaghetti. He’d been caught on the rob, used a weapon and there was no way he was getting the record back to his dad before he woke up. “Fuck.” His body slumped and flopped now he knew the game was up.

“You bloody Spaldings,” the deep voice said. “You’re a bunch of nutters, ken?”

It was another of those questions that didn’t seem to require an answer.

“I thought your dad was crazy until I met your mum.” Jesse felt himself being lowered and then his feet touched the ground and he gratefully took his bearings from the floorboards. “You don’t really want to be waving that knife around anymore, do you, Jesse?” The voice slowed, becoming softer and oddly gentle.

Jesse opened his hand and dropped the knife.

“That’s better, pal,” the voice said. The muckle hand that held Jesse’s coat relaxed. It took hold of the hood and pulled it down, leaving Jesse feeling exposed. Lurch’s face came into view, not more than a couple of inches from his own. The scar, underneath the right eye and running down to the corner of the mouth, looked more horrific up close than it usually did. Gave Jesse a sense of how deep the wound must have been to leave such a gash. Sent a shiver down his spine and into his groin. “I’m going to let go now,” Lurch began. “What I need you to do is agree that you’ll stand still and leave that knife where it is. You got that?”

Jesse nodded his head quickly, hoping that the message would be clearer if he made the effort.

The enormous hand let go of his wrist and Lurch took a step backwards.

On the floor between them lay the record and the knife. Jesse looked at each of them. Wondered whether he should make a grab for either or both. Before he could decide, Lurch bent down and picked them up. “You knew the deal, Jesse. We take the goods and give you money. That’s what we do. Taking them back without paying first isn’t part of the contract.”

Lurch didn’t stand up all the way. Instead, he stopped at Jesse’s level and stared right at him. “But if you’re in trouble, I’m sure we can come to some agreement.”

The story poured out of Jesse’s mouth while the tears dripped from his eyes. The words seemed to be too quick to be understood by any mortal, but Lurch just kept looking and listening, nodding as if he was taking every bit of it in. “And if I don’t get the record back, it’ll break his heart.”

“Why didn’t you say? That seems like extenuating circumstances to me.” Lurch offered the record to Jesse. Instead of taking it, Jesse just stared at it. “Go on. Take it. It won’t bite. I’ll square it with Uncle, don’t you mind about that.” Jesse still couldn’t bring himself to reach out. “Do it quick, boy. Before I change my mind.”

That was all the prompting Jesse needed. He snatched the disk from the hand and as soon as he had it in his possession, turned and ran towards the door.

“You tell your dad Danny Boy says hello.” Lurch had changed his accent into something that sounded like one of those Glasgow cops on the telly. “Tell him any time he wants back into the fold,” he said, “we’ve always got time for the strays.” He laughed again, the depth of his tone making Jesse’s eardrums vibrate.

Jesse didn’t stop to hear any more. Wanted to forget Danny Boy and Uncle and his ticket and get the hell back home. He bolted as soon as he was back on the street and ran until his heart and lungs decided they’d had enough action for one day.

––––––––

R
ay's eyes weren't managing to focus on anything. Lying across the bed, he'd flicked through his records looking for his stars, but they didn't seem to be there. Panic gripped his heart and was then loosened by a bigger sensation. His Solid Gold section was barely bronze anymore.

The pain in his head seemed too big for his skull. Ray wondered how it managed to squeeze in there. He needed it to go away and quickly.

Moving only made it worse, added razor cuts to the package, so he lay still with his eyes tightly shut and clutched a pillow to his stomach.

It wasn't long before he started to drift, like a boat cut loose from its moorings. Pictures played on the inside of his eyelids. He watched them as best he could in as far as he could focus.

What he saw was a mixture of dreams and reality, the lines between them so totally blurred that he couldn't tell one from the other. The special effects and bizarre lighting his brain was throwing in only served to confuse things further.

He could see himself sitting in the kebab house on the bridges. Paula was there with him. She wasn't the Paula he'd come to know, but the lady he'd fallen in love with. Her black hair was cut into a shiny bob that was held neatly in place with hair slides and decorated with a blue flower that brought out the azure her eyes. And she was smiling.