When Mr. Dog Bites (27 page)

She didn’t answer, preferring to do more boaking and groaning.

“Can I do anything, Michelle? SLUT-FACE .
.
. Sorry.”

“Can’t you see I’m fucking dying here, Mint? What the fuck can you do?” Ah, a connection.

“Maybe I can get Miss Flynn,” I said.

“Do, and you’re fucking dead meat, Mint.”

“Why? She’ll be able to help.”

“Fuck her help.” Then she yanked it up again. Michelle Malloy was about the rudest, crudest person I knew, with a megaphone potty mouth. She was a riot. A buzz. Even in her dark moment of all puke and smelliness on her doggy knees, she was my dream girl. This girl needed the help of the D-Boy, Dylan Mint.

“What about some water?” I said.

“Do you have any?”

“Not on me, but I could go back in and get some,” I offered.

“Okay, but if you dare say anything to that spunk bucket Flynn, you’re a fucking dead man. Got it?”

“I won’t say a word, Michelle. Cross my heart promise.”

“Bring me two bottles.”

I ran as fast as anyone at Drumhill had ever run. I’d have won the school’s Senior Boys Sprint 60 Meters at a canter; it was in June, though, so another blinking thing up the swanny. What she didn’t know was that I’d swiped her Converse bag as well, in order to clean it. Not to rifle through her stuff. I s­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­o­ wanted to, but one thing you could say about Dylan Mint was that he was no Snoop Doggy Dogg.

“Two bottles of water, sir,” I said to Mr. Grant at the bar.

“We only sell vodka at this bar, young man,” he said, but this was no time for dafty role playing.

I didn’t want to be all RudeTube and scream “Hurry up, Grant, you shirt-lifter. This is a matter of life and death, man,” so I went along with it. “Okay, two big bottles of your finest vodka, and hurry it up, barkeep.”

He smiled and produced two bottles.

I swiped them, handed over the dosh, bolted to the bogs to scrub Michelle Malloy’s Converse bag, and ran back out with the water. I saw Amir dancing along to some boy-band song about, I presumed, one of their members who wanted his girl to return to him; he kept singing that he didn’t mean what he had done to the girl, and if she returned, it would be for forever this time. Likely bloody story, boy-band guy. The bold Amir was getting his spice on with the bold Priya, who was getting her own spice on. They were a spicy couple. He clocked me and gave me our sign that everything was A-okay. Two thumbs up. I returned only one thumb, as I had to hold the water, but he got the message. Amir was happy, which made me happy .
.
. and also a wee bit sad. But this was no time to eye-spy Amir and his chick getting their groove on—I had to split, rapido-style.

“Here! I ran as fast as I could, Michelle.” I handed her the bottle.

“Ta,” she said, putting her hand out.

I saw her face for the first time. Jiminy Cricket, it was like looking at the saddest clown in the circus: green eyeliner sprinting down the side of her face, red lippy smudged as though she’d been snogging a camel, black stuff all over her cheeks. Sweaty and bogging. Wowzers! Michelle Malloy in front of me on her knees, sweaty and bogging. Gulp-a-lulp. She still looked cute, though. She sank the first bottle of water down in two gulps. Impressive. She would definitely make it onto mine and Amir’s Fastest Drinker Challenger Team.

“STINKING FUCKING BAG.”

“Where’s my fucking bag, Mint?”

“Sorry, Michelle. I took it to the bogs and cleaned it up for you, in case it got all crusty and minging.” I handed her the bag. She grabbed it off me.

“Did you look inside it?”

“No.”

“Did you fucking look inside it, Mint?”

“No, I didn’t. FUCK YOUR BAG. SLUT.”

“You better not have.”

“I didn’t. Major promise.”

She reached out for the second bottle and started drinking. Out of nowhere the eureka moment hit me like a ping-pong ball on the temple.

Boom!

Michelle Malloy was wellied, steam boats, pished as a fart, trollied, blotto, bloottered, sozzled, wrecked, drunk.

“Have you been drinking, Michelle?” I asked her.

“What do you think, Einstein?”

“I’d say so.”

“It’s like being here with Jimmy McFuckingNulty.”

Aw, I got it. Doughnut had filled Michelle Malloy up with the booze he’d blagged from his dad.

“Did you drink some of Doughnut’s crapper?”

“What?”

“Did Doughnut give you the drink?”

“Why the fuck would Doughnut be giving me drink?”

“He had some earlier.”

“I wouldn’t even talk to that fat mong.”

“So did you buy it yoursel
f
?”

“What is this, Mint, the Spanish Inquisition?”

That stopped me in my tracks. What the Spanish had to do with Michelle Malloy being blitzed in Drumhill School’s playground in Glasgow had my head frazzled. I said nothing. I sat down beside her.

“If you really want to know, I was in the park,” she said.

“What park?”

“What the fuck does it matter, what park?”

“Just asking.”

“It had trees.” Her head wobbled and her speech slurred, but that could have been the effects of the medication she was on.

“I’d say you must have had a lobotomy, Michelle,” I said, trying to cheer her up.

“You don’t half talk shite, Mint. What are you on about now?”

“You said that you would only come to the Halloween disco if you’d had a lobotomy.” I smiled at her in my I’ve-got-your-card-marked-sister way.

“Am I in there?” she said, pointing to the gym hall.

“No.”

“Did you ever see me in there tonight?”

“No.” She hadn’t been in there tonight; I’d have fixed my peepers on her earlier if she had.

“Am I dressed up as anything?” She could have been, for all I knew. A lady of the night, for example.

“No. WHORE.”

“So then, I haven’t been to your fucking loser Halloween disco.”

“So why are you here, then?”

“I’m looking for someone.”

“Who?”

“You won’t know them.”

“How do you know I won’t?”

“Because they don’t go to this school.” Now, I’m not a forensic expert or a Detective Inspector or a Detective Chief Inspector or even CIA, but Michelle Malloy’s reason for being at the Halloween disco so she could search for her friend, who wouldn’t have been at the Halloween disco in the first place, sounded like a big giant juicy pork pie.

“That seems a bit Billy Bonkers.”

“Talk normal, Mint. You’re not a fucking baby.”

“It sounds weird that your friend, who doesn’t go to this school, would be at the Drumhill Halloween disco.”

“Did I say they were at the disco?”

“No.”

“Well, then.”

Then we did silence for a bit. I thought of going back in and finding Amir. Michelle Malloy put her head in her hands. “I’m fucked. I’m really fucked.”

“What do you mean? Are you okay?”

“I can’t go home in this state. My mom will go PURE apeshit.”

“You could sneak in through a window.”

“With these fucking legs?” She had a point. “I was supposed to be staying at my pal’s tonight, but she decided to fuck off with these two wankers we met at the park. I can’t find her, and now I’m fucked.”

“Was it those two wankers who gave you the drink?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you think your pal will be okay with those two ­wankers?”

“She’s going out with one of them, sort of.”

“That’s heavy-duty stuff,” I said.

Michelle Malloy still had her head in her hands.

“What did these two wankers give you to drink?”

“Buckfast and a toke of hash.” Then came my second eureka moment. A golf ball on the head this time.

“Were any of those wankers called Gaz or Fritz?”

Michelle Malloy lifted her napper. “Do you know them, Mint?”

“Not really, but I’ve bumped into them, and I can confirm that they are a couple of wankers.”

“Too right they are.”

“Why is your pal going out with one of them?”

“Because she’s mental.”

“But you said she doesn’t go here.”

“She doesn’t.”

“Is she at the normal school, then?”

“Yeah.”

“I hope she’ll be okay with the two wankers.”

“She’ll be fine. It’s me who’s fucked. I haven’t a clue what I’m going to do.”

“There must be something,” I said.

“There’s no fucking way I’m going home in this state.”

“What else are you going to do, Michelle?”

“Fuck knows, Mint. I suppose I’ll have to do an all-nighter.”

“What, stay out all night?”

“What else can I do?”

“But it’s freezing.”

“It’s a bit chilly.”

“You’ll freeze to death.”

“No, I won’t.”

“You only have a short skirt on and a pair of tights. You’ll die.”

“I’ll break into the school.”

“How?”

“I was going to sneak into the losers’ disco and just stay inside when everyone left.”

“You can’t do that.”

“Yes, I can.”

“You don’t even have a costume.”

“I’ll say I’m a drunk tramp.”

Then she puked again, yet nothing came out this time except a big worm of bile that hung from her mouth. I made a face to myself, because this was a rank yuck moment. I liked spending time with Michelle Malloy apart from the vomit, snot, sweat, and swearing. She was my kind of woman. She stopped puking.

“I’ll just tell that minge-face Flynn I’m dressed as a fucking spazzie student; then she’ll let me in.”

“Not in that state she won’t.”

“Thanks for the encouragement, Mint,” she said.

That was when I had my
third
eureka moment. A bowling-ball-full-force-in-the-face eureka moment.

“Why don’t you crash at mine?” I tried to whisper this question, because sixteen-year-old fellas don’t usually ask sixteen-year-old lassies to crash at theirs overnight. I wanted Michelle Malloy to think that I was dead sensitive and vulnerable and cute, that I was a Prince Charming trying to help a beautiful damsel in distress. But it wasn’t a whisper; it came out more like a “WHY DON’T YOU CRASH AT MINE?” scream, all aggressive and pervy.

Ohhhhhh, sugar shit, Mint!

What have you done, son?

Silence.

Stupid question.

Stupid idea.

Stupid me.

Michelle Malloy put her head between her legs and didn’t say anything for yonks. My head flicked from side to side; thankfully she couldn’t see me. Her head eventually came up from her lady area.

“What?” she said.

“What, what?”

“What did you ask me, Mint?”

“Well .
.
. I .
.
. erm .
.
. said .
.
. SHITBAG DYLAN .
.
.”

“Come on, stop hiding behind your condition. What did you just say there, Mint?” she asked again.

I heaved my chest and sucked in as much air as possible.

“I said, why don’t you just crash at mine?”

“Your gaf
f
?”

“Yes.” “Gaff” was such a brilliant word; I was raging I hadn’t used it. It seemed that Michelle Malloy liked cool words. I’d try much harder to use them too. “Yeah, my gaff,” I said.

She sniggered.

“I’m not joking, Michelle, honestly I’m not.”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m laughing.”

“Really, you can roll in my crib tonight if you want,” I said.

She laughed harder, which confused the bejesus out of me, because here I was offering to be a damn good bud to her, and it’s not polite to laugh when someone is offering to be a bud or to help you out when you’re in a tricky sticky situation.

“What shite are you talking about?”

We looked at each other. Not in a fantastic romantic way. More like two beasts ready for battle.

“You’re a fucking head-wrecker, Mint, you know that?” she said.

That was the straw that broke the donkey’s back. I came back all knives blazing. Dylan Mint turned from being a weak-arsed boy into a brave-arsed beast. Dad would have been boom-boom-booming with pride.

“Look, Michelle Malloy, I only offered to help you because you’re in a hell of a state. I mean, look at you. You’re so wrecked that you’re just like a burst couch, and your breath smells like an alkie’s carpet. If you dare try to go home in that nick, your old dear will blow her gasket and maybe chuck you out for good, and you’ll have to live on the streets and sleep in a cardboard box and sell
The
Big Issue
outside grocery stores
in order to buy your drugs and cider. And all because you refused my offer to crash at my crib. If you want to look a gift horse in the teeth, then it’s your loss. But don’t say that I didn’t try.” At that point I was just getting ready to go back into the Halloween disco and strut some stuff.