Friday Night Street, Ch8-10

PART TWO



8



I don’t have a job, and if I did I wouldn’t be any good at it anyway. I’m no tool for some power-tripping prickface. You’ll see. All those arseholes with a name badge, a key chain, or an area pass, they’re just idiots that never got over missing out on being school prefects, like little Hitler’s waiting for a chance to tell somebody they’re important. That they matter. Tossers.

If you want to know how I eat, I’ll tell you. Yeah, I’ve done a bit of tea-leafing, but that’s all behind me now. I’m what the history teacher at school would have called a hunter-gatherer. Only I’m not out chasing bison and spearing fucking warthogs. I hunt for stuff people don’t want, gather it up, and flog it off to others that do. You’d be amazed at how much plastic and metal junk people throw out just because it’s lost its gloss, even though it functions just as well as the shiny new one they’ve gone and paid a month’s wages for.

Take fridges, for instance. Stick a new seal round the door, overhaul the pump if needs be, and it’ll keep stuff just as cold as any other. Still, that’s not why people buy new kitchen whites is it? The problem I’ve got with scavenging fridges is they’re big, and they’re heavy, and that means sticking them in a motor. No thanks.

I keep it simple. Computers are my favourite. You can just rip out the innards – power supply, drives, cards the lot – and leave the case behind. Sometimes I’ll sell the bits, or buy a coloured plastic box and piece all the hardware together. My mate Ian showed me how to solder up a motherboard and plug in the bits, it’s a piece of piss. I let him put the software on, I haven’t got the patience for all that crap. He shifts them at boot fairs and online auctions, and we split the proceeds. I’m not fat rich, but I’m not starving either.

         Well, not in the monetary sense, but I am bloody tired of waiting for me breakfast, which seems to be taking forever. I’ve been out of the hospital for about a week, and now I’m sitting in the caff with a skinny little bird called Pepsi. I took her home from the pub last night and we did the dog. I see she’s got ‘Blade’ tattoed down by her muff.

“What’s that all about,” I ask her, “ex-boyfriend?”

“A warning,’’ she says, “to anyone that’s not invited.”

She’s no great looker, but what I like about Pepsi is she’s got balls. She says she needs a man like an all-day breakfast, just to fill a hole. She’s not one of these dopey little tarts looking for a meal ticket. I respect that.

She tells me she used to be real fat, but now can eat whatever she likes and doesn’t have to worry about the pounds. I ask her how come.

“Secret,” she says, “I only tell them that’s closest to me.”

The breakfasts still haven’t come and I’m getting tetchy. I ask the old dear behind the counter how long it’s gonna be, but she just gives me a sour look and doesn’t answer. Miserable old tart.

“I’ll have another tea, then,” I say, making the point that this one is long empty, “while we’re waiting. Make it two, cheers.” Another withering look before she takes the mugs and starts pouring the brown char, so bloodly slow it’s like someone’s switched her onto power-saving mode or something.

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist,” says Pepsi, “it’s good to wait for your food sometimes.”

“How’d you figure?”

She gives me a little smile and a shrug, but no answer. She’s definitely got her oddities. Like last night, she wakes me up, it’s not even six in the bloody morning yet. She wants to know which way the sun is going to come up.

“What the fuck for?” I say.

That shrug and smile thing again.

“Just wanna see the sunrise.”

“Over there, I think. You’ll have to go in the kitchen and look out the back window.”

Then she goes and spends the next fifteen minutes in the bathroom and misses the whole thing.

“Never mind,” she says smiling when she comes out. She gets on top of me and we do the dog again.

Birds, who can figure them? Not me.



Now I told her the story last night while we was in the pub. It wasn’t exactly a chat up line, but there’s nothing like a good yarn to keep a bird interested. She wants to know about Dickie and what he’s done after pencil weed and Brian have high-tailed it, but it’s a long story, too long for a breakfast, I say. She reminds me we’re still waiting.

Well, Dickie’s sitting in a bedroom with some geezer I’d never heard of at this point by the name of Bald Graham, and then there’s old Buddhist George, slouched half-comatosed in the corner trying to build a spliff. The other two are cutting up lines, paying him no mind and waiting for the party to start. Dickie’s heard the bell go for the millionth time and wondered why they didn’t just leave the door on the latch. The pigs wouldn’t turn up in this neighbourhood, for sure.

Two minutes later there’s a knock on the door.

“It’s Stuart,” a voice says.

“Jesus, what is that fucking prick doing here? He’s supposed to be sitting tight,”  Dickie says to himself as much as to Bald Graham.

“What do you want?” Dickie says disgruntled, half-opening the door.

“And who’s he?” pointing at the old fag-looking bloke he’s got in toe.

“No one. A friend. Look, I need a couple of lines. I’m going out of my head sitting there watching the clock go round.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? Get rid of him, and get in here.”

Jesus, this kid was blathering all over the place, Dickie thought to himself.

“Wait for me downstairs,” he heard Stuart tell the old ponce.

Inside, Dickie was about to lose his temper.

“You better not be backing out now.” he warned Stuart. “And keep your mouth shut, for fuck’s sake. You want to be doing a five stretch on your eighteenth birthday or what?”

“Nah, I’m not backing out, honest; he doesn’t know what I’m talking about. I just need something to sort me nerves out.”

“Maybe my fucking size eleven boot up your gay arse might sort your nerves out, eh?” Bald Graham threatened from across the room. “Fuck this up son, and you’ll have more than the bloody filth to worry about.”

“Alright, alright,” said Dickie, cutting him a couple of lines. “Not here, take them downstairs. Tell your boyfriend nothing, and get back to that garage sharpish. You shouldn’t even be here. Do you want people to start asking questions or what? You bleeding halfwit,” he said, shaking his head.

Bald Graham locked the door and pulled out a sports bag from behind the chair. He took out an old-looking shotgun, sawn off at both the butt and the barrel, leaving about twelve inches after the breach.

“This would definitely make a mess of someone,” he said to Dickie, laughing. He put it on the bed and pulled out the other gun. “This one’s for you.”

“Fuck me, Baldie, that looks like it’s out of a bleeding museum.”

“Probably is,” mutters George to no one in particular.

“It’s a point thirty-eight Webley service revolver,” Bald Graham states, proud of his knowledge of firearms, not that he’d ever actually fired a gun.

He’d spent most of his adolescence collecting magazines like ‘Guns & Ammo’ and ‘Hunting & Shooting’, just so he could pore over the gun pictures.

“It’s only got two rounds in it, though. Same as the sawn-off.”

“Well, don’t worry about that. We’re not going to war. In and out mate, quick as you like.”

“Yeah, in and out.” Bald Graham repeated approvingly. “Shouldn’t we get downstairs for a while?”

He had a point, but it wasn’t time yet. He’d told Baldie to throw a party so they had an alibi if the police came calling later. No one would notice the two of them slipping out for half an hour once it was really heaving.

His only problem was me, as it turns out. He knows I should have been looking for him tonight, and he’s wondering what he’s gonna tell me for doing a disappearing act.

“Why don’t you just bring him along?” Bald Graham had said, “if he’s as handy as you say he his, could be useful.”

“Na,” Dickie had laughed, “you don’t know Johnny. He’s a natural born fighter, but he’s got all these fucked-up ideas about morals and principles. He would be dead against this sort of caper. Threatening people with guns, not really his style.”

“What’s the difference. Guns or fists? Sounds like he’s done plenty of scrapping from what you say. And what about that house you two did over the other week?”

“Yeah, that’s what I mean about Johnny. He’s got all these principles about what is and isn’t honourable. He’s always bleating on about having to have some ‘integrity’ and all this shit.”

“He’s a geezer, our Johnny,” George pipes in.

“How is it more honourable to rob someone’s house than an all-night garage? That’s fucked up that is. At least the garage is owned by some stinking big corporation or something. A house is people’s private stuff.”

“Yeah well, don’t ask me. He reckoned it was OK by him because there wasn’t supposed to be anyone there, and it was owned by some insurance broker.”

“Garage’s are insured too, aren’t they?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“I can’t figure it.” Bald Graham said, scratching his bald head in genuine puzzlement. 

“Don’t hurt yourself trying mate, it’s just Johnny. You’ll see what I mean if you meet him.”

Dickie looked up at the ceiling and took a deep breath. The lines were making his thoughts go faster than he could catch them.

“It’s like they say in politics, there’s no such thing as friends, only allies.” Dickie said, continuing a train of thought aloud as if Bald Graham had been party to his whole internal discussion.

“I mean, take me and you. If I was no use to you, wasn’t helping you to get what you need, well, you wouldn’t want to hang around with me would you? What would be the point? We serve a purpose for each other, otherwise you’re just a burden, yeah? I mean, I wouldn’t expect you to put up with me coming round your place drinking all your beer and smoking your fags if I wasn’t giving something back. No one wants to be a sponger, do they?”

He casts a glance at Buddhist George, but he appears to have conveniently gone back into his coma.

“That’s Johnny’s problem you see. He’s a fucking dinosaur. He’s got all these half-baked ideas about honour and loyalty and I’m your friend no-fucking-matter-what. I mean, he’s handy to have around, but at the end of the day he’s not looking out for number one is he? He’ll stick his neck on the line for somebody else just cos he calls them a mate even though you can bet your last quid that the same person wouldn’t do it for him unless there was something in it for them. Who would? It’s just bloody stupid. It’s the law of survival. Problem with Johnny is, he hasn’t learned to adapt. He thinks he’s still in the age of the Romans and the Greeks or something. It’ll cost him one day, all his principles and shit. You’ve got to look out for the consequences. That’s the way nature built the world, isn’t it? Cause and effect, like.”

Bald Graham nodded his head resignedly, as if what Dickie was saying was so indisputably obvious it would be a waste of anyone’s breath to comment. He was flicking through a picture book on World War Two aircraft. Graham knew the lines had kicked in and Dickie was on his soap box again. He knew better than to comment, or it would go on forever. Personally, he preferred to just to let the powder run round his veins and listen to some music, especially as he wanted to take his mind off the job. The sooner they had another line and got downstairs for a beer the better.

Dickie wasn’t quite ready to stop his monologue, though.

“Take you, you see. There’s nothing you don’t know about shooters, and the Second World War.”

“And motorbikes,” Graham added.

“Yeah, and bikes too. And that’s useful. That’s why we make a good team. I need to know anything about the war, or shooters, or bikes, you’re my man.”

“Dead right,” Graham agreed without enthusiasm, but still a little appreciatively. “You ever heard of the Vickers-Wellington, Dickie?”

“The what?”

“Exactly. It’s a British bomber. I blame the fucking Yanks. It’s them that makes all the films, you see. Everyone’s heard of Lancasters, but who’s ever heard of a Wellington bomber? Whole squadrons of Brits died in those things, you know, but it’s all forgotten now. Fucking Yanks.”

“Right,” said Dickie, feeling apprehensive about losing control of the conversation. Somehow he’d made the mistake of letting Bald Graham get a whole other topic going while he was still itching to voice his own thoughts.

“You know about Maggie Thatcher, right?”.

Dickie sighed to himself. He knew where this was heading.

“Crap tits topped by a sour face, wasn’t it?” he said, indicating he didn’t want to hear the epic story of how an all-British task force sailed ten thousand miles and made short work of the Argies in ’82. He forced his own thoughts back onto the conversation, knowing if he didn’t Bald Graham would soon start on the strategic folly of letting British troops get involved with US-led coalitions in the Middle East.

“Johnny, see, he can use them hands, there’s no denying it, but he’s so full of bullshit. One time, he started telling me all about the Spartans, you know the old Greeks? Fuck me, he went into one banging on about how we was all fucked up today because no one lives by a code of honour any more and all this shit.”

“Yeah, well, them Samurai are all dead now.”

“Spartans,” Dickie corrected him.

“Yeah, Spartans. Like the fucking Brits in the Wellingtons. Is he a communist then?”

“I don’t think he’s an anything. He just reads some odd shit and comes up with some fucked up ideas.”

“So what you going to tell him about tonight?”

“That I was doing him a favour. He’ll like that.”

“What favour?”

Dickie paused for a moment. “It’s just come to me like a fucking light going on in the dark,” he said laughing. “Throw us the phone. Dickie boy’s got an idea.”



9



Later on that night, I’m marching into the garage leaving Brian standing at the car. I’m thinking about how I’ll tie all three of them to chairs and ram the bastard insurance money down their throats, pound by fucking pound.

I can see them two choosing drinks. Nice as you like I say, “Don’t forget to buy me something for the journey, will you?”

What a picture. Pencil weed looks like he’s going to faint before trying to knee me in the bollocks. I put a hand on his chest and push him into the fridge with the orange juice.

“Don’t panic. There’s too many cameras in here to do you any real harm. Still, now that I’ve got my liberty back,” I say, feeling the weight of a pint of milk in my hand and wondering whether to drink it or hit him with it, “I might be using it to leisurely consider how I’m going to exact due compensation from you two for this evening’s little escapade.”

“Where’s Brian?” Natalie asks.

“I’ve done him in and shoved him in the boot.”

“Oh shit,” Dickweed says looking over my shoulder.

The girl’s got a confused look on her face too. I turn round to see Brian being pushed through the door by two monkeys wearing bash hats and carrying guns.

“Get your arses over here, now. All of you!”

We’re the only ones in the shop, so there’s no mistaking it’s us he’s talking to. The sawn-off he waves in our direction reinforces the point. The other one is pointing a pistol in the faces of the two red tee-shirted dummies behind the counter.

“Get on your knees, come on!” says Shotgun from beneath his motorbike helmet.

I can’t believe this. Jesus, what a night. The other one’s gesturing at the till with his gun but not saying anything. Still, the message is clear enough even for the sort of slow-witted dullard that usually works in an all-night garage, but for some reason that defies rational explanation, the two worker-drones just stand there staring. It’s clear robber boy is getting agitated. He cocks the pistol and straightens his arm at the younger of the two dummies, who looks from him to the other one and back again. He looks like an actor whose forgotten his lines, struck dumb with stagefright. Pistol boy’s still not saying anything, but it’s not looking good.

Inexplicably, sandwich-eater chooses this particular moment to get up and start making a speech. “Look,” he says, “why don’t you just open the till and give them the money and you won’t get hurt. It’s not your money after all. Guys, keep cool, just take the money and walk out of here, and we can all go home.”

“Who put you in charge?” says Shotgun, and then as if someone was writing a movie-script, a patrol car pulls up at the pumps. You can see the two plods’ jaws visibly drop as they clock what’s going on through the window fronting the shop.

It doesn’t make any sense, but there’s a really loud bang, so loud it makes me drop to the floor clutching my head. I think my ears have popped until a few moments later I can hear the girl wailing. Brian is lying on the floor spilling claret. The shot has flung him back into the magazine rack, and there’s glossies all over the floor and half-covering his slumped body. Once me ears have cleared and my heart’s stopped racing, I can hear him making some groaning noises. Not dead then.

“What the fuck did you do that for?” Natalie is shouting at pistol boy. He looks at me, but continues to stay silent. Maybe he’s thinking of plugging me next, I dunno. Anyway, the filth have wound up the blue lights on the car and retreated to the forecourt entrance, presumably to stop anyone else coming in.

“Now what?” says Shotgun Harry, as if we’ve got the answers. They go to have a confab behind the counter. “Don’t fucking move!” Shotgun instructs, but Natalie is crawling all over Brian anyway, trying to find the hole where the blood’s coming out.

“Help me turn him over,” she says to me. I give her a hand. The boys with the toys are too preoccupied and ignore it.

There’s a black hole just above where his heart is pumping blood, out and down his chest. I grab a copy of Loaded and push it over the wound.

“Here hold this,” I tell her. Trouble is, its too glossy.

“Go get some bog roll,” she says frantically. 

“Sit the fuck down, cunty!” Shotgun’s shouting at me as I stand up.

I sit down. Blood’s pissing down a photograph of some bird on a snowboard with her tits half hanging out.

“Always wanted him to take me snowboarding,” she whines, “but we had to take the bloody time-share every bastard year.” Then she’s crying full-on like it’s the end of the world.

“He wouldn’t have cut much of a figure on the slopes, sweetheart,” I say.

He coughs up some blood then, but doesn’t come round.

“Ever been?” she asks me.

“Used to slide down a hill for free on a plastic bag when I was a kid, what’s the difference?”

“Yeah,” pipes up Junior in a shaky voice, “no doubt you get your thrills from joyriding in other people’s cars.”

“It’s been known,” I said for the sake of winding him up. I couldn’t be bothered to enlighten the little maggot on the folly of driving cars. “Doesn’t your daddy make sure they get a nice new one after I’m done? And what do you do for fun? Get your jollies playing with yourself in the toilet with back issues of this shit?” I throw a loose copy of the lad mag at him.

“It’s not the thrill-seeking,” Natalie interrupts us. “It’s the…I dunno, the whole atmosphere. Mixing with the skiers, drinking martinis, staying in a Swiss chalet, you know. The excitement of dressing up in all that gear and that.”

“Fuck me,” I said, “it’s only Butlins with a funny accent, love. Don’t you read all these dumb mags?”

Outside, more blue lights have appeared. I’m looking at the time and thinking about me old dear’s funeral. Fucking hell, what a night to get mixed up in a caper like this.

“He just wanted kids,” she says, crying again. “Seemed like the end of my life if I went down that road, not the start like he kept trying to tell me. Now it looks like neither of us will get what we wanted.”

“My old dear used to say that life’s all about investing in other people. Couldn’t quite see it myself, but if it’s excitement you’re after, I reckon you’ve had enough tonight to keep you well satisfied for a long time.”

“She meant,…” Brain said spluttering and opening his eyes at the same time, “Your old dear, she meant that thinking about yourself is something you grow out of.”

He screws his face up tight, and lets out a low groan.

“You lot, you’re all kids. When you grow up, you’ll find meaning comes from something more than just adolescent self-interest. What’s important. It changes as you get older.”

Natalie’s fawning over him now, trying to soothe him.

“Yeah, well I’m happy enough to stay young, and I certainly don’t want to die here with you bastards,” Junior retorts. “I need to get out of here. I can’t get fucking killed in a robbery in an all-night garage, for God’s sake.”

The two garage kids have been shoved round to the front of the counter and told to sit down with us.

“Stop squawking,” Shotgun orders. “Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re all going to walk outside together. Us in the middle of you lot. Anyone tries to run and they’re getting fucking blasted. We’re gonna walk out into the street, past the cop cars and to the bike. We’ll get on it and fuck off. You lot will stand there and shield us from the pigs, or I’ll fucking top the lot of you. Got it?”

“Too late for that Einstein,” I say, pointing outside.

There’s an armed cop clad in all sorts of protective gear holding a megaphone in the air. I can see other armed plods scurrying around behind him.

“Anyone in there got a mobile?” the plod calls out. “Dial this number, so we can talk to you. Let’s get this sorted out nice and easy, OK?”

He reads out a number, twice, just so we got it.

“Is anyone hurt in there? Do you need a paramedic?”

“Shit, how the fuck did they get here so quick?” Shotgun asks his silent partner to no effect. For some reason he’s looking at the worker drones, like it’s their fault. Don’t suppose the dumb pricks thought to check the patrol times.

The two garage boys aren’t saying anything either. They’re shit scared by the looks of it, staring at the tiled floor turning red with Brian’s claret, and trying to pretend it isn’t happening. Pencil dick starts prodding one of them. He’s obviously feeling safer now the police have turned up in force.

“Something to tell your grandkids about, aye? Bet you never thought this would happen, eh?” he says excitedly.

“Third time in two years,” the older one responds without looking up.

“Fuck! What happened last time?” asks Junior.

“Nothing”, he replies. “They always give up in the end. Then again, no one got shot before.”

Natalie’s pestering the gunboys about a medic.

“Get him out of here, do you want to be done for murder, aye? He’s bloody well bleeding to death, can’t you see?”

“Shut up you bitch, or you’ll get plugged an’ all. Alright? Or maybe I’ll put you on the counter and pull your panties down, give the boys in blue a nice video of me giving you one, eh? How about it? They can play it in the canteen. What you looking at, cunty?” Shotgun says to me.

I just shake my head and look away. This is not looking good. If they figure there’s no way out, they might just decide to make it worth going down for. It’ll raise their cred inside if they make a nice spectacle out of it. That’s what these dumb-arsed pigs never understand. Kids like these care more about notoriety than they do about doing time. Half of the lads I grew up with take it as a given they’ll do time at some point in their lives. It’s the badge of honour thing, and the worse the crime the greater the honour.

Choice, that’s what these idiots needed, or I could be joining me mum at the funeral, rather than just seeing her off.

“Look fellas,” I say, “you can go do a ten-stretch for this and get the respect, or you could be smart and live to fight another day. Like fucking James Bond, eh?”

“What you talking about?”

“I know a way you can get out of here, nice and easy, and no one will be any the wiser. What do you say?”



10



Downstairs at the party, Michael had found some unattended tins of lager on a table in the kitchen. Somebody was spinning dance tunes in a big room at the back of the house. It was too noisy and too crowded for Michael, so he wandered into the small living room at the front. Inside, a dozen or so people were lounging about listening to tunes on an i-Pod wired up to a couple of big bass speakers. He found a place to perch under the window-sill and tried not to look like a dork.

They were twenty something’s, dressed in t-shirts and old jeans. It was mostly men, but it certainly wasn’t a gay scene, he observed a little disappointedly.

It wasn’t long before Stuart joined him.

“Look mate, I was wrong about this place. I’ll have to get back to work. Maybe another night, aye?”

Michael gave the boy a long stare. He wasn’t stupid; he knew the boy had come to score. Now though, he realised the boy was using him for nothing more than a free taxi.

“Suit yourself,” he said. “But I didn’t come all this way for nothing. I’m staying and having a few beers.”

“You don’t know anyone.” Stuart said with consternation.

“Look kiddo, you don’t get to my age without knowing how to make a few friends at a party. You think it’s the first time I’ve ended up in some weird place as a stranger? Go back to your little job and think about doing some growing up.”

Stuart shrugged his shoulders and decided to get back to the garage. He had other things to worry about, not least how long it was going to take him to get back now he’d blown his lift.

Michael watched the boy disappear through the door. He had no desire to stay himself, but as a matter of pride decided to give it ten minutes. He didn’t want to pass the boy on the way out.

Someone passed round a joint, and he started talking. The people next to him had never heard of Stuart, so he changed the subject to the supply of beer and drugs. A short skinny guy with oily hands, a car mechanic he said he was, offered to go on a beer run with him. The off-licence was only round the corner.

By the time they got back, Michael was feeling a bit more secure. Someone fed him a line of coke, and soon he was skinning up spliffs for people too stoned to do it for themselves.

Michael noticed the car mechanic had an eye tattooed on his upper arm.

“It’s the eye of Horus”, the mechanic said. “Egyptians used to paint it on their boats to ward of evil. And pirates.”

“To keep them safe,” Michael said, showing his understanding.

“You should paint it on people’s cars after you’ve worked on them, Jack,” someone else joked, causing a round of smiles.

“Fuck you.” he retorted.

“So, is that why you chose the tattoo? Do you believe in that, then?”

“Well, I’m not superstitious, but there’s got to be something to it, hasn’t there?”

“To what?” somebody asked.

“Well, you know, like some kind of force or power you can tap into, if you know what you’re doing.”

“Well, that’s what the major religions are all about, isn’t it?” Michael said encouragingly.

“May the force be with you!” someone chipped in.

“I guess they’ve just systematized it, analysed it into something less practical and more philosophical.” Michael stopped himself then, worrying he would put them off.

“Ah, I’m not religious,” Jack said, “I don’t believe in all that God-shit.”

Michael reckoned Jack didn’t know what he believed in, but he held his tongue.

“You don’t have to believe in God to be religious,” a girl in a black t-shirt in the corner said, “Buddhists don’t buy into all that daddy-in-the-sky routine, you know.”

“You a Buddhist now then, are you Wendy?” Jack scoffed.

“Nah, I’m just saying. Anyway, what about you and all your Egyptian shit?”

“Well, I just figure it can’t do any harm, right?”

“Buddhism is like a method,” she continued without answering him, “meditation and that, for discovering the truth. The hidden forces, you know, like you were talking about.”

Michael thought he’d better correct her understanding, but made a mental note to keep the natural cockiness out of his tone.

“Hmm, well, I think Buddhism aims to eradicate the notion of self and individuality through the process, or method as you say, of meditation.” Jesus, he scolded himself, you sound like such a poncey academic.

“Right,” the girl said back, approvingly. “He knows what he’s on about it.”

He took the girl’s endorsement as a licence to speak.

“The thing I’ve never understood about it though, is how it’s supposed to work. I mean, it sounds a little contradictory doesn’t it? Spend all this time thinking about yourself, to eradicate yourself? It sounds so self-indulgent. And why would anyone want to eradicate themselves? Whatever there is beyond this world, we have to accept the world that we live in: the here and now.”

“But that’s what Buddhists say,” the girl said, her tone a little peeved now.

“Sure, but it just seems to be so much escapism. Do you know what I mean?”

“Dead right pal,” came a voice, though Michael doubted it’s owner could have been listening. He notices he’s older than the rest, and looks like a biker, covered in bad tattoos and wearing a cut-off leather. He’s staggered into the room and slumped down next to them, holding a can and an unlit joint. He looked barely alive.

“I mean, I’m not sure that it’s all about hidden forces and things like that. I think religion is about a much more obvious force in our lives.” Michael paused now, but not for effect. He knew if he went any further down this road they would see where he was coming from. And he was all too wary of the usual reaction to confessing to being a Christian.

“What force?” the girl asked.

“Well,” he said, looking for a way of circling round the subject, “Buddhists talk about doing good for others, don’t they? About loving, not just your fellow man, but all God’s creatures.”

“Yes,” she agreed, “but all that love stuff is just to help you stop being selfish, to help eradicate the self. The point is to escape the karmic wheel of suffering, so you don’t get reborn.”

“So love is perpetuated for essentially selfish reasons?” Michael couldn’t keep the disdain out of his voice. “Isn’t that a complete contradiction of the idea that, as a Buddhist, you are supposed to be eradicating the self?”

“It doesn’t make much sense to me,” Jack agreed, “but cracking open another beer makes perfect sense. Who wants a cold one?”

Jack took orders for the fridge, and the conversation was forgotten as someone turned up the i-Pod. Michael noticed the biker was snorting a line from a wrap he’d pulled out of his pocket.

He felt a partial victory. He hated the way Buddhism had captured the uncritical minds of young people looking for a spiritual outlet. But the girl rebuffed his attempts to continue the conversation one-on-one. As usual, he’d managed to alienate a potential friend by insisting on scoring intellectual points.

The old biker got up and stumbled over to Michael. Bending down awkwardly, he stuck his nose right in Michael’s face.

“I know who you are, boy.” he said. Michael couldn’t figure if he was being menacing or friendly. “You’re a fucking Jesus-boy, aren’t you?’’ He laughed loudly, and started to sit down.

“Ignore old George, he’s a fucking loony.” someone called over to Michael.

“Pins all through me legs, not easy to get up and down, you know?” he said in a more reasonable tone, lighting the joint as he did so.

“Right.” Michael nodded, wondering where this was going.

The old boy leaned in close, and then said in a conspiratorial whisper, “Let me show you something.” On the end of a chain around his neck hung a small silver cross. He showed it to Michael and winked before putting it back inside his shirt with one darkly tanned arm.

“A preacher got me on a rally, you know, in the medical tent.”

“The medical tent?” Michael repeated, not following.

“Came off me bike for the umpteenth time,” he said. Well that was one way of telling it. “Broke my right leg. Don’t ask me why I listened to him. I just wanted to hear it.”

He let out a string of coughs, but didn’t show any sign of either passing or smoking the joint that was burning away in his hand.

“Been wearing this cross ever since, going on seven years. Read the book every Sunday, and say me prayers every fucking night. Never fallen off me bike since. For real.”

Michael scrutinised him carefully but said nothing. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had tried to wind him up, pretending to be a believer.

Buddhist George took a long draught from the can, belched, then sniffed and gave himself a little nod. “You stick with the old man upstairs, my friend. The world’s a crock of shit.”

He started waving an arm about vaguely at the rest of the room. “It’s falling apart, and these cunts couldn’t care less. Don’t talk to me about global warming. Too many people, not enough resources. That’s the problem. Either we get off the planet or die, you’ll see. Fucking energy. Who cares if there’s not enough energy? People are going to have to die. That’s what Malthus said. Right? You know what I’m on about?”

“Sort of,” Michael said non-commitally.

“All our problems are global problems, see, not just the bloody temperature rising. An’ who’s gonna solve them, eh? The UN you say?”

Michael didn’t say anything.

“Do me a favour. Those jokers are all little men from pisspot democracies like this one. Can you see some poxy MP risking losing his place at the dinner table by suggesting anything radical? They’re just sitting on their overpaid arses. living off the sweat of the less fortunate classes.”

“Crass,” Michael stated.

“Crass, fucking right it’s crass. Bloody ridiculous.” Buddhist George said without understanding.

“Are you an anarchist then?”

“Anarchist? Don’t waste my time with that namby pamby pseudo-intellectual spoilt-brat middle class wank. What we need is a fucking benign dictator, my little Jesus-boy. Like a God on Earth, a global leader to solve global problems.”

He coughed again then dropped his voice. “Like start with nuking half the Chinese, then they wouldn’t need to build so many bloody coal-fired power stations. Wipe out Russia completely. Waste of space. Who wants to go there? No one. It’s cold and everyone’s fucking miserable. Next up, outlaw tourism. Them bastard airliners stuff more shit into the atmosphere than the other half of China put together. Then we need to get off the fucking planet before it gets too hot or the bananas run out.”

He looked at Michael, who was staring at the floor.

“I’ve got this theory, you see. About getting off the planet.” He took a long look at the spliff burning in his hand, but didn’t take a drag on it. “Signalling intent. Ever heard of it? Course you haven’t, I haven’t written me book yet. Don’t you nick my bastard idea, Jesus-boy.” he warned, wagging a finger in Michael’s face.

“You see, forget about travelling faster than time. It ain’t fast enough. You’ve gotta look outside of time. Outside of the universe. Lateral thinking, pal.” he tapped his head with the same finger, which was still extended, and took a swig of lager.

“Like if you put something on that chair, and you want it to go to the other chair, you don’t light a match underneath it and propel it across the room, do you? What a waste of time. You just pick it up and move the bastard. Like a God in your own little universe. But we’ve got to tell God what we want to move, and where. We have to find a way to signal our intent, so God can just pick shit up and put it where we want.”

“Like prayer?”

“Not fucking prayer!” George shouted in exasperation. “Are you mental, or what? You need to invest in research, technology; stuff that can exploit the laws of nature and purpose; stuff that can harness God’s design, God’s will. You with me or not, Jesus-boy?”

“I’m not sure God is really that interested in helping us travel around the galaxy, to be honest.”

“Why fucking not? He gave us the Garden of Eden and his only son didn’t he? Those tossers over there have got mobile phones and wafer thin laptops. What do you know, fuckwit? You don’t know shit. Waste my bloody time, talking to pricks like you.”

Then he was on his feet and shouting “Put some fucking Mötorhead on, you wankers!” There was some jeering, and then he’s stumbling around drunkenly in the middle of the floor, dancing to some private tune in his head, the unsmoked joint already burnt down to the roach.

Michael sat alone under the window sill. More people had arrived, and the room was filling up with new faces. The people he’d been talking to had all disappeared. He could see the buddhist girl standing by the door in the hallway, talking to someone. He caught her eye once, but she looked away quickly and didn’t look back.

He was feeling isolated now. The coke had worn off, and the dope paranoia was gnawing away at his confidence. Move, he told himself. You have to move. Don’t sit here like a lonely old puff hanging on to your God for security just because you can’t make any real friends. Even God wasn’t giving him much comfort at this point, after listening to Buddhist George’s lunatic rant. He felt like screaming inside.

He glanced back at the girl in the hallway, but she’d already gone. Instead he saw someone he thought he recognised. Where have I seen that face before? he asked himself, perplexed. Then, with a feeling of apprehension, it came to him.

Standing in the hallway was an ordinary looking man in his fifties or so, and a younger kid. The pair of them looked as much out of place as Michael did. They looked like office workers. More to the point, they looked like the two guys he’d seen in the Subway earlier that night. Weren’t they the ones driving the Vauxhall that he’d seen at the garage and the police station? 

He propped himself up on one knee and pushed the curtain aside to look out of the window. Through the condensation he could see the yellow Vauxhall parked opposite. He wiped the glass a little and peered to see if the girl he’d seen them with in the Subway was in the car too, but he couldn’t see anyone.

“That’s weird,” he said aloud. He stood up to go and talk to them, but they were already climbing the stairs.

His mind was racing, trying to put the parts of the picture together. It was just too much of a monumental coincidence that someone could have been at the police station at the same time as him, then at the garage, then end up here, without any connection.

They must be undercover police, he thought. For a moment, the fear of being arrested in an imminent raid swept through his mind and down his spine, but something about it didn’t add up. He hung around in the hallway with a can of beer, waiting to see what happened when they came down. Being close to the front door made him feel better.

He heard some shouting and a door slam open. The two of them came charging down the stairs so fast that they nearly knocked him over. The younger one tripped over himself in the hallway, but was on his feet with such speed Michael didn’t even have time to help him up.

They flung the front door wide open, got hurriedly into the Vauxhall and sped off noisily.

Michael turned to look up the stairs. At the top, a huge guy with a bald head stood planted, feet shoulder-width apart, scowling at the open door. Then his gaze fixed on Michael.

“Who the fuck are you?” the big guy said, coming down the stairs. The man who Stuart had been talking to earlier was behind him.

“It’s alright,” the second one said, “but perhaps it’s time you were going home, eh?”

“Er, yeah, sure,” Michael agreed with some relief. The big guy looked like he was going to tear him limb from limb while the other one spoke.

“And stay away from that little garage boy tonight, OK?”

Michael nodded without meeting either of their stares. As he was walking towards the door, he heard a laugh behind him.

“Fuck me Baldie, wait till I tell Johnny Wilde about this!”

Michael looked around sharply to see the two men strolling back up the stairs, chuckling.

Back in his car he started the engine but didn’t move off. He was still trembling from the threat of physical violence. He hoped then that if any of the Bible stories were even close to the truth, it would be the ones about God punishing the unjust with the full force of his wrath. Macho wankers, he said to himself, redirecting his fear into scorn.

The engine was cold and idling quickly, matching the pace of his heart. He tried to steady his breathing and get his head around what was going on. There were just too many coincidences. The yellow Vauxhall pair didn’t look like either drug-buyers or coppers, and why did the dealers care about him going back to see Stuart? And how did they know Johnny? Did they know Alicia, too?

He looked at his watch. It was nearly four in the morning. Fuck it, he said to himself. Something was going on here. He pulled the phone out of his pocket and called his sister.