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| JOYRIDE (AN ADULT HORROR STORY) PART 1 Let me tell you a story. Before we go any further, let’s just get one thing straight, clear the air, so to speak. This isn’t going to be a snug, sitting round the fireside kind of story. Just so we understand each other. This is the story of four dead-heads walking around a Hackney council estate at one in the morning, three of them stoned off their heads on crack, their brains buzzing and banging like fucking bluebottles on a window. I was with them at the time, but my head was clear, as I’ve got too many problems in my life without hindering them any further by snuffling lines of shit up my snout. The car was a BMW Five Series, just waiting, spot-lit under a streetlamp, the bulb insipid, like the colour of piss. As we walked past it, one of the dead-heads, Gideon Robbins, started squealing. He sounded like a pig that’s had its arse branded, the spots on his face near exploding and his rheumy eyes vibrating like Saturday night Lottery balls. ‘Baby, you’re mine,’ said Terry Fuller, approaching the car. ‘Count me out,’ I said. ‘Wanker!’ laughed the pig, his snout crinkling. ‘Use yer brains,’ I said. ‘It’s one in the morning and we’re gonna be four arseholes rammed into a BMW an’ squealing round the streets of Hackney.’ ‘So wot?’ barked Fuller. I looked at him, trying to remain outwardly impassive, but he frightened me in the same way one of them dogs you see sitting on the doorstep of a council house scares the life out of you when you walk past it and it starts snarling. ‘So,’ I replied, ‘any police car that sees us is gonna light up like a fuckin’ Christmas tree.‘ ‘So, we’ll outrun it,’ said Jimmy Stone, probably the most decent one out of the bunch. ‘No we won’t,’ I replied. ‘We’ll all end up wrapped around a fuckin’ bollard.’ ‘Chickenshit!’ squeaked the pig, leering at me. ‘Whatever,’ I replied. ‘But d’ya really think you should be tearin’ around in a performance car wiv’ a six-speed gearbox off your nuts on drugs at one in the morning?’ ‘C’mon, Joey,’ Jimmy stressed. ‘ It’s Grand Theft Auto, man. Grand theft fuckin’ Auto!’ ‘Tell ya wot,’ snarled Fuller, slipping a flat-ended screwdriver out from inside his jacket. ‘Why don’t ya piss off then? I don’t need Mother-fuckin’-Teresa pourin’ self-righteous shit into me lughole while I’m drivin’.’ The pig laughed again, a high, grating noise. He came up to me and flicked his hand up against my forehead; his two outer fingers extended prong-fashion, an onslaught of shit pouring from his mouth, which, according to his addled brain, he probably thought equalled the poetry of Samuel Taylor Coleridge at his romantic best. ‘I’m runnin’ the chance of bein’ HP, but I ain’t taxin’ you, ‘cos you’re VIP!’ I stood there and watched Fuller as he approached the car. I knew Fuller, knew him better than any of the others did. Knew what he was really like. Skinning cats for kicks, setting fire to property, stealing from his parents to fund a crack habit, attempted rape of his own mother. I also knew that Fuller kept a stash of weapons in his flat, ranging from machetes to a Beretta CX4 Storm rifle. When I showed no signs of leaving, Fuller turned around with his trademark stare. I suddenly felt like a cockroach crawling over a line of coke about to be woofed up his nostrils. I stood my ground, and Fuller brought the screwdriver round in a nimble arc, pointing it at my chest. ‘Why you still ‘ere?’ he growled. ‘Don’t worry, I’m goin’,’ I replied. He looked at me one last time. The rest stood by the BMW, their minds as jaundiced as the streetlight and running on quick thrills; drugs, hand-jobs, jacking cars. I started walking; no particular place to go but away. Then the kid came along. If it hadn’t been for the kid, I wouldn’t be putting this all down on paper in my bedroom, with my left hand manacled to the radiator with a pair of kinky pink, furry handcuffs jacked from my Mum’s bedroom dresser (try to write using only one hand – it’s a fucking pain in the arse trying to hold the paper in place!). Danny Johnson was the kid in question, and he fucked everything up for me. I knew his brother, who was serving at Camp Bastion in Afghanistan and who I owed mega for. Being as Hackney served as the axis for single-parent families, I was left in loco parentis for both Danny and his two sisters while they were outside the jurisdiction of their mother and while Carl was kidding himself that he was serving his country by kicking Taliban arse in the Helmand Province. Danny was coming towards us, slouching along at snail’s pace, head down, hands stuffed in his pockets, the glacial January air pluming from his mouth, looking too dejected and tired for a twelve year-old. I didn’t find it strange that a kid his age was walking around at this hour, being that the area in which I lived was a veritable hotbed of latch-key kids. Sign of the times, man, sign of the times. Just before he walked out of our lives for good, my old man used to lament over the old days of living and working in Hackney, complaining that it wasn’t the same as it was, and never would be again. He would sprawl himself over the couch in our living room, inflamed by alcohol, and some deep hurt would surface from the pit of his being as he spoke about how the area used to be in the seventies. When Hackney used to be fun, communal, expressive, as vibrant and as multicoloured as mixtures of paint hurled against a wall. A coalescence of spitting drollery and chirpy poverty, where you had fuck-all, but didn’t care; in fact, you found it fucking hilarious that you didn’t have two pennies to rub together. Where neighbours rummaged through each others’ lives like scavengers at a rubbish dump, both annoying you with their remarks, yet supplying sketchy relief from the mindset and drudgery of working-class suppression. Where lives were lashed together through the uncontrolled climate of inner city existence, with all the vigour and energy of a seaman securing cordage against an oncoming squall. But now those days were gone. And all that seemed to be left were the heartbroken remnants of boarded-up pubs and decaying Category B listed buildings waiting for the wholesale strike of the redeveloper’s ball. And, of course, twelve-year old kids walking around at one in the morning. Fuller saw Danny coming towards us, and he grinned. It wasn’t a grin that I particularly relished; it was full of hurt and malice and all the things that make you squirm inside like a bad case of diarrhoea. ‘Hey, shrimp,’ he called, ‘wanna come fer a ride in me new car?’ Danny did his best to ignore him, but Fuller glided up to him like a fucked-up dance partner, blocking his way. ‘I’m talkin’ to ya!’ ‘Excuse me, please,’ Danny mumbled. ‘Ya didn’t answer me question,’ he barked at Danny. ‘I’ve got a pucker motor jus’ sittin’ there, waitin’ to burn up the streets, an’ you’re ignorin’ me. Now, there’s only one thing worse than a little shit that’s ignorin’ me, an’ that’s a little shit that’s ignorin’ me an’ who doesn’t wanna come fer a ride in me new car.’ ‘Leave him alone, Terry,’ I said. ‘He doesn’t wanna know.’ From where I stood, I could see Fuller smirking slightly. It was then that I realized that I’d just made a mistake of fucking historical proportions, and I mentally slapped my forehead in frustration. If I’d kept my mouth shut, Fuller would’ve probably given Danny a slap and sent him on his way, but now that I had shown just a scrap of concern for the kid, Fuller became a cat, ready to play with his little mouse. ‘None of your fuckin’ business,’ he said, giving me a sidelong glance. ‘He’s still at school, an’ you’re in his face, scarin’ the life out of him,’ I replied. ’That makes you a bully and an arsehole.’ ‘Wot is he, your bum-boy?’ Fuller smiled, not taking his eyes off Danny. ‘Is that right, shrimp, does Joey over there give ya pocket money every week to slip one up yer jacksies?’ ‘No,’ Danny replied, not particularly offended by the comment, but merely stating a fact. ‘No,’ mimicked Fuller in a falsetto voice. ’Well, I tell you wot, you little prick. If you don’t come fer a ride in me motor, I’m gonna kick that faggot arse of yours so hard, that you’ll be takin’ cock from the inside of yer mouth from now on. ’Ow does that sound?’ ‘Not very nice,’ Danny answered. ‘No, not very nice, indeed,’ confirmed Fuller. ‘Ten-out-of-ten for observation.’ ‘Listen, I ‘ave to get home for me Mum,’ said Danny. ‘She always waits up fer me, an’ she don’t go to bed until she hears me turnin’ me key in me front door. She even leaves all the lights on fer me in the house, jus’ so’s I don’t bump into fings when I comes through the door, or stand on the cat, or something’ like that, so I really gotta be goin’, much as I’d like to ‘ave a ride in yer car an’ everythin’.’ Fuller snuffed back hog-like laughter, and I had a mental image of him and Gideon Robbins sitting in a wallow filled with shit and channelling their nostrils through a feeding trough. Two disgusting cunts together, fat and bloated and gorging themselves on human waste. ‘Yer Mum’s a fuckin’ brass!’ he laughed. ‘I seen ‘er toutin’ fer business wiv’ the soots down the Murder Mile half hour ago! Said she was gonna charge me fifty quid fer a bit of anal. I told ‘er that I’d rather shove me sausage up a squirrel’s arse!’ ‘You’d still me giving six inches away on either side if ya did that, ‘I answered, unable to help myself. ‘That’s not wot yer slut girlfriend said last week, when she gave me a tit-wank,’ he fired back. ‘Shot me load all over ‘er nipples, ’er cheeks, ‘er chin, ’er lovely blonde hair.’ The thought of Jenny even walking on the same side of the road as this epic, scumbag prick, let alone having him touch her, opened up new levels of nonsensicality in my mind. Then I thought of something I’d seen on a porn site: Jenny gets extra sausage on her pizza, and I burst out laughing. I couldn’t help it. ‘Wot’s so fuckin’ funny?’ Fuller demanded. ‘You’re a riot, Terry,’ I remarked. ‘You outta be on Live At The Apollo. If you whipped yer cock out, the first three rows would shit themselves laughing.’ ‘Shut yer mouth, cunt!’ ‘Ooh, we are bitchy,’ I cooed, ‘wrong time of the month?’ Fuller shoved Danny towards the BMW. Danny’s shoulder rammed against the passenger side wing mirror, and the kid gave off a silent yow of pain. Before I knew what was happening, I was shoved against a wall, and had the business end of the screwdriver probing the area between my fourth and fifth sternum, twisting and turning against the soft tissue behind my breastbone. I yelped like a puppy at the sudden pain. Much as I tried, I couldn’t stop myself. Somewhere, outside the periphery of my pain, I heard someone cackling hysterically, and I wasn’t awarding myself any prizes for guessing it was the pig. ‘Now that wasn’t very nice, was it?’ inquired Fuller, his voice tuned down low to an almost amorous undertone as he nudged the tip of the screwdriver further in. I could smell his breath, an unclean mixture of booze, cigarettes, greasy food, all coated with a slimy finish of good old halitosis. ‘That was just downright disre-spectful!’ ‘Get that fuckin’ thing outta my ribs!’ I hissed. ‘Or you’ll do wot?’ Fuller asked me, his eyes dull with hatred. |
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