Dumb-ass pussy, Eugene thought.
Alejandro regarded him with an almost piteous expression. — You did not breeng your phone?
— No, Scott stammered again, — I l-lost it. Check the bag if you like…
— I believe you. I theenk you are too scared to try to deceive us. Throw the other phone to me.
Scott lobbed Eugene’s cell over to Alejandro, who crouched down and picked it up. He played around with both phones for a while. — You know, if I were you, as soon as we are gone, I would contact the po-leece, he mused.
— Please… Noe, still trembling as he pointed the gun, pleaded to his brother, — we should go now!
Alejandro raised a hand to silence him.
As a sniveling, hyperventilating Scott wiped some sperm from his face and started to retch blood up, Eugene lay back against the wall of the tent, his heart pounding. Looking up, he could see only Alejandro’s ice-cold stare closing in on them. — But now there will be no contact with the poleece, the Mexican sang breezily, — because now, we shoot you.
Madeline turned to Eugene in appeal, her face long and white with abject terror. And he knew then that he really loved her; would do almost anything for her. But he wouldn’t take a bullet for her. Eugene wanted her to get it first, then Scott. Because he saw the way that crazy guy was with her and he didn’t want to leave her out here alone with him. His hand went into his pocket, as he fingered the handle of the knife. He would probably only get this one slim chance, and that was if he was very, very lucky. Otherwise they were stone dead by the side of a desert road with buzzards picking at them.
— Please… Madeline begged Alejandro, suddenly falling to her knees. — I did nothing wrong, she begged.
Alejandro looked at this woman, and saw the dangling cross hanging round her neck. Like the one his mother wore. He thought of his father once again, that animal who had shown no mercy. — Hey… relax. He held up her phone and started snapping them with the camera. — If you are good, the only shooting is with the camera on thees phone, he almost whispered, and his hand reached out and gently touched the side of her face. Eugene glanced at the petrified Noe, and was about to lunge when Alejandro suddenly turned toward him, his eyes murderous again. — Go and assume thee position again, faggots, or you get thee bullet!
Madeline gave them a perilous, yearning stare and Eugene, in bitter despondency, nodded at Scott and they had to go through the indignity of the ritual once again. Every snap taken by Alejandro seemed to last minutes, his leering, mocking commentary now a warped parody of a fashion photographer. Eugene shut his eyes, and he could hear the bigger Mexican saying, — Now if you tell anyone about thees, all your friends and family will have those nice peectures sent to them! These will look good in thee family album, two seesay boys and the gorl with the teetays!
And he only knew it was over when he felt the cool, still air on his cock replace the wet heat from Scott’s mouth. Only then could Eugene hear the footsteps of the departing brothers receding and he opened his eyes. In the gray twilight he was aware of an echoing retching sound, like nothing his ears had been privy to before. It seemed as if a malign spirit was smirking in celebration of a particularly vile debasement it had engineered. He thought that it was Scott or even Madeline vomiting, but their vacant gazes and an insidious scorch he was suddenly aware of, told him the source came from somewhere inside of himself. Eugene turned to the canvas, those big arms holding him up as the bile poured from his guts, a nervous laughter punctuating every strength-sapping heave. Outside, he could hear the engine of the Chevy starting up and chugging away into the fading desert light.
If You Liked School, You’ll Love Work…
1.
TREES
THE EX-MISSUS CAME round the old gel’s house with the kid. To try and make a bleedin point. Using her as a farking weapon against me. Funny how people change over the years. Looking across the table at Trees, that desperate stare, them sort of jerky movements, with her holding her hands that way she did, like they was trophies on exhibition; I was gutted just how little I actually felt. This was the woman I’d kipped with every bleedin night, barring accidents (usually happy ones as it happens), for sixteen farking years. Mad, but I suppose that I wanted to feel something, anything, just to tell me that it all wasn’t a total farking waste of time.
Just as worrying was that I saw me own sheer bleedin indifference mirrored in her vacant gape. She had her hair cut short and dyed it her old brown, but it was just a little bit too rich and deep in colour and to my mind just drew attention to the fact that her looks were going. The sort of haircut where the Skirt-in-Question announces to the world: ‘I’ve given up the ghost of being young and officially turned into my old mum.’
I dunno if it’s cause she can see the disdain in my eyes, but she’s looking at me like I’m worn goods n all. Me! Still a 32-inch waist, although, granted, you got a bit of a blubbery overhang them days. I got to thinking that there must have been some point we had stopped being human, being real, to each other. Now we just went through this pantomime, which, being fair, I don’t think exactly sat well with her either. It ain’t much fun when you communicate as the least flattering version of yourself. Whenever we got together, which, thank God, wasn’t often, we just reminded ourselves of what a pair of cunts we’d become to each other. Exchanging glances, all we could see was failure and humiliation and we’d never see anything else. Apart, we could put each other up on a bit of a pedestal; remember the good times, the love even, but together? Forget it.
I can’t wait to get home, and that sure ain’t here no more. Nah, it’s the Canaries for me: all-year-round sun and holiday skirt gagging on it. You can stick England up your fucking arse.
Looking round my old mum’s house now, it saddens me how little she’s got to show for her life. A bit of furniture, the telly and a few bleeding knick-knacks on the mantelpiece, that’s her lot. Represents the last of that generation who kept their noses clean, dutifully lined up to fight in some daft farking war, and listened like nodding dogs to the Queen slavering shit every Christmas. Of course, just like their forefathers, they were royally shafted. Since World War I they been waiting for them homes fit for heroes to emerge. So where are they? Don’t see any on this poxy estate.
Yeah, I might do a bit of decorating for the old gel next time I’m over for an extended stay. A lick of paint. Some wallpaper. Brighten things up a little.
I look again at Trees. Certain things need a bit more than a superficial renovation to make them palatable.
Mum, God bless her, has taken Emily into the kitchen. Like the old gel, the poor little cow ain’t daft; she knows we’re having a confab about her, but off they go. So now Motherfucker Teresa here’s lowering her voice and saying, — I’m at my wits’ end, Michael. She won’t do a bloody thing; no homework, nothing around the house to help me out… the school’s been doing their nut…
— Yeah, I believe that to be the case, I agree, sort of absent-mindedly.
She looks at me and shakes her head. — And what do I get from you? Bleedin platitudes, she scoffs at me, — same old bleedin platitudes.
That’s a new word she’s learned: platitudes. Posh word for a Hardwick. Don’t wanna be giving the likes of that crowd a bleedin education, it only breeds dissatisfaction. They’ll all be happier tarmacking drives.
— Look, if you want me to come along to a meeting at the school, just give us a little bit of notice. It ain’t easy when I’m running a bar hundreds of miles away…