There, over by the steps, big girl with reddish hair, a blue top which jiggled when she moved. Black trousers, loose at the hip. She might do the trick.
Darren shifted his position to get a better look.
According to the news, that old idiot he’d whacked was still hanging on. Arsehole! Why couldn’t he mind his own business? Keep his hands to himself? Still fighting the tossing war. Saved this country for the likes of you. Yes, well, right, Grandad. Thanks very fucking much!
Sodding Keith today, as much good as a johnny with a hole at both ends. If he was going to get anywhere, he’d have to find a better partner than that. Late with the car, forgetting to guard the door.
A youth in a suit jostled Darren’s elbow and Darren straightened, giving him a look. The youth mumbled something to the slag he was with and the two of them wandered away.
One thing Darren had to give Keith-once his nerves had steadied he’d got them out of there like there was no tomorrow. Three police cars after them at one point and still Keith had lost them. Everything going great until he’d misjudged that turn going down towards Sandiacre. Legging it then, they’d been: till they’d found that van on Longmoor Lane. Some lame brain, who’d nipped into the paper shop for a Post and a packet of fags, left the sidelights on, indicator flashing, keys in the fucking steering column!
Back from there, through Long Eaton and into the city.
The tempo slowed and Darren figured it was time to head downstairs, see what was what at close hand.
That range, she was a lot bigger than he’d first thought, not that there was anything wrong with that. Some of them so skinny, he might as well have been back inside, putting it to some youth in the shower while a mate kept watch for the screws.
Face that wasn’t about to win any prizes.
Her mate, the one she was dancing with, she was a lot prettier and knew it. Aware that Darren was standing here now and watching them, thinking he had to be watching her. Toss of the head and yes, here comes the tongue, wetting both her lips.
Saying something about him, heads close together, laughing under the music. When the record changed again, they hesitated, then started to leave the floor.
As he intercepted them, the good-looking one smiled at Darren with her eyes and he gave her a quick grin back, moving past her, hand reaching out to touch her mate on the arm.
“Come on. Can’t be packing up already.”
Leading her back on to the floor, out into the middle where it was more crowded, a few minutes half-heartedly dancing round her, before hauling her close, didn’t matter about the music now, whatever was happening was slow inside Darren’s head. Press of her breasts against his chest, fingers of her hand against his back, his own cupping the curve of her arse, sliding up and down. Flesh there in plenty, knickers no more than a strip of material at either side.
“Where we going?” she said, almost to the door.
There had been the usual quick consultation with her friend, trip to the loo, queuing for her coat, Darren looking at himself reflected in the poster on the wall, not letting his impatience show.
“Back to my place.”
“I can’t stop long.”
He looked at her, questioning. “My mum, she’d worry.”
Darren looked back towards the interior. “Say you’re staying with a mate.”
“I can’t.”
“That’s okay,” Darren said, moving towards the exit “S’not far.”
Out on the street he suddenly stopped. “Wait here,” he said. “Be right back.”
Surprised, she watched him as he walked back inside, mass of curly hair outlined against violet light.
There were two men at the urinals when he went in and he stood in line, taking his time until, laughing, they went back outside. Neither of the toilets seemed to be occupied.
Less than a minute later the music went loud and then quiet. The youth who came and stood one place down from Darren was Asian, blue suit, no more than eighteen.
Darren pulled up his zip and walked behind the youth as if to wash his hands. Turning fast, he grabbed him by both arms and threw him forward, cracking his head against the wall; brought his knee up fast into the base of his spine and struck his head against the wall a second time. A kick between his legs as he pulled him round; an elbow in the face.
There was a wallet in the inside pocket of his suit: two notes, a twenty and a ten, folded in his top pocket.
“Better call the manager or something,” Darren said to the man entering as he left. “Some bloke in there’s fainted. Done himself a bit of damage.”
“Sorry,” he said to the girl with a smile. “Caught short. You know how it is.”
“Come on,” he said, once they were on the pavement. “Get down to the corner, we can pick up a cab.”
Darren’s room was an upstairs front: curtains at the window that neither met nor matched, bed, table, wardrobe, chair. He kissed her and asked her name, offered her coffee, and she offered him a cigarette.
“Milk’s off,” he said, coming back with two mugs. “Have to have it black.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said.
Darren sat beside her on the bed. “I want you to do something for me.”
Oh, yes, she thought, though there was something about the way he said it that made her think that might not be exactly what he meant.
“Hang on,” he said and disappeared a second time. When he came back from the kitchen there was a pair of scissors in his hand.
Ten
The black cat sprang on to the stone wall at the sound of Resnick’s footsteps, purred, and paced and turned as soon as he was in sight, stretched his head towards the passing touch of Resnick’s hand. Inside the front door, a second cat trilled and ran towards the kitchen, while Resnick stooped and scooped up the usual unappetizing batch of mail. Gas bill, electricity bill, a personal computerized letter from his bank manager offering to make him a loan on the most friendly of terms. The third cat was sitting on the hall chest, opposite the stairs; the fourth … there was a metallic clunk as Resnick entered the kitchen, a saucepan lid wobbling across the floor, a bewhiskered face peering from inside the pan.
“One of these days,” Resnick said, “you’ll wake up in there too late. End up as stew.”
The cat jumped out, unimpressed, and rubbed himself against Resnick’s legs.
Dizzy, Miles, Bud, Pepper.
A letter with handwriting he recognized but couldn’t place. Inside its clear wrapper, this quarter’s copy of Jazz FM. More reviews of reissues he would love to buy but the technology was failing him. You could count the vinyl albums in Virgin or HMV on the fingers of both hands. Cassette or CD. Oh, well … perhaps next month he’d take the plunge. Have a word with Graham Millington-he’d have a CD player, bound to; chosen by his wife after a careful perusal of Which?; something that would bring Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Greatest Hits into their home with all the sterility they deserved.
Impatient, Dizzy jumped up on to the work top and Resnick, not unkindly, pushed him down. He opened a tin of kidney and beef heart and forked the contents into the four colored bowls, sprinkling a little KitEKat Supercrunch with liver and game over the top.
OPEN this envelope NOW and read all about your FREE holiday in the Algarve. Resnick tore it in two and tossed it in the bin. The way Dizzy kept pushing Bud out of the way and chomping his food as well as his own, it was no wonder Bud stayed so thin.
The coffee beans were dark and shiny in the palm of his hand and he brought them, momentarily, to his face to savor the smell. Stocks were running low; tomorrow or the next day he must remember to call in at The White House and buy more.
While the water was dripping through the filter, he arranged thin slices of Gruyere cheese, slivers of smoked ham, halved black olives, onion, several pieces of sun-dried tomato, and, finally, some crumblings of blue Stilton on top of two thick slices of light rye bread. Careful to keep them level, he set both pieces on the grill pan and slid them beneath the flame which was already burning. Taking hold of Dizzy firmly and holding him in one hand, he unlocked the back door and released the black cat into the garden. If he was still hungry, he could forage out there.