Blood Relatives. Stevan Alcock
go yet. Buy me a G & T if you like? I’m good company …’
I trudged the quarter mile back into t’ city centre, a foul fog filling my brain, cutting through t’ Merrion Centre shopping mall, which wor empty and silent save for t’ flickering buzz of a faulty photo booth, passed on by t’ multi-storey and out through a filthy underpass. I wor burstin’ and the gents toilet in t’ underpass hadn’t been locked, so I reeled in. It reeked of piss.
I worn’t alone. There wor this old geezer by t’ cubicles, toying wi’ himsen, and a younger one at the trough. I pissed long and hard, sending an arc up the metal trough back. The young’un shot a glance at me and I glanced back. He worn’t much older than me. He wor half-cock, and I could feel mesen getting the same.
I nodded toward t’ cubicles, but he shook his head to mean that we should go elsewhere. I followed him out and up a back stairwell of t’ multi-storey. Only when we reached the very top did he turn toward me.
‘Safe enough here,’ he said, unzipping himsen.
I looked about. Anyone coming up them stairs would be heard long before they reached us. There wor no cars on t’ roof, so no one would surprise us from that direction neither.
‘You live round here?’ I said.
‘Just up the road. Neville Street.’
Neville Street – the parallel cul-de-sac to Blandford Gardens.
‘Can’t we go back there?’
‘I live wi’ my mum and older sister.’
‘You don’t know a Jim, do you? Lives in Blandford Gardens. Drinks in t’ Fenton.’
His eyes widened. ‘Aye, I know Jim. Been round his place loads of times.’
‘Have you now?’
‘Aye. I slip round there at night sometimes when my folks are all tucked up.’
A cold anger uncoiled in me. Still, I unzipped mesen and he dropped to his knees and took my dick in his gob even though I worn’t fully hard cos of t’ lager and the blather. I closed my eyes and concentrated on getting a stiffy. Not that I needed to. He wor good, didn’t get his teeth in t’ way and could deep-throat. Jim had trained him well, I thought. Opening my eyes now that I wor hard, I took hold of his head wi’ both hands and held him there. I wor soon going to spunk off, so I thrust deeper and made him splutter from near on gagging. He tried to pull back, but I tightened my grip on his head, thrusting into his gob ’til I basted his tonsils. I pulled out, and spunk ran across his lips and down his chin.
Then I hit him.
Unbalanced by my punch, he fell sideways. He looked up at me disbelievingly, like a trusting dog.
I hit him again, in t’ face this time, and blood oozed from a nostril. He made no sound, not a whimper. The less the reaction, the more I wanted to force one – a cry of pain, a plea to stop, even an attempt to defend himsen – but he did nowt. So I thwacked him again, hard, my fist landing firmly above his left ear. Just say summat, I wor thinking, say summat and I’ll stop. But he sat there, like a disused glove puppet, his gob half-open, his dick still peeping out of his fly.
I kicked him one last time in t’ ribs and ran down t’ stairs in threes and fours, cut back through t’ Merrion Centre and over t’ road. As I crossed it I caught sight of t’ old geezer emerging from t’ underpass, two plain-clothed coppers escorting him by t’ arms.
When I wor next delivering to Blandford Gardens, I found the Matterhorn Man all chirrupy, like there wor nowt wrong. I fathomed that the Neville Street tyke had kept shtumm. He invited me in while he looked for his velvet bag of change, which he’d mislaid in t’ kitchen somewhere.
There wor someone parked on t’ moss-green sofa, beneath t’ Matterhorn. His head jerked up toward me as I passed by t’ open lounge door.
Jim said the man wor his older brother, Steve. Anyone could see right away that he wor Jim’s brother. Knock Jim over t’ bonce wi’ a fairground mallet and that wor what he might look like: a podgier, squarer version of Jim, wi’ an extra chin, shorter legs, a beer belly and splurging love handles. Jim took it upon himsen to introduce me, which must have looked a bit odd, presenting the Corona delivery boy. I stretched out a hand, being polite. Steve looked at it wi’ an expression that slithered between uncertainty and hostility, then shook it briefly. He wore a signet ring. He looked underslept.
I excused mesen and went into t’ kitchen. Jim smiled ruefully.
‘Sorry, kid, he just turned up out of the blue. He cannae stay. It’s not the first time he’s done this. I’m guessing his missus has kicked him out again – that’s usually what this is about.’
He kissed me on t’ nose. ‘It might be best you don’t call by after your work for a wee while. Just until he’s gone.’
‘How long will that be?’
Jim had found his velvet change bag by t’ toaster.
‘Last time was about three weeks. Blethered on about getting a job and all that, but all he did was doss around the hoose all day. Trouble with Steve is he thinks the world owes him. In the end I gave him some dosh and put him on a coach back to Glasgow.’
‘Three week!’
Jim kneaded the nape of my neck. ‘He’ll not be staying that long this time, don’t you worry.’
‘Does he know?’
‘He knows, but I wouldn’t want to give him the extra ammunition, if you get my drift.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning that you being underage jailbait, it’s better that he disnae know. I cannae trust Steve not to use something like that.’
Jim handed me t’ money for his usual order, and an extra bottle of Coke for Steve.
I said, ‘What about t’other one? Has he been warned off an’ all?’
Jim fiddled wi’ t’ drawstring of t’ velvet bag.
‘What other one?’
Craner had his feet up on t’ desk, flicking paperclips at the tits of Miss July on t’ wall calendar. It had barely rained since t’ end of May. We wor out on t’ road from dawn to dusk. Sales of pop wor skyrocketing. We sold it, drank it, sweated it, pissed it up the sides of walls and into hedges. Eric had even pissed full an empty bottle of limeade, and somehow we sold that. Craner hauled his eyes off Miss July’s tits and onto my face.
‘I hope you had a wash, Thorpy, cos by mid-morn in this heat you’re gonna stink like a wrestler’s laundry basket.’
‘Always wash, Mr Craner. Just wondering if t’ round-book wor ready.’
He tossed the round-book toward me. It fell short by my boots. I picked it up.
‘So, Thorpy, who’s going to win the cricket at Headingley, eh? England or the West Indies?’
‘Dunno, Mr Craner. Don’t follow it none.’
Friggin’ cricket ruled that week. Wherever we delivered, doors wor slung open, sash windows raised or lowered, radios cranked up to distortion, every last soul hanging on to t’ plummy vowels of t’ cricket commentators. Some folk had set up their TVs in t’ back yard, wi’ t’ cable running through an open window. Folk who never watched cricket wor watching cricket. Pubs had brought in TVs to drum up extra trade. Even kids had got the cricket bug, overarming tennis balls toward chalked stumps on brick walls or tapping cheap bats into t’ ground in front of upended box stumps.
Up at Headingley cricket ground, the Windies wor giving England a pasting.
Craner arched his eyebrows over t’ rims of his glasses and flicked off another paperclip. This one pinged against Miss July’s left eye.
‘Don’t follow cricket? Even my good friends