I get up and head down to the kitchen, and my dad is there. He must be off work today, which is rare, means we’ll have to spend more than a passing moment together. He’s cutting himself a ham sandwich, his lunch, and I’m pouring myself some corn flakes, my breakfast, and within seconds we’re arguing over literal spilt milk. I get a cloth and clean it up, clean up the surround also, ask him is he satisfied, but he isn’t, starts firing off, telling me I’m a fucking dosser and he’s sick of the sight of me and to get out of his fucking house and get a job right now. I get my jacket and make for the front door, the bloke still ranting and raving in the background. Fuck you, I say under my breath, slamming the door behind me. Prick.
On Turnpike Lane I go into a shop to buy the NME. I’m in a queue of three or four people and after a while I’m slowly moving the paper inside my jacket. The man isn’t looking and I might just get away with it. It’s in. I look at my watch and casually walk out. I’m chuffed. The bastard conned me out of a quid last week so it serves him right. I head into the common opposite the tube and the cinema, sit on a bench. There’s a group of crusties further up, flat out on the grass with their cider and their dogs; a woman closer in chucking bread for the pigeons, the birds fluttering in the air, fighting for scraps, a dog running in, parting the waves.
I pull out the NME. I used to be into football more than music, but since leaving school it’s become the other way round. The Stone Roses, Happy Mondays, a ton of indie stuff, Es, gigs, raves. So much stuff happening. But never when you’re skint. When you’re skint you’re at a standstill. It’s like all the doors have slammed shut. You can hear the party but you’re not invited. I turn the first page, Richey Manic staring back at me with defiance. He’s holding his arm out, the words 4 REAL cut deep into the flesh, the wounds open and severe. I read the article. Apparently he took out a razor during an interview, did it there and then, had to be hospitalised, the interviewer said to be shocked and disturbed. It’s a powerful shot. A real fuck-you. I stare at it, and it cheers me up for a while. I work through the rest of the paper. There’s plenty gigs coming up I wouldn’t mind, but it all depends on the money situation. At the moment it’s hard trying to find even a few days’ labouring. I smoke a fag for a bit then toss the paper in the bin and move on. I should have probably kept the Richey shot, put it up on my wall or something, but I can’t be bothered.
I pace the streets, one foot in front of the other, don’t even know where I’m going. I walk through Hornsey and Crouch End, Archway and Tufnell Park. I’m miles away now, crossing Camden Road into York Way, past the tower-blocks, a no man’s land of crumbling warehouses and soot-blackened walls, lorries rolling by blowing dust, a spread of rail-yards and gasholders stretching into the haze.
I carry on to King’s Cross. I stop by the railings outside the station and watch the world go by. I’ve got eighty seven pence in my pocket and I’m down to my last cigarette. I watch the down-and-outs shuffling slow among the fast moving crowds; shell-suited beggars, barely in their teens, sitting by the station doors; a group of prostitutes outside WH Smith’s, loud and raucous, all cuts and bruises, cans of Tennent’s. I’m standing there leaning by the rail, wondering what I’m doing, where my life is heading, when I notice a man next to me asking a question. He’s in his late thirties, slightly shorter than me, looks like an office worker. He’s holding an unlit cigarette and I realize he wants a light. Sure. I light him up. Then he’s talking about something else, getting a conversation going, telling me he works just up the road and he’s got off work early today, asking if I want to go for a drink.
We’re heading off to a bar somewhere and I can’t believe I’ve just said okay. The adrenaline is pumping in my chest and I can hardly feel my legs. It feels like I’m floating. I know what the man wants, but I’ve never done this kind of thing before. It feels dangerous. Like I’m being led into some kind of trap. We turn down a backstreet, the man pointing up ahead to a pub. But I’m being paranoid. I can do what I like. Walk away whenever I feel like it. We head into the pub. It’s dark, the windows blacked-out, the music loud. It’s pretty empty, seems more of a night place. He asks what I want and for some reason I say whisky. I move to a seat away from the bar and watch him order.
He comes over with the whiskies, and he’s bought two bottles of beer as well. He sits opposite, hands me my drinks. He’s doing most of the talking, but when he asks me if I have any kind of proper job I hear myself telling him that after leaving school I started a plumbing apprenticeship but it didn’t work out, so what with the recession and everything I’ve just been doing different things really, whatever I can find, temporary stuff… I’m picking with the label of my beer, hearing myself tell the truth and it doesn’t feel right. Feels belittling. The man’s a stranger. It’s got nothing to do with him. I ask him what he does. Advertising, he says. He passes me a cigarette. Lights it up. Then he leans in. Tells me I’m a very good-looking boy. That I must be in high demand. He’s staring at me, and I feel his hand on my knee, and it’s making me uncomfortable. But I feel myself shrug, smile, say thanks. His eyes burning like he’s already been on the drink today.
You’re not nervous are you? he asks.
No, of course not, I tell him, lifting my bottle, realizing it’s empty.
He gets two more beers in. I feel the lager mixing with the whisky, going straight to my head, don’t know if it’s doing me good or bad. I hear him tell me he’s got some cocaine on him. That he wants to spend a couple of hours with me. That there are some hotels around the corner and to drink up because that’s where we’re heading right now.
I know the places he’s talking about. Grotty little b&bs full of prostitutes and junkies and I’m not going anywhere near those places. He’s on his feet now expecting to go but I’m shaking my head. We’ll do it in here, I tell him, nodding to the toilets. In here or nothing. He sits back down again, seems amused but slightly miffed. I’ve spoken out and things have changed now. Okay. If you insist. I demand the money first. Forty quid.
He laughs. He sounds arrogant now. What, for getting sucked off in a fucking toilet? He’s talking down to me now like I’m shit from the gutter, yet it feels more normal somehow, easier, the pretence over. Twenty then, I say. He takes out his wallet, peels out a twenty.
I head across the pub, tell him to follow in a minute, Madonna’s ‘Justify my Love’ thumping out of the speakers. There’s one urinal, one cubicle. The whole place stinks, floor covered in piss, bowl blocked up to the rim with crap and tissue. I look at my face in the mirror. I look pale, drained. Look like a fucking ghost. I want this done fast. Where is the bastard? Hurry up.
The door opens and he walks in. I lower my face, look all humble for a second, then suddenly charge at him, punch him hard in the face. He staggers against the door, shocked, raising his arm slightly. I lay into him, face and stomach, hear myself rasp as I grab him by the hair and slam his head into the wall, two sickening thuds, blood on the tiles and he crumples to the floor. I’m rushing from the whole thing, kicking him in the face and chest, Give me your fucking money, blood flowing from his nose and head, nobody to pull me off, pull me away like those fights in school, people jumping in, enough, leave it, never knowing when to stop, and I pull back, hope I haven’t gone too far, realize I’ve never done this before, exploded on someone out of the blue like that, and it doesn’t feel good, feels wrong somehow. But there’s no time for all that now, and I tear through his pockets, grab his wallet and rip out the cash, tens, twenties, a ton there at least. I stand over him for a moment, heart thumping, hesitating, but the door could open any second and I’ve got to move.
I head fast through the pub, Massive Attack’s ‘Unfinished Sympathy’ blaring loud, barman polishing a glass, drinkers shadowed in the dim light. I hit the daylight, move along the street until the adrenaline heaves up my neck and I puke between two parked cars.
I turn a corner, out onto the main road and I’m heading down the tube, moving with the masses, faceless in the crowd, unable to believe what I’ve just done. A train blows in and I squeeze onto a seat. Caledonian Road, Holloway, Finsbury Park. One stop to the next. Feeling myself coming down now. Exhausted. Like I could sleep. The whole thing a bad dream.
I get off at Turnpike Lane and halfway up my street I stop for a moment, remember the argument earlier. My dad will still be in a strop for definite. Maybe I should stay at a mate’s house tonight. Or maybe go to a pub for a few hours, til he’s gone to bed. I’ve got money now, I can go anywhere, do anything. But I don’t feel like it. I just want to go home.
When I get in my dad is on his seat in front of the telly, and he turns when he sees me, asks if I’m going to watch the match, Arsenal are playing, and if you are you’d better hurry up. I head upstairs. Tell him I’ll be down in a minute.