Two fingers from across the roundabout. He gets in. She’s sprawled on the couch. Watching Diagnosis Murder, pissed-up.
—Get out, he shouts. Picks up her stuff. Chucks it out. Then her. —Fuckin’ liability, he mutters. He makes a spliff. His temper’s gone. Phone rings. —Twenee minutes?
He gets in his van. Starts up the engine. Up to Ruckers’. Up the top. Flies past the shops. Mothers with kids. A few of them his, probably. He walks in. The door’s gone. The house fucked up.
—What’s ’appened yere then? —Fuckin’ missis last night.
Two ounces of rocky, discount: to knock out. A gram, at top whack. The stuff is like gold-dust. Off he goes. Next stop: The Gate. Quick pint. He buys a knock-off MP3 player then he’s off.
Spliff rolled, hanging on his lip. Next stop: above the Indian. Torrie opens the door in a black bra and knickers. Stockings squeezing her thighs. He sits down in the client’s chair. A few lines of Charlie for an Hand Shandy. Down the stairs he goes. He fuckin’ hates the smell of curry!
Next stop: up to his kids. Ryan and Michelle: eight and twelve. He pulls up. Can’t park because some fuck is in his space. A BM, blacked-out windows. M-Kit (series 3). Cunt! Knocks on the door. No answer. Goes round the side. No answer. Some prick appears in the gate-way, wearing boxers. Old enough t’be her son!
—Kelly in? —No, she’s gone shopping. —Where’s the kids? —In school!
He goes. Walks down the path. Chest puffed up. Jumps in the van and pumps up the tunes. Next stop: Derek’s. He has to pick up. House’s a dump, downstairs. Crammed with antiques, upstairs. Derek sorts him out, and gives him a tip on the GG’s. Can’t stop: ‘Fings t’do, people t’see…’
24
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