Streakers

  Paperbooks Ltd, 3rd Floor, Unicorn House

  London E1 6PJ

  info@legend-paperbooks.co.uk

  www.paperbooks.co.uk

  Contents © Gary Davison 2009

  The right of Gary Davison to be identified as the author of

  this work has be asserted by him in accordance with the

  Copyright, Designs and Patent Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available.

  ISBN 978-1-907461-10-1

  All characters, other than those clearly in the public domain, and

  place names, other than those well-established such as towns and

  cities, are fictitious and any resemblance is purely coincidental.

  Set in Times

  Printed by J. H. Haynes and Co. Ltd., Sparkford.

  Cover designed by:

  Gudrun Jobst

  www.yotedesign.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

  reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or

  transmitted, in any form, or by any means electronic, mechanical,

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  of the publisher. Any person who commits any unauthorised act in

  relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution

  and civil claims for damages.

  For Michael McCormack

  Also by Gary Davison

  Fat Tuesday

  see www.paperbooks.co.uk for details

  Acknowledgements

  Karen Davison

  Tom Chalmers

  Lorna Read

  Pauline Davison

  Lindsey Thornton

  Harvey Thornton

  Oscar fans recently voted Robert Opel’s streak

  past David Niven in 1974 as the top Oscar moment,

  beating John Wayne’s final public appearance to

  the award.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  1

  I’ve worked in the Fiddler’s Arms in Faccome By The Sea town centre for about two years. Since I dropped out of uni. It’s a smoky old hole on the high street, popular with daytime drinkers and weekend stag parties warming up to head into Newcastle. On a normal Saturday afternoon there would be nothing I couldn’t handle on my own, but today Faccome FC were playing Darlington in the first round proper of the FA cup.

  It was a late morning kick-off and straight after the match we were heaving. I swear I’ve seen nothing like it in here before. It was six deep at the bar, and all they were talking and singing about was the masked streaker. The Faccome Flash. Men reasoned that had he not come on when he did, we’d never have got the equaliser: shook the whole game up… didn’t know what had hit’em, he’s the real star, has to be some sort of athlete…

  The women were in a worse state over this streaker than the men. They seemed to be drunk before they even got through the doors, falling all over each other, hanging on to anybody they could. Women as old as my mother, saying how they would do this to him and give him good that: twelve on the slack at least… banging round his knees… can’t be local or I’d have had some of that by now. Husbands and boyfriends were being harshly eliminated as suspects.

  A couple more part-timers had arrived and I took a breather. I stood at the side of the bar, next to the poolroom door. I opened a can of Diet Coke and eavesdropped on a conversation between a group of girls, mid-twenties, all covered in fake tan, their white jacket elbows scruffy and soaking from leaning on the bar.

  ‘There’s nothing,’ one slurred, ‘and I mean nothing, I wouldn’t do for a man built like that.’

  ‘Me neither. Would you go twos up?’

  ‘Would you?’

  ‘Fucking right I would!’

  They flung their orange faces

  They flung their orange faces back laughing.

  Sam, my flatmate, arrived to start his shift. Sam’s six foot one and has cropped blond hair and starey blue eyes. My mother says he looks Icelandic (because she saw a film starring Sam’s double, wearing a white fur coat and riding a sledge pulled by huskies). Sam looks more like a tennis player coming into his prime, a leaner, cockier, Boris Becker in his Wimbledon heyday.

  ‘Christ, it’s manic in here,’ he said, ditching his jacket. ‘Did you hear about the streaker?’

  ‘Like anything else has happened today.’

  The men had now congregated away from the women, forming a united front against accusations of having a tiddler. No matter what the men came back with, though, the women always finished with the upper hand, chanting, ‘Off! Off! Off!’

  The first woman up on a table with her tits out wasn’t too bad at all. Unfortunately, the fatties saw this as an opportunity to impress and took to the tables in numbers, juggling them about with their hands and threatening to remove their skirts. With the new temporary manager nowhere in sight, Sam and I went round and guided them back down onto the floor. No sooner had one topless beauty been helped down then another got up, trying to outdo the last. The women at ground level were tearing at our clothes and groping us between the legs, while the men pelted us with sausage rolls for spoiling their fun. After unclamping a woman from Sam’s back, we took refuge behind the bar.

  By ten o’clock, everyone was in such a state that we decided not to call last orders and started steering the zombies out the door. It took over an hour to get them out and keep them out.

  Sam joined me in a booth at the front window with a couple of pints and we lit up.

  The place was wrecked.

  We had probably taken We had probably taken in one night what we normally take in a week. More.

  Sam lifted a black bra off the floor with his foot. ‘If you hadn’t witnesses the show, finding the owner of this would be top of the agenda.’

  ‘How white were her tits?’

  ‘How veiny?’

  ‘The first one was the best, I was all for slipping into her after last orders, but…’

  ‘But what? When was the last time you done the deed?’

  ‘I get by.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Not that long.’

  ‘Month?’

  A lonely whistle interrupted the inevitable onslaught from Sam about my recent drought.

  The whistle got louder as the person came along the passage. I tried to place the tune – and you want my body come on sugar let me know…

  Brian, the temporary manager, appeared behind the bar and went straight for the optics and poured himself a whisky. Brian’s about five-six, mid-to-late fifties, and has jet-black curly hair that hangs over his ears like a hunting hat. He was wearing black pants and a black waistcoat over a wrinkled white shirt. He’s really stooped over and after introducing himself this morning, I’d only caught glimpses of him wiping the odd table and talking to the old timers in the corner.

  Brian came from behind the bar, shuffling along with his whisky, totally oblivious to us. ‘Brian.’

  His hands shot up to his face and his drink went
flying over his shoulder.

  Sam and I stifled a laugh.

  Brian picked up his empty glass, then came over

  ‘Brian, this is Sam, another part-timer.’

  Brian stuck out a shaky hand. ‘Please to meet you, Sam.’

  Sam stood up, towering over Brian, who clumsily stepped back out the way. ‘And you. Bit of a baptism for you tonight, Brian, eh?’

  ‘Yes. Is it always this busy?’

  Sam walked off without answering

  Brian and I had a smoke and a Jack Daniels and talked about the match. I asked him how long he had worked in bars and he said, on and off, about ten years. This was his first job in over a year, though. Without any prompting he changed the subject and told me about his daughter, who worked as a nurse in South Africa. How her husband – soon to be ex-husband – was a bully, and that if his back hadn’t been so bad, he’d have given the bastard a good hiding. Brian said that his daughter wanted him to go and live with her, once the divorce was through and things had settled down. She could find him a job, a good job, well paid, no sweat.

  Sam was on my case to get back and watch Match of the Day and his blatant huffing and puffing as he passed us was making Brian uneasy.

  I got up and emptied the drip trays and recorded the waste, then filled the glass washer and mopped the bar floor. Brian emptied ashtrays and collected glasses. Sam finished hoovering then speed-cleaned the tables, before joining me behind the bar.

  ‘You have taped it, haven’t you?’ he asked me again.

  ‘Are you for real? How many times do I have to tell you?’

  I switched the fridge lights off and went over to Brian, who was having a smoke and another whisky. ‘That’s us done, Brian. You just need to cash up. The rota’s on the wall in your office for the rest of the week.’

  ‘Thanks. Thanks for helping me settle in. It’s been a while since I’ve been behind a bar.’

  Sam was nudging me in the back. ‘No probs. I’ll see you Monday.’

  Halfway along the passage, Brian shouted us back.

  ‘What’s up?’ I asked.

  He was standing in front of the till, petrified. ‘It’s one of those new ones. You couldn’t cash up for me and I’ll do tomorrow’s, could you?’

  ‘Yeah, no bother.’

  Sam hissed in my ear: ‘What if it hasn’t taped? We’ll miss it!’

  I ignored him and printed the reports off.

  Brian watched me, all sheepish at being such an inconvenience.

  I finished cashing up and we headed home.

  Our flat’s on the tenth floor of a fourteen storey grey monstrosity a mile-and-half from the town centre.

  Reaching the top of the bank, Sam took hold of my elbow again.

  I stopped dead and pushed him away. ‘Naff off.’

  He looked at me, all confused.

  ‘Don’t give me that, you know what’s up,’ I said. ‘That poor bloke hasn’t got a clue and you’re bouncing around trying to get out the door.’

  ‘Al, please,’ he said, walking towards me, arms open. ‘I’m sorry. I’m just excited to see the match. I’ll make him double welcome tomorrow. Honest. Now let’s get back and watch the match of the decade.’

  I reluctantly followed him, brushing his hand away as he tried to steer me through the doors.

  We got in the flat and plonked down opposite each other on our sofas with a beer and started the tape.

  Darlington took the lead early with a deflected free kick. Coverage soon skipped to the second half and Darlington continued bombarding our goal. We were being completely outclassed and if I didn’t already know the result, I would have been praying for the final whistle. Instead, I was scouring the touchlines for the streaker.

  ‘Any second, Al. Keep watching their goal. Come on!’

  With less than ten minutes to go, the masked streaker burst onto the pitch from behind the away goal. Sam and I were screaming and hugging each other as he tore across the pitch, swerving past players like they were statues. The Faccome Flash reached our goal, turned on his heels and saluted the crowd, before bolting for the corner of the ground and making his escape over the concrete wall.

  Sam and I remained standing, arm over each other’s shoulders, cheering Faccome on as they went right at Darlington. The referee was struggling to keep control and minutes later awarded us a free kick wide right in the Darlington half. Everyone was forward, jostling for space on the edge of the eighteen-yard box. Peter Healy launched the ball in. It was headed out and time stood still as Stevey Earnshaw, the youngest player out there, kept his eye on the ball, watched it down, then unleashed a-once-in-a-lifetime volley into the top corner.

  What a goal! What a goal!

  Sam and I were jumping all over, sprinting into the kitchen and back impersonating the streaker. It was all down to him! He changed everything!

  By the time we calmed down, another match was playing.

  Sam fetched some more beers and I rewound the video.

  I sat crossed-legged in front of the TV and pressed play. The moment he came into sight the crowd went berserk. The obvious had been blanked out for the television but as they showed a close-up of him, turning to salute the crowd, something caught my eye.

  I rewound it and froze it on the close-up. The streaker was wearing a black mask, dark socks and white trainers. The freeze frame wasn’t the best, so I reran it again, keeping my eye on his socks. I glanced at Sam – knees to chest rocking on the sofa – then back at the Jesmond Tennis Club socks the streaker was wearing. The same socks I had borrowed from my mother’s a few weeks ago.

  I yanked Sam’s trouser leg up. ‘It’s you, isn’t it?’

  2

  Sam sprang off the sofa and into his room.

  I stood at the front window watching a lad trying to flag a taxi down in the rain, waiting for Sam to come out and deny it; to put me straight and tell me he’d just put the socks on when he came in, or that he hadn’t made it to the match after all.

  His bedroom door creaked open.

  I slowly turned around, and casually leaning against the doorframe in a black leather mask and black underpants was The Faccome Flash.

  It might as well have been a Bengal tiger standing there, I was so stunned.

  Sam went into the kitchen and came back out with a bottle of vodka from his stash and walked towards me.

  We circled each other like two bare-knuckle fighters, before settling down on our sofas.

  I swear I could hardly look at him, let alone say anything. I’ve known him since we were four years old. And here he was, sitting opposite me in a gimp mask after streaking in front of millions. If I’d found that mask in his room, I would have been asking questions, but this? This was… what was this, for Christ’s sakes?

  I looked over at him and I knew he was smiling under the mask and loving every second of this. My mind was jumping from the football pitch to him standing at the bedroom door and there was nothing in between. My flat mate was quite simply off his head. He now thought it was normal to run naked, without any warning, in front of the nation. What the hell was he thinking of?

  Sam pulled the mask off and threw it over, along with the bottle of vodka.

  I took a swig of vodka, then held the mask out in front of me, running my finger along the mouth zip. ‘Where did you get this from?’

  ‘Sex shop on Grainger Street.’

  ‘Hold on, hold on,’ I said, getting up. ‘Let me get this right. You woke up this morning and decided to go into Newcastle to buy a gimp mask so you could run bollicky in front of the whole town?’

  ‘I was already going to the sex shop for something else, I just saw that and, well, you know, honestly, Al, your face.’

  ‘My face! My face! What the fuck do you expect, you lunatic?’

  Sam snatched the mask, pulled it on, and took off round the flat, screaming.

  I had another swig of vodka.

  I needed to get pissed quick.

  Sam ended his lap of honour
with a swan dive onto his sofa.

  We both calmed down, passing the bottle between us.

  Sam told me that he had decided to do it this morning after reading about a streaker in FHM. He hadn’t expected anything like the reaction we had witnessed in The Fiddler’s, though. ‘I just thought it would be a frisk and me and you’d have a laugh watching it tonight.’

  The vodka was kicking in and I was starting to make some sense of it, now that I knew why he’d ended up doing it. Sam’s always been a bit off-the-wall – never to this extent before, but he’s had me on my toes loads of times. I remember once in The Fiddlers. It was a Saturday night and the place was half empty. A lad, about the same age as us, was standing at the corner of the bar with his girlfriend. She was gorgeous, and we were keeping tabs on her behind the boyfriend’s back. Just as the jukebox stopped playing, the boyfriend moved about three yards away to the cigarette machine. Sam leant over the bar, turned the girl’s face towards him and started kissing her. With a second to spare they broke off. The moment was so tense, I’ll never forget it. Later, Sam shrugged it off like it was nothing. I spent the night replaying the scene in my mind, him kissing her, the boyfriend putting his money in the cigarette machine, each coin dropping down, the seconds ticking away. To anyone watching, it was surreal, a situation that could blow up into violence any second. To Sam, it was just a laugh.

  I tried the mask on. ‘I can hardly hear anything,’ I said, shaking my head.

  ‘Honestly, Al, when I ran out it was deafening. I felt so fast and powerful I could have run round the pitch all day and they’d never have caught me.’

  I took the mask off and we watched Match of the Day again.

  We kept glancing over at each other and laughing.

  Every so often I tweaked between my legs, feeling totally inadequate.

  I fell asleep clutching the mask and vodka bottle.

  I woke up in the morning in the same position. The phone was ringing.

  I stumbled into my bedroom and reached for my dream journal. The crowd was going crazy as I sprinted into the centre circle, arm aloft. As the stewards closed in from both sides, I ran down the centre and veered off towards the corner exit. The tunnel was blocked. I turned back up the touchline and the steward closest to me was Sam. I stopped and looked around – all the stewards and players were Sam. I backed away, edging into the crowd – they were all Sam, too.