Streakers Read online

  People were dashing from shop to shop and huddled in doorways waiting for buses.

  The coffee shop window was steamed up.

  ‘How are we going to get tickets for a Man U game?’ I asked

  ‘There’s two for sale on the board at work. We only need one more.’

  Sam turned towards me. ‘It’s possible, Al.’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Honestly, I’m telling you with that crowd behind me, the adrenaline.’

  ‘I’m not worried about you,’ I said. ‘I could be in row Z and have to make it a mile down the road in two pairs of jeans on a second’s notice.’

  ‘Why don’t you do some training?’ he said, smirking. ‘Say, a mile uphill in your gear.’

  I gave him the finger.

  ‘Seriously, why not?’

  ‘Because I’ll look like I’ve shit myself for starters.’ I pulled my hood down. ‘I’ll tell you what. If I’m doing all the shit, I want you to do something for me.’

  ‘Shit?’

  ‘Dreams. Tomorrow. Wake each other during REM and record our dreams.’

  ‘No bother. Even if you’re engaging in a sex act, do you want waking?’

  ‘Especially, that way I’ll remember it.’

  Sam ran to work and I went into the Fiddler’s to see Brian.

  8

  Brian was sitting in his office with the door open, reading a letter. Light from the side window cut across him and it looked like a salt bomb had been detonated on the crown of his head. The dandruff had spread through the black curls and reached his shoulders. Brian was in the only clothes I’d ever seen him in, white shirt, black waistcoat, black pants. He was smoking.

  I gently knocked on the door. ‘Aye, aye.’

  The folds of flesh above his eyelids momentarily lifted.

  I sat in the chair opposite and waited for him to finish.

  He slid the letter towards me. The manager of The Fiddler’s Arms wasn’t returning and they wanted to interview Brian for the post.

  ‘Nice one,’ I said, handing the letter back. ‘You stand a good chance, Brian, the takings have been through the roof since you arrived.’

  He walked over to the safe and took out a large red ledger book and dropped it on his desk. ‘What if they ask to see that?’

  It was a record of supplies.

  ‘You’re only a week behind.’

  He nodded at the open safe, where there were four other books.

  Brian said they also wanted him to give a presentation.

  ‘On what?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘Well, did they not say? Is it about how you’re going to run the pub? Or your past experience, or what?’

  He picked the letter up again, vacantly staring at it, like he still couldn’t believe what was written on it.

  I got up and took one of his cigarettes and sat on the windowsill with my foot up on the chair. I lit up and opened the top window.

  It was still chucking it down.

  I finished the cigarette, then said, ‘How long’s it been since you worked in a bar?’

  He blew his cheeks out and leant back, hands behind his head. ‘A good few years.’

  I nodded.

  ‘What was the last pub you worked at?’

  He stretched back again, blowing hard. ‘Red Lion.’ I waited for him to elaborate.

  He didn’t so I asked him which Red Lion.

  He stared straight ahead.

  I waited.

  And waited.

  Nothing.

  ‘You’ve not worked in a pub before, have you?’

  Brian looked down at the letter and rubbed the stubble either side of his chin. After a while, he glanced up at me, then reached under his desk and brought out a bottle of whisky and two glasses.

  A couple of years ago, after losing his job, Brian ended up on the government NEW DEAL scheme, which trains over thirty-fives. He wanted to go back into insurance, but accepted placements at Marks and Spencer, Rentokil, The Ministry and Walcock’s Bar Furniture.

  After refusing a placement at Fenwicks, Brian had to look for full-time work or he wouldn’t receive benefit. He stated on his CV that his last position was Manager of Walcock’s Bar Furniture, and sent it to agencies looking for admin work. A week later he got the call to cover at The Fiddler’s.

  ‘Thought I might get kept on if things went well,’ he said, pouring himself another.

  I told him that all he’d have to do to get kept on as barman was stick himself on the staff rota. That perked him right up and he gave himself another shot of whisky, which went straight down the hatch, followed by a shudder and a rub of the hands. I also offered to help him update the books and prepare for Wednesday’s presentation. Each piece of good news was welcomed with a tipple of whisky and rub of the hands. After draining another glass, he re-filled mine and tossed me his last cigarette.

  ‘Actually,’ I said, exhaling smoke towards the top window, ‘I’m after a bit of a favour myself – which, as it happens, also benefits you.’

  The folds of flesh above the eyes lifted again as he prepared to receive more good news.

  ‘Now, I don’t know if you’ve heard about last night’s radio show, have you?’

  He pointed at the phone on his desk. ‘I’ve had to take it off the hook. Women’ve been ringing up every five minutes wanting to buy raffle tickets. I was going to ask, you, about it.’ He cocked his head and gave me a peculiar look, like he could hear a high-pitched sound somewhere, then said, ‘You’re not him, are you?’

  ‘I wish. It’s Sam.’

  ‘Ahhh,’ he said, tapping his pockets looking for cigarettes. ‘Thought it might be Sam.’

  I told him about visiting the Sellhursts and the planned streak next Saturday and that we needed his help to collect the donations. Nothing was a problem to Brian, who was more concerned about finding some cigarettes.

  ‘Mind, you’ll have a job keeping it quiet,’ he said, raking through the desk drawers.

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘There’s already been people asking questions.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Bloke been in the bar since we opened, asking about The Flash and what a great thing it is. Newspaper man, if you ask me.’

  I stood up and suddenly felt mortal drunk. ‘Issss he still in?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘What’sss he look like?’

  ‘You’ll not miss him.’

  I shoulder-charged the doorframe on the way out and felt my way along the dark corridor and into the bar.

  The old-timers were in the far corner under a cloud of smoke playing dominoes and watching the racing channel. The stranger was sat close by, reading The Times. He was tall and carrot ginger and wearing a smart grey suit. His overcoat was on the chair next to him. He looked up as I came in.

  I acknowledged the regulars then sat at the bar with my back to them. The barman went on his break and Brian took over.

  Brian poured us both a whisky.

  ‘What do you think?’ he whispered.

  I glanced over my right shoulder just

  I glanced over my right shoulder just as the bloke looked up and we both nodded. I turned back and he folded his newspaper and picked his coat up. He came over and leant on the bar and ordered a lager shandy. He looked like the Gingerbread Man in a suit and I wanted to rugby tackle him to the floor and ask him who he was working for and tie him up and leave him in Brian’s office until after next Saturday.

  He asked Brian for a dash of lime.

  I downed the whisky, then blurted out, ‘So where you from?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You’re not local, are you?’

  ‘I’m not, no. Up from York. On business.’

  ‘Ah,’ I said, ‘York. on business.’

  A long pause.

  ‘I take it you’re local, though.’

  I was trying to peel the back off the beer mat without tearing it. ‘Yeah, yeah.’

  ‘So, do you work
here?’

  ‘Head barman. Shit.’ I’d ripped the beer mat in half. Next thing I knew, he was back in his seat pretending to read the paper.

  I sloped out back to have a word with Brian.

  ‘Keep an eye on him and anyone else acting sssuspicious,’ I said, struggling into my parka. ‘And not a word to anyone about anything.’

  Brian tapped his nose. ‘I’ll ring you if anything happens.’

  I patted his shoulder and went out the side door and around the front and stood at the bus stop.

  The Gingerbread Man was watching me. He raised his glass.

  I sharply looked away and marched off towards home.

  9

  I woke up on the sofa at four o’clock and didn’t feel too rough. I made a coffee and stuck a frozen pizza in the oven and watched Deal or No Deal. When it had finished, I unplugged the phone, brought the clock radio from my room, and set it for one hour and twenty minutes time, to hopefully wake me during REM sleep. I lit the oil burner, stuffed cotton wool in my ears, and drank a glass of warm milk, before falling asleep.

  Sam was shaking me. He mouthed, Are you deaf?

  I pulled the cotton wool out. ‘What time is it?’

  He was still wearing his beanie and denim jacket. ‘One in the morning. What’s that smell?’

  ‘What smell?’

  ‘What smell? Are you for real? That flowery, puffy smell.’

  I pointed at the burner. ‘Lavender. It encourages restful sleep.’

  So restful I couldn’t remember a thing.

  I checked the alarm time on the clock radio.

  ‘Well then?’ he said, standing to the side.

  The poster on the wall above the fireplace was a cartoon of The Faccome Flash. Against a red background, he was wearing a black mask with black and white tassels and a huge gold star covered his modesty. Across the top in gold, THE FACCOME FLASH RIDES AGAIN! Underneath in smaller capitals, CHRISTOPHER SELLHURST CHARITY. Across the bottom, in white, NEWCASTLE UNITED v MANCHESTER UNITED 29TH NOVEMBER. Halfway down on the right hand side, just above his elbow, BACK ME TO BEAT THE BOBBIES, PLEASE GIVE GENEROUSLY. ALL DONATIONS TO THE FIDDLER’S ARMS, FACCOME.

  I was transfixed by the hooded superhero staring back at me, hands on hips, chest puffed up, catch me if you can.

  ‘Jesus, Sam, I can’t believe we’re doing this.’

  ‘I’ve already delivered the posters to Suzie.’

  ‘We’re doing it, aren’t we?’

  ‘We’re doing it,’ he said, walking away.

  ‘We’re doing it,’ I repeated, walking after him.

  Sam tossed me a bottle of vodka and I went back and stood in front of the poster.

  The Flash was like a monument staring down at us, willing us on.

  Sam had taken his jacket and beanie off. ‘I’ll make it out of there. You watch.’

  My heart was pounding as I pictured the fans screaming for him and me taking off down the stairs.

  ‘Imagine,’ Sam whispered.

  ‘Imagine.’

  We settled down on our sofas and flicked the TV on.

  10

  Friday Morning.

  I walked into the living room with a coffee and pulled the blinds up and opened the window, letting in sunshine and a freezing cold breeze. I switched the TV on and got into This Morning. The phone-in was about domestic violence and the guest was a twenty-four-year-old woman, who I’d read about in the papers. She had met her boyfriend at work, a week after joining a new company. Within a month they were engaged. She said he was possessive, but she didn’t feel threatened by him physically. One day, she was off work ill and her fiancé came home and said he had a surprise for her and ran her a bath. After a long soak she got out and got dressed. He told her to get back in the bath and get ready for the surprise. Once she was comfortable, he ran into the bathroom and tried to electrocute her by throwing a hairdryer, lamp and stereo into the bath. When that didn’t work, he jumped into the bath and forced her head under the water. She played dead and he left her lying there. When she got out, he was waiting on the stairs and panicked, saying it was a joke, even though he’d locked all the doors and windows. The lad got sentenced to nine years.

  On the adverts I made another coffee, then came back in and leant out the window to have a smoke. There were a handful of people at the bus stop, still in winter coats and jackets. It was clear blue skies and I could see the rooftops of the estates on the other side of the flyover for miles. I leant out a bit further and looked right and I could see inland towards Newcastle, houses and roads and patches of terracotta roofs where new estates had been built, and fields – one brown, one green, one brown, one green. The other way, towards town, housing estates either side of the motorway, four blocks of flats, more houses – no terracotta roofs around here, the glassworks chimney, then the sky meeting the sea – blue meets grey. I looked down before flicking my cigarette dump and there were three other residents, spaced out along the block, hanging out, enjoying the weather.

  The regional news was on so I started my stretching programme. Stretching three to four times a day encourages lucid dreaming. Lucid dreaming is dreaming when you know you are dreaming, like when you’re waking up and you don’t want to and you turn over and get back into the dream, although it’s never quite as good as before. Leaving notes around the house reminding yourself to lucid dream and saying it out loud and taking plenty of power naps also helps. The better you get at lucid dreaming, the more control you have over your dreams.

  I stretched up, nearly touching the ceiling, then slowly brought my arms down to my sides. I opened my legs and stretched to the side, left hand to left ankle – well, as far as I could, then the other side. Bending at the waist, I let my head and arms hang forwards and stayed there for thirty seconds before straightening up.

  I moved my legs further apart and fell forward onto my palms. I steadied myself, and was about to walk my hands back towards me when I heard, ‘And the locals are one hundred percent behind this mystery streaker, who has already escaped twice from football grounds in the past week’. The female presenter was outside the Fiddler’s.

  I scrambled over the coffee table and plugged the phone in.

  Eleven messages. Sam, Switch Metro on, I’m on Tony Horn in twenty minutes. Sam, did you get the message? Sam, for fuck’s sake take the cotton wool out! Brian, in a whisper, it’s me, you better come down before I open up. Sam, Christ’s sake, Al, ring as soon as. Brian, You Know Who is in again, you better come down.

  The phone started beeping so I stopped listening to the messages and answered it.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Where the fuck you been?’

  ‘I forgot the phone was unplugged, we’ve just been on the news.’

  ‘Get down the Fiddler’s, Brian’s been on, he’s struggling to hold it together.’

  ‘What happened with the radio?’

  ‘Hurry on, Al, he’s bricking it about his bosses coming down.’

  ‘On my way.’

  The town was packed out, but quiet, with everyone busying themselves at the market stalls. There were women in Asda uniforms dotted around shaking red buckets, and with every step I heard, The Flash… The Flash… The Flash…

  Brian was in his office and looked up when I came along the corridor.

  ‘Have you seen?’

  I unbuttoned Sam’s denim jacket and took it off. ‘It is market day, you know.’

  ‘The cameras I mean. They’ve been in here asking questions as well.’

  I took one of his cigarettes and sat on the windowsill. ‘What did you tell them?’

  ‘Nothing, I’ve been in here all morning answering the phone and keeping out the road and,’ he pointed at a pile of colourful boxes in the corner, ‘opening them.’

  I walked over and picked a black vibrator up off the floor. The tag attached to the end had forever yours written on it and two kisses. Using a pencil, I lifted a pair of knickers out of the wrapping papers and cautiously brought
them towards my nose, then flicked them away. Vibrators, knickers, all-in-ones, pouches, leather, plastic, masks, cuffs, whips, photos, DVDs, which I’d be examining later, bottle of liquor, box of shortbread, male nude playing cards, lucky dip lottery ticket for next Saturday, a toffee hammer and MONEY. We put the gifts to one side until we could think of something to do with them and I boxed the letters, photos and DVDs.

  Brian had conveniently stacked the record books from the safe on his desk and had opened one, ready to get started. He said the brewery had been on after hearing about it all on TV and they wanted him to maximise the pub’s involvement to ensure that the people came to the Flash’s rightful home. Brian casually placed a carrier bag full of receipts next to my chair on his way out.

  ‘If it isn’t David Copperfield hard at it,’ Sam said, peering round the door.

  I pushed the book away. ‘You’re going to have to muck in with this.’

  Sam picked the black vibrator up. ‘You reckon this is for me or her?’

  ‘Who knows,’ I said, joining him. ‘There’re some cracking photos, though.’

  Sam examined the pile with his foot and picked the toffee hammer up.

  ‘What do you reckon?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue.’

  Brian came in, out of breath and sweating. ‘You’re going to have to come out, we can’t cope and Ginger’s back.’

  Sam steered him towards the door. ‘Fear not, the A-team are here.’

  We followed him into the bar and were greeted by a heaving sea of red faces singing Queen’s Don’t Stop Me Now. Sam hopped up onto the bar and, arms outstretched, announced that he was the Faccome Flash. The women, crazy-eyed, makeup all over and clutching bottles of Budweiser and vodka chasers, surged towards him and both side entrance doors were forced open and punters spilled out onto the street. Sam worked the crowd, high-fiving the men and leaning over the bar and kissing the women, all the while collecting fivers and tenners and stuffing them into the nearest collection bucket.

  An old school mate’s mother, in her fifties and just hanging onto her looks, kept seductively and not so seductively sticking her tongue out at me. When it was her round, she waited until I served her and yanked my head down to her level and said, ‘I’m discrete and pure filth.’