Streakers Read online

  - Right… will you… will you… QUIETEN DOWN! Jesus, you’re like a pack of sex starved…. starved whatever! Jesus. Right, Flash. Me and you are similar, ahem, in many ways… we are! We both love footy, support crap teams and let’s just say nature has been good to us.

  - Certainly has, Chris, we’re lucky boys.

  Studio went crazy again, whooping and screaming and stamping their feet.

  - Flash, I wanted you on the show on Friday when the story broke, mate, but as you know not everyone is backing you on this charity, ahem, ‘walk’. The authorities want you off the streets… BOOOOOO…saying… BOOOOO… saying you’re giving out the wrong message, you could be a paedophile for all they know, blah, blah. What do you make of it all?

  Long pause.

  - Chris, this started out as a laugh and still is to me, except Saturday will be for a good cause. Just about everyone I’ve seen or heard about are 100% behind me. The only reason the authorities aren’t happy about it is that they can’t catch me.

  - Flash, you’re already a hero up north and down here with us, but how would things change if you got caught? And would it not be a good thing, mate? You’d be in huge demand, who knows where it might lead?

  - Chris, I’m more man than any of these coppers. They’ve tried, mate, they can’t catch me.

  - Yeah, but let’s be honest. St James’ Park, full capacity, and they know you’re coming? Come on, you’re not getting out of there, are you?

  Long pause.

  - You certain?

  - Don’t get me wrong I want you to escape, all I’m saying is Faccome’s ground and Darlington’s are nowhere near the security of Newcastle’s and it’s a HUGE, HUGE game against Man U. You’ll be lucky to get in, never mind get out.

  - How much then?

  - For what? I’ll donate, obviously, but I can’t…’

  - The bidding to advertise on my calves is up to five grand. What say you beat that and only pay if I get out?

  Whooping and chants of ‘go Flash, go’ from thegirls.

  - Mate, if you get out of there I’ll pay FIFTEEN GRAND to have the show on your calfs.

  - You’re on.

  The studio went crazy and nothing Chris Moyles said could calm them.

  Eventually.

  - Flash, I wish you all the luck, mate.

  - You’re a star, Chris.

  - Hey, us big fellers have to stick together! It’s a pitty you couldn’t somehow come see us at the roadshow tomorrow in Whitley Bay. Christ, it must only be ten or twenty miles from you, is it?

  - About that.

  - Under a vale of secrecy, protected by the Morning Breakfast Crew. Anything’s possible, mate.

  Silence.

  - What do you say, Flash? There’ll be a hell of a crowd and over seven million listeners? Chance to raise more money for Christopher Sellhurst.

  Long pause.

  - Anything’s possible, Chris.

  - So you’ll come and us big fellers can hang out together – NOT LITERALLY!

  By the time the studio had quietened down, Sam had gone.

  I stubbed my smoke out, ran into my room and speed dressed; into Sam’s room, pulled his jeans over mine and his t-shirt, grabbed my parka and ran out the door.

  By the time the bus pulled into the concourse at Newcastle, I was soaked in sweat and itching like mad between the legs to the point where I nearly ripped the jeans off and flung them down the aisle. I was first off the bus and marched up onto Percy Street and stood on the corner, opposite the Three Bulls, letting the drizzle and breeze cool my face.

  I took a slow walk up to St James’ Park.

  As I reached the start of China Town, the stadium came into view perched on a bank overlooking the town. A magnificent, state-of-the-art colosseum, with long, tinted windows beneath silver stanchions. I leant back against the window of the all-you-can-eat Chinese restaurant and watched everyone going about their business.

  A couple of doors down, Fluid Bar were advertising Saturday’s match and would be the perfect spot to hide Sam’s clothes. We had agreed on the Strawberry, but standing here, it looked too close to the stadium.

  I crossed the road, through the car park and up the stairs to the Newcastle Brown Ale stand. There were a few supporters outside the club shop and Shearer’s Bar. I walked up the narrow lane towards the east stand.

  Opposite the turnstiles, there were stone terraces, four storeys high, running the length of the stadium, and to the left, James Avenue, which took you down towards Percy Street. The first pub you’d come to that way was The Goose, which was too far.

  I casually looked around, started the stopwatch and let rip, head down, arms pumping, fast as I could, eye on the Strawberry Pub, knees to chest, WHOOOOSH! Feet head height and SLAM! Flat on my back, rain peppering my tongue as I tried to breathe. I’ve never felt pain like it knifing my ribs as I struggled to take the smallest of breaths.

  I was frightened to move: broken spine, fractured skull, slipped disk, cracked ribs.

  I lifted an arm, a shoulder, then my head, before rolling over onto my front. I used the wall to get to my feet and held the small of my back, taking slow, short breaths, staring at the green skid mark on the cobbles.

  One side of the alley was covered in moss, the other, shiny cobbles off the rain. We’d both need to take the outside on Saturday and hope for dry weather. I gingerly made my way down the street and into town.

  In Waterstones, I picked up Every Dream Interpreted by Veronica Tonay PhD. PhD, I thought. I turned into a corner and began reading it. It was sensational. It gave so many more options on how to interpret dreams than the other book. I went to the index and looked up house dreams – distorted, famous houses, foundations, house of friends, people within, childhood homes and rooms. I flicked to p246. Along with water, houses are an agreed-upon symbol among psychologists. In dreams, houses represent layers of the psyche, a map of the dreamer’s conscious and unconscious mind. What is in there? Is it unfamiliar or dark? The dreamer is dreaming about unconscious feelings and thoughts. Or is it familiar and sun-filled? This house contains mostly what the dreamer already knows about himself. Is it old? Not much change has happened. Or is it new? Transformations are afoot.

  I flicked forward to ‘discovering new rooms’. These dreams seem to occur when dreamers are discovering new things about themselves. Often the dreams are discovered with delight. Sometimes, they are frightening and unsettling, as dreamers face the unknown. If you have such a dream and get inside the new room, recall carefully what inhabited it. What was the furniture like? Was anyone inside? What does the physical appearance of the room suggest about a recently discovered part of you?

  ‘Excuse me?’

  I looked down at the assistant, who was about four foot. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Don’t mind you browsing, sir, but this isn’t a library.’

  I handed him the book. ‘I’ll take it.’

  ‘Very good.’

  I followed him to the tills.

  ‘That’ll be £14.99, please.’

  ‘How much? £14.99?’

  He nodded.

  I pulled the book out of the bag and checked the price: £14.99.

  ‘Not on offer, then?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘No seconds?’

  There wasn’t.

  I scraped together fourteen quid.

  ‘Look, mate,’ I said, leaning over the counter. ‘Any chance you could let me off with the ninety-nine pence? To be honest, I wasn’t expecting to find something so…’ He was shaking his head with great pleasure.

  ‘Fair enough,’ I said, straightening up. ‘I’ll leave the fourteen quid and nip to the cash point. Be a couple of minutes.’

  An hour later, a regular from the Fiddler’s, all suited and booted for his office job, strolled past and I jumped off the monument steps in my parka with the hood up like a crazed wino and started blabbing on about losing my cash card and getting home. He slipped me a crisp twenty and I promis
ed to sort him out next time he was in the bar.

  I strode through the double doors into Waterstones wafting the twenty around like I was struggling to keep it under control. The little git ignored me, but I stayed put and leant against the counter, looking away from him, the twenty between two fingers. With no one left to serve and nothing on the horizon, he took the note and rang it in. He dropped the change in the bag with the book and hooked it over my fingers and I walked out.

  I sat outside Starbucks with a coffee and read the section on People We Don’t Know. Famous people, same analysis as the other book, artists and writers, entertainers, politicians, strangers, scientists, sports heroes. Then I came to Dreaming Of Lunatics. Crazy people are relatively common in dreams. Most of us have had fears of going mad at one time or another, so the dream lunatic presents us with a picture of pure irrationality that can, at times, be oddly soothing. Being rational all the time can be exhausting. In its extreme form, the lunatic dream figure can represent a need to throw logic to the wind.

  Jack – Cuckoos’ Nest, The Shining. Becky – five hours, two swillings and lumps out of my shoulder and neck. Sam – The Facomme Flash. The definition was ‘lunatic figure’, so they didn’t have to be fully fledged. But what about the house dreams? The goldfish? The hospital?

  I’d like to think that after six months of analysing dreams, my subconscious has something more important to tell me other than ‘throw logic to the wind’.

  I went into Boots for some painkillers, then headed home.

  15

  Wednesday Morning

  CHRIS MOYLES SUPPORTS THE FACCOME FLASH 0800 4564 6592, PLEASE GIVE GENEROUSLY… CHRIS MOYLES SUPPORTS THE FACCOME FLASH 0800…

  Standing in the field punching the air and singing with the rest of the 5, 000 plus crowd, I looked down and Sam handed me his jeans and jumper. Soon as he stood up, hysteria swept through the crowd like a Mexican Wave and he struggled to get through to the stage where Chris Moyles was waiting, arms open. ‘What did I tell you? What did I tell you? And here’s my mate the one and only THE FACOMME FLASH!’

  Sam looked every bit the super hero: black underpants, bare-chested, black and white tassles resting on his shoulders. Bras, knickers, t-shirts, skirts and a blow-up doll landed around him. The police moved in from both sides, trying to break the resistance of the crowd who had joined hands and were standing firm.

  -You made it, Flash! What do you make of this crowd here for you? It’s a roadshow record!

  - I love them, Chris! They’re the best!

  The police were getting closer.

  - You’re not breaking any laws today, mate, so you can stay, yeah?

  Sam edged away, the mic still in his hand.

  - Would love to, but the boys in blue are itching to get a look under the mask, Chris, and as I’ve said, the only way they’ll do that is if I let them.

  - But, mate, there’s nowhere to go. You’re safe here with us. ISN’T HE?

  The topless crowd had worked themselves into afrenzy as the police closed in on the stage.

  I ducked under the barrier tape and sprinted for the corner of the field. I looked over my shoulder, expecting to see Sam giving it big licks, but a copper was on my tail. I bounced off the wall as I ran through the cut, looked both ways, then ran up the street and into the first garden that didn’t have a garage.

  Sam was legging it for the cut, where a copper was waiting, tight up against the wall. I pulled myself over the fence and ran towards him, waving his clothes above my head, SOS style. He spotted me and I took off back up the fence line. He soon caught up and we both hurdled a low fence and out into the front street.

  A police car turned the corner and we ran back into the garden and started hedge hopping. Three gardens up we stopped and listened. Sirens, doors slamming, shouting, radios out on the field. The back door of the next house along slowly opened and an old woman, carrying a small basket of washing, froze. She looked at Sam, me, back at Sam, then waved us over.

  We went through the kitchen and into the front room, where she was closing the curtains. She put a finger to her lips and pointed to the sofa and armchair. We sat down and the old woman walked between us and patted Sam on the shoulder. She went out the front door and we could hear her talking to her neighbour about the Flash.

  ‘I wish he’d knocked on my door, Edith, I would have dragged him in.’

  ‘In our day he wouldn’t have made it down the High Street, we’d have had his pants round his ankles.’

  ‘Aye, Hin, man like that, and he’s meant to be a good lad. Our Stacey knows someone that knows him, meant to be a lovely, lovely, lad. Good family and that.’

  ‘So they say. And hung like a donkey. Some say bigger.’

  ‘Aye, like a donkey.’

  ‘Wouldn’t mind a look.’

  ‘Aye, I’d have a look, Hin, just to see.’

  Sam had changed into his clothes and taken the mask off by the time the old woman came back in.‘Well, boys, they’re still out there looking for you.’

  Sam stood up and offered his hand. ‘Thanks for taking us in, we were snookered there.’

  She waved his hand away and stood at the fireplace. ‘Most exciting thing that’s happened on this block in ten years. Whole street’s out there wishing they had you indoors. Mind,’ she said, lighting a rolly, ‘you’ve been blessed with the works, haven’t you? Eh? We all thought you must be ugly, what with the mask. And who’s this handsome lad?’

  I offered my hand and she waved it away through the thick smoke. ‘I’m Alex.’

  ‘Edith. And you boys are welcome. I only wish our Nicola was here. You got a girl?’ Sam shook his head. ‘You’d love Nicola. Big, big chest, Nicola. But nice with it. Decent girl. You’d be proud to have her on your arm.’ She passed a photo round of arguably the worst-looking girl in the northern hemisphere. ‘See. I just wish she could find the right one. You want her number, Flash?’

  ‘Actually, I’m not dating much until after Saturday.’

  She shoved a piece of paper into his hand.

  ‘If you were around when the war was on, I tell you something. When I was in my twenties, with the girls? You’d have loved us. You wouldn’t have been able to get enough of us, I tell you. The Yanks loved us every day of the week and sometimes more when a ship docked. You’d have gone down a storm with a cock like that. It’s a blessing, son. Take it from me and use it like it’s going out of fashion. Any chance of a quick look, Flash? Just to see it up close, like?’

  Sam, mouth hanging open, shook his head and Edith shuffled off into the kitchen to make a cup of tea.

  I checked out the window but couldn’t see as far as the cut.

  Edith came in with the teas. ‘There you go, boys. I’ve rang our Nicola, just to put her in the picture. She asked if you could leave your number, you know, in case she needs to get in touch.’

  Sam jotted down something on the paper and gave it back to her.

  I checked out the window again.

  Edith picked up the phone and put her glasses on and dialed a number. ‘Helen, it’s Edith, number sixty-four. Yes, pet. Is your mother there? Jean, it’s Edith. I have, I have. What I’m ringing for is that I’ve got him here with me. Aye, The Flash. What we need to know is, is there any police next to you? I’ll hold, pet. There isn’t. That’ll do.’

  Sam moved uncomfortably in his seat and I asked to have a look out the back. When I returned, Edith was on the phone to someone else asking for information on the police’s whereabouts and letting them know that The Flash was safe and sound at number sixty-four. Sam and I stood up just as the doorbell sounded. We sat back down.

  Edith answered the door and came back in with Jean, from down the street. Jean had a good look at Sam. ‘Well, he is, isn’t he? Aren’t you, Flash?’

  Edith winked at Sam and said, ‘He might with an audience, that’s his thing, isn’t it?’

  The doorbell rang again and another pensioner was shown into the small living room. Sam asked to u
se the toilet and I followed him out into the passageway. From the living room, we heard Edith shout, ‘And here’s our Nicola!’

  Sam opened the front door and the two of us ran and jumped the garden wall, staggered across the road and pelted down the street, laughing our heads off.

  16

  Thursday Night

  Thanks to an alteration to the poster by one of the punters, the Flash Karaoke Night had turned into the Flash Fancy Dress Party and we were inundated with pimps, hippies, Elvises, prostitutes and a furry shark, who was sat at the end of the bar sweating buckets. The best performance on the mic so far had come from one of the old-timers who had sung Love Me Tender and, unlike all before him, he’d kept his kit on.

  Everyone was well pissed and things were getting messy when Sam came through the doors as Freddy Mercury in skin-tight white pants. I could see the bulge from the bar, so it must have looked obscene up close and he disappeared under a swarm of blonde curly wigs and white arses.

  He made his escape and arrived behind the bar, his vest and tash hanging off. ‘Jesus God, Al, they’re savages. Look.’ Both front pockets of his jeans had been ripped clean off and his thighs were bleeding.

  I stuck his tash back on. ‘If you throw the bait out, you can’t complain when you get a bite, can you?’

  He poured himself a large vodka, downed it, and we joined in the chants as another completely naked woman well over forty was escorted off the premises by two officers.

  It was after nine o’clock when I got a call from my mother.

  ‘What’s up,’ I asked, lighting a cigarette.

  ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you all week. You haven’t been down. Is everything okay?’

  ‘Yeah, sound, it’s just been manic in here every night with the streak getting closer. It’ll be back to normal next week.’