Beauty (8 page)

Peter shut the front door and invited Mark to sit down. He glanced at the laptop. The green lights flickered on the side of the computer, the modem running. Inside, the last slide would still be up on the screen, but he couldn’t exit it without raising the lid or switching the laptop off at the wall, which would look strange.

‘Coffee?’ he asked, going into the kitchen.

‘Tea,’ Mark said. ‘Got any skins?’

‘Somewhere,’ Peter called, coming back into the sitting room to find them. Mark was standing by the computer, his thumb on the catch of the laptop. Peter took the single stride to the table and clicked the lid shut.

‘That’s private,’ he said. ‘Work stuff.’

‘Sorry,’ said Mark. ‘Just seeing what make it is. Nice laptop.’ He picked up the cigarette papers and went back to the armchair.

‘Here, I waar interrupting anything, was I?’

Peter reappeared with two mugs.

‘How long have you been living here?’ he asked Mark.

Getting on for nearly two years now, Mark said. Came down from Burntwood to get away from old mates and bad influences, sort his head out and start afresh, did Peter know what he meant?

He did.

Wolvo was all right, man. Dunstall Park, too. There were too many foreigners around though.

London was the same.

Still, there were plenty of cheap pubs and birds. Well, slags. What more did he want?

Peter watched Mark’s large fingers crumble the dried weed along the bed of tobacco on the cigarette paper, noticing the span of his knuckles and the blue dots of home-made tattoos on each one. Mark looked up at him.

‘Do’ worry, I ay front-loaded it,’ he said. ‘Here, you got any chunes?’

He hadn’t. He’d left his stuff in London, at his sort-of ex’s.

Couldn’t he listen to something online?

The speakers didn’t work very well, Peter said.

Mark had some computer speakers Peter could lend. Got them down the re-cyke. Or he could borrow him some CDs. Did he like dance music?

Er … yeah, it was OK, although he didn’t get much chance to listen to music.

What about in the car?

The stereo was playing up.

Mark could fix it – anything like that. He was a damn good mechanic, too.

Really?

Ye’man. He could have a look at it this weekend, if Peter wanted.

Yeah – that would be great.

Mark passed Peter the spliff. The bloke seemed all right. A bit scared, like, and a pushover as well, but he might be a useful pulling partner that night. At least he wouldn’t have to walk into the pub on his own.

Did Peter fancy coming up the town for a drink in a bit, Mark asked.

Peter was a little tired.

Mark, too, needed an early night. Had to be at the course for nine the next morning. But it was pound-a-pint night up Flanagan’s and there’d be loads of birds there. It would do Peter good to take his mind off his ex. (Had Peter told her to fook off, by the way?) And when was the last time he’d been out on the town?

Peter hadn’t been out in Wolverhampton.

Right, that was settled. He was coming out.

What was Flanagan’s like?

Sowund. He needn’t worry, the place wasn’t rough. Mark didn’t like trouble either, but there were so many fucking knobs around these days you had to be careful.

Peter passed the spliff back. He wasn’t sure about going ‘up the town’. Mark didn’t seem the type who avoided trouble. Still, he looked as if he would be able to handle himself in a tight spot. And it was true, Peter hadn’t been anywhere without Kate for a long time. It might do him good. He used to go to pubs and clubs looking for girls. Why not here? It would beat the hours he’d otherwise spend on the internet. Talking to real people might provide some mental stimulus, too. And if he was careful not to chat up some maniac’s girlfriend or catch the wrong person’s eye, he might get through the evening without a glass shoved in his face. Wasn’t that what happened in pubs in towns like this? He didn’t fancy walking there though.

‘Shall we get a taxi?’ he asked Mark.

‘Am you fookin’ mad?’ It was only a ten-minute walk. The price of a cab would buy him four pints in Flanagan’s.

They could get a taxi back though, couldn’t they? Peter would pay.

Whatever. He just had to go home and iron some clothes and they could go straight away.

*

At ten o’clock Mark knocked on the door and they set off. Peter had put on a clean white shirt and a pair of straight navy blue trousers, and had patted his cheeks with aftershave. He felt good in his tan loafers. Mark, he noticed, had made an effort to smarten himself up with clean jeans, misshapen but polished Rockport shoes, and a saggy, grey acrylic jumper. He’d shaved to leave long, thin sideburns, and he smelled strongly of body spray. And he looked tough enough. Maybe people would stay away from them.

At the bottom of the road Peter nodded to the street sign.

‘Do you know why it’s called
Prole
Street?’

‘I’ve got no idea, mate. Why?’

‘It’s a strange word. Prole, as in – well, you know … proletariat.’

‘Prol-a-what?’

‘Proletariat.’

‘Never heard of it. What is it?’

‘It means … er, working class.’

‘Dunno what you’re on about, mate, sorry.’

‘I could be wrong. Maybe it’s just a name. You’d have to go to the library to find out.’

‘Why the fook would I wanna do that?’

At the row of shops in Graiseley, Peter kept his eyes lowered as he threaded through the people standing on the pavement outside the chip shop or leaning into the open windows of parked cars. A police car bumped over the speed humps and made him feel braver.

When they reached Asda and the Molineux, Mark cut through the badly lit, empty car park of the football stadium to the long subway under the ring road. The walls of the tunnel were covered with talentless graffiti,
the floor stained every few paces with faded explosions of vomit and blackened trickles of piss.

‘I kicked in some Baggies here six month back,’ Mark said.

‘What are Baggies?’

‘Christ! You don’t know shit! Baggies – West Brom fans. Small Paul phoned me – he’s a mate a mine – said they’d got three of them surrounded, so I legged it up here. Course, I dey do things like that no more. Got too much to lose, what wi’ me dogs ’n’ that. Who’s gonna look after them if anything happens to me?’

Peter looked sideways at him. Was Mark smiling wistfully at the memory of kicking a West Brom fan?

He had come out with a madman.

The rest of the journey passed without alarm. The subway brought them to the centre of town, to bright and deserted Monday night streets. Maybe it wouldn’t be so life-threatening after all.

Flanagan’s turned out to be a large pub full of yobs in sweatshirts, jeans and shoes like Mark’s, heavy gold chains and sovereign rings. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and yelled conversations over loud music. As Peter followed Mark through the crowd of young men clutching pints to their chests, he scowled at the back of Mark’s head to stop himself from catching anyone’s eye and was surprised to notice that people moved to let them pass. Maybe everyone was conscious of the potential for sudden and explosive violence in others. Or was it just Mark’s hardness? Whatever the reason, by the time they reached the bar Peter felt more confident than he had when they’d walked in.

‘What do you want to drink?’ he shouted to Mark.

‘Get Carling. It’s a quid a pint. The Carlsberg’s two quid and Stella’s two-forty. I’ll get the next ones in.’

Peter would have preferred the stronger, more expensive beer, but felt he should avoid an ostentatious display of wealth. He’d already put a ten-pound note in his trouser pocket to avoid having to pull out his wallet.

As they waited for the beer Mark scanned the crowd for any birds he knew, especially the fat one from RiteSkills and her mate.

He spotted Nicola sitting in a far corner with two girlfriends, the table in front of them covered by empty pint glasses.

‘Let’s go and talk to them over there,’ he shouted to Peter. ‘I know two of ’em, and the other one looks all right ’n’ all!’

Peter nodded and followed him through the crowd. Younger men moved out of the way of their brimming glasses.

‘Oright? It’s Nicola, ay it? D’you mind if we sit down wi’ you? There ay nowhere else.’

Mark slid into the empty chair next to Nicola.

‘Hi,’ Peter said, smiling awkwardly as he sat down on the other side of the table. The girls smiled back.

‘All right, mate?’ said the blonde girl in the England top. ‘I’m Louise and this is Kelly.’

‘Hiya, mate!’ Kelly’s voice was deep and rasping. She had long dark hair and pale skin, thick-lensed glasses and a chest that swelled under a tight top.

The girls resumed their chat. Peter took off his jacket, made space for his drink on the crowded table, and unwrapped a packet of twenty Benson and Hedges.

‘Fookin’ ’ell, ’e muss be loaded! Giss one a them fags.’ Kelly’s outstretched hand got a slap from Louise.

‘God, Kells, y’m awful! Give the poor bloke a chance to offer!’ she said, and they both laughed.

‘Do’ mind her, her’s fookin’ rude!’

Peter noticed their cheap supermarket brands of ten
Superkings, mumbled something in reply, and offered the pack round the table. Everyone took one.

Kelly lit the cigarette and inhaled the smoke appreciatively.

‘Thass a proper fag that, ay it? Not like them roll-ups. We only smoke straights when we’m in towun,’ she told Peter. ‘Just in case you thought we was posh all the time.’

Mark patted his pockets and said he’d have to nip out and get some fags in a minute. He didn’t want to look skint. That Kelly was fit. He’d seen her in Flanagan’s before and reckoned she’d be up for it. If he could get past the fat one.

‘Pete’s me neighbour,’ he explained, leaning forward and shouting over the music. ‘He asked me to fix his motor cuz he sin me working on loads of others, and he knows I’m pretty good wi’ me hands. Ay that right, Pete?’

‘Er … yeah. He’s a really good mechanic.’

‘An’ he wants one of me pups when Honey gives birth. Reckons they’re the best damn Staffies ’e’s ever sin.’

He sat back and drew on his cigarette, satisfied that he had caught Kelly’s interest. Birds loved dogs.

Peter watched and listened and snatched sideways glances at Louise. Kelly seemed to be asking Mark the right questions about the dogs: Kennel Club registrations, their back legs and mange. Why shouldn’t Peter try chatting someone up? A little gentle flirting would help get him back into practice.

‘Y’m not from rowund here, am y’?’ Louise asked, turning to him.

From near London, he told her. He’d come here for work. What did she do for a living? He could think of nothing else to ask. But the girl took the cue and chatted freely about her job in a care home.

Was she boring him?

No, not at all.

Louise asked him about himself and he answered briefly, as he usually did, conscious of his dull answers. She seemed impressed, however. He had a proper job. He realized he looked successful and sophisticated in her eyes, and, for the first time in years, felt free of the need to exaggerate, or apologize for his failures in life. Kate had always told him he was threatened and challenged by what she called ‘strong’ women, presumably like herself. What she meant by a strong woman, he didn’t know. And so what if he didn’t want to be threatened?

He studied Louise between answers, sips of beer and puffs on his cigarette. She had the fresh complexion of a young woman, with blue eyes and thin red lips. Her eyebrows were slightly darker than the fair hair tied back in a ponytail. As she leaned across the table to reach the ashtray, her football shirt stretched across her chest, revealing the outline of her small breasts. But her fingernails were bitten down, her hands chapped red, and the veins showed through the skin on her pale forearms, which were bruised by the pinching and punching of the service users with severe learning difficulties for whom she cared. Kids with mental problems, she said. She loved her job and the children, but couldn’t survive on the wages and had had to take on some more hours in an old folks’ home.

How old was she, if she didn’t mind Peter asking?

Twenty. It was young to be married, waar it?

Maybe a little.

How old was he? she asked Peter.

Twice as old as her, basically.

Really? He didn’t look it, she said. Honestly, blokes she knew of his age looked like old men.

As he inched towards her and leaned unnecessarily
close to catch her words, he caught glimpses of her slightly plump thighs in the charcoal grey tracksuit, and of the fabric creasing between her legs. She gave Peter a sense of womanly warmth. She’d had a rough life, he fantasized, and he would be the first sensitive man to caress her. The movement of her small breasts under the nylon of the football shirt was an inspiration. Like fresh apples.

He looked over at Mark and felt a beery warmth towards him, too. He was glad he’d come out.

When Nicola went to the bar, Mark moved next to Kelly. Pete looked well in there with that Louise bird and no one in the pub was staring at them either. You never knew at Flanagan’s on pound-a-pint night. There was always the odd mouthy kid with something to prove. Mark would have to keep his eye on Pete. The bloke didn’t know how to look after himself, and it wouldn’t do to have him kicked in the first time they went out. He’d remind him it was his round again in a minute.

Kelly was gagging for it. Looked like a right dirty bitch. Small, with big tits. She seemed to like hearing about his dogs too, although she had allergies, she said. Mark assured her that cat hair was different to dog hair, and that his dogs never came in the house anyway. She moved her leg against his. Perhaps he could invite them all back to his house for a smoke – that would sound casual enough, and if they said no he wouldn’t feel he’d been blown out. Better still if they went to Pete’s. He had tea and coffee, and dog hair wouldn’t be a problem. He couldn’t expect to shag her in Pete’s house though. A couple more pints, mind, and she’d be well away and it wouldn’t matter where he took her. He worked out a plan to get rid of Nicola. If Pete offered to pay for a cab
then Kelly and Louise’d be more likely to come, and there wouldn’t be enough room for her.