The Likes of Us (18 page)

‘Come off it,' Finch said.

Vince grinned and winked at Sam and they seized Finch and turned him upside down, holding him by the ankles, his head six inches from the pavement. Coins fell out of his pockets as he wriggled furiously.

‘Lay off, you bloody fools. Stop yer bloody clownin'!'

‘Have we to get it out an' cool it off, Sam?' Vince said, pretending to fumble at Finch's flies.

‘You bloody dare!' Finch roared.

‘He might catch cold in it,' Sam said; ‘an' that'd never do.

Finch put his hands flat down on the pavement as they lowered him. They released his legs and stood by laughing as he righted himself and then scurried about the pavement retrieving his loose change. Vince clapped him on the shoulder and pulled him in between Sam and himself.

‘C'mon, then; let's go an' have a belly laugh an' a look at this tart.'

They caught a downtown bus and sat in a noisy group on the upper deck. They got off at the corner of Market Street. The Tivoli theatre stood in an alley near the centre of town. It was very small and, now that the Alhambra hid closed its doors, the only live theatre in Cressley. It boasted, along with the City Varieties, Leeds, of being one of the oldest music halls in the country and in its time it had played host to all the legendary names of variety. But its hey-day was far behind it. It could not compete with the mass audiences and huge fees available on television and it was fifteen years since any important name had appeared on its playbills. The fare it offered now was a series of fifth-rate touring shows composed of those who had never made the top, the pathetically hopeful, and strip-tease artistes and semi-nude performers of varying ages, talent, and physical charm. The gang paused to examine with lewd and vociferous admiration the photographs of Paula Perez, the Peruvian Peach, displayed in the foyer.

‘Four on the stage,' Vince said to the woman in the box.

She glanced at the seating plan. ‘Four orchestra stalls, row G, at four-and-six,' she recited, without smiling. ‘First house just starting.'

They paid and went in, ignoring the programme-seller just inside the door, and marched down the side aisle of the narrow red-plush auditorium. The hall was almost full near the front, but the audience thinned out noticeably towards the rear. They stumbled without apology over the feet of the people already seated as the five-piece pit band struck up, the steely tone of the violin characteristically dominating the sound. The curtains parted and five young women with frozen smiles went through a lackadaisical routine of slipshod precision dancing.

‘Cor,' Finch said, ‘lamp that elephant on the end.'

‘Must be the producer's daughter,' Vince said.

‘Looks more like his mother,' Sam said.

They began to clap loudly and shout “'Core, 'core,' as the dancers tripped in line off the stage.

Their place was taken by a perky, broadly smiling young man in a light grey suit, blue polka-dot bow tie and a soft hit with the brim turned up all round. He peered over the footlights, pretending to look for the audience.

‘Is anybody there?'

‘There's only thee an me,' Vince called out.

The comedian responded with a quick professional grin. ‘An' there'll awnly be thee in a minute,' he retorted in an imitation Yorkshire accent.

Finch nearly fell out of his seat laughing at this. He leaned forward and thumped the back of the seat in front, causing the little nondescript man in glasses sitting there to turn and give him a glare.

The comedian was also the compere. He told a couple of stories to warm up the audience, then introduced the first act: a saxophone and xylophone duo.

The first half of the show moved on through an acrobatic trio, a young singing discovery from Scotland, a brother-and-sister tap-dancing act, interpersed with quips, stories and lightning impersonations from the compere, and came to its climax with Paula Perez the Peruvian Peach. Peruvian or not, she was black-haired, dark-eyed and brown-skinned. She performed against a pale mauve back-curtain, with a dressing-table, a cheval mirror and a double divan bed as props. She began in a dark mauve cocktail dress, and elbow-length white gloves which she peeled slowly off and held at arm's length before dropping them in turn onto the stage. To the music of the orchestra she turned her back and unzipped her frock. She stepped gracefully out of it with a coy backward glance at the audience and performed a few steps about the stage in a transparent nylon slip. The gang were still and absorbed now, except Finch, who fidgeted restlessly in his seat as though impatient for each succeeding move in the sequence of disrobing. The slip went, followed by the stockings, which were shed with much waving of long legs from the depths of a bedside chair. Miss Perez now went into an extended dance routine in which her long legs flashed and the mounds of her breasts quivered and trembled above the low line of her white brassiere. She turned her back to the audience once more and unhooked the brassiere, throwing it away from her onto the bed. Turning again, she continued the dance with her arms crossed over her breasts, finally turning her back yet again while she ridded herself of her transparent pants. The act was almost over. The audience waited for the climax that would reveal all. The Peruvian Peach moved a few steps each way, her dimpled buttocks quivering, then stopped in the middle of the stage. For a long moment she did not move. A side-drum rolled in the orchestra pit. Suddenly she spun round, flinging her arms wide. The pale rose of her nipples and the triangle of diamante-studded cloth in the vee of her thighs were visible for a split second before the stage lights were doused.

She stepped between the curtains in a lilac-coloured nylon négligée to receive the applause of the audience, blowing kisses and flashing her dark, mascara-ed eyes into every corner of the house.

Finch thumped the back of the seat in front in his excitement, and the little man turned his head.

‘Do you mind?' he said. ‘I've paid for this seat.'

Finch gave him a blank look and went on applauding wildly until the Peruvian Peach had disappeared from the stage.

They made their way out to the stalls bar and extolled the charms of Paula Perez while they drank bottled beer.

‘Does she come on again in the second half?' Finch asked.

‘They usually do,' Vince said.

‘I wonder what she'll do this time.'

‘Ask for a volunteer to go up an' unfasten her clothes for her.'

‘Gerraway!' Finch said, his eyes popping at the thought.

They had a second bottle of beer apiece, the quick intake of alcohol loosening in them a pleasant sense of irresponsibility and a desire for some mischief to add spice to the entertainment offered.

‘See that little bloke in front o' me gettin' an eyeful?' Finch said.

‘What did he say when he turned round?' Vince asked.

‘Oh, summat about me keepin' to me own seat.'

Vince raised his eyebrows. ‘Did he, then? We might have a bit o' sport with him before we've done.'

They returned to their seats as the band struck up. The show sagged in its second half and Vince soon became bored and restless through the repeat sequence of acts. As the acrobats bounded onto the stage he snapped open his knife and pushed the blade through the red plush upholstery between his thighs. He ripped open a slit six inches long and probed for the stuffing, pulling out a handful and passing it to Finch on his left. ‘Here, hold that for me, will you?' Finch dropped the wadding onto the floor, consumed by a fit of giggling. There was an empty seat immediately in front of Vince and to the right of the nondescript man who had spoken to Finch. Vince put the knife away and lit a cigarette and leaned forward to expel smoke about the little man's ears. The man coughed and looked around. Vince showed his teeth in a smile and the little man turned away in some confusion. Eventually, after repeated references to it by the comedian-compere, it was the turn once more of Paula Perez. She assumed the role of a slave-girl, with a loin cloth and a strip of matching material across her breasts, dancing before a painted wooden idol which stood at the back of the stage. The curtain fell when she had prostrated herself in an attitude of abandon before the idol, and rose again almost immediately to show the Peruvian Peach concealed behind two large ostrich-feather fans. She had disposed of the garments worn during the slave-girl act and as she danced now the manipulation of the fans allowed the audience momentary glimpses of her naked, made-up body.

Vince leaned forward and spoke into the ear of the little man:

‘You're a dirty old man comin' here to look at women's tits when you should be at home puttin' the kids to bed. Look at her, though – she's got a lovely pair, hasn't she? Isn't she a teasing bitch the way she gives you just a look an' no more? I bet you're wondering what she's like in bed, aren't you, eh? Wouldn't you like to fondle 'em, eh? Run your hands all over her…'

The little man eased over to the far side of his seat, his gaze fixed on the stage and the Peruvian Peach. Vince went on talking, his suggestions becoming more and more obscene, and the little man began to sweat, small beads of perspiration breaking on his forehead and running down his fleshy cheeks. Until, as Paula Perez reached the climax of her act, where she retired to the back of the stage, dropped the fans and froze into a nude pose, his nerve broke and he left his seat and stumbled along the row to the aisle.

Vince waited for a moment before nudging Sam on his right. ‘Go on, get out, quick!' Sam, not knowing quite what Vince was up to, did as he was told and with Finch and Bob following they left the theatre and paused in the brightly lit foyer.

‘What's all the rush about?' said Bob. ‘It wasn't over.'

‘All bar the shoutin'. C'mon.' Vince led the way to the end of the cobbled alley and stopped, looking right and left along the street. ‘He's there.' The little man was crossing the road, walking fast, about twenty yards away.

‘C'mon, we're goinna have a bit o' sport.'

They crossed over the street, following the man but keeping some distance behind him. Once he glanced back as though expecting to be followed, then hurried on, his pace not slackening. In a short while he had left the main thoroughfares and was striking up the hill into the back streets. They saw him turn a corner and, turning it after him, found him thirty yards away, alone in a dimly lit street running between two sheer-sided blocks of mill offices. Vince called after him:

‘Ey, you there; wait for us!'

The man stopped only to look back: then he began to run.

‘C'mon,' Vince said.

‘What we goinna do?' Bob said.

‘We're goinna have some fun.'

He broke into a fast run, the others following. They easily outpaced the little man and overtook him well within the confines of the lonely street. He backed against a wall as they reached him.

‘What's wrong?' he said. ‘What d'you want?'

‘We just wanted to talk to you,' Vince said. They faced him in an arch and he fought for breath, his chest heaving, as his frightened glance flickered from face to face.

‘What about? I'm in a hurry.'

‘Dashin' off to tell the missis all about Paula Perez an' her marvellous tits,' Vince said.

‘There's no call for mucky talk like that,' the man said.

‘Don't tell me,' Vince said. ‘I know – you're an art lover. I bet you like mucky photos an' all. Have you any on you now? C'mon, show us your mucky photos.'

‘I don't know what you're talking about.' The lenses of the little man's glasses flickered dimly as his eyes turned to look at each face in turn. ‘Can't a man have a quiet evening at the theatre on his own without being molested by hooligans?'

‘Hooligans? Hear that, lads? He says we're hooligans.' Vince took hold of the man's coat. ‘Let's see them mucky pictures.'

‘I haven't got any mucky pictures. Now let me go or I'll shout for help.'

‘I wouldn't do that if I were you,' Vince told him. ‘That wouldn't be friendly at all.'

‘Well let me go, then. I don't know what you want. I haven't done anything to you.'

‘Who says you have?'

‘Nobody, but –'

‘Well, what you bindin' about, then?'

‘Look, all I want is to get on about my own business, that's all.'

Vince let go of the man's coat and appeared to consider this. He looked at his friends in turn. ‘He wants to get on about his business. Shall we let him?'

‘Yes, let's let him,' Sam said.

‘Even though he's called us hooligans?'

‘Well, he doesn't know us,' Sam said. ‘Anybody can make a mistake.'

‘We don't want to take it out of him over a little mistake, do we?' Vince said. He stepped away from the little man, allowing him to move clear of the wall. Vince extended his hand. ‘No hard feelings, eh?' The little man looked at Vince's hand before putting out his own to meet it. As Vince grasped, he pulled, jerking the little man forward so that he staggered against him. ‘Been drinkin' and all,' Vince said. ‘A bit unsteady on your feet, aren't you? Mebbe a spot o' shut-eye 'ud do you good.'

With no more warning he smashed his fist into the man's face, sending him reeling backwards to fall over Sam, who had taken up a crouching position behind him. The man rolled over, face down, and groaned, his hands moving feebly. Sniggering, Finch danced on the fallen spectacles, the lenses crunching under his shoes. As the man moved and made as if to lift himself on his hands, Bob moved in and drove his foot into his ribs. He collapsed again and lay still.

‘Let's blow,' Vince said.

Bob looked round from where he was bending over the man. ‘What about his wallet? He might have some brass on him.'

‘Leave it,' Vince said sharply. ‘We don't want pinchin' for robbery with violence. Not unless it's big enough to make it worth the risk.'