The Zombie Saga (Book 3): Burn The Dead: Riot (2 page)

I smile. If I didn’t love the guy, then I might just be a little insulted. But it’s hard to stay mad at him. He just has that cheeky way about him. “I know. What can you
do?
”

Ginge pulls a scary face at Harry as he passes him in the hallway. He can never resist winding the spoilt little brat up.

“Fuck off, you fat ginger
cunt
,” Harry barks as he walks up the stairs.

“
Oi!
” I shout. “Don’t speak to him like that! I’ll be telling Wendy about you.”

The little prick gives me the middle finger and runs up the stairs, laughing.

“Sorry about him,” I say, as if it’s the first time he’s done it. God knows why I have to apologise for him. He’s not
my
kid. “He’s just a little shit. Can’t blame him, though, living in this place.”

Wendy steps out of the kitchen carrying two bacon rolls on a plate, wearing her favourite apron; the one with the picture of a pink cupcake on the front, a gift from Rosy last Christmas. It still makes me smile. “Thought I heard you, Ginge,” she says, handing us a roll each. “Here, eat these. I know what you boys are like; you’ll end up drinking beer on an empty stomach.”

“Thanks, Wendy,” Ginge says, instantly taking a huge bite. You can swear he’s never seen one in his life. “You’re a star.”

“Don’t worry,” I reassure her, “we won’t be drinking much. I’m skint. Plus, the booze is always too expensive in the stadium, anyway. We’ll just have a couple in the pub before we get there.”

“Who are you meeting in the pub?” she asks.

“Just the guys,” I reply, waiting for her to give me the lecture on how awful my friends are.

“It’s not that Jonny and his brother, is it?” she asks—
right on cue!

“Yeah. And Hoppy’ll be there.”

She shakes her head, pursing her lips. “Watch yourself with those boys, now, Alfie. They’re terrible, especially that Jonny.”

“I’ll look after him, Wendy,” Ginge says with his usual cheeky grin. “Your boy’s in safe hands.”

Wendy ignores his comment and pulls me in for a kiss. I put up a small fight but then give in to it. It’s pointless resisting; she always gets me in the end.

“Right, we’re going,” I tell her. “You’ve driven us away.”

“Bye, Wendy,” Ginge says as we step out onto the front path. “I’ll get him home in one piece. I promise.”

“Just be careful,” she says, “you’re only seventeen. You’re not as grown up as you think. And you’re at the petrol station tomorrow. You can’t be late for work again. Jobs don’t grow on trees, you know.”

I wave her off as we head along the pavement. She’s sweet, but she doesn’t half go on.

As soon as she’s gone inside, we each light up a cigarette. I haven’t had a smoke since last night. No point even risking it in the garden; Wendy can smell it from a mile off.

Glancing around the cul-de-sac, I see at least five houses with Swansea banners and towels hanging from the windows. Feels like the whole city will be watching this afternoon. Most probably will be. Maybe not at the stadium. Although, it is a sell-out. Twenty-one thousand tickets gone—in a matter of hours. Some guy at work offered me two hundred for mine. I told him to piss off. Wendy said I should have taken him up on his offer; put the money towards driving lessons.

No bloody chance!

“How’s Burger-Land treating you?” I ask. “Still eating half the profits?”

“Oh, yeah. I never go hungry in that place. There’s fuck all else to do there
but
eat. It’s dead most evenings.”

“I know. It was like a ghost town last time I popped in. Where are all the fat bastards when you need them?”

“I know. They’re thinking about closing it down.”

“Really?” I ask as we cross Kilroy Street, heading towards the Farmers Arms pub. “What are you supposed to do then? You’ll never afford season tickets in the VIP suite without a job.”

Ginge laughs. “
I
wish. We wouldn’t even be able to afford to use the toilet in there. They’d take one look at us and kick us to the curb.”

“Speak for yourself. Petrol-attendants already get the VIP treatment in those places.”

“Would be nice, though, an aerial view of the pitch, a private bar and waiter service. Oh well, I’m sure some rich slut will show up at work, turning me into her sex slave for cash.”

“Yeah, lose the belly first,” I say, flicking the cigarette stub on the pavement, and then pushing the pub door open. “And the hair. No one likes a ginger-nut.”

“Cheeky bastard.”

3

The Farmers Arms pub: your classic old man boozer.

The smell of stale beer and mould hit my nostrils as soon as I walk in. The place is almost empty—but that’s the way Jonny likes it. He never bothers with the real Swansea football pubs. They’re always too busy and too loud. But more importantly, Cardiff fans would never set foot in one. The Farmers Arms is notoriously a pub for rival teams to drink in before a game. The last five times we’ve drunk here we’ve ended up fighting. That’s probably why it’s not as busy as it used to be. Not that fussed on the agro myself; I’d rather just sit here, get wasted, and then stroll over to the stadium.

But Jonny Ross always gets his way.

As soon as I make my way to the bar I spot Hoppy, slumped up against the fruit machine. The big bastard’s probably been there for hours, blown most of his dole money already. And then when he’s drunk and skint, he’ll be swinging punches at one of us. He’s not the best of friends, but he’s a hard fucker. And someone like that is always handy to have in your corner, especially on a match day.

The watered-down beer is cheap here, so I offer to go on rounds with Ginge. Hopefully, if I can time it right, Ginge will have to buy me a drink in the stadium. And in that place, they’re twice the price. It’s not exactly the greatest of scams, but it usually works a treat on him. In school, I learned fuck all. But beer-maths?
I’m a bloody genius.

I take the two pints of beer over to the table. Ginge is sitting next to Nathan. He’s probably my least favourite person to hang out with. He’s lippy, tight, always ends up fighting, and he’s a total racist. Which doesn’t really bother me, because even
I
get a little racist when I see his scrawny, white arms, his thin little legs, seeming even smaller with those black skinny-jeans on.
Stupid prick.
And that blond shaved head makes him look like a newborn baby. But what can you do? He’s Jonny’s younger brother. He’s protected, and has been all his life. And no one fucks with the Ross family.

“What’s up, my nigger?” Nathan says in a lousy American accent. Just because the little twat listens to Jay-Z, he thinks he can throw out the N word.

“Shut the fuck up, Nath,” Ginge says, nudging him in the ribs. “You can’t go shouting out things like that.”

Nathan lets out a chuckle. “Calm down, you prick, I was only joking.
He
knows that, don’t you Alf?”

I’m above his shit, so I throw him a sarcastic grin as I sit down at the table. I take a huge swig of beer, imagining how great it would be to smash his head in. “Where’s your brother?” I ask him.

He motions with his head behind me. “He’s in the bog having a line. He’s got us some great coke. Nothing like that stuff we had last time. This shit will blow your head off.”

“None for me today,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m skint. I’ve only got enough for a couple of pints.”

“What? On match day? Don’t be a pussy.”

Ignoring his dig, I take a sip of my beer, and glance over at Hoppy. He’s shaking the fruit machine, clearly just lost a shit-load of coin. God knows why he even bothers. All he goes on about is how much he loses.
Mr Unlucky
.

He gives it a quick kick and starts to walk towards us, his face pink with aggression. I wonder how much he’s lost this time.

“All right, Hoppy?” I ask, praying that he doesn’t take his loss out on one of us. I mean, the guy’s twice my size, and that Swansea top is ready to pop off at the seams. Not sure if it’s shrunk in the wash, or he’s trying to show off his chunky arms. “No luck today then, mate?”

He sits down heavily next to Nathan, gulps down half his pint in one go, and then burps loudly; the sharp burbling sound echoes around the pub. I tighten up a little when I see the old couple frowning from the next table. “Fuck all luck, Alf,” he says, wiping the froth from his lips. “I’m sure that thing’s rigged.”

“It’s not worth it, Hop,” Ginge says. “Those machines only pay off after someone’s been on it for hours.”

Hoppy turns to him and scowls. “You don’t think I know that, Ginge? I’ve been popping coins for an hour before you lot got here.” He finishes what’s left of his drink, belches again, and then gets up. “Right then, whose round is it?”

“I’m on rounds with Ginge,” I say. “Can’t afford to go on with everyone; I’m totally skint this month.”

“He’s a pussy,” says Nathan, nudging him. “He reckons he’s not having any of Jonny’s coke.”

“What?” Hoppy blurts out, sitting back down, eyes bursting from their sockets, as if I’ve just come out of the closet. “You’ve got to, Alf. It’s fucking awesome sniff! Best I’ve ever had. Practically uncut.”

Yeah, I’ve heard that one before. Straight from the fields of Colombia, I bet. “I’d love to, mate, but I’ve only got enough for a few pints today.”

“Then I’ll lend you the sixty,” Hoppy offers. “Come on, Alf. Man up.”

I shake my head. “I can’t. I’ll never get to pay you back. I’ll be eighteen in four months; I’ve got to find somewhere to live. Wendy and Phil are never gonna keep me on.”

“Fuck ‘em, then,” Ginge says. “And fuck your foster dad. You can crash with me until you’re back on your feet. Mum won’t care, and my sister has moved in with her boyfriend, so the place is practically empty.”

“
See!
” Hoppy says with his face lit up, knowing full-well that I’m a sucker for peer pressure.

And great cocaine.

“I’ll think about it,” I say, taking a slow drink of beer, trying my best to ration it. “So what’s the score gonna be today, guys? I bet you’ve been down to the bookies this week, Hop.”

“Damn right,” Hoppy replies, nodding his head excitedly as he walks over to the bar. “I put a ton on Swansea beating Cardiff 2-1.
Easy money
.”

“I reckon 3-2,” I say. “Cardiff are looking pretty good. Reese and Turner are injured, so we’ve only got one decent striker: Davies.”

“What about Thomas?” Nathan asks. “He’s had a good season.”

“Thomas is fucking shit,” I hear Jonny say from behind me.

I turn and smile. “There he is—the man of the hour. Where’ve you been hiding?”

Jonny sniffs loudly and dabs his nostrils with a piece of toilet paper. “What happened to the mini-Afro, Alfie? It suited you, mate.”

“It had to go,” I reply. “It was a pain in the ass to keep clean.”

He nods, and then looks over at Ginge. “You’ve got your own Afro coming yourself.” He picks up his brother’s pint and takes a huge swig. “But it’s fucking ginger.”

“Nothing wrong with this colour,” Ginge replies, his tone playful, even though it’s obviously forced. “It’s all the rage these days, Jon. Ginger’s the new blond.”

“How the fuck is it all the rage, you dick?” Jonny asks. “No one wants to be a ginger.”

“Prince Harry’s a ginger,” Ginge replies. “And the girls love him.”

Jonny laughs out loud. “Yeah, but he’s a Prince. You work at fucking Burger-Land. It’s not quite the same.”

Ginge starts to drink his pint quickly, clearly desperate not to show his discomfort. No one wants an argument with Jonny Ross. Why the hell would they? Shaved head, cracked front tooth, dog bite scar on his left cheek. I mean, he’s a scary bastard, even to me—and I’ve known him for six years. Fuck, not even Hoppy would get into a fight with the guy—and he’s twice the size.

“So what do you think the score will be, Jonny?” I ask, trying to keep the conversation light before Ginge ends up saying something stupid. “Close game or what?”

“Fuck knows,” Jonny replies. “As long as we beat those Cardiff
cunts
, I’m happy.” He reaches into the pocket of his navy shorts for something. “Right, onto business. How many do you want?”

It’s coke.

“I’ll take a gram, Jon,” Ginge says, taking out a handful of notes from his pocket. “Sixty, yeah?”

Jonny nods as he takes the money. He then discreetly slips the coke under the table. Taking it from him, Ginge inspects the clear bag filled with white powder and stuffs it into his pocket.

“Alfie?” Jonny asks to me. “How many?”

I pause for a moment, about to decline his offer. But as the alcohol races around my bloodstream, bonding with the excitement of the game, I can’t help but say, “Put me down for one.”

He subtly hands it over to me. “That’s sixty quid.”

“I’ve got this one,” Hoppy says, standing over the table, a pint in each hand, and a bag of pistachios under his left arm. “This rude boy’s skint.” He sets one of the drinks in front of Jonny.

“Cheers, Hop,” I say, patting him on his arm as he sits down. “I’ll pay you back.”

“I know you will, Alf,” Hoppy says, “but there’s no rush.”

“Can I have a gram?” Nathan asks. “Or a half will do me.”

Jonny glares at his brother, a deep grimace on his forehead. “You can fuck
right off
.”

“Come on, bro, you know I’m good for it.”

“It’s not about the money. You’re too young, Nath. You can’t handle it. The last time you took this shit, you smashed up the kitchen. And who did Mum accuse of spiking you with drugs? Me! So, no chance. You can stick with the beer.”

“It won’t happen again, Jon. I promise. I just took too much; that’s all.”

Without even looking at his brother, Jonny shakes his head. “The answer’s no. Now don’t ask me again.”

“That’s bullshit!” Nathan snaps. “You let that
black bastard
have one, and he hasn’t got a pot to piss in!”

I can feel my neck and shoulder muscles tighten as I hold off the urge to reach over the table, grab his head and ram that stupid, weasel-face into the table.

But I don’t—because I’m not an idiot.