Richard

"Oh, fucking classic, lads. Take a gander at what just walked in."

I like to be obliging when I can, so I lift my gaze to follow that of my mate, Justin. He's ogling the pub's main doorway where a girl -- no, bloody hell, a painted boy -- is standing, looking round the place with big Bette Davis eyes.

Yeah, I did say 'painted'. He's sparkly too, looks like a catastrophe at the Mary Quant counter. A big bloke half-blocking my view moves, and Christ, the boy's dressed in a corsety thing and fishnets and all. I'd be hard pressed to think of a way to stick out more; he's not so much a sore thumb as a throbbing disco light. At least he is here, in the King's Ale, an East End football pub, for fucksake.

"Maybe there's a fancy dress do on somewhere, and he's lost, like," Big Col suggests slowly. Quite a mammoth effort of analysis from him; I'm well impressed. Insight offered, Col's interest seems to run dry though, and he lifts his fresh pint and begins to savour it. Leastways, I've always assumed all that exaggerated lip-smacking and deep groaning means savouring. If it don't, I really don't wanna know.

Justin, Col's younger brother and caretaker, pulls up his lip in a sneer, bumfluff a-ruffling. "What's he going to the party as then? Farm-fresh chicken?" We all chuckle at that.

"Nah," the fourth of us, Chinny, says knowledgably from next to me, shaking his head. His sleek black hair moves over his shoulders like ninja hood. "It's that Rocky Horror, innit? He's a tranny vamp."

The tranny vamp in question is already gathering jeers from the punters closer to the door. Hardly surprising when he's dressed in what looks like his big sister's sexy undies. He has an open leather over the top of it all, but it don't exactly cover much, and his face is plastered with more makeup than Karen's. Which, in all fairness to our favourite barmaid here, is saying a whole load actually.

"Nice boots," Chinny says between mouthfuls of dry-roasted. "Granny boots, them. Patent leather." He whacks Justin on the arm in amiable retaliation for the inevitable limp-wrist gesture his words provoke.

I'd frown at Justin, but I'm too busy laughing at Chinny. That's his nickname, short for Chinmay. His family's from Bangladesh, but he himself is from the moon. "How do you know these things, Chin?" I ask.

"Your sister told me." Chinny sticks out his nut-covered tongue.

"Aww, put it away, mate!" I take another shufti at the boy by the door and have to agree I've seen Deb, my sis, tottering about in boots just like his. Despite the heels, the boy don't seem unbalanced. He stalks rather than staggers to the crush round the bar, seeming oblivious to the catcalls he's collecting like dandruff on his shoulders. I turn back to Chinny. "So it is fancy dress then, not a punk thing or nothing?"

"His hair, Rich," Chinny explains, gesturing over the top of his own head. "Look at it. Might be all spiky like and have patches of pink shit in it, but that's just spray can cosmetics, innit? It all brushes out. Rest of his hair's boring brown, and none of it shaven neither. Also, where's the tats and the five ton of metal through his scrawny bod? Stands to reason, innit? He's no punk." Chinny nods sagely in full smug-git mode. "Underneath the Ann Summers, he's as normal as us, lads."

Like that means anything, considering the four of us. Still... "Can't see any of us dressing like that," I say while studying our subject. Four inch heels or not, the boy looks far too bloody small to be inviting such a shitstorm of trouble as he's bound to get in here.

"I'd do it," Justin says, prompting open mouths 'round the table. "For charity, like. I was that baby in the pram for the last Kiddies in Need, weren't I? S'okay to do that sort of thing for charity. Reckon he's being sponsored?"

"Reckon he'll be in the hospital if he don't get his frilly arse out of here soon," I say, watching Gavin Watts and his gang of wankers get up from their tables near the door. They saunter over to where the boy is still trying to push through the crowd to be served. No one's moving for him, deliberately, of course. Nothing like a bunch of Stepney lads for arsy attitude.

"Looks way too young to be served. What's he think he's doing here anyway?" Justin says as we watch the Watts gang surround the boy, pushing punters away from the bar and clearing a path for him in mock-helpfulness.

"S'like watching a car crash in slo-mo, innit?" Chinny says with a shake of his head.

"It's the lipstick," Col says dolefully. "That underwear thing wouldn't have got him more than bad names, but you can't walk in here wearing lipstick and not think you're gonna get hit. Not that colour."

I laugh, but Justin pats Col encouragingly on the back. "Right you are, big man. You can't blame Wattsy, Rich," he goes on, turning back to me. "Stupid kid's asking for it. I mean, what a five star tosser, coming in here on his own dressed like that."

"Dunno if anyone deserves to feel Wattsy's steel-tips branding their bollocks," I reply mildly.

Chinny looks sharply at me. "Aww, Richie, no. No, my lad, no. We don't interfere with Wattsy, and he don't interfere with us. You know how it is. Let the bouncers handle it."

"Not asking you to help." I reach a decision and down the rest of my pint as I stand. Not like there's better to do now the footie's over. There's only MTV showing on the ceiling-mounted TVs that are dotted round the place like weird square fruit. "You don't have to do what I do."

"Yeah, but you know we're gonna anyway though," Justin says, also standing. "Mates, ain't we? Still think the lad deserves some shit, but yeah, maybe not the amount he's gonna get. And anyway, where'd d'Artagnan be without his musketeers?"

I grin; I can't help it. My mates are the best, bunch of bloody weirdoes or not. I've loved that musketeers thing ever since the four of us spent a long, hung-over Sunday afternoon 'round mine watching the old Ollie Reed film. It clicked for us somehow. "All for one then."

"Yeah, yeah." Chinny stands and takes off his glasses, putting them folded in his top pocket. "One for all. But if a thing of mine gets broke, like, even just my specs, I'm siccing Jayavanti on you, Rich."

Have to laugh at that. "Jaya can't hurt me. I'm protected by virtue of Deb, and my sister can take yours apart any day."

"Wanna bet?"

Col rises abruptly to his feet, causing the table to tip and beer to slosh around in the glasses. "We going home now?"

"Nah, Col," Justin says. "We're just gonna have a fight with Wattsy."

"Oh ok." Col begins rolling up his sleeves, and I shake my head in exasperation.

"We're not gonna be fighting no one," I say, making sure to catch and keep Col's attention as I speak. "Not unless they start something first. We're just gonna stop Gavin Watts beating up that boy who came in."

Col nods, but leaves his sleeves rolled up as we head to the bar, slowly as the pub's still crowded after the big Euro match. As we near the action, Col asks, "So why's Jayavanti going to fight Debbie then?"

Chinny titters, but Justin, ever-patient with his big bro, explains, "She's not, Col. Was just piss-taking. Don't fret."

"Oh, that's good. Didn't like the thought of Jayavanti hitting Debbie. She hurts."

"Yeah, don't she just." Chinny grins. "She'd take Deb down like this." He snaps his fingers above his head like a Spanish dancer cracking castanets. "Olé."

I shake my head again but don't answer as we've reached our objective. Can tell from the posturing going on in the crowd here that the boy we've come to rescue is mere seconds away from a messy martyrdom.

I'm tall enough to be able to see what's going on in the centre of the huddle. Can hear it too as a hush seems to have fallen; the whole pub knows something's about to happen, just like cats with earthquakes... leastways, I think it's cats. MTV still blares out, of course, but it's turned down lower than normal 'cause people need to be able to natter after a good match.

"I can drink wherever I care to," the boy is saying valiantly. Oh fucking great, he has a posh git accent to add to his fatal dress crimes. Has to be suicidal; nothing else explains his presence here. "I'd think this place would be glad of some style," he goes on. "Don't any of you have anything better to wear than soccer shirts?"

"It's a frigging football pub, you wanker," Wattsy tells the boy, getting right in his face.

Christ, rather him than me, the poor sod. Wattsy's breath is legendary. They say he floored a copper with it once, just by puffing in the bloke's nose. Got away scot-free as a result. Yeah, that's what counts as myth and legend 'round here.

Wattsy grabs at the boy's open jacket. "And you call this style? Yeah, right. When staking a pitch at King's fucking Cross!"

I'm kind of fascinated by the boy's face. The makeup's so vivid on him, the edges of colour so defined against his pale skin, that he looks like a china doll Deb once had. He'd probably be just the thing in one of them dodgy West End clubs Deb goes to with Brian sometimes, but not here. Not in the King's sodding Ale. Soon there'll be blood flowing as red as the boy's glistening lips.

Maybe he's high on some shit or other. Something has to explain why the little prat is now attempting a smirk and saying to Wattsy in his moneyed drawl, "I do believe you fancy me. Really, if you wanted a quick shag, you only had to ask. There was no need to be so belligerent about it."

I hear the sound of fist cracking into bone clearly enough, even over the White Stripes track. Shoving my way through the developing scrum, I use my elbows and stamp down with my heels to clear the way. I'm confident of my mates behind me, no worries there. We've fought together too often not to know how to work this one. No probs, Bob.

The boy's on the floor being kicked by Wattsy's gang while still half-lifted by the jacket lapel in Wattsy's mitt. Wattsy has his fist pulled back, ready to administer a second wallop.

Going into automatic, I surge forward. The cowards ain't expecting an attack from one of their own, and I've laid out two of Wattsy's acolytes before anyone's even registered I'm here. I grab Wattsy's arm. "Let him go, Gav. You've taught him enough of a lesson already."

Wattsy widens his eyes at me in exaggerated disbelief. "What the fuck d'you care what we do with this freak, Llewellyn?" He looks back down at the boy whose nose is bleeding and mouth panting for breath. "'Less he's your friend, like. Your special friend."

I roll my eyes. "Yeah, that's right, Gav. He's my special bum-chum. Your amazing powers of perspicacity have seen the truth. So let him go."

Instead of releasing the boy, Wattsy seems set to engage in a staring contest with me, like we're back at primary school or something. Total bloody pillock, this one. "Still not seeing what this has got to do with you," he says. "We don't fuck with each other's games; thought we had an agreement."

Shaking my head, I say, "One day, Gav, you're gonna wake up and realise that you're not Reggie Kray. And you know why you're not?" I smile broadly, knowing the expression goes nowhere bloody near my eyes.

Wattsy sneers, trying to look unbothered by all of this shit. "Well, I'm sure if I hang around long enough, you'll tell me."

With the speed of my discipline, I move, smacking my open hand between Wattsy's legs and squeezing, just enough to start him hurting. This way he knows that if there's slightest dodgy move from him or his gang, he'll be rolling on the floor clutching at himself. "You've not got the bollocks to be a Kray, Gavin Watts," I tell him. "You've got nothing but a big mouth and slightly more brains than the average Stepney dole-boy. Let the kid go."

Wattsy ain't got no choice, and we both know it. The boy drops to the floor where he rolls up into a ball. "You'll fucking regret this, Llewellyn," Wattsy says. "Get your bloody hand off me."

"Course," I say, still smiling, and do so. There's some sort of scuffle behind me followed by a yelp. "Problem, Justin?" I inquire, not taking my eyes from Wattsy who's glaring like a malevolent baboon.

My trusty mate's voice answers promptly. "Nah, Rich. Rogers here was thinking of walloping you one, but Col put a stop to that."

"Right you are." I nod. "Col, if anyone tries that again, break some bones, ok? Justin, watch the prat with the shaven bonce and tattoo across his forehead to my left. He's got a knife palmed and thinks I don't realise."

"Not one of mine," Wattsy growls, glancing to the side. "I don't mix with skins."

"Nah, didn't think so. Well, the bouncers'll take care of him. See to it, Chinny, would you?" I nudge the fallen boy with the toe of my Nikes. "Reckon you can walk?"

The boy uncurls enough to stare up at me; the tear-run black gunk exaggerates his wide-eyed look. He nods and pulls himself to his feet with obvious pain, and I put a hand on his shoulder and push him behind to where I can sense Col is before addressing Wattsy again. "You got a problem with what I've done here; you have it out with me when we next meet. I hear you've had a go at one of my mates, and I won't just squeeze next time." I gesture with my hand to make my meaning wincingly clear.

Wattsy glowers at me. Fact is, he's got twice as many on his side as I have on mine, but he knows me well enough to know that if they start anything now, his balls will be forfeit no matter what else happens. "You fight fucking dirty, Llewellyn. Thought you kung fu types was all about honour and shit."

"It's jujitsu, I do, not kung-fu," I tell him calmly, "and out here in the dirty world of the Hamlets, I use the sacred principle of whatever the fuck works and works fastest. Just be grateful I didn't use the nerve presses. Don't like bullies, Gav, as you should already bloody well know, eh?"

A look of something furious briefly ripples over Wattsy's face, but then he smiles. Well, shows his crooked teeth anyway. "Reckon that debt's gotta be close to expired by now, Richy-rich. I'd be careful if I were you."

A couple of years ago, I helped beat up Wattsy's older brother as a warning not to abuse his younger sibs no more. Worked too, least for the three months before the bastard got himself slammed up again. Unfortunately, the damage was already done to Wattsy's ugly personality. Shame for the bloke and all that, but I ain't about to let pity affect my judgement here. "I'm always careful, mate," I tell him. "'Specially around low-grade scum like you."

Shit's gonna come from this; that much is obvious. Oh hell, I'll deal with it as and when. "Clear the way out, Col," I instruct and begin to back up. "Justin, help the boy if necessary." Seems to take ages before we're free of the press and I dare turn round to my gathered mates. "Best get out of here."

"Yeah," Chinny agrees. "'Specially since that skin you pointed out don't seem to wanna give up his cutlery." I glance over, and yeah, there does seem a scuffle about to start now the next-to-useless bouncers have been cranked up into action.

I look down at the boy we've rescued who's wavering where he stands, blood oozing down from his nose. "Better get you some attention of the kinder sort, anyhow," I say, putting my hand on his shoulder and gently pushing him towards the door. Gentle or not, it makes the boy stagger. Christ, I don't want to end up carrying the prat. "Try and stay walking wounded at least, mate, 'til we get to some wheels, ok?"

We make it outside into the cool air, but I resist the urge to relax. Ain't likely Wattsy'll come after me now; he'll wait 'til he thinks I've forgotten all this enough to let my guard down. But my guard is well and truly up and standing to attention for now, just in case.

"You come in your Astra, Chin?" I ask.

"Aw no, Richie." Chinny crumples his face in dismay. "I don't want this pillock's blood all over the upholstery, mate. Don't ask that of me."

"Where are we going?" the boy asks, sounding half-dazed.

"Gonna get you to Casualty," I tell him. "Chinny, be reasonable. None of the rest of us can drive; we've downed too many."

"So call an ambulance or grab a black one. Unlike the rest of you under-educated louts, I'm a professional, like, and blood on the upholstery won't do the job, innit?" Chinny folds his arms, his hand-woven Peruvian jacket he's so smug about forms hefty wrinkles at the folds.

I sigh and turn back to our charge. "How you feeling there? Anything broken?"

The boy's staring at me with his big, black-rimmed eyes. "I... I don't think so. I can't go to hospital anyway." His voice sounds thick and muffled, thanks no doubt to his bloodied nose.

"Why not?" Justin asks suspiciously, but it's Chinny, not the boy, who answers.

"S'obvious, innit? Don't wanna give his name to no authorities, see. He's a runaway."

"I'm not!" The boy's puffed up defiance soon deflates. "But I'm not meant to be here. In London, I mean." That's for sure. His Home Counties accent sounds as native as Eskimo drums here in the East End.

I nod. "Maybe we'll just take you back to mine then. Get my mum to patch you up." When we get there, I can ask all the questions that are bubbling up like farts in the bath. Well, all but one of them; we need to know what to call the prat right now. "I'm Richard. What d'you want us to call you?"

"I'm Allan," the boy says. I gave him a chance to lie, but I don't think he took it.

"Ok, Allan. You get to meet my mum. Ain't you lucky? C'mon, it's only a few streets away."

next ~ previous ~ home ~ feedback