Choice of Straws Read online

  Funny thing about them. They’d either fight back, or just be there and take it, but they’d never run or shout for help, as if they didn’t expect anyone to help them anyway.

  Then there was that time we’d come out of Lancaster Gate Underground and were going up Bayswater Road on the Park side when we passed this one, standing by himself as if he was waiting for somebody. Dave said let’s take him and we turned back, but the Spade must have guessed what was up because just as we reached him he pulled a knife. Must have had it in his pocket. Just flicked open the blade and stood there looking at us, nobody saying a word. So we left the stupid bugger standing there and went about our business. We couldn’t figure how he’d guessed.

  This night after work Dave had said let’s go and have a little fun. We often went up West, sometimes two or three times a week, mostly Friday or Saturday nights. Better than going to the local hop or even Romford. We’d go up to Soho to the Kaleidescope or somewhere like that, drinking coffee or cokes and listening to jazz. Sometimes we’d meet up with some birds, mostly students, chat around with them, then catch the last train home. We caught the District Line, intending to change at Charing Cross for Piccadilly, but at Aldgate East we just got off the train, not talking about it. When the train reached the station Dave got up and I just followed him out.

  Mum was always talking about the way we did things together. She said we were born with caul, or something like that. We even had the toothache and colds at the same time and our Dad used to laugh and say, one sneeze and the other wipe. But even they couldn’t really understand about us. Like the time at Infants’ school when Dave had gone out to the toilet and cut his penis with the old razor-blade he’d found, and I’d suddenly started screaming for no reason at all and they’d gone out and found Dave, standing there in the toilet not saying a word, blood over everything …

  At Bow Road the fat woman and her son got off and two Spades got on, both in the stiff blue Underground uniform. One of them took the seat where the fat woman had been, the other standing near him, holding the overhead strap. I didn’t want to watch them, but they were whispering and laughing. I couldn’t help looking. The one standing was young, strong-looking, light glinting from his eyes and teeth. I wondered if the other one looked like him, the one we left lying in the road. Funny thing, I didn’t give a damn about him, or these two, but thinking of them I remembered Dave, and the cold sweat started again.

  ‘Man, the woman bawled.’ The Spade sitting near me was speaking, his voice clear, but sounding a bit strange, like the way Welsh people speak, as if they really want to sing.

  ‘So, what happened? You stopped?’

  ‘You kidding?’

  ‘Well, what?’

  ‘Put my hand over her mouth so the neighbours wouldn’t hear, and the bitch bit me.’

  Laughter bubbled out of them.

  ‘Man, you’re lucky.’

  ‘Lucky? How come?’

  ‘Might have been something else.’

  Again the laughter from deep inside them. Just between them. Secret. I hated those two, remembering Dave and the way that other bastard had knocked me about. I’d like to push a knife into their backs and really give them something to laugh about. The one standing looked across at me and the smile disappeared from his face as if he could read my thoughts. I could feel the other turn to look at me. Hatred for them was like a slow trembling deep inside. At the next station some passengers left and the Spades sat together opposite me. I closed my eyes so as not to have to look at them.

  Chapter

  Two

  I LET MYSELF QUIETLY into the house, thinking perhaps I should leave the door open for Dave, but I decided not to. I could watch out for him from upstairs and come down. It was well after midnight and I knew our Dad would be asleep, but Mum would be lying there in the dark like she always did until everyone was in. Really no point in sneaking upstairs and trying to slip past their room.

  I’d just reached the top of the stairs when I heard our Mum’s voice call ‘That you, Dave?’ from through their half open door. Same as always. Dave. Two of us go out, two of us come in, but it was always the same. ‘That you, Dave?’ Even as kids coming in from school, when we’d nip in the back way because of muddy shoes or something, as soon as Mum’d hear the back door open she’d call out, ‘That you, Dave,’ even though she could hear us both. Sometimes I’d think of it and hang back to let him go in by himself, so I wouldn’t have to hear it. After all, we were the same, identical, Dave and me, and, if anything, I was the older by three hours. Mum said I came out easily as if I was in a hurry to start living, but she’d had a bit of a rough time with Dave. Perhaps that’s why she was that way with him, calling him first and things like that.

  Not that she gave him anything more or different from me. Nothing like that. But it was this business of always calling him first. Never forgot that time when we were kids and went on the school outing to Epping Forest and all the kids were picking these bluebells and I said to Dave, Let’s get some, and he said, What for, only girls do that, but I picked some anyway and carried them back on the coach; and when we were going in our gate I let him hold them while I undid the latch, and he carried them in and Mum grabbed him and gave him a big kiss for them, and I said that it was me who’d picked them, but she didn’t even hear me.

  Our Dad was different. For a long time he didn’t really know which was which except when he looked for the mole by the right side of Dave’s mouth. Sometimes, for a giggle, I’d make one with the end of a burnt match and fox him. But it never fooled our Mum. She’d look at me with a smile and say, ‘Go wash your face, Jack boy … ’

  ‘No, Mum, it’s me, Jack. Dave will be along in a few minutes,’ I answered, not stopping.

  ‘Why, where is he?’ All this whispered, so as not to disturb our Dad who was sleeping, I guess, but still loud enough with surprise because Dave wasn’t with me.

  ‘Seeing a girl home. He won’t be long.’ I was at our bedroom door, Dave’s and mine, when her voice stopped me.

  ‘Jack.’ It sounded loud enough to wake the dead. She was standing outside their bedroom, that old dressing-gown held around her shoulders, so tiny in the semi-darkness it seemed a miracle she had produced two such hulking things as Dave and me.

  ‘What’s the matter, Mum?’ I tried to sound surprised, but all of a sudden my legs began to shake and I was dead scared she would suspect something.

  ‘Is something wrong, Son? Something happened?’

  Something in her voice made me feel even worse, but I said, ‘What are you on about, Mum? I told you. He’s just seeing this girl home, then he’ll be in.’

  ‘Where’d you leave him?’

  ‘Near the station. She lives down Welham Drive so it won’t take him more than a few minutes.’

  She stood there in the dark, quiet, as if reading my thoughts. Then she said, ‘All right, Son. Good night.’ And she went in, leaving the door open.

  I shut my bedroom door and sat on my bed to let the shaking in my legs pass, but listening, listening. Suddenly I felt sick, and a burning over my whole body, so painful I wanted to scream, loud. Frightened, I lay down, my face buried deep in the pillow, knowing with the fear and the pain that something terrible had happened to my brother. I tried to tell myself that I was only imagining things, carrying on like some ruddy kid, but the knowing stayed, bringing the tears so that I stuffed my mouth with the pillow so our Mum wouldn’t hear and come questioning. Oh Dave, Dave. I tried to pray, tried to make my mind remember those things we used to learn at Sunday school or what we said in Assembly at school, but none of it would come. Perhaps if I did it properly, kneeling down. But it was no use. All I could remember was, Our Father which art in Heaven. All I could say was, God, don’t let anything happen to him, for Jesus’ sake, but it sounded a bit rude, as if I was telling God what to do, kneeling there helpless, because I didn’t know where he was or
I wouldn’t be asking anybody anything, I’d go and find him. Then there was no more pain and I thought, I’m just imagining things because of the blood. In no time Dave would be creeping up the stairs, he’d laugh his head off to see me on my knees.

  I got up and changed into my pyjamas, taking my time, stretching each movement, each part of the simple routine, to make the time go, folding my jeans carefully over the back of a chair, then my sweater and string vest, then my jacket on a hanger. I noticed the dark pressed smudge near the right pocket and right away knew what it was. Blood. Then I remembered the handkerchief I’d wiped my hands with after touching Dave’s back. I pulled it from my pocket, crumpled, rank-smelling and filthy. I stuffed it in a shoe. That way I wouldn’t forget to flush it down the toilet later. I dumped my underwear and socks in the laundry bag for Mum to take down tomorrow, wondering about her, probably lying back there beside our Dad but hardly breathing so she’d hear the first sound Dave made coming in.

  The way she’d said ‘Good night, Son,’ was a dead give-away she was worried. Never called me Son except when something was wrong with Dave. Those times when he got kept in at school and I’d gone home alone, it was always ‘What’s happened to your brother, Son,’ her voice taking off high, scared, as if just because he wasn’t with me he had to be dead or something. Times like that, I was always Son—and the way she said it, accusing. Three hours difference between us, yet the moment something was up she’d act as if I was the older one and should look out for Dave. Got so that if ever he got kept in I’d hang around until he came out. Better to let her think we’d both been kept in than listen to her call me Son …

  Like that time she and our Dad went off on holiday to Cornwall and Dave and me had those two girls up to the house. We’d met them at the Romford Palais some time before and used to dance with them and chat them up every now and then. Blonde they were, both of them, though you could tell only one was real, Maureen. The other, Sandra, was always a bit dark at the roots, as if she did the bleaching herself and never got it just right. Always dressed like sisters, same tight skirts and sweaters with everything packed to bursting inside. Tall, with those stiletto heels and puffed up hairstyles. Maureen—we called her Maur—had this round, chubby face with dimples whenever she smiled and was always talking in a blue streak as if she had a million and two things she had to get off her chest. That wide, red mouth going all the time, and when not talking, still open, chewing gum. But fun, always kidding. The other, Sandra, was okay too, but different. Big brown eyes in a sick-looking face. Not really sick, when you got to know her, only because she liked wearing that whitish make-up and lipstick and all that black stuff around her eyes. Didn’t say much, but she had this way of looking at you as if she could see what you’d had for dinner, and not laughing right out if you made a joke, like Maur. Just sort of smiling, as if she really thought you were a bit stupid.

  Anyway, this night we met up with them and at intermission we said how about something else than the tea and orange crush they served in the Palais, and they were game. So we went down to the Bull and had a beer while they had gin and limes. Then we asked them how about if we got some bottles from the off licence and went home to listen to some records, and they said fine. Dave cottoned on to Maureen. And that Sandra, so quiet-looking—I tried for a kiss on the way home in the taxi and she nearly had my tongue out by the roots.

  We paired up on the sofa, the curtains drawn, drinking beer and listening to Brubeck and M.J.Q. and a Sinatra album we’d had as a birthday present. After a while we had the lights off, all except the blue shaded standard lamp way over by the television set, necking away. And then Dave and Maur got up and went off upstairs.

  Funny how things happen. While we were all together everything was fine, but as soon as Dave pushed off I began to feel uncomfortable, wondering what would happen if our Dad and Mum should walk in right then. And right away I, well, cooled off. Up to then it was okay, kissing Sandra, with my hands going all over, the first time, really that I’d ever got that far with a girl, and I suppose it was the same for Dave. Usually at the flicks or seeing them home after a dance or something, they didn’t mind if you gave their breast a quick feel, but as soon as you tried reaching up their leg, nothing doing. But this Sandra. Anyway, with Dave and Maur gone, I was suddenly scared to hell, and sat up.

  ‘What’s the matter? Where’re you going?’ she wanted to know.

  ‘How about some beer? Or cider?’ I asked her, zipping up my fly.

  ‘I’m not thirsty. Come back here.’

  The skin above her stocking tops looked yellow in the bluish light. Her head was down between the cushions, her sweater and brassière pulled up over one breast, the eyes black in her pale face. I turned away, not wanting to look.

  ‘What’s up? What’s the matter with you?’ Her voice was loud, quarrelsome.

  ‘Nothing. And don’t make so much row.’

  ‘Who’s making any bloody row? What’s the matter with you, you sick or something?’

  ‘Look, keep your voice down.’

  ‘Or else what? Don’t you like girls or something?’ All I knew was that I didn’t want any of the neighbours to hear we were having girls in the house, especially at that time of night.

  ‘Look, you want that beer or don’t you?’

  She took a long time about answering, and this time her voice was nasty and spiteful.

  ‘Might as well. Looks like it’s the only thing I’m going to get around here, eh, Jackie boy?’ Then the laughter, loud and screeching, as if she wanted everyone for miles around to come and join in the fun. I felt like going over and stuffing my fist into that ruddy no-lipstick hole to shut it up for good. Dave came running downstairs, a big towel wrapped around him like some crazy Indian.

  ‘What the hell’s up with you two? Trying to wake up the whole damned neighbourhood?’ Holding the towel safe with both hands.

  ‘You’ve got a funny brother,’ she said, laughing up at him, stuffing the breast back into place.

  ‘What do you mean, funny? And do you have to yell the ruddy house down at every corny joke you hear?’ Looking from her to me. I said nothing, standing there like a drip with the empty bottle of beer in my hands. I set it down and switched on the overhead light.

  ‘Joke?’ Her open mouth was a sudden dark hole in the white face. ‘Why don’t you ask your funny brother to tell it to you? You’d laugh your head off.’

  Dave stood there watching her. She hadn’t bothered to push down her sweater; one long, half naked leg was bent at the knee to form a figure four with the other. He turned and winked at me, grinning that grin which always meant trouble for somebody. He leaned over, patted her leg, then came and gently pushed me towards the stairs, and switched the light off.

  ‘Why don’t you go up and keep Maur company for a bit,’ he said, ‘I’ll stay here and get lover girl to tell me a few laugh-out-loud jokes.’

  Funny how, with Dave back and seeing Sandra lying there like that, the excitement suddenly came back, strong and hard, and I would have liked to spread her out and get in there, hurting her till she laughed on the other side of her face. But I went up the stairs, still hearing the echo of her laughter in my head, hating the pale-faced bitch.

  The only light on in our room was a tiny clip-on reading lamp Dave had on the headboard of his bed. He used it at night for scribbling in his diary when I wanted to sleep. It was a little thing, hooded so that the light could be focused on his book, leaving the room dark. Now the hood was twisted around so the light pointed towards the ceiling. Jack’s and Maur’s clothes were thrown across my bed, but no sign of Maur. Then I heard the toilet being flushed and knew where she was. I sat on Dave’s bed, wishing that we hadn’t started any of this, and that the girls would hurry up and go. If anyone had heard that Sandra shouting and said something to our Mum, there’d be hell to pay. Stupid bitch. Perhaps I should go back down there and show her. Couldn’
t figure out what had happened. Didn’t make any sense at all. There it was waiting, all served up and ready for the taking, and I’d gone as soft as, well, no wonder the ruddy twit had begun laughing. Why the hell didn’t these things ever work out the way they were supposed to, the way you read about them in books or saw them on the flicks? The nights Dave and me would lie awake on our beds, nattering away in the dark about what we’d do if we ever had the house to ourselves and a couple of willing pieces. Well, here it was, and they could feed it to the ruddy fish for all the good it did me. Funny thing was, earlier on when we’d started kissing and feeling around I was all there, excited and hard as any bull; then when the time for action came, nothing.

  The hands pressed over my eyes, cool and damp, the voice full of laughter saying, ‘Guess who.’ Then the face warm and soft following around to kiss me before I could reply, and against my hand the soft, smooth naked skin, trembling a little, pulling away.

  ‘No more, Dave. You’re all dressed up so I’d better get dressed. What were those two yelling about down there?’

  She was already picking up her clothes, her body an exciting silhouette against the light.

  ‘Dave’s downstairs,’ I said.

  ‘What?’ She jumped away, snatching clothing from my bed, and flicked the switch beside the door. In the bright light she stood there staring at me, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, bent forward modestly hugging her clothes in front of her. I stood up, and immediately the mouth opened wider as if ready to scream.

  ‘Take it easy,’ I told her. ‘I’m not going to touch you.’

  Those wide eyes followed my every movement while she backed away towards the corner near Dave’s bed. I went out, closing the door behind me, and sat on the stairs. No sound from anyone. What a hell of a damned night. Sure that damned bitch Sandra wouldn’t be running away if Dave made a grab for her. Well, to hell with the lot of them. Never again, bringing any of them home.