Garbage # 2

#2

Ready for anything, swinging from the bars in the ceiling we storm out onto the platform. Through stained stone caverns, up flights up chipped stairs, out into reality. Leicester Square rises out of the ground to greet us; another kingdom to be conquered.

In China Town Danny almost gets run down by a bloke on a bike.

“Worra fuck were that for, cunt! Codn't see over the fuckin 'andlebars?” He's getting looks from all over the place. “Oh.” Staring him down. “Er, jus' road rage innit. Nought meant fu' offending yous.”

All his helpless look gets from me is a shrug. “Bye then.” A quick flash of a hand towards both sides of the street, forced smile and I'm being dragged along the road. “Didn't 'ave to come through 'ere did we?”

Across the border into Soho. The steps are all too familiar, closing in on our destination. Unusually, Danny and I are both sulking. Past the point of no return. The keypad is close enough to make out numbers, the building looming over my already doubting face.

“Whatta we 'ere for?” Snap; all he sees when I glance over my shoulder is a gleeful wink.

No one has taken the time to change the code. Half way up to the apartment I realise I don't have a plan. New potted plants in the hallway, dotted between the flawless flat doors. Real ones.

We jitter about in the stairwell for a few moments. “Okay, just get him out of there, take him somewhere, keep him busy, whatever. Try and give me as long as possible.” Raised eyebrows. “Just do it.” I shove him out to stumble along to the door I'd pointed to. He might not even be in there. Out of sight, I strain to hear them come out of the corridor.

As soon as it's clear, in I go, trying to look like nothing's up. Weirdly, my dick is. Those few distracted moments only led to tomorrow night and – he didn't change the locks. Means he must have never entertained the possibility that a copy had been made from the key he once gave me. Bad luck.

Nothing's changed, except the smell lingering in the row of neatly hung up clothes filling the mirror fronted wardrobes. There's no smell of old smoke, none of the subtle scents of clothes that have been worn after sex. Underwear folded on the top of a pile of clean laundry that he would never wear, that are too big for him. Adrenaline isn't the only thing pumping around me now.

With gritted teeth and a dampened spirit I return to the wardrobe and delve to the back, grabbing the shoeboxes stacked up at the back. Tax returns, cuttings of reviews and articles, old mix CDs. One box even has shoes in it. Nothing in any of the drawers next to the slept in side of the bed. On the other side, the best finds are an unopened packet of ribbed condoms, what looks like LSD and, in the bottom drawer, a tube of lubricant.

I shrug to no one in particular and make the most of things.

As my jizz is spurting over his pillow, I remember where he keeps his most precious porn stash.

There's a second toothbrush in the bathroom. It only phases me for a moment, in which I try and melt it with my eyes. I kick the side of the bath harder than I should have and instead of falling off it cracks and breaks. “Shit.”

Pulling away the debris, I peer into the gloomy space behind it. A few dusty piles of magazines, which have probably become home to mice or beetles since the last time they were read, a select few DVDs and special editions that look relatively dust free and a red London Rebel shoe box. I retrieve the box and kneel in front of the toilet, the box on the lid. For a few seconds I pause, poised to open it.

Inside is more than I remember. Subdued, they line up in stark black and white. Poloroids of me, of him, us. Laughing, kissing, fucking, fucking kids, beating them black and blue. Not that you could see the blue, it was just different shades of grey. A close up of his hand fingering one of my nipples when I'd just got it pierced. That looked grey too. It was all the same.

New photos from a disposable camera or something, showed similar scenes. Similar in the fact that they didn't have me in them.

A door slams.

Fast as I can, I grab all the photos with me in them, including an envelope labelled with my name. My favourite of the other ones get swiped too. No time to clean up. Now I'm wishing I'd jacked off in the tub of hair wax on the shelf. Live and learn.

Out of the apartment, just in time, and take refuge behind one of the plants. There's no way they are not going to see me.

He's alone, and looks livid, too wrapped up in his own rage to notice me and the stowaways underneath my jacket. I don't feel what I thought I would. I don't know what I feel. Nothing? Either way, it's a good thing he disappears inside without looking my way because I can't take my fucking eyes off him.

Across the street, Danny's lit up a cigarette and looks like he wants an explanation.

“Let's go.”

As we stride back towards the underground, I try and reshuffle the photos to stop them falling out. “Wha' yous got?” A few slide out and drift down to the chewing gum patterned pavement.

“Danny!” Too late. Fag stuck out of the corner of his mouth, he's scooped up what dropped out. I watch his eyes widen. Then his cheeks inflame. He doesn't put up a fight when I snatch them back.

“All tha' to get back a few naked photos?” From my pocket comes the LSD. “Yous tryin' to buy me silence.” No question about it.

“Including not asking me about it.”

Danny gives me a sideways glance. One tab on the fingertip, on the tongue. Tab two, on his fingertip. Our eyes battle silently, trying to interpret one another's grey irises. We are the same. Watching him look at me, I pull his hand closer and dip my head to swirl my tongue over the tab. Even after it's smiling from inside my mouth, I engulf his finger, releasing him slowly so it drags over my bottom lip.

I show him the tab.

“Cheers,” he says. But he's not looking at my tongue.