Garbage

#1

At school there was an urban legend someone started about some guy who got kicked out for killing the deputy's cat. It got found in one of the commercial bins out the back of the science block, both it's back legs broken. He'd fucked it to death. No one knew what to believe, what to think. Months later one of our teachers let their tongue slip. After they'd been kicked out and arrested for misadventure with under age students, speculation let lose about the identity of the cat fucker. On results day no one batted an eyelid at the straight grades on my slip. It was lucky on my part; all I'd done for my last year was slouch with glazed over eyes imagining the dead cat being flung in the bin, arse ripped wide open, it's attacker turning to me, with a hot, raging glare, deciding my body should be the next one he would mutilate to satisfy himself.

-

Somewhere deep inside the stained shithole the bell rattles a half hearted alarm. Nothing moves behind flimsy grey curtains, that should be white, at the first floor windows. Rrrrrrrrrr, rrrrrrrr, rrrr, rrrrr, rrrrrrrrrrrrr. I step back again and this time, after a minute, the window jolts up and Danny's mangy head sticks out.

“Worra fuck do yous want?”

“Got a job for you.”

“Ge' lost, bastard.” He smacks the back of his head on the frame.

The door buzzes open.

It's just as much as a shithole as the outside. No handle on the door. I think I saw it shoved in the crotch of a lopsided gnome in the patch of mud out front. Coffee stains up the hall wall.

“How the fuck did you coffee up the wall?”

He yells down the corridor. “'Ow don't you?”

There's no floor in the kitchen, just dirty underlay and nails precariously jutting out everywhere. Only one cabinet still has a door on it and underneath the sink is a tube and a washing up bowl.

“Nice arse.” I slap his half exposed behind and he pulls a sarcastic face, yanking them back up again. Leaning past him and grabbing the box of cereal on his other side I retreat to the window sill and watch him watch the kettle, as if it will make the water boil any quicker. He's put his t-shirt on back to front. “The man” labelled with an arrow pointing up, “the legend” pointing down. It passes time working out whether he did it intentionally or not.

“So wossit yous want me e'do?” As he rinses a couple of chipped mugs, the water going down the sink splurts out of the tube and into the tub underneath. Tearing my eyes away I glance back up at the back of his head.

“Babysitting.”

“Oh aye and who'll that be for?” One mug is brimming with black coffee, the other he's emptying a can of beer into. Sticking his tongue out the corner of his mouth in concentration, he carefully carries the coffee over to me, one foot in front of the other. The back of my hand swipes across my mouth, brushing away remnants of crunchy nut cornflakes. We swap, mug for empty cereal packet.

He shakes it. Open mouth, flashing a glint of a tongue stud, and he tips the last broken up bits in and grins at me, chewing.

“I need you to entertain someone for me, just an hour or so.” Coffee's still too hot to drink. “Take whatsherface with you if you want.”

That killed it.

Four, five, six seconds of awkward silence. And counting . . .

“We, uh. We're not together no more.” Stuck my foot right in that one. I desperately want to look away from him but our gaze is locked, as if he's pelting me with telepathic messages. It's been too long, reading his face is useless. “We . . she found out I'd slept wit' sommon else.”

An ant is working it's way across the floor, through the forest of nails, staples and occasional bit of uncooked pasta. I can't see where he's looking, but I'm positive I can feel his eyes burning into me. Not the only burning thing either, my mouth is seering, anything to not have to look at him and put a stop to my big, fucking mouth.

“Oh, I got sommin to show yous.”

He sweeps past me.

Please God, strike me where I sit, sipping scolding coffee and sinking like a stone in water.

It's an article about Die So Fluid. Danny's at the window, gazing into the smog. “Tomorrow night. Playin' a' Foggy's.”

There's an overturned fish tank, which I sit on and flick through the rest of the zine. “Yeah, let's go.” Another page catches my attention, a whole page image of a man I vaguely recognise. Scanning the accompanying text, the name clicks and my eyes are drawn back to his tilted head, half shaved and tattooed like his arms, neck, torso. I trail my gaze down his body to the low slung trousers around his waist and the cluster of black hair disappearing below the waistband. My mouth's dry, just looking at him.

“Yous ready?” Reality blurs back into focus. I rip both pages from the zine and follow Danny down the stairs and onto the street. “Where to?” He's talking to me.

“Oh. Tube.” All I can think about is the man folded up in my back pocket, rubbing against my arse with every step. A lusty smirk twists onto my lips. My plan is formulating for tomorrow night, playing out in my head in agonising detail. Anticipation stirs under the flies of my jeans and when we perch at the end of the carriage, rattling along Northern Line, I take care to position an arm over my crotch. Inside, I'm burning up and I don't want to be saved from the flames.