Wasted Years

Nine

Music-Darren had never understood what all the fuss was about. Loud or soft, fast or slow-how much else did you need to know? Keith, now, if he wasn’t out hot wiring some car, he was walking around with his Walkman on, tinny little sound leaking out, mouthing the words as it went along. Rap? Who gave a rat’s arse about rap. Keith, for one. Outlaw. Gang Starr. X–Clan. Caveman. Least the names were okay, cool. What had he been playing the other day? Arrested Development. Darren laughed: Keith to a T.

Outside Michael Isaacs’s nightclub, he gave himself a quick onceover in the glass: chinos, white shirt pulled out loose above the waist, sleeves rolled back, silhouette of hair tinged purple in the light.

The dance floor was three-quarters full, blokes leaning back against the downstairs bar, suits some of them, carelessly watching him as he climbed the stairs.

As the DJ upped the tempo, Darren leaned over the balcony, nursing a lager top, checking out the talent. Two black blokes getting all the attention down below, buckling their legs and doing all that fancy stuff with their hands, kung fu sign language in overdrive.

There, over by the steps, big girl with reddish hair, a blue top which jiggled when she moved. Black trousers, loose at the hip. She might do the trick.

Darren shifted his position to get a better look.

According to the news, that old idiot he’d whacked was still hanging on. Arsehole! Why couldn’t he mind his own business? Keep his hands to himself? Still fighting the tossing war. Saved this country for the likes of you. Yes, well, right, Grandad. Thanks very fucking much!

Sodding Keith today, as much good as a johnny with a hole at both ends. If he was going to get anywhere, he’d have to find a better partner than that. Late with the car, forgetting to guard the door.

A youth in a suit jostled Darren’s elbow and Darren straightened, giving him a look. The youth mumbled something to the slag he was with and the two of them wandered away.

One thing Darren had to give Keith-once his nerves had steadied he’d got them out of there like there was no tomorrow. Three police cars after them at one point and still Keith had lost them. Everything going great until he’d misjudged that turn going down towards Sandiacre. Legging it then, they’d been: till they’d found that van on Longmoor Lane. Some lame brain, who’d nipped into the paper shop for a Post and a packet of fags, left the sidelights on, indicator flashing, keys in the fucking steering column!

Back from there, through Long Eaton and into the city.

The tempo slowed and Darren figured it was time to head downstairs, see what was what at close hand.

That range, she was a lot bigger than he’d first thought, not that there was anything wrong with that. Some of them so skinny, he might as well have been back inside, putting it to some youth in the shower while a mate kept watch for the screws.

Face that wasn’t about to win any prizes.

Her mate, the one she was dancing with, she was a lot prettier and knew it. Aware that Darren was standing here now and watching them, thinking he had to be watching her. Toss of the head and yes, here comes the tongue, wetting both her lips.

Saying something about him, heads close together, laughing under the music. When the record changed again, they hesitated, then started to leave the floor.

As he intercepted them, the good-looking one smiled at Darren with her eyes and he gave her a quick grin back, moving past her, hand reaching out to touch her mate on the arm.

“Come on. Can’t be packing up already.”

Leading her back on to the floor, out into the middle where it was more crowded, a few minutes half-heartedly dancing round her, before hauling her close, didn’t matter about the music now, whatever was happening was slow inside Darren’s head. Press of her breasts against his chest, fingers of her hand against his back, his own cupping the curve of her arse, sliding up and down. Flesh there in plenty, knickers no more than a strip of material at either side.

“Where we going?” she said, almost to the door.

There had been the usual quick consultation with her friend, trip to the loo, queuing for her coat, Darren looking at himself reflected in the poster on the wall, not letting his impatience show.

“Back to my place.”

“I can’t stop long.”

He looked at her, questioning. “My mum, she’d worry.”

Darren looked back towards the interior. “Say you’re staying with a mate.”

“I can’t.”

“That’s okay,” Darren said, moving towards the exit “S’not far.”

Out on the street he suddenly stopped. “Wait here,” he said. “Be right back.”

Surprised, she watched him as he walked back inside, mass of curly hair outlined against violet light.

There were two men at the urinals when he went in and he stood in line, taking his time until, laughing, they went back outside. Neither of the toilets seemed to be occupied.

Less than a minute later the music went loud and then quiet. The youth who came and stood one place down from Darren was Asian, blue suit, no more than eighteen.

Darren pulled up his zip and walked behind the youth as if to wash his hands. Turning fast, he grabbed him by both arms and threw him forward, cracking his head against the wall; brought his knee up fast into the base of his spine and struck his head against the wall a second time. A kick between his legs as he pulled him round; an elbow in the face.

There was a wallet in the inside pocket of his suit: two notes, a twenty and a ten, folded in his top pocket.

“Better call the manager or something,” Darren said to the man entering as he left. “Some bloke in there’s fainted. Done himself a bit of damage.”

“Sorry,” he said to the girl with a smile. “Caught short. You know how it is.”

“Come on,” he said, once they were on the pavement. “Get down to the corner, we can pick up a cab.”

Darren’s room was an upstairs front: curtains at the window that neither met nor matched, bed, table, wardrobe, chair. He kissed her and asked her name, offered her coffee, and she offered him a cigarette.

“Milk’s off,” he said, coming back with two mugs. “Have to have it black.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said.

Darren sat beside her on the bed. “I want you to do something for me.”

Oh, yes, she thought, though there was something about the way he said it that made her think that might not be exactly what he meant.

“Hang on,” he said and disappeared a second time. When he came back from the kitchen there was a pair of scissors in his hand.