Ten Storey Love Song (18 page)

£
200’s still there in the
Anal Adventures
vid (and it is), and he hopes for a second she hasn’t gone off gallivanting with any men, but then he tells himself to shush. She’s probably just gone out for a walk with the girls, to pick flowers and bake cakes and do cartwheels. Sniffing, Johnnie drops softly to the ground. As is habit whenever he finds himself alone in the flat, Johnnie considers poking the
Anal
video into the moist VCR slot and indulging himself in a fine, lengthy wank, when suddenly he remembers he’s got Bobby and Georgie’s live sex show in his mitts. His heart bounces. Adopting a cross-legged, trousers-round-the-ankles position one metre in front of the telly, Johnnie presses ‘Un Hommage de Monsieur Condom, 2005’ into the VCR and accidentally presses STOP, then he presses PLAY three times to compensate. The screen goes snowy, then it bursts into life. Picture the scene:
Interior. A double-bed with Spiderman covers in a bedroom at
the back of a house in Linthorpe, March 2005
. Bobby’s the first to enter the stage, and Johnnie giggles at him with a lot shorter haircut and an Eclipse sweater on. He’s not stiff yet, but things start to perk up when a much skinnier, Just Seventeen Georgie joins her boyfriend on screen. All’s quiet as they start to strip each other off, clothes flying around like poltergeists, exposing white limbs and even whiter rude bits.
Is this art??
Johnnie wonders, scratching his chin. Three minutes and fifty-one seconds in, there’s a good shot of Georgie’s arse, and Johnnie feels his prick gradually standing to attention like a balloon getting blown up. He starts getting all hot in the face, anticipating the hardcore shagging and skullfucking and bum love and money shot and filthy stuff. Georgie sucks her boyfriend’s willy for a bit, but then – just as it all starts getting interesting – something incredibly strange happens: Bobby gives his girlfriend some foreplay. Frowning, Johnnie watches Bobby lick her out; a boring scene which lasts about five or six minutes, culminating in a writhing orgasm for Georgie. Johnnie raises his eyebrow. She seems to be enjoying it. Once Georgie’s got her bearings back, the two of them indulge in a long-winded bout of stroking one another, which seems a bit schmaltzy and ultimately leads to Johnnie’s knob flopping. He pulls his trousers up, a bit disappointed. He’s beginning to cotton on that real-life sex isn’t as rampant or acrobatic as porno sex – when Bobby eventually slides his tail into Georgie, they shag at half the normal speed of pornstars. Johnnie even tries fast-forwarding the action to spice it up a bit, but then it just looks daft. ‘Where’s all the crazy sexual positions?’ Johnnie wonders, thinking back to the time he made Ellen do a headstand and he stuck his knob in her bum and she went mad at him and kicked him in the knackers. Resuming the tape to normal speed, Johnnie retreats back to the sofa, not turned at all, but very intrigued about his friends’ weird, romantic style of lovemaking. He scratches his head. Georgie and Bobby stay in the spoons for a good five minutes, then the girl-on-top position, then a bit of casual doggy, all the time kissing each other and smiling and looking like they’re having a great time. Shock horror, at one point they even start talking to each other! Bobby:
You alright?
Georgie:
Yeah, it’s mint
. Bobby:
Wooooooooah. Groan groan groan
. The grand finale of ‘Un Hommage de Monsieur Condom, 2005’ involves Bobby ejaculating inside Mr Condom inside Georgie, then they have a great big cuddle. Then they dispose of Mr Condom very carefully in a wrapped-up tissue. Switching off the VCR, all of a sudden Johnnie realises how wrong he’s been, always trying to shove his cock in unwanted places, pouring semen over Ellen, gagging her, roughing her up. Whoops! Rubbing his nose, Johnnie takes out the video, then he sits for three or four minutes gazing at the ceiling. He feels enlightened. As if sex is all about love, not just getting your end away! Johnnie supposes, in a way, sex is all about relaxing as well. Blinking, he charges into the bedroom for his new Siemens mobile, then dials up Ellen to see what she’s up to, and whether or not she’s up for a wondrous,
ultra-relaxing
night out in Time this evening. ‘No hassle, love, no pressure, we’ll just have a quiet one,’ he stresses, once she picks up. Ellen’s sat on someone’s double-bed way up on floor nine, but don’t worry; it’s only Mandy’s. They’ve been talking shit all afternoon, and Ellen’s relieved to finally hear a normal person’s voice again. In fact, she was just thinking how much she’d like to spend time with Johnnie again, after that weird calamity with Bobby the Artist shunning her. She’s incredibly pissed off about posing starkers in front of him, and not getting any action – she likes to think she feels used or exploited, but in her heart she’s just gutted and doesn’t want anything to do with him any more. Complex bastard. Fame’s obviously gone to his head; he thinks he’s some totally serious artiste now. Bouncing on Mandy’s mattress, she tells Johnnie she’ll pop down in a minute, and she thinks he sounds strangely chirpy this afternoon. She hangs up, then Ellen grabs her fake Prada bag from Mandy’s floor and kisses the nutcase goodbye. ‘Cheerio,’ she says, clomping out the door. ‘Fishcakes,’ replies Mandy. Ellen raises her eyebrows, marching down four storeys and shaking her head. Johnnie’s there waiting with the front door open, and he twirls his girlfriend four or five rotations when she enters. They’re both very pleased to see each other. ‘You’re in a good mood!’ she laughs, but she’s not complaining. Before they head out, Ellen pops through to the bedroom to get changed, and there’s a spring in her step that hasn’t been there for weeks. Jumping on top of Johnnie’s bed, she chucks off some clothes then puts on new ones then chucks those off and puts on different ones. She picks pants without any brown period stains in them, and a bra that doesn’t give her two pairs of tits. She makes sure to brush her teeth, pouting and striking various poses in the bathroom mirror, then the two of them dash out the house all jittery and merry. Johnnie tells Ellen about his mam and the Dance Dance Revolution and the ecstasy, and they swing hands all the way to the bus stop. He’s so excited about what he’s going to do to her tonight! Despite selling most of his pills to Bobby the Artist this last half-week or so, he’s still got five of the blighters in his back pocket (plus the Mitsubishis off Jean), and he can’t wait to grin and gurn the night away with Ellen. They only have to wait five minutes before an Arriva comes, Johnnie trying his best to be cool and relaxed and stretching his legs and going ‘aaah’all the time. He even goes as far as to say to Ellen, ‘Mmm, I feel really good and relaxed, me.’ Ellen nods and frowns. They get out at the chocolate bus station, wandering down its tiled, disinfected aisles then out again to the deathly quiet concrete streets. Turn a few corners and you get to the Princess Alice, which is this lovely green and white pub with people bantering and piling out into the street, and Johnnie casually furrows to the bar without bashing into any of them. ‘Bark!’ a dog says down the street. Ellen keeps a tight grip of Johnnie’s hand as they stand at the cramped bar, wondering where his typical hard-man mannerisms have gone. Johnnie actually comes across as slightly camp as he rests there on the thick wood with floppy limbs. ‘Pint of Carlsberg and a gin and tonic please, mate, thank you,’ he says to the brick shithouse behind the bar. He gets a little raised eyebrow, then his drinks. Stood there in the rammed pub, Johnnie and Ellen aren’t sure where to sit so they linger with their glasses at the bar, trying their best to talk to each other in the rumble-grumble-mumble of everybody’s chatter. ‘God, I’m looking forward to tonight!’ Johnnie grins, holding Ellen close to him like a valuable suitcase. ‘Aye,’ Ellen agrees, ‘I haven’t done pills for a while like …’ Ellen strokes Johnnie’s arm under his shirt cuff, feeling strangely grateful for him staying with her all this time. She’s glad she didn’t hump Bobby the Artist now. If she really thinks about it, Johnnie would’ve only gone and put Bobby in hospital with severed oesophagus or disfigurement of the face, and if Bobby was willing to cheat on bonny Georgie he’d probably be inclined to cheat on Ellen too, if they ever got together. Johnnie, bless his heart, has never cheated on anyone ever (unless you count Nicola Purcell smacking her lips on him in the Linny when he was seeing this bird Sharon). Johnnie has a certain respectability about him (despite being seen as a lowlife by certain mams and dads who are against drugs and tracksuits and skinheads because the TV tells them so), and he really wants to make things work with Ellen and have a future with her and have kids not yet but some time, and all that marrying each other shite. And hopefully, soon he’ll be shagging her correctly. Occasionally Johnnie does wonder if he’d be happier going out with a virgin, taking her under his wing and stretching her fanny out and adapting her to his rough, crappy shagging style and giving her orgasm after orgasm, but then again virgins are generally quite dreary and clueless as people, and it wouldn’t be that worth it. Just standing here arm in arm with Ellen and pint in hand, the uphill treacherous struggle with her seems all the more worthwhile. He still feels very protective and anxious about her, but he tries his hardest not to get wound up by all the leering faces in the pub tonight. The trick is to keep a cool head! Marshy – the frog-eyed lad with a slice out of one ear – keeps looking over at Ellen from the bandit, but Johnnie just catches his frog eye and smiles. Dav – the boxer who used to fancy Ellen and tried to get off with her numerous times before he knew Johnnie was going out with her – sits over there under the telly, but Johnnie just ignores him. He ignores Darren as well, and Maresy and Gill, all of them fucking chauvinistic wankers getting pissed and slagging off women like they’re rock stars on a tour bus full of groupies (but their band Whirlwind are absolutely gash). Usually even the longhairs annoy Johnnie, slumped there all gay and languid in their tight jeans and talking all deep about music and how hardcore they all are, but Johnnie avoids knitting his eyebrows or passing comment. ‘Bark!’ a doggy shouts, off down the street. Johnnie sniffs, keeping his eyes fixed on Ellen rather than all these dumb cretins. He gets another Carlsberg and sups it calmly, feeling all the knots in his brain untie and unribbon until his mind’s just a blank cassette playing happily backwards and forwards. He smiles at his girlfriend, trying to remember Bobby and Georgie’s slow, sumptuous moves from that video. He grins. It’s a quarter to ten, and Johnnie and Ellen decide to leave the Alice, with big red hearts like gongs. Ellen’s excited to be out with Johnnie again – she sees tonight as some sort of turning point. Johnnie seems different, and she likes that. He seems much more laid back, and as they walk down Corporation Road he’s beaming and he’s got a spring in his step, like an innocent man newly released from jail. The world seems much prettier to him, for example the yellow moon dangling in the dusky blackcurrant sky, or the various pubs and bars humming and sprinkling colour on the street like overgrown TVs, and all the people going by without pissing him off. In the queue at Time, Johnnie and Ellen stand behind a group of raucous curly-haired girls, trying not to listen to them. Ellen strokes her boyfriend’s belly and she can’t stop kissing him. She’s in love again. They both can’t wait to drop the Es and breeze around like a pair of Siamese twins, and one of them can’t wait to get back to the flat afterwards and try out all the new moves from ‘Un Hommage de Monsieur Condom, 2005’. However, what neither of them has realised is tonight Cleveland Police are undertaking Operation Nighthawk, which means zero tolerance on drugs and violence and drunk-and-disorderliness, and there’s lots more bobbies and lots more undercover secret agents and lots more patrol cars and vans. And sniffer dogs. ‘Bark!’ a big dark Labrador screams at Johnnie, on the end of its lead. ‘Bark bark barky bark!’ it adds. All the colour falls out of Johnnie’s face and down his large intestine. His heart turns to a hard red brick. The stocky police officer holding the leash puts a hand on Johnnie’s wibbly shoulder and says quite politely, ‘Can you step aside please?’ but, as Johnnie stumbles off the pavement all devastated, everyone’s looking over and gawping and a few lads from the queue surreptitiously tiptoe off down the street trying not to get sniffed themselves. Ellen starts screaming at the officers, telling them they’re wrong they’re wrong, but the sniffer dog keeps saying ‘I’m right I’m right’ in bark-language. Johnnie’s absolutely horrified and sweaty, but he decides to remain calm, and he doesn’t say a word or bat an eyelid when he gets chucked in the back of the van. The cage doors slam, then he’s off brum-brum-brum to the police station without even a kiss goodbye or a glance from Ellen. She’s left standing paralysed on the creaky concrete. The queue for Time means nothing to her now. She doesn’t know what to do. She starts walking aimlessly back into town, suddenly all the cold stars projecting a feeling of sadness and loneliness and shit and gloom. In a weird selfish way she’s glad it wasn’t her holding the pills tonight and her in the back of the van, but she was having such a nice time with Johnnie, it’s a shock to be suddenly on her own. The pavements have the silent, tense atmosphere of just suffering a tornado or earthquake or something. She goes past the rows and rows of pubs and clowny pissheads, feeling lost in her own home town. The image of Johnnie getting locked up in a horrid cell really grabs at her stomach, twisting and twirling her pipes and organs. She suddenly feels sober. Deflated, she sits underneath the big cardboard Corporation House like a homeless person. She’s in no mood to go to a club alone – she just wants her boyfriend. She’s not very keen either to go back to her mam’s in Eston and tell her the reason she’s home early, and then her mam slag off Johnnie and be a bitch to her the rest of the evening. Ellen and her mam get on alright, but they’re the only ones in that boring old semi and they get on each other’s nerves quite a bit. Ellen’s mam’s probably just jealous of her having a boyfriend and being more attractive and nubile and smoother. Resting her chin in cupped hands, Ellen wishes life could be easy, not full of disasters all the time and premature ejaculations and policemen. She gets up from the bench, adjusts her top so her boobs aren’t falling out, then decides to wander towards the police station in case she can see Johnnie or maybe it’s been a case of mistaken identity and he’s been released. She tumbles in high heels between the house of cardboard and the town hall, taxis beeping at her and men drooling at her legs, but she keeps her head up and a blank expression on it. She’s not interested in any other boys but Johnnie. They’re all zombies. The police station lies there over the top of the gardens, all blocky and modernist like a white Rubik’s cube. She imagines Johnnie in there in handcuffs, getting touched and searched and tortured, and she’s surprised at herself for a tear dribbling out of one eye. He really does mean something to her, and all those memories of her cheating on him and nailing Angelo and trying it on with Bobby and ignoring Johnnie make her dizzy as she steps over the forecourt of the cop shop. There’s always a certain paranoia and guilty feeling walking into a police station, but when she gets to the desk all the police people seem okay, sipping polystyrene coffees and sorting through paperwork. ‘Hello,’ she says to the slightly dykeish female one at the counter. ‘Er,’ she mumbles, ‘my boyfriend Johnnie Hyde just got taken in, er, I’m not sure why. Is he getting released? We were gonna go to Time.’ The female officer furrows her brow, rummages papers and taps a computer, then tells Ellen to use the old phone over there and ring the extension 1242 and ask them instead. Ellen nods and sighs, feeling like it’s her who’s done the bad deed. Ellen tick-tocks her heels over to the dingy phone booth; one of those with the pod affair that goes over you and your head. She types in the number, but the line’s dead so she goes back over to the desk and goes, ‘The line’s dead.’ The female officer stands up from her comfy office chair, then gets someone else to tap the computer keys for her, and this fellow seems much more amiable with his bushy white eyebrows and dimples, and he tells Ellen, ‘Right, he’s been put in a cell overnight, until he sobers up. He should be released sometime in the morning. But questioning won’t start till at least nine thirty, and we’ve taken a lot of people in tonight, so I suggest you go home and get some sleep, and come back tomorrow.’ PC Bushy Eyebrows scribbles a number down for Ellen, telling her to phone back at about nine o’clock when they should have a better idea when he might be out. Ellen lingers for a second at the counter in case they’ve got more information and because she’s got nothing better to do until nine, but the female one says, ‘Right, thanks a lot, then,’ in a nasty tone, which means ‘Right, get lost, then,’ so Ellen swallows a gulp and makes a move back onto the streets again. She still doesn’t want to go back to her mam’s though. She sits for a bit in Central Gardens, watching the sky for forty-five minutes and it’s strange and beautiful how much it changes in that time, clouds stretching like the stuff in a huge indigo lava lamp, and stars gently shifting pattern as the earth turns. But then after a bit it gets boring. Ellen smokes her last cigarette: a Richmond. She walks over to the Bottle of Notes, that Claes Oldenburg sculpture thing they wanted to paint red and white to match the colours of the football team. She sees ducks roosting in the pond. Getting chilly, Ellen strides out of the park and down past the side of the Empire, where the bouncers are headbutting someone. Ellen goes to McDonald’s, but the restaurant part’s shut so she has to walk through the drive-thru, pretending to be a motor car. She parks at one of the counters, then orders the Big Mac meal with Diet Coke from the gormless cunt serving. She sits on the pavement outside the American Golf shop to eat her burger, and wonders to herself how many people play golf in this humdrum industrial town. While she eats, she feels annoyed at herself for spending money on food, and disappointed not to have any