I want to know where she lives. I’ve got a bone to pick with that lump of shit she calls a son.’
‘The black woman? She’s a crafty bastard, that one. Slippery, like. I can never keep tabs on her. I’ve tried following her, like you asked, but she always does a bloody Houdini.’
‘Try harder, then,’ Paddy said, thinking of Sheila and reaching into his jogging bottoms to grab his erect penis. He started to massage himself rhythmically. ‘That’s what I’m paying you for, isn’t it? I want information, not a damned sightseeing tour!’
Ending the call, he withdrew his hand from his jogging bottoms and hurled the phone onto the sofa. Hauled himself to his feet, swaying slightly, watching the scuffed skirting board move upwards, upwards, downwards, rising and falling in waves like a heat shimmer created from alcohol fumes. Brenda.
Weaving his way to the kitchen at the back of the terrace, he found his humble, willing shelf-stacker checking on the progress of a pie through the greasy oven door. He started to yank his jogging bottoms and underpants down, eyeing Brenda’s ample bottom as she knelt down.
‘Brenda, love,’ he said. ‘Grab the worktop. I’ve got something to give you.’
Glancing over her shoulder with a watery smile on her unadorned lips, she stood up, and turning, caught sight of Paddy’s erection. Baulked.
‘Oh, Kenneth. I’ve got to be back in work in five minutes.’ She pointed to the clock. ‘I’m already running late. I’ll get told off by the manager.’
But Paddy wasn’t interested in Brenda’s work concerns or tardiness. He wanted what he wanted.
‘Don’t come all coy with me,’ he said, advancing towards her. Grabbing her around her stout middle and pressing her large breasts against him. Grinding his penis into her stomach. ‘You love giving me the runaround, don’t you?’ He reached behind her and hitched up her frowsy skirt. Yanked at her knickers and stuck his finger inside her, enjoying the feel of her struggling against him.
‘I’m going to be late, Ken!’ She giggled nervously, clearly unsure as to whether she should be flattered or affronted. ‘We can do this properly later when you’ve slept the booze off. You’re hurting me! The drawer handle’s digging in my bum.’
‘I’m going to fuck you through to the other side of Christmas,’ he said. ‘Your arse will be hurting from more than a frigging handle when I’ve finished with you.’
She tried to push him away. ‘No, Ken! I need the work!’
‘My chunky monkey.’ He could feel she was dry and unyielding. It didn’t matter. In fact, that was better. Made him feel like a triumphant Viking, claiming his spoils.
The fingernails digging in his neck and the knee in his inner thigh, however, were unexpected.
‘No, Ken! No!’ Anger contorted Brenda’s smooth moon-face into something unfamiliar and unwelcome.
When he brought his fist down on her defiant face, he was pleased to see that it knocked the rebellion and fire out of her immediately.
He stood back to admire his work. completely unaware of Brenda’s teenaged son, Kyle, who should have been at school but who had bunked off straight after chemistry, following his mother to her boyfriend’s house. Now, stealthy, keen-eyed Kyle was lurking in the doorway, watching this domestic noir unfold.
Deciding the thump was assault enough, Paddy put his deflating penis – unreliable thanks to the alcohol slopping around inside him – back inside his pants.
Brenda cowered before him, sobbing, with hurt in her eyes that he found almost delicious. She pulled her skirt back down. ‘Your pie’s ready.’ She wiped her tears away with the sleeve of her supermarket fleece.
Paddy said the words he knew would be balm for the bruise. They worked every time on women like her. ‘You know I love you, don’t you, Bren?’
Youssuf
‘Ah. There you are! At last,’ Youssuf said in Urdu as his son Tariq marched towards him, wearing a concerned look on his face.
Grabbing his walking stick optimistically, contemplating hoisting himself off the leather sofa that was positioned against the wall near Tariq’s office, Youssuf opened his mouth to ask again if he was ready to drive him over to the old people’s day centre.
But Tariq had already disappeared into his office. And Youssuf’s words were swallowed by Mohammed, the book-keeper, who breezed past with his own demands, clutching at a sheaf of paperwork.
‘Tariq! What do you want me to do about this faulty order?’ Mohammed asked, pausing at the threshold to the office. Fingering the brass plate telling everyone that a Director occupied the sacred space beyond the door, with its big, oak desk and only slightly worn brown carpet tiles. ‘You know? For the other site.’
Tariq reappeared in the doorway, thumbing his beard contemplatively. Youssuf waved frantically at him, hoping to catch his attention, but his son’s focus was reserved solely for Mohammed.
‘Get the supplier on the phone. I’ll speak to them.’ He dropped his voice to a whisper, though Youssuf could hear well enough. ‘I can’t sell poorly recorded porn films as the latest from Leo DiCaprio. They’ve got a cheek. This is Jonny’s contact, isn’t it?’ He tutted. Finally, Tariq glanced towards his father. Scratched at the beard, clearly distracted. Turned back to Mohammed. ‘Not out here.’ He held his hand up to Youssuf, fingers splayed. ‘Five minutes, Dad. I promise.’ Slammed the door to the office.
Except Youssuf had been promised five minutes at least forty minutes ago and his bottom had gone numb.
‘This is nonsense,’ Youssuf muttered, rubbing his stomach that growled audibly, even beneath the layers of his tunic, cardigan and overcoat. He checked his watch, barely able to see the time clearly as his hand trembled with ill health and low blood sugar. It was almost midday. He’d spent too long with too many tablets in his system and nothing to eat beyond the toast that his daughter-in-law, Anjum, had given him for breakfast. The prospect of missing out on lunch at the day centre was a grim one. That stuck-up old idiot, Ibrahim, was sure to snaffle all the bhajis as was his wont if he didn’t get there soon. It wasn’t that great a distance to walk. Not if he paced himself.
With a grunt, he rose from the low sofa, donned his karakul hat and made his way downstairs. The staff of T&J Trading smiled benignly at him. Even the girl on the desk bade him a friendly, ‘Morning, Mr Khan!’ But nobody stopped him.
Outside, the air was fresh. Too fresh. Youssuf had never been a fan of the Mancunian cold and damp that crept into his bones a little more with every year that passed. He buttoned his coat, glanced up at the offices on the first floor and made a disgruntled harrumphing noise.
‘Treats me like a child,’ he said, making his way towards Derby Street where he would quickly blend in with the hustle and bustle of men going about their business. Here, among the poorly parked vans and mess of discarded cardboard packaging that was whipped around on the stiff wind like abandoned kites gone rogue, he could be just another brown man in an area full
