Strange Affairs, Ginger Hairs

Arthur Grimestead

Description

Hull, 1998. Unemployed, single and broke. These chains are what eighteen-year-old Ginger is determined to break free from, away from his indifferent parents and toward the ever-elusive achievement of a girlfriend. Life is monotonous to the point of tears - until the chance acquisition of a gold ring unbalances Ginger's whole world.Suddenly Ginger finds himself caught up with violence and tinpot crime, betrayed by his best friend and escaping from local villainsdesperate to reclaim their property. An encounter with a middle class 'daddy's girl', hitching a ride for a little excitement, holds promise - butwhen her own questionable past is thrown into the light, their situation worsens and the frying pan erupts into the fire. With their lives at risk,they must hatch a plan to turn the tables on their enemies and dare to play the criminals at their own game. A hilarious tale of kidnapping,bad sex and self-discovery.

Sujets

• Condado de Yorkshire (Reino Unido)
• Hull
• Yorkshire

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 28 juillet 2019
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781838598709
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 2 Mo

Extrait

Copyright © 2019 Arthur Grimestead

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

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To all who helped, heartfelt thanks.
To all who hindered, fuck you.

for music to accompany this novel, visit:
www.arthurgrimestead.com
Contents
PART ONE November 1998
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven

PART TWO September 1999
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen

PART THREE Nine days later
Sixteen
Seventeen

Two days later
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One

PART FOUR Two days later
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine

PART FIVE Two hours later
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five

PART SIX Thirty minutes later
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight

One month later
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Epilogue


PART ONE November 1998
One
Hello good fella, are
you well my friend?
I awoke, and my first thought was: I’m going to kill myself.
I wasn’t desperate, I just couldn’t be bothered to get out of bed.
Staring at the ceiling, I trailed my thoughts around a swirl of Artex. A minute passed, during which I did not die.
You see, I had a general fear of death; a fancy for melodrama; and it was signing-on day. If I couldn’t be bothered to get out of bed, I probably couldn’t be bothered to kill myself.
A woman gazed over me, pouting her silicone-enhanced lips. The poster of Page Three Lucy dominated my room – well worth the KitKat I swapped it for. Her breasts were captivating and always cheered me, albeit with a predictable transience.
I rolled over, reaching for a half depleted cola bottle. Just out of grasp, my finger tickled the label – I asked the cola genie for fewer spots, no holes in my underwear and the ability to be recognised by persons other than the Jobcentre staff. Indeed, I had to be there in an hour to mark the pinnacle of another vocation-less fortnight. My bed was calling me to hide under the duvet and pretend Lucy lay with me, but the sniff of money-for-nothing won out. Hastily, I pulled on yesterday’s jeans and socks, encasing the stench of the latter in a pair of Three Stripe trainers. Then, collecting my dog-eared benefit book, I blew Lucy a kiss and set off to the land of the jobseeker.

I sat waiting for a number thirty-eight to take me into town. The bus shelter was shrunk to microscopic proportions under a looming tower block, somewhere at the top being my recently departed abode. As I looked up, the grey amalgamation of concrete ascended into the sky and seemed to infect Mother Nature with its greyness. The sun always seemed shy round our way. People walked as if they couldn’t be bothered, hands in pockets and dragging along their feet – even the sprogs of the teenaged mothers seemed too lazy to cry.
Someone plonked down beside me. ‘All right Ginger?’
I looked up.
‘How’s it goin’?’
It was Syd, a skinny weasel-like kid, who wore glasses so thick he could probably see into next week.
‘Been up to owt?’
I shrugged my shoulders. ‘Dunno really.’
‘Where y’off now?’
‘Sign on,’ I grunted.
‘Oh. Seen owt’a Wacko?’
‘No.’
‘I’m supposed to be meetin’ ’im. I’ve got ’im one a these.’ He pulled open a Kwik Save carrier, revealing a hoard of mobile phones and offering them like a bag of sweets. ‘At least ’undred quid y’d pay at Carphone Ware’ouse. Y’can ’ave one for fifty?’
I grunted, shaking my head. ‘I’m skint.’
‘The world’s moved on from carrier pigeon – get the fuck with it!’ He snatched back the tangle of antennas, his tone nudging superior. ‘ I got on t’internet last week – gettin’ porno piped in 24/7.’
I ignored him, though secretly I was jealous. ‘So where did you get that lot?’ I said, nodding towards his swag bag.
‘Chip Shop Chas. ’e’s got even more of ’em.’
I groaned. ‘You back in with him?’
‘’e’s all right Chas.’
‘He’s well dodgy.’
‘I could get y’bit’a work with ’im. Make some proper wonga instead’a broodin’ on dole.’
I gave a tut. ‘No ta.’
‘Suit yerself.’ Syd lit a fag and inhaled as if it were his life support. ‘Y’wun’t know a good thing if it bit yer ’and off.’
‘Everyone knows that chip shop’s a front.’
‘So what?’
So… nothing, absolutely nothing – it’s not like I give a shit. I care more about the price of Tampax. I was quiet and gazed at the kerb.
‘This time next year y’ll still be signin’ on,’ said Syd, pointing his fag rather accusingly. ‘While I’m signin’ a big cheque for a big new Jag.’
‘Yeh right.’
‘I’m tellin’ ye, Chas runs this estate. Every break-in, every two-’undred percent loan, it all goes back to ’im. But ’e’s careful, y’see, and nothin’ ever sticks. I mean, what else is there?’
‘You could try being honest.’
Syd laughed.
‘So everyone has to burgle houses for a living?’ I snapped.
‘Dunt everyone do that already?’
‘ I don’t.’
He blew a lung full of smoke in my face. ‘Y’know, even at school y’dint ’ave a clue.’
‘I did better than you ,’ I spluttered.
‘GCSE Astronomy? What does that qualify y’for? The Russell Grant fan club?’
I frowned. ‘That’s astrology.’
‘Forget all that bollocks. Get a degree in life and the first thing y’ll learn is y’don’t get owt for nowt ’less y’go and take it.’
‘What do you know about life? You’re younger than me.’
‘Enough not to be a miserable twat bag on dole.’ He pulled out a wad of cash, waving it in my face. ‘I’ve shifted twelve phones for Chas this week – twen’y percent for me – that’s ’undred and twen’y quid.’
‘Dirty money.’
‘Only if y’wipe yer arse on it.’
I ignored him as my bus appeared – late as usual.
Syd held out a fiver. ‘There y’go Ginger, treat yerself.’
A man of principle would have snubbed him, but five quid covered a Big Mac and a milkshake. I snatched it and stood up.
‘See y’around then,’ said Syd.
I said nothing and caught the bus to town.

‘Can I see your job search log?’ said Sandra, New Deal Personal Advisor.
‘It’s at home,’ I said – the desk between us seemed like a judge’s bench.
‘You need to show your efforts to find work, Mr Jones.’
I offered a perfunctory glance towards the noticeboard, pointing at random. ‘Can I apply for that one?’
‘We encourage clients to apply for as many jobs as possible.’
‘Right.’
Her tone dropped. ‘Or face sanctions.’
As I sat opposing Sandra’s pointy nose, I felt very dissatisfied with the way New Labour were making me jump through hoops for money – New Deal was a bad deal.
‘Administrative Assistant, Choice Seafood,’ said Sandra, reading from her computer screen. ‘You’d like to make an application now?’
I shrugged. ‘If you say so.’
She sniffed, fidgeted in her seat and then continued to read. ‘Do you have previous experience within a busy office environment?’
‘No.’
‘Are you computer literate?’
‘Not really.’
‘Qualifications?’
‘Kind of.’
Her French tips gave an exaggerated wrap over the enter key and her nose returned to pointing in my direction. ‘I’ve arranged an interview for you, next Thursday 10.30am.’
My stomach seemed to capsize. ‘What?’
‘A New Deal placement is a gateway into employment,’ she said, smiling. ‘Often, no experience is necessary.’
‘But I’m busy next week.’
‘I could refer your case to a decision maker, Mr Jones. But that could mean sanctions.’
‘Right.’
‘Anything else we can do for you today?’
‘I need to sign on,’ I mumbled, offering my benefit book.
‘Well, I’m breaking for lunch right now, so if you’d like to re-join the queue and wait for one of my colleagues…’
I dragged myself up, pulling a face, and mooched to the back of the queue.
Two
I could have been the
mayor, the lord, the king.
I stood outside a bogey green door, flushed and a little out of breath. Scraped into the paint was the number 52 – someone had nicked the brass digits and sold them to number 25. Bracing myself, I opened the door.
‘I’m back!’
There was no reply.
In the living room, obesity anchored Dad to his armchair. He didn’t look up from the telly.
So, I ignored him and mooched through to the kitchen. There I found Mum over the hob, sucking on a stub of Silk Cut. She looked at me hard, her long greying hair pulled back and her forehead shining. ‘I’m doing Dad’s dinner first – you’ll have to wait.’
A sausage spat at her, she flipped it, coughed and seasoned the food with spittle. Hunger was never really satisfied in our home, just battered into submission.
Returning to the living room, I could remember what we’d had for dinner all that week by looking