Blundering Blokes (Looking For Sarah Jane Smith, Girls Like Funny Boys & To Dare A Future)
Published by Dave Franklin at Smashwords
Copyright 2011 Dave Franklin
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Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
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A three-novel anthology that wallows in dark humour, sexual obsession and the latent violence of the male animal.
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Looking For Sarah Jane Smith
A foul-mouthed comedy that follows one man’s search for the perfect woman as it takes him from a grotty Welsh town to the other side of the world.
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For Boycey, Will, Packo, Mark and Gwyn. See you in the pub sometime.
Chapter One
‘What the fuck happened?’
‘Ask this clown.’
Wasp Boy bristled. ‘And what’s that s’posed to mean?’
Marty turned on him. ‘You know full well what it’s s’posed to fuckin’ mean.’
‘No, I don’t, actually. Why don’t you tell me?’
‘Oh, come on! You were stood behind him shouting ‘Dwarf!’ and he must’ve thought it was me.’
‘Bollocks!’
‘You lyin’ bastard. You always do it. You have a coupla beers, you see some short bloke and you can’t resist.’
‘That’s not true,’ Wasp insisted. ‘I never said a word.’
‘Right. You’re a regular Mary Poppins, aren’t ya?’
‘Aah, up yer cunt.’
‘Fuck, if that isn’t your answer to everything!’
‘Aah, double up yer cunt.’
‘You dickhead!’
John stepped in between Marty and Wasp. ‘Boys, this ain’t helping. I just wanna know what happened, all right? All I know is I popped to the pisser and when I come back you two were being thrown out.’
‘Yeah, because this clown was up to his dwarf-shouting tricks again.’
‘I did not shout ‘Dwarf!’’
‘Well, you must’ve said something. You’ve been itching to put your gum shield in all night.’
‘If I’m gonna hit anyone, it’s gonna bloody well be you.’
‘You’re so original.’
The big bald bouncer, who’d thrown Marty and Wasp out of The Pen and Wig, sighed and pushed himself off the pub’s wall. He wore a black suit and Ray-Bans.
‘You boys OK?’
John turned on him. ‘Oh, and how come you’re suddenly concerned for our welfare?’ The bouncer folded his arms and leaned back. ‘That’s typical of you lot. One moment you’re beating someone’s brains out, the next you’re asking if they’re OK. And why the hell are you wearing sunglasses? Don’t you realise it’s the middle of the night?’
The bouncer checked the footwear of two young blokes walking into the pub before returning his gaze to John.
‘John,’ Marty hissed as he grabbed the crook of his arm and tried to drag him away. ‘Leave him alone. You’re not a hard man, remember?’
But John was pointing now. ‘How many exams you passed, anyway? C’mon, I wanna know. How well qualified do you have to be to stand in a doorway and wear sunglasses in a menacing manner? It’s not even a nice doorway. It’s a crappy doorway.’
The bouncer straightened and took off his sunglasses to reveal a three-inch scar running through an eyebrow. He stepped toward John, speaking in measured terms.
‘Time you went home, sonny. While you can still walk.’
John wilted. ‘Shit, stop me, Marty, before I get myself horribly mutilated.’
‘Well, just stand over here then and let’s work out what we’re gonna do. Because if you two haven’t noticed, those guys appear to be waiting for us.’
‘What?’ John looked down the street and picked out the two guys who’d been slung out moments before them. They were hanging around a shop doorway about a hundred metres away at the bottom of Stow Hill, shouting at passing groups of girls. John put his head in his hands as he saw Wasp’s face light up. ‘Aah, shit.’
‘Right,’ Wasp said. ‘Let’s go and sort the pair of ’em out.’
Marty grabbed Wasp’s arm. ‘Excuse me, but what the fuck are you on about?’
‘Let’s have ’em. There’s three of us. And one of those guys is a dwarf.’
‘I fuckin’ knew it!’
Marty spun away and looked up the hill, wondering how the hell he was going to talk Wasp out of doing something utterly Waspish. Something warm trickled down the side of his face and he was surprised to find blood in his ear. Then he remembered the short guy yanking on it as they wrestled around the dance floor in a drunken heap. He turned back to Wasp.
‘Look, let’s just walk the other way. Go the long way round. There’s a curry house up there. Let’s have a Madras and go home. Forget this bollocks.’
Wasp glared at Marty and stepped closer. He wasn’t a big man but he was wiry, fast and confident with real strength in his forearms and grip. Little white plumes of breath escaped his mouth as he spoke through clenched teeth.
‘I ain’t walking the long way round. It’s fuckin’ miles. This is my hometown and I’ll walk wherever I wanna walk. Now I’m gonna take a stroll past ’em and see what happens. All right?’
‘You just wanna fight, don’t ya? Admit it.’
Wasp held up his palms. ‘Hey, I just wanna go home. That’s all.’
Marty noticed Wasp’s slightly higher pitch, a sure sign he was lying. This tactic of presenting himself as entirely reasonable while refusing to back down in the slightest was typical. Marty sighed. Their scenario had all the classic ingredients of the squalid Newport town centre fights he’d reported on over the years. Tedious scraps between strangers because one guy had looked at the other’s girlfriend or they happened to support rival soccer teams. Pure bollocks, really.
Marty glanced at John. He’d lit a fag while refusing to take his eyes off the cracked pavement or suggest any alternative course of action. John was the complete opposite of the permanently fired-up Wasp Boy and about as handy to have around in a possible ruck as Cliff Richard. Great, Marty thought, I’m stuck between a fully fledged coward and a psychotic giant insect. But he went for the long shot anyway.
‘What do you reckon, John?’
John looked up, the dark smudges under his eyes and grey pallor not only failing to project the image of a man in his fighting prime, but also one unlikely to be able to resist a strong gust of wind. John took a hit on the fag, his twig-like wrist testament to his occasional Karen Carpenter nickname. He sniffed, glanced at the two guys who were refusing to go on their way, and turned back.
‘I reckon I could take ’em both with a sustained burst of sarcasm. I mean, that short bloke has a woeful moustache and there’s gotta be plenty of mileage in that.’
Wasp Boy shook his head. ‘Bollocks to you two! I’m gonna see what they’re made of.’
And with that he strode off down the hill toward them.
****
‘John, what are we gonna do if they have a go at him?’
John raised an eyebrow. ‘You mean, when he has a go at them.’
The bouncer straightened, causing Marty to take his eyes off Wasp’s Exocet missile impersonation as Tall Bird in Jeans stepped into the street. She was wearing her trademark blue Wranglers and a tight white top, perfectly outlining the small breasts he sometimes fantasised had never been touched. Her name was Cathy, she was eighteen and, at just a tad under six feet, almost as tall as him. She had long brown hair, big brown eyes and a rosy hue to her cheeks. She’d recently arrived from Dublin with her mum. The job of office girl at The South Wales Post was the first the temping agency had been able to sort out.
When Marty had seen her walk across the newsroom three days ago – sorry, float like an angelic vision – he’d turned half-dazed to Garry, the crime reporter, and hoarsely muttered: ‘Who’s that tall bird in the jeans?’ The nickname had stuck, partly because he’d only found out her real name yesterday.
She smiled uncertainly as she came up to him with a bottle of beer. He realised three shirt buttons were missing, revealing part of his belly. Funny how you noticed that sort of stuff when a dead pretty girl was about to talk to you.
‘You OK, Marty?’
‘Yeah, yeah, I’m all right.’
He smiled, glancing at a half-full carton of curry near his feet. If his leg and arm had been hanging off he probably would’ve said the same thing. Oh God, he loved that soft Irish accent. He could listen to her talk all day.
‘What happened?’
‘Shall we say, investigations are continuing, but there could be a strong insect connection.’ She frowned. He wanted to be funny around her all the time but the witty remarks and throwaway lines seemed to get stuck in his chest. He just ended up sounding like an arse.
‘You’re an odd one. Oh, you’re bleeding!’
She touched the side of his face and for a moment he could do nothing but stare as the buzzing in his head and the madness of the world slipped away.
‘I’m OK. Really. It’s… nothing.’
She nodded. ‘It only looks like a scratch. You’ll live.’ She tutted. ‘You boys.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Marty, I hope you didn’t mind me just showing up at your leaving do. What with being the new girl I didn’t really know anybody.’
‘It’s fine. And don’t worry – you’re gonna make lots of friends, real quick. I can tell.’
‘Well, I know I didn’t exactly get an invi–’
‘Nah, no worries. I should’ve asked you. It’s my fault. I’m glad you came.’
She hooked some hair behind her ear. The small movement fascinated him.
‘Hey, is that your friend there?’
He looked at John staring at the pavement. ‘Yeah. Why?’
‘Oh, nothing. He offered to buy me a drink, that’s all.’
‘That sounds like John. Sorry.’
‘Aah, no, it’s OK. I told him I already had one so he asked if he could borrow my…’ She frowned. ‘My squirrel covers…? I wasn’t quite sure what he meant. I think he meant–’
‘He didn’t mean anything. Anything at all. That’s just John. Really.’
‘Oh, OK. Here, I almost forgot, I’ve brought your beer.’
She proffered the quarter-full Bud that had a frothy head. A picture materialised of dancing in front of her with the bloody thing stuck in his mouth, tipping his head back whenever he wanted a gulp. How sophisticated. Then the short guy had jumped on his back, sending the bottle flying toward her feet, and him face down on the floor. Marty realised he’d been pretty pissed in the pub but the scuffle had sobered him up a lot. He meekly took the bottle, murmured thanks, and glanced at her slip-on beer-spattered shoes.
‘Sorry… about your shoes.’
Her lovely smile appeared. There was an easygoing grace about her that she had no right to possess at such an absurdly tender age. She must have known she commanded attention but appeared comfortable with it, and never arrogant or haughty. He could worship her. She was his Sarah Jane Smith. If the street filled up with Daleks right now, exterminating everything in sight and doing their level best to take over the Earth, he’d save her. He really would.
‘Are you going home now?’
Marty nodded. He felt drunk again. He wanted to fall at her feet in a sobbing heap and beg her to save him from his self-obsessed, unfulfilled bastard of a life.
‘Well, that’s probably for the best,’ she said when he didn’t reply. She hugged him briefly, pecking his cheek. ‘I just wanted to say I think you’re really brave emigrating by yourself. I could never do anything like that. But it’s a shame you’re already going when we’ve only just met. I think we could’ve got on. Goodbye, Marty, and good luck.’
Another smile, a handshake, and then she walked past the bouncer and up the pub’s stairs. His vision slid down to her peach of a bum and those long, long legs. Part of him wanted to run after her and blurt everything out but it would be pointless. She’d entered his life way too late. In a little over a week he’d be boarding that plane, looking for something he may just have discovered in a place that was sucking the life out of him.
He glanced at the Bud in his hand, realising his last words to her had been, ‘Sorry about your shoes.’ He raised the bottle, the bottle she’d held, as a dim idea of cleaning it and taking it all the way to Oz flickered through his mind. After all, it was the only evidence of the one time in his twenty-eight years that he’d met a real-life Sarah Jane Smith.
‘I’ll take that,’ the bouncer said as he yanked it out of Marty’s grasp. ‘You’re not allowed bottles in the street.’
****
Marty hated bouncers. Too many were tin pot Hitlers. He loved that bit in The Terminator when Arnie tracks Linda Hamilton to a nightclub and a bouncer tries to stop him after walking in without paying. Without even looking round Arnie grabs the hand on his shoulder and crushes it with his cyborg strength, forcing the bouncer to his knees. Bloody great stuff, and Marty wanted to do the same whenever one stopped him for wearing a shirt without a collar or asking if he were a member.
John grabbed his arm and pointed down the street. With Tall Bird’s fleeting and final entrance in his life, he’d forgotten about Wasp Boy’s macho bullshit.
‘He’s done it, Marty,’ John whispered. ‘They’ve let him go.’
At the town centre end of the street Wasp beckoned as the other two blokes kicked a crushed can back and forth. Marty and John looked at each other, shrugged and walked toward Wasp. As they neared, the tall guy exchanged glances with his mate. The short guy put his foot on the can, turned and stared at Marty.
Wasp grinned and punched the tall guy in the side of the head. He staggered back three paces but didn’t quite go down, leaving the short guy with the non-negotiable look to launch himself at Marty. John froze amid the blur of motion as Wasp followed up his assault with another clubbing right. The short guy shoved Marty hard against a wall. Marty ducked beneath a wild punch as he bounced off the wall and got beneath his attacker, pushing him with all his might. The short guy tottered back, fell over and quickly got up to find John staring transfixed at Wasp gleefully putting the boot in. Marty shouted a warning but John didn’t seem to hear.
John turned, understood the imminent danger he was in, and took up such a dishevelled defeatist stance that he might as well have painted a luminous target on his chin. The result was inevitable and he failed to move as a haymaker whistled toward him, snapping his head back and crumpling his legs. Wasp Boy flew sideways and wrestled the short guy to the ground. Marty took a couple of uncertain steps forward as John groaned and curled up. Then the police seemed to arrive out of nowhere.
****
‘Most people get arrested once in their life.’ Marty nudged Wasp with his leg.
Wasp looked up. ‘Huh?’
‘I said, most people get arrested once in their life. Think that’s true?’
‘Dunno.’
‘OK. Let’s try again. The chances of getting arrested once in your life shoot through the roof when you’re on the piss in Newport with a wasp, especially if it’s one of those European super-aggressive ones. What do you reckon now?’
‘Big dog’s cock.’
Marty shook his head, glancing at vignettes of Newport’s nightlife through the windows of the moving police van. ‘You’re such a fucking idiot. What did you have to punch him for?’
‘He was asking for it.’
Marty lunged at Wasp and shoved him hard against the van’s interior, gripping his throat with one hand. ‘You wouldn’t let it go, would ya? You fuckin’ clown.’
A bearded copper turned and banged on the grill. ‘Oi! Settle down in there. Haven’t you boys done enough fighting for one night?’
Wasp shook himself free and glared at Marty. ‘You’re lucky I’m cuffed.’
‘Aah, shut up! You’ve got no idea when to let it go, have you? You wouldn’t even leave that bloke alone when two coppers were dragging you off. You know who you remind me of? The Black Knight in Python’s Holy Grail. Some fucker could chop your arms and legs off and you’d still wanna carry on scrapping. That’s who you are. The Black and Amber Knight, you stupid fuckin’ Wasp.’
‘You’re such a woman. It’ll be all right.’
‘All right? All right? We’ve been arrested, you twat! And what would’ve happened if one of those goons had a blade? Eh? If me or John had got stabbed?’
‘They didn’t have a knife.’
Marty leaned forward. ‘That’s not the point. One day someone is gonna have a knife and you’re gonna be lyin’ in a gutter dead, killed by some guy you’ve never even met before. For no reason. I’ve covered it in the courts. Just fighting for fuck all. Don’t you even think about your kids? Don’t you think you’d be more use to them alive?’
Wasp looked away. ‘You can leave them out. They’ve got nothing to do with it. All right?’
Marty let it go. A pause developed as they listened to the wail of a passing ambulance siren. In the front of the van, the radio crackled with the weird jargon of coppers saying ‘Negative’ instead of ‘No’ and ‘The suspect has decamped the scene’ rather than ‘He’s had it on his toes, sarge.’
Marty’s relationship with Wasp had begun with violence and looked like it was going to end the same way. They’d first met as opposing wingers during a rugger match in the first year of big school. Wasp had broken through the defence and was sprinting for the try line with Marty in hot pursuit. An attempted ankle tap had gone horribly wrong, which not only failed to stop the try, but also resulted in Wasp’s right heel smacking into his mouth. Marty’s top gum had split wide open and both his front teeth were never quite as straight again. ‘Tough luck, mate,’ a triumphant Wasp had crowed as he stood over a mud-covered Marty, desperately trying to stem the blood flow. ‘But a faggot like you was never gonna catch me.’
Fifteen years later Marty was still putting up with the same shit, although this time round he was sitting opposite him in a police van with blood coming out of his ear rather than his mouth.
Eventually Wasp started nudging his foot. ‘Marty…’
Marty looked up, bracing himself for Wasp’s attempt at an apology. ‘Yeah?’
‘Scratch me nose, mate.’
‘What?’
Wasp leaned forward. ‘Scratch me nose. It’s really itchy.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘C’mon. Just a quicky.’
‘Nut, scratch it yourself. Oh, you can’t, can you? You can’t because the sensible officers of the law decided it would be in everybody’s best interests to cuff your stupid buzzy little wings behind your back.’
There was another pause. ‘You’re not happy with me, are you?’
‘Jesus Christ!’
Wasp changed tactics. ‘John, scratch me nose.’
John stared at the floor, long hair covering his hangdog face. After a while he muttered in an oddly muffled voice: ‘I think my skull’s fractured.’
Marty turned away, trying hard not to have his anger at Wasp diffused by John’s self-pitying spin.
John spoke again. ‘I bet when we get to the station there’ll be some horrible mix up and I’ll get charged with eight murders and end up on Death Row.’
‘John,’ Marty said. ‘This is Britain and that’s not going to happen. Me and you’ll be all right. You’ll see.’ He pointed at Wasp. ‘It’s just this fuckin’ lunatic who’s gonna cop it.’
****
In the morning a tubby inspector with bad breath cautioned all five of them for causing a public disturbance. John, having difficulty accepting he would not have to endure a Death Row existence, went straight to the hospital in a bid to salvage something from the evening by having his sore head diagnosed as a fractured skull.
Chapter Two
‘I can’t believe I got punched! I wasn’t even doing anything. I was just standin’ there. Look at my fuckin’ swede!’ John jabbed a finger in his general facial area but misjudged the distance, poking the red and black bruise that had spread downward from his eye since last night. ‘Ow! Fuck! Fuck my life!’ The renewed pain caused him to drop his half-eaten hotdog and he watched through tear-pricked eyes as the sausage rolled toward the river.
Marty grinned in spite of John’s justified bleating while biting into his onion-covered hotdog.
‘I mean, I’ve gotta meet the new departmental head Monday morning. How the fuck am I gonna explain this?’ John paused to light a fag with the engraved lighter Marty had bought him for his eighteenth birthday. On its side it read: GIVE UP. ‘That Cunt Salter’s gonna love this. He’s been waiting to pounce for ages. If it ain’t my work, it’s my hair or my flexitime hours or my attitude and now I’ve got a face that looks like a toddler has been throwing paint at it. Fuckin’ Wasp!’
‘C’mon, John, you’ll get through it. You always do.’ Marty glanced across the River Usk at the remains of Newport’s crumbling castle from where they were sitting on a bench by the town’s largest public sculpture, The Wave. He put his hotdog to one side and blew on his hands, enjoying their oniony smell. ‘You could say you walked into a door.’
‘Aye, a door that just happened to have a bloody great right hook.’ John shook his head, immediately regretting it. ‘I mean, it’s bloody obvious someone’s punched me, innit?’
Marty nodded. ‘You haven’t managed to disguise it very well, I’ll give you that. But why didn’t you just duck?’
‘Duck? Duck? How could I have ducked? I didn’t even see it coming.’
Marty burst out laughing. ‘Oh, come on, John, everybody in Newport bloody saw it coming! You were like a deer frozen in the car headlights waiting to get splatted.’
‘Look, it was dark, OK? I didn’t have my glasses and you know my night vision’s… not the best. When it’s dark I have difficulty judging things. Things like… distance… and speed. I mean, if it had been during the day I would’ve killed him. Broken him in half like he was made of polystyrene.’
‘Should’ve worn your glasses.’
‘Can’t. Not when there’re young ladies present. You know my rules.’
‘But you didn’t pull either.’
‘Look, just shut up, all right? I know it wasn’t one of my best nights.’
‘Mmm…’
John glanced at his still steaming sausage and booted it closer to the river’s edge. ‘Why does this shit always happen to me? Wasp Boy starts a ruck and I get twatted. Then I get arrested for doing nothing more than a punch bag impression. And let’s not forget the bonus of a night in a freezing cold cell with a dripping bog for company.’
‘Quit moaning. At least we got a mattress.’
‘You got a mattress? Bastard! Even the great British justice system wants to stitch me up.’
‘C’mon, John, it could’ve been a lot worse. Charged, a court appearance and all the shit that goes with it.’
‘Yeah, but none of you got hit. None of you have gotta meet your new boss with a face that looks like a small jeep’s run over it. This sort of shit is so typical. Story of my bleedin’ life.’
‘What’re you on about?’
John gingerly touched his face, looking at Marty’s hotdog. ‘What’s your earliest memory?’
Marty shrugged. ‘I dunno. Being bored. Sarah Jane wandering round the Tardis.’
‘Wanna know what mine is?’
‘I’m sure you’re gonna tell me.’
‘First day at primary school. I had some Ribena in this cup with a push-on top. It was lunchtime and when I went to have me Bovril sarnies I found the top had come off and flooded my satchel. Everything was swimming in Ribena. They were all laughing at me.’
‘And that’s your worst childhood trauma?’
‘Nah, you’re missing my point. I’m just saying that if something can go wrong, then it bloody well will. You know something’s up when you’ve gotta eat your sarnies with a spoon. I mean, have you ever tasted Bovril and Ribena? It’s disgusting!’
‘John, I’ve said it before and no doubt I’ll say it again, you’re such a star.’
‘Aah, bollocks.’ John got up and looked at The Wave’s spidery red legs towering above. He’d wandered past the giant metal monstrosity for years but was still no closer in understanding how a huge circle containing a small multi-coloured triangle symbolised Newport’s former reliance on steel and water. He had even less idea how anyone could consider it an attractive addition to the town. The Wave’s only success appeared to be enticing drunks to shimmy up its legs – last week a laughing pisshead had broken an arm plunging back to Earth. No doubt he didn’t have much fondness for the sculpture either. John shook his head as he pointed at it.
‘Look at this piece of shit. How come someone with so little talent gets to leave such a bastard huge mark on South Wales? I’ve got no talent. I excel at being shit. Why doesn’t somebody give me a big wad of cash and tell me to waste it in an excruciatingly stupid way?’
‘I don’t know, John. You’ve got me there.’
John frowned, sitting back down. ‘I don’t even know what the fuck I’m talking about half the time. Maybe I should just let those black waves lap over my head and finally take me. Dunno why I fight ’em. My life has no dignity or purpose whatsoever. I’d kill myself, except I’d somehow get it wrong and have to carry on. And there’s nothing sadder than a failed suicide. The other day I saw this bloke on the telly being interviewed in a documentary. He’d put a shotgun under his chin but instead of killing himself he blew half his face off. Had no chin or teeth. Man, he looked silly. I mean, how can you put a gun against your head and miss all the vital bits? He’s the only bloke I’ve ever seen who had less dignity than me.’
‘You sound like you could do with a hobby,’ Marty said. ‘Something nice and simple to restore your joie de vivre.’
‘Yeah, that’d be good. It would be nice to squeeze at least one drop of pleasure out of my failed existence before I die.’
‘You’ve got your cigarettes. They give you pleasure.’
John glanced at his fag with a wry smile. ‘Well, yeah, all right, I admit I derive some enjoyment from the odd puff.’
‘You once said your idea of heaven was getting locked in a Benson and Hedges factory during shutdown.’
‘Granted, and perhaps that would enable me to forget the essential horror of the human condition for a few days. But much as I hate to admit it – and you may find this slightly incredulous – cigarettes are only a distraction. I mean, you can’t build a raft out of them and sail away into a bright new dawn full of hope and self-fulfilment, can you?’
Marty thought about it. ‘No. I guess not.’
‘I think I need something a little more… tangible, although obviously I’m still keen on the idea of smoking myself to death before I’m forty.’
‘That’s a noble ambition, John, and I believe you have the talent and determination to achieve it.’
‘Thanks, mate.’
‘You could always try keeping guinea pigs.’
John stubbed out the fag. ‘You know, sometimes I think you don’t take me seriously.’
‘Nah, guinea pigs are really interesting. They can…’ Marty scratched his head ‘…sit on your shoulder and everything.’
‘Fascinating, but do you really believe a pair of shoulder-perching guinea pigs would be adequate consolation for remaining a local government accountant until the end of my days?’
‘I’ll admit it’d be a close call, but you never know.’
‘Well, thanks for the suggestion – even if it did prove to have as much merit as all your other utterly useless suggestions. There’s just no hope.’
‘Well, what about religion? Spiritual solace? You could try and find God. Are you a believer?’
‘Course I am. Don’t you know I’m the reason that the world’s so fucked up?’
‘Yeah? And how’s that?’
‘Simple logic, my friend. God spends so much time dumping on me he hasn’t got time to sort out people starving and getting murdered and stuff. Obvious, isn’t it?’
‘I hadn’t really looked at it like that.’ Marty rubbed his chin. Supplying John with any sort of encouragement to carry on breathing was proving quite a challenge. It was time to suggest something radical. ‘What about this Rachel bird you’re seeing?’
John lit another cigarette, scraped his hair into a makeshift ponytail and secured it with an elastic band. ‘What ’bout her?’
‘Well, why not fall in love with her and live happily ever after in a cottage with roses round the door?’
John sucked on his cigarette. ‘Nah, no way.’
‘C’mon, you’ve been seeing her for what? Seven weeks? That’s a real commitment for you.’
‘I know, I know, and it’s been many a time she’s ecstatically embraced me after climbing the twinkling stairs to Johnny Love Heaven. But there’s no way I can fall in love with her.’
‘Why not?’
‘She’s got no tits.’
Marty laughed. ‘You’re ruthless.’
‘Oh, come on, Marty, you’ve seen her. I’ve got more hope of finding Lord Lucan riding Shergar and carrying the Holy Grail than discovering any trace of her funbags. She’s the most jugless bird I’ve ever met.’
‘I’ll grant you she’s not been blessed in that particular department.’
‘When I first met her, I obviously noticed she wasn’t Pamela Anderson but she had a couple of bumps. Something to play with, you know? It was only when I got her into bed that I realised she was a devotee of the padded bra.’ John shook his head sadly. ‘That’s such a low trick to play on a guy. It’s the deceit I can’t stand.’
‘You poor lamb.’
‘I did try to turn things round, you know, and give her a fair crack because I like to think I’m a magnanimous bloke.’
‘Of course you are. What’d you do?’
‘Well, I asked her to wear her school uniform, put her hair in pig tails and give her beaver a shearing so I could pretend she was ten years old. Seemed like the perfect solution. I was even thinking of branching out into photography.’
‘And she said no?’
‘Yeah, and bang went our only real chance of any lasting happiness, the selfish cow. I just don’t know how I allow these things to keep happening. I love tits. I worship them. If I had a pair myself I’d probably never go outside the house again. I’d sit in, night after night, just playing with them. I wouldn’t need TV or the Play Station or anything. I’d be happy. And yet I’m going out with a bird who gives ironing boards a bad name. I swear her chest is concave.’
‘But do you like her?’
John grunted and pulled a face. ‘Yeah, she’s not a bad sort. That’s the terrible thing.’
‘So, you’re gonna stick with her for a bit longer?’
‘Yeah, there’s nothing else on the horizon. Rachel’s quite a good laugh. Got a tasty CD collection and a couple of rare Smiths that I’m hoping to steal any day now, but there’s no way she’s the one.’ John looked at Marty and grimaced. ‘She’s not my Sarah Jane. Hey, I tell you what, I wouldn’t mind getting jiggy with that sort from last night. What do you call her? Tall Bird in Jeans?’
‘You can leave her alone. She’s…’
John grinned. ‘Aah, I get it! I saw the way you looked at her. You think she’s your Sarah Jane, don’t you?’
‘No, no I don’t. That’s not it at all.’
But John was getting into his stride. ‘I love it! You’ve finally found some Oirish bird that matches up to your absurd expectations and now you’ve gotta go to the other side of the world.’ He pulled a sad face. ‘Oh, the irony!’
‘Shut up.’
‘When’re you gonna let that Sarah Jane crap go and get it on with a real bird?’ John nudged Marty’s ribs. ‘Don’t worry, mate. I’ll keep a close eye on Tall Bird after you go. A very close eye.’
‘Yeah, very funny. Anyhow, we’re talking about you. Why don’t you bin this Rachel and do the roses-round-the-cottage-door with a bustier sort?’
‘I don’t know, Mart. I’m not sure men are meant to be faithful. I mean, if we’re really s’posed to stick with one bird why are there other birds?’
Marty laughed. ‘Yeah, that’s a good point, but you could still try to form a loving attachment to a female. Just for a change.’
‘Hark who’s bloody talking! Anyway, how can I honestly respect any woman who would sleep with the likes of me?’
‘All right. Dump Rachel and go back to that Sally.’
‘What? The one with the beaver that was so hairy I was afraid to touch it in case it growled, got up and bit me? She wanted to tie me up and piss on me.’
‘So? She likes a bit of romance.’
John raised an eyebrow. ‘Maybe. I s’pose you’ve gotta respect a bird who suggests that on a second date.’
‘So why not give her a call? She had tits, didn’t she?’
‘Yeah, hairy ones. Nah, I’ll think I’ll stick with Rachel. At least until I get those Smiths CDs.’
‘OK, so let’s see what we’ve established. You’ve no interest in your job, you’re unlikely to become a monk, guinea pigs are a non-starter, women do not offer the solution and the only thing that’s really keeping you going is cigarettes.’
‘Succinctly put, Marty. It’s abundantly clear that I’m all washed up at twenty-eight.’
‘Not really. The solution’s bloody obvious.’
‘What?’
‘You’ve gotta come with me.’
‘What? Piss off to Oz?’
‘Yep. Come with me for a few weeks or meet me over there.’
John’s mouth opened and shut. ‘But Australia’s so far away.’
‘Yeah, I know that,’ Marty said. ‘But it’s twelve thousand miles from this bloody place and that’s gotta be a good thing. In fact, you can’t get any further away, except the moon, and that would only be like moving to North Wales.’
‘But Australians are a bit… backward, aren’t they?’
‘And how do you work that out, John?’
‘Well, correct me if I’m wrong, but we just gave them the chance to get rid of that ghastly Queen woman, her friggin’ corgies and all the in-bred anachronistic shit that goes with her, and they said no. Hey, Australia, would you like to stand on your own two feet or would you rather remain tied to the apron strings of some Mother Country on the other side of the planet? I mean, it wasn’t a difficult choice and they still got it wrong. It hardly qualifies them as a mature, forward-looking nation.’
‘All right. It wasn’t the greatest choice in the history of… choices. And I’ll admit Australia isn’t quite as up-to-the-minute as Britain but it’s hardly a Third World country.’
‘Yeah, granted it’s not Mozambique but off the top of my head I can’t think of anything good about it.’
‘You fuckin’ love Nick Cave. You’ve got every CD by him.’
‘OK. Sure. He is the Voice of Doom. A tortured genius on a par with myself, I’ll give you that. But one man in what? A population of twenty million? You could kill well over nineteen and three-quarter million Aussies and the world would be none the poorer. Or probably even wiser.’
‘Australia’s got loads of other great bands. Powderfinger, You Am I, Cold Chisel, Something For Kate. It’s just they’re not known here. Australian music, like a lot of things, can be very… insular, simply because of the distances.’
‘You mean their bands are a bit shit and don’t really sell anywhere else?’
‘Nah, you’re not being fair. Plenty of Aussie bands have made it. What about… er… yeah, Men at Work? They had number ones in Oz, Britain and America. Hardly anyone manages to do that. They were huge.’
‘Yeah, sure, but you’re hardly gonna be thrilled to stumble across one of their CDs, are ya? I mean, that Down Under song. How did it go? Something ’bout coming from a land Down Under where the women blow and make thunder. What the hell’s that mean? Australian women fart a lot?’
Marty laughed. ‘Well, you’ll have to ask when you get there. Anyhow, Australians are really good at sport. You can’t argue with that.’
‘Yeah, true, but they’re good at all the wrong sports. How dull is cricket on a scale of one to ten? And so they’ve got some good swimmers who can, er, swim fast or swim for a long time. I really wanna pay my money to see that. They could combine swimming and cricket and it wouldn’t make a blind bit of difference. All right, so they can play rugger but what about Aussie Rules? I’ve seen that shit on Channel 4. It’s so rubbish they can’t even flog it to their dimwit Kiwi neighbours. Why don’t they play something half-decent, like soccer?’
‘John, you’ve gotta understand one thing about Australians and that is they’ve got short attention spans. They can’t handle the fact it’s perfectly feasible for a game of soccer to end nil-nil. They prefer games where you can rack up a hundred points without trying that hard, like cricket or Aussie Rules. They equate lots of points with interesting.’
‘Silly sods.’
Marty couldn’t quite understand how he was having difficulty winning an argument about Australia’s myriad attractions with a man who’d never been. ‘Well,’ he said after a while, ‘they’ve given us loads of other things.’
John was warming to his theme. ‘Yes, like Rolf Harris amusing the masses with his wobble board. And let’s not forget Vegemite. You ever tasted that stuff? It’s like tar from a cancerous lung. I could siphon the fluid from my lungs, slap it on a bit of toast and have my own Vegemite.’
‘It doesn’t taste that bad.’
‘Bovril pisses all over it. Bovril with Ribena pisses all over it. And what about their bloody TV? Why is so much of their shit polluting our screens? I mean, who needs Neighbours and Home and Away? It’s so feeble it makes my teeth ache. If I catch one more glimpse of that Harold Bishop, I swear I’ll kill someone. Fuckin’ pompous twat.’
‘We’ve got loads of crap telly too.’
‘I’d still like to blow up Summer Bay. No, wait. I’d like to mine the beach. And then watch all those dimwits wandering along it being blown to bits. Same goes for Ramsay Street.’
‘Most Australians feel the same way, believe me.’
‘And Prisoner! Jesus, I’d almost forgotten about that. Used to be tortured by the goddamned thing in whatever little hut I was freezing my balls off when I was doing security. Do you know they even had the cheek to turn it into a stage show and tour it over here?’
‘Yeah, me mum and dad went to see it.’
John shook his head. ‘When they leaned against the walls, the bloody things wobbled. I always remember this one scene where that fat dopey one – what was her name? Doreen, that’s it. Yeah, Doreen tried to hang herself. As they cut her down, supposedly on the brink of death, she smoothes down her dress to stop the camera seeing up it! I pissed myself. I mean, I’m all for peering up the skirts of unconscious women but even I draw the line somewhere.’
‘So there is a ceiling to your filth?’
John put his hand on Marty’s arm. ‘Hey, Australian women don’t all look like that Prisoner bunch, do they?’
‘Nah, don’t be soft! Just think of Kylie or those birds from Sirens.’
‘Yeah, course. Guess I was being a bit silly. I just panicked at the prospect of going so far to perve on a bunch of butch women in dungarees who do nothing but stand around folding sheets in laundries and bitch about who’s lagged.’
‘Nah, it’s not like that at all. If anything, I’d say Australian women are better looking. It’s got something to do with the amount of sun they get. It must cause certain parts of their bodies to develop to a juicier ripeness. And, of course, what with it being warmer, they’re obliged to reveal their curves at more frequent intervals.’
‘Oh, gawd, I’m not sure I could cope. When I’m driving and I see a bird in a skimpy top, I almost crash the car. I’m virtually on the pavement mowing down pensioners before I even know what’s happened. Hey, with all that sunshine encouraging female development, perhaps I should take Rachel. I could stake her out naked in the sun for a couple of weeks. Put your intriguing theory to the test.’
‘Yeah, you could give it a go. So, er, you’re thinking of coming?’
‘Well, I didn’t say that. You haven’t convinced me of the merit of gracing Australia with my presence just yet. Now where were we? I’ve lost the thread of the conversation with all this talk about juicy tits. Oh yeah, Aussie TV. So, you’re trying to say it’s not as crap as I think?’
Marty thought about it. ‘Well, yeah, actually it’s a complete pile of pants.’
John laughed. ‘I knew I was right. And I didn’t even mention all the other shit I’ve come across.’
‘Yeah, but you’re picking really soft targets. Neighbours, Prisoner. It’s not fair. What about…?’ Marty scratched his chin before his face brightened. ‘Bon Scott.’
‘OK, I’ll give you that one. He made some great music, drank shit loads, was possibly possessed by the devil and died alone in a car. An admirable role model by anybody’s standards.’
‘Maybe we could go and see his grave. He was a Fremantle boy as I remember. Yeah, Freo. We could get pissed in his honour.’
‘All right. So we’ve got Nick Cave and Bon Scott, two Aussies who, despite their undoubted talents, cannot erase the lingering bad taste created by one Harold Bishop. And Bon Scott was born in Scotland. On balance I reckon that’s only one and a half Aussies in a population of twenty million who’ve made some sort of worthwhile contribution to the world. Australia is clearly not a cool place.’
‘Oh, come on, John, we live in fuckin’ Wales. What’s our contribution? Our soccer team hasn’t qualified for the World Cup since 1958. Our rugger team exemplifies mediocrity while having a groovy national anthem and a nice new stadium won’t bring back the glory days of the 1970s. The last time I was in Oz a good half of the bastards didn’t even know where Wales was. Most of ’em thought it was in England. If you ask ’em to name a famous Welsh person do you know who they come up with most of the time?’
‘Be fair, Marty, I can barely think of any famous Welsh people and I live here.’
‘Well, I’ll tell you. Tom Jones, mate. Tom fuckin’ Jones. He’s our most visible face, the flag bearer for our mighty nation.’
‘God, that’s depressing.’
‘Yeah, I know. It’s part of the reason why I don’t have a nationalistic bone in my body. I turned on the radio the other day and heard that Catatonia song, the one with the line about waking up every day and thanking the Lord you’re Welsh. Well, I just fuckin’ laughed. I looked out the window and it was pissing down with rain for the third day in a row, the traffic was banked right up the street and I couldn’t stop laughing. How can anyone be proud of being Welsh? It’s shite. Wales is shite. A fucking grey depressing dump that I’m happy to turn my back on.’
‘Steady on, old boy, I’ve gotta carry on living here after you’ve gone, remember.’
‘Then fuckin’ move as well! You know, I was sitting in the town centre last Saturday watching people. And there was no spark in their eyes. None at all. They were just going through the motions like some bunch of jaded porno actors. As a people we’ve got no sense of national identity and an obscure language that’s dying on its feet. We’ve got a system of government that only a quarter of us wanted, shitty soulless towns and clogged-up roads, no film industry, out of work miners and weather that would piss off a polar bear. Our national symbol is a leek for God’s sake. A fuckin’ vegetable and a poor man’s onion at that. Doesn’t that say it all?’
John took out a tissue and blew his nose. ‘Yeah, but apart from that, it’s a top place, eh?’
Marty laughed. ‘All right, I’m off my soapbox. It’s just… I honestly believe there are better places to live your life than Wales. Australia isn’t paradise but I’m telling you, John, people are… happier. You get up in the morning and the sun’s shining. Everything’s cheaper, cleaner, prettier, safer. There’s just less things to piss you off. I wanna bit of that, that’s all. I wanna be… happy.’ Marty shook his head. ‘Happier, anyway.’
‘Sounds like you’ve convinced yourself but I’ve got no idea how to be happy. I’m British, an integral part of which is being as miserable as sin.’
‘Well, it’s time to try and change that. I can’t take Wales anymore. Haven’t you ever travelled, John?’
‘Only that time I went to Ibiza with Wasp. Five days on the piss, alcohol poisoning and the last two days in hospital.’ He shrugged. ‘It was great.’
‘That’s not travelling, John. That’s just drinking yourself stupid in another place. Travelling’s not about that.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘Nah, it’s about meeting people, tasting other cultures, doing different things, understanding a bit about how big and varied the world is.’
‘You big lettuce.’
‘Fuckin’ hell, you’re hard work!’
‘Give me something I can work with then.’
‘All right, Aussie birds like our accents.’
‘That’s better.’ John touched his bruise and winced. ‘Last time you went to that Ayers Rock, didn’t you?’
‘Yeah.’
‘So, that’s the sort of things you travellers do?’
‘It’s part of it, I s’pose.’
‘Well, I’ve seen pictures of that rock and I don’t get it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, it’s just this bloody big boulder in the middle of nowhere. What’s the point of going all that way to see it?’
‘Look, it’s hard to explain, but believe me, it’s worth seeing. Hundreds of thousands of people can’t be wrong. It’s not like they’ve fallen for some touristy con.’
‘Not convinced. I mean, this Ayers Rock, can you smoke it? Will it get you drunk? If you’re really nice to it, will it sit on your face?’
Marty shook his head, sensing defeat. ‘No, John, it won’t do any of those things.’
‘Hmm…’
‘All right, fuck Ayers Rock. It’s obviously over-rated. But getting out of this place might just be the answer for you too. Change of scene and all that.’
John looked pained. ‘The darkness of the soul cannot be lighted by transporting the body to a different place.’
‘Maybe, you pretentious twat, but it can’t do any harm to find out, can it? Anyhow, you’re like me. You hate Newport. You once said that if Newport had a museum which truly reflected its character it would be full of mangy pigeons, piss-stained beggars and some poor out-of-town bloke with a broken beer bottle rammed in his face.’
‘Don’t,’ John said, indicating The Wave, ‘forget totally crap public sculptures.’
‘Exactly. Newport’s like a big version of sick building syndrome for both of us.’
John nodded but carried on doing his level best to throw a spanner in the works. ‘But coming with you would involve getting off my arse and that goes squarely against everything I believe in. You know full well I’m much more comfortable being a miserable bastard stumbling around in the wasteland of my life, don’t you?’
‘I know, John, and that’s really sweet, but it’s time for a change. Are you gonna come?’
‘You’ll have to do better than that Ayers Rock shit.’
‘It’ll be a chance to get away from Wasp.’
‘Hmm, better. But still not good enough.’
‘Cigarettes are cheaper.’
‘OK, I’m in.’
****
‘Are you going to tell me where you were last night?’
Wasp sighed and did his best to ignore Judy as he worked through a bowl of mushy cornflakes. She’d already asked that question at least five times.
‘I’m talking to you!’
Wasp looked up at his wife as she stood in the kitchen holding a bundle of washing. He was hung over and neither Marty nor John had said a word to him upon their release from Newport Central Police Station an hour ago. He could do without grief from Judy as well.
‘I told you where I was. It was Marty’s work leaving do and I had a few too many beers. I crashed at his place on the sofa.’
Judy stuffed the clothes into the washing machine and banged the door shut. ‘Then why don’t I believe you?’
‘I don’t know. It’s not exactly unusual for me to kip over at the boys’ house. I did use to live there, remember.’
‘I just know you’re not telling me the truth.’
‘Ah, give me a break, woman! I’ve got a fuckin’ headache!’
‘Don’t you swear at me!’
Wasp let it go as he returned to his cornflakes. He had no saliva in his mouth.
‘And what are those marks on your wrists? Don’t think I haven’t seen them.’
He pulled his sleeves down. The handcuffs had really bitten into his skin. He must have struggled hard, dimly realising how lucky he’d been to escape without charge. From past experience, he knew Judy would not have appreciated another court appearance for fighting.
‘The boys thought it would be a laugh to tie me up and drag me round a bit,’ he mumbled. ‘Told you I was pissed. They were just messin’ about.’
Judy snorted before she started loading the dishwasher in the same agitated manner as the washing machine. ‘I’ll find out the truth, you know. I always do.’
Do you fuck, Wasp thought, although he hid his smirk. ‘That is the truth.’
‘You’re lying.’
‘I am not lying.’
‘Yes, you are. Your lips are moving.’
‘Ha, ha, very funny.’
‘So, you think it’s acceptable behaviour for a grown man to be tied up and dragged around by his friends?’
Wasp gave up on his cornflakes, pushing the bowl away. Judy had never taken to John and Marty, especially since being woken at four in the morning to come downstairs to find the three of them stoned and laughing hysterically as they played Ker-Plunk on the kitchen floor. Matters weren’t helped when she then discovered someone had pissed into the laundry basket instead of the nearby toilet.
‘It’s not that big a deal.’
‘Men! You’re such babies! When are you going to grow up? You’re a married man now. A father. You have responsibilities. You can’t carry on pretending you’re still nineteen years old.’
‘Don’t tell me about my responsibilities! I work bloody hard. There’s always food on the table, isn’t there, and clothes on Mandy’s back? You never go without either! So don’t have a pop at me just because I took a few hours off to be with my mates.’
‘But they’re such stupid mates. Bloody idiots, the pair of ’em, and when you’re with them you’re no better. I’m telling you, no good’ll come of it.’
‘Just shut up.’
Judy turned away as Mandy sleepily padded barefoot into the room. Wasp was grateful for her entrance until he noticed she was wearing a T-shirt that barely covered her thighs. She was also developing a pair of breasts that were decidedly pert compared to her mother’s thirty-two-year-old ones.
‘You two rowing again?’
Neither of them answered as she went to the fridge and poured a glass of orange juice. Wasp rubbed his temples as Judy carried on loading the dishwasher.
‘Mand, can you get me a glass too?’ His twelve-year-old stepdaughter turned and pulled a face before opening the fridge door again. She brought the glass over. ‘Thanks, babe.’ He paused. ‘Honey, would you mind wearing a few more clothes when you wander round the house? You’re not a little girl anymore, you know.’
She gave a sly grin as she stood nearby. ‘Sure, dad. Your juice nice?’
‘Yeah, it’s fine. Thank you.’
‘OK.’ She smiled again. ‘Anything you want me to do for you today?’
Alarm bells tripped in his head as he downed half his juice. ‘I can’t think of anything. Just be nice to your mum.’
She nodded before taking her juice over to Kitty, who was sprawled on top of a coffee table. The cat half-heartedly stretched its paws, prompting Mandy to yawn, roll her neck and stretch her hands above her head. The movement caused her T-shirt to rise up, forcing Wasp to look away as he glimpsed the backs of her thighs. She turned after rubbing Kitty and he gulped down the rest of his juice.
‘Dad…’
He was well used to that tone. She wanted something. ‘If this is about that party tonight, my answer hasn’t changed.’
‘Oh, come on, dad.’
‘No, you’re too young.’
‘But Sonya’s going.’
‘So?’
‘Well, if she can go, why can’t I? She’s younger than me. By six months.’
‘Darling, you can go in a couple of years.’
‘The party’ll be over by then.’
‘Yes, I know,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘I mean you can go to as many parties as you like when you’re a bit older. You’re just too young at the moment.’
‘But I won’t have any friends left in a couple of years! They’ll have written me off as a complete square.’
Wasp sighed. His hangover wasn’t getting any better. Had she forgotten the CD player he’d bought her two weeks ago? He’d finally given in – to the tune of four hundred quid – after she’d shown no signs of letting up that she was too embarrassed to have her friends round to listen to music in her bedroom because her stereo was ‘way too daggy.’
Mind you, he’d be happy for her to spend more time in the house because the alternative of her going to parties and getting pawed by boys was just too much. He honestly believed he would pull the arms off the first boy he caught kissing her. Wasp was having great difficulty overseeing her transformation into a woman. Two years ago she’d still been his little girl, following him around like a puppy dog and insisting on having a piggyback up the stairs before being tucked in at night. He didn’t want another woman in the house. He had enough difficulty coping with Judy.
Mandy took a step closer. ‘Honest, dad, my friends already think I’m a prisoner.’
‘You’re exaggerating.’
‘I am not! You wouldn’t let me go to Kylie’s party and now you won’t let me got to Debbie’s! I wanna know why not.’
Wasp banged his fist on the table, causing Kitty to bolt out of the room. ‘Bloody hell, girl! Can’t you see I’m tired?’
Judy shut the dishwasher door and stepped into the argument. ‘Don’t you talk to Mandy like that! I won’t have you swearing in front of her!’
Christ, Wasp thought, they’re ganging up on me now. ‘I only said ‘bloody.’ She hears worse far worse in school. You can’t wrap kids in cotton wool these days.’
‘I know that, but when are you going to understand you’re her dad and it’s important you set the right example. That’s why I don’t like you staying out all night, coming home still drunk with funny marks on your body and swearing at my child.’
Mandy stamped her foot. ‘I am not a child!’
‘Yes, you bloody are!’ Judy snapped.
Mandy’s mouth dropped open.
‘Honey…’ Judy began, tentatively reaching out to her daughter.
‘None of you understand me!’ Mandy cried, running up the stairs and slamming her bedroom door shut.
Judy closed her eyes and exhaled slowly as Wasp allowed himself the luxury of a slight smile. ‘You shouldn’t swear at Mandy, dear. It sets a bad example.’
‘Just shut the fuck up!’ Judy slammed the kitchen door.
Wasp smirked again but knew he’d regret being a smartarse. She was withholding sex for some reason and he felt sure his swollen gonads would burst if he had to endure another week without any proper loving. He wondered if it was connected to his delay in putting up some bookshelves in the spare room.
He sighed, realising he could do with a break. He’d been working bloody hard building his electrical contracting business up and hadn’t let on to Judy how close he’d come to going under. He was just feeling like he’d turned the corner and could really do with some appreciation at home, but these days she never failed to find an opportunity to bust his balls. In the front room Linda started wailing, prompting him to put his throbbing head in his hands. Bloody women, he thought as he got up to change her nappy.
He finished seeing to Linda and swallowed four aspirin. He lay face down on the bed indulging his favourite fantasy about Sophie, a teenage bird he’d shagged a couple of years ago at a party. She’d padded toward him in a figure-hugging black dress, giggling as he’d pulled it up to reveal a white G-string. He’d peeled it down her shapely tanned legs. Then she’d sat on his lap and tilted her head back as he kissed her flushed throat. His fingers had gently explored between her thighs before dipping into her sweet wetness.
Wasp smiled and drifted off to sleep, loving the bed’s soft feel after a bloody uncomfortable night in a police cell.
Chapter Three
Wasp Boy woke from a Sunday afternoon nap feeling surprisingly refreshed. He wandered downstairs for a drink and, not relishing the company of a sulky daughter and a pissed-off wife, decided to go for a workout. He hopped into the car and drove to the gym, where he managed to run for half an hour and kick the shit out of a punch bag. Still not fancying a return to Mandy or Judy, he headed straight for Rubsville.