31 Falkner Street (5)

Chapter 5

Someone at the door.

It was a woman I had seen before, from number 2. I had seen her before only through Laura’s bedroom window once at about 7am. We had heard shouting out on the street and Laura had called me from my room to ‘come and see’. Ghoulish of us? I just managed to catch the end of the row, this woman who was standing in front of me now, bringing her hairdryer down hard on top of her partner’s head and blood running down his face. They had both been standing in the road for whatever reason and he wasn’t knocked out or anything, more irritated than anything. Can’t say I blamed him really.

Now she was at my front door and asking for 40p. She really looked quite young up close, only in her late 20’s. And she seemed to be much calmer and softer than previous times I had seen her, which wouldn’t be difficult to achieve, I know. I only had slummy but gave her it, I couldn’t figure out why she would need 40p exactly. I said
‘You look all dressed up, are you off out?’ She was wearing the shortest dress in the world, one several years out of fashion, with trainers and a headband.
‘I’m just going out on the game’ She replied casually. ‘That wanker won’t give me any money.’ With that she strolled off equally as casually down the road.

*

Bailiff style knock. Jo’s red face and enraged expression at the front door.

‘Come and have a drink.’ Gesturing to her front door. I didn’t feel like it, I’d had enough the night before at hers. Laura said no and David was out with his nu-rave friends, possibly raving. I didn’t want to be on my own with Jo, I found her very intimidating and could feel myself pretending to lap up everything she said, laughing at her jokes to keep her happy and on side. But I had clearly been able to hear her screaming at somebody through the walls so I was guessing that at least one other person was there.

‘Ok. Hang on. I’ve got a bottle of wine somewhere.’
‘Hurry the fuck up then. We’re singing.’

Turns out ‘we’re singing’, which had baffled me no end, had literally meant that they were sitting on Jo’s couches, all squashed up and having a sing song. Jo was singing Patsy Klein with her eyes closed and with a Southern American twang. She had the ‘best’ seat, the end of the couch by the door which reclined, and her stumpy feet were stuck in the air. The front door was wide open and she was shouting to anyone walking past. She had a glass of vodka and orange which I had seen her pour and had noticed that it was three quarters Vodka to one quarter orange.

Jo bullied Paddy into standing up in the middle of the room and singing, and got out her mobile phone to film him doing so. He was singing Michael Buble, suprisingly, and his voice was lovely. You know, one of those people who just have a brilliant singing voice, and you’re inclined to say ‘oh, sing again’ or ‘sing such and such a song, please!’ Jo was pretending to play the drums throughout the song and was shouting ‘go on lad!’

What was he doing here? Young, good looking and obviously with a bit of talent. And here he was on this street, drinking himself downhill and involving himself in god knew what. Jo didn’t even seem to like him going to work as a barman in town. As I said, he was her favourite and she wanted him to be there all the time, sitting next to her.

*

My text message inbox:
’13.57 JO: Did you hear the police horses just go past?’
’14.30 JO: Pricks woke me up!’
’14.40 JO: Comen for a drink?’
’14.43 JO: Dont b a prick. Got wine here for yas’