Thursday – Jackson Part One
Jackson woke and slid from his bed. Bitch was still sleeping. She could stay there. Better to not hear her bitching voice this early in the morning. Breakfast, comb through the beard thirty times, wax on the scalp and out to the van. He squeezed behind the wheel, head brushing the roof and huge hands gripping the wheel.
Busy day. He checked himself in the rear view. Beard looked good, eyes not so much. He’d been drinking too much. Anything to block out the bitch moaning and whining at him every night. He had red bits around his dark irises, blood vessels that burst and spilled into the whites. He sniffed, hawked and spat out the window. It struck the dust of the yard and rolled into a tiny dust-covered ball.
Shit game last night. Not one good player on the pitch. They fired the managers but it was the players getting the money to be shit every week. He spat again and pulled out of the yard to the road, yellow dust following in the van’s wake.
He prodded his nose as he waited to pull out at the lights. Bitch had hit him a few weeks back and he was beginning to think she’d broken it. Not the first time, which was why it was so difficult to be sure. But it moved differently and felt even more spread out than usual.
He pulled out, giving the finger to the guy beeping him and headed into town. He’d park up at Pavan’s and the guy could like it. Too much to do to worry about the wardens. Far too bloody much to do. They were coming in tonight.
He bit his lip, the only sign he’d ever give he was worried. Worried was too strong a word for it. He wasn’t worried about shit, ‘cept maybe bitch sleeping around. She was too, no doubt. But still, it bore thinking about. Two years and seven months and now they were coming to visit. Why?
He’d ask them when they got here and if they couldn’t give him an answer, he’d find someone else to sell to. There were plenty who wanted ‘em. Hell, they were queuing up at the door. He stopped at the lights and checked the back. Ropes all present and correct.
He reached Pavan’s without any of the wankers on the road driving into him. Always a bloody miracle, considering how many there were these days. He parked up and went for a walk. He strolled down to Embankment, checking out the tourists, watching for the weak spots.
There were a couple of girls, young, bag straps over both shoulders. He approached them with a warm smile but they hurried away. Too old anyway. He kept moving, watching, waiting. He headed for the South Bank. There were school trips there sometimes, but today it was empty. He did spot a couple of homeless kids, familiar territory. One was a young boy, long lanky black hair. The other was a girl, older than the boy and pretty in a skinny sort of way. Bob hair cut and thin lips. He headed over but they spotted him and moved on quick enough.
It was fine. This was window shopping. He stomped over the Millennium bridge and strolled back toward Embankment. Most of the way there when he smelled them. They took him back and he stopped dead, eyes watering. For a moment he was in mam’s garden, surrounded by rose bushes, watching her bustle about. She looked down and smiled at him and he opened his mouth. His breath came in short gasps and he placed one hand against his heart. Why did it hurt so bad? The smell faded and some semblance of reality returned. He stared at mam until the rot appeared and she faded away.
He sneered and wandered over to the flower seller. The flowers were impressive. Mam would have loved them. He resisted the urge to buy them all and toss ‘em in the river.
‘Nice stall.’
‘Thank you, sir, perhaps I can interest you in something?’
He was taking the piss. What was it with that stupid voice? ‘I ain’t buying no flowers.’
‘Perhaps for a lady friend? Ladies always love to be given flowers.’
‘Don’t know no ladies.’
‘I see.’
The flower seller looked down at his feet. He was a weird one, skin all messed up like he’d been burned or something. Jackson blinked and the skin was back to normal.
‘How about one red rose then? The bitches love a red rose.’
He balled his hands into fists and leaned over the table between the flowers. ‘You taking the piss?’
‘Not at all, sir, merely meeting you in a place I thought you’d be comfortable.’
‘I ain’t never gonna be comfortable round a poofter like you, get it?’
‘Absolutely, sir. I can offer you a sample. Here, take the rose for free, please.’
Jackson looked at the flower held out to him and the scent caught his nose and trapped it. He could see mam, he could almost hear her. With a growl he lashed out and smashed the head of the rose, sending the petals flying. He stomped away, not wanting to look the flower seller in the eye and not sure why.
He got a few paces before he stopped and checked himself. He always looked people in the eye. He turned, hands shaking from being clenched so hard and approached the man. He stood where he’d left him, the empty rose stem still clutched in his hand. As Jackson approached, he raised his head and their eyes met.
‘That was unnecessary.’
‘Screw you, offering me a rose.’
‘What is so bad about offering you a rose?’
‘What the heck? You think I’m a poofter or summink?’
‘I merely thought you might like something to give your woman when you got home. I’m sure you have one, you carry yourself like a man used to getting what he wants.’
‘Damn right. Why would I want to give her anything?’
‘Not to put too fine a point on it, to keep her sweet. Sometimes it’s easier to stroke than keep clear of the claws.’
What the hell was he talking about? He was right though, she wouldn’t… he glanced at his watch and swore. They would be here in a few minutes and he was too far away. What the hell had he been thinking? And where had the bloody time gone?
He dashed down Embankment, leaving the roses on the stall.
Interlude
The flower seller watched him go, satisfied with the smear of water and rose petal on the back of Jackson’s hand. It didn’t count as receiving, not strictly, but it would do.
That was lazy. But if these were the only tools they gave him, what did they expect? He could probably have tried harder, but he’d tried and that’s what counted. He turned back to the stall and started to pack up. There was work still to be done.
He tried to keep the smile from his face, but he couldn’t help cracking a grin. What a singularly unpleasant man. His list entry had made it quite clear how nasty a piece of work he was, but he was all that and more in the flesh.
He felt it, his old life, at times like this. It had been centuries, but he couldn’t help remembering the old thrill when an opportunity arose. It was, he thought, the creative part of himself, stifled from his time in the Flights. They didn’t appreciate creativity in the Dome. They appreciated numbers and results.
Well, he could have both. He opened his jacket and one by one placed the bunches of flowers inside, where they vanished. He whistled quietly to himself as he worked.
Next Installment Thursday 3rd July
