Riot Read online

  “Whaddya reckon Pavel?” I say. “Start off with kicks to the teeth?”

  And I mean it.

  “I don’t give a fuck,” says Pavel. “As long as there’s a fight.”

  But there isn’t. Coz Sasha doesn’t show.

  I look at Pavel.

  “How’s about me and you then?” I say. “Let’s give the fuckers what they want.”

  My eyes are like saucers.

  Pavel shits himself and shuffles off.

  We’re piling out through the turnstiles, me, Viv and Ollie. There must be a couple of hundred of us altogether. Enough for the doddery fuck stewards to shit themselves and open the gates. Straight round the away end we are. Shouting and singing. Throwing stones and bottles. The coppers are ready for us. Coming at us in a line. Fuck this. We double back towards town. The biggest buzz I’ve had for ages, this is. Good to be back.

  I’ve started playing golf. Found some clubs in the garage in an old black leather bag and took ‘em up the rec field. Me and Ollie, hitting wedges and nine irons to the bypass fence and when we catch one it goes sailing over. There’re four lanes of traffic down there. This one time, Ollie’s ball lands smack-bang in the middle of the tarmac and rockets up like it’s on steroids; funny as fuck. But no matter how much fun I’m having, I can’t stop thinking about Andy Long.

  I’m walking from my Business Management lecture in the mobiles and Tracey gets hold of my arm.

  “Andy’s after you and Viv,” she says.

  And I just keep walking. I don’t wanna hear this. I know about Andy Long and I don’t wanna hear it. I’ve got time for Tracey and she looks scared as fuck, but I just wanna keep on walking. I push past her. But I know it’s not gonna go away.

  I’ve said it before. She’s nice, Tracey. But she needs to sort her arse out. Don’t get me wrong, she can shag who she pleases, but Andy fuckin’ Long?

  What sees Andy gunning for mine and Viv’s arse is a pretty straight forward cluster fuck on our part. Viv needs the love of a good woman and asks me to sound Tracey out about a renewing of their vows. I wouldn’t have gone near if I’d have known about Andy. Neither of us would.

  A couple of days later, we’re coming back from the shop, me and Viv, pissing about like normal. But as we drop down toward the Old Mill, some twat in a dark grey Peugeot 205 rags it up the hill and swerves at us. We laugh about it, like, but it was too close for comfort that. Just another couple of inches and we’d’ve been fucked; mashed up against the big stone wall that runs along the railway. I nearly shat the bed in all honesty. As the adrenalin’s starting to subside, this Peugeot boots it past us in the opposite direction, back towards college. When we get there, it’s parked-up in the middle of the triangle with its front doors open and some dick leaning up against it, arm on the roof like he’s in Miami Vice.

  “It’s a Peugeot,” Viv shouts. “Not a fuckin’ Porsche.”

  But now we’re closer, we see that he should have kept his mouth shut. I’ve never laid eyes on him before, but I’ve heard enough about him to know this is Andy Long. He’s a big, tall, lanky twat, believe it or not, with a pea for a head. And he’s coming over, along with two other lads that unfold themselves from the back seat like two Dobermans getting out of a Jack Russell’s kennel.

  Me and Viv bow our heads and put a spurt on, heading for the college reception. But as we get to the library railings, Andy and his two helpers step across us. There’s a crowd now. Close up, these three lads are big; early- to mid-twenties, I’m guessing.

  “Who’s Viv?” says Andy.

  “Me,” says Viv.

  And there’s a quick scuffle of feet as Andy grabs Viv’s coat, then a sick slappy thud as he brings his head down on Viv’s nose.

  “‘Ave him, Viv,” someone shouts.

  But we all know the score. Andy’s from the estate, and if you fuck with him, you fuck with them all. So Viv just stands there, hands over his nose like he’s praying, blood pissing through his fingers.

  “You Jonesy?” Andy says to me.

  “Yes.”

  And he swings a big dirty-white Reebok at my bollocks.

  Looking out for that dark grey shit-heap of a car becomes an obsession for me and Viv. Paranoid we are, but not for nothing, coz it’s everywhere. You can hear the wahh, wahh, wahh of its bore-holed exhaust pipe from all the way up by the Smithy corner as Andy Long rags it here. Sends shivers down my spine, the sound does.

  Despite our vigilance, Andy manages to get hold of us another three times over the next fortnight. Twice he parks the Peugeot round the back and waits ‘til me and Viv are on the triangle. Both times he hits Viv in the jaw. Soft enough so that it doesn’t break, hard enough so that it feels like it did. Both times, he hits me in the stomach. The second time I’m ready for it, so that I don’t cough and puke in front of everyone again.

  The third time he has a crack is in Cardiff Leisure Centre, which backs onto the estate. We’ve had an inter-college sports thing going on. When it’s done, me and Viv get down to the changing room late coz we’ve been playing on the Simpsons machine in the foyer. Every fucker goes quiet when we come in.

  “They’ve been in here, looking for you,” says Ollie. “Got Evsie by the throat coz he didn’t know where you were.”

  And my heart drops through my arse.

  We shower and change and leg it up the stairs. Out onto the concrete underpass by the Co-op where Jon Dodd’s told us to wait for him. But he’s nowhere to be seen. Come on, Doddi, for fuck’s sake. We’re all just keeping out of the rain, shuffling about, kicking fag butts. Like sitting ducks in Andy Long’s back yard, we are. And, quelle-surprise, here comes the Peugeot.

  He boots it into the car park, Andy does, and pulls this big broadside on the wet concrete. Then he gets out with a golf club in his hand and walks over. He sets up right in front of us like Tiger fuckin’ Woods, pinching his trackie bottoms off his scrawny thighs, shuffling his shoulders. He pulls the club back, swings it through and shields his eyes from an imaginary sun.

  “Bob-on drive,” he says, as his two henchmen climb out of the car. “Fancy a game anyone?”

  “Fuck me,” says Ollie. “It’s the caddies.”

  But Andy doesn’t find it funny.

  “Come on then, cunts,” he shouts, eyes wide. And he holds the club in two hands like a baseball bat. “Who wants it?”

  He’s swinging it back and to, back and to, like he’s Darth Vader.

  And fuck me, here comes Jon Dodd in the old transit bus, lurching round the corner. Andy clocks us looking and turns just as Doddi’s pulling up behind him. He knows the score, Doddi does. He grew up round here. He’s out of the bus like a flash, coming at Andy. Then he catches himself and pulls up short. But he’s got the adrenalin pumping now. He’s near enough bouncing.

  “What the hell you doing, lad,” he shouts at Andy. “Put that club down before I wrap it round your neck for you.”

  He’s only a little fucker, Doddi, but we’ve all heard the stories. You can tell from the way he handles himself that he’s seen it all before: scared of fuck all, he is.

  Andy, on the other hand, is shitting bricks. It’s like his whole long, wiry frame’s lost six inches. He knows Doddi, too; been taught by him, more than likely. His two pals are back to the car, faces like smacked arses.

  “What you doing, lad?” Doddi says. “Intimidating lads half your age?”

  And he grabs the club from Andy and snaps it over his knee.

  “Pick on someone your own size, lad,” Doddi says, tossing the club at Andy’s feet. “Get in the bus, lads.”

  Andy picks up the club and we get in.

  “Fuck off, Doddi,” he shouts as we pull off, and he throws part of the club at the bus. Doddi’s seen his arse and hammers the brakes.

  “You as stupid as you look lad?” he shouts through his window.

&nb
sp; But Andy’s off, giving it legs. Andy Long is legging it, his two mates standing by the Peugeot, red as fuck. We’re pissing ourselves in the bus. Ollie sticks his head out the window and wolf whistles, loud as fuck.

  “Stick a sand wedge up your arse, Andy Long,” he shouts. “Club head first.”

  You’ve gotta think about all this objectively. Me ‘n’ Viv are 18 going on 19, been kept back coz we fucked up our exams. Viv dropping his head on some poor fucker’s nose or Andy Long swinging his foot at someone’s nuts is just the physical equivalent of trying to get what we’re all after – a bit of security, social mobility, peace and fuckin’ quiet. They’re no worse than the tossers in Cardiff, or London and New York come to that. In their glass office-blocks with their insurance this and finance that. They just do it with their minds instead of their fists. Us lot are better, in many ways, coz we don’t have the choices. It’s not premeditated. We just react, live on our wits, get by as best we can.

  The first time I go down on Angharad, it takes me days to get over the buzz. I keep getting this thrill whenever I bring it into my brain. It’s like something out of one of the films my dad hides at the back of the airing cupboard.

  Tonight, my mam and dad are down the Plas Y Dderwen with the choir lot, so me and Angharad are having Saturday night in front of the telly. We’re watching ‘Eight out of Ten Cats’ and Jimmy Carr’s getting on our tits with his nasal droning. So we start necking, first on the settee, then I initiate our usual slump off onto the carpet. Angharad’s on her back and I’m on top, nuzzling her ear and her neck. I pull her jumper and bra up so her little white and blue-veined tits are out.

  I make my way down. I know I’m never gonna get there. I’ll bottle it, or more than likely she’ll have an epi when she realises what I’m trying to do.

  Never heard anyone even mention cunnilingus round here. That’s the problem with this place, no one has any imagination. I know Viv’s shagging here, there and everywhere, but as far as I can tell, all he does is get pissed, pull up some bird’s skirt behind Cardiff library or some other beauty spot and stick it in. All over before either of them realises what’s happened. I’m not saying my mam and dad’s lounge carpet wins any awards in the romance stakes, but at least it’s warm and what me and Angharad do lasts a bit longer than a shot of Archers down Royal’s on Friday night. The only story of indoor sex I’ve heard of round here was the one about Adam Stacks in the year above and Ollie’s sister Big Rach. At it for three hours one Sunday night after getting back from a disco down The Grapes. Adam had her every which way. But could he shoot his load? She ends up turfing him out onto the estate with his limp tail between his legs at three in the morning.

  “No one’s ever not come with me,” Adam reckons she sobbed.

  Next morning, so Ollie says, him and Rach were eating breakfast in front of the TV and she asks him whether he’s ever not come when he’s been shagging a girl. And if he has not come, was it because he didn’t fancy her. Ollie says he spat a mouth full of cereal all over the carpet. But not because Rachel’s only 13. The reason he splattered his mam’s lounge mat with milk was because he’d clocked his nana listening at the kitchen doorway.

  “You’ve got a filthy mind for a girl your age, you have Rachel,” Ollie’s nana said. “Fuckin’ filthy.”

  I’m predicting that Angharad’s gonna kick my arse when she realises I’m trying to go down on her. Might even finish with me. Fuck it, though. I leave the fine fuzz of her neck hair behind and drop onto the flat of her chest between her tits. Then onto her big nipples, one at a time. Down to her dappled pink, wobbly stomach. This is good enough, I’m thinking. I’m kissing and licking her belly button. Down a bit more to the faint black line of her pube trail. I get to the top of her jeans. All white and pinky-red creases where they’ve pinched. I pull on them and her white knickers come down an inch or so too. I can see the top of her black bush and I run my tongue over it; pull on it with my lips so it makes her skin go pimply.

  Fuck me, she’s not batting an eyelid. My heart’s booming. She must know what I’m doing. I’m unbuckling her belt and pulling her jeans down over her big wide hips. She even lifts her arse for me. It feels like my cock’s gonna burst. I hook my thumbs around the elastic of her pants as I bring her jeans down and the glossy black curls of her bush spring up. She lets me pull each leg out of her jeans and her pants.

  It’s just Angharad in front of me (and Jimmy Carr, the cunt) with her little black ankle socks on and her white top and white bra rucked up around her neck. There’s a pale expanse of tits and soft belly and wide thighs and a black mound of bush that I kiss and breathe in. I put my tongue in her and her legs open. I take the little bubble nub of her clit between my teeth and tongue and suck it and roll it. Her back’s arching off the carpet and her clit’s pulsing on my tongue. Pulse, pulse, pulse, it goes, ‘til after a bit she sinks back onto the carpet.

  There’re different levels of hardness. There’re the mad cunts like Munster from Ponti who’ll grab anything within arm’s length and use it on you until you’re lying in a pool of your own blood and piss. They’re not much to look at. Munster must be five-five and seven stone. But they’ve got this look that tells you they don’t give a flying fuck; wouldn’t care if they got banged-up so long as they fuck you up first. But if you fight back, you can drop the little fuckers with one or two punches. Bang, bang and they’re gone, eyes to the top of their heads, tongue lolling like a Labrador. But then there’re the likes of Ferg. They’re the ones you’ve gotta watch. Just as happy to kick off as the mad fuckers, less likely to grab a length of piping or half a brick. But ten times as hard to stop.

  I’m on the bench under the trees, down by the triangle: the gathering place for early arrivals. I get a lift with my dad every morning, so I’m here by twenty past eight. It’d only take me ten or fifteen minutes to walk it, tops. I could have another half hour in bed. But here I am. The reason being that I’ve gotta get here early to give myself a chance to stay ahead. If I’ve had my hair cut or got a new pair of trainers, say, even if I’ve got a new bag, I need to see people’s reactions early on, tune in. If the first two or three to arrive are taking the piss, I’m prepared. I know how the day’s gonna pan out. I can get my answers ready. Get in there first.

  There’s nothing worse than a whole atom bomb of a piss-take erupting round your ears without having any idea of what or why. Everyone in on it apart from you. Like the time Chrissie Green comes in wearing these patent black winkle pickers with buckles. I didn’t think they were too bad, myself. Nothing ever is. But Viv clocks them and reckons they make Chrissie look like a pervert. By dinner time, everyone, including me, is giving Chrissie this big wolf whistle followed by “Pervert about” said out the corner of your mouth. This goes on for days, this does. Looks like it might even stick for a while and Chrissie doesn’t have a clue what’s going on.

  So I’m on the bench under the trees this Monday morning and it’s me, Sean and Bottomly. I’ve got on this new pair of Nikes that my mam took me into Cardiff for over the weekend. I knew they were controversial; big, black and lurid pink things. But sometimes you’ve just gotta think fuck ‘em all. Fuck this place.

  “What the fuck are them, Jonesy la?” says Bottomly.

  “Who the fuck you think you are Jonesy la?” Sean says. “Dennis fuckin’ Rodman? You’re from Cardiff, lad, not the fuckin’ Bronx.”

  “Whassup,” I say, shaking my hand like a knob wipe so my little finger snaps. “Straight outta Cardiff.”

  Sean’s pissing himself and I’m thinking this is going OK, this is. I can see where it’s going. But then Bottomly changes the tone.

  “No, seriously, Jonesy la,” he says. “Those are fuckin’ shit, those are. You look like a right bender.”

  The knobbish smile’s been wiped off my face. It’s too late to come back with anything funny.

  “Eh, eh, calm down,” is all I can manage.
r />   “You starting, are you, Jonesy?” he says.

  And I can’t believe he’s gonna have a proper go over this.

  “Fuck off, Bottomly,” I say.

  But he drops his bag and swaggers over. Puts his horrible square face in mine and I’m suddenly looking down at the bum fluff tash he’s had for nigh on three fuckin’ years.

  “You wanna a go or what?” he says, nudging my nose with his big, clammy forehead. “You a man or a mouse, Jonesy la?”

  I just stand there. I’m gonna do fuck all because Bottomly is Ferg’s bum chum.

  “Fuck off Bottomly,” I say.