Pigeon Variations - Ch 3 - Temper

Jenny was the only girl Pyser had said “I love you” to. He told her on Brighton beach after they had gone clubbing.

Mashed on booze and pills. Eyes like saucers. They stood on the pebbles, watching the waves rolling in and breaking into whipped foam in the moonlight. The wind raced off the ocean and was so noisy they had to yell to hear the other speak. He took her hands and they danced on the shifting pebbles. Slow and intimate. Kissing. “I love you,” he said. The words popped out of his mouth like a heart-shaped poo. The only other person he’d said the love word too was his mum and she’d told him to fuck off and to stop being soppy.

They walked hand in hand up the beach, hearing the pebbles clicking and scratching under their shoes, and onto the promenade. There were taxis and buses and Moulsecoomb lads fighting outside the cinema on the corner. Coppers dragging the Ben Sherman cunts away into vans. Girls in tight dresses, all pale limbs and permed hair, screeching and howling at the old Bill to stop.

“I love you too,” said Jenny.

They found a kebab shop. “Two doners, mate,” he said. As the guy carved off slabs of meat with a greasy knife, Pyser did a prehistoric growl and flashed his willy at Jenny by the counter, telling her that he was a “Cockasaurus”. It was his favourite thing to do when off of his tits. She cracked up laughing. They left the kebab shop with their food and then had to stagger back as Jenny had the hump with her order.

“More chilli sauce, mate.”

It was nearly dawn when they found their hotel. The streaky tints of pink light turned the dark sky into a kid’s dessert. Seagulls snaffled leftover scraps on the streets. Easier to scavenge than divebomb for fish in a heavy, rolling sea. They kept cuddling each other. They were intimate. So fucking intimate it was untrue. They fell into their room, smelling of kebabs and booze and fags, and had absolutely banging sex.

As Pyser drifted off, he wondered how being with her could feel so natural – was it part of some master plan? Were they meant to be? Fucking sentimental. Looking back. Cuntish thoughts. But they did click. The pair of them fucking clicked in a way he didn’t know was possible.   

Housekeeping woke them up. Pyser shouted “fuck off” through the door.

“You shouldn’t speak to them like that – they’re only doing their job,” said Jenny.

“Well, they should fucking listen, then.”

She gave him a look. He remembered it crystal clear. He knew he’d have to think twice before losing his rag again.

“Do you have a temper?” she asked.

“No, Jenny, I don’t.”

And the rest.

She realised he was lying to her. It was the beginning of the end. Right there. In that moment. Like a massive fucking design flaw in a bridge that would one day collapse.

They took turns going to the bathroom to puke. He had to pay extra as they were so late checking out.

Long after they had gone their separate ways, he liked to think about the good parts of that weekend. The canoodling and proper belly laughing and sharing of secrets. The thrill of hearing, for the first time, a girl say that she’s head over heels for you.

It’s why he decided to leave London and live in Brighton.

He wanted to be closer to that memory of falling in love.