The Whirlwind

It's scorching. A million midges are trying to bite me to death and
it's like cycling the Tour de France in the wrong direction. Honest,
I've nearly been knocked into the canal about twenty times by ugly
families and weedy guys in lycra coming the other way. They don't even
ring their bells. Plus, I thought this was meant to be a cold country?
It feels like I've sweated all the fluid out my body. I never sweated
at all till we moved to this bum-hole of a place. It's probably to do
with that nuclear power station we passed on the way up in the
train.
There's millions of ducks and swans in the shade by the bridge. I stop
for a rest. Leaning my bike against the wall, I sit on the grass and
pick a scab I've been saving on my elbow. I wonder if they get snakes
around here. Who knows what deformed creature might crawl out and
poison me? A man pigeon chases a woman one along the path, trying to
jump on her back. His chest is puffed out like he thinks he's some sort
of sex-god. I chew the crusty bits round the edges of my scab as I
watch them. I like pigeons. They don't care what anyone thinks.
A trundling sound is getting closer. A clunkety-clunk echoes inside
the bridge. Then there's a big cloud of dust and this boy's in front of
me. He's about my age, eleven, maybe a bit older. I've seen him before
but I don't know him. He runs on to catch his skateboard then walks
back to my bike. Great. I've only been sitting here about a minute and
someone's going to steal my bike. He crouches down and examines it -
squeezing the tyres, trying the breaks, touching his hand over the
saddle. Is he checking it's good enough to nick, or what? He dings the
bell.
"A Tacana, pure boss!"
Does he mean its crap? Cheeky get thinks my bike's crap.
"It's my dad's. I'm just using it while mine's gets more gears put
on."
Can bikes get more gears? I'm so shocked someone's talking to me I'm
saying anything.
"Solid," he says, stroking the handlebars like he's in love with it.
Getting on, he tries to pedal with half his weight against the wall. He
wobbles around, looking stupid, but he doesn't seem bothered. I sort of
like him. I've seen him skateboarding on the hill across from our
house. I remember his shirt - black with flames coming up from the
bottom. It sort of makes him stick out.
"Your shirt's cool."
Great, he'll think I'm a homo now. He struggles off the bike and
struts about.
"It's boss, eh? My dad supplies markets. He gets gear all over. Stuff
they won't get here for years."
He's puffing up like the pigeon, looking really proud.
"?You want one? I can get you one no bother."
"Yeah? I can get money off mum. How much are they?"
He looks at me like I'm a spazoid.
"No sweat, big man."
He sits down beside me. I suddenly notice the stink of dog shit around
us. The sun must be making it melt. He better not think it's me. But
he's smoking and staring across at the canal. He takes a big drag and
hands me it.
"There you go, pal."
The smell coming off it takes my mind off the dog shit. It smells like
our old house when mum used to have her dinner parties. She used to say
it was Sophie's menthols, but this is exactly what it smelt like. Mum
is such a liar. The one he's passed me is tiny - about the size of a
match. Like the one's they smoke in American films. Much cooler than
mum's pretend fags.
"Go on. It's legal."
I give it a couple of sucks and hold the smoke in my mouth. He's
staring at the canal again, which is good as I'm probably doing it
wrong. My cheeks start hurting from holding it in, so I blow it out in
a big ball. I hope I don't start laughing like a mong like mum and her
pals used to.
"See the ducks? The white ones? Know why they're like that? What makes
them white?"
Handing him it back, I go over to the bank for a look. There's about a
hundred mucky brown ducks but only two white ones. They've got bright
yellow beaks like they're out a cartoon. I don't want to try and guess
and make a twat of myself.
He comes over and stands beside me. I stand half off the bank, leaning
forward as far as I can without falling in. He laughs and copies me. We
try and lean further and further than each other till I slip forward
too far and he grabs me just in time. It feels cool. Like he's saved
me. He looks sort of embarrassed though and goes back over to my bike.
Kneeling down, he runs his hands across the tyres. I think he must have
a pervy thing about stroking bikes.
"So what are your new gears? I thought 27 was the most you could get
on these."
Bugger, I don't know about stuff like that. I only said it was dad's
cos I thought it might stop him stealing it.
"Er?just the same?but better ones?sort of."
He knows I'm lying but he just says, "Boss," again and carries on
feeling it up.
"I had a Tamarak, when we lived in Ireland."
"IRELAND!" I say all loud, like a twat. Luckily he keeps on
talking.
"?it was brilliant. I could cycle along the seafront all the way into
town. If it was really sunny, I could see America."
A map of the world comes into my head. I think of the size of the
Atlantic, between Ireland and New York. I know all about it because I
used to stare at it in the atlas all the time. It took dad nearly eight
hours to get there when he flew from Heathrow. Eight hours. It's the
second biggest ocean in the world.
"You can't see that far, can you? It's absolutely gigantic. And it's
curved, so it'd be over the other side, wouldn't it?"
He just stares at me.
"Have you been there like?"
"My dad's been to New York."
"Ooh!" He yanks the bike away from the wall. "Well I'm just telling
you what I saw every day. I don't know about curves and stuff. Maybe
you just can't see from the American side."
Why did I mention it? Climbing onto my bike, he rests his skateboard
on the handlebars. He's going to go away now. I don't care about the
bike. I just sort of want him to stay.
"C'mon, I'll give you a backie along the path," he says.
I'm so pleased I get this stupid big grin on my face. I get on the
back, so he doesn't notice. It almost looks like there's a light
shining out from his shirt - like the flames are real. If I mention
this he will think I'm a tit, though, so I keep my idiot mouth shut
this time.
It's a disaster. We're wobbling about, swaying all over the place. The
skateboard keeps nearly falling off and I have to keep grabbing onto
him. It's sort of fun but I can't relax cos I'm scared I'm going to
tear his brilliant shirt. I feel a mobile in his pocket while I'm
trying to hang on. Maybe I can get him to text me.
We skid to a stop where the path leads onto the street. I jump off,
out of breath and really hot again from the strain of trying to stay
on. The ducks are all down this end now. They must have followed us.
The white ones are washing their faces in the water. I start talking so
he won't look down and see my sweaty bum marks on the saddle.
"So why are they like that again?"
He does a wheelie.
"Did your round-the-world daddy never tell you, like?"
I shrug. He cycles up close to me and whispers,
"?the seagulls rape their mammies."
I think he's joking but I can tell straight away from his face, it's
true.
"?serious, my uncle showed me. They wait till one's on its own then
they attack. The noise the ducks make when they're doing it, it's
horrible, like."
He flaps his arms and squawks really loudly. The ducks all speed off in
the other direction again.
No wonder the brown ones go round in big groups. The white ones beaks
are the same colour as seagulls as well. It's so obvious. God -
seagulls, pigeons, they're all at it.
"D'you think all birds are sex mad?"
"They are once they've met me!" he shouts, doing another wheelie. I
smile and pretend that's what I meant. God, I bet he's had loads of
girlfriends. It's always guys that don't seem bothered that girls seem
to go for. Maybe he's got a few going spare. Yuk. I hope not.
He starts walking my bike towards the top of the street.
"C'mon, this is boring. We'll go and play snooker?"
I'm meant to be at grandmas. As if mum's going to find out if I don't
go though. They only speak to each other about once every hundred
years.
"?c'mon. My uncle runs the club down the road. We'll get crisps and
juice."
He starts making squawking noises again.
"?hurry, here's the seagulls. They shag posh boys too?quick."
I jump back on. The street's dead busy but I want to stay with him. I'm
scared he'll disappear if he goes away now.
He lets go the breaks and we take off down the hill. I'd never realised
how steep it was before. We're absolutely speeding. A car comes out the
side-road and has to screech on its brakes. We just skid round and keep
going. My nerves have gone. It's like we're flying.
"?Bez draws up close to Schumacher. He accelerates. Schumacher
struggles to regain control as Bez dashes past into second. There's
only Coulthard to deal with now. Coulthard's slowing. He can't take the
pace. He's pulling into the pit. IT'S ALL OVER FOR COULTHARD!!"
This is so fantastic. Bez - what a completely cool name. We race down
the street, straight through the red lights at the bottom and round
onto the main road. A bus horn honks at about a thousand decibels as we
miss going under it by about a millimetre. It's brilliant. It feels
like we're immortal.
"As Bez crosses the finishing line, the crowd erupt. They have their
new champion?and what a champion he is."
We pull into a side street. I didn't want us to stop. Not ever. The
blood's beating through my body dead fast. Even my sweat feels good.
Sort of clean.
Bez tells me to get off and hands me the skateboard. Lifting the bike
onto his shoulder, he walks up to a big door and pushes an
intercom.
"Open up, it's the Whirlwind!"
Is this it? I never knew this was a snooker hall. There's no sign
outside. It just looks like an office or something. As we push in and
walk up the steps, I feel dead excited but try to act like I do stuff
like this all the time.
When I open the door at the top though, it feels like we've just walked
into an explosion. A burst of sweaty heat, booming music, yelling and
swearing blasts us in the face. We walk into a hot, sticky, stinky,
smoky room. It's totally disgusting. Like the smell when you pass a
homeless person but about a billion times worse.
There's hundreds of drunken, skanky grown-ups playing pool, playing
darts, arguing, singing football songs, standing round fruit machines.
Bez walks straight up to the bar, like he hasn't even noticed them. I
have to push past the minging gets to keep up.
"Feel my cheeks, Kath. I just cycled five miles with posh boy there on
the back."
Kath must be the barmaid. She's in her twenties or something but is
still pretty and sort of happy-looking. She smiles across at me, then
gives the bike a worried look.
"Aw, Ben!"
Bez starts putting it behind the bar.
"Naw Kath, it's his, honest. Go and watch it while we have a game?
Please?"
She shakes her head and does her nice smile again. Her blouse has
flames on it like Bez's shirt, except hers is tight. It looks cool on
her too, even though she's old. She puts the bike in the corner and a
tin of Irn Bru on the bar.
"What's your pal want? You got a name, pet? He's no manners."
"Give him a pint," growls an old guy with a giant raspberry nose.
"Chuck in a few pies an' all. Look at the state of him," yells a
flaky-tanned fat get beside him.
I say my name and ask for the same as Bez but my voice comes out in a
tiny squeak. I'm amazed when she puts another tin on the bar and says,
"There you go, Pete." She must have satellite ears. My thank-you is
drowned out by a group of ancient guys moaning for more drink but she
hopefully hears me anyway.
It's a relief to go through to the actual snooker hall, away from the
sweaty twats. It's not like I expect. There are about twenty tables in
the same giant room. Only one is being used, by a skinny guy and
massive fat woman dressed like a man. It's dark and quiet and much
cooler. I can still see the drunken arseholes through the glass but
it's separate and I feel a hundred times safer.
The light over the back table flickers on as Bez walks over with the
balls. He's set them up before he asks if I can actually play.
"Dad tried to teach me a few times. Before we moved."
I wish. If they hadn't sent me off to boarding school, I guess he might
have. That's where I really learned to play snooker but I'm not
mentioning that to Bez. He already thinks I'm snobby enough as it
is.
"First frame!" he shouts, breaking loudly, knocking reds everywhere
and a flukey one into the middle.
"The Whirlwind starts as he means to go on. With an absolutely
beautiful pot."
I tap the table like they do at the Crucible when the other player
does a good shot. Jammy shit.
"The Whirlwind plays on. Just what is this talented young man going to
pull out of the hat next?"
The blue hits the edge of the pocket and misses. Bez does a huge fart.
It's so strong, it makes our eyes water, so we both end up missing a
few. Honest, the smell lasts ages. It's like a chemical weapon. I'd do
a revenge one but we laugh so much at his, I need the toilet.
He misses another easy one. It leaves me on a shot I used to practice
all the time at school - red along the bottom cushion into the
corner.
"Watch this. It's a classic. Steve Davis used to do it."
I'm concentrating so much, my tongue's sticking out but it misses by a
mile. Bez starts killing himself.
"Yeah, classic. Is that why he's a presenter now?"
I feel my face going red so I go over to open my juice. The fat
woman's going out to the bar. When she opens the partition door, a
group of pissheads burst into, "Who Let the Dogs Out?" I hate that
song. A girl I liked back home used to make her pals sing it when I
went past. Every time I hear it now it makes me feel glad her mum
died.
"C'mon? I'll foul you for time wasting. Give's another Steve Davis
special."
It's like a miracle. I get a five ball break- three reds and two
browns. None of them are easy. It was probably thinking about Claire
made me angry.
"Whirlwind, crap! COME ON STEVE DAVIS, COME ON STEVE DAVIS!" I sing.
I'm not usually like this but the good break just makes me feel dead
confident.
"Keep it down a bit, eh? This isnae a fucking playground," yells the
skinny guy on the other table.
What a cheek. We were hardly making any noise. I feel like yelling back
at the miserable get.
"C'mon. He's just trying to be macho cos Vanessa's back," says Bez as
the fat woman flubbers down to take a shot. Her cue skids over the
white, missing it completely. She turns round and makes a big elephant
noise at us, like it's our fault she's complete crap. It's so pathetic
it's hilarious. Bez and me laugh our heads off, half cos it's funny and
half to annoy them even more.
I collapse over the end of our table, pretending to be her having a
heart attack. Bez tries to ignore me but still misses his next shot.
Lucky get still nearly snookers me though.
"Another stunning safety from the Whirlwind," he says in his voice,
clapping himself.
I twirl my cue like Tom Cruise did in that old film, then try a pool
shot. The red bounces off the cushion, straight into the opposite bag.
I dance round in a circle with the cue above my head. Bez does a
serious face.
"I'm sorry but I'll have to foul you for celebrating too much. This
isn't a fucking playground, you know."
Pulling my t-shirt over my head, I give him the V-sign. When I take it
off, he's pretending to change the scoreboard.
"Davis, foul. Whirlwind, four points."
Twirling my cue again, I go for blue into the middle, then red into
top, then down for re-spotted blue back into middle. Bez
whispers,
"And the crowd hold their breath as this remarkable pensioner goes for
gold."
It makes me miss-hit, but the red comes off the cushion and spins down
brilliantly into the corner. I do the commentary this time, Superbowl
style -
"Without even touching the sides. How about that boy!"
Bez looks stunned.
"Pure amazing! Come up every day. I'm always here over the holidays.
D'you want to? You won't have to pay if you ask for me."
How good is today? And now I can have another four weeks of it before
I have to start my new school. I think about Bez on his skateboard
across from my house and wonder if we were supposed to meet. I'm sure
he was playing over there the day we moved in.
As I bend over to take the blue, there's suddenly this giant bang, like
something's collapsed outside. By the time I look round its like
America's invaded the bar. Everyone seems to be fighting. Fists and
bottles and people are flying everywhere. Because we're in the dark,
watching it through the glass though, it's like it's on a giant screen.
Even the fatgirlslim couple are gawping at it. Skeletor's not
complaining about the noise now, though. Bez gulps his juice like
nothing's happening.
"It's just my uncle cracking up. They had a fight at the golf. Just
ignore it."
But it's getting worse. I see the old raspberry-nose man getting
smacked round the head. There's a young guy standing on the seats, Tae
Kwon Do-ing three skinheads away with the heavy end of a cue. A group
of men are holding someone over the pool table while they punch him.
It's like the WWF except with real people.
"Jesus Bez, look at the blood on that guy's head!"
He's still waiting for me to take my next shot.
"Yeah, that's my uncle. C'mon. If you don't look, you can't give
evidence. Just play," he says, like I'm starting to get on his
nerves.
The glass partition keeps rattling as people get pushed against it.
Someone's going to come smashing through any second. Fatso's trying to
get past Skeletor for a better look but he's holding her back.
"He should let her go. She could flatten them all to death."
We start laughing again. It's wasn't even that funny but it just sort
of feels safer when we're laughing. Bez is probably right. If we
pretend not to notice, no-one's going to bother us. He must know it's
ok. Nobody's going two hit two kids, surely. I go over to take my
shot.
"An earthquake couldn't break this man's cool as he bends down for his
next safety."
I put in a brilliant long red. It helps my panicky feeling but I
really need a pee.
"Is there a toilet through this bit? I'm bursting."
Bez points out at the battlefield and offers me his empty tin.
"Use that if you're really desperate. I'll put it out there when it
calms down. Hopefully one of them'll drink it."
I grab it without thinking. It's a bit disgusting but I'll never hold
out till the war outside ends.
"Dear me. Davis' safety play has fallen apart. He's pissing in a tin.
Dear oh dear. It almost seems like the Hurricane's back," he giggles as
I run around looking for a dark bit. I go behind one of the side
tables, put my back to everything and try to pee into the can. Nothing
happens. It's pitch black but I still feel like everybody's looking at
me. I try to pretend I'm in the bathroom at home, with the tap running
but it's no good. What a twat I am.
The partition door bangs open and I hear someone running into the
hall. I don't want them to catch me standing in the dark with my willie
in my hand, so I zip back up. When I get back over to our table,
there's a guy in an Arsenal top crouching behind it, with his head
split open. Bez is trying to talk to him but the guy's so scared, he
doesn't seem to hear. It makes me scared. It's not just the blood and
the gash in his head. I've just never seen an adult look so terrified
before.
He peers over the edge of the table, eyes bulging, watching for
whoever's after him. He's trembling so much, it's like he's having a
fit. His face is white, like un-cooked chicken and there's sweat
running into the blood, making it drip off his chin. Even though I'm
shitting it myself, I can't stop staring at him. I've never seen
someone injured in real life before. It's sort of fascinating.
"Is there another way out of here?" he asks in a shaky whisper,
keeping his eye on the door. Bez is watching it too now. Even he's
starting to look worried. It makes me feel really frightened.
"Just stay with us, mister. Wait till it's over. You'll be ok."
Aw Bez. What's he saying? It's not our problem. Why can't we go hide
under a table and leave him? He must have done something bad if
someone's that angry with him. Everything's just going horrible. I'll
get stabbed and mum'll find out I was lying. She'll kill me for coming
to a place like this. I'll have to say I got mugged, if I've not
already been murdered.
The scared man stands up. Maybe he's come to his senses and realised
innocent kids could get hurt because of him. I pray he's going to make
a run for it. Instead, he grabs my cue off the table and starts
swinging it in front of him like a light saber. Worse still, Bez goes
and stands in front of him, blocking his way.
"Look mister, just put that down eh? I can't let you go out
there."
The scared man looks at him like he can't quite believe it. I can't
either. He starts walking forward. Bez tries to grab the cue off him.
My whole body starts shaking. I feel like I'm going to have a fit now.
Why don't the fatgirlslim couple help us? Skeletor just stands there.
Fatso's got a creepy smile on her face, like she's actually enjoying
it.
The scared man's stopped again. It's like he can't work up the nerve
to go out but is too embarrassed to hide again. Why doesn't Bez just
leave him? Instead, he makes another swipe for the cue. The scared man
yanks it away and lifts it above his head, like he's going to whack
Bez. Please no.
"Move it Abdul! I'm not joking."
I don't know what to do. There's no way I'll reach the cue as he's
waving it over his head like he's waiting to get a good shot. Maybe if
I could push him and give him a fright he might drop it.
"I'm not fucking telling you again!" he screams.
My body freezes and everything suddenly seems to go into weird, slow
motion. I see Bez take a few steps backwards, pull something out his
pocket and point it at the man.
"You feelin' lucky, punk?"
My legs give way. As I hit the floor, the cue clatters down in front of
me. I think it's coming for my head and burst out crying. I can't help
it. It's like I can't hold in the scaredness any more. I wrap my arms
over my skull, waiting to be hit. The partition door bangs shut. When I
look up, the man has gone and Bez is still standing there with the gun
in his hand.
"You feelin' lucky? Huh, what a wuss."
He walks towards me, pulling the trigger over and over, laughing mad
laughter.
"It's just a lighter, see. It's metal but it's just a lighter."
I realise my trackie-bottoms are soaking. I've wet myself and I can't
even remember. I hate him for getting me like this. I hate him and his
scummy uncle and all his skanky friends. I hate his shirt and his
stupid voices. I can't let him see I've pissed myself. I hate
him.
He's still laughing and pulling the trigger. I jump up and run down the
hall, away from him. Yanking open the door, I push my way through the
horrible, fighting drunks, the bloody heads and all the other smelly,
disgusting people in this scummy, stinking place. They're even fighting
on the stairway. I dash past them and pull open the heavy door at the
bottom. I hate him. He can keep my bike. I never want to have to see
him again. I'm out on the busy main road again. I limp back along it in
my heavy, wet jogging bottoms, feeling sick, crying for my daddy and
home.