Christian Yorke

“I ain’t gonna tell you again Darrell, get the rag and wipe me window, I can’t see fuck all.” Treacle crunched the gears and the filthy diesel chugged harder. 

“Shut it Treacle, your rag’s full of shit. Like this van.” Darrell’s frown loosened as Treacle swung a full bodied hook at him and the antique Bedford launched up the kerb to a backing of crashing tools. “Hey, Treacle, get off the pavement already!” 

In reply Treacle trumped triumphantly. Darrell breathed through his mouth, hastily winding down the window. As Treacle screeched like an ape, Darrell stopped retching enough to say, “Now I know what Rhino turd smells of please get this shit heap off the bleedin’ pavement!”

“What? I can’t see fuck all mate, ain’t you listening,” explained the ape, thumping the roof.

“There’s a fuckin’ lampost you dick,” thrilled Darrell at a frequency only partially audible to humans.

“Eh?”

“And an old bloke. Mate! For fuck’s sake ain’t you seen the old wanker?”

“Got him in me sites, don’t worry. Let’s spill some old blood.”

The boys often cruised for pussy round the streets of Dedworth in Tommo’s van. The very youngest girls sometimes seemed impressed by two timbered up skinheads in a Rascal. It was quiet tonight though, for a Saturday. Darrell opened another Carlsberg as they scorched past the old man, hoping that his pal would kill the codger so he’d have something to tell Luke and the squadies.

“Fucking nice one Treacle! I think you got him a bit,” screamed Darrell, looking back out of the window. To mark the moment he frothed up his lager like a Grand Prix winner.

“Don’t waste it you cunt,” shouted Treacle, sucking  his fifth can and blindly directing his van back onto the road. He turned the radio up. Bowie sang Boys Keep Swinging, and Treacle tapped the steering wheel thoughtfully.

“Look! He’s giving us the V’s. Dirty old tosspot. We should fuck him up Treac,” suggested Darrell,  squeezing his privates. He felt elated and devastated because he knew that soon Treacle would be too pissed to see, which would mean going back to the flat. Since the Chelsea days that meant cracking one off under the sheets, his mum’s ear only inches distant behind the thin partition. He hated the thought of her earwigging his terrible moans, or the dull sobs that followed.

They proceeded in silence for a few minutes, both enjoying the sweet smell of Lamb Passanda, eaten earlier in the dark payload amongst power tools and an old lawn mower. Darrell supped his beer, watching Treacle pat his crown after someone said he was going bald. Then he lurched forward and whispered, “Hey Treac, that ain’t?”

Both men concentrated, to ease the boredom. It was hard to see through the misted window because here the street lights had long since been smashed. Despite this they both saw a figure walking quickly past a derelict chippy.

“Fuck me it’s the Fonz!”

“Aim the van at him,” yelped Darrell, hammering the dash.

Already on it, Treacle buried the throttle and swung the wheel. When the vehicle eventually responded it pointed at the pavement and the pedestrian froze, shielding his face against the full beams. Treacle dropped a cog.

Darrell opened his door as the engine promised violence, and started throwing empties at his target. Speed magnified the boy, his features becoming clearer, dry lines round the open mouth. Darrell had been patient enough, and jumped from the moving van as the figure legged it. Although he hit the pavement hard his bloodied forehead hardly impeded his vision at all. Admittedly something was up with his ankle, but animal instinct overrode the flapping foot. As Darrell got up he heard an explosion that suggested Your Plaice or Brine had halted the van safely.

In a blur of fist and knee Darrell sprinted, head bobbing like a pigeon, until he tackled Ryan Earnshaw to the cold tarmac. They struggled, all grunts and gasps, a surviving headlight picking them out in the black night.

Straddling Ryan’s chest, Darrell put a thumb in his victim’s eyes to quieten him. Surprisingly this livened the bitch up, so he stuck a knee on each bicep, his crotch beneath the boy’s chin, for maximum control.  “What did I tell yer,” he boomed, “what did I tell yer up Wexham Park? You’re about to pay a high price for lyin’ to yer uncle Darrell yer little retard. I’m gonna give yer somethin’ to show that slut sister of yours. Mate!”

“I ain’t bein’ funny Darrell,” wheezed Treacle, arriving like a second class letter, “but Chelsea probably gave him a hand job. To keep him quiet like.”

“What? Is that true?” yelled Darrell with a look of disgust. Knowing that Chelsea would jack her step brother off, just to get at him, he forced his fingers into Ryan’s clenched mouth to try and make him puke up. “Fuck me Treac, the twat just bit me,” he laughed as blood trickled over his knuckle.

Ryan was suffocating, but somehow managed, “Please lads, I ain’t done nothing to you. I didn’t know about Tommo. Me sis don’t tell me nothin’. She hates me guts. Like everybody does. Please just fuck off!”

“Ain’t done nothin?” replied Treacle, mimicking Ryan’s dysphasic voice. “Bollocks you ain’t! You only didn’t tell uncle Darrell that his bird was shagging Tommo. Like we told yer. You ain’t denyin’ that are yer?”

“It’s no use blubberin’ now Ryan. The damage is done. She’s damaged goods. And soon you will be too. As a warning of what I’m gonna do to her when I find her.” Darrell’s word selection was unusually difficult because he was busily cracking Ryan’s greasy skull on the concrete. Ryan’s fists flailed, and he tried to buck Darrell off. “Strap his legs up you useless nonce,” ordered Darrell, “he’s starting to piss me off.”

“Alright man, but make it quick this time. If I get pinched then I’ll be banged up after what I did to that traffic warden.”

“Shut the fuck up about that traffic warden and get the boy’s pants down.”

Darrell twisted round dramatically and stared until his obliging sidekick sacrificed his fag, dropped to his knees, and unbuckled Ryan’s belt.

“Get his pants off now Treacle. Now!”

Ryan had started banging his own head on the pavement, like he was fitting, or trying to knock himself out. Terror cracked his face. A police siren wailed somewhere. An occasional taxi, full of boozers, sped past. Unfazed, Darrell lowered his head, his blood dripping onto Ryan’s lips, and whispered, “Nobody’s gonna save you boy. I’m gonna stripe you.”

“What about his underpants?”

“Them ‘n’ all Treac. Get ‘em off!”

Darrell twisted round again to get a good eyeful as Treacle tugged Ryan’s underpants round his ankles. Showing initiative Treacle unexpectedly clenched his fist and slammed his finger jewellery into the lad’s testicles.

Getting the giggles, an inspired Darrell shouted, “Get me jigsaw Treac. Get me jigsaw! We’ve got to give ‘im somethin’ to show Chelsea.”

Frustrated, Treacle fisted Ryan thrice more before getting up awkwardly to find the tool. Alone with Ryan, Darrell pulled out the boy’s hearing aid and spoke into it. “You tell Chelsea that what I do to you is because of her. That I’m gonna blind her. Then I’m gonna cripple Tommo. And cut yer mum up.”

Curiously, Ryan just lay, crying. With an arousing sense of power Darrell reached back and fingered Ryan’s soft shaft. To humiliate him. He stroked it gently, albeit with a manly tempo, as each man’s head shook side to side.

“So you like it?” laughed Darrell, pleased with the effect he was having on his unwilling partner, noticing that his palm was becoming wet. “Is this how Chelsea does it?”

“I’ve only got a nail gun!” shouted Treacle from the van.

“Well fuckin’ bring it you bald cunt!” shouted Darrell over The Housemartins who were singing Happy Hour on the resilient radio. Then, confiding in Ryan, he whispered, “Christ Ryan, he’s a dumb bastard ain’t he. And I’m sorry about all this but you give me no choice.” He wiped blood off his face, pulled Ryan’s eyelid open, and using the claret carefully polished each eyeball with a squeaking noise. Then he punched Ryan’s mouth, bursting his lips. 

Treacle returned and swapped places with his friend once he’d finished cackling and pointing at Ryan’s aroused groin.

“Have a tug if you want,” offered Darrell hospitably, positioning himself on all fours between Ryan’s knees. He remembered the contests they’d had near the bins at school, the objective being to ejaculate the first, the furthest or the most. He remembered how selfish Treacle had been, always refusing to drop his trousers properly, or touch another boy, even though the look in his eyes hinted that he wanted to.

“Get stuffed you bender,” replied Treacle predictably whilst jamming Ryan’s hearing aid into the lad’s bloody mouth. “Go on eat it you butt fucker!”

Darrell was slightly angry. Not because Treacle had lost the jigsaw, or been rude about Chelsea, or because he hated himself; the reason was that he suddenly wanted to use his mouth on Ryan, and didn’t want Treacle to see. Instead he pressed the nailgun against Ryan’s engorged shaft and squeeze the trigger.

Through a fountain of red he yelled, “And tell yer sister she’s next!”