RuKsaK

The streets had been waking, warming up – more coloured lights were switching on. The town was beginning to treasure itself again, holding tight its sluttish pride and getting fat at the same time. It was April and the population was starting to bulge again, more unknown faces throwing light on the scared, dying wintered corners.
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We’d been too lucky for too many months. A car sliced next to us and ended it. Two men, physically out of tune with each other – different shapes, different speeds, got out.
‘What're you lads doing?’ the bigger, froggy one asked.
‘Nothing.’
‘Aye – looks like nothing of course. What’s he got that bottle in his hand for? Is he pissed up?’ the thin one demanded.

Stink had picked up an empty bottle, his prop for acting drunk. We were both laughing at his show when the bottle had flagged the car.
‘Give me your names. We’re CID.’

We didn’t answer immediately - we gave a pause reeking of guilt. The thin one asked the question again, angrier. I gave our names.
‘Ah! We were coming to see you two lads. May as well take you in now. Get in the car boys.’

The policemen were taking turns to speak to each other as we tried to sink into the upholstery in the back.
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At the station we had our pockets emptied. In Stink’s I don’t remember what was there. I turned mine out and gave a few coins and a keyless key-ring with a Rubik’s cube dangling from it. I put it on the counter.
‘You can keep the fluff sunbeam. Don’t think we’ll get much evidence out of that. Take your watches, ties and laces off as well. We don’t want you killing yourselves with a school tie. Don’t want the bad guys making us look bad.’

We were walked, with our open collars and shoes baggy on our feet, to the cell.
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The cell was like a room built against gravity, crammed from top to bottom with minutes and seconds. The weight of them had pushed the ceiling up more than most – about twelve feet of minutes high. A single, despotic bulb bleached the room and hammered shadows hard into the floor. But the minutes were on us. We could feel them scratching, nipping around our heels, sniffing and counting our crimes. They kept us silent and colded right down.

I’d never known about time until then. It had been something sitting its way around a clock. Telling me how long something would be, when it would begin and end. Crafting school lessons, weekends and lunch breaks. I learned in that room that it was out to get me as well – nibbling away, stealing because we’d stolen – we’re all stealing anyway. Since that room, I’ve never been able to get the bastard off me. It's a killer.
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The door opened, giving the shortest relief we’d ever feel.

My eyes had been very open, but I hadn’t looked at Stink for over an hour – my guilt in leading us to this had stopped me. His face wasn’t holding a bottle now, it wasn’t stuffed with warm pies, or singing with dangerous tears on its cheeks – it had the future slapped hard all over it this time. I felt like I’d punched it there.

‘Your dad’s are here. Come on you pair. Time for questioning. We’ve got a nice, long list for yous.’

We wanted to throw ourselves back to the minutes.
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You can find Stink and suicides - part 8 here.

Thursday, April 28, 2005

Stink and the suicides - part 7