The Church and the Tradesman - 3. The Fifty Quid

I brushed myself down and shook my head as I saw the security guard approaching, he was followed into the room by a middle-aged woman, who ran over to Tyrone with a look of horror on her face.

“Are you okay, Tyrone.” She was an American.

‘Don’t tell me his mother’?

“What happened?” she demanded and she was looking at me.

My eyes switched from her to Tyrone and stayed there. He looked away. “Better ask him,” I said. “He’s responsible.”

“What? He’s the one who fell over....”

“You tripped me up….”

“I was nowhere near you.”

“I thought you were working in the basement,” said the woman. “You’re not supposed to be in this part of the house.” I was gobsmacked; I had never even met this woman before, but whoever she was I didn’t like her.

“Wait a minute, everybody, listen!” The South African put his hand up and raised his voice enough to stop us from talking over each other. I kept my eyes locked on the brat with the woolly hat and shook my head as he continued to look everywhere but at me. “That’s better,” he said. “Now, are you hurt, Tyrone?” The kid shook his head slowly and the security guard turned to the woman. “See he’s not hurt, there’s nothing to worry about.”

“He could have been though,” said the woman pointing to the broken lamp. “Look at all this glass on the floor.”

Tyrone looked as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth as he surveyed the damage from a position of safety with a look of horror on his face. “It almost hit me,” he said and I came pretty close to it too as I was tempted to wipe that smug look off his face.

“Stand back Tyrone,” she said. “It would be a disaster if you got injured and you weren’t able to perform on Monday.” I disagreed with her statement. In my world disasters were hurricanes, tsunamis and plane crashes, not a pop star missing an award ceremony because he trod on a piece of broken glass and was in too much pain to dance for thirty seconds. At Trade later, I would be dancing almost non-stop for eight hours; providing I could get away from this job and the spoilt little brat.

“We can get this mess cleaned up,” said the security guy looking at me. “It’s not a problem, is it?”

What he meant was, I can clean it up and I reluctantly began picking up the big chunks of glass from the carpet and placing them on the table.

“Well he should’ve been more careful in the first place,” she said.

“He tripped me up with some stupid remote control thing,” I said looking around the floor. “It was a car of some kind, where is it?”

“He’s lying; I didn’t go anywhere near him.”

“Yes you did, you little….”

“Is this it?” I turned to look at Bob; he was standing behind me holding up a model racing car. “It was over by the stairs.”

“That’s it,” I said. “He aimed it straight at me and I tripped over.”

“I didn’t mean for you to fall over,” said Tyrone. “You got in the way?”

Thanks to Bob, I was able to claim the higher ground and the woman suddenly looked a little uncomfortable. Tyrone’s admission of guilt brought a frown from the stick-like woman but she refused to say anything to him and instead, turned her attention to Bob.

“Who are you?” she asked and I shook my head in disbelief.

“He’s helping me fix the boiler,” I said with a smile.

Bob never really worried a great deal about his appearance and he always wore overalls at work, although he rarely got as dirty as me. That day, under his dark blue all-in-ones, he was wearing a flannel checked shirt which looked older than him and twice as wrinkled. He was unshaven and looked badly in need of long soak, but we were there to fit a boiler and he was the main man.

He placed his glasses on top of his head and stepped forward. “I’m Bob,” he said and I cringed, knowing exactly what was going to happen. Bob always insisted on formally introducing himself to the client, which he didn’t need to do and was rarely appreciated. On this occasion, when he held out his grubby hand for her to shake, it was blatantly obvious that she wasn’t going to be impressed by my colleague’s touchy greeting. She looked at Bob’s well-worn hand as if it had just crawled out of the sewer and often it had.

She nodded at him and took a step backwards refusing to shake his hand and leaving Bob high and dry and looking like a spare prick at a wedding.

The devious little prodigy who had caused the ruck in the first place thought it was funny but I felt embarrassed for my partner who took the snub in his stride and continued to smile. He had to be used to it by now but I wanted to bundle Bob downstairs before he made himself and me look even more stupid.

“He looks taller on the tele, doesn’t he?” he said turning his attention to the brat.

“A lot,” I said as the kid stared at us.

“Are you going to clean this mess up,” the woman said smartly. “You shouldn’t even be in here.” She was getting on my nerves but Bob wasn’t as stupid as he made himself look and he had already worked out his revenge.

“Are you alright?” he asked and I nodded as he put his hand on my shoulder and looked me in the eyes. “Are you absolutely sure you didn’t hurt yourself?”

I stared back at him, swallowed hard and turned to the woman. “Now that you mention it, I might have hurt my back,” I said and rubbed it with my hand.

“There you go,” said Bob, “sometimes you don’t notice these things straight away. Best you put it in the accident book.” He pointed to the security guard.

“What’s he talking about?” said the woman.

“We have to make a record of any work related injury that occurs on the premises, Mrs Dewsbury. It’s the law I’m afraid and the record company insist that all workmen use the back entrance, which means that they have to walk through the house.” He went to fetch the accident book as Mrs Dewsbury frowned at us.

“Health and safety,” said Bob. “In case we ave to make a claim.”

“Claim for what?” she said.

I held my back. “Ouch,” I said, “it’s quite painful actually.”

Bob turned to me and rolled his eyes at my overacting “You’d better sit down,” he said. “If he has to have time off because of this, then the firm will probably ave to make a claim. Especially as it wasn’t his fault.” He turned to smile at the squeaky voiced kid.

“He’s faking it!” said Tyrone. “Let him claim all he wants, you have lawyers, right?” He turned to Mrs Dewsbury but she suddenly wasn’t looking as sure footed as before.

‘Nice one Bob.”

“I’m sure there’ll be no need for lawyers here Tyrone,” she said. “Let’s not overreact. Are you okay young man?” she said walking towards me.

I nodded but Bob disagreed. “He doesn’t look okay to me; I might have to take him to the hospital.” It would have been perfect for him, double time for sitting around in a waiting room while I faked an injury to a load of suspicious quacks, but as much as I wanted to help Bob get his own back, I was on a deadline and the clock was ticking away.

“That’s ridiculous,” said Mrs Dewsbury. “He looks fine to me.”

“That’s the thing with back injuries,” said Bob. “It’s impossible to tell. My brother-in-law was tripped up in Tesco’s, he thought he was alright at first.” He shook his head. “Hasn’t worked since…not a day…they settled out of court in the end.”

“Oh my God,” said Tyrone. “Tell me you’re not falling for this crap. These guys are comedians; they should have their own show.” He turned around and stormed out of the room.

It was a relief to see him go and the woman seemed happier too. “I’m Faye Dewsbury,” she said. “Tyrone’s personal assistant. I’m sorry if we’ve got off on the wrong foot here. He can be a bit…”

‘Of an asshole, a prick, a little shit’?

“Headstrong at times,” she said. “He’s under a bit of pressure, he has to perform at the Brit Awards on Monday.” He didn’t look that stressed out to me when he was playing with his toys.

‘The poor thing, he must be worried sick’?

“I’m sure he’ll manage,” said Bob. “He’s an artist, they can be a bit what’s that word again?”

“Presumptuous?” she said.

“Egotistical?” I offered.

“Cocky,” he said. “That’s it, he’s a cocky little fucker.” I thought that he was being quite kind to the kid but Mrs Dewsbury wasn’t impressed.

“I’m feeling okay now Bob,” I said. “No need to go to the hospital.” I was anxious to get him back to work.

“Well that’s good news,” she said before getting down to the nitty-gritty. “I understand that this little incident will probably add some extra time to your day. So I’ll be happy to pay a little more for your time. Cash, if that’s okay?”

Now they were reading from the same page and Bob’s eyes lit up like Piccadilly Circus. Cash was right up his street, of course, even better than overtime and he followed Mrs Dewsbury to her office where she greased his already greasy palm with some hard dosh.

I went to work clearing up the mess, passing the security guard on my way out to the van with the old boiler. He held up the accident book for me and I shook my head.

When Bob returned to the basement, he told me that Mrs Dewsbury had given him an extra fifty quid for our troubles. He said he would split it with me fifty-fifty, which sounded wrong to me, but I knew that I would have to remind him as cash in his pocket was unlikely to see the light of day until we gone our separate ways.

- 3 pm -

Bob’s hand slipped again and the wrench clattered against the hollow boiler casing like a giant bell.

“It’s time for tea,” he said as he backed himself out of the tiny space that he had somehow squeezed his portly frame into. I was always amazed at how he did that but he was never happier than when he was wedged into a dark, damp, smelly, hole, surrounded by copper pipes.

“Do you want me to finish tightening those for you while you take a break? I said. He knew that I was anxious to get finished and he must have seen the frustration written across my face. I had been trying to hurry him along for ages but the more I pushed him the more he had dragged his heels and an unexpected tea break was just another one of his delaying tactics.

“I’ll do it,” he said. “You can make the tea.”

“You should have told me earlier,” I said. Now he was going to sit around for twenty minutes while I made the tea and then take another twenty to drink it. Any other day and I would have been fine with this.

“Don’t panic,” he said. “You’ll be home in time to go out tonight. What are you doing anyway?”

“I’m off to a club,” I said and as I walked up the stairs he followed me.

“Are you taking that bird of yours, the one with the funny name?”

I smiled. “If you mean Jazz, then yes she’s going with me tonight, but she’s not my girlfriend.” I knew that he wouldn’t believe me, in Bob’s world, men couldn’t have female friends or vice versa. If you were seen with a woman, you had to be fucking her, unless of course, she happened to be your wife.

“I’m going to go for a quick fag,” said Bob and we parted company at the kitchen where earlier the security guard had said we could make ourselves tea. I took the opportunity to duck out of any more questions about my private life.

Over the past year or so the blokes at work had been showing increasing interest in my nocturnal activities. They knew that I liked dance music, and went clubbing at weekends but none of them had even so much as set foot inside a real dance club, not even the younger ones. Even the regular straight clubs where Jazz and I would go to warm-up would have seemed outrageous to them. Those places were loud, sweaty, crowded and expensive but Trade was ten times worse. It was a different world, which they didn’t know about and would never have been able to understand.

They had all met Jazz when I brought her along to one of the firm’s drink-ups. I think it was a leaving do or someone retiring and the lads had been goading me all week, trying to find out if I had a girlfriend. My biggest fear, as always, was being discovered and outed at work. Their world was definitely not gay-friendly and it would have been problematic for me to say the least, so I decided to keep the wolves at bay by taking a girl with me to the Dog and Duck.

It wasn’t really Jazz’s scene but she understood my problem and agreed to play the role of my girlfriend for the evening. I asked her to dress normal but her idea normality was different from most, and when she showed up in black leather, fishnet stockings, and knee high boots, the landlord thought she was a stripper gram. We had a laugh and she played the part really well, even snogging and groping me in front of my wide-eyed boss, Sidney.

She was on her best behaviour that night, but was still the talk of the firm for months afterwards, taking the heat and any suspicion away from me.

I think that I was the only male in the pub that night who didn’t want to go home and fuck Jazz, but I did it anyway just because I could. We may have been gay and best-friends but we had also had sex on occasion. Once to find out what it was like, once for a dare, and again that night because we had nothing else to do when the pub shut at eleven o’clock. It made sense at the time but it was more of a laugh than anything serious and when I eventually managed to finish, poor Jazz was already fast asleep.

The guys at work wouldn’t have understood our relationship, even if I had tried to explain it, but it made perfect sense to us, and I was looking forward to another crazy night with my best-friend. My body was already counting down like a launch pad on auto pilot, anxious to satisfy my craving. I wasn’t just addicted to the drug but the whole package, and everything that accompanied it. It was why I needed to be there, job or no job, missing church simply wasn’t an option, not even for Tyrone fucking Spencer!

“When is the hot water coming on?” His voice startled me, but I stayed calm and didn’t turn around until I had finished making Bob’s tea.

“Soon,” I said.

He sighed. “How soon?”

“A couple of hours…probably.”

“Probably? You are kidding me right?” he said. “I need hot water.” I was pouring some in a cup that I was tempted to throw at him.

“We’re working as quick as we can,” I said as I turned to leave carrying two cups of tea. He had gone back to wearing his bright-red ski-jacket and still had his woolly bobble hat on, probably to make a point.

“No, you’re not. You’re drinking coffee, you can do that after.” He stood in front of me blocking the entrance and my route back to the safety of the basement.

“Can I get past?” I said.

He smirked. “No.”

I stared at him as he stood in front of me. He was probably six inches shorter than me but the ridiculous hat and ski-jacket brought him up to my height and width. He had bushy eyebrows and fat lips that the girls loved but up close and without makeup, his complexion wasn’t as smooth as it looked on the front of the teeny magazines. There were little marks on his face and it looked as if he had suffered from a bad case of acne at some point. I was staring at them and wondering why people were so fascinated with this arrogant boy with average looks when he narrowed his eyes at me.

“What are you staring at me for?” he said screwing up his face.

“I’m not, you’re in my way.”

He stood aside and leaned against the wall. “I think you’re a freak,” he said as walked past him.

“I don’t care what you think. You don’t interest me at all…not even a little bit. You’re just a little brat.”

“You can’t talk to me like that.”

“I just did.”

“I’m gonna call your boss,” he said. “You can’t just go around talking to clients like that. You could lose your job because of this, you jerk.”

“Go ahead; call him if you want to, I don’t care.”

“Do you wanna lose your job.”

“It’ll be worth it when I put your head through the fucking wall,” I said as I finally lost my temper and put the teas down on a table in the hallway, but the kid wouldn’t back off.

“Oh yeah, really?” He stood before me, legs apart, eyes narrowed and with his fists balled in front of him like a boxer. The tough guy pose, however, was offset by his winter clothing and he looked more like the Michelin Man than a boxer. He looked ridiculous and I burst into laughter. “Don’t laugh at me,” he said. “I’ll fight you, I’m not scared.”

I would dearly have loved to have added a black eye to the list of Brit Awards that he would no doubt be taking home, but common sense and the need for spending money prevailed so I bit my lip instead. At this point, he really should have dropped the subject and got out while he was ahead, but this kid didn’t know when to quit and there seemed to be no line that he wouldn’t cross.

I wasn’t expecting him to throw a punch at me, but when he did, it was wildly off target and I stepped back and managed to duck out of the way. When the second one came at me; I was better prepared and grabbed his hand before it connected with my face.

“What the fuck are you doing, you little shit?” I held onto his wrists and pushed him against the wall but he was a handful and moving around like a fish out of water. His face was red as he grimaced and strained to break free but I knew that if let go of him then he would aim a punch right at me.

“Let me go, you freak,” he said but I held on and tightened my grip on his wrists. We were deadlocked but when he kicked me in the shin, I instinctively replied with a swift knee to his bollocks and he cried out in pain.

It alerted the security guard who came running towards us with Bob behind him, but as I turned towards them ready to plead my innocence, the golden haired brat leaned his head forward and took a bite out of my hand.