Strawberry Red - 1. Strawberry?

“Two Cadbury’s 99s with extra strawberry topping, please.”

Occupying a prime spot at the park entrance, Stu grinned at a pair of eager faces poking over the rim of the ice cream trailer’s hatch. “Extra strawberry? But you don’t know how much I put on in the first place.”

The girl frowned. “The other man only ever gave us a dribble unless we paid extra. He's mean.”

“Ah well, I haven't met you before. We're new around here. I'm Stu and that's my friend, Rav, over there.”

The other man was emptying a battered 4x4, piling grubby plastic furniture into heaps. He stopped to wave. The children waved back briefly before focusing on Stu and the ice cream.

His grin widened. “Let’s see how much strawberry I might stretch to.”

Stu filled two crisp cones with smooth white ice cream out of the machine, ensuring an extravagant quiff on each. A pair of flaky chocolate logs poked out of either cone, then his hand reached for the all-important bottle.

Movement in the distance made him freeze. The grin vanished. A tall, thin man got out of a darkened car and stared in his direction, talking on the phone.

One twitch, followed by another, left both cones with a cascade of red. Stu raised a smile. “There you go, my lovelies. Strawberry all the way. That’ll be five pounds and worth every penny.”

Money in the box, Stu opened the back door. “Rav!” His friend paused setting out a few tables and chairs on tired grass. “That guy’s back. He gives me the creeps.”

Rav came closer. “They were hardly gonna walk away, Stu. We squat in their pitch…”

“They left it vacant for a fortnight. We took in turns to visit this spot every day.” Even as he said it, the hollow reasoning wasn’t lost on Stu.

“Still theirs, though. Maybe they were on holiday, or there's been a family upset.” Rav shrugged. “We’ve made our point. How about moving to that spot next to the bandstand? Things might get ugly otherwise.”

“How many ice creams do druggies buy? We’ve made five hundred quid here so far. Nah, we won’t move ’til they make us.”

Rav eyed him in silence, uncertainty clouding a tired face, before he turned away. Stu swallowed his doubts.

******

A week later, Stu parked the trailer by the entrance gate and got out to inspect the pitch. No dog turds, broken glass, or racist graffiti were evident. Every pigeon in sight was alive and still had its head. Nausea welled up. He took deep breaths, both hands resting on his thighs.

The previous afternoon, he’d ducked out to nip to the public loos. Hurrying back, he heard screams. The two kids who were as regular as clockwork, stood by the trailer, pointing at something dripping. Where he usually kept the bottle, a decapitated bird lay, blood oozing out. They fled before he could say or do anything. As before, the same thin streak of a guy looked on from a distance.

Stu imagined the malevolent smirk on his face. “Bastard.”

He got settled, triple-chained the new generator to the trailer, and spread his special offer leaflets on the nearby benches. The couple he'd pinned to the peeling wooden noticeboard the day before had disappeared. He replaced them. Old-fashioned publicity, but trolling and fake posts had soured all his social media.

Opening the trailer's back door, he looked out. “Rav? Where’re the chairs and tables? I’m opening up.”

He might’ve as well addressed the pigeons. Stu sighed. It wasn’t the same without his friend. If he did move the trailer to the bandstand, would Rav return? Unlikely, given the targeted racial harassment the other man had endured. 'Dirty Paki' was the least offensive of the name-calling. Never mind that both of them had been tagged and labelled 'nancy boys' on social media. Yes, the posts got taken down but not before several thousand people saw them.

How about if he moved the pitch to somewhere else entirely? His brain declined to offer any suggestions. The Promenade was notorious for being the local drug baron's patch, He didn't want to be front page news in the local rag. There was always the pier (until someone set fire to it again). A shake of the head settled that – it was for losers and he wasn't one.

Alone, Stu hurried to unload the 4×4 and set out the furniture. At every opportunity, his eyes scanned the middle distance, searching for the blacked-out car. His guts tightened. He’d give the pitch up tomorrow, at his own speed. Every man had his pride.

He returned to find a sheet pinned to the trailer's front shutter. Heart pounding, he whipped round, looking for the culprit. The park was deserted with only the faintest of sounds coming from the neighbouring playing fields. Dark clouds promised rain.

Stu peered at the sheet. A scrawled ‘You’re next!’ led fearful eyes to an image that made him retch. Blurred it might be but the intent was clear enough.

“They wouldn’t dare. This is evidence.” He wiped himself clean. “I’ll leave later today. That’ll do.”

******

After school, two children skipped along to the park entrance. They paused, staring at the ice cream place.

“I wanna see what’s there.” The girl pulled at her friend’s arm. “P’rhaps there’ll be a whole corpse this time. You know, like on the telly. That’d be ace.”

“No, it wouldn’t. I couldn’t sleep last night cos of that dead pigeon.” The boy scowled.

“You’re a scaredy cat.” The girl made a face. “Come on.” Pulling the boy along by the arm, they both drew closer. “It’s the other man.”

She glared at the well-known figure, thin and wan. “You’re mean; I hate you.”

The ice cream man, almost bent in half inside the trailer, beckoned them closer. “You’ll love these, dearies.” He brandished two filled cones. “No Cadbury’s today – there’s a one-off special instead. You'll be the first to try them.”

“Those flakes aren’t chocolate.” The girl drew back. “They’re wrinkled, and pink and hairy.” Curiosity pulled her forward again. The boy tugged her arm.

“Well spotted. I call them freaky fingers – plump, chewy, and good for you, they are. Kids like you need a lot of protein.”

The children stared wide-eyed.

A grin, all teeth, spread over the man’s face. “I've loads of new topping – and it’s free.” He picked up a roundish, dark-red object with two spouts and squeezed. “There you go. Isn't that great?”

Sticky red oozed over white, cool and smooth.

Spooked by the smell, both children ran away.

The dark crimson stream overflowed and dripped onto the ground.

Plop, plop, plop.