Burn The Dead: Riot: Book Three

Chapter 2

2

I know it’s Ginge at the door before I’ve even opened it. I know his knock. Not quite a secret knock, just loud enough to wake the neighbours—but mainly to piss off Phil. I think Ginge does it on purpose. He likes to be the centre of attention. But he’s not the one who has to live with the wanker.

“You took your time, Alf,” Ginge says, leaning against the doorframe as if posing for a modelling shoot. He’s wearing his white flip-flops, red and blue board shorts, and a Swansea jersey—which is way too tight for that bulging belly. “Thought you’d bailed on me.”

I snort. “What, and miss the most important game of the year? As if. I think that ginger mop is cutting the circulation to your tiny brain, mate.”

“I would say the same to you, but you’ve chopped off the Afro. Why the f**k would you do that? That was the only reason you had any girls in school. It was the only cool thing about you.” He steps into the house. “Now you’re just some black teenager. How boring is that!”

I smile. If I didn’t love the guy, then I might just be a little insulted. But it’s hard to stay mad at him. He just has that cheeky way about him. “I know. What can you do?”

Ginge pulls a scary face at Harry as he passes him in the hallway. He can never resist winding the spoilt little brat up.

“f**k off, you fat ginger cunt,” Harry barks as he walks up the stairs.

“Oi!” I shout. “Don’t speak to him like that! I’ll be telling Wendy about you.”

The little prick gives me the middle finger and runs up the stairs, laughing.

“Sorry about him,” I say, as if it’s the first time he’s done it. God knows why I have to apologise for him. He’s not my kid. “He’s just a little s**t. Can’t blame him, though, living in this place.”

Wendy steps out of the kitchen carrying two bacon rolls on a plate, wearing her favourite apron; the one with the picture of a pink cupcake on the front, a gift from Rosy last Christmas. It still makes me smile. “Thought I heard you, Ginge,” she says, handing us a roll each. “Here, eat these. I know what you boys are like; you’ll end up drinking beer on an empty stomach.”

“Thanks, Wendy,” Ginge says, instantly taking a huge bite. You can swear he’s never seen one in his life. “You’re a star.”

“Don’t worry,” I reassure her, “we won’t be drinking much. I’m skint. Plus, the booze is always too expensive in the stadium, anyway. We’ll just have a couple in the pub before we get there.”

“Who are you meeting in the pub?” she asks.

“Just the guys,” I reply, waiting for her to give me the lecture on how awful my friends are.

“It’s not that Jonny and his brother, is it?” she asks—right on cue!

“Yeah. And Hoppy’ll be there.”

She shakes her head, pursing her lips. “Watch yourself with those boys, now, Alfie. They’re terrible, especially that Jonny.”

“I’ll look after him, Wendy,” Ginge says with his usual cheeky grin. “Your boy’s in safe hands.”

Wendy ignores his comment and pulls me in for a kiss. I put up a small fight but then give in to it. It’s pointless resisting; she always gets me in the end.

“Right, we’re going,” I tell her. “You’ve driven us away.”

“Bye, Wendy,” Ginge says as we step out onto the front path. “I’ll get him home in one piece. I promise.”

“Just be careful,” she says, “you’re only seventeen. You’re not as grown up as you think. And you’re at the petrol station tomorrow. You can’t be late for work again. Jobs don’t grow on trees, you know.”

I wave her off as we head along the pavement. She’s sweet, but she doesn’t half go on.

As soon as she’s gone inside, we each light up a cigarette. I haven’t had a smoke since last night. No point even risking it in the garden; Wendy can smell it from a mile off.

Glancing around the cul-de-sac, I see at least five houses with Swansea banners and towels hanging from the windows. Feels like the whole city will be watching this afternoon. Most probably will be. Maybe not at the stadium. Although, it is a sell-out. Twenty-one thousand tickets gone—in a matter of hours. Some guy at work offered me two hundred for mine. I told him to piss off. Wendy said I should have taken him up on his offer; put the money towards driving lessons.

No b****y chance!

“How’s Burger-Land treating you?” I ask. “Still eating half the profits?”

“Oh, yeah. I never go hungry in that place. There’s f**k all else to do there but eat. It’s dead most evenings.”

“I know. It was like a ghost town last time I popped in. Where are all the fat bastards when you need them?”

“I know. They’re thinking about closing it down.”

“Really?” I ask as we cross Kilroy Street, heading towards the Farmers Arms pub. “What are you supposed to do then? You’ll never afford season tickets in the VIP suite without a job.”

Ginge laughs. “I wish. We wouldn’t even be able to afford to use the toilet in there. They’d take one look at us and kick us to the curb.”

“Speak for yourself. Petrol-attendants already get the VIP treatment in those places.”

“Would be nice, though, an aerial view of the pitch, a private bar and waiter service. Oh well, I’m sure some rich s**t will show up at work, turning me into her s*x slave for cash.”

“Yeah, lose the belly first,” I say, flicking the cigarette stub on the pavement, and then pushing the pub door open. “And the hair. No one likes a ginger-nut.”

“Cheeky bastard.”