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Handbags and Jazz Mags
His
mum had always called him a waste of space. As she put it, ever since
scraping through university he’d taken to doing nothing other than smoking
them funny cigarettes, surfing the internet at all hours and playing (c)rap
music.
If he was
a film he’d be directed by Richard Linklater and played by him out of
American Pie. If he ever got mistaken for anyone it would be Eminem.
If he had a girlfriend it would be
His excuse for laziness was the fact that he was choosy. If he ever got a job, let’s face it, it would be a fucking miracle. His only chance to make up for twenty-three years of dodging taxes was when Ethel from next door was taken ill with shingles and Ashley ‘The A Bomb’ Eldridge was roped in to ‘volunteer’ as a erm, well, a volunteer in the charity shop where she worked.
‘Nice one mum,’ he thought, ‘sifting through old jigsaws and dead peoples’ clothes is just what I need.’ Ethel was a well-liked member of the community and it was only right that Mrs Eldridge should help out by giving up her son’s free time.
Day One was training day. If you can call it that. Mrs Hall was harmless enough – typically dithering with a constantly dry sounding mouth, papery skin and an old woman’s hunchback walk. She showed him what the job would entail: Sitting at a table through the back of the shop and organising bags of junk. Wearable, non-wearable, men’s, women’s, children’s, games, records and whatever else people were chucking out. In short – a piece of piss. His mum off his back, his diner on the table when he got in … life was sweet. If he kept on her right side, she may get him them decks he wanted for Christmas.
“Eeeh, you’ll love the sorting room Ashley, love. You find all the best stuff in there.” Mrs Hall said. More than once.
Ashley grinned back with Tony Blair sincerity. The good stuff turned out to be shell suit bottoms and manky old granddad jumpers, flea-bitten stained shirts and massive nana knickers. Not that he was expecting to find treasure, of course. In the space of the morning he beat himself at chess and fixed a torch. There wasn’t really a lot you could get up to in the sorting room, other than sorting, so sorting he did.
It was never-ending. Bag after bag of uselessness until a bag within a bag within a bag was too tempting. He ripped it open to discover a selection of pornography. Three editions of Club International from 1992, to be precise. This was Grade A filth and the job just officially went from tolerable to Lovin’ It status. Club had once been a good friend of his, and although he hadn’t seen this edition, he looked back on resident glamour girl Libby with great fondness. He used to have a bundle of these when he was away at uni and after his mum helped him move back home, they had mysteriously gone AWOL. He guessed that the mags formed the basis of his mum’s low opinion of him. It was never addressed. Her decision was always final.
Now though … now he was safe in the realm of www.pornreunited.co.uk (please click this link if your mum threw your smut out too).
He cleared a space on the table and lined them up to read the various non-PC subtitles in bold type on the front covers. The one that caught his eye most was the one that boasted of Libby’s first lezbo experience.
Two of the mags were immediately stashed in his rucksack and one left out to drool over at leisure, i.e., pretty much immediately. This Libby chick was amazing. She looked a bit like Sophie from Home and Away – like, when it was okay to watch it, which is why he remembered her – and had the most gorgeous green eyes. That and the fact she had a killa body and looked like she’d let you do owt, had young Mr Eldridge in state of arousal before you could say ‘sexual deprivation’. Flicking through the pages he was presented with Readers’ Wives, Readers’ Stories, real models, and … well that’s about it. The best part was that Libby had four pages to herself where she told of her experience with pictures to help drive the narrative. Ashley was captivated. He’d forgot what porn looked like when it wasn’t on the net.
And just as he began to skim-read the story … you guessed it … the inevitable happened. Almost. The frosted glass door provided adequate lookout opportunities but you still had to be quick. Mrs Hall Blair Witched past on her way to the toilet and her silhouette freaked Ashley out. He sat motionless until he heard the toilet flush and saw the surreal figure glide back along into the shop.
He could breathe again. Now all he had to do was get the mental image of Mrs Hall on the bog out of his head. Libby could do that. Libby was perfect. The ideal girlfriend, but she’d have to give up modelling if she wanted to keep Ash. He’d never put up with his mates taking the piss all the time. Right now though, he couldn’t decide whether to read the story properly or to just look at the pictures. Either way Ashley couldn’t believe his luck.
“I can’t believe my luck,” exclaimed he, jubilantly.
We joined Libby at college. She had to work late in the library to finish an essay, the photos showed her in revealing clothes and holding her pen to her mouth, pouting in contemplation. The great thing was that she hadn’t changed in all this time … still kept her figure, still so devilishly scrumptious. Timeless beauty.
Mmm … Libby … Libby … Lib
“Ashley, love.”
Mrs Hall struggled with the handle then fumbled the door open. The mag disappeared under the pile of rags on the table and Ashley struck an innocent pose as Mrs Hall brought in a tray laden with two teas and a stack of assorted biscuits. What is it with tea? More to the point, what is it with this woman?
She took an aeon to walk the few feet to the table. Each step of the way, Ash was about to help her but she was so close anyway. Another half step and he was going to assist again. He was up, down, poised and hovering over his seat until she finally made it. With her sat opposite him, he gathered some of the clothes out the way for her to put the tray down. She let out a sigh and handed him a well-sugared tea before putting the plate of biscuits between them in the middle. Ashley went straight for a Jammy Dodger while Mrs Hall went for a plain digestive.
“I just shut up the shop,” she said, “Thought you could do with a nice cup of tea.”
Bless. It had been nearly thirty-minutes since the last one, after all.
“A wonderful idea, Mrs Hall,” he said. “Thank you.” Always polite, our Ashley.
She took a cautious slurp and a bite of the digestive, dropping crumbs onto the table and down her cardy in the process. She had some stuck to her top lip and Ashley had to force himself not to stare at it.
“So, how’s your first day of work then? Stuck with anything?”
“No, no. Everything is fine. Couldn’t be better,” he replied.
She took another bite and got more biscuit on the corner of her mouth. Should he tell her? Too much hassle. She brushed her cardy down and scanned the tabletop like an eagle looking for prey.
“Found anything interesting yet then, Ashley love?”
Should he mention the smut? ‘Yeah, a bunch of dirty mags so far. Taking two home for tonight and gonna whack off to one of them as soon as you leave the room’ wouldn’t really be the best thing to say on a first day at work. This is a respectable old lady, oblivious to the seedy world of top shelf gentlemen’s literature.
“No. Nothing yet, I’m afraid. I’m sure my luck will change though.”
He was on edge. It felt too weird having a semi-on while talking to someone who could potentially be his granny. With that, he swigged his tea down in one and finished his Jammy Dodger. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand – all an attempt to give closure to the situation and hint for Mrs Hall to bugger off. She went one better though.
“Tell you what. You’ve done more than enough for your first day. We normally close on a Monday anyway. Why don’t you get yourself off?”
We don’t do cheap gags. Make up your own get yourself off joke.
She continued, “Go on. I’ll tidy up in here. You get yourself home and I’ll see you at ten in the morning.”
He protested, she insisted. She wouldn’t budge, he had no choice. He gathered his shit together. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. This was not good.
“Mrs Hall, please, you’ll make me feel guilty on my first day for leaving it in such a mess,” he pleaded, “Though it is an organised mess all the same. I’d hate to lose track of where I am amongst it all. I’m not the tidiest of workers, see.”
What a fucking bullshitter. She actually went for it, making some comment about youngsters and untidiness as she picked the tray up to take back through. Ashley followed her through the front and left the shop, pausing at the window to wave to her. She waved back. Bless.
The next morning Ashley was there well before ten. He’d had a shit night. Couldn’t even bring himself to look at the smut in his bag for worry. Every time he thought about the mags, he panicked about being found out. He knew Libby would be there and the thought of not being able to perform for her sickened him. She’s be polite and say that it didn’t matter – but it did. He was certain Mrs Hall found the one on the table. She’d tell Ethel who would tell his mum who would – well; it’s not worth thinking about what she would. Or wouldn’t.
Nine-forty and Mrs Hall is sauntering up the high street. Ashley met her a few shops down to carry her bag for her. Bless. He’s good like that, our Ashley. Mrs Hall locked up soon after Ashley left yesterday and went to visit Ethel. She bumped into Ashley’s mum on the way home, and as Ashley was still in one piece, she mustn’t have noticed the porn. It meant he could mentally fix a date with her on the spot.
Libby. In the library. With the meat piping. Wicked.
As soon as they were through the door, the kettle and her little transistor radio were switched on and Ashley was itching to get to work. Ten-twenty came and he’d carried the day’s donation bags through with his tea to inspect the table for any disturbances. It was still a mess. Thank fuck. Ash could relax knowing he hadn’t been sussed and keep his promise to Libbs. He’d feel bad if he just went in with his tea and knocked one out, so he decided to sort through some bags first.
Day Two was just going to be as mundane as day one. Bar the obvious. He finished his tea and looked at the heap of stinking jeans and t-shirts on the table. This is what his life had become. Maybe his mum was trying to make him see the light in her own way, but Ashley was full of doubt on this theory. Using two fingers, he picked through the pile with utter disgust. A pair of jeans had some boxer shorts inside them and caked in skid marks – literally pulled off the wearer in one go, as they were all inside out. He’d seen nothing like it in his life. ‘I’ve seen nothing like it in my life’ would have been uttered if he weren’t so close to gagging. It stunk of puke. Stale puke. He rolled them into a ball and tossed them over into a corner of the room and sat back down, shivering. Only one thing could comfort him now – one thing could restore The A Bomb’s faith in humanity: Libby.
He fished the mag out. Was it still facing the way he left it? He didn’t know. He was almost past caring. With his right hand stuffed down his keks, his left found it’s way up inside his hooded top and began to pull on his nipple ring. Libby was something else. Draped over the desk, looking back at Ashley with those eyes … she wanted him and he wanted her.
He rose to his feet, their eyes locked on each other. He listened for movement next door. The radio was droning on and he could hear Mrs Hall talking to someone. No doubt one of her coffin-dodger mates popped in to discuss old stuff and drink tea. It was safe. Back to business. Ash had followed Libby to the library. She was just looking for a book for her essay when she felt the urge to touch herself. She’d never been with another girl but couldn’t take her eyes off the brunette two desks away from her. They had exchanged a smile and Libby couldn’t control herself. She was masturbating under the desk as the other girl watched, her legs wide open, her skirt hitched up, her panties pulled to one side. She was putting a show on with the girl all for Ashley’s benefit. She knew he’d love watching her, she knew he’d want to join in.
Oh Libby, you dirty, dirty
“Dirty fucking bastard!”
Ashley opened his eyes. What the fuck? He covered his embarrassment as best he could. The words stinging his ears as they surged through his head. His heart pumping, racing … there in front of him was Mrs Hall, and behind her, two blokes. In no time they had shoved her in towards Ashley as he wrestled with his jeans.
“Is this Ashley?” the older one demanded.
Ashley and Mrs Hall both replied. Ash hanging his head in shame.
“I was expecting a lass,” he said.
Ashley gathered Libby up, folded her in half and slid her into the back pocket of his jeans. She was his and only his. The bloke just tutted and shook his head. That was when Ashley noticed the gun and what they were wearing.
They were dressed in Teletubby costumes from the neck down. Tinky Winky and Po. Tinky Winky wasn’t all there. You could see the madness in his eyes. He was sweating and pacing the room then up on a chair to peer out the tiny window set high in the wall. Po helped Mrs Hall to a seat at the table. Ashley, sans erection, was still stood there like a plank. Tinky Winky jumped down off the chair and ordered him to,
“Sit. Wanker.”
The wanker sat. Mrs Hall glared daggers at him. Ashley looked back and knew exactly what she was thinking. Mum would go ape when she heard about this. If he got home in once piece, she’d kill him for having a tug at work.
“What do you want from us?” asked Mrs Hall.
“Erm, a Gary Barlow CD and a Len Deighton book. What the fuck do you think we want?” snapped Tinky.
“There’s no need for that language,” said the old dear.
In Tinkie’s situation, there was every need. A few minutes ago, four Teletubbies screwed the Post Office at the bottom of the high street and it all went tits up after one of them went crackers and started shooting. That someone was Tinky, or John to his mates, and the rest of them bailed. John dragged Po, a.k.a Stevie, along as the group got split up in the commotion. In a pitiful pastiche of Reservoir Dogs Mr Yellow, Mr Green, Mr Purple and Mr Red shot their way out of an angry queue of pensioners and single mothers to make off with a poxy few hundred quid.
Mr Purple hauled Mr Yellow into the charity shop as their disguises were hindering their escape. Mr Purple grabbed old Mrs Hall, forced her to lock the front door and walked her into the sorting room where Mr Scarlet was Ms Behaving, capiche?
“What shall we do, John?”
“Stevie. How many times do I have to tell you? Do not use my name. It’s that easy.”
“You want me to call you Tinky Winky after what you just did?” asked Stevie. He had a point.
Now both their names were known. John kicked a stack of old handbags at Stevie and then slumped down, squatting against the wall with his head in his hands, still holding the gun in his right. Sweat dripped down from his hairline. Stevie took a look into the shop front to see if their escape had been sussed. Anything to get away from John. Sirens in the distance and other than that all was quiet.
Back in the sorting room.
“The police sirens. Are they after you?” asked Mrs Hall.
Even a blind man could see they were. John just sighed with his eyes closed. His head was banging, the walls were closing in on him. His breath quickened and he rubbed his temples in soothing circular motions. All he needed to do was block everything out so he could think. He inhaled deeply through his nose trying to stabilise his breathing. It would have worked if it weren’t for Mrs Hall asking the same questions over and over and annoyingly over. What was he going to do to them? Why were they here? What did they want? What had they done? Why were the police after them?
Stevie returned just as John was screaming in her face,
“If you don’t shut up, I’ll motherfucking shut you up for good,” he shouted.
“What’s going on? John?”
Instinctively, John spun round pointing the gun at Stevie, “Don’t you fucking start. I’ve had enough from her without you starting.”
“Oh, well that’s just charming,” came Mrs Hall’s reaction, “What do you want to go and shoot him for?”
The gun swung back to Mrs Hall. Ashley could see she was pushing it too far but what could he do? Take John on? I doubt it. It was all about self-preservation and if she wanted to talk herself into a shooting, then let her. Fuck all to do with Ashley. There she was, in a staring match with a gun-toting psycho and going on like she’s bulletproof. The thing is, from John’s point of view, they had already shot the shit out of God knows who in the Post Office, took two hostages and he had the stolen money shoved inside his costume. It’s not like wasting some granny was going to make much difference to him.
Then there was the kid who was wanking off. Ashley. He’d seen John’s face and would also be a murder witness. Whichever way he looked at it, he had to do some sorting of his own. He’d deal with Stevie later.
He paced the floor again. Kicking and shoving boxes much to the dismay of Mrs Hall. She was looking for an ally in Ashley and he was having none of it. Sat back now with his arms folded, he knew that any association with her would put him in the shit. He kept his head down, cringing, grinding his teeth as they waited for John to vocalise his thoughts beyond ‘fuck’ and ‘cunts’.
Stevie was lost for words. He was a spare part in all this. He had nothing to do with the firm and just wanted out. He wasn’t a robber. He was an office clerk with gambling debt. He was Ewan Macgregor in A Life Less Ordinary and all he wanted was to be back in the ordinary. John checked the chamber,
“Fuck. One fucking bullet. Fuck!” he scratched his face and rubbed his head. He was frantic, looking over at the three of them, weighing up the enemy.
“Come on, John. It doesn’t have to …”
“Stand up!”
John was now pointing the gun at Ashley, who stood up cautiously with his hands in the air. Mrs Hall snorted her victory.
“You as well,” said John, “Stand next to him.”
Ashley found himself sneering at her as she edged round the table. As ridiculous as it sounds, he felt glad that she was going to wind up dead as well. John was cold. Without a word he stood the two back to back, facing Ashley, drawing the barrel of the gun up to his forehead, and pressing it against his skin.
Stevie did his fair share of pacing the floor too, unable to keep still, restless and itchy under the stress. They all knew what was going through John’s head and what was about to go through Ashley and Mrs Hall’s. Ashley was trembling, his eyes wide open, terrified, as John brought up his left hand to shield his face from the blood. The hammer clicked back … poised. All was silent. Tension.
“NO! NO!” cried Ashley.
He ducked out of the firing line, hands in the air. Tears rolled down his cheeks and he’d pissed himself. John, Stevie and Mrs Hall were almost bemused. It was only the helicopter flying overhead that stopped John from shooting Ashley’s face off on the spot. Stevie stepped up onto the chair to have a shuftie out the window. It didn’t look good. John was losing his temper.
“Look. I’m young. I studied Physics at uni. If you shot me first, the chances are the bullet would stick in my brain. It’s a fact that you’d have a better chance of shooting through an older skull and older brain.”
No way was Ashley taking a bullet for anyone. If it only killed her, then at least there was a chance for him.
“You what?” asked John.
“It’s true. Honest. It …”
“Shut up and line up.”
It’s not the best move to agitate an agitated gunman. Deflated, Ashley resumed his position with his back to Mrs Hall. Reluctantly. Praying for the police to burst in and do something. Anything. This time with a smirk on his face, John stood in front of Mrs Hall and lowered the gun dead centre between her eyes. Ashley was snivelling.
“Wanker.” she hissed.
John wouldn’t stop for anything … both hands wrapped around the handle; his finger clasped the trigger, applying pressure. Ashley whimpered, frozen to the spot. Even Mrs Hall accepted her fate and shut her eyes. She began to tremble as she made a fist with each hand, bracing herself.
CLICK: The gun didn’t fire.
All it did was cause more distress as they waited for the … BANG
This time it went off. The room filled with gun smoke and a body crashed to the floor. When the air cleared, there stood Ashley and Mrs Hall, bewildered. Mrs Hall’s forehead was black and her hair singed like she’d been in a cartoon bomb blast. A stream of blood trickled off the end of her nose and she wiped at it with the sleeve of her cardy. She was only grazed. John lay on the floor, blood pissing out from a gaping hole in his head, smoke rising from the exit wound. Stevie was open mouthed and speechless. Ashley screamed as he took in the scene.
News reports later filled the people of Gateshead in on the story. A ruthless gang of armed robbers dressed as the Teletubbies had done the Post Office over and split up to rendezvous later at an unknown address. La La and Dipsy were quickly apprehended and Tinky Winky and Po smashed their way into a charity shop where they got more than they bargained for from volunteers Ashley Eldridge and pensioner Brenda Hall. Notorious mobster John Drew was found dead at the scene, but there was no trace of his accomplice or the stolen money. Speaking from hospital, Eldridge and Hall confirmed that Drew was the only gang member to have entered the premises. Hall revealed that Drew had intended to shoot them. Bizarrely, the bullet ricochet off a metal plate she had inserted into her head following surgery. Her injury, which occurred during the war when she served in a munitions factory, proved to be instrumental in saving her life. The bullet hit her assailant, killing him instantly.
Mrs Hall and Mrs Eldridge sat at each side of Ashley’s bed as he lay recovering. They discussed Ashley at length and Mrs Hall told Ash’s mum that she must be proud of him for his heroism and selfless bravery. A stunned Mrs Eldridge was soon talked round. She gathered Ashley’s clothes and left him some clean ones and his toothbrush. In the morning when he woke from a restless sleep Libby was by his side in bed. They had a date to keep. They’d been through so much together and vowed never to be parted ever again.
