Nymphomation(17)

Without his protection and so scared.

From Swan Street, another left on to Shudehill, where the pornomarts did the dirties, selling filthiness to the all-night self- abusers. Along streets where discarded loser bones lay in piles of cream, this young girl with a feather in her hair. See how she runs. In her tightly clenched fist a desperate bone; one of the few still half alive that night. Dotted with a one-and-a-five combination; the one gone to cream, but the five alive and black and lovely and pulsing…

Celia had won a second half-match! Yes! A glorious five for a fistful of punies, just waiting to be clenched. She had wished and wished to be a winner and now her strong wishes had come up half true. If she could just outrun this drunken mob of loser tramps; if she could only find Eddie in time for the prize-giving.

Way past midnight, and Celia has to present her half-bone at the winners’ enclosure before the following midnight. That was the ruling. Piccadilly Gardens, the deadline for collection. Only the purchaser could collect the winnings, so she would have to find Eddie Irwell, whilst still dodging the tramps that wanted to steal her prize. What was happening to the brethren? Blame it on the bones.

But 100 punies! A way out of the begging, at last, if she could only find Big Eddie and then stop him from claiming the prize as his own. So much work to do. Running loose on street knowledge.

Little Miss Celia, escaping, finally sleeping, in a chosen doorway, next to an air vent, of course, but still shivering cold, her newsprint overcoat wrapped tight around her. Only the half- winning bone in her fingers. The pulsing five-spot. Dreaming of home. Where the hell was home? Celia had woken up one day with nowhere else to go, that was the truth.

Home was where you laid your bone, and another three people died that night; half-casters, killed out of jealousy, winnings stolen.





Play to win


Jazir woke at eight the next morning. Skipped breakfast, skipped dressing. Fallen asleep in yesterday’s clothes, he walked along Oxford Road to the university.

Early morning blurbs, all around his head. All the companies of Manchester, playing out their messages. Blurbs for the burgercops: Arrest to win! Blurbs for the whoomphies: Eat to win! Blurbs for the dominoes: Play to win! Blurbs for the tinker: Sell to win! Blurbs for the tailor: Stitch to win! Blurbs for the soldier: Fight to win! Blurbs for the sailor: Float to win! Blurbs for the rich man: Steal to win! Blurbs for the poor man: Steal to win! Blurbs for the beggar man: Plead to win! Blurbs for the thief: Steal to win!

Every company had a corporate message to fly, as long as they paid the subscription to AnnoDomino.

Steal to win, steal to win, steal to win!

But Jazir offered an alternative route.

His first client was waiting at the gate, as prearranged. “What’s happening, Jaz?’ Benny Fenton asked. ‘Did you get what I asked for?’

‘It’s done.’

‘I need that message.’

‘Here’s your take-off, Benjamin.’

Benny looked deep into the polythene bag, eyed the crimped-up silver box within, heavy with the stench of something hot. The bag was faintly pulsing in his hands. ‘Thank you, very much,’ he said. ‘Is it programmed?’

‘It’s done.’

‘What’s the cost?’

‘No cost, Benny. Just a future favour.’

‘Already granted, whatever it takes. Cheers, Jaz.’

Benny went off happy, and Jazir entered the university. Just outside the library doors he met his second customer: a fellow Asian boy, a first-year Chemistry student called Baljit Pandit. Jaz handed over a takeaway tray with a nice fresh pseudoblurb inside. ‘That should get you laid.’ Jazir accepted the payment in return, a card of infinite depth.

The university’s library was open between half-eight and twelve on a Saturday, in order for the diligent students to partake of the knowledge in peace. Only one librarian was on duty, because hardly any students were ever that keen to get up so early after the Friday-night revels.

The lone librarian was a Miss Denise Crimson, spinster of the parish.

At 8.35 precisely a certain student presented himself at Miss Crimson’s desk, asking to be allowed access to the computers. ‘My, you’re eager this morning,’ the librarian said. ‘Your name, please?’ She made it her duty to know the faces of all the keenest students, but this was a stranger to her books, a dusky stranger…

‘Pandit, Baljit,’ answered Jaz Malik, knowing the librarian would appreciate this reversal of the names. He then pulled his payment from his shoulder bag: a student’s ID card. Gold dust!

Jaz kept it moving as he flashed his best smile at the spinster.

Miss Crimson saw a lovely Asian boy, plus a lovely Asian photograph on the card. The man and his card, eager to learn. ‘Study hard, Student Pandit,’ said with lonely love.