Grimm Tales by John Kenyon Page B

bars before you could say “Jack Robinson was a fag.”
    Last he’d set eyes on them was in the Pyrenees. Let them stretch their legs, gave them water and emptied the buckets. Even bought them bread and cakes.
    They certainly needed the fresh air. The stink in the back of the van was worse than the one under his duvet after a curry and a night on the piss.
    â€œWe have rights, Mr Dawson,” one of them had said. “We might be desperate, but we’re human beings. Human beings deserve better.” She was the feisty one of the group—someone took on the role every time. Not that it ever did them any good.
    â€œI can take you back,” Danny said, not looking her in the eye. “Leave you on the streets. Drop you off at an orphanage if you like.”
    Always shut them up, that one. Took the chirp from their mouths, it did.
    He thought about the back of the van. Couldn’t bear to imagine what it would be like in there now. He reached for the flask in his pocket to change the record his mind was playing.
    If he was pulled over, drink-driving would be the least of his worries.
    When the pie was opened, the birds began to sing
    Wasn’t that a dainty dish to set before the king.
    â€œReady, Danny?” Ralph asked. He wasn’t but he nodded his head, pulled out the wall of ply and stepped back real quick.
    Ralph and his mate turned the nozzles on the hoses and the water gushed into the van.
    The girls huddled together, crossing their arms over their bodies to maintain what was left of their dignity. The feisty one stared back at them like they should be worried.
    â€œGet laid?” Ralph shouted over the roar of the water and the high-pitched squeals of the girls.
    â€œToo young,” Danny said. Ralph was sick. This lot were just girls. Danny turned his back and went off for a smoke and another sip from the flask.
    The king was in his counting house counting out his money
    Charlie Wren looked out of the window at the top of the tower.
    Done well for himself, the lad. A mansion overlooking Sefton Park. Two gardeners, a chauffeur, a cook and a maid, not to mention a collection of Everton Football Club memorabilia that’s second to none.
    All built on the blood of Africa, just like the city.
    Danny could see him through the leaded glass. His big belly spilled out over the towel around his waist. In one hand he gripped the stub of a cigar, in the other a wad of cash.
    â€œClean ’em up good,” he shouted down. “Don’t want to be catching nothing from the merchandise.”
    Danny didn’t want to be around when the boss checked them out, jabbing his fingers into places they had no right to enter. “That’s enough,” he told Ralph and headed inside.
    The queen was in her parlour, eating bread and honey.
    Soon as he saw Jenny walking down the stairs, he got a hard on.
    Driving long distances could do that to a man, nothing to think about but football and sex.
    Helped that she looked good, skin glowing and skirt as tight as a condom on an elephant.
    When she saw him she put a little extra into the sway of her hips.
    The sultry smile on her lips expanded into a big grin and she dropped the plate she’d been carrying onto the floor. Three bounds and she was in his arms, legs wrapped around his hips.
    She sucked hard at his mouth.
    â€œDrinking already,” she said.
    â€œCelebrating. Where’s your mum?”
    â€œI’ve just taken up her toast. She’s still in bed.” How the other half lived.
    â€œAnd your dad’s not dressed.”
    â€œYou getting ideas?”
    â€œI’ve been having ideas all the way from Dover,” he said and walked her into the downstairs bathroom.
    Locking the door behind him, he fumbled at her buttons while she pulled madly at his fly.
    The maid was in the garden hanging out the clothes
    â€œDanny.” Charlie Wren wasn’t far away. “Danny.”
    Having her dad looking for