Rant by Alfie Crow Page B

you know…and…stop fiddling with yourself down there…anyone could come by and I don’t want to get picked up for cottaging or summat, leastways not with someone like you and—Why are you crying?’
    I wasn’t actually crying, it’s just the stench coming off the guy was making my eyes water, but I didn’t have time to go into it. Another police car had just streaked past the park, siren still going but he was definitely slowing down, looking for something. I eventually managed to pull out the gun, squeaking as I pulled out a fair clump of pubes that had got caught on the barrel.
    â€˜Shut. Up.’ I said through gritted teeth. Surprisingly, he did. For all of five seconds. We both stared, fascinated, at the twist of curly hair wrapped around the barrel of the gun I was pointing toward him. Then he started up again.
    â€˜Oh, I get it. You’re one of these bastards that makes old tramps fight each other to the death and then you and your missus shag the winner together. Terrible business that. Read all about it in me chip papers the other day. You ought to be ashamed. Still, I know people can’t help their sexuality.’
    I really did think I was going to throw up.
    â€˜Ah well, let’s get on with it,’ he said resignedly.
    â€˜Just take off your coat,’ I said, quietly. ‘Please.’
    â€˜Can’t we go somewhere private?’
    â€˜Just do it.’
    He did, muttering all the while about the permissive society and privacy issues, then looked around before he asked,
    â€˜Is this some kind of reality TV thing? Like, is me mother going to jump out from behind a bush in a minute? Is that Davina woman going to come in and give us a hug?’
    I took a deep breath and shrugged myself into his coat. I could feel the hairs in my nose curling. I handed him my jacket and he looked at it disgustedly.
    â€˜George at Asda? You’ve got to be kidding. That’s an Armani I gave you.’
    I felt grease scrape under my fingernails as I slipped the gun into my new pocket and the carrier bags under the front of the coat. I reached out two fifty-pound notes.
    â€˜Get yourself a new one,’ I said. ‘And a cup of tea.’
    â€˜Don’t bleedin’ patronise me,’ he shouted.
    I bent down and took a handful of mud from next to the bench and smeared it over my face and hands. Too late I smelt the dog turd and spotted the used condom half buried in it. I sighed.
    â€˜You want to be careful, doing that,’ he told me, ‘there’s used needles and all sorts round here.’
    I walked away from him, back into the park, back towards home, pulling a greasy old hat from the pocket of the coat as I went. I slipped it onto my head, trying not to think about it as it sat there like a cold cowpat. My scalp started to itch menacingly.
    The last of the red-hot Eurovision lovers was still shouting something at me as I stepped back out onto the pavement but I couldn’t hear for the traffic, the sirens, the fatty hat pulled down over my ears.
    And, believe it or not, gentle reader, this was when things really started to turn bad.
    I stumbled and twitched the three miles home, recoiling every time a siren went off near me. (Which seemed surprisingly often. How come there are suddenly so many police available when you don’t want to see one? You’re always reading in the papers about people phoning up and no police appearing when someone’s been murdered or mugged or fiddled out of their royalties for a TV appearance, but you rob one little bank and— ranting again, sorry.)
    I hunched myself over what was now quite a weighty haul of money and headed for home. It took a couple of hours to weave my way through the back lanes and cycle paths but I got there eventually and as I crept into the street I looked around furtively. No, I don’t know what I expected to see – a group of Mexicans in sombreros carrying