Author’s Note
When I started this personal project to get a little bit braver about sharing my fiction, I would begin a tale and write until it was finished. There might be a modest amount of editing but mostly I picked up a pen, wrote, and published. That’s pretty straightforward with 100-word microfiction or 50-word contributions to ‘Fifties by the Fire’, the flash fiction community created by , but not so easy with longer pieces that delve deeper into the characters at the heart of them.
This story started in one direction with a particular character at the heart of it. That character - a dark, unsympathetic soul - is still there, but my patience with the tale paid off (I think, I hope?) … by leaving it alone for a while, another angle presented itself. Underneath the grime, a softer tale emerged.
Perhaps I’m learning as I go.
You can tell by looking, he’s a bad man. But he knows some girls love a rogue. He reckons the ones who resist his charms are playing hard to get so he pushes a little harder. When I say ‘a little’, I mean he just takes what he wants. I’ve watched him at work. Truth be told, that’s what fires his rockets.
I see it most nights.
I see him as the fairground lights sparkle in the darkness, an unlikely serving of joy sprinkled over whatever shithole town it is that we rolled into last night. All the fun of the fair, huh? Gaudy glamour for the unimaginative. Overpriced treats for whining kids, an escape for hard-pressed grown-ups trying to recapture their youth. You know the odds are stacked in favour of us traders, right? It’s a council-approved den of thieves … a licence to print money. Would I buy a bag of candy floss for a fiver? No way, but I’d sure as hell sell it, which is why I squeeze eighteen-stone of lardy arse into this poxy vending truck every night ‘til I come out sweating sugar cane and smelling of toffee popcorn.
Anyhow, this isn’t about me.
He’s always just over there, nonchalant, like. Rollup cigarette behind his right ear. It’s pierced but not with one of them gold pirate rings. Saves that for the left ear on account of it still having a dangly bit to hang some finery on. Pushed a young miss too far one night. Lost an earring, the fleshy bit of an ear and his nuts were numb for a week after she planted a knee in them. Nuneaton or someplace like that. All the places blur into one another. And for him, I guess, the girls do too. Except her. Brummie Bitch, he muttered for weeks after. Took it out on a good few others once his balls stopped aching. I see it all, you know. I don’t miss much round here. Amazing how an overweight twenty-something who smells like a sweet shop can fade into the background. No one is looking twice at my face for radio so I’ve gotta’ get my kicks where I can.
So I watch him.
I see how he sweet-talks them. Leaning in a bit too close, palming them a joint, and arranging to share it when the rides have stopped with their rattling for the night. He whispers how they’re the only one for him. She’s not even the only one that night. Does what he pleases, this fella’.
I watch … and wish.
Mind you, it’s hard to escape into your thoughts with the blaring, booming, monotonous sounds of the fairground ringing in your ears. The clattering of rides made up of ill-fitting parts and badly tightened nuts. My job is to distract the Council inspectors with sweet treats if they start looking too closely. Yeah, but who distracts me with sweet treats, eh? Anyways, the sounds. Banging away at you. The plinky-plonky out-of-tune sound of the carousel competes with Taylor Swift tunes at the dodgems. And his choice of 80s tunes over at the waltzer cuts straight to the chase. He mouths the words to ‘Perfect’ at whatever skinny cow is today’s fairground attraction. He straddles their chair, his jeans straining to contain his intentions. He moves sinuously to the Pet Shop Boys, and I think “left to my own devices, I probably would”. But I keep that to myself.
Maybe he knows.
I watch him, you see.
They come back for him after the lights have dimmed when the only sounds are their pathetic squeals as he asserts himself. He smiles that smile. They fall for it every time as they hand over the packet of fags he told them to bring, and the tenner he wheedled out of them with a sob story about rent or being docked pay, or some other pack of lies. Leans in to kiss them as he’s folding the note and sliding it into his back pocket. Not the pocket with the strip of condoms in it. We rolled into town on Thursday and now it’s Saturday and that silly little girl who’s being led into the dark spaces between the caravans doesn’t know there are four missing from the strip already. Maybe he just won’t bother with one for her. Fresh out of Year 11. Perhaps she’s legal. Who knows? He’s not bothered. That pretty mouth isn’t just for kissing.
I watch him when they’re bent at the waist moments after they’ve unbuttoned his Levis. Eyes closed, lost in his thoughts. You can see everything from the shadows. And hear it. I think that’s what I like best. The sounds. I don’t mind saying, that’s what does it for me. Their moans, his cursing, the sound of a calloused hand leaving a print on pale flesh. The sobs too. I like the crying. First-timers always cry before they gather themselves, trying to look cool as they share a cigarette before he sends them packing with some old bullshit about “an early start”, and “see you tomorrow, babe”. ‘Babe’ is right, teetering somewhere between schoolgirl and wannabe grown-up.
Babe. I like to hear him say it, growling like a 20-a-day habit.
I watch him, you know.
And he watched me once, my jeans undone, touching myself as he slammed into the silly bitch facing away from him, puffa jacket pulled down to trap her arms tight, panties hanging off one ankle. He nodded at me, two sharp slaps stinging her skin and tipping me over the edge. I didn’t mind him looking. I liked it, to be fair. He winked, I know he did. Left her standing there when he was done. Swaggered off still tucking himself in. I melted away into the night, into my caravan.
And now it’s Sunday and I am watching again, praying a little. They came for him. Her Dad, shouting the odds. Three brothers. Big lads. Hauled him out of his van and beat him up real bad. Or real good if you’re the one handing out the left hooks and the kidney punches. He started crying then. I didn’t like that but I watched from the shadows. Watched as blood sprayed from his broken nose. Broken hearts mean broken noses in this shithole of a town where hard men get to hear about the liberties you’ve taken, where it doesn’t matter how many rubbers you’ve got left, you ain’t going to be using them for a while after a pissed-off brother slams a Doc Martin boot into your crown jewels. I watched but I didn’t like it.
They left him curled up and sobbing like a baby. That’s when I went to him. He needs me now. I’ll get him into his caravan, and clean him up. Maybe he’ll sleep and I’ll slide off those jeans, check for damage. As long as it takes. He groans softly. I whisper “it’ll be okay” and mouth ‘babe’, just trying it out for size. Where are all those skinny birds now, lover? What you need is the big girl from the candy floss wagon. And I’m here for you, babe. Right here, watching over you.
I could leave you
say good-bye
or I could love you
if I try
and I could
and left to my own devices
I probably would
Left to my own devices
I probably would
Left to my own devices - Pet Shop Boys (1988)
Good work. Dark, and lots to love and loathe
Wow, Great story Barrie. You've captured the seedy traveling carnival atmosphere so well. It reminded me somewhat of the carnival scenes in Loon Lake by E.L. Doctorow (a great read, btw). I like the repetition of the line, "I watch him, you know." It adds to the dark feeling of the piece. I really enjoyed this.