Indian Ink (X Press Short Story Writing Competition)

This story was for a contest called the X Press Writing Competition. I believe it had some association with a West Midlands publisher but it’s lost in the mists of time now. If I had the chance again I’d work on the protagonist’s dialogue, which is very clunky, but it’s not a bad effort in essence. It didn’t get picked up anyway, and I was a bit pissed off because I’d worked really hard on it. Welcome to the life of a writer.

INDIAN INK

By Christopher Stanley

Summer was finally here and Jay was feeling good. The top down on his Mini convertible, the sun was baking the streets, and the breeze hit his body like he was in his own personal wind tunnel. He pressed the volume button on his stereo, and Nas rapped louder, stronger.

   The traffic was always bad around One Stop. Perry Barr was rank, but it was the easiest place to buy drugs this side of Bogotá. The area was dominated by tower blocks, and there were symbols of major world religion: a huge mosque and a crumbling church. Jay never paid them any attention: he was his own religion.

   As he sped up alongside a row of small shops, their frontages having seen better days, Jay’s mobile shouted a flavour of the month dance tune. Grabbing it from beneath the steering column, he answered without stopping.

   ‘Terence, my man!’ Jay’s accent was West Midlands meets South Central, which he’d consciously worked on. It was another thing that he was pretty pleased with.

   ‘Jay, mate? Thank Christ I got you!’

   Jay had been forced to slow coming up to the roundabout, the public library on one side and the Crown and Cushion on the other.

   ‘S’up, Terry?’

   ‘No point coming here, son. Place has been raided, innit?’

   ‘Don’t skank me, Terence! I told you I was coming. Now, what you telling me?’

   ‘What can I do, man?’ Terry’s voice was panicked. No doubt he was calling from a safe house. ‘If the fuzz have pulled us, there ain’t nothing I can do, is there?’

   Jay hated being let down like this. Every couple of weeks he visited, bought a fortnight’s worth of stuff, and that was him sorted apart from skirt and booze. He didn’t ask for much, and when the simple things went wrong, it made him madder than hell.

   ‘Terence, man. What can you do?’ Jay sucked his teeth. He was pulled up next to another row of shops, selling either pungent fabric or fatty sweets. ‘You’re a loser, you know that?’

   Terry started to protest but Jay cut him off.

   ‘Forget me, man. You’se and me are spent. How long I been comin’ to you? You couldn’t put some aside? For me?’

   Jay heard Terry gasp in disbelief, and then he pressed his red ‘End Call’ button. That was satisfying. It didn’t matter; he knew plenty of dealers. It was just harder in the beginning to build up a rapport. He could picture Terry, his thick brow tensed, mouth popping like a goldfish. He was no great loss.

   He ripped round the island again, cutting off an articulated lorry. Raising his hand behind him, he flipped the furious driver off.

   He took a right at the greyhound track and turned up towards Witton. Just before the football ground, he turned his music up as loud as it would go. And as he passed in a blur of speed and noise, he shouted an obscenity at the home of the Villa.

   Nodding as he slowed and entered the dual carriageway, Jay decided a tattoo was the perfect way to beat any remaining blues he might have been harbouring. There was a great place near the NCP car park run by a guy called Ravi. Jay didn’t usually let non-whites anywhere near him, but Ravi was alright. Besides, he had to wear gloves.

   Jay loved whipping down the winding one-way streets and finding space between the seedy buildings. Birmingham was changing, becoming wide and open, but for Jay you couldn’t beat that oppressive city feeling. There were places to hide. If you knew the right nooks, you could rule an entire city, and he’d done just that when he was younger. Now he just made sure he had cash in the pocket, a way of earning money, and a girl in every district.

   The backstreets were quieter in this part of town. Not so far from the centre, but it felt like a world away. Screaming round the corner, sending up a smoke reeking of charred rubber, Jay pointed his Mini towards the kerb, and almost ran straight into trouble, in the form of two Asian women; one in an ornate blue sari, the other hunched and ancient, clad like a mummy in white silk.

   The younger woman helped her companion from the floor and glared at Jay.

   ‘You stupid boy, didn’t you see us? You could have killed me, or my mother! Look at her; she can hardly move as it is!’ Her mother was leaning on her stick, a mean look on her face, rocking slightly back and forth.

   He hated Birmingham for this. He didn’t mind Jamaicans, but it was the Indians and Pakistanis he hated. They thought they owned the streets, and white people ought to move mountains just for them. They were all the same; all spongers and whingers. Jay slammed the car door, more for effect than anything else, and began his retort.

   ‘Do I look like I give one, you stupid cow? Couldn’t you see me coming, or what?

   The old woman was gesticulating at him furiously, while her daughter spluttered in shock. Jay was nonplussed. This was his city; a white man’s city.

   ‘It’d be your own fault! Stop shouting at me, and get back to where you came from.’ His face was about a foot and a half from the old lady’s by now. The younger woman tried to steer her away, but she stood her ground.

   ‘Man, you stink!’ laughed Jay. ‘Smells like you’ve been dead a month anyhow! Lie down and I’ll do a proper job!’ Jay loved all this; he could say what he liked – they were terrified of him. He could even smack them in the face and nobody would see.

   She was already being shuffled off but still ranted. Jay was getting tired of it; in the shadow of the tall buildings a chill passed over him. He was only wearing a vest, surfer trousers and sandals.

   ‘If I see you on the way back, I ain’t gonna stop!’ Jay chortled and turned towards the door. As he reached it he noticed the elder woman had stopped jabbering. Instead, he saw that she had fixed him with a steady eye. It was filled with a cataract, but she seemed to stare at him through the milky white blockage. One arm was raised, and her stick was aimed towards his chest.

   The old lady shouted at him, the same chant over and over. She would have shouted all day, her voice-box destroying itself, had her daughter not forced her away. Jay raised his own hands above his head, formed them into two v-signs, and shouted back. ‘Whites rule!’

   He pushed the door and heard the buzzer sound.

   The tattoo place reeked of sterile needles and hot ink. The walls covered in examples of work gave it the look of a torture den – pierced flesh, raised and raw skin; dark welts and lines burnt into pink fat. A good tattooist could make you forget what normal skin was like.

   Jay rapped on the counter, the top of which was glass, encasing various rings and chains. Ravi stepped through fly-netting and nodded.

   ‘Alright, man?’

   ‘Ravi, dude! How is it going?’ He always did this with Ravi, pronouncing his greeting in a cod-Indian accent. Ravi had a deeper Brummie accent than Jay, but it was all part of their banter as far as Jay was concerned. For his part, Ravi had to deal with plenty of wideboys like Jay: brain-dead and limited. It was tiresome, but they paid well.

   ‘Fine, ta. What can I do for you?’

   ‘You can sell us a car, you mincer! What d’you think I come in here for?’

   Ravi forced a smile. ‘I’m just with a client right now. Have a look, see if there’s anything you fancy.’

   Jay sat down and picked up a thick portfolio. It was full of the usual Gaelic stuff, dragons and skulls. Jay had a City crest on his back, a bulldog on his shoulder, the Cross of St. George on his neck and loads of others dotted about his body. Hearts, daggers, crosses; in places he looked like he’d been inspired by a tarot deck.

   Ravi’s client, a teenage girl, came out and paid Ravi. She eyed Jay suspiciously from under an eyebrow ring. After she’d left, Jay spoke up enthusiastically. ‘What was she having, then? Naughty piercing?’

   Ravi shook his head. ‘Nah. Tiger in the small of her back.’

   Jay smiled. ‘I bet, you dirty boy.’

   Ravi didn’t even look up. ‘Found what you wanted yet?’

   ‘Nah. Hey, this old brown wench shouted somethin’ at me as I was comin’ in.’

   Ravi looked up sharply. ‘What did she look like?’

   ‘I dunno. She was with some other fat bird. Almost ran ‘em over in me Mini. All look the same to me.’ Jay grinned.

   ‘Two Asian women?’

   ‘Yeah! God, who cares?’ said Jay, not noticing Ravi’s face crease and darken beneath the skin like a thundercloud. He’d been so eager to abuse that he hadn’t had time to notice the features that ran through three generations of a family.

   ‘What did she say to you?’ There was an edge to Ravi’s voice now; a thirst.

   Jay repeated phonetically what the old lady had chanted. ‘What’s it mean, Rav?’

   Ravi looked flustered for a moment. ‘It means, er, “White Hooligan.”’

   This impressed Jay no end. ‘Smart! That’s me, innit? Write it down for us, chap.’

   Ravi pulled a pad from the side of the register and did as requested. It was a long string of symbols Jay didn’t understand, but he pretended to read it anyway.

   ‘I want that, Rav. All up me arm, like Beckham.’

   ‘You sure?’

   ‘Too right.’

An hour and a half later Jay hopped back into his Mini, his right forearm covered with a huge bandage. The tat was going to look smart, he thought. Come Saturday, when the swelling had gone down and the beer was flowing, he’d look the business.

   But it throbbed like no other tattoo he’d ever had. At the traffic lights in Digbeth he peeled the bandage back a bit, and could see a deep black mess surrounded by scarlet skin. It shocked him, and he slapped it back down as hard as he could, shooting pain up his arm.

   Back in his flat, he went into the bathroom and pulled off his vest. Spreading his arms wide, he took in his tattooed body, toned and hard. Throwing caution out the window, he ripped off his bandage and stood there, his right forearm almost glowing like a hot coal.

   He put some Adidas moisturiser on it, and almost immediately felt better. But the ordeal had taken a bite from him, and all he could do for the rest of the day was sit in his leather swivel chair, drinking vodka and watching DVDs. He submitted to sleep early, and when he woke up on Saturday morning, the menu for Basic Instinct flickered back at him.

   Looking at his arm, he was astonished by what he saw. There was absolutely no sign of bruising, none of the angry swollen flesh that he’d nursed all of yesterday afternoon. All there was was a string of Indian writing, professionally tattooed up the inside of his forearm. No signs of violence or pain. Jay nodded his head. ‘Smart.’

   Going to the bathroom, he spread his arms again. He looked irresistible, covered in ink and muscle. He even looked like he’d been away, his flesh sun-kissed. First thing to do was get some skunk, then out on the pull down Brindley Place.

   He had to go all the way to Smethwick, a grotty tower block called Hamilton House, to get some good quality stuff. He’d had a nice morning tasting a few samples across the Black Country, but Marco’s was the most potent. He handed over a sheaf of tenners.

   ‘We don’t see you round here much, do we?’ said Marco. No we don’t, thought Jay, ‘cos you’re a scabby gyppo, but  I’m desperate.

   ‘Nah, man. You’ll be seeing a lot more of me, though. Regular supplier’s bailed, see.’

   ‘Right. You been away, Jay? Cool tan.’

   ‘Nah, man. Got that convertible, ain’t I?’

   Marco handed Jay a small bag containing a quarter ounce. ‘Going out tonight?’

   ‘Yeah, dude. Up Brindley Place, get me some juicy stuff, you know? Joinin?’

   ‘Nah, rather stay in. Bought some K.’

   ‘Don’t go sparking out on me, my man; I’m gonna put a lot of business your way, innit?’

   Jay nodded and made sure he slammed the door as he left. You did things fast in Hamilton House, with the amount of junkies looking for a fix. He’d be mad if there were any hubcaps missing from his motor.

   Brindley Place was packed with a summer crowd. Girls in short white skirts sprayed too much perfume, looking for blokes. There were students, plain-clothes coppers and paramedics clearing up blood and spit. Jay loved it; there was good music, good times, and sexy women. You couldn’t beat the Brindley Place Meat Market.

   ‘Alright, darlin’? Get on that!’ Nicky pointed to his crotch, and a group of girls shrieked in mock-horror. Jay, Nicky and Gazza creased up with laughter. The plan, as always, was to split up and regroup tomorrow afternoon in the Brickmaker’s Arms for the inquest.

   ‘Great tot down here tonight, in’t there?’ said Gazza.

   ‘Always is.’ Jay was hoping they’d mention the tattoo. They didn’t. ‘Probably pull a piece with this new tat.’

   He held out his arm and only Nicky seemed mildly interested. A new tat on Jay was as expected as a storm at sea. ‘Nice one, bra. Goes well with the tan.’

   Jay was getting annoyed with the references to his tan, but he knew girls loved a brown, muscular body. He spotted a group of hotties; a couple of Asian girls and their blonde mate. The latter was fine, all legs and tight top. If he could get the others out of the way… divide and conquer.

   ‘See you’se later, man.’ He made his way over to the All Bar One.

   ‘Hello, ladies. Havin’ a good time, yeah?’

   They were standoffish; only the blonde answered. ‘Fine, thanks.’ She had a Brummie accent, which Jay thought was a good sign. They had a connection already.

   ‘Can I get you a drink, babe?’

   One of the Asian girls snorted. ‘And we don’t exist? Typical…’

   It was true, but Jay knew what would happen if he agreed. ‘Nah, man. You got it wrong. I was asking all of you, yeah?’

   The two Asian girls sniggered and lapsed into Punjabi. ‘Yeah, right. Who does Shorty think he’s kidding?’ Jay could understand them clear as a bell, and perked up, affronted.

   ‘You know, kiss it, man! I was trying to be nice!’ The girls looked at him, stunned. The Punjabi had flowed out of his mouth like he’d been speaking it all his life.

   Jay clasped his hand over his mouth in panic, like he was about to vomit, and escaped back to Nicky and Gazza. He glanced over at the girls, still staring.

   ‘Yo man, what’s up? You look like you’ve had your nuts tightened,’ laughed Nicky.

   Jay shook his head. ‘Rusty bikes, weren’t they? Told me I was too short.’

   Gazza laughed, and Nicky couldn’t help himself. They were both taller than him, but softer, so they didn’t say it to his face too often. ‘Come to mention it, bra, you are a bit of a dwarf!’

   ‘Yeah, like Gimbli, man,’ said Nicky, trying to reference the short, dark Lord of the Rings character.

   ‘Watch it, man.’ Jay shook his head. The whole thing was confusing. He felt like blowing out the search for women and going home. Making his excuses, he was home within half an hour of the incident. Sprinkling tobacco into a Zig Zag paper, Jay’s mood quickly took off into the clouds.

   The Brickmaker’s Arms was usually quiet on a Sunday until about two. Nicky, Gazza and Jay had been going there for years for the hair of the dog and to leer at Natasha, a barmaid who they’d all gone to school with but none of them had ever slept with. It was an official competition between the three of them to do it.

   Nicky bought two pints back to the table, two bags of steak McCoy’s clamped between his teeth. He let them drop. ‘Here y’are, chap.’

   Gazza nodded, his phone to his ear.

   ‘Still no sign?’

   Gazza shook his head. He’d felt bad how they took the rise out of Jay last night. He’d always been sensitive about his height, and learnt to be mouthy as a defence. Normally it worked, but last night it was as if he couldn’t raise any barriers.

   They usually made it here for the same time, but they’d already had two pints and Jay hadn’t appeared. Gazza had been ringing but there was no pick-up. He stood and made his way to the toilet.

   Nicky watched Gazza go and supped at his pint. Secretly, he wouldn’t care if Jay turned up or not. He was too mouthy, too cocksure. He bought trouble to the table. Replacing his pint and checking his phone, Nicky began deleting some texts when a shadow fell across the screen. It could only be Jay.

   He was surprised to see a small wrinkled tramp in a dirty tracksuit and oversized trainers. He looked ridiculous, like he’d robbed a school kid.

   ‘Yeah? What do you want?’

   The man spilled a string of nonsensical words at Nicky. He pawed at him, trying to cling to him, after money. Nicky pushed him away.

   ‘Jeez, man! What the hell d’ya think you’re doin’?’

   The man looked forlornly at him and turned away. He’d gone by the time Gazza returned.

   ‘Some gypsy bloke tried to rob me, just.’

   ‘I ain’t surprised. Stickin’ to his own.’ Gazza laughed, and the incident set them talking about immigration; a subject neither of them knew much about but had a clear solution to.  

   The buzzer echoed in the small workroom, and Ravi got up from his seat and made his way through the curtain. A small, hunched over Asian woman was leaning on his counter.

   ‘Hello there, can I help?’ Ravi offered.

   The woman raised her head, staring at him through her cataract. The eye was defiant in its blankness, but the chin was not as strong as it used to be. The figure was strangely unisex, because the spine had bent with age. The face was wrinkled, the hands arthritic. The woman was cocooned in a dirty white sheet and a towelled headscarf.

   ‘Have you come to the wrong place, love?’ shouted Ravi. It was odds-on the woman was deaf, too.

   She raised a wizened finger at Ravi’s face, the right one. As the arm came up,  he could see thread veins beneath the flesh, the skin like aged paper. He could clearly see some long dormant black markings.

    The old woman spluttered a string of Punjabi at Ravi. The functioning eye was trained on him, like a cobra waiting to strike. ‘What…have…you…done…to…me?’

   It couldn’t be? ‘Nah, man, this is a wind-up!’

   The figure slowly shook its head.

   ‘Jay?’

   ‘What did you do?’ Jay shook back and forth as he gripped the counter-top.

   ‘I just…it was a joke. I didn’t think it was true, right?’

   Ravi spluttered while Jay waited for an explanation. The sheet was unexpected, but a man turning into an arthritic Indian lady could hardly wear vests and combats.

   ‘Those women you shouted at, right? That was my mother and granny, right?’ Ravi couldn’t believe what he was saying. ‘She always reckoned she could curse people, yeah? I never took it seriously. She said she could…but I didn’t believe her.’

   Jay fixed his eyes on Ravi.

   ‘It doesn’t say “White Hooligan,” right? That was just a joke, a mickey-take. I was angry, man. I wanted to teach you a lesson but I never thought it would work. It says “Let him become that which he fears most.”’

   And Ravi, underneath all the hatred and confusion, could see growing pinpricks of pure fear in his former client’s eyes.