GUEST BLOGGER: Royston Blake - "Blakey on tour Part 7"

(A serialised story. Part one here)

'Blake,' says Rache, 'what the hell are you playin' at?'

'I'm just creating a... I mean, I'm just singing 'You Don't Have to Say You Love Me', by Elvis Presley.'

'But why are you... are you drunk or summat? It's Dusty Springfield, by the way.'

'It's fuckin' Elvis, Rache. I got it at home on one of me Elvis tapes.'

'Yeah but it was originally...' She stopped there cos I'd just opened the passenger door, and she had to lean back onto her side while I climbed in. 'Um, Blake, I didn't really mean for you to—'

'Smart motor, this,' I says, testing to wipers. They worked alright. 'What is it?'

'Eh? Oh, it's just an old Mitsubishi. Blake, you need to—'

'Good cars, them. You can't go wrong with German motors.' I tried the fag lighter and that worked as well. Not as fast as the one in the hearse, mind. 'Got a fag, Rache?'

'Oi, Peewee!' came another shout from outside. 'Where's you gone, Peewee Herman?'

'I'll fuckin...' I went for the handle, still deciding what I'd fucking do to Michael Ballot when I got him. But Rache got my arm and held it.

She were strong for a good-looking lass with quite big tits.

'Leave it, Blake,' she says in that same calming tone she always had, except when she were having a pop at us. 'Just look at me. Listen to me.'

'Who the fuck's this Herman feller, Rache?'

'Never mind about him. Tell me what's been going on.'

I found myself spilling the beans about it all, right down to Jock and his lad being killed by a vampire. I left out the bit about Alvin and his petrol habit, mind. Rache loved her kebabs and I wouldn't want her fretting that they wasn't available no more, Alvin going off the rails. All the while I stared down at me lap, watching meself go from stirring to not so stirring. By the time I'd got to the bit about Little Royston being a victim of the vampires and all, I could hardly see my cock at all. I rummaged around between me thighs and found it again.

'Oh, Blakey,' she says, touching my cheek and gazing at us with eyes that was moist and tender, like pickled eggs. 'When are you gonna see the big picture?'

I weren't entirely sure what she meant by that, but I had an idea it were about me finally giving her one, the big picture being her with her kit off and ready to go. In short, she were putting herself on a plate for us, and you got to grab moments like them when they arises. I grabbed her hand from my cheek and brung it down to groin level, winking at her.

'Um, do you want summat to wear?' Rache says, breaking free and reaching for the back seat.

'Eh? I thought you—?'

'You really ought to wear summat.'

'I'm alright, Rache. I left me gear over there, and—'

'I think you'll find it's gone now.'

I looked over by the Youth Centre wall and, true enough, gone was my strides and trolleys and other garments. 'The thieving fucking—'

'Here, put this on.' She dumped some sort of pink anorak in me lap. 'It's better than nothing.'

I picked it up, trying to find the words to tell her I'd rather scalp meself than wear a garment that is pink. That's when I heard the sirens. Behind us, in front and on all sides, by the sounds of em.

I opened the door and jumped out.

'Blake!' she yells after us, like as not disappointed that yet another chance to get shagged by Royston Blake had gone begging. But she'd have to wait – I had business to attend to.

The first blue flashing lights hoved into view up ahead as I vaulted the wall, near crushing me knackers but only sustaining some minor scrotum laceration in the event. I shouldered through the entrance doors of the Youth Centre, ignoring screams and shouts and running up stairs and kicking doors down and getting a bit lost, quite frankly. Right about the time I heard the walkie-talkies somewhere downstairs I found a window that opened. I stuck my head out and there were a nice drainpipe leading you down to an astro turf pitch, or summat. Taking it nice and careful, I climbed out and got a good grip of the pipe, then let go the window ledge. Straight away the pipe gave way and I went down, landing arsewise on the pitch with a load of guttering shrapnel raining down on us. Stung like a bastard, my arse did on that astro turf, and I had to rub both cheeks for fully half a minute while a jogged out the back and down the road there.

It were getting dark now and lights was coming on, but there weren't many on this street. Up ahead I could see a humpback bridge that took you over the canal. I needed to hide for a bit and get me swede straight, and under that bridge seemed like a good spot. Rain were starting to spit as well, and I could shelter down there. I seemed to have brung Rache's pink anorak along. Fuck knows how I hadn't dropped it in all that turmoil in the Youth Centre but here it were, clenched in my sweaty paw like a keepsake from better times. I found it comforting, having that anorak with us. I pulled it on, savouring the hint of perfume and stale fag smoke.

'Och, that suits you, Royston,' says Jock, stepping out from behind a Fiesta up on bricks.

'You cheeky cunt,' I says, going to pull off the anorak but not. It were getting well parky. 'Fuck's you doing down here? Was you spying on us?'

'Didnae mean to make yis jump – my apologies.' He got a half bottle of Bells from his pocket and swigged from it. 'I said I'd pick yis up roond the back, though, reet?'

'You never made us jump, I just...'

But he were off, down an alley behind the Fiesta and past some manky allotments and the backs of houses I hadn't looked at or thought about in donkeys. Pretty soon we was in a road I didn't recognise, though the moon were bright and gibbous and washing everything in a silver light that made you wonder if you was in a dream. One side were terraced houses, half of them condemned by the looks of em and with windows boarded up and warning signs outside. Other side were lock-ups and a vacant forecourt with weeds growing up out of it. Jock's burger van were parked in the corner.

'Where's my hearse?' I says. 'You said you'd get her started and—'

'It's no yours anyhow. Belongs to them vampires.'

'But—'

'Shut yis mooth and get in here.' He unlocked the van door and climbed in, then leaned out again. 'I've something to show yis.'

He smiled. I didn't like that smile. It made us want to walk away, pulling Rache's anorak tighter around us and sinking into her warmth and comforting smells. But I had to go on. I had to follow the path, though it were dark and rubble-strewn and with strange things lurking in dingy corners. I had to find out if that path led to Little Royston. Or the cunts who had swiped him.

I climbed aboard.

To one side of the van were a bench, about six long and two wide. The dead one from the coffin in my hearse were stretched out upon it, legs and arms stiff and face grey. Jock's sharpened stick from earlier were planted six inches deep in his chest.

'This one here ain't wakin' up, the neet,' says Jock, locking the door behind us.


(Come back tomorrow for the next bit...)