Click to play MP3 of Bay & Michelle
Read by Sarah Le Fevre
Arif had got Bay the Ford Orion as soon as he came out of Belmarsh. “Got a good deal from Madhouse Cars,” he’d told him. “They said, as it was for you, they’d be very happy to sort you out.” New wheels, new hanging dice, Michelle and Bay on a strip across the windscreen. Sorted. Life was good. That was one of the best things that had happened after getting out; getting the car.
“You want a job?” Arif had asked on the Friday. “I got a passenger wants to go Heathrow.”
That had been wicked, watching the planes land. A free man.
“You want a job?” Arif had asked on the Friday. “I got a passenger wants to go Heathrow.”
That had been wicked, watching the planes land. A free man.
“We’ll go on a plane one day baby,” he’d told Michelle. “We’ll go Corfu. Take your kids, if we’re allowed.”
“We can be like normal people,” she’d said, “You can drive me up Southend and wear your dark glasses like the Blues Brothers.”
Bay was pleased he was home. He could paint the flat, make enough money to buy some gear and have sesame prawns every Friday. Things were really looking up.
*
“I need you to do a pickup.” Arif said on Sunday morning, “Shouldn’t take long, it’s local.” Bay wasn’t keen on this part of the job; getting up early. He would be wasted from the night before. Saturday night, lots of spliff, cider and jiggy jig. Last night Michelle had been gagging for it. “You’ve been away too long,” she’d said. He wasn’t complaining. Besides he wanted a baby. A boy. He’d be a brilliant dad. Not like his own; beating him up, smacking him in the face every time he did something wrong. He wouldn’t lay a finger on his own kid. No way. “For Christ’s sake, Bay,” Michelle had said, “I’ve been sterilised. Remember?” He was sure there’d be a way.
“You want to come with me?” he asked now, “It’s just to pick up a parcel. Then we could come straight home. You can do some dirty dancing for me later.”
“What sort of parcel?” said Michelle.
“Fuck knows.”
“Be careful, Bay, I’ve only just got you back.”
He wasn’t scared; you couldn’t be in this part of the Manor. Anyway, Arif didn’t deal in real drugs; just a bit of weed, it would be fine.
*
The Old Kent Road was quiet. Not a lot of people were out that Sunday morning, apart from the drunk lying in the doorway of The Dun Cow. Bay motored passed his old haunts. Mustafa’s Best Kebab, the Red Rooster cafe and his favourite, Graceland’s Palace. He slowed down taking a look at the faded pictures in the plastic display unit. He smiled at the photograph of Paul Hyu, London’s first and only Chinese Elvis. Bay had been there once; it had been the best night of his life. He’d actually stood up and sung ‘Hound Dog’ with “Elvis” until being rudely asked to leave. He had promised to take Michelle there one day.
“Take this to 104 Claydon House on the Heygate,” Arif said from the front door of his flat. He passed Bay a blue plastic bag containing a brown paper package. “You can’t miss it. It’s the only one not boarded up.”
Bay hoped it wasn’t anything too illegal. He didn’t want to take the risk. He was going straight and he was pleased to be home: there was no way he was going back inside.
*
It was sunny and cold. The best type of weather for an early morning ride. The kind of weather that he had longed to feel when he was locked up for those three desperate years. He used to try and reach his hand out of the cell window, but the bars were too close together, and his hand too fat.
The Heygate was the sort of place where you needed to look over your shoulder. You never knew who might be behind you, a kid with a knife, a copper, a skag head. This was a dangerous part of the Manor; the law were always tucked away on the lookout.
He turned into the parking area and stopped in front of the stone stairwell of Claydon House and sat for a moment looking up at the concrete warren. The car park was deserted and he hoped the car would be safe. As he climbed the filthy, urine smelling stairs, strewn with old cans and needles, he wondered how anybody could still be living in this dump. ‘Welcome to Hell’ graffitied on the wall in red and black said it all. As he reached 104 he heard the slamming of metal shutters and a distant baby screaming. A scrawny, yellow haired young woman wearing a dirty pink dressing gown answered the door.
“Delivery,” said Bay. She took the parcel and started to open it. He felt a sudden surge of excitement, reminiscent of all those times when he was doing something that he shouldn’t.
“You want to come in?” She asked. He hesitated. He wanted to. She looked like she was lonely, like she wanted to share a thing or two. But the words ‘be careful, Bay.’ resounded in his ears.
“No thanks love,” he said, “I’m going home.”
Bay walked back down the stairs taking them two at a time, checking nobody had spotted him. As he reached the car he saw a man leaning against the door. Bay prepared his fist, something he hadn’t done for a while. “What you doing leaning on my motor?”
The man stared at him holding his gaze for a few seconds. He put his hand in his jacket pocket. Bay wondered if it was a gun or a knife. He held his breath.
“You got a light?” the man asked pulling out a crumpled cigarette, “there ain’t many people round here to ask, you get me?”
“I haven’t got one,” Bay replied, his legs like jelly.
“All right man, no problem. You have a good day, yeah.” The stranger moved on. He didn’t look back.
Bay was relieved to get back in his car. He wouldn’t risk doing this sort of delivery again. He knew it was nothing compared to the armed robbery that had put him away, but he’d tell Arif it wasn’t safe. He was on license after all and one little slip might put him back inside for a very long time. His heart beat fast and he felt the familiar feeling of anxiety. He needed to get home to Michelle and have a smoke. He revved the engine and braced himself. He turned back onto the Old Kent Road, put his foot flat down on the accelerator and pressed hard. The engine struggled up to 35 miles an hour but he was grateful to be back on the open road. From Elephant and Castle you could see down to The Bricklayers Arms. It reminded him of the freeways on American cop shows. He imagined he was in ‘Law and Order USA’, chasing criminals. He wound down the window, cleared his throat and sang Jailhouse Rock at the top of his voice. He was free and he was happy. He’d tell Michelle they’d definitely go to Corfu.
Maybe he’d propose. They’d have the biggest Turkish wedding the Manor had ever seen, hire the community hall, and have a massive party.
As he neared The Thomas Becket, the traffic lights turned to amber. He thought he’d keep his foot down, get back to Michelle quickly, tell her his plans. Characters in cop shows never bothered to stop; they just sped through. But as the lights changed to red, he slammed on the brake. He wouldn’t take the risk. The track on his cassette changed to ‘Devil in Disguise.’ He tapped his hand impatiently on the steering wheel, willing the light to turn green. Why did they always take so long? As it turned back to amber he put his foot down. He didn’t see the cyclist speeding through from the adjoining road but suddenly it was there. Bay swerved, caught the front wheel of the bike and skidded to a halt. The cyclist fell into the road. Bay got out of the car, walked to the front and looked down at the crumpled shape.
“You all right mate?” Bay asked.
“You fucking idiot,” the cyclist groaned.
A hand rested on Bay’s shoulder.
“Oh dear Bayhan,” said an officer. “What have we got here?”
*
“The police admitted it was an accident.” Bay told Michelle in the visitor’s hall back in Belmarsh. “He’d shot the lights. I didn’t stand a chance.”
“I know, baby,” she said “You’d never hurt anyone innocent.”
“I was going straight Michelle, everything was good. Arif told me the car was sorted. I didn’t know it was a photocopied tax disc.”
She took his hand.
“Now I’m back in here. Don’t think I’ll ever make it as a dad.”
“I’ll see Dr Sakwama,” she said, “ask if he can do a reversal on my ‘you know what’. Hopefully he won’t chuck me out of the surgery again.”
Bay stared down at the grey Formica table.
“Anyway, if all else fails,” she continued “we’ll get a puppy. A brindle Staff. Call him Ben junior, like your last dog. Ben.”
Bay gave a faint smile.
“Think I’ll take a trip to Madhouse Cars when I get out.” Bay said. “Give them a little talking to.”
Michelle looked at him.
“But then, maybe I won’t. I’m different now. This time, I’m really going straight.”
(c) Regina Freedman, 2012
After 30 years of working as an actress mainly in television comedy (Doc Martin, Extras, The Omid Djalili Show) Regina Freedman has decided to do something different. This is her first foray into writing. Her characters come from the many she has met living in Peckham and Camberwell.
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