YA MUM: BONUS STORIES

The following are bonus stories to accompany YA MUM and Other Stories From the Backstreets of Britain. The collection of 21 short, illustrated stories based on commonly spotted 'artefacts' from the streets of Britain: Cigarette butts, beer cans, mattresses, laughing gas canisters, a glove on a fence, a losing lottery ticket, etc. It is due out in paperback, ebook and audiobook this autumn. Many of the below are in response to finds sent in by people following the project, from all over the world. The more the merrier, send them over at hello@bentallon.com

Blue Thunder Coast

Billy couldn’t go to nan’s while he was hard. It was just wrong. This was no run-of-the-mill morning stand. No, this was a lighthouse glistening on a clear day cliff-top. It had been an accident. In the dark, he’d chanced an arm outside the duvet and snatched up what he’d mistaken for paracetamol. How wrong he’d been.

Light-headed in Sainsbury’s supermarket, from the blood working overtime elsewhere in his body, he’d still managed to get most of nan’s big shop, but by the time he made the checkouts, the thing under his belt felt like it might burst out and give someone grounds for compensation. It raged, all red and sadistic, a blue thunder torpedo launched straight at his dignity on a Friday morning.

Now, lurched over in agony around the corner from her flat, he wanted to cry. He’d laugh one day if he could avoid death or serious injury. Why were they even on the bedside table? Cynthia must have wanted some action and took matters into her own hands when he’d got in from the pub, unable to meet her needs.

He pulled out the box and read the instructions.

Take 1 tablet 1 hour before sex

Swallow the tablet whole with a drink of water

Do not take more than 1 tablet a day

He’d gobbled down 3 without a 2nd thought. A lively gust of wind snatched the paper and box from his hand and it danced down the street back towards the supermarket. Some teenager who never had to worry about performing to save a marriage would get a laugh out of that.

Billy dropped to one knee and started to pull items out of the bag. From the bottom, he took out the bag of frozen peas and jammed it down the front of his trousers. It felt good. He let out a life-affirming gasp of relief. If it meant no visit to A&E during COVID, then she could do without them. It’s not like they were bread or milk and he could bin the receipt.

Nan was full of chat. She talked about her mum’s war stories, of other hardships before the virus. She remarked that this was the 1st real hardship Billy would have known, in his life. He writhed in his chair each time she gazed off into the past, feeling the dribble of the thawing peas in his pants and nodded during every pause. If only she knew the toils of my life he thought as some gameshow entered its final throes on the TV. If only she knew what shared this room with us.

He told her they were short of peas, something to do with delivery congestion because of the virus.

“I can run around the corner shop to see if they’ve got them there, nan?” The pain angrily throbbed, worse than before, now that the bag was warm and mushy against his gleaming problem.

“Oh no, I’ve plenty tins in and Norma’s bringing me some lamb from the local butcher this evening. Just get them next time, if they’re back in.”

She talked about how the neighbours had been wonderful during lockdown. Billy couldn’t hear what she was saying because of the fire raging between his legs. Could it come off? Would they need to operate? This was the kind of unfolding story which would make the local news, to cheer people up after the latest daily death toll, even if he was added to the count.

Deep in thought, he turned to notice nan making her way across the living room, dragging her slippered-feet along the rug, £10 note held out, clasped between two bony, cold hands. Gratuity for his time; money he could not accept, but without much choice in the matter. She hadn’t done this for years. Strange that she should do it now, in his early-40s.

He stood to greet her and forgot himself. As his hands raised to take the money, one, then two and three peas rolled out from the cuff of his trousers. They looked down at them together. With that, half of the bag gave way with a plastic rustle and green clumps of half-thawed green balls fell out in piles, like mouldy cartoon clouds. The gameshow had ended well for one ecstatic family and their shrieks of joy created a warped juxtaposition against the disgusted grimace on nan’s face as she watched what was left of the bag flop out over his shoe. She sighed and turned away. 

“Ah… I thought that might answer my question…” She said, thumbing the £10 back into her purse. It’s like they say…I suppose the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree.” His dad had gone down for stalking some mother from the school when he was 8. Nan had him guilty by association. 

“I’ll give you until next week to think about your behaviour, lovey. You want to be careful, doing that out in public. They cut them off for that, in some countries…”

“No, nan, honestly, look-“

“Peas? I suppose it’s better than prostitutes… Make sure you push the door closed on your way out, won’t you? Don’t want that draft getting in.”

Statistics 

Sonny agreed with his mum. Dad sounded panicked, but he denied it in his scary whisper. He hissed a lot these days.

“Look at them, over there, on those bikes. Why are their bloody hoods up? It’s only just started raining. Is that what we have to put up with, in society now, knives left out on garden walls? Where are their parents? I’m reporting it.”

 Maneet craned her neck to see out of the car window.

“Don’t swear in front of him.” She warned.

“Bloody’s not a swear word!”

“You’re not reporting anything. Just because they dress like that doesn’t mean they’re carrying knives. You just see that on the news and believe it’s happening everywhere. Why would they have a bread knife anyway? That’s ridiculous. Nothing to do with them. Whoever lives in that house probably left it there by mistake. Anyway, is that brother of yours coming or what?”

“I DON’T KNOW! I’m not psychic, am I? let me ring him.”

Maneet sighed and glanced back at Sonny in his booster seat. He was lost in thought. The boy wasn’t immune to Kripa’s whining any more than she was… It was too toxic lately and she worried what impact it was having on his 8-year old mind.

Sonny knew the child locks were on, but he wanted to see if the knife would come out of the block in his hands, like The Sword in the Stone, which they had watched last Christmas. It was the same as the kitchen knife stand as the one at home, but it housed only one. That had to be a sign. Why else would it be on the wall next to their car? The teenagers rode off and out of sight. One pulled an impossible wheelie. Mum chuckled and Dad’s shoulders went up. He kept quiet.

Uncle Aad shuffled around the corner from the tube station, in his baggy jeans and beanie hat, bottle of orange Lucozade dangling from his hand, half covered by a tattered jumper sleeve. Maneet coud see the hangover tiptoeing behind him, sticking its tongue out, making rude gestures. Kripa mumbled something with a shake of the head and opened the passenger door to greet him.

Sonny tensed up and slowly, silently unclipped his seatbelt. Nobody heard it. Through the constellation of rain drops on the windscreen, Dad and Uncle Aad looked like hall-of-mirrors creatures. Aad flapped his arms defensively as Dad grilled him about keeping them waiting. About another hangover.

“Have you any homework to finish this aft, before you play on Fortnite, lovely?”

The cogs in Sonny’s scheming mind turned and it took a few seconds to realise Mum had asked him a question. His heart began to race when she shifted in the passenger seat to turn to him and he spoke too quickly. He had no reason to be unclipped.

“Yeah, no, I mean… I had science, but it’s done…” She nodded and turned back before she saw when the men returned to the car.

“Sonny, squeeze up so Uncle Aad can get in.” Disappointed with his missed opportunity, he started to shuffle his backside towards the centre of the car as Aad bent down to see his nephew with alarmingly red, aniseed ball eyes.

“Hello Sonny, budge up! Let your uncle in!” The smell of stale booze was strong. He got one leg in the footwell but his other slipped off the kerb and his hand failed to clutch the wet car roof, dropped the Lucozade as he collapsed backwards in comical slow motion. Change spilled out of his pocket and rolled every which way.

“Oh my days! Look at the state of him!” Cried Maneet as Kripa put his face in his hands.

Sonny saw his opportunity and scrambled out of the vehicle and over the top of his flailing, arseholed uncle. Kripa assumed he’d gone to help, but desperately writhed out of his seatbelt when he saw his son reaching for the knife. Maneet didn’t know what was happening and froze in confusion. Kripa shouted his son’s name, but stopped in his tracks a few yards short of him, backed up as the boy turned and held the bread knife aloft in both hands. The grin on his first-born’s face, manufactured by Disney, so innocent and playful, was pinched at the corners and twisted into some hellish Daily Mail statistic by the time his father’s optic nerves gobbled up and choked down this sinister scene, here in Islington.  

Three Directors

The fresh hole in the basketball court fence bought Angelo precious extra minutes. Minutes that might save his life. It was dark on the other side and his scrawny legs, liquified with terror, barely supported him as he skidded across sparkling wet November grass.

It felt inevitable that his reckoning should take place here, in the waste disposal area of the high-rise apartment block his father kicked him out of at the age of 15. Whilst he doubted those who had come for him would actually end him over the unusual debt, he’d seen it happen for lesser arrears than his. When it came to these faceless overlords, their expressive and unpredictable brand of vengeance set them apart from common bastards and concerned him far more than death. Nobody wanted to be the blank canvas for cerebral assassins; dark artists who made intricate mosaics with the minds of even the most together of crooks.

His asthma wanted to rage. Back against the wall, Angelo drew as much air as his pinhole throat would permit; tried to calm his mind. Cornered with the vermin, down to 8% phone battery; his only source of light was about to die and a flick-book of panicked thoughts animated possible grizzly ends in his racing mind.

Tears welled and his bottom lip curled when his late mother’s voice began to murmur disapproval in his head. He’d developed immunity to father’s rage, by necessity. But she was different. Her disappointed eyes buckled his knees and he slid down the wall. It was then, in his near-submission, as his arm flopped by his side that the shard of white phone light kissed the edge of a megalithic sized tube TV. From this angle, backed by its monstrous shadow, it wasn’t much smaller than the dumpsters. Somehow, the artefact still wore its rabbit ears, as if it had been sent forward two decades across time, all dolled up to charm its way into one last living room before HD finished off the species. Down on one knee, his eyes danced on the void dark entrance, looking for their awful silhouettes. Cold, slimy trash water seeped through his trousers, but dirt was the least of his concerns.

One last glance reaffirmed the only way-out was the way-in and to attempt that back-up was suicide. Angelo’s shaking hand wrapped a nearby rock. Using the jagged end of it and what little strength he had left, he drove it into the near-bullet proof screen glass four times until it gave way.

With the remaining wires and broken bulbs rived out in desperate, lacerated-handfulls, there was no hesitation as he folded in his 5”0 frame into the hangar sized interior of the set. He’d seen something close to this during a trip to the Chinese State Circus with his ex-wife and had wondered how the fella had managed it. Perhaps he too had debts with the devil’s people, he supposed now, as he held the dumpster wheel and hauled the TV in a grinding semi-circle. When it was close enough to hide the set’s open front against the cold metal. He turned the light off his phone. The agony of glass piercing the skin around his rib cage made comfort impossible, but it would have to do.

They would look in and around the dumpsters; textbook rat-catching. But this box - which had provided him with a great many escapes when the life was heavy, introduced him to now long-dead teenage dreams of a career in Hollywood; movie star, writer or hell, even an extra - might yet be his salvation.

If he could just go undetected long enough to fight another day, maybe he’d check to see if a dim pulse might be detected in those dreams…

Silence descended.

For a second, the white noise in his head stopped.

Then, out of some dripping sac in the womb of hell, the sound of expensive shoes on low-income pavement, gentle at first, then here, full of sadistic intent, echoing all around, closing in.

They stopped nearby. His calf started to cramp and the glass dug deeper into flesh and bone. Blood rushed to his head and he almost passed out, but bit down on his hoodie with bleeding gums and ravaged teeth, his temples pounding like ceremonial drums.

Despite the tunnel vision, he grew peripherally aware of the dancing white light of another mobile phone probing the night, clamped his eyes shut and actually said a prayer. Angelo’s heart sank deeper the longer those who sought him did not move.

Hinges squealed.

A dumpster lid opened and slammed shut.

Repeat.

The TV began to move.

At first, it slid away from the bin, small stones under it scratching a half-moon hieroglyphic of his dismal last moments. Then, the strangest sensation of levitation; a sinister reflection of being scooped up by his father in a rare moment of pure love; childhood lightness of being. He could see the court from up here. It was busier than before, maybe 12 teenagers had gathered; furiously into the business end of their game. Grunts and urgent smacks and squeaks of sole on wet court made it all this way.

Nobody said a word as they carried their neatly packaged prey towards the game.

He pondered prying his body out of the set so he could try to flee, but a sigh was all he could muster. Angelo had nothing left.

One by one, the players abandoned tracking their opponents, forgot about their ambitious shots and dramatic dunks. Curious as cats, they turned to take in the strange scene. Some smirked, but most maintained deadpan expressions. One or two sensed the rare brand of evil. None of this brought him hope of a heroic intervention.

When they lowered him to the court, he hoped he’d plunge straight through and into eternal flame. At least he had a rough idea of what that entailed.

Two of the players jogged away and out through the court door, happy to miss whatever picture was about to start rolling if it meant safety. 

Most stood still. Suburban statues sponsored by Nike.

Then, three sets of smart trousers and shiny shoes. One brown with solid, gold buckles, a set of large, green suede-loafers with tassels and finally, a pair of red heeled boots and stockinged, well-defined legs. They did not bend to address him and he could see only as far as their shoulders before the top of the TV set cut-off his vision. That was fine; like a startled tortoise, he had no desire to look into the eyes above the salivating jaws. Beyond them, a huddled mesh of basketball players observed him as if he were an endangered species of snake; a mix of fear and curiosity overriding the sense that it is wrong to encourage the captivity of wild creatures.

“Be Jennifer Aniston.”

One of them spoke. Deep, not a hint of jest, a voice so mechanical he wondered if it was programmed.

“Pardon, sir?” Angelo chanced, confusion pinning down his ability to process such a blindsiding sentence.

The feet in green suede took a small step closer. He did not expect them to repeat the command.

As crazy as the idea seemed, as hard as it was to process, he closed his eyes and thought of that show, what was it? Friends. Mother had banned it because it did not represent black people, but it had been impossible to entirely ignore back then. What were their names? Ron? Ross? Yeah, Ross. Maybe. A surge of nauseating anxiety blasted through his chest and guts before, in a shaky, childlike voice, he squeaked,

“Oh… h..h..hi Ross! Would you like coffee?” Pathetic. He closed his eyes and waited for the gunshot.

When he opened them, nothing had changed except one of the basketball kids silently folded over in hysterical laughter, ploughing his face into the shoulder of his friend before he was shoved away. His captors remained motionless until the woman spoke.

“Look. What’s that light in the sky. Is it an alien? Better ask Mulder…”

It dawned on him. The TV, the ‘90s. They were creative. He had to give it to them.

He swallowed hard, forcing back down the rising vomit. He had loved The X-Files. Wanted to marry Scully. He’d had fantasies of meeting her on set. The quiet crew member to woo and ground the superstar. This one was easy.

“Spooky? Do you think I’m spooky?” He asked, trying to ape David Duchovny’s iconic paranormal investigator’s classic line. Contorted in the set, his lungs pushed out a barely audible rasp. As he finished the quote, he waggled his visible hand as if he were frightening a child and pursed his mouth into an O. This time, two of the basketball players lost their composure in fits of giggles. One of them tried to ask what this was about, but a piston of an arm belonging to the brown shoes slowly raised and pulled a handgun from a coat pocket before dropping it back in; enough to slice the enquiry in two.

They really worked him. He knew when he’d jumped into bed with these people that money, drugs and human trafficking was not their style. Nobody could tell you what exactly was.

Oscar the Grouch was made to sing about trash.

They crowbarred snappy one-liners out of Jerry Seinfeld.

Without canned laughter, this was a tragedy fit for his funeral. Besides, the one-way ticket on a downward spiral had taught him that the funniest things in life should not be laughed at.

He slobbered the opening two lines of The Fresh Prince of Belair before it descended into a garbled slur of nonsense.

They changed the pace; Tony Soprano barked them a lesson about respect.

The sadistic bastards even had him officiate what they believed to be a fabricated dispute as Jerry Springer. It was his standout performance of the night because he failed to convince Mum and Dad to stay together again as they rolled around on stage.

Their lack of anything back from them - rage, amusement, explanation - convinced Angelo these psychopaths were seeing beyond him, into some alternate reality where QVC and daytime infomercials fought sleepy screen wars.

The basketball players, at first, were drawn to the spectacle, but their hanging postures told another story; they wanted to be anywhere else but here when the humiliation passed the one-hour mark, when they had him speed-talking low-budget commercials. If he struggled to recall shows and certain characters, the three-directors held out hands in which cell phones were placed. They brought up the shows on YouTube to refresh Angelo’s memory.

It was relentless.

Finally, when he broke down in tears, unable to give any more, the directors exited stage left and right, out of sight and up he went, in his 92-inch shell, into the night once more. He saw the teenagers shrink and vanish as they poured out the court. Some abandoned their jackets and drinks bottles in the scramble to escape the live acid-trip.

No credits rolled.

Light receded and they carried him back through the fence hole. He had stopped sobbing by now. Even that was beyond this broken man. He wondered if the now empty court might be the last thing he saw as the muddy shadows of the waste disposal area swallowed what was left of him.

They placed him back where they had found him and walked away, their debt repaid. The rain started to drum on the box. Angelo either passed out or fell asleep.

The Biter 

“…thing is, it’s not like this is a one off. He’s been doing it since we moved in together. When I try to raise it, the scruffy twa-“ Shelley froze when she saw the teeth. Dionne walked a few more steps, still complaining about her partner’s bad habit.

These were big, full red gums with plastic, white teeth. Just there, snarling, full of malice amongst the stray curled brown leaves. The middle top two and one of the bottom were gold, with dollar signs on them. Without knowing why, Shelley felt the urgent need for a shower and half a bottle of Listerine. Dionne slowly walked back and saw what had grabbed her friend’s attention.

“What?”

“Oh nothing. Just… reminded me…” Shelley’s voice trailed off into nothing. Dionne frowned and smirked, tried to understand.

“What you saying, girl?”

“The care home where I worked. Years ago. I was… 18, maybe 19… One of the residents, Betty, whenever I tried to put her teeth back in, she would try to bite me. I mean, it was meant to hurt. She was really vicious…”

“Really bothered you, huh…?”

“Every time I tried to shove them in. I had to go back to the bosses and ask for help. Sometimes I thought the dentures were laughing in their case. Screaming in the water.” Shelley’s eyes were wide, peering off beyond some invisible curtain, far away from here. The set on the pavement remained vibrant and motionless. A single car passed.

“She was sneaky. A real schemer. Had a way of making the other staff believe her sympathy act…” Dionne said nothing now, just watched the teeth and was surprised to suddenly feel slightly unsettled, like a hardened sceptic confronted by a small, transparent Edwardian boy.

“This other resident-“

 “Can we walk and talk? It’s too quiet down these back streets.” Shelley set off walking and Dionne ran to keep up.

“…Mabel… She got scared she’d tip backwards when walking, supported by her Zimmer frame, so they had me walk behind her and she would fart the whole way across the room, one after another. Sometimes there’d be no break. I heard her go over a whole minute once. Sometimes I’d think… maybe it was a trick…”

“Stop talking! Just stop talking! Yelled Dionne, her face curled in revulsion, a finger raised close to her friend’s lips. But Shelley didn’t even see it. A siren wailed somewhere on the wind, far away. Maybe not as far as it sounded.

“I never got in trouble for the teeth failure. Eventually, someone with more authority would go and get them in on the first effort and shrug their shoulders at me. But it was never really my job, so they let it slide. What time are you taking lunch today?” Dionne didn’t answer the question, just looked back at the red dot on the horizon. It winked, gold against the muscular grey sky.