“WHAT YOU STARING at, Septic?” shouted Daniels. “Your mum?”
He made a circle with his thumb and forefinger and prodded it rhythmically.
“Oh, Mr. Tench,” he said. “Oh, Mr. Tench, that’s it, uh-huh, reel me in, baby—”
Sep stepped back from the window, saw Sonya and Chantelle wrapped around Manbat and Stephen. And, behind them, a sandwich in his mouth, Mack.
Daniels swaggered in. He was wearing his trench coat with the sleeves rolled up, and his veins looked like worms.
“Maguire and Tench aren’t here to save you now, are they, you little pussy?” he said, mad laughter in his eyes. “Give us some chips, Septic. And a burger.”
“We’re closed, Daniels. Come back in half an hour.”
Daniels waved his gang in behind him. “And what if I want it now, eh? What are you going to do, deaf-boy?”
Sep ground his teeth. He thought of Arkle leaning against the wall, hands shaking, and anger flared stupidly in his chest.
“Nothing, I guess,” he said. “But I won’t serve you until it hits five. I could do with a hand here actually. Maybe you could lick the floor clean—”
The gang oohed. Daniels clamped his hand on the back of Sep’s neck.
“Maybe you want me to lick you, eh? Are you queer for me, Septic? Is that it?”
“Let me go,” said Sep, grabbing Daniels’s wrist and staring into his face. His heart took an extra beat—a little quickening in his chest.
“Hey, Daniels—” said Mack.
Daniels ignored him, squeezed tighter, raised his voice. “Is this your shit ear? Can you hear me?”
He punched Sep quickly in the gut, taking his wind.
“Daniels!” shouted Mack, but Daniels shoved him back.
“Let me remind you what you’re dealing with, queerdo—”
“‘Forever and ever you’ll—’ Hey, greasy boy! What are you doing?” shouted Mario, emerging from the back shop and bustling around the counter.
Daniels threw Sep away. “Just having a quiet word with my friend,” he said, straightening the chain around his neck. “Nothing to do with you.”
“I know you, greasy boy, I know you,” said Mario, shoving him toward the door. “You are always trouble. Get out! You are barred from here. Get out!”
“Who are you calling greasy?” shouted Daniels, turning and puffing out his chest.
“You!” said Mario, flicking Daniels’s forehead. “Red spots with little yellow heads, is very greasy face!”
The gang stifled their sniggers as Daniels exploded. “Oh yeah?” he yelled, kicking over the ice-cream board in the doorway. “Well . . . check the nick of you, fat boy! And I don’t care if you bar me from this shithole! You sell cat burgers!”
“No cat burgers here!” said Mario. “All clean, all inspected. But no more usual order for you: double fish with crab claw and chips, three pickled eggs. Always same, three times a week, is why you have boy titties—but no more, because you are bag of scum, thank you, good-bye.”
He closed the door in Daniels’s face and turned the key.
Daniels shook with fury. He pointed directly at Sep, then launched a couple of kicks at the glass door, shaking it in its frame. “The next time it’ll be just you and me, queerdo—and I’ll beat the shit out of you, you hear me? I’ll beat the shit out of you!”
Mario reached behind the counter and took out the heavy wooden pizza paddle. The gang scrambled away, hurling insults over their shoulders. But Sep noticed that Mack, before he joined the stampede, tried to catch his eye.
He waited for the sick feeling in his stomach to subside, and took slow, painful breaths.
“Don’t worry, September,” said Mario, straightening his apron and fixing his hair. “The greasy boy is mad mostly at me. Last year, you know—I kill his dog.”
Sep watched for Daniels the rest of the night, but the gang stayed away. Maybe they’d found another victim. Or maybe Mack had diverted them, he found himself thinking, remembering the look they’d shared before he ran off.
Which was strange, because Mack had once held Sep down while Daniels hung a string of thick spit over his face, had chased him with the others through the fields behind the school, had thrown Sep’s clothes into the showers while he fought back tears of shame. He was as bad as the rest of them.
And while they all called him Septic, Mack never called him anything at all.
Sep plunged his mind into the balm of a hectic service, his mind free to wander as his hands moved by themselves, salting chips and fishing for pickles, spinning mix-ups in paper bags and stacking sodas.
At first he read the headlines on the newspapers they used to wrap the suppers—Chernobyl’s nuclear winds, Reagan’s latest gaffes, and the start of the World Cup—but after hours in the oily heat he was thought-blind and smudged with ink, and no longer saw the words or the customers, just reacted and smiled like a trained seal. So he almost jumped when, instead of asking for a supper, a voice said:
“September! My man!”
He blinked, focused on the speaker. Arkle, a riot of mullet and teeth, grinned at him.
“What do you want?” said Sep. “I told you, I’m working.”
“I know, man, I know. I’m getting my crab fix—can’t get enough of that claw meat. How’s tricks?”
“Darren, I’m working.”
Arkle held his hands up, then lifted his hair out of his collar. “I am your work, Sepster. Give me a claw supper—don’t hold back on the vinegar. And a can of Spike Sting.”
“The fridge is broken.”
“That’s cool, man—I don’t mind it warm.”
Sep slid the can over the counter. Arkle popped it and took a long pull.
“Oh my God,” he gasped. “It’s so sour. It’s amazing. They’re geniuses.”
Sep looked into the fryer. “Another couple of minutes for the claws,” he said.
“Ideal,” said Arkle. “All right, Mario? Where’s Luigi?”
Mario looked up from the freezer. “This joke is not funny. Every time, it is not funny,” he said, pushing through the bead curtain into the back of the shop.
Arkle watched him go. “You know, that man thinks of me as a son. It’s sweet, really.”
“Look, there’s a line now,” said Sep, nodding behind Arkle.
Arkle turned to the old lady known locally as Christine the Psychic.
“Go right ahead, mystic one,” he said. “I recommend the crab. It’s tip-top, and young September here is a master of the fry—but you probably knew that already.”
Christine chuckled, then ordered a smoked sausage supper. As Sep was shoveling the chips onto the newspaper, Arkle leaned over the counter.
“How was school?”
“What?”
“I’m asking about your day, you know—was it good? Mine wasn’t. I ended up getting a detention off Sax Solo.”
“Who’s that?”
“Curran, in music. I’m trying to get a nickname going, and since he looks like Harrison Ford—”
Sep frowned. “Mr. Curran looks nothing like Harrison Ford.”
“Well, he wore a vest once,” said Arkle. “Have you been thinking about what I said earlier?”
Sep glanced at him. “Pardon?” he said, feeling color in his cheeks as he angled his good ear.
“I’m saying have you been thinking about what I said earlier?” said Arkle patiently.
“Oh. No. You didn’t really say anything.”
“I know. I was going to, but Woodbank came over. Listen, something’s happening.”
“Salt and vinegar?” Sep asked.
Christine nodded. “Extra salt, son,” she said. “And two pickled onions.”
“Excellent choice, madam,” said Arkle. “I like to put a long chip between them and pretend—”
“What do you mean, ‘something’s happening’?” said Sep quickly, unscrewing the pickle jar.
Arkle widened his eyes, but jerked his head and said nothing. When Christine had shuffled out, clutching her steaming bundle, he leaned over the counter again.
“You seem jumpy,” he said. “How come?”
Sep lifted Arkle’s glistening claws from the vat of oil and tipped them onto the newspaper. They fizzled and spat, curled to perfect arcs and skinned with bubbles of gold.
“Daniels came in earlier and kicked off,” he said. “I’m expecting him back.”
Arkle made a face. “He’s a dick.”
“Yeah,” said Sep, wrapping the supper and handing it over. “Thanks for, you know—”
“It’s cool; don’t sweat it. But you shouldn’t be so scared of him: all he can do is hurt you, and if you’re not fussed about getting hurt—” Arkle tapped his much-broken nose, but Sep remembered how his hands had shaken in the corridor. “He’s just angry at life. He needs a reality wedgie now and then.”
“Well,” Sep said, “now he’s angry at me. It’s one pound seventy.”
Arkle counted two coins from a Kodak film case and slid them to Sep like they were state secrets. But when Sep tried to lift the money, Arkle held it tight, their fingers almost touching.
“They were in my house,” he hissed.
“What were?”
“Wings,” whispered Arkle. Then he nodded at Sep and opened his supper.
“What do you mean, ‘wings’?” said Sep.
“Insect wings, like—right in my ear when I was trying to sleep.”
A shiver flicked over Sep’s skin. “Did you leave the window open?” he said.
“No! They were in the room, man. I’m beat—whenever I was about to drop off, there they were. I had to take emergency action to tire myself out. My wrist’s killing me.”
“So why are you telling me? You want me to, what”—Sep glanced at Arkle’s crotch—“sing you to sleep?”
Arkle shook his head, and fixed Sep with a serious stare. “Because something might happen to you, too, and if it does you need to promise to tell us.” He ate a chip. “Can I get some more vinegar?”
Sep squirted vinegar on the claws. “You’re not making any sense. What do you mean— Wait . . . us?”
“Yeah, us. I mean—the others,” said Arkle, waggling his eyebrows and blowing on a too-hot chip.
“Oh, you mean the other three people who’ve ignored me completely for the last four years?”
“Ah, don’t be like that! You know, you were one of us, when we made . . . you know. One of them’s yours.”
“So? Darren, I have no idea what you’re—”
Arkle scribbled on his receipt and handed it to Sep. “Here’s my phone number. Ring me if something happens. If I don’t answer, just . . . keep calling till I do, all right?”
Sep took the paper, read Arkle’s loopy writing. “Okay,” he said. “Fine. Now you need to go.”
The door opened, and Lamb, Mack, and Hadley trooped in.