“I used to be good friends with this fun, sexy actress called Lou Gish, and I introduced her to Nick, who’s one of my best friends. The morning after they first got together, they called me up, and I went straight round. I went up to the bedroom and chatted with Lou. “Let’s take off our clothes,” I said, “and then get into bed, and then when Nick arrives, he’ll wonder what he’s got himself into.” Giggling, we stripped. Nick appeared, holding tea. We had an orgy. No we didn’t. What happened was he laughed a bit. Then I realised I’d turned into the worst kind of gooseberry – the kind that actually gets into your bed, and is in danger of squirting on the sheets. I dressed, and went.
Then they didn’t call me for months.
Then Nick called and gave me the news: “Lou’s got cancer. She’s taking chemotherapy.”
“God!… Can I speak to her?”
“She doesn’t want to speak, but maybe she’d enjoy a letter.”
I decided I should write her a story. I went upstairs, and meditated on what she’d like. I imagined her lying in her bed, although it didn’t feel like I was imagining it. It felt like I was psychically visiting her. There’s a fine line between being psychic, and just making stuff up. Either way, this is what I saw…
Two angels were hovering over her bed. They were very strange angels. One was a messy man with long grey hair like Billy Connolly. The other was an angry teenager, with a big head.
I knew that my friend was going to die. I also knew she was going to be looked after. I hoped I was wrong. In the meantime, I planned to send her an instalment, every day, so she had something to look forward to, every morning.
I decided that Dirty Angels would be the story of a beautiful friendship between those two figures, and that the teenage one would be narrating. The book would be like a cross between Catcher In The Rye, and Northern Lights. I immediately got the voice of the narrator in my head. He’s a 14 year old Hackney boy. He’s very angry, but he’s also funny, and very sensitive. I knew Lou would like him. I wrote out what the boy was saying, and sent it to Lou.
She rung, next day, to say she loved the story, and wanted more. So I wrote every day, always finishing on a cliff-hanger. I had to keep her interested. I had to keep her laughing.
I finished the book, and Lou got well again. So then I polished and polished the manuscript for a year. I got a top agent, who sold Dirty Angels to Hodder. The very next day, Lou died. I still wish I could thank her. Or just see her. I know she’s now one of my own Dirty Angels, but sometimes I miss the real thing.
The book has had some great reviews. The Book Bag said “it’s an inspiring parable about redemption” and gave it 5 stars. GP Taylor said: “This book is fantasic. My only problem is I didn’t write it myself.” Jocelyn Gee Etien, writer/star of Little Miss Jocelyn said: “I read this in one sitting. I couldn’t put it down.”
And you can read it, if you want. Here you go…
Chapter 1
I got problems…
I’m nearly 14, yeah, but I’m like 4 foot 10, and I sound like a girl. My best friend is Polly. She’s 4 inches taller and she’s got a deeper voice.
Everyone else in my school has got shady names like Kriss, Sal, or Eric. My name is Colin Hitchin. The guys call me Colin Bitchin. And I got a big forehead and I’m well skinny and I got no shoulders. The girls call me Tadpole.
I don’t like being called names, but if I fight, I get so mad I start waving my arms and kicking, and then everyone goes “he’s tweeking! He’s tweeking!” and then they call me “Tweek the Freak”. Last time I fight, they don’t shut up about it. Eric even makes up a rap. I’m trying to do my maths. He’s sitting behind me whispering: “is he a tadpole?/ or is he a bitch?/ he’s just a Tweek Boy/ he won’t ever be rich./ Bitchin fights like he drunk too much liquor/ Bitchin fights like he was a window-licker”. It takes him all morning to make this up. When he’s done it, Sal keep saying it over and over. I’m putting my fingers in my ears, and then Sal’s going “he’s put his fingers in his ears. He can’t take it” and I wanna say “It aint that I can’t take it, but I am bored. I’d like to cut out your tongue, and eat it, in pitta bread, with garlic sauce”. But I know if I say that they’re gonna rush me.
So I don’t say nothing. I don’t wanna get involved.
All I want is to be normal, so no one’s gonna start on me.
But whenever we do a test, I come top by miles, so then everyone says I’m a geek as well as a freak.
All I want is to be normal. I wanna walk up my street, past the football in Yorkshire Grove estate, and I want the guys to invite me to play. I wanna go past the girls chilling outside KFC on Albion Road and I wanna them to offer me a puff on their fag. I won’t smoke. It stunts the growth and I don’t need that. I just wanna be asked.
I just wanna be normal.
So how do you reckon I feel, when I find out I’m psychic?
Chapter 2
I am.
First I just notice little stuff.
Like I get dreams when I talk to people who are dead.
Or sometimes I get feelings. Like… Tuesday night - 7:30 pm - I’m coming home from karate - I’m about to walk down Defoe Road, and I get this cold feeling in my stomach, and then I know I should go down Marston Road instead. Next night I’m walking down Defoe Road again. What do I see? A big yellow board up saying: “SERIOUS ASSAULT – Tuesday - 7 32pm…”
And sometimes I see ghosts, and sometimes I see stuff that’s stranger than that.
You might think this is wicked. Like I got special powers. I’m telling you, this aint good.
3 years ago, it starts going pear-shaped with my dad…
He’s hiding away in the attic writing this book called A History of British Crime (from the Romans to the Present). He’s up there, day in day out, reading books and newspapers about murderers and thieves and drug-dealers. He don’t talk. He don’t wash. If you go up there, you can’t hardly move, cos he keeps ordering gagdets from Japan on the internet, so if you try to speak to him you’re gonna knock over a box, and he’s gonna shout. Mum and Dad are always arguing, and if I come into the room, one of them always goes out, like it’s all my fault.
Meanwhile I’m getting bad dreams. Always the same dream…
I’m walking up my street, and I got this feeling something bad’s happened to dad. There’s police outside my house, and they won’t let me in. Then Mum comes out and says: “Colin, let’s go for a drive. There’s something I want to talk about”.
Night after night, I see the same thing. Does my head. I can’t work. I can’t concentrate. I’m walking around like a got a wet brain. This aint like I got Special Powers. This is like I got special needs.
So in the end I tell Mum about the dream and I tell her she’s gotta talk to Dad. But she don’t speak to Dad. She speaks to Dr Juvanji, and before I know it, he’s giving me drugs. So then, I’m still getting bare dreams at night, but in the daytime it’s like my head is filled with porridge. I got big bags under my eyes. I look like an elf on a methadone programme.
This goes on 3 months.
Then one day I am walking home, and there’s police outside, they won’t let me up to our flat, and then my Mum comes out and says the exact words: “Colin, let’s go for a drive. There’s something I want to talk about…”
She tells me dad died, but she don’t tell me how or where.
So it’s after then that I set fire to the old gym. Dunno why. It makes me feel better for like 2 seconds, but then I go under. I don’t cry. I never cry. But every night I’m dreaming about dad. So when I wake up I feel empty, and I can’t think about nothing cept how I wanna be 8 again, and have my dad back. I tell all this to Mum and she says “I know darling, I know”, but then she gets Juvanji to give me more drugs still. Thanks Mum. Why didn’t you believe in the first place?
Chapter 3
So now, 2 years on, I can feel it all happening again.
This is how it starts…
I’m having this dream where I’m in the park, and then someone arrives and tells me they’re from heaven, and they got a message about my dad.
I wake up and I’m sweating and the sun is pouring it. It’s that kind of hot weather where you can’t sleep. Kind of weather where you feel you gotta be out, all the time, or you’re gonna miss it, but you don’t know what you’re trying not to miss so you just feel lost.
I get up and dress. I’m thinking about this mad dream, and I’m thinking I aint telling no one about this.
But then I think… Maybe Polly. I could tell her. I’m thinking this weekend me and Poll could go down Hackney Marshes. We could pitch the tent next to the river where her mate Rob has got a houseboat. Polly loves it there. We hang out in the long grass. She brings her guitar and makes up songs. I take my top off and practise karate. No one bothers us. It’s perfect.
I eat breakfast with Mum. She’s reading the paper. I’m reading my SAS Combat Manual. I don’t say nothing cept to ask if we can get some Frosties, cos there aint nothing to eat cept my Mum’s lesbian muesli. She’s in one of them moods where she’s all silent and you gotta know why she’s being silent or she’s gonna get mad.
She puts down the paper, and says:
“We could go to Malta this weekend,” she says.
“Yeah… like we can afford that”.
“It’s only 19 pounds return”, she says, “it looks nice”.
She turns round the paper. There’s a picture of a man – lying with a gorgeous woman – in a boat – that’s floating over white sand - and you can see the shadow of the boat on the bottom of the water. I’m thinking: I know if I was on that beach, there would be some German on a jetski. And there’d be English people stubbing out their fags in the sand. And even if I could be on that beach, alone, in that boat, I wouldn’t have that woman with me. I’d have my Mum. And I don’t wanna hang out with Mum. I wanna hang out with Polly.
“I don’t know, Mum,” I say, “I just hate planes”.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she says. She’s getting the hump. That’s the thing about my Mum, you gotta agree with her right away or she takes it personally. “Why don’t you like flying?”
I’m thinking: Where do I start? I hate planes cos I hate sitting next to screaming babies and you aint allowed to get away or gag them. I hate planes cos I hate all that “put the mask over your face and breathe normally” stuff. How else am I supposed to breathe? Through my ears? I hate planes, cos when you look out the window, all you see is motorways and car parks and you feel like there aint no land left.
I say: “You know how much pollution planes make? A plane, flying to Miami, makes as much pollution, as a car, driving for a whole year. So we aint allowed to fly”.
“Everyone else does it, so why shouldn’t we?”
I don’t say nothing to that. Mum looks at me a long time.
“Do you ever think what it’s like for me?” she says. “I need a break!”
Then she gets up, and goes into her bedroom, and bangs the door. I can hear her in there crying which aint normal. Usually she puts on the hair dryer.
I get my school stuff and my Dad’s SAS scarf and I shout “bye Mum”, and I leave the flat. As soon as I shut the door, I feel cold inside, like I know something massive is gonna happen. I go down the 2 flights of stairs and I feel like I’m going to my death.
At the front door there’s a big pile of pizza leaflets and tickets for cab firms and also a magazine called North - the FREE magazine for the Hackney community (sponsored by Keats Estate Agents). On the front, there’s a picture of wallpaper and a dimmer switch. At the bottom, it says: “How to find that Dream Home”. There aint no one who has dreams about dimmer switches. And if there is, they need punching.
I look through the whole pile of junk mail, cos there could - just could - be something good. I always look. That’s why I’m always disappointed. Every day it’s like I’ve looked in my Christmas stocking and found nothing but tangerines.
But today, at the bottom of the pile, there is something.
It’s a postcard, addressed to me. On the front is a photo of a mountain in Venezuela. On the back, there’s a drawing of a dog, and it’s got wings. There’s a speech bubble out the dog’s mouth. He’s saying: “what’s all this then? Woof!!”
That’s heavy. There’s only one person this card could be from… My crazy Uncle Jimmy. My Dad’s big brother. Jimmy spends his life travelling round the world washing dishes in restaurants and getting into trouble. I used to send him these stories about Jack, The Brave Police Dog. Jimmy used to send me stories of what he was up to.
And sometimes he visits. I love that, but Mum hates it. You never know how long Jimmy’s gonna stay. And he stinks the whole house out with his manky clothes. And he’s the kind of guy who says: “anything of mine, you share it”. The sort of people who say that, they aint never got nothing you want.
Chapter 4
I open the door.
It’s hot out there.
There’s someone sitting opposite my house. Some bag lady wearing a Chelsea strip. Her face is pink from the sun.
I check my watch. It’s 8 35, which is late, and right away my stomach tightens up like a fist. If I’m late, then I gotta ride on the bus with everyone else. And when I arrive at school, everyone’s gonna be hanging about outside, and they’re gonna start on me. I walk up the street looking at the ground. I don’t like to catch no one’s eye. I pass two banana skins that’ve gone black and sweaty. I pass a smashed CD. I check what it is. Free 30 day introduction to AOL.
Then I look up. A car goes by with its windows wide open. It’s blaring out this track which goes:
“Everybody’s doing it, so why can’t I?
Everybody’s doing it, so why can’t I?”
Everyone is listening to this song right now. The singer is called Kimberley Galloway and she comes from down the road, so suddenly every muffin you meet is calling up newspapers to say “she was the first girl I ever loved / snogged / touched, and by the way I got pictures if you got cash”. Everyone’s saying the song could go Number 1, simultaneously, in America and UK, like that’s supposed to show something. All it shows is that all the people can be all wrong all of the time. I aint joking, the track is worse than Barbie Girl. It’s one of them tunes that tunnels in your brain like a worm so you can’t forget it. You shouldn’t call it a tune. You should call it a brainworm.
I know something bad’s gonna happen, but I don’t know what.
I pass a Bangladeshi bloke called Yussuf who lives further up Walford Road. He waves. I nod. No problem there. Yussuf’s friendly. He’s selotaping a sign to a lamp post which says: “Find peace. Find Allah”. Yussuf is into Islam big time and he’s got one of them funny hats and he’s growing the big beard. He used to have his hair slicked back with gel, and he reeked of perfume, and he was well into girls. We used to play football together, and he’d tell me who he’d got off with the night before. But then one day he comes round and says he’s converted to The Prophet and from now on I must call him Yussuf Mohammed Ali Khan. Before then I called him Lee.
Further up the street, I see Eric. He’s white with a round head and shaved hair, and he always wears Arsenal tracksuits. He’s messing with his bike – something to do with his handlebars. But he aint really concentrating. He’s looking at his phone which is on the pavement, playing music. It’s playing the same brainworm song.
Eric used to be my friend. I used to go round his house and we’d watch cartoons together. His Mum let us eat fish fingers on the sofa and me and Eric would wet ourselves doing Scooby-Doo noises. Eric is great at taking the piss and doing impressions. I used to call him Scooby. Everyone else called him Gut Bucket. He used to be well fat and no one liked him. When we played football he was always in goal. He was rubbish as well. Sometimes his goal kicks didn’t make it out the area. You know when a goalie has done a save, he always screams at his defenders? That’s the only bit Eric could do. But he never minded if I practised my penalties on him. I liked him. But then he became a hardcore Arsenal fan. He started dressing in them blue Arsenal coats and talking about how “we stuffed The Scum last night”. After that he started making other friends. He don’t talk to me no more cept to rip the piss cos he’s just dying to fight me. He loves fighting. If you ever hear someone shouting: “Do you want some?” then soon after you’ll see Eric pushing someone in the chest. He’s also one of them people who can get you stuff. He gets cheap DVDs and CDs from his uncle, and he’s always selling them off round the school. He’s basically a chief.
Eric looks up and sees me.
“Alright Bitchin”, he says.
“-ri”, I say. I’m keepin it brief.
He holds up his phone.
“You seen these new phones?” he goes, “they’re giving them out free”.
“Yeah?”
“Well you get the first three months free. I can give you this one if you want. I got three more.”
“I don’t want one”.
“Why not?”
How am I supposed to answer that?
Cos I don’t want a phone, cos I already got one.
Cos I hate new stuff, cos you gotta read the instruction books and I would rather stick pins in my eyes than read them things.
Cos if I take something from Eric, I’m gonna have to speak to Eric.
“Why don’t you want a new phone?” says Eric again.
“Cos after three months I’ll have to pay, and I don’t have no money”.
“Bitchin,” he says, “you’re gay”.
I’m trying to walk in a way that’s not-at-all gay. I sort of drag my heels.
I turn into Stoke Newington High Street. There’s no sign of the bus, and there’s about 10 people at the bus stop - mainly guys from my school. Polly aint there, but Sal and Kriss are. That aint good.
I approach the bus stop carefully. I’m trying to see who might give me grief, but I’m doing it on the sly, cos I don’t want no one to see me looking. Right away, I notice stuff that’s strange. Nothing that’s off-the-dial strange. But it starts to add up…
No one is talking, and everyone is acting like they’re either (1) tired, or (2) stupid, or (3) they been getting drugs off Dr Juvanji. Plus, everyone is looking at their mobile phones. OK… normally a few people are on their phones – mainly girls, cos girls always need to be shouting away to show how popular they are.
Sal is right next to the kerb, staring at his phone, while eating a chocolate brownie. Sal is Turkish and he aint no stranger to the inside of a kebab shop. In fact his family runs The Best Turkish Kebab Shop on Stoke Newington High Street. Sal is massive and hairy and he wears too much hair wax so you can see his scalp. He’s only in our year cos he got held back for failing his exams. So he’s already nearly 16, and he must be 16 stone as well. Luckily he don’t get into a lot of fights cos he’s basically mellow. But when he does fight, he’s lethal cos he knows how to use his weight. He sits on people. He’s wearing a Galatassaray top which has got bright, shiney colours so he looks like a hot air balloon.
I keep well away from him, and move round to the back of the group.
But that puts me near to Kriss who’s wearing a bright red Gap hat, and a Chicago Bulls vest which shows off his muscles. Just like everyone else, Kriss is watching the video of the brainworm on his phone, but at the same time he’s eating a doughnut. He only eats half of it, then he drops the rest onto his foot and without hardly looking he volleys it, left foot, down the pavement.
This is why I used to be friends with Kriss…
- Cos he is unreal at football. One of his uncles was John Fashanu who played football for Nigeria. He’s so good that I reckon he could play for England and I would love to go and watch him. I would tell everyone he used to my friend.
- I known him since I was 4 and Mum made me go to St Matthias Church Sunday School cos she wanted me to go St Matthias School. We did a Nativity Play. Kriss was The Innkeeper and he got this purple robe off his cousin, and he acted like he was a pimp and all the rooms were full cos they were full of girls. He was hilarious. I was a sheep.
- After Sunday School we used to chill out in Butterfield. I invented this army gang. He was captain and I was lieutenant. We used to wear these green baseballs caps that his Mum bought down in Dalston Market. Whenever you did a game with Kriss, he always wanted to get the clothes right first.
This is why I aint friends with Kriss now…
- If you try and mess about with him he always says “You gay on me or something?”
- Kriss is probably the best-looking guy in my school, and he has a lot of power. If you fall out with Kriss, you’re in deep trouble.
- He’s very good at fighting. He don’t fight much though. Don’t need to. He’s only got to stare and people back off.
Kriss watches the end of the brainworm video and the music fades away. Then he turns and looks at me. Looks me right in the eye.
“Bitchin,” he says, “what music you like?”
I hate being asked that question. It’s like there’s a right answer and you gotta know what it is. Normally I say I like whatever Kriss has said he likes, but I can’t do that now. So I make something up.
“I like Sly Boy,” I say, “also MP2, also the Kumquat Connection”.
Kriss keeps staring at me.
“I aint heard of none of them”, he says, “do you like this girl?”
He clicks on his phone, and Kimberley Galloway appears. I really don’t want to hear that song again. It’s like eating more candy floss when you’ve already puked.
“She’s OK”, I say.
“She is buff”, says Kriss.
“She is leng”, says Sal. He’s come over. He’s like a wolf. He knows the leader is about to take down a deer and he’s gonna get lunch.
“She is leng food”, says Kriss, still staring at me.
(Leng food??? I aint never heard that expression before. This happens all the time. It’s like everyone’s texting each other these new words and then all the suckers have to start using them straight away or they’re gonna get done).
“I’m gonna watch it again,” says Sal.
He presses a button on his phone, and the video starts playing on the screen. They all gather in to watch, so I feel I gotta watch too. Kimberley is a blonde white girl. OK, she is good-looking but she’s a bit old. 25 at least. She got long blonde hair but you can tell she’s been in the sun too much and she aint rough, but she aint as lush as she thinks she is. She’s got a square jaw, and her eyes are a bit close together, and she’s got a big bottom lip. She looks greedy. Looks like one of them girls that you see at airports, giving hell to their boyfriends cos they want an upgrade. She’s staring into the camera, and rapping, always with the same expression on her face. She looks horny, but stupid. Like a sexed up cow. But her clothes and the background keep changing. One moment she’s shopping. Then she’s dancing with half-naked blokes. Then she’s getting out of a helicopter. Something about this video, it makes me mad. I can’t explain it.
The chorus goes:
“I need it,
I need it,
I seed it,
I need it.
Everybody’s doing it, so why can’t I?
Everybody’s doing it, so why can’t I?”
The song is so bad, it could be Christmas Number One. It’s bad enough to get played in a fairground. But the other guys like it. Sal’s got this look on his face, like he wants to rape his phone.
“She is potent”, he says, “I would dig it out of her”.
I’m thinking: Right, Sal… Like she’s gonna get prepped by a fat teenager who’s still at school. But I don’t say that, I just say: “She’s OK”
“OK?!…” says Kriss, hitting me on the arm, and giving me a sly look. “You gay Bitchin?”
I don’t say nothing to that. What I wanna say is… yup, she’s blonde, and she’s good-looking, but I reckon she’s a witch. Gotta be. I mean… she’s a singer, but she can’t sing. And she’s in movies, but she can’t act. And she’s got her own TV show, even though she aint got nothing to say. How does that come about? Cos she’s a witch.
The song finishes.
Right away, Sal presses the button, and it starts all over again.
“Man! Don’t start it again!” I say, “I can’t take it no more!”
Now they’re all giving me a bad look. I don’t like that look. It means that any second I’m gonna get battered like a piece of fish.
“What’s your problem?” says Kriss.
“You taking the piss?” says Sal.
“No I aint. I aint”.
There still giving me a bad look. I gotta get away quick. But I gotta act like I aint running away or they’ll come for me later.
Chapter 5
I act like I really need to walk to the newsagents that’s a few doors down.
I go in the shop. I nod hello to Hidir who’s behind the counter. I get myself a Twix, a Lilt, and a copy of Fight magazine. As I’m going out, I see some ginger in the security mirror. I look up. Vernon Watkins is hanging out by the freezer section. I get right away what he’s doing. He’s hiding in the shop cos he don’t wanna have to stand with everyone by the bus stop. Same as me.
“Alright Vern”, I shout.
“Oh, hello Colin!” he shouts.
So I go down and see him and he spreads his arms like he’s going to try and hug me. I back off. He’s wearing a tweed jacket and a shirt with a collar and some thick glasses that I aint never seen before. I can see why he’s hiding. If he turned up at the bus stop dressed like that, they would set him on fire. He’s dressed like a grandad.
He’s also got this catalogue out on top of the fish finger section.
“You know where to get cheap software?” he goes.
“No. What do you want?”
“Chess Strategy for Masters”, he says, “you play against the computer, and then the computer tells you what moves you could’ve made. Then it tells you what different moves different Grand Masters have made in the same situation.” He looks me in the eye, dead serious. “This could turn me into a Grand Master”, he says.
“OK”, I say, “how much it cost?”
“249 quid”.
“That’s cold”.
“Yip,” he says.
Suddenly I can’t help myself: “Verno, why the hell are you dressed like that?”
“I wanna look like Dave Brubeck”.
“What? Who is that?”
“He’s a jazz musician from the 1950s. His music is amazing”.
“I’m sure his music is phat, but them glasses make you look like a paedo.”
Vern aint bothered by this. He must get so much stick he don’t get hurt no more.
“I’ll play you the record next time you come round”, he says.
I’m thinking you’re gonna be waiting a long time. Don’t get me wrong. I like Vern, BUT…
- His dad’s a vicar. And he must be one of them touchie-feelie ones as well, cos Vern’s always try to hug people. When he does it to me, I back away like I’d back away from a rottweiller.
- He’s got ginger hair and glasses. Looks like Harry Potter after a bad bleach job.
- He’s obsessed with chess. He’s always getting chess books out the library. Don’t get me wrong. I know people play chess. I also know people pick their nose and eat it. You can do it, just keep quiet about it.
- He’s got skid marks. Eric found em, and he passed em round the changing room.
- He’s dressed like Dave Brubeck, who musta looked like one of them old men you see staring through the fence at the girls playing netball.
- Last time I went round his house, Eric saw me coming out, and he wrote “Bitchin and Vern are gay” on the bus stop timetable.
I turn. I see someone coming into the shop. It’s Kriss and Sal. Right away I get the fear. I cannot get caught with Vern.
I walk straight past Kriss and Sal who’re getting scratch cards. They don’t notice me. Result.
I come out. Still no sign of the bus. I got such a bad feeling I’m actually shaking.
So then I just stand on the pavement, taking deep breaths. I’m looking at my feet, thinking they look further away than they used to. Thinking I hope no one’s gonna notice me.
Then something weird happens.
I hear a voice. Sounds American. Sounds shabby. Sounds like Samuel L Jackson from Pulp Fiction, and that guy’s got the best voice there’s ever been.
The voice goes:
“Boy… you are a mess…You are all over the place like a mad woman’s piss.”
I look round. I’m looking at a pigeon which has got a stump for a leg. It’s on the pavement pecking away at Kriss’s doughnut. I don’t see Samuel L Jackson.
The pigeon stops pecking. It looks up.
Its eyes have gone grey-blue like there’s a milky film over them. It looks at me.
And it speaks with Samuel L Jackson’s voice.
It says: “You need help child. You need power. You better come and find The Master.”
Chapter 6
I’m thinking: is this it? have I actually lost it now? Do I need to see Juvanji so he can give me pills? Is everyone gonna take the piss out of me for the rest of my life? Should I just rush into the street and get squashed like a hedgehog?
But then I look up and I see someone crossing the street…
Polly.
I’m saved. It’s Polly.
Pollerina.
Polledora.
She’s still on the other side of the street, but I can see it’s Poll. For a start, she’s got her guitar case on her back. That figures. Most Wednesday nights, Polly goes to Open Mic night in the Lonsborough. Basically means she sings 2 songs to 8 old men and a fruit machine. My job is to step in when the old men start grabbing.
I watch Polly crossing the street. She’s got her own shape. I aint saying she’s fat, but she’s chunky. Strong. Her arms are as wide as my legs, mind you my legs are like sticks. She can waste me at arm wrestling. She’s good-looking though, and she’s got her own style. The girls round here have got corn rows in their hair, and they wear track suits even though most of them don’t walk further than the chip shop. Poll dresses like a crustie: DM boots, ripped jeans, long, dirty, dark brown hair which she’s wearing loose. Today she’s wearing a red t-shirt which is tight round Polly’s big breasts so she’s got nut nips.
I go straight out, and join her.
“Hi Poll”, I say. And I give her a little kick on the arse.
“Hey Gorgeous,” she says, and I smile. Not just cos she’s called me Gorgeous, but also cos Polly’s got a beautiful voice. Soft Dublin accent.
Now Polly’s here, right away, the bus turns up, and the doors open right in front of us. Sal tries to push in front of us.
“Sal,” says Polly, “would you not push? That’s bang out of order”.
She’s always saying that – “bang out of order” – and no one messes with her when she’s said that. We flash our passes at the driver, we go upstairs, and we go straight to our normal seat: on the right, at the front. She puts down her guitar. I sit next to her and I can feel my arms touching hers. I like that. Course, if I’d’ve known this is almost the last time I’m gonna sit next to Polly like this, I’d like it even more,
She looks at me.
“You OK?”
“Yeah. Having these dreams that do my head.”
“Ah, you’re so cute,” she says, and she grabs my head and puts it on her shoulder. This feels well gay, so I push her off. It feels like she’s trying to be my Mum, and I don’t let my Mum hug me so I aint letting Polly do it neither.
“What’s the matter with you?” she says.
“Well, I’m OK. But everyone else is being well strange”.
“How?”
“Well… everyone’s got these weird new phones. And everyone kept talking to me, but no one was talking to anybody else”.
Right away Polly turns to the bus, and she gives a big smile. “Good morning everybody!” she says. Then she smiles at me, and turns back.
“Don’t do that!”
“Why?”
“I don’t wanna cause attention, or everyone’s gonna start on me”.
“That’s just what you think.”
Then she goes silent for a second. I know it won’t last though. Polly’s an IPOD on Random Selection. Whatever she comes up with, it’s always a surprise, and it’s always good.
“I have this fantasy…” That gets my attention. “…It’s like a recurring fantasy. When I’m on a bus, I imagine that someone’s gonna come, and they’re going to shout “Everyone’s gonna die, except you. You have 10 seconds then you’re going to be sent to a desert island for ever. You have 10 seconds to find your companion! 10 , 9, 8…” So then I have to choose who I’d take… Obviously, right now, I’d choose you”.
I’m glad she said that. But I can also feel myself blushing, and I’m hoping no one else can hear.
“Yeah,” I say, “but… say I aint here. Who?”
She looks round.
“Well… Kriss is the best looking…” I don’t say nothing to this. “But he’s got issues. And Sal is strong, so he’d be good for cutting down trees. But maybe… I’d take him”.
She points out a skinny guy who’s reading a novel. I aint never seen him before. He looks about our age, but he definitely don’t go to our school. Maybe he’s going up to one of them Jewish ones that are north of Church Street. I don’t want Polly taking him to a desert island.
“Who would you choose?” she says, “apart from me.”
I look at the bus.
“None of them. They can all die”.
“Colin,” she says, “you’re turning evil. Seriously. You are”.
She smiles when she says it. So I can’t tell if she’s saying I’m evil-sexy, or evil-bad, and so I say nothing. And that’s the end of my last normal conversation with Polly. After then everything is different.
I’m about to ask if she’ll come camping this weekend, but Kriss comes over and sits on the seat behind us and he whispers something in her ear. I get out Fight magazine and pretend to read it, but I can’t hear what he’s saying.
And then the bus stops.
We’re on Church Street next to the block of flats that are facing Clissold Park. This is the stop for our school.
We get up quick and get down to the door first. Everyone else follows behind us. So I’m still standing in the doorway, when I see it…
A few yards away, there’s flowers tied to the railing, from where a car killed a boy, a few weeks ago. Everyone can see that. They’ve been passing them for weeks. At first they’d go quiet when they went by, but no one knew the boy, so after a bit they aint too bothered. So no one really notices the flowers which have gone all brown inside the plastic cover.
They also don’t notice the ghost who’s standing in front of the flowers.
He looks about 7. A little fat kid with a shaved head. He’s crying.
Just seeing him, it makes me go cold inside. It’s like when you’re out swimming in the sea, and suddenly the water goes freezing. I’m a few yards off, but already I can smell him. People don’t know that about ghosts – they stink. Have you ever taken the top off a jar of pasta sauce, cos you’re throwing the jar in the recycling? The ghost smells a bit like that. He smells of old pasta sauce, and old piss that’s gone rank in an alleyway. He smells scared.
He’s shaking his head and muttering.
“My dad’s gonna kill me,” he says, “gonna kill me. And My Mum, she told me to watch out. They’re gonna batter me. So hard, they’re gonna batter me”.
Vernon Watkins is at the front of the crowd walking to school. And he walks right through the ghost. That is wrong.
Meanwhile everyone else is stuck in the doorway behind me.
“Move it Bitchin, you lemon”, says Sal.
“What’s the matter?” says Polly.
“There’s a ghost, right there,” I say.
And, just a second, I see this look in Polly’s eyes. It’s like she’s thinking: “oh God, here we go again.” “Oh dear,” she says. She’s keeping her voice soft, the way you talk to an old person. “What should we do for the ghost?”
“Shhhh Polly”, I whisper. “Everyone’s gonna rip the piss”.
“If you don’t want me to help, I’m gonna go”.
“Polly, don’t”
“Why?”
Cos I need you to stay with me or they’ll start on me.
Cos I wanna talk to you.
I say nothing.
“I gotta drop my guitar in the music room”, she says, “save me a place”.
And she goes.
I bend down and pretend to tie my laces, and I wait till everyone else has gone round the corner. Then I walk right up to the ghost. Now you wouldn’t believe the smell. It gets to you as well: I’m starting to feel as scared as him.
“My dad’s gonna beat me so bad,” he’s saying.
“Listen,” I whisper to him, “your dad aint gonna beat you. And you don’t have to keep standing here.”
“I gotta stay here!” he shouts.
“You’ve been dead for weeks. You should go”.
“I gotta stay here!” he shouts again.
Then I notice something strange. Right next to him, there’s a machine. Looks like an air conditioner fan. There’s a little bottle next to it, that’s filled with liquid. This machine is like the ghost: it aint real. They aint in our world. I try to hold the bottle. My hand goes right through it.
“Listen,” I say to him again, “you gotta move away from here.”
He looks at me. For a moment it’s like I’m his only hope. I start to walk. He moves one step.
“STAY RIGHT THERE!” I hear this loud voice, “HOW DARE YOU MOVE FROM YOUR POSITION?”
I’m looking around. I can’t hear who’s talking. I look round.
On top of the block of flats there’s something nuts. Looks like an old man, cept he’s only about 3 foot tall, and he’s got something hanging off his back, looks like a cloak. Just seeing him up there scares me like you wouldn’t believe. I actually feel a little jet of pee come out in my pants. I think I’m gonna have a full panic attack and I won’t be able to breathe.
But then I see someone else watching me.
That’s the end of the extract, but you can go straight to Amazon.co.uk to buy a copy. There are 800 copies left from the first print run. A first edition Harry Potter is worth a fortune, so maybe you’ll be getting something valuable. Either way, it’s a damn good read, and I’d love you to have it.
"an inspiring parable about redemption," 5 stars, The Book Bag.
"Dirty Angels follows the premise of teenage fiction: nerdy protagonist, broken home, stifling shyness, but the familiar foundations break away. It's what Kafka might have written, if he'd been resurrected by Green Peace as the voice of teenage forewarning." Waterstones.
Alternatively you can send me a cheque for £6, via my agent –
Andrew Clover
c/o Janklow and Nesbit
33 Drayson Mews
North Kensingon
W8 4LY
and I’ll send you a signed copy. I’ll also do a dedication for whoever you want.
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