Open Writing

'Just look at that,' Canvey said, 'all those tattoos on his face ... and rings.'

'Stop gawping,' said his woman. She put her plastic bag down. 'He's making a statement, that's all.'

'Making a statement? Is that what you call it? More like a bloody spectacle, if you ask me.'

'Well, nobody is asking you. Come on, let's go.' She picked her bag up and looked inside, checking.

'Go where?' he asked, after a while.

Eventually they reached the bus shelter.

'We can sit down here,' Canvey said.

'What for?' his woman asked. 'We're not going on a bus, are we?'

'We don't have to go on a bloody bus to sit down here,' he said.

She stamped her foot. 'Swearing again,' she said, 'you're naughty, you are.' She looked at the others in the bus shelter. 'Isn't he naughty?' she said.

An hour later they were in front of the off-licence.

'Are you going in or not?' asked Canvey, shaking.

'No, not me,’ said his woman. 'I haven't any money left.'

'What did you spend it on?'

'Two sausage rolls, remember?'

'No, wait. . . here's something, go and get -'

By 10 pm they were in the park, with three others.

'Share and share alike,' said Canvey, passing a bottle round.

'Pompous twit,' said one of the three, in a torn coat.

'Don't call him that,' said Canvey's woman. 'He's a retired doctor, that's what he is, yes, that's what he is . . .'

'He looks more like a retired pimp to me,' a woman's voice piped up.

'What did you say?' asked Canvey. 'Say that again, go on, say it again.'

'Say wot again?' asked a new arrival, grabbing the bottle.