Dead bones.
‘Fuck it!’ said Jaz. ‘Fuck that losing.’
Game over. Manchester sighs, a spectral breath.
‘Somebody, somewhere,’ called out Tommy Tumbler from the city’s screens, ‘just won themselves ten million lovelies! Remember, my friends, my losers, next week is another game. Another chance to win. Purchase in advance.’
Jaz switched off the TV in disgust. ‘Can I have that kiss you promised me now?’ he asked. ‘Just for some comfort?’
‘I didn’t promise.’
‘You did. Last week. You said maybe next week.’
‘I meant going to the club, maybe next week. Not a kiss.’
‘OK. This is next week. I’ll meet you tomorrow night, ten o’clock. We’ll go down the Snake Lounge. Frank Scenario will be singing.’ Jazir tipped his trilby.
‘You’re still into that neo-cool thing?’ asked Daisy. ‘Isn’t he a little old to be a pop star?’
‘He’s not a pop star. He’s lived, has our Francis. The living comes out in the songs. Anyway, he’s singing tomorrow. You up for it?’
‘Assignments. Sorry.’
‘Assignments, sorry! That’s all it is with you, Daze. One of these days…’
‘What?’
‘Nothing. Look, I’m sorry for going on about your dead dad last week. I know how much it means, to be unappreciated. I wasn’t thinking.’
‘That’s OK.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘What? What’s wrong now?’
‘Nothing much.’ He was already leaving.
‘Jaz, please—’
‘Never say it’s OK that your dad has died. That’s all.’
‘I never did. You said—’
‘I’m gone.’
Jazir left Daisy alone and descended into the curry pit. He snatched his plum-coloured velvet waiter’s jacket from his locker and wrapped it around himself, even as his father was calling from the kitchen, where in the world had he been all that evening! Jaz ignored the call, ignored also the stupid smiles of his younger brothers. He burst through the swing doors, into the Golden Samosa’s floor show and circus. The place was Friday-night jammed. Jaz spotted a group of trash-white students on table five, waiting aggressively for somebody brown to take their order. He hurried over, digging his notepad from the jacket’s pocket. Shit! How he hated wearing this plum-velvet Sixties gear, but it was his dad’s idea of smart. ‘Have you been making your choosing, kind sirs?’ Jaz asked the table, in his best put-upon English-Asian.
‘We made it ten thousand years ago, gunga,’ one of the guys stated. ‘Where the fuck were you? Back in the jungle?’
‘Very sorry, kind sir, for the delaying.’
Medical students, thought Jazir to himself. And even worse, University Rugby Team. Blue and cream shirts stretched tight over muscle. One of them had a personal blurbfly resting on his padded mountain of a shoulder. The fly was singing the team’s praises: ‘English schools for English tools! No foreign muck. Vote for Purity!’ Jazir recognized the blurb owner, the dreaded Nigel Zuze, self-proclaimed leader of the League of Zero. Fascist bastards…
‘If you please, sir,’ said Jazir, ‘but we cannot be allowing the blurbflies in the restaurant, because of the health regulations.’
‘So throw him out, garlic-breath!’ Nigel shouted, and the party laughed along.
Best keep the feelings tight, thought Jaz. Best make with the soft voice, or else they’ll grow even uglier, if that’s at all possible. ‘Very good, kind sir. If the pet keeps under control. Please you tell me now your choosings.’
‘Prawn Rogans all round!’ cried the Zuze. ‘And make it double quick!’
Jaz calculated the table, found a whole half-dozen of the sad-fuck players dribbling there, each with their creamed-out dominoes lying idle. Jaz pulled back his bile, and said, ‘Oh yes, kind sir, that’s six King Prawn Rogan Josh, very good choice. Did you have bad luck in the lottery? My bones, also, were much to be desiring.’
‘Do we have to put up with this foreign shit just to get a cheap meal these days?’ answered Nigel. ‘I knew we should’ve gone down Whoomphy’s for a burger! And fuck these numbers to hell and back!’ There was a TV in the Golden Samosa, upon which Cookie Luck was frozen for a day in the week’s winning numbers. The leader threw his losing bones at the screen, crying out, ‘Fuck you. Cookie Luck!’ And all the forks in the Golden Samosa were poised around the moment, some of them even banging down in agreement.
PLAY THE RULES
5a.
AnnoDomino will not permit the players to become addicted to the game.
5b.
The players of the game will not give themselves up to addiction.
6a.
We cannot allow society to be threatened by addiction.
6b.
We must always be searching for profit.
6c.
Rules 6a and 6b must never come into conflict with each other.
Jazir swung back through the kitchen door, calling out for six King Prawn Rogan Josh, and at this very second. The underling chefs took up his order, made it good, made it spicy. ‘Make it extra good and spicy,’ said Jaz, ‘you know what I’m saying? These are medical students we’re dealing with.’
‘Where were you previous, my first son?’ Jazir’s father was working the biggest karahi pan, deftly, swirling a batch of Chicken Dhansak like the master-of-spices that he was. A cloud of dreamy smoke and spices from the homeland cookbook…
CHICKEN DHANSAK
Take one breast of chicken, sweetly cubed, slowly cooked, karahi-bound. Plenty of grease for the English. Add sugar and turmeric and the secret curry paste. Sweet and hot, simmered with lentils and chosen vegetables, and then mate with tender pineapple chunks. From a tin, of course. Add a sprinkle of garam masala, and stir lightly. Traditionally served with brown rice. Although, for the English, only pilau fried rice will do.
Maybe throw in a naan bread or two, for the juices.
Heat Rating: medium
‘I was studying, Father,’ Jazir replied to the deep recipe.
‘Studying the nasty dominoes, maybe?’
‘Father, you know that gambling is against all the teachings.’
‘Good. So you were studying that lodger woman upstairs? Meanwhile, myself and your diligent brothers were suffering a Friday-night onslaught. Isn’t that more than correct?’
Jaz looked over to where his underage twin brothers were smirking at him for being so troublesome. Rogan Josh! thought Jazir to himself. All the karahi paths that I have to burn myself out in before my freedom comes calling, away from the rulings, away from the spices. If only I could win even a half-cast of lovelies on the dominoes! If only to turn Rogan Josh into roguish dosh. Then I would be really travelling! Anything to get away from this stench of burning flesh.
‘Her name’s Daisy, by the way,’ Jazir answered to Saeed, ‘and she’s not a woman, she’s just a girl. And she’s paying you rent.’
‘She’s a white girl.’
‘Oh, you noticed, Father?’
‘I don’t want you messing with her, and certainly not bringing her dishes. Oh yes, I’ve been seeing you sneaking up the outside stairs with the takeaways.’
‘So reduce her rent, Father. She’s only a poor student. An orphan.’
‘And how’s your studying coming on, Jazir?’
‘It’s coming on fine, Father.’
‘I hear it’s coming on dreadful. According to your latest report.’
‘I’m trying my best, Father, but all I want to do is sell my wares; just like the family has always done.’
‘You know I want you to go to the university next year. What have you learned yet?’
‘I’ve learned that maths is poetry, and that in the calculus, as y approaches 1, x approaches infinity.’
An old and very well-known equation. Because Jaz hadn’t being paying attention to his latest lessons; after all, he already knew everything he needed to know. But it was enough to ge
t his father going.
‘Good! Now you keep quiet! You shut up! And take that hat off!’
‘But Father, aren’t you understanding this equation?’
‘No, I’m not understanding, and that’s very good. I’m wanting my sons to know more than I do.’
Jazir took off his hat, revealing the glossy hair.
‘Now take those glasses off, please. It’s not sunny in here.’
Jazir took off his sunglasses, revealing the dark, mischievous eyes.
‘Now you go and serve table nine, right this second!’
‘Yes, Father. Table nine.’
Jazir stored his hat and glasses in his locker, slicked some more coconut oil through his dark-night hair. Back to the kitchen. He picked up a Dhansak, and also a Korma from the hotplate, and then carried them deftly through the swing doors. He deposited them in front of a loving couple, and then took an order from another table: three Chicken Baltis and a Lamb Madras. Meanwhile, the medical students were braying for their food, goaded on by the leader. ‘Where the fuck are our curries?’ cried Nigel Zuze.
‘Very next thing, your meals are delivered. We’re making them very special, sir. Very spicy! Are you sure that sir can take it, sir?’
‘I can take the devil’s arsehole! Now bring it quick!’
‘Coming up super quick, kindest sir.’
Meanwhile, the restaurant was buzzing, chock-a-block with losing students and the various other spicehounds, causing Jaz to rush between the tables, taking the orders and delivering, keeping all the punters happy. Whilst also keeping a small place free in his mind for some delicious thoughts about the young girl upstairs. Oh my dearest Daisy Love, how upon this earth can I get to your caresses?
Into these secret desires came the latest hit song by Frank Scenario:
I’ve got that woman’s taste in my mouth,
Making me play the dominatee.
Playing my bones along with Lady Luck,
Wherever she may take me.
At first Jaz thought a stray pop blurb had flown in, and he was all set to swat the pest, until he saw that it was only Joe Crocus gliding into the Golden Samosa, singing the song alive and aloud for all the curry punters to hear, and harmonized by his acolytes, DJ Dopejack and Sweet Benny Fenton. Jaz welcomed them all with a trayful of complementary poppadoms and chutneys.
Regular customers. Jaz was thrilled that such a great student had chosen to adorn his father’s restaurant. Jaz had friends at the university, and it was well known that Joe Crocus could make the numbers dance like crazy. ‘Did you have any luck tonight, sir,’ asked Jazir of Joe, ‘on the dominoes?’
‘The good Cookie Luck was sleeping, alas.’
‘Alas and alack, myself the same. And a very good evening to you, Sweet Benny.’
Benny gave him a wink. Jazir gave it back. Whilst the Dopejack just threw a smile into his menu. Even Jaz had to admit that Dopejack was a most excellent DJ, cooking the latest neo-cool tunes like a top chef, but apart from that…Jaz hated the man. Jazir fucking hated him! Simply because the DJ was the university’s supposed best student of Applied Physics, which was Jaz’s natural subject, the making of strangeness. They were both working at the same equation: how to make a computer give up its inner secrets. Info-jealousy, for sure, but did the student have to be so ugly, and did he have to dye his hair that hideous green colour, just to prove a point? Trying to prove what? Some kind of ugly weirdness? Dopejack was closer to Joe Crocus than Jaz could ever be, unless he joined the learning race.
‘An interesting result, nonetheless,’ said Joe, ‘on the game tonight.’
‘In what way, sir?’
‘Call me Joe, please. Well, it’s the first time a blank’s come up. We all know that the double-blank is a nasty.’
‘Joker Bone!’ Benny shivered even just saying the words.
‘But I’m wondering about the consequences of winning a half-blank.’
‘Right,’ said Dopejack, ‘like what does half a joker do to you?’
‘Thankfully, we shall not find out. Enough! What shall we partake of?’
‘May I recommend the Chef’s Special?’ enquired Jazir.
‘Good thinking, my man. Open all channels; connect to everything. Surprise us! Only not too greasy, mind. I don’t want that English crap. Nice and dry and full of marination.’
‘Of course, Mr Joe! Just like my mother makes it at home.’
Nobody knew exactly how old Joe Crocus was, although the campus connection placed him at forty-five orbits of the sun. All the punters were looking over to the table, the men and the women both, because Crocus was finely carved for both male and female desire. Loverman supreme. With his braided, long, ebony hair; his frockcoat of many colours; his cut of Byronic swath.
Jaz took their orders. ‘Three Chef’s Specials for Crocus and Dopejack and Sweet Benny Fenton!’ Cried in earnest, as he banged through the kitchen door. ‘And easy on the grease this time.’
‘What’s that?’ gasped the underlings and the brothers. ‘Easy on the grease?’ Like it was some kind of sacrilege.
‘Just fucking cook it!’ shouted Jaz. At which sound, his father howled down the kitchen, ‘How dare you be cursing on my premises?’ And Jaz had to run for cover, back to the feeding floor.
Five minutes later, a drunken party of five ladies, slumming it from leafy Poshtown, came falling through the Golden Samosa’s door, letting a rogue blurbfly in with them, singing about how the next domino game was the best-ever bet. ‘Buy your numbers early! Make a wish on the future. Play to win!’ The other diners protested at the disturbance, and it was Jaz’s job to swat at the blurb, to urge it back outside with the fanning of an extra-large naan bread. All that wafting in vain, because the blurb refused to leave the premises. It was going crazy with its own messages, obviously thinking it was a lone hunter. And that’s when the rugby blurb launched itself.
‘English schools for English tools! No foreign muck. Vote for Purity!’
Advert war!
The two blurbs fought it out, slogan against slogan above the diners, sparking the air as their messages clashed. Horrible message flies, trying to bite each other. Blue and cream flashed the stripes of one beauty, rugby-shirt style; whilst white dots on black pulsed along the domino fly. Poor Malik could only apologize dearly to the ducking-down customers, as the rugby-fly twisted and turned like a purist bastard with medical knowledge, until the domino fly retreated through the doorway.
Jazir made some more deliveries, and pretty soon the medical students were sweating under the extra spices included in their King Prawn Rogans. ‘What the fuck is this?’ Nigel Zuze cried. ‘We’re burning our guts out on this shit!’
‘Is it too hot for the mightiest, sir?’ Jazir asked with concern.
‘This isn’t a Rogan. This is a Thunderloo! Take it away. I can hardly breathe!’ The big medical student threw his plate on to the floor, then stood up to grab Jazir by the collar. ‘You’re playing some fucking Paki joke on me!’ And with a vicious head-butt Jaz was laid out on the Golden Samosa’s shagpile carpet.
Joe Crocus strode over from his table. ‘Fellow learner,’ he said to the Zero captain, ‘you have imparted damage to an innocent chap. A friend of mine. For this mishap you must surely be punished.’
‘Eh? What fucker’s saying so, fuckface?’
‘The loverman is saying so,’ said Benny Fenton, quietly, from his seat.
‘And what are you? Some kind of a black queer? Ought to be a law against it.’ One of his compatriots informed Zuze that there was already a law against it and was told to ‘shut the fuck up’ for his trouble. The rest of the crew laughed along, standing tall in defence of their leader. Meanwhile, the rugby-fly hovered aloft, ready for battle time.
Six medical rugby players and a blurbfly against two mathematicians and a physicist, and made up to a paltry quartet when Jaz Malik finally managed to raise himself from the restaurant’s floor, bleeding from his eyebrow.
No contest. The rugby fu
ckers were primed to kill.
But then Saeed, the boss, and his two younger sons came out of the kitchen, followed by all the underlings, all the waiters, and suddenly the rugby players were surrounded. ‘Fuck the lot of you and get back to the jungle!’ Nigel Zuze shouted to the circle, before pushing his way through them, towards the door. ‘Compatriots, retreat!’ With a last notice that he’d be back ‘in vengeance one fucking day’. Out onto the pavement. The curry crew followed them.
Showdown in Spicetown, showered by the rain.
Somebody else, somewhere, must have called up the burgercops, because now the beefy sirens were singing harmony to the night, mashing it up with their big scarlet ‘W’ sign, flashing like a neon menu.
And all the glittering blurbflies were swarming, buzzing the fighting mob with messages: ‘Breathe Our Air! Play Dominoes! Eat Whoomphy MegaBurgers! Suck Chocolate! Pseudosoup! Bank accounts! The latest sex star! The latest song by Frank Scenario! The latest burger-image from the cops! The dance of Cookie Luck! The Virtues of For Ever! Downfall of Hope! Tinsel Time! Burgerball and Domidome!’
Can you guess who won?
Daisy Love heard the commotion from her room above the curry house, tried her best to ignore the usual Friday-night trouble and the sirens and the screams and the pitches of the blurbflies, and then spent the rest of the night working on her latest chaotic equations. The chances of this, and the chances of that; the chances of living and loving.
And when the telephone rang, well, she was torn awake from numberland. ‘Who’s that?’ she asked.
‘It’s me,’ answered the phone. ‘Your father.’
‘Who?’
‘Jimmy Love, you remember? So nice to hear your voice.’
‘Who is this, please, some kind of joker?’
‘Guess so.’
Daisy banged down the phone, back to work. Really, she should’ve been asleep by now. On Saturdays she worked in a bookshop, and it wouldn’t do to turn up docile. But her father had called to her from far away. Shit! he’d actually called her! Had he really called her? After so many years.