Num8ers - By Rachel Ward Page 0,15
Spider. He was covered in tattoos, and I mean covered. Arms, neck, face, the lot. It was the ones on his face that freaked me out, never seen nothing that extreme before. Spider leaned down to me and yelled, “I’ve got to do a bit of business. I’ll be back in a minute.”
I watched them disappear together into a back room while my mind tried to make sense of something. The tattooed guy had looked me up and down when he’d come over to Spider. Now his number was drifting ’round my mind and I was trying to make sense of it — I may not have taken a draw on Spider’s spliff, but I guess I’d been breathing it in anyway. My mind wasn’t quite working the way it should — I hadn’t exactly stopped thinking, but it was just all taking a bit longer than usual. 12112010. What the hell did that mean? Then it all kind of came into focus again. The eleventh of December this year. That was when Tattoo Face was going to die. Four days before Spider. What the hell was going on around here?
Without Spider next to me, and with the numbers thing burning a hole in my head, I was definitely feeling edgy now. I hung around with Spider’s new pals, but I didn’t know them and they didn’t know me. I shut my eyes and pretended to be getting into the music, wondering how long I could stick it out, whether Spider would notice — or mind — if I wasn’t there when he got back.
Something made me open my eyes again — something different about the noise, someone pushing against me, I don’t know. Across the room, things were heating up. A group of guys, including the one with the tattoos, were shoving somebody around. Hands, shoulders, elbows all going in. In the middle of it all, towering above them, was Spider. Big as he was, there was no doubt what was going on. They were bullying him, intimidating him. He was holding his hands up, as if to say, Hold on, guys, while they ranged ’round him like hyenas. He’s tall, Spider, but there’s no meat on him, and my stomach flipped over to see him like that. So vulnerable.
After a couple of minutes, someone else came out of the back room, baseball cap and shades on. Nothing special to look at, but there was something about him, the way he carried himself. I didn’t need an introduction: This was Baz; he was “The Man” around here. He said something, and they all laid off Spider. Spider thanked the guy, and you could tell he was going over the top, head nodding like a bobblehead dog’s, and then he was back with me.
“Come on, Jem, it’s time to go.”
He grabbed my arm, and instead of shrugging him off, I let him steer me toward the front door, glad to be getting out of there, sorry I’d come in the first place.
“Are you alright?” I asked.
“Yeah, ’course. Everything’s cool. Everything’s cool. Let’s get out of here.” He was still nodding and mumbling to himself as we made our way through the crowd. No need to barge this time: People were making a path through. The bit of aggro in the corner hadn’t escaped anyone’s notice, and Spider was tainted with it.
The night air was shockingly cold after the sweatbox of Baz’s flat. We walked down the stairs in silence. Spider didn’t show any signs of telling me about it, so in the end I asked him straight out.
“What the fuck is going on?”
“Nothing.”
“I’m not stupid, Spider. Suddenly — out of nowhere — you’ve got a new sound system, you’ve got money to spend, and you get invited to Baz’s party — a bloke who three weeks ago wouldn’t have spat on you to save your life. I saw all those guys ’round you just now. What have you got yourself into? Are you in some sort of trouble?”
“No, Jem, not trouble. Nothing I can’t handle, anyway. They just…they just wanted to make sure I didn’t screw up. And I’m not gonna. It’s all gonna be cool. I’ve just got to take a little package somewhere and then bring another one back.”
“Package?” My heart sank. “Oh, Jesus, Spider, what have they got you doing?”
“It’s just helping out, that’s all.” We were cutting through the High Street now. He looked quickly behind me, then darted into a shop doorway and beckoned to