Free The Devil Rides Out by Paul O'Grady Page B

and then searching again, driven like a mad thing by my craving for nicotine. Eventually I got dressed and ran over the street to Alistair’s to see if either he or Tony Page could ‘give us the loan of a fag’. I hated asking as I’d not known them that long and was loath to reinforce the stereotypical image of residents of Merseyside as scrounging scallies, constantly bumming cigs. As for borrowing money from them, forget it, I’d sooner starve than ask for a loan and it seemed that in my current predicament I was about to find out just what that felt like.
Neither Alistair nor Tony Page was at home. Oh Lord, I’d have sold a kidney for ten Cadets, both of them for a pack of twenty, and as I was putting my key in the door a woman came out of the newsagent’s and lit a cigarette. The whiff of smoke that assailed my nostrils as she strolled past made my craving for the dreaded weed unbearable. I had to have a fag, just had to and if it meant swallowing my pride and asking for a packet on tick from the newsagent that we lived above then so be it.
    ‘Hello, I’ve just moved into the flat above with Chris and Billy.’
    ‘Oh yes, you mean the two pouffes?’
    ‘I don’t know about that, I’m just the lodger.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘I was wondering if it would possible to get ten Cadets on tick? I can pay you back tonight.’ God knows how but I’d cross that bridge when I came to it.
    ‘Sorry, mate, no can do. I don’t give credit and you know what they say.’
    ‘No?’
‘If you can’t afford to buy’em then you can’t afford to smoke’em.’
    ‘Do you know a woman called Molly O’Grady by any chance?’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘Doesn’t matter.’
    Feeling very sorry, for myself I went back up to the flat and sat on the stairs to have a think, not very easy when your mind is fixed on ciggies and food. Was this what living in London was all about? Sat on a staircase surrounded by pictures of Betty Grable and June Haver, starving and skint?
    Even if I’d wanted to give up and go back home, which at this moment I did, how was I going to find the money for the fare? Plus there was the added worry of not being able to keep up the dreaded maintenance payments. Did this mean the worry over food, fags and a roof over my head would soon be taken care of by HM Prisons? A job would bail me out of this mess but it seemed no one wanted to give me one. Even though I’d scoured the Situations Vacant section of the Evening Standard each evening, I’d been unsuccessful with every job I’d applied for.
    I’d been fairly confident that I’d get the job at the Coleherne, a gay pub in Earls Court that had always been our first port of call when my friend Tony and I took the weekend saver down from Liverpool. It was predominantly a leather bar and at first glance the clientele, with their shaved heads, walrus moustaches and leather outfits, could be quite intimidating. But when I eavesdropped on their conversations it seemed they were more interested in opera than beating me up. The queens who carried crash helmets around with them, leading prospective trade to believe that there might be a Harley Davidson parked on the pavement outside, invariably went home on the tube. The helmets were more a fashion accessory than of any practical use.
I reckoned I was just what the Coleherne needed – a tasty young bit of Birkenhead fluff in among all that ageing leather – and felt sure the job was in the bag. What I hadn’t reckoned with was the landlord, an Irishman called Pat McConnon, who took one look at me and turned me down flat. He was a surly bugger and dismissed me with a grunt and a wave of his hand. ‘Nuttin’ here for you,’ he muttered, showing me the door. ‘Stick your job,’ I shouted over my shoulder, ‘I wouldn’t work for a narky old bastard like you in a million years.’ I got that one badly wrong, as time will reveal.
    The phone rang, causing me to leap out of my skin. Jesus, nicotine withdrawal makes you