Perv Tax
by
Mark Burrow
Tracey Clarke sits on the roof of the garages. She throws stones at a No Ball Games sign attached to the end wall of a block of flats. I freeze when I realise she’s spotted me, feelin the fear that Junior an her idiot boyfriend, Robert, are nearby. Those two are always wantin to dish out beatings.
Hi, Jay, she says.
Alright, I reply. What you doin?
Nothing much, she says.
How come you’re not at school? I say, tryin not to be obvious when lookin at her skinny white legs danglin over the side.
Didn’t feel like it today.
Oh.
What about you? she says.
What?
School.
They gave us the afternoon off.
What for?
Some random was shootin into classrooms with an air rifle from the flats across the road.
She does her deep an dirty laugh. What, shooting into the school?
Through the open windows. We had to get on our bellies an crawl outta class.
That’s crazy.
Yeah.
So, where you going? she asks.
I know I should lie but I kinda fancy Tracey, so I do the stupidest thing ever an tell her the truth, sayin, I’ve got a key to the roof of the tower block, so I was goin up there to chill.
No way.
I struggle to get the words out, but I manage to say, Do you wanna come?
Deffo, she says an she hangs off of the roof an drops to the ground. Let’s go, she says.
We walk together, side by side. It feels like I’m trippin on the shroom wine mum’s latest boyfriend makes, cos how can I be walking with Tracey fucken Clarke? My heart is poundin in my chest as if I’ve been runnin 100 miles per hour. I don’t get how bein with a girl can make your insides flip over like it’s Pancake Day. It’s nuts cos me an her ain’t talkin about much either. Well, to be fair, I’m not talkin at all. She’s the one chattin an acting like she wants us to be friends. When it’s my turn to chat, I get that buffering in my head that only happens with girls an maths.
We pass the playground where nobody plays an I get nervous cos normally I go the long way round to reach the front entrance of the tower block. Going this way, it’s too easy to be spotted by fools who hang around by the swings, listenin to lame music an smokin fat spliffs.
I’m goin to see my bro tomorrow, I say.
Mike?
Yeah.
Mike’s alright.
It freaks me out a bit.
What does?
Seein my bro in prison.
It’s not prison, though, is it? she says. Didn’t he go to Young Offenders? I’ve been there on visits. I don’t mind it.
What about the smell?
She does her laugh. What do you care about smell? Young Offenders is just school with fake guards.
I suppose.
Can I ask you a question? says Tracey.
Go for it, I say, seein we’re coming to the front of the tower block.
How come you were perving on me?
I wasn’t.
Yeah, a couple of weeks ago, you totally were.
When?
I was snogging Robert—what did you throw a bottle at us for?
I never.
You did. Why’d you fling it?
I didn’t.
Liar.
Nah nah.
Yeah yeah.
I start stuttering, sayin, I, I, I, an I wonder why she’s turnin on me an sounding all gangsta. I ain’t no spy or one of those creepy-creep men. Alright, I do watch her on the estate now an then. I was lyin flat on the roof of the garages once, silent as a spider, listenin to her tell Robert that her grandad’s ghost haunts her nan’s flat an that she woke up one night an saw a whiteness floatin across the room, an she knew it was her grandad, an she was frightened outta her mind, an when she tried screamin nothin came out. She says the room went proper cold.
I like how she laughs, Tracey Clarke, cept when she cracks-up at me when I’m gettin slagged off for the holes in my tops, my no-name trainers an greasy hair. Nah nah not funny at all. Other boys an girls keep sayin I smell rank an I never get invited in no one’s flat ever because the mums don’t want my germs in their places an I don’t have friends, not really, never have, an that’s okay by me cos I don’t want none anyway.
Tracey swivels an walks backwards, sayin, You can’t tell me, can you? You can’t because you know you were perving at us like the little grot you are.
I wasn’t.
An we both know I’m telling lies an that I did throw a slate – not a bottle – cos I couldn’t stand watchin her kissin that idiot.
I clock she’s lookin behind me.
I turn round an there they are, Junior an Dong Head. They’re too close for me to run.
They grab hold of me, yankin off my rucksack.
I must’ve screamed an shouted really loud cos Tracey does the dirtiest laugh.
He’s got the key to the tower block roof, she says. Let’s take him up there.
***
They’re having the best time. Robert squeezes my arm tight. Don’t think about running, he says.
I’m tryin hard not to blub.
Tracey says stuff like, It’s the tax you have to pay for being such a perv.
Perv tax, says Junior, takin out a plastic thing to scan open the heavy door with wired glass to enter the tower block. I never realised he lived here. We stand an wait for a lift. I keep hopin we see a policeman or someone who can save me.
The lift doors open an we step inside.
Junior presses the button.
The whole lift has been tagged. It’s a spaghetti of reds, yellows, greens, silvers an blues.
Tracey looks at Robert grippin me an says to him, You best wash your hands after.
I know, he says an to me he goes, Guess what?
I say, What?
You stink.
Tracey does a scum bucket laugh. I don’t like it one little bit anymore. It’s so loud an false. Seriously, nothin is that funny.
Junior says, Why don’t you wash?
Don’t you have soap? asks Robert.
Haven’t you seen his mum? says Tracey.
Yeah, says Robert, she’s a proper nasty skank.
Junior gets close to me an goes, Say it.
Say what?
Don’t what me. Who you chatting to?
Robert squeezes my arm tighter an goes, Say: my mum’s a skank.
Fuck off, I shout at them.
You best say it, says Tracey.
So I look into Robert’s piglet eyes an go, Your mum’s a skank.
Junior an Tracey give each other these oh-my-gosh looks.
Robert slaps my face. Who do you think you’re fucking talking to? You think we’re playing? You think this is games?
My cheek goes Pot Noodle hot.
He slaps me again.
The lift stops an the doors slide open.
Get the key, says Tracey.
Junior searches my pockets, sayin, I’m gunna catch diseases putting my hands in here.
I really wanna blub. I wish I was at home in my room. On my bed, travellin back in time to when Mike would be on the other bed an I’d hear him tell his funny stories, makin me laugh so much I couldn’t breathe.
Junior has the key an he unlocks the noisy steel door to the roof. Robert drags me, tellin me to move, but I don’t want to go up the stairs.
You’re gunna get it, says Junior.
Robert keeps slappin my head like I’m a fucken bongo. I can see how angry he is for cussing his mum, who I now remember is dead or some kind of root vegetable in a home after overdosin or something grim. We step onto the roof an the sunlight makes us blink.
Junior tips my rucksack. A can of Dr Pepper rolls along the concrete floor. He rummages in the bag an sees fags an a lighter an offers them to Robert an Tracey. They’re not bothered at the moment so he lights one for himself an pockets the pack an lighter cos that’s the kind of budget thief he is an always will be.
Robert shoves me down an kicks me. It hurts an I can feel the tears comin like sad traffic cos I know no one is rescuin me up here.
Tracey says, That’s what you get for perving.
Without any shame, Junior cracks open my Dr Pepper an starts drinkin.
Those two think this is jokes. Robert don’t. It’s the mum cuss that’s got him pumped. Me an my big mouth. I never know when to keep it shut. There’s this teacher, Mr Leonard, who says I’m a foul-mouthed youth an I reckon he ain’t wrong neither. Either. I’ve made Robert mad an I’m fucken scared. Some people, right, they go wah-wah crazy on booze an drugs. Others don’t need to take no nothin. Psycho is their bassline.
He’s crying, says Tracey.
Fucking baby, goes Junior, doin a Dr Pepper burp.
Robert says, No one’s disrespecting me these ways. He pulls me up an then lifts me, squeezin me tight. He carries me to the side of the tower block roof. I feel myself getting closer. I start to freak. He’s too strong. I wriggle an worm to free myself but he plops me on the edge, grabbin my legs, an he pushes me backwards so I’m hangin over. I feel the distance below. I see how the veins twitch in Robert’s neck an how red his face is goin. I’m heavier than he thought. He’s strainin. Teeth showin. Zits about to pop. Any second, I’m gunna slip from his hands. My head goes dizzy from upside-down-seeing the flatness of the tower block, all fourteen storeys, window after window, laddering to the ground, where I’m gunna land an burst open like fried tomatoes.
Robert says, Tell me: what’s your mum?
There are frothy bubbles an strings of spit on his mouth from strugglin to keep his grip.
Tracey’s chantin, Say it. Say it. Say it.
I’m a witch they want to burn.
I’m the egg boy, ready to crack.
Blood rushes to my head.
The key to where I live falls outta my pocket. I watch it tumble downwards, spinning an turnin, down, down, down… The windows explode. It’s a deafenin sound like when a chandelier drops an crashes in a movie. I wait a second an then the cryin starts. The tower block’s tears stream out. It’s the sadness of all the tenants in the flats, of my dad havin to run away, of mum’s boozin, of Mike beatin up the stranger who pushed in at a bus stop an him bein sent to Young Offenders, of the muggins, the rapes, the stabbins, the crackies an the alkies, the borin schools with depressed coffee-breath teachers, the angry bus drivers, the no jobs, the do nothing, no nothing days, the old ladies who die all alone cos they don’t have enough money for the fags an the gin they need to make them feel less lonely. It’s the estate fucken hatin being an estate. It’s the signs for No Ball Games an No Dogs an Keep off the Grass that wish they were better signs like the pukka one on the motorway that tells drivers they can hit the accelerator to go fast. It’s me, cos I hate it here an havin to be the ghost spider. It’s the people. It’s what I am an what I ain’t an the not knowin what I’ll ever be.
I feel the tower twistin for sure. Tears bulgin from hundreds of windows. The panes of glass shatterin an droplets splashin down onto the streets below, floodin the ground-floor flats, the water risin up, cos it don’t stop cryin, the tower block, it has seen too much, heard the sadness inside, deep in its pipes an plumbin, felt the pain buttered across the years, that dead end grimness of all the beatins an suicidins that go on an on an on.
Water flowin through the streets. Washing away the dogshit an the rats an the burnt cars.
Hands reachin out of the water. Desperados who wanna be saved.
Nah nah that ain’t happening.
Everyone is drownin in a warm sea of salty tower block tears.
An yeah, I’m blubbin too, cept the tears are going backwards, reversin up my temples an forehead an into my hair, an I hear a voice shout, My mum’s a skank. My mum’s a skank. My mum’s a…
… Fucking dirty skank, says Robert, heavin me back up.
Gravity softens as soon as half my body is back on the roof. Robert lets go an I pull the rest of me to safety.
He coughs an gobs. Cigarette, he says to Junior.
I’m on my knees, retchin.
Tracey is in stitches. She takes a cigarette for herself from Junior. That’s the funniest thing I ever saw, she says to Robert.
This roof was my safe place. It’s where I could come an hide out from the evils, where I could lie on my back in the summer, staring at the fluffy clouds, watchin the crucifix airplanes an imagine I was with dad like when he used to bring me up here, lookin at the whole skyline of the city, the two of us on top of the world, talkin about the foreign places we could travel to an see.
Part of me is cryin cos I won’t be coming up here again.
Robert catches me reachin for the key by my rucksack an he stomps my hand. What do you think you’re doing? he says, squishin my fingers.
Stop it, I yell.
You’re disgusting, he says, lookin at the snot dribbling from my nose.
Gross, says Tracey, starin at me like I’m an alien.
Get him out of here, says Robert to Junior.
You should’ve dropped him, says Tracey.
I still can, he says an I know he’s thinkin about doing it too.
Come on, says Junior an he helps me to my feet an takes me across the roof an down the stairs. We go through the squeaky metal door. Junior’s not laughin or actin like he’s gunna do more damages. It’s as if he’s changed into someone else the second he’s away from Tracey an Robert. Quietly, he says, Sorry, bruv, that was harsh. He presses the button for the lift. You best go home, you knows… stay low.
He gives me my fags an lighter. He seems like he’s gunna speak but stops himself. I watch him close an lock the hefty door, goin back onto the roof.
My roof.
Bio:
Mark Burrow has published a novella, Coo, which is about an alcoholic turning into a pigeon in a world where people are turning into birds (Alien Buddha Press). His short stories have appeared in a range of titles, such as Bubble, Literally Stories, Cerasus, Flight of the Dragonfly and Hunger, an anthology of stories published by Urban Pigs Press. He has finished the first draft of a second novel, which includes Perv Tax. He lives in Brighton in the UK and can be found on social @markburrow20 and markburrow.bsky.social.
Punk Noir Press 