By Pan Pantziarka

Lenny was starting to hurt – that kind of deep in your gut, cold-sweat kind of hurt that he knew would only get worse if it he didn’t score some gear soon. It had been building up since the day before, but he’d been round to Student Joe’s and smoked some strong weed in the morning and that had kind of helped. Took the edge off. That and some cans of extra strong in the park later – after Student Joe had pushed him out of the flat. Thing is, without Lucy it was so hard to figure what to do or where to go. Lucy was good at that. She was a fucking star at that kind of thing. But she was gone and there was nothing to do but figure it out for himself.

For a summer night it was dark earlier than he expected. That was a good thing. The traffic was pretty much gone too. All to the good, he figured, all to the good. He was sitting on his backside in a dark spot at the edge of the car park. Out of the way of the camera at the entrance and there was no way anyone was going to wander his way by mistake. It was a good spot, no doubt. He had a good view across the street to the bingo hall but there was no way anyone on that side of the street could see him. Who’d have figured that there’d still be bingo? His nan used to go there, and lots of times she’d taken him with her. He was still a little kid then. Probably not ten even.

A car pulled up by the entrance and a middle aged man jumped out. Stocky, tats, shaved head to cover thinning hair. Not someone you’d want to row with by the look of it. He went round to the passenger side door and helped an old lady out. She was kitted out for bingo just like Lenny’s nan used to be – too much make-up, cheap jewellery on show. It was all loud and trashy, just like the talk once the old women got together. His nan used to look forward to it all week. She’d get together with her mates and go a bit nuts. Dirty jokes with the queer bloke who was the regular caller, telling filthy stories about who did what with who. And the things they’d say to him, when he went with her. A lot of it he couldn’t understand, but he figured it was dirty somehow. His nan would try to shush them but she’d be half laughing. Then she’d give him some money and send him off to get an ice cream or something.

Legs Eleven. That’s what his nan’s friends called him. It came to him suddenly, just as a huge wave of cramp doubled him up. He clutched his gut and waited for it to pass. He needed something to take the pain away. It didn’t matter what – with no cash he didn’t care what it was. When Lucy was around things could never get really bad. She’d look after the cash and if they fucked up she was always ready to do a bit of business in a pub or something. Up close she was already looking a bit rough, she knew that and so did he, but in the half-light of a pub there was always someone willing to pay for it.

The old lady across the road turned and waved to the bloke in the car and then disappeared inside. The driver gunned the engine and was gone. Fat git. There was no need to make all that noise. Lenny was suddenly angry, despite the sickness that had him shivering. What was all that noise if not to show people what a big man he was? Just because he had some fancy car and a shaved head didn’t mean he was anyone special. Just a fat bastard with a car and too much attitude. Lenny wasn’t much into fighting, but he had plenty of friends who’d think nothing of taking that bloke on – they’d batter the fuck out of him. The thought pleased him. Getting angry was helping, somehow. Lucy could get really angry. She’d battered him a few times. She put him in A and E once, pelted the side of his head with a bottle, he’d needed stitches but she made it better by grabbing some pills when the Paki nurse wasn’t looking.

Legs Eleven. He hated being called that. And the more he’d bitched about it the more the old ladies said it. He’d get wound up and they’d be in stitches. Falling about and cackling like old witches. Just like Lucy did when he’d told her the story. They were stoned at the time and she thought it was the funniest thing ever. He didn’t at first, got really fucking furious but then he’d taken a long, slow draw and mellowed out enough to start giggling himself. Then Lucy offered to buy him an ice cream and that had really set them off. They were in the park and the sun was shining and they’d been drinking and smoking the whole day. That was really living.

They’d had some great times. Then she’d gone and scored some dodgy gear without telling him. He hadn’t clocked at the time that she must have had some cash that she hadn’t told him about. Maybe she’d been doing business and not sharing the proceeds. The thought made the anger flare up again. They’d promised to share everything. When he’d turned over one of the flats on the estate and sold the TV and computer he’d handed over a share, even though she’d been out cold while he’d been working. He could’ve kept it all and not told her, he could’ve scored some gear himself or done whatever he’d wanted. But he didn’t. Instead they’d rationed the money out over a week – making sure they had booze, weed and some kind of pills they’d scored in the town centre.

It was getting colder and darker. A couple of old ladies came out of the bingo and he’d watched them go. They were quiet. Nan always said that you knew who the winners were because they were hyper. Bingo wings waving, she said, was the real giveaway. They’d be acting out winning again and again on the way home. She’d done it. Her friends had done it, she said. He couldn’t remember seeing it, but then he was a kid with a kid’s problems. Like being called Legs fucking Eleven. What did that even mean? Only the queer caller and his band of grizzled old witches could figure it out. He couldn’t. Legs Eleven. Two Fat Ladies. They were nearly all fat ladies, for Christ’s sake.

Lucy had got hold of some money then had gone over to Turkish Jerry’s squat. He wasn’t really Turkish, his mum and dad came from some dive in Yorkshire or somewhere, but he was always talking about going to Turkey to buy a kilo of H. Like he’d ever be able to get the money to do something like that. Jerry was a proper user. Injecting in the groin because most of his veins had gone. Been in hospital more times than anyone else they knew. Would do absolutely anything with anyone to get the money to mainline. But he’d been doing it for a long time. He was a legend. Anyway, Lucy went round to his squat and they’d taken her money and scored something new. They took the stuff together. He injected her and then himself, though in court he said that he hadn’t done any. He said that he’d let her crash at his squat and that he’d gone out that morning and come back in the afternoon to find her dead. He was a lying fucker, but what good would it have done to tell the truth?

The door to the bingo opened up and a gang of old dears deposited themselves on the pavement. Five of them. They were hyper alright. Standing around and gassing and laughing and taking up space. Lenny watched them. From a distance any one of them could have been his nan. Well, all aside from the really fat one on the end. His nan wasn’t fat. She wasn’t like one of them little old birds who are all skin and bone, but she wasn’t a lard-arse either. She was always good to him, Lenny realised, always good. The thought made him feel cold and alone. Lucy was sort of good to him, most of the time. His mum was a real bitch who’d dumped him when he was three and had then disappeared. So really, it was his nan who was really like a mum.

A wave of nausea made the world go yellow as he stood up. If he’d had anything in his stomach he was sure he would have brought it up, but he hadn’t eaten for ages. Not that he was that hungry. What he really needed was to get something to calm his nerves. Sleeping pills would have been ok, or even some diazepam to swill down with some strong lager.

One or two of the old ladies peeled off from the group and headed towards the bus stop. And then one of the three that was left behind suddenly let out a huge cheer and shook her flabby arms in the air. Bingo. She was the winner. No doubt.

A car pulled up and Lenny’s heart sank. But when it pulled away a minute later there was only the winner left standing on the pavement. She looked across the street to the car park and then crossed towards it.

Suddenly things were looking up. There wasn’t really a plan. He’d had a vague idea that he’d follow a winner home and do a bag snatch when the time was right. But this was even better. She was coming to him rather than him to her. Perfect.

There were only a few cars in the car park, all of them near the entrance. Lots of light and a camera overlooking the gate. The most direct route to her car would have taken her across the empty spaces, through the dark and shadowy area, but that would have meant she’d have to step over a knee length barrier and she was too old for that. She was going to follow the street round to the proper entrance.  And then there’d be more chance that Lenny would be seen. Not that there were many people around, but still, why take the chance?

He watched her make her way along the street, walking parallel to the barrier. She was clutching a brown bag tightly. Her clothes looked cheap and tacky, and the jewellery looked like poor fakes – the sort of thing little girls would wear. She hadn’t noticed him, there was no doubt in Lenny’s mind. She reminded him of his nan. She had gone suddenly too, like Lucy had. One minute she was fine, aside from getting a bit frail and forgetful, and the next minute she had fallen and broken a hip. That was it. Into hospital and never out again. Or rather, straight from hospital to cremation. And with her gone he was on his own. The council said it was her flat and he had to move out. There wasn’t much in the way of money left, and what there was didn’t last long. And it went from there.

He stepped over the barrier and hurried a few steps to catch up with the old woman. She heard him and looked back almost immediately. There was nothing frail about the hard look she gave him.

‘Excuse me,’ he said, making her stop and turn to him.

‘Yes?’

‘I was just wondering,’ he said, looking down at her feet rather than at the stony eyes fixed on him. ‘What does Legs Eleven mean?’

‘What?’

He half smiled to himself. ‘When I was a kid I used to go to bingo with my nan. Her friends called me Legs Eleven. Why not just say eleven?’

‘I don’t have time for this,’ she said.

She started to turn and Lenny ducked forward and grabbed the bag. His hands closed on the soft leather and then he yanked hard. She cried out as she fell. The straps were wound tight around her arm and she wasn’t letting go. She fell heavily, down on her knees and he yanked again. He wanted her to let go, to release the bag so that he could just turn and run but she was clinging on. Something had to give. He lashed out hard, felt her nose give as the back of his hand made contact. There was blood spraying. Her screams were so loud, so loud. He yanked again and pulled her along the pavement. Something gave. Maybe it was her shoulder. The bag was loose and in his hands and the old woman was sobbing. He turned away from her and into the street. The gunning of the engine was suddenly loud. Louder than the sobs of the old woman. Louder than the drumming of blood in Lenny’s ears. But not as loud as the moment that the car, with the fat bastard at the wheel, smashed into him.

© Pan Pantziarka, 2021. All rights reserved