Author's Note
One afternoon, I awoke to find that I'd written down a dream, I must have had, at some point the previous night. The following is my attempt to make those dozy scribblings legible.
****
I Dream in Burberry
As I sway, in the blurry nothingness, my surroundings fluctuate and wriggle over one another to form a door. I knock. I’m obviously here to pick up a lass, aren’t I?
The wooden door rattles open, to reveal a fat, ominous-looking, bald man wearing a grey, sweat-drenched t-shirt and blue jogging bottoms. His asymmetrical eyes run me up and down, as his jelly mouth droops and a small gloop of drool descends.
“Alright mate,” I begin in a muffled tone, “I’m here to meet…”
Shit, what’s her name? I mumble something incoherent and glance quickly at my last text message. Ah, of course, that’s her.
“I’m looking for...”
I can’t hear who I’m looking for, I sound like I’m talking into a pillow, though, Big Fatty seems to understand and booms “Yeah, course”, before wobbling past me. How had I ever thought this skinny fellow ominous? His wispy hair and cheap brown suit make him look like a substitute teacher on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
“Excuse me,” he asks timidly, “aren’t you the fellow who wrote…”
I don’t hear the name of the book but immediately admit that I’m the author. His face fills with joy and he informs me of how much he and his family enjoy my novels. Needless to say, I’m very flattered, and try to be as humble as possible in the face of this ego-feed. Eventually, he points me in the direction of a house across the street, which I swagger towards, feeling thoroughly pleased with how the situation had resolved itself.
My friends seem nervous, as we descend the tower block’s chipped stone stairway, being careful not to slip on the crisp packets and broken glass that litter each step.
Suddenly, there’s an echoing cackle from above and three Chavs land behind us. They’re panting, a sign that they’ve been pursuing us with enthusiasm. Two of them are wearing baseball caps, one black and one white. The third member has a badly shaved buzz-cut that makes his head look all bobbly, like a potato.
“Wha’ you lookin’ at, dick’eads? Wanna fight?” Potato-Head asks.
We continue down the stairway with haste, each of us sharing a desire to be back on the street and amongst witnesses.
I shiver in the winter chill and grasp the edge of the crumbling wall. The chavs are nearby, maybe a dozen of them, pacing around the courtyard. Occasionally, one of them sets off towards me, with a murderous rage in his eyes, only to be dragged back by his friends, who’ve thought of something even worse for me. There’s an elderly man sitting beside me, in a green woollen jumper and haggard jeans, rolling a cigarette between his wrinkled, yellow fingers.
“You live round here, mate?” He asks without looking up.
“No,” I mutter, “I came to meet a girl and now I’m going to have to fight this lot, aren’t I?”
“Yeah,” he grunts, pushing the cigarette into his hairy face, “I’ve lived round here fifty years and…”
His voice gradually fades until it becomes a distant murmur.
My feet land, with a resounding clomp, on the dull concrete floor of the deserted shopping mall. The echoing sound bounces off all the walls, making the chavs even angrier. I trot down the stone ramp, towards the exit, to find it covered by metal shutters, and sigh resolvedly. Two of my would-be assailants arrive and take a seat on the bench next to me. The male’s a wiry twenty something, with short, blond hair, pale skin and a rat-like face. He’s clad in the standard shell suit uniform. His female accomplice is a little younger, in her late teens maybe, but just as stereotypically accurate; she’s wearing a pink Nike hoody and has her baggy tracksuit bottoms tucked into her Rockports. Her features are worsened by her scraped-back hair, which makes her look like a reflection in one of those trick fairground mirrors.
“Ya’ hit me mate, din’ ya?” Ratty drawls, eyeing me in his peripherals and smiling crookedly.
“No, I didn’t…” I begin.
“Yeah, ya did!” Screeches his Chavette, jumping up and down in front of me, all wide eyed and flappy armed.
“Fine I did, I’m sorry,” I say, looking at my shoes.
Ratty snorts, rises and swaggers over to stairwell on my right.
“Where ya gan?” yells the girl.
“Deano’s, innit, this is shit!” he replies, disappearing from view.
As the girl spins round to stare at me again, I notice a CCTV camera on the wall.
“Ya gonna grass?” She demands.
“No,” I reply coolly, “but you are on CCTV.”
She lingers uncomfortably, her little brain writhing in pain as it struggles to comprehend the situation and then she begins spitting all over the floor.
“What are you doing?” I ask, revolted.
“Saw it looks like I’ve been cryin’!” She shrieks.
Humoured, I walk out of the shopping centre and into the morning sunshine.
Tom Ashton
