Chapter Six Zig
Six years ago
Zig strutted down the dimly lit streets of Soho, heading for home. He could have got on the Tube, but he’d fancied a walk. Just him and his thoughts.
Fuck, that lad from Somerset was cute. So wet behind the ears you’d probably find a diving board and a pair of Speedos if you looked hard enough.
And that accent . . . After kissing him, Zig was surprised he wasn’t picking half a haystack out of his teeth.
God knew why he was so hung up on the bloke. He wasn’t Zig’s usual type at all.
Zig whispered his name into the shadows of the alley in a drawn-out, mocking breath. “Siiiii . . .” Then he laughed out loud. He’d had plenty of cocky London lads, all tight jeans and swagger. Maybe it was time for a change. It was refreshing, meeting someone who wasn’t all front. Someone honest.
Zig had played it cool, after their snog-session outside the club—fuck, he was getting hard thinking about it—but yeah, he’d be there next weekend. Maybe then he’d finally get to find out what Si kept in those painfully unfashionable jeans of his.
His route took him to Fleet Street, where he hopped on the bus.
It was too far to walk all the way from Soho to his dad’s house in Barking.
Anyone who tried would have to be, heh, barking.
Zig had timed it well and got the direct bus, but it was still an hour’s ride.
He dozed off en route, his internal alarm clock waking him up in time for his stop.
It was only a ten-minute walk from the bus stop to Dad’s house. Zig turned the key in the lock with care and slipped through the front door. Then the bastard thing wouldn’t close behind him, so he had to slam it. Bugger.
Sure enough, there was a shout from the living room. “Oi! Where the fuck have you been?”
“Anywhere but here,” Zig muttered, heading for his room.
Too slow. A hand grabbed him by the shoulder and jerked him back. His dad’s unshaven face glared at him, eyes bloodshot. “What the fuck did you say?”
“I said . . .” Zig’s mind went into overdrive. “Uh, not anywhere you’d want to hear about.”
Well, bollocks. That wasn’t a lot better, was it?
Dad’s face darkened. “Pissing about with a load of pansies again, were you? Jesus, where the fuck did you come from? You bloody didn’t get that from me. Are you drunk?”
Not as drunk as you. “No. I only had a couple.”
“Good. You’re going out with Trent tonight. Scrap merchants.”
“What? I’m tired.” Zig made as if to walk off.
The hand on his shoulder tightened. “If you want to live here, you’ll damn well earn your keep. He’ll be here in half an hour. Now go and put on something fucking suitable. You look like a bloody rentboy. Smell like one too.” Dad gave one last, painful squeeze, and let him go.
Zig slouched his way down the hall to his room. He didn’t roll his shoulder until he was inside with the door shut. No sense letting the old bastard know he’d hurt him.
Si must have got home ages ago. Peckham might be south of the river, but it was way closer to the centre than bloody Barking.
Maybe he was already in bed, asleep? Or lying there thinking of Zig?
He smiled briefly at the thought. Either way, Si’s day was over, whereas Zig’s wouldn’t end for hours yet.
An odd twinge hit him in the chest as he wondered what Si would think if he knew how Zig and his dad earned their money.
Ah, what the hell. What he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him.