Chapter 1

PLUCK AND PLAY - 1

Curtisjust wanted everyone to get the hell

out of his way. The wind was chilling this morning, cutting his skin with icy

needles even through his second-hand padded jacket. It wasn’t the weather for

hanging around bloody chatting, or wandering aimlessly arm in arm in a zig-zag

up the middle of the street. Didn’t they realise other people had things to do,

places to go? With a rueful grin, he hitched his packed messenger bag further

up on his shoulder and braced his knee against the wall of the nearby dry

cleaner’s shop grocer’s, while he rearranged the outsized pile of boxes he was

carrying down the road from where he’d parked his van. He wasn’t really built

for heavy lifting: even at twenty two, he’d never grown over five foot eight or

out from a thirty four inch chest size. But he was wiry and stronger than he

looked. And he was on a mission to get all this stuff delivered so he could

take a decent break for lunch.

Curtis’

delivery schedule that morning included a couple of boxes to the Chinese

grocer’s on Gerrard Street, then a delivery of part-frozen prawns to the

kitchen of the West London Hotel at Leicester Square. At ten o’clock he was due

to collect the coffee machine from the comedy club and take it for repair. Then

he had a spare hour–hopefully–when he’d promised himself a large sausage sandwich

from the German café and an ice cream at With A Kick. He’d become a real

fan of the shop ever since his flatmate Phiz introduced him to it. He’d laughed

out loud at the bloody stupid names they had for the ice cream dishes, but

after he tasted Phiz’s favourite “Slap and Tickle”–with chocolate ice cream and

brandy–he only opened his mouth for eating. He readily admitted they were

fabulous recipes. And the shop itself was a bizarre little corner of Soho. In

any visit, he might see tourists, Turkish families ranging through three

generations, old age pensioners, guys wearing leather collars under their

zipped jackets, men in clown costume, and once he’d even stumbled into what

looked like a party for guys built like rugby players. Or maybe they really were

rugby players.

And

there was always plenty of smiling at With A Kick. Like Curtis said,

bizarre. Curtis tried to keep pretty cheerful, but sometimes he was just too

fucking busy, even if and when he had things to smile about. But if it was

gonna happen, it’d probably be around that amazing shop.

Things

had gone well so far on his daily round. The grocer’s delivery was quick,

leaving him time to collect the coffee machine earlier than expected. He’d have

been more or less in time for the hotel’s prawns, but then a bus broke down in

the middle of Charing Cross Road, and Curtis’ van got stuck in the traffic.

When he finally drove his van up the small service road around the back of the

hotel, he could see a handful of kitchen staff standing in the back yard. Maybe

they were just outside having a ciggie, rather than waiting for a few boxes of

prawns to arrive. When the largest man among them spun around to glare at

Curtis’ approach, Curtis knew the ciggie theory was blown to hell.

“Got

here as soon as I could,” he called as he scrambled out of the van. He swung

open the back doors of the van, making lots of noise about it.

“Told

the boss you weren’t reliable,” the big man said. It was a definite sneer. He

sauntered across the yard, dressed in the white kitchen jacket and check

trousers that announced he was a chef, swaggering with the weight of his own

importance. Curtis’ description of the man would have been far less

complimentary: the chef was a hulking great lump of homophobic lard, and he and

Curtis always ended up trading insults. One day, Curtis was gonna wallop him,

even though he was three times Curtis’ size. Brave talk? Oh yeah. Curtis

was afraid the chef would just bounce like a punch ball, and swing right back.

“I’m

usually here on time,” Curtis said, trying to keep the anger out of his voice.

“So are you gonna give me a hand with the boxes?”

“You’re

the delivery boy.” The chef shrugged, and leant against the side of the van. He

gave a cold, ugly grin as Curtis lugged the first box into his arms. “That’s

what you’re fucking paid for.”

“And

you’re paid for resting your fat arse on my van?” Curtis cursed his big mouth

the minute the words were out.

The

chef straightened, his face red. This close to Curtis, he loomed over him. “You

wanna make something of it, you won’t be delivering here again, kid.”

“You

didn’t sign the contract, you don’t call the shots, mate–”

“I

mean, mate,” the chef broke in, his voice a menacing rasp yet loud enough

to be heard by everyone else. “Broken fingers aren’t fit to lift your fucking

fag dick, let alone a box of prawns.”

The

fury and hurt rose like a wave of scarlet heat through Curtis’ body. Not that

he wasn’t used to his fair share of homophobic abuse, but things had definitely

improved since he’d built up a network around Soho and the Square. And it

wasn’t like he minced about in sequinned Dr Martens. It really was only morons

like this who still couldn’t get their thick head around their own prejudice.