“Hey Mark.”
The door burst open and this scrawny girl maybe about 19 or so who had ”Sarf London” stamped all over her face came in. Too skinny, rat hair and clothes a charity shop would have given to the jumble sale.
“I just got back from Thailand and there’s two fat yuppies turned up, living here. Don’t fuckin know what they want but I’d stay well away. Fat fuckin yuppies. You seen them?”
Name: Mark Red Eye
DoB: October 2, 1982
Place of birth: Bristol
Height: 6’3”
Weight: 14 stone
Hair: Dark brown, nearly black. Long, straight, could do with a wash
I was sitting in Mark’s room. Mark was what you might call the house doctor. One pill makes you larger, And one pill makes you small. And the ones that mother gives you, don’t do anything at all. Well, don’t ask Alice. Ask Mark.
If I’d have thought about it I would have expected Mark’s room to be something out of Scarface. Gold taps and a red velvet chair that looked like a throne, but no. It was one of the bigger rooms – well, you’d have expected that – but that aside, it was just the same shithole as everyone else’s. Nothing in there except a mattress on the floor. There was a wardrobe, a pile of clothes and shit on the floor and a table. And that was it, apart from a beat box and the biggest pair of speakers. No front grill, just big bloody speakers, each one sat on a four bricks to keep them off the floor.
The thing that Mark had that no one else had, the thing that made Mark’s room the most interesting room in the place was, very neatly and all in a line, about half a dozen boxes of breakfast cereals at the bottom of his wardrobe. Each had something that made you either go snap, crackle or pop. Probably in one of the boxes there were some over-size inner soles…
Mark looked at Sarf London and laughed. “What you talking about? Fat fucking yuppies. Listen mate, there ain’t going to be any cops or anything coming round here. What would they want to do that for?”
Meanwhile, one fat yuppie sat in the corner, propped up and a bit hazy but still listening. I could imagine how the conversation went:
“Graham’s back and he’s got a couple of fat yuppies with him”.
“He’s probably loaded them up like pack mules”.
“Yeah, but they got through so he’s going to be holding”.
“What do they look like, these fat yuppies?” I said to the girl.
“I ain’t seen them, I don’t know. They look like fat fuckin yuppies I suppose.”
“What would a couple of fat yuppies be doing in a place like this?” said Mark, still laughing.
Mark turned to me. “What do you reckon? Fat yuppies. You know anything about this?”
“Don’t know mate”, I said. “What do they look like? Apart from being fat. Any idea?” I turned to the scrawny girl (who by now I knew was called Jane). “Has anyone seen these blokes?”
“I don’t fuc…”
“And anyway”, I added. “You shouldn’t be so suspicious. They might be really nice. Well, one of them might be really nice anyway.”
Jane Sarf London threw me a look, a look that said “fat yuppie”. She looked at Mark, looked at me again.
“I’ll talk to you later,” she said to Mark and left. She was OK. People were suspicious and I’m not sure I blamed them. I was an outsider and the only connection I had was with Graham and we clearly weren’t in “Any friend of Graham’s is a friend of mine” territory.
“Don’t worry about her,” said Mark after she’d gone. “If she’s just come back from Thailand, chances were she hasn’t just come back with a sun tan.” Life here was one big learning curve. Mark’s room was cool. It was like a pub in a soap opera. People dropped in, had a bit of a chat, made a bit of a purchase, moved out. Some stayed longer than others, most stayed long enough so it didn’t look as though they were just shopping but that’s really all they were doing. Mark’s room was also where I first met Polly.