The Red Chilli by Michael Batchelor

Author:Michael Batchelor [Batchelor, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2016-07-04T11:00:00+00:00

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Chapter 18

What I’ve found out in recent times is that if you’re walking to the front door of a party and you’re bloody nervous about it, there’s an unsettling reason. It’s normally one of two things: either there’s a pretty girl inside that you’re looking to get cosy with, or you just shouldn’t be going in the first place because there’s a dick in there who wants to king-hit you when your back is turned. These are wise words to live by for all those teenagers/adolescents out there. If you’re nervous or scared, and there isn’t a girl you’re trying to undress, then stay home and watch the latest hit TV show or something, because when the curious cat named Jack ends up coming to The Red Chilli’s party, he’s bloody nervous. And he’s also glad that he didn’t arrive with Inspector Ed, because Ed would smell like bacon to these druggies in the speed of a gunshot.

As I expected, the house is another rotting addition to the underground suburbia of Bowden. You can almost picture the cocaine affixing itself to everything and slowly decaying. The unkempt front yard, the letterbox overloaded with overdue notices on the house, utilities, whatever … even the steps leading up to the old front door are crooked. If God can still stomach it and look over Bowden once in a while, he’s giving me a cute hint to run for it.

‘Mr Jack Lawson. Come on in, sir.’

As you can guess, the host himself greets me. He smiles with shit in his teeth and invites me in like we’re still best friends … like we haven’t exposed either one of our private bits in the past week or so. I’m already raging by the time I take a few paces into the joint, and the joint is raging back. The whole nightclub is here. Kids and adults alike are jumping and jiving to the greatest party tracks that some mix CD decides. The usual faint smell of marijuana is floating through the air lazily and with no purpose, just like the people smoking it. I only have to follow the wagging tongues into the living room before I see Carmen. She’s over by the pool table with a stick in a hand, surveying the table with a focussed stare. Along with several other men in the room, I watch her firm figure as she bends over to take her shot. It’s a sunken ball and she celebrates by blowing imaginary smoke from the top of her cue, as if it’s a gun she’s just fired. A shared philosophy that I’m sure many men have with Carmen is that you hate her personality, but love her body. It is then up to your willpower to let your brain make the decisions concerning Carmen, not your penis. I made that mistake before, but I won’t now. I promised Ed I wouldn’t, and I can’t break a promise with an honest cop. He’s my only chance of crawling back to the surface.

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