51
Heading down Dog Leap Stairs towards the Quayside, Chantelle followed her usual crowd. Many of the guys were already pissed, their normally smart dress code ignored in favour of jeans and mandatory footie shirts. Their chanting and singing was getting right on her tits. Earlier it hadn’t seemed so bad, but now it was reduced to the National Anthem, she’d had enough.
Who were they kidding?
England versus Germany was a headline-grabbing game no matter which way it went. But England were bound to lose. Chantelle had placed a bet on it. Got reasonable odds too. If only her mates would shut the fuck up, she’d be able to hear herself think and work out what she’d win for her five-pound stake.
Maths was never her strong point.
The girl in front of her tripped and went hurtling down the remaining steps, landing in a heap at the bottom with her cellulite arse on show. Everyone laughed and walked on. Not one of them batted an eyelid or stopped to help her up. Daisy had never been able to hold her drink and would get worse as the night went on.
Chantelle took a swig from her wine bottle as she stepped over her. Winter or summer, Newcastle city centre was always pretty mad and this balmy Saturday night was proving no exception. World Cup hysteria meant that all her mates had come out to play and were intent on having a good time. There was plenty of talent to choose from and the bars were buzzing with a real party atmosphere.
Every single person she’d spoken to that night had been full of hope and expectation with the big game looming tomorrow. It was to be an afternoon fixture, she was pleased to hear, ample time to sleep off the excesses of tonight’s binge before coverage began. Just as well, Chantelle thought. At the beginning of the pub crawl she’d foolishly bragged she’d drink them all under the table. Not the brightest thing to do in view of her track record. Even if she managed to stay upright, in the early hours she’d probably find herself plaiting her legs as she fought her way to the nearest taxi rank.
Fought being the operative word.
Not that Chantelle minded that. It was all part of the fun, as far as she was concerned. She always gave as good as she got and rarely came off worst. Only twice had she needed medical attention. Once when she’d had her stomach pumped after trying a different cocktail at every bar in the Bigg Market for a bet. Not the most pleasant of experiences. The other time was when she decided to go swimming in the Tyne at midnight and had to be rescued by the river police when she couldn’t drag herself out again. Last January she’d been locked up for disorderly conduct. But that was OK too. A damn sight better than collapsing on a bench somewhere in the freezing cold. She’d created such a fuss during her few hours in the cells at Market Street station the daft bizzies took her home just to get rid of her. She ended up quids in, having saved on the taxi fare.
Now that’s what she called a public service.
Chantelle turned right on to the Quayside itself. Two well-built lasses were staggering towards her, footie shirts on, heavily tattooed forearms around each other’s necks. They had short, spiky hair and wore jeans and trainers. Not your usual Saturday-night attire, Chantelle thought. Unless . . .
Fucking dykes.
Chantelle tensed. She’d seen girls like them in Styal Prison and something told her they wouldn’t get on. They burst out laughing when they saw her. The tallest, a real bruiser, looked like she could handle herself. Blinking as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing, she pointed in the general direction of Chantelle’s right thigh, her hand waving around as she tried to focus properly.
‘Something I can do for you?’ Chantelle asked.
The two girls made faces at each other.
‘Maybe . . .’ the bruiser laughed. ‘Not!’
Now they were really taking the piss.
‘That was the right answer,’ Chantelle said. She stood her ground, the hair rising on the back of her neck, her hand closing on her wine bottle. She’d been rolled in town before and there was no way it was happening again. ‘You wanna drink? Get your own.’
Holding her hand to her chest, the bruiser burped. ‘Don’t wanna drink . . .’
Her mate collapsed in a fit of laughter. Chantelle barged past them, knocking them both sideways like skittles in a bowling alley. The skinny one was no threat. She lurched first one way and then, as Chantelle was sure she’d hit the deck, she lurched the other, almost defying gravity before grabbing hold of a lamppost for support.
As they moved off, Chantelle caught her reflection in the blacked-out window of a restaurant that had recently closed down. She did a double take, embarrassment washing over her as the girls disappeared around the corner. Her classy dress had accidentally got caught in her knickers. It was at least half an hour ago that she’d nipped up a back lane to relieve her bursting bladder. Pulling the dress out, she smoothed down the material and ran a hand through her hair.
Looking good, all the same.
More like Cheryl Cole each day. Chantelle had every reason to feel happy tonight. She was on a promise to a guy called Jason Mountfield, someone she’d had her eye on for quite some time. She knew he’d come round in the end. She didn’t feel at all guilty for intimidating his current girlfriend, sending her texts threatening to spread the word that she’d had an abortion when they were both at school.
All’s fair in love and war.
Chantelle smiled to herself. Today had been a blast. She’d made her move to flog the images stored on her phone to the local newspaper. It hadn’t been as lucrative as she’d hoped. Beer money was all. The stuck-up cow she’d spoken to had promised more, depending on something she called ‘content’. Whatever that meant. Probably news-speak for quality of the shot or some such bollocks.
Who gave a stuff?
Chantelle sure as hell didn’t.
No. What upset her was being talked down to, like she was shit on the woman’s very expensive shoes. She felt like marching into that office and decking the bitch. But then her old man’s wise words jumped into her head and made her think twice: Never bite the hand that feeds you, Chantelle. Never look a gift horse in the mouth. Just two pearls of wisdom from the biggest loser she knew. But she got the gist and decided to zip her lip. That newspaper reporter would get hers when the time came. Probably when her editor realized she’d missed the scoop of a lifetime.
Chantelle turned around. Her mates had moved along the road without her, Jason Mountfield bringing up the rear. He turned, checking her out. She grinned as he mooned at her from across the road and got her phone out to take his picture. Then the smile slid off her face as quickly as it had appeared. The silly fuck hadn’t seen the dark van lurking on the corner, two pairs of eyes focused on his bare arse.
Suddenly the van door opened and a couple of cops emerged. Pulling up his strides, Jason legged it. But one of the cops ran faster, and the big bugger brought Jason down in one fell swoop. A rugby tackle Johnny Wilkinson would’ve been proud of. Chantelle literally stamped her feet as the cop cuffed Jason, dragging him kicking and screaming into the van, pushing him inside with some force, only a cage separating him from a barking Alsatian that looked like it had seen its supper arrive on a tray.
Chantelle swore at them as they went by, swigged her wine and watched the van drive off at speed, her promise along with it.
Just her luck to back another loser.