Page 62 of Drift

“Kind of knew I’d find you loiterin’ around here tonight, traitor, I mean wanker, I mean fuck off bait.” Stokesy grinnedand shuffled into the cold as Drift rested close by. “Here. Take this.” He shoved a BigMac Drift’s way, and he took it. Stokesy stayed on his hands for a little longer, but dropped his stare when he noticed Drift catch it. Focusing back on the street, Drift glanced around at the sights and scents of Asian food on offer. He loved most of it, but a McDonalds… no one could beat a MacyD’s. Not when Stokesy was paying, anyway. As for knowing why he’d be here tonight? Yeah. It had nowt to do with food.

“Thanks.” He flipped open the lid. “Owe you one.”

Stokesy eyed him up. “Forget it. Deadly game of chess out ’ere, mate, right? Sometimes we give backup, sometimes we need it.” He nudged into Drift. “That’s for a few weeks back, at the pool. Where you been since?”

Drift kept his look out into the crowd. “Skipped town for a few weeks. Kept low.” He’d hid from all the poison in other poisons, but he didn’t add that.

Stokesy snorted. “Yeah, thought so.” He nodded back in the direction of his symbol. “That’s been there over a week and no one’s seen you around any market food stalls.”

“Asshole.”

Stokesy shoulder-shoved him back, and Drift offered a distracted hand to his heart, a slower kiss at his fingertips as an apology. Him and Stokesy, they went way back, passing the stolen baton between each other many a time, sometimes Drift distracting the rozzers, sometimes Stokesy taking the heat off him. It was why whenever Stokesy sent a call out, he answered. No doubt he’d be buying Stokesy a return BigMac soon.

His offer hadn’t gone as far as a milkshake, though, and Drift kept quiet. Tight bastard.

Stokesy grinned his way as if reading it, then started on his share box of nuggets and seemed to take a real long sip of his Christmas drink as he stayed back in the alcove, playing watcher.

“So why’d you put out a call?” Drift said eventually, although he was in no rush to start a conversation.

“The reason you’re ghosting here tonight.”

Drift frowned his way, but as a breathing space came in the crowd off to his left, a slip of long red hair caught his breath… a goth dress… high-thigh boots…. Whether the colour to West’s hair was red, Drift couldn’t really tell in the darkness and streetlight. His mind always filled in the blanks when it came to—“West,” he breathed quietly.

Stokesy tutted. “Oh you’ve got it so bad, mate. So, so fucking bad.” He followed West’s path through the crowd, her low talk and soft musical notation of a laugh at whatever Brighty said. “It’s the only time your stomach loses the fight to your dick… Sid.”

Drift sent him a hard look. He’d forgotten he was holding his BigMac. “Tell Essex thanks for sharingSidwith the rats.”

Stokesy grinned at him again, but Drift was back on West. She’d stopped in the street, and standing as tall as her, Keyne, another of Jackson’s finest, stopped too close to her as he took out his violin.

“Ouch.” Stokesy sucked in a painful breath. “That the competition? All that Harry Styles lost-boy look, I bet the girls love to see him go fiddler on himself.”

“Shut up,” murmured Drift.

“Bet he don’t have to play the fiddler too long to get West wanting in on the play either. Fuck. I want in on the play, and I ain’t gay.”

“Shut… up.” West wasn’t the problem there.

Stokesy snorted his way, then nodded back at West. “Three-two-two street performance formation. Jackson’s music and dance sweats are a damn easy spot in a crowd.”

Including West, Drift spotted seven familiar faces mixed in the throng of people, but it wasn’t their faces that were an easy spot. That came down to how they cleared the street for their… darker twisted Christmas dance performance.

Blackburn and Kent pulled on cute Elf-shaped masks and gloves, LED ones that lit up the night with each step they took towards West. As she started to back away, looking all scared… defenceless, Brighty started his own slow circle around her, at first widening the crowd around West and Keyne with little attention drawn their way. But then as he slipped on his elf mask and lit it up, he did a backflip… then another…. then his third led into such an effortless run of backflips that widened the circle more, bringing the crowd to a stop as smiles and startled sighs rushed through those watching.

“Never understood Jackson’s honest approach with this street performance shit,” mumble Stokesy. “I mean, look at all that asking-for-it crowd: quick in… out…. feeding from pockets would be so damn easy now, that and it would save time and all that goddamn energy. I get too knackered watching you guys.”

Drift shook his head. This was why he stayed close to Jackson, his unique way of handling kids left alone on the street. He was a bastard, but also one hell of a talented musician that allowed kids to do the same: play to their talents. None of those in hisunder nineteen base was allowed to thieve, just make a living for him, which won them a bed and food at his. Jackson’s other houses were kept for far more… dirtier handling. But tonight, this was West, her subtle way of double-tapping the crowd. Drift was usually there with her, but keeping low over the past few weeks had come at a cost of… her.

“Hurts.” The cry came up, pure hard rocker tones that filled any abandoned auditorium, and West gripped her chest, eyes closed as she called it again. “Hurts.”

Confusion set in with the crowd, frowns passed around along with uncertain smiles over just how much pain she put into that single powerful tone.

Flanked on either side by Blackburn and Kent, Brighty suddenly turned in on her, all three of them going low to the floor and alternating between slapping the floor and clapping hardrun, run awaybeats. Masks turned into a blood red, fading out one moment, then burning the night as they twisted their bodies into the broken-boned form of zombies out for blood.

Cries went up, some of the crowd loving the almost bone-breaking angles going on with the three lads, the darker Elf tone to Christmas, others taken with Keyne as his skill on the violin came to life. His wicked hard and fast play of a single string mimicked therun, run awaybeat of hands and twisted crawls to get at West. She staggered back, turned to run, but a fourth Elf, Hastings, shifted from the crowd, coming up behind her and fisting a rough grip into her hair.

“Hurts,” she cried again, trying to tear the grip off, but then Hastings spun her around and pulled her in close.

West’s reaction as a dancer was so natural as she cupped the back of his neck, looking like she’d pull him down for a kiss,her curve of body moulding into his, head thrown back, long hair cascading down to her bum, an almost adulterous pose she looked forced to enjoy. But then gripping Hasting’s hair, she twisted his neck viciously until she brought him to his knees.

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