Jelly Baby

The first time I saw Face Tattoo, he scared me. His face was so close and so sudden, all bent out of shape, his eyes huge and rippling. They made me feel like a fish looking up from the underside of a pond’s surface, unwittingly bound for the fisherman’s skewer. I startled so hard I almost dropped the dusting cloth. Then I moved my head back from the jar’s curved glass, and he zoomed out, all the way out onto the street, where he was peering back at me through the window with his face of totally normal proportions. Narrowing his eyes in the morning sun, he took a draw from the cigarette he was holding. Then he went back to what he’d presumably been doing before we looked at each other – perusing all the sweets in the display.

     I moved away from the window then, but the awkwardness I felt stayed with me for a long time after. Being looked at is hard. Being seen looking is even harder. It was a relief to me that no one came into the shop that morning.

     ‘No one at all?’ Irene asked when she came through from the kitchen at lunch time, pulling off her plastic gloves.

     I shook my head, feeling guilty as I chewed through a Milky Way.

     ‘Oh well.’ She sighed like it didn’t matter, but I know the dwindling customer base is taking its toll. She and Ernie have always said I don’t have to – they say I’m more like a son than an employee – but I paid for the Milky Way when I was done.

     After she’d gone back through to the kitchen, I sat where I always do, on the stool behind the till, and soaked in the still sweetness of the air.

     It was while I was leaning down beneath the counter to pull up one of my socks that I heard the little bell above the door ring.

     By the time I stood up straight, the customer was already behind the high tiered display table of pre-made hampers that fills out most of the floor space in the cramped little shop. Their body, clothed in black, was only there in little glimpses between bows and cellophane. I felt awkward that I hadn’t seen them come in and said hello like I’m supposed to. I was anxious about the moment they would notice I was there and the embarrassed little smile I knew I’d give them in return. I watched their form shift, figured they were probably looking at the shelves on the opposite side of the table from me, an array of wrappers so wide and vivid it looks more like those multi-coloured rocks you get at the bottom of a fish tank than anything else – individual chocolate bars, gift boxes, big tubs of gummies and bonbons and flying saucers. As I waited for them to come round my side, I picked at the skin around my thumbs beneath the counter.

     The moment he did, I saw what I thought at the time was blood on his face, and my heart jumped a little. Then I saw the whole of his face, and I realised it was the guy I’d seen outside the window earlier.

     I looked away, down at the floor, before I could even think to give him an awkward smile, and because I did, it was his hands I got a proper look at first. He placed a bag of Jelly Babies down on the counter, and I saw black tendrils creeping down from beneath the sleeves of his jumper, reaching out over his long fingers – tattoos like I’d never seen before. His veins were juicy and swollen beneath them. Nails clipped and clean. I thought they were nice hands. Masculine, but pretty at the same time.

     It was hard to look up into his face. My cheeks felt hot. When I forced myself, I caught sight of the blood again.

     Then I realised that it wasn’t blood. It was too sparse, too pinkish. What it really was was the red outline of a dragon, an Asian dragon – most of its body curved over the top of his right eyebrow, its tail twirling down the side of his face, hidden a little by his skater-style hair. He looked my age, early twenties at the youngest, and his eyes were impossible-blue, like the underside of an iceberg.

     My face got even hotter. I looked away from him again.

     ‘Do you guys make any of these yourselves?’ he asked.

     ‘Hmm?’ My throat felt blocked.

     ‘The sweets,’ he said, and I let my eyes flicker up at him. ‘Do you guys make any of them?’

     ‘Um…’ I turned to the jars on the shelves behind me, swallowing the lump in my throat. ‘We make these ones…’ I murmured. ‘Or, I don’t, but the owners make these ones…’

     ‘Which ones are the best?’

     ‘Um… I like these.’ I pointed to the dark chocolate raspberry caramels.

     ‘I’ll take some of those.’

     ‘How many?’ I asked, sliding the jar off the shelf.

     ‘I dunno. Ten?’

     One by one, I placed them into a little plastic bag to weigh them. Then I set the bag down next to the Jelly Babies and rang it up.

     ‘Five twenty,’ I said.

     When he tapped his card to the reader, it asked him to insert it, and I watched his hands as he pushed the buttons on the keypad, thought about the pads of his fingers pressed into the soft rubbery plastic. Then I realised he might think I was looking at his PIN number, so I turned away.

     ‘Thanks,’ he said once the transaction was approved, grabbing his sweets.

     My throat stayed blocked as he went out the door, the bell’s ring heralding the silence left behind him.

     I had to sit back down. The heat in my cheeks took a long time to sink back in.

     I remember I thought about him for the rest of the day – his hands, his face. I’d never seen a face tattoo up close like that, never would have imagined one could suit someone pretty. I wondered where he’d come from and why he’d come in. Most of our customers are old people or parents with kids. In seven years at the job, I’d never seen someone like him.

     Then, the next day, I saw him again.

     I’d just stepped outside the shop to wash the front window, mop and bucket in hand, and there he was – standing directly across the road outside Party Planet, smoking a cigarette. I stood with my arms loose, staring at him in disbelief. Then, when he noticed me, I spun round to the window. My face was hot, my heart beating fast. When I ventured a glance back his way, he was heading into Party Planet. The heat in my cheeks didn’t abate any.

     I realised pretty quickly that he must have started working there. I started seeing him smoking outside the door a lot, and always when I was out washing the window. I try not to look at him when I’m out on the street, but my gaze always wanders. Whenever he catches me, I feel embarrassed for ages afterwards, have to talk myself down from the fear that he can read my mind. It’s easier to watch him from inside the shop, where I can stand far enough back from the window that either the distance or the sun’s glare in the glass means he can’t see me looking.

     I’m standing a few feet back from the window, staring at him, when Irene wanders back in the front door, the bell ringing above her. I spin round to face her, try not to act like I’ve been caught doing something I’m not supposed to.

     ‘Porter,’ she says, tipping a plastic bag over on the counter. Several smaller bags, each with presumably a different denomination of coins inside, slide out with a thunk. ‘Could you put these away for me?’

     ‘Of course.’ I nod, wandering around the other side of the counter. I grab the change box from beneath it and open the till to see what needs topping up.

     Irene pulls the stool out from beside me and pushes herself onto it.

     ‘Are you okay?’ I ask.

     ‘Oh, I’m fine.’ She smiles, but she sounds a little out of breath. ‘The bank’s always just so busy, you know.’

     I nod, upending a bag of ten pences. The drawer looks like it could use some fives too.

     For a long time, the noise of coins clanking and jingling is all that unsettles the stillness of the air. Then, gradually, I realise that Irene is staring at me.

     When I look at her, she gives me a weird sort of smile.

     ‘Is something wrong?’ I ask.

     ‘No. Don’t be silly,’ she says.

     ‘Um, okay.’

     I slide the change box back onto the shelf beneath the counter. When I turn back to face her, she’s still looking at me. I glance around.

     ‘Are you happy here, Porter?’ she asks.

     ‘What?’

     ‘Are you happy here?’

     ‘Yeah, of course,’ I say, confused.

     ‘Because… Ernie and I love you – you know that – but… we’d understand if you wanted to move on.’

     ‘What?’ I ask, feeling my heart beat faster, fear welling up inside me. ‘But I like working here.’

     ‘I know…’

     ‘Are you firing me?’

     ‘No! Of course not! We just…’

     Struggling, she gives me a sympathetic look.

     ‘We just want what’s best for you, you know? You’re what, twenty-five is it?’

     I nod.

     ‘You’re young. Wouldn’t you rather be working somewhere where you can meet people?’

     My stomach is hurting. I shake my head. ‘I like working here. I don’t want to work anywhere else.’

     She holds me with her eyes like she’s waiting for me to say something else. It’s me who looks away.

     ‘Well, okay, dear,’ she says eventually, and I can hear the pity in her voice. ‘As long as you’re happy.’

     Heat presses forward into my cheeks. I don’t say anything. I can’t even look at her.

     After a long moment of silence, she slides herself back off the stool.

     ‘Well, I better go make sure Ernie’s taken his pills,’ she says, feigning the chirpiness that usually comes so naturally. ‘I won’t be long. Take your lunch just now if you want.’

     I nod, and she heads through the back. A few seconds later, I hear her feet on the stairs, trudging up to the flat above where she and Ernie have lived since they were young.

     Letting out a breath, I drop down onto the stool and rub my eyes with my fingers. Something heavy feels bogged at the bottom of my stomach. The shop’s so quiet it’s like I’m not anywhere. I glance around and take it all in – the shelves, the sweets. I like this place. I like waking up in the morning to come here. I’m happy enough. I didn’t realise Irene and Ernie felt sorry for me.

     Pushing myself off the stool, I plod round to the other side of the counter. I don’t want the sandwich I brought for lunch anymore – my stomach is too unsettled – so I grab a big bag of Haribo Starmix instead. Then I head out the front door onto the street.

     Even with the sun shining, the air outside is cool, easy to breathe in. I look to my left, and there are workmen in orange boiler suits down the road standing around a big hole in the ground. To my right, a handful of people are queued up outside the bakery, the smell of fresh bread wafting out from the open door. There’s no one outside Party Planet, just the two mannequins in the window – one dressed like a straw-stuffed scarecrow, the other in a purple witch get-up, broom in hand.

     Pulling open the bag of Haribos, I lower myself down to sit on the doorstep and pop one onto my tongue. It’s a Heart Throb – my favourite – but it feels harder to chew than normal, my jaw a little slacker. Shame twists and wriggles inside me, spawned by Irene’s words. I try not to think about that pity so loud in them, but I feel so heavy. Sticking a yellow Bear into my mouth, I rub the oily residue that comes off it between my thumb and fingers.

     Then, just as I’m taking a bite out of another one – a Cola Bottle – the door to Party Planet opens up, and a figure dressed in black steps out.

     My heart jumps.

     Face Tattoo looks at me, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, and I fling my gaze down to my shoes. That heat pushes forward into my cheeks again. I stick another Haribo into my mouth and chew it fast, try to focus on the movement of my now perfectly agile jaw, the squish between my teeth.

     When I venture another peek at him, he’s looking at me again. My face gets even hotter.

     It goes on like that for at least a minute – me stealing glances at him while I chomp through the sweets only to find each time that he’s watching me, drawing on his cigarette. My heart is racing, searing hot embarrassment twisting my stomach. He must realise that I’m looking at him. He must see what I’m thinking.

     Halfway through the bag, I can’t do it anymore. I need to go back inside.

     Pushing myself to my feet with my free hand, I keep hold of the Haribos in my other. Just as I’m about to turn around, my eyes jump back onto him – I can’t help myself.

     As soon as they land, my body sticks.

     He’s got his free hand up, palm inwards, with his index finger extended. His eyes are still fixed on me.

     Bending the finger twice, he makes a kind of beckoning motion.

     My heart presses up into my mouth. For the first time looking at him, I feel like I might be starting to pale. I glance from side to side, searching for anyone standing nearby, but it’s just me. When I look at him again, he’s still staring at me.

     ‘Me?’ I mouth the word, pointing at my chest.

     He nods, blowing smoke into the air.

     My arms start to feel loose, my legs a little wobbly. I glance back at the shop behind me and think about the till unmanned inside. Irene told me to go for lunch. She’s not expecting me to be there. I look back at Face Tattoo, and he’s still just standing there staring at me. Raising his hand again, he repeats the motion, using all of his fingers this time.

     The wobbly feeling moves up through my body, and somehow I’m moving towards him. I feel like a slug, like I’m leaving a slow smeared trail of myself on the concrete behind me. He keeps his eyes on me as I approach, and I clench the bag of Haribos in my hand.

     When I reach his side of the pavement, he steps onto the doorstep of Party Planet with his cigarette still in hand, nudging his head to motion for me to follow him inside. In the light of the sun, the doorway looks dark, a portal into some other world. He waits for me to take another step closer before he disappears into it.

     Numb all over, I follow.

     Inside, it takes my eyes a couple seconds to adjust to the dimness. Then the racks of costumes at either side of me start to fade into being. There are mannequins displaying outfits in here too – a sexy nurse, a gorilla, a probably culturally insensitive Native American – and a massive range of masks hanging from the wall to my left. To my right, shelves of upon shelves of other party paraphernalia stretch up to the ceiling – balloons, number candles, party cannons, general miscellaneous stuff. I’ve never been in here before – never had any reason to.

     There’s no one else around.

     Turning my attention back to what’s in front of me, I catch Face Tattoo’s back just as he disappears through a door at the far end of the shop.

     I drift down the aisle to follow him.

     He’s waiting for me on the other side in what looks like an office. His eyes catch mine and I have to look away again. Then he opens up another door, throwing light into the room, and leads me back out into the day.

     It’s a kind of tiny vacant lot we step into, bins on one side, a wire fence holding back an explosion of wild greenery on the other – no sign of any other life. In the centre, a little grey car sits waiting like a good dog.

     Face Tattoo takes one more draw from his cigarette, stomps it out, and then wanders over to open up the driver’s door. Standing there, not getting in, he just stares at me. My heart thunders.

     ‘Hop in,’ he says.

     I glance behind me. The sweet shop feels like it’s a universe away. When I look back at him, he’s still watching me.

     Slowly, I float over.

     He slides into the driver’s seat, closing the door behind him, and my hand is so weak I can barely get the passenger door open.

     ‘Close the door,’ he says as I sit down next to him, the heat from inside swallowing me up.

     Not saying anything, I obey.

     I put my Haribos down on my lap and start to pick at the skin on my thumbs, try to breathe like a normal person. When I turn to face him – his pretty face, blue-eyed, red-dragoned, turned right back towards me – I feel faint.

     ‘Um… what’s going on?’ I mutter.

     ‘I wanted to show you something,’ is what he says.

     When he reaches across me to grab the handle of the glove compartment, his elbow presses into my thigh. I see the thick veins in his hand ripple. Heat surfaces into my cheeks again.

     Then, when he opens it up and the gun slides out, all my heat falls away.

     He takes it into his hand, holds it like a man, and I’m looking at it – the gun – but I can’t move. My whole body is stuck in the seat. I’ve never seen a gun before. All of a sudden, the air is something solid. Fear squeezes me in its fist. I look at him, and his gaze is burned into the gun.

     Then his eyes spring onto me.

     ‘Do you like it?’ he asks, turning it from side to side, his long index finger extended and pressed to the side of it, not quite on the trigger. It’s black, and it looks light in his hand, looks plastic almost. ‘I got it last week,’ he says, smiling – a pretty smile. ‘It’s a Glock. Do you wanna see how it works?’

     I don’t say anything – I’m dizzy – but it doesn’t seem to faze him.

     ‘This is the magazine release.’ He slides his thumb into a button near the top of the handle and a thick rectangular bit of gun falls out of it. ‘The bullets go in there. It’s not loaded just now,’ he says, and, ever so slightly, the air loosens its grip on me. ‘The bullets are in there.’

     He points to the glove compartment. Then he sticks the bit that fell out of the gun back into it.

     ‘This is the slide release,’ he goes on, pressing another button while he pulls a sliding part at the top of the gun back with his other hand. ‘You keep the slide back so that when you put the bullet in the magazine it’s ready to fire when you release it. You can do it manually as well by pulling it back. Like this.’

     He demonstrates.

     ‘Which I think is cooler,’ he says, still smiling. ‘Then you pull the trigger.’

     He looks at me, his eyes bright, and holds it out to me.

     ‘Do you wanna hold it?’

     Wobbly all over, I shake my head.

     ‘That’s okay.’ He shrugs and then sticks it back in the glove compartment.

     As soon as it’s out of sight, I blink hard, already doubting that I saw it, that any of that actually just happened. When I look back at him, he’s still looking at me, still with a smile on his face.

     ‘I know they’re illegal, but I’m not gonna shoot anyone with it, if that’s what you’re thinking,’ he says, his smile spreading out into a grin, and at the sight of his teeth – the front two overlapping a little, his dogteeth pointed – something hot and slick pulls together inside me. ‘I just think guns are cool. What do you like?’

     ‘What?’ I murmur.

     ‘What do you like?’ he asks again. ‘Aside from Haribos.’ He points to my lap, and I glance down at the packet still just sitting there.

     ‘Um… um…’ Caught in his gaze, it’s hard to speak. ‘I, uh… I like other sweets too,’ is what I end up saying, for some reason. Then I feel heat rush into my cheeks again.

     He laughs like I told a joke.

     ‘Those raspberry caramel things you told me to get that time were so good,’ he says. ‘I ate them all in one go. I was gonna get more, but…’ He glances away. ‘I dunno…’

     I continue to stare at him. His eyes flicker this way and that.

     ‘I wanted to ask… Uh, do you… I dunno…’ he begins, mumbling a little. ‘Do you wanna, like, come shooting with me sometime or something? It’s just cans. Not animals or anything like that. I’m not into that. I’ve just been going out into the country and shooting cans. I take them to the recycling centre after. I can show you properly how to use the gun, if you want…’

     My heart is beating hard in my chest. He keeps looking at me and looking away again.

     ‘It’s really fun,’ he goes on. ‘Or we could do something you like, if you want. Or we could do both. Whatever. I don’t mind.’

     I can’t speak. My heart is blocking my throat. My face is loose.

     He glances at me again.

     Then he scratches the back of his neck, ruffles his hair a little.

     ‘It’s cool,’ he says, shrugging. ‘I just thought I’d ask.’

     My heart just about bursts.

     ‘No!’ I spit out.

     His eyes widen. I pull back into myself a little.

     ‘No, sorry,’ I mutter. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to shout. Sorry. Um, yeah.’ I nod. ‘Yeah, I could do that. Go shooting, or whatever. That, uh, that sounds cool. For sure.’ I nod again.

     His gaze stays fixed on me. Face burning, I keep hold of it – a taught wire between us, ready to snap and split me in half. I don’t know how long I can hang on. I don’t know if I’m meant for this.

     Then he grins again, the dragon swishing its tail as his cheeks pull up, and all my body turns to jelly.

     ‘Cool.’ He nods. ‘Cool.’

I am a twenty-eight-year-old graduate from the University of Glasgow currently living in Aberdeen, Scotland. As well as being an avid writer and reader, I am a keen enjoyer of underground music and have a strong interest in fashion.