Chris Simms - Killing the Beasts

He looked at them as if they were sacred things. Which, in a sense, they were: they had the power to make his dreams come true.

Sly gazed down at the motionless spider crouched in the corner of its glass home. The way its legs were bunched up — knee joints higher than its body — reminded Sly of the eight roof struts encircling the newly completed Commonwealth Games stadium, Manchester City's new ground once the Games were over and the stupid running track had been ripped out so another tier of seats could be added. He clenched a fist in triumph — finally the Blues would have a stadium to match their status in the city. Something newer and better than those bastard Reds at Old Trafford.

Slamming his front door shut behind him, he looked around the courtyard. The snotty couple were sitting in the sun on one of the benches at the side of the Zen garden, Sunday papers spread out across their laps. Next to the bench were two cups and a pot of fresh coffee, curls of steam catching in the sunlight.

He yawned loudly to intrude on the peaceful atmosphere, snorted and then trudged over to them. They tried to ignore his presence, but once he was behind them he leaned over the girl's shoulder and remarked, 'Dirty slag. 'Manchester accent deliberately made heavier.

Her head whipped round. 'I beg your pa-'

'That bird.' He pointed to the photo of the reality game show hostess in the paper on her knee. 'You can just tell she is.' He looked at the man sitting on the bench. 'Bet you'd give her one, though you can't admit it. Not with your missus sat here, right?' He laughed loudly and carried on his way, imagining the couple shaking with suppressed anger.

He slid into his car, put on a pair of sunglasses, lowered the windows and pressed play on the CD player. The Stone Roses started booming out and he smiled at memories of nights spent in the Hacienda, so out of his tree he could hardly speak.

The drive to his grandma's little terraced house didn't take long. As he got out of his car he could see her in the front window waiting for him, coat already on. He walked her round to the passenger seat and helped her in, then they drove back into the centre of town, parking in the NCP near Affleck's Palace.

With her arm linked through his, they walked to the top of Market Street, the old lady pausing to look across into Piccadilly Gardens.

'It's all changed so much,' she said, with more wonder than regret in her voice. 'Lewis's has gone. 'She stared across the street at the art deco front of the old family-run department store. Now bright red TK Maxx signs were above the doors. 'Used to take you there as a little boy. Me and your grandad would go to the dances on the top floor.'

'What dances were those?'

'Ballroom dances. There's a sprung wooden floor up there, you know.'

He shook his head, 'No Gran, I didn't.'

'What's that bloody great thing?' she asked, pointing across the gardens to the grey concrete wall.

'Some designer's idea, I think,' he said chirpily. 'It's meant to be Chinese style — they put it there to screen off the noise and stuff from the bus depot behind.'

'Looks bloody awful to me,' she said. 'More like the Berlin Wall than a Chinese one.'

He grinned, leading her down the pedestrianized street towards the new Marks amp; Spencer.

'Oh, they've done a grand job with those hanging baskets,' she said, gazing appreciatively at the masses of flowers dotting the way ahead. 'And those banners add a nice splash of colour, too. Why can't they keep it this pretty all the time? Even the litter has disappeared,' she added, looking at the street in front. 'And these cobbles, when did they put them in?' she asked, nodding at the rustic brickettes at her feet.

'Not long ago.'

'The trams used to run up this street, you know. Right where we're walking.'

'Well, things move on, don't they?'

'They certainly do,' she replied, looking at the lines of mobile phone shops, leisure clothing stores and coffee bars.

At the other end of the street they were confronted by the towering new Marks amp; Spencer with its overhead Perspex walkway leading into the Arndale Centre.

'We'll have lunch at a place over here, Gran.' He led her along the smooth pavement, then across the plaza towards the upmarket Triangle shopping centre. As they passed the giant TV screen set up for the Commonwealth Games it blared a loud commentary down at them. Athletes were profiled, sporting venues reviewed. She hunched her shoulders slightly at the noise and they carried on to the tables arranged on the pavement in front of Zinc.

'What's that thing?' She was looking at the Urbis museum as it reared straight up out of the concrete like some submarine surfacing in a future ocean.

'Don't know.' He lit a cigarette. 'Some art gallery, probably.'

Choosing a table where they could watch — and be seen by — everyone passing, he handed a menu to the old lady. She examined the list, mouthing the names of unfamiliar dishes: bruschetta, pappardelle, antipasto, arancini.

When a waitress appeared Sly raised a hand, then watched her closely as she approached their table. He was keen for her to notice that he was taking his grandma out, wanting her to think he was a

decent guy. Caring. Perhaps attractive. 'Coffee, Gran?'

'Yes please.'

The waitress looked down at her. 'Espresso, latte, cappuccino, mocha?'

'Just normal, dear. And a glass of water please.'

'Sparkling or still?'

'Whatever comes out of your taps, thank you.'

The waitress gave a tight smile and looked at Sly.

'Tea with two sugars, cheers.'

'And to eat?'

'Gran?'

'Oh, I don't know. You choose for me.' She shifted the shiny aluminium seat so the sun didn't shine in her eyes.

Knowing he wouldn't be able to say the names of the foreign dishes properly, Sly ordered two smoked salmons with scrambled eggs, then sat back to look at the Sunday shoppers milling past.

'One of your friends rang when I was round at your mum's the other day,' said his gran. 'I don't like it when they call you Sly. Why do they do it? Your name is Ashley.'

Believing it referred to his cleverness when it came to blagging things, he smiled as he stubbed out his cigarette. 'It's just a nickname. Like you get at school.'

'Yes, but it isn't even part of your name, is it? Sly. It makes you sound all shifty. Anyway, your mum gave him your new number. Told him you'd moved into a flat of your own.'

'Thanks.'

'So how's your job?'

It didn't exist, but Sly had his lie ready prepared. 'It's going great. I got this as part of a bonus.' He ran a hand along the sleeve of his Dolce and Gabbana jacket. 'My boss said I'm one of the best performers he's ever had.'

She smiled back. 'And are you courting?'

He almost laughed at her old-fashioned language. 'You mean seeing anyone?' Again he lied. 'There are a couple of girls I'm friendly with. But nothing too serious.'

'A couple,' she tutted. 'What's wrong with one? It would give you a chance of getting to know her properly. All this flitting between people.' Sly picked a bit of tobacco off his slightly protruding upper teeth. 'Plenty of time for that later, Gran.'

She did her best to eat the food when it arrived. But she found the eggs too runny and the fish seemed almost raw. Plus the bread was too crusty for her liking.

Finally Sly asked, 'Do you want to get going?' He noticed how she was leaning to one side, trying to keep out of the sun's creeping rays.

'Yes please,' she said without hesitation.

Seeing the waitress standing nearby, he said loudly, 'Let's go to Marks amp; Spencer. I'll get you a new coat.'

'Why? Is there something wrong with this one?' she demanded, looking down at her beige raincoat, lapels and pocket flaps straight out of the Seventies.