Going down under

Blacksheep returns from Oz to UK for family event

This is not a short story as it develops characters and backstory. As always, I look for proofreaders for my stories to make sure they meet the quality this site deserves.

Going down under

I looked out of the plane's windows to see a rain soaked Heathrow coming into view. I let out a sigh and muttered, 'Ah, blighty.'

The woman next to me looked over and then up at me. I tried an ingratiating smile, but that hadn't worked when we stepped on to the plane in Melbourne. Perhaps I'd lost my touch with the Sheila's. Nope, women, I corrected myself. Just because I'd been in Oz for 15 years didn't make me entirely forget my British heritage.

I'm Bruce, by the way, well actually, it's Byron Bruce Baker, and so you can understand why I go by Bruce. Byron doesn't really fly when you're working in the outback. I'm coming home for my parent's 40th wedding anniversary, to catch up with a few friends and have a little fun. But fun was one reason I left the UK in the first place.

I was the black sheep of the family back when I was a kid. Ran with the wrong crowd, was into fast bikes, faster women and occasionally drugs. Not a lot, but enough to give me a brush in with the law a couple of times. Fortunately, I was young and came from a good home and cleaned up good for my court appearances.

I got off lightly, but my dad made it clear any more trouble and I'd be out of the family forever. I might not have listened, but I had a nasty motorcycle crash and nearly died. Both my lower legs were pinned back together with so much metal I still can't go through an airport metal detector without a fuss.

Although it's funny to see how awkward they get when they see the scars. I've sometimes idly wondered if I could smuggle something because of that reaction, but I'm not into that anymore.

It was pleasant to head through the short lines for UK passport holders, and have the guy at the desk welcome me home. Was it my home anymore? I'm certainly not the man I was when I left.

After grabbing my oversized backpack from the carousel and heading to find a train into London. Sitting on the train looking at the rain and rapidly dimming light, I looked down and noticed my wedding ring and felt annoyed with myself. I pulled it off and tucked it into my pocket. That had been a mistake, and I knew it at the time.

I flexed my hand to see the slight indentation from the ring and noticed the scars again. It was weird how you forgot they were there. Like my legs, they had pinned my bones together in my left hand. I'd lost the tip of my little finger and it was still bent and didn't have full movement. The surgeon had suggested he remove the finger entirely, but my parents refused. I chuckled as I remembered getting the dotted line tattoo around the first knuckle with 'cut here' next to it.

I got off at Paddington and grimaced at the weather, saw a poor sod of a beggar. Or a street person or whatever the fuck you want to label them. He was wet and miserable, unseen by the crowds walking past him. I stopped in front of him and he looked up and up again. I'm a good four inches over six feet and a big guy overall.

The crowd had to part to get around me. I ignored them as they ignored this poor sod.

"How long?" I asked.

"8 or 9 months."

I nodded and tossed him my wedding ring.

"Hopefully this will bring you more luck than it did me."

"Why?"

"You need a break. Hang on, do you have a phone?" He nodded, looking worried. "With video?" Again a nod.

I knelt next to him and gestured that he should get it out. He looked worried, and I told him to video me.

"Hi, I'm Bruce Baker, from..." I gave my address and email in Oz. "I'm giving..."

The guy turned the phone to him. "I'm Simon Parks."

"I'm giving Simon my wedding ring. Hoping it brings him more luck than it did me. This video is proof that it's not stolen and he deserves a decent price for it." I held a semi threatening finger at the camera.

"Why?" he asked,

"I'm home for the first time in 15 years and you're the first person I've talked to. The weather may be shite, but hopefully that can be a silver lining. Even if it's 22 carat gold. I've always lived with the mantra that today might be bad, but tomorrow could be better. See ya Simon buddy." I held out a hand for a knuckle bump and he returned it.

As I stood, I had a weird moment of the world shifting. I went from being invisible kneeling, to an awkwardly large obstacle. Walking away, I felt better than I had done in ages. It was only a month since I caught my wife with another guy and, to some extent, I couldn't blame her. Him, however, I was happy to toss over the balcony of our apartment.

But before you feel sorry for him, we were only on the 1st floor and he landed on the back of his truck. So he wasn't badly hurt. I gathered a handful of things I wanted, loaded them into my truck, and moved on. OK, I got monumentally drunk that night and passed out with a hooker. Luckily, I knew her and she didn't rob me. But she charged me for the full night. Which was fair, I suppose. Cheaper than having to get new bank cards and stuff.

I got a taxi and asked for a cheap hotel and the driver gave me a look that I was mad. This was London. So I clarified something not too expensive. It was still outrageous to me. But I spend half my life living in my road train with a couple of hundred tons of cargo at my back.

I woke up after a good sleep and felt none of the jet lag people claimed. Shaved for the first time in nearly a week. And looked intently at my neck and noticed the scar from the strap of my motorcycle helmet that had saved my life. It looked more like a rash than a scar. I showered and wandered naked into the bedroom and picked up the list of hotel services.

A partnership with a gym round the corners sounded good. After too long cooped up in a too small seat on the plane, I needed to work out and stretch. Slipping into workout gear, I went to reception to see how I used the gym. The young lady behind the counter eyed my muscles as she made a call, and I played with her by flexing as she watched. She ended the call, looking flushed, and gave me directions.

The gym was a godsend to me, not some poncy fancy place with incense and yoga classes. This was a down and dirty place with a boxing ring and punching bags. OK, it had the regular gym equipment as well. But I hated running.

"You must be Mr Baker? I'm Max." A heavily muscled man approached and held out his hand.

"Call me Bruce." I shook his hand, and he tried to crush my hand.

He was at least six inches shorter than me.

"Seriously?" I replied and cranked up my grip until he relaxed.

"Sorry, it's a childish habit." He replied and shook his hand. "So, what are you looking for? Pilates or yoga." He grinned to show he was joking.

"Some stretching. I was on a flight that seemed to last years, then some weights and I might have a go at the punching bags."

"You box?"

"More brawl, but I've done it."

I would not say my boxing was bare knuckle, as that was entirely different.

I worked out and felt better as I pumped weights. Max came around a few times to check on me, but realised I knew what I was doing. When I went to use the punching bags, he rushed over to give me boxing gloves. But he had to go back to get a bigger pair.

My bent little finger would have been a problem if the final joint was there, but we strapped it up and he walked me through using the bags. I worked into a rhythm and then mixed it up with jabs and heavy punches.

"If only I'd known you when you were 16, I could have done wonders." Max commented.

"Hey at 16 I was a tall, gangly kid with no muscles or coordination."

"Want to try the ring? I promise to go easy on you." Max grinned, then I wiped the grin off his face as I lunged and hit the bag hard enough for the 100-pound bag to swing wildly.

"Not this time. If I'm back in this area in the future, I may take you up on that."

I'd not brought a change of clothes, so I headed back to the hotel to clean up. The receptionist turned crimson as she saw me walk in, all sweaty and buff. After cleaning up and having a hearty breakfast, I figured out the trains to get home and left. If I was going to be around here longer, I might have asked out the receptionist, but she was a bit young for me.

As I neared home, I called my sister Josie and checked everything was going to plan. She was trying to keep the party a secret, but I suspected mum would have known it was coming. Josie had organised a party for their 30th anniversary, so why would a 40th be different?

When I'd agreed to come, I'd expected I could stay in my old room, so it came as a double blow when I couldn't see them before the day. And they had moved into a tiny flat in a sheltered housing complex. So I contacted former friends and put the word out that I needed a place to stay temporarily. Pradesh had come back so that I could use the bedsit over one of his dad's newsagents. It wasn't great, but I was only going to be there briefly.

I called him as I got into the station at home and he told me the address and I told him I'd be there in 40 minutes. Rather than get a taxi, I walked it, as only 4 miles and that's nothing in the outback. My long legs ate it up easily.

In the shop, Pradesh looked up, frowned and rushed over.

"Byron. Mate, do you eat steroids for breakfast?"

He slapped my arm in greeting.

"Fuck!"

"Pradesh!" His elderly father chided.

"Mr, Patel. Nice to see you again." I extended my hand, and he looked up, trying to place me. "I used to be skinny. Into motorcycles."

"Oh, that Byron."

I chuckled. "Sorry, sir, but there aren't many kids called Byron these days."

The old man nodded and gave me a fraction of a smile.

"Why are you home? Not to get my son in trouble?"

"No sir, it's my parent's 40th anniversary. Then I'm off."

"Good. I appreciate you respecting your family. Here." He handed me the keys and got Pradesh to show me the bedsit.

A single bed that was hardly big enough to fit me, with a kitchenette and the bathroom shared with the shop. Given how much time I spend sleeping in the back of my truck, it was OK. I promised to catch up with Pradesh later and dumped my bag and headed out into my old stomping grounds.

Things had changed, but not enough that I couldn't spot the telltale signs of gangs and lookouts. I'd no interest in stepping on anyone's toes, and my size and rather intimidating persona was likely to get people nervous. Until I approached a power and laid out my bonafides.

With no idea of the lay of the land, I headed to my old territory until 3 youths stepped out to stop me. It was pretty funny, as their sneer was so false. I outweigh at least two of them, and even with weapons, I could deal with them. But that's not what I wanted.

"This is my old territory from 15 years ago. I've been out of the country and want to clear the air with whoever is in charge. Or someone who can give me a pass."

"Why should we believe you?" One asked, showing the cut throat blade tucked into his belt.

My first instinct was to show him physically, but I restrained myself.

"I went by treble B back in the day." I mentioned a handful of names from back in the day and handed him a slip of paper with my phone number.

"Why should we let you go?" another guy asked, fingering his knife.

"Talk to the grown-ups first, otherwise you'll be trying to figure out an excuse why someone has to remove that knife from up your arse."

Over the years, I'd developed quite an effective projection of threat. In the old days I'd have just done it, now I knew I could try to go bloodless first. I turned and strode past the first guy, who looked like he was going to run.

I headed to a nearby coffee bar and waited, but not for long. My phone rang.

"Treble B. What's up?" He used the old extended pronunciation from the Budweiser adds.

"Fanny Magnet? Really? Budweiser commercials from 20 years ago?"

"Seemed appropriate, given how long you've been gone, and it's not Fanny Magnet now."

"Shame, you were fucking good at sniffing out gash."

"So Byron, why are you here?"

Using my name like that was a slap in the face.

"Parent's anniversary. My sister bullied me into it."

"Josie?"

I was surprised that Pete remembered her. Josie was never part of our world, but I'd no idea what had happened in the years I'd been away.

"We see each other socially occasionally. You never kept in touch?"

"It wasn't a happy parting, Pete."

"I remember. It was tough. You kinda took it on the chin for her."

"You know?"

"Don't beat me up, which after you scared the shit out of my guys, you really could do. But she and I dated a bit."

"Really? Miss goodie two shoes dated a dirt bag like you. Oh, and by the way, your muscle is pathetic."

"Man, you didn't see my muscle, but they said you were intimidating.

Using my best batman growl. "You've not seen me intimidating."

The phone went silent, then filled with Pete's laughter.

"Oh man, that's good. You sure I can't borrow you to persuade a few people to be nice?"

"Sorry mate, I'm here for the family and then I go back home?"

"Home?"

"Oz. I'm finding the UK alien these days."

"Fancy a drink?" I looked around, confused to see an expensive Jaguar pull up outside the coffee shop.

"I don't know. Some prick just turned up in a fancy Jag and is blocking out the sun."

He laughed and opened the door and gestured to me. A guy nearly my height got out of the passenger door and glowered at me. I stepped outside and looked him over. He must have been close to three hundred pounds.

"B, don't mess with my staff. It's expensive to replace them. This is Karl." The guy glowered at Tony for a moment, then held out his hand.

I sighed and let him crush my hand for a moment until I squeezed back. I'd left the UK a scrawny guy and found work drilling in the outback. Learned to fix trucks and nearly anything hydraulic. Work was hard and tough and I gained muscles from the work and I loved bulking up to stop me from feeling like some gangly tool.

Over the years, I got genuine muscle instead of simply gym muscles. So many people did not know the difference. The pressure I applied on Karl increased until he looked worried.

"There you go Karl. Nice to meet you." I climbed into the back of the car.

"You have to do that?"

"He started it."

"Classic B. Could you have taken him?"

The car sagged as he sat in the front seat.

"Maybe," I replied, the mouthed 'yes'. To a grinning Pete.

I woke up feeling shite and groaned that I'd not bothered to at least get coffee and milk. Pete had taken me to a club and comped me. I had vague recollections of booze, hot babes and more booze. I knew he was feeling me out in case I was no longer sound and the girls were part of the plan.

Apart from the hangover, I was ok with it. Especially as one girl took me aside and sucked me off. I know she was probably getting paid, but she sucked my dick with too much obvious pleasure to think she was only doing it for that. At my height, my dick was above average and I know some women assumed my bulk meant my dick would be sub average. When they found out otherwise, it was always fun.

My phone rang, and I saw it was from to a second SIM in my phone. Pete must have slipped one in there.

"Hey man, how are you feeling?"

"Who beat me up?"

"That was Tanya. She told me to call her next time for a discount. Which is a blue chip recommendation in her world."

"What's up?"

"I wondered if you were up for a party tonight?"

"Not like last night?"

"No, a regular party. OK, not quite regular, but I promise you'll enjoy it. I know you'll be a hit."

I stretched and told him I'd be there.

I called Josie, and she was as bossy as I remember. I felt a hint of anger that she'd been the one to get me to flee the country. She was five years my junior, and I'd occasionally covered for her when she'd fucked up so badly and I could mitigate it. My reputation with my parents was already toast.

When my parents found cocaine in her room, they accused me. It wasn't mine, as I'd never let anyone I know sell to her. But I fell on my sword for her and threw myself under the bus and flew to the other side of the world. I never talked to the family for years. I loved my sister, but she cost me nearly everything.

When she started to try to manipulate and bully me, I pushed back.

"Josie, I'm here for mum and dad. But I've no compunction to not tell them that those drugs were really yours. I probably could find out who sold them to you."

"You already linked up with your criminal buddies?"

"I've no idea what that means. Are we still on for Thursday, at the Golf club?" I tried to steer her back to business.

"Christ Byron, do you have to be such a dick?"

"Given how much I gave up on covering you. You owe me." I hung up.

I was beginning to regret this idea of coming home and surprising my parents. I'd no idea if I'd be welcome, despite Josie's assurance. But the biggest downside was hiding out until the party to avoid being noticed. So I bought some magazines from Mr Patel and read and watched TV until Tony called me for the party.

I knew something was going on from the expression on Tony's face, but I'd let it play out. We ended up pulling into a driveway of a mini mansion and got out. Only to be met by a guy at the door. He was about 50, with a cashmere sweater draped over his shoulder. He greeted Tony warmly, and eyed me speculatively.

"This is Bruce. He's one of my oldest friends and is cool. This is Alan."

I shook Alan's hand, noting the soft skin and manicured nails.

We were led into a kitchen where there were 11 other guys. Mostly around Alan's age, but ranging up and down by about 10 years. Tony and I were the youngest by at least 5 years. All were soft looking, and I noticed everyone was drinking soft drinks. Looking over at Tony, I suddenly wondered if he was secretly gay and this was a sausage party.

Don't get me wrong, I've nothing against poofters, but it's not my gig. If one hits on me, I'll just leave.

Then, to my relief, an elegant woman appeared and talked to Alan. She's around 50 but good looking and wearing a simple but elegant cocktail dress and expensive high heels. It's weird, but I always notice a woman's shoes. The body language between the pair reveals they are married and they talk for a moment. Then she leaves and Alan turns to the rest of the men and smiles.

The men start to leave the room and Alan tries to put his arm around my shoulder and fails. It looks more like a child doing it.

"I hope your friend is broad minded." He says to Tony, who winked at me.

We're led into a dimly lit room, and it's not doing anything to relax me about being surrounded only by men. My eye is drawn to a painter's dust sheet hanging down behind the double door leading into the next room. Alan stands in front of it and is looking unduly smug. Then I noticed the sheet moving, and I realised it must be on a roller or something.

Looking around the room, I see ostentatious furnishings that reminded me of a stately home and not a real home. The light suddenly increased, and I realised that the lights in the next room had been turned on. Turning back, I accepted this party might be something after all. The light is shining through the sheet, but my true attention is the naked breasts pushed through two holes in the sheet.

High on one breast is a sticker with a '1' written on it. Alan passes amongst the men and hands each a small velvet bag. I check the contents to see a dozen marbles and frown at Tony. He gestures to a table with a dozen bowls, each with a labelled number. Obviously, some sort of voting system for the ladies. I wondered if there was the same for the ladies?