Cherry Smack

Life is short. Jimmy’s life may prove shorter. His gang mates have grown up and shipped out, and the nine to five is grinding Jimmy into a person he no longer recognizes. There has to be more to existence than waking up every Saturday with a half-eaten kebab and empty wallet. The wide blue skies of America sing a siren’s song, and Jimmy decides he’s ready to give life a do-over—even if it means leaving his childhood sweetheart Kelly behind. But Harlem has chewed up many a finer man, and drugs, power and money are fickle friends. If he survives the looming shit storm, Jimmy might just learn that the answers he seeks are waiting to be found in the most unexpected places.

Extract. Chapter 7

They pulled up, walked along the creaky boardwalk, pass the Wonder Wheel to board The Cyclone, an old fashioned wood roller-coaster. The seating was a mining cart with worn slated seats and loose fitting lap belts. Unlike a modern day coaster you felt more petrified than exhilarated as there was a very real chance of falling to your death. They could feel every pot and rivet as they squeaked and trundled along. Rawl deliberately rocked the cart at the top, stimulating a terrifying battle of nerves. Three people had died on this ride and Jimmy was going to make it four if he didn’t stop. Rawl laughed, the ride ended and he playfully shoved him around afterwards. He teased Jimmy into another ride straight away provoking him into a duel. He was trying desperately to hold up the British end but as soon as it kicked off felt he’d been shoved out a plane at thirty thousand feet without a parachute. He crawled out; with his head dazed and spinning, struggling to stand up right.
“What do you think?” quizzed Rawl.
“Slightly terrifying…but cool,” he grinned.
“Brit humour, I love it. Come on, one more then, ha ha.” He raced to the next,
the Tilt-A-Whirl desperately trying to break him but they were too late it was closing time. Jimmy faked disappointment but was secretly over the moon as he knew the ride; back in England it was called the Waltzer, a ride so violent it was marginally preferable to decapitation. He was relieved the trial was over and could leave, hopelessly nauseated but with his British pride intact.