Wreckage (3 page)
Authors: Niall Griffiths
—Alright, big feller?
The boy just stares.
—Don’t worry, lad, I just wanner watch the news. Gorrer telly?
The boy nods.
—Where is it then, my mate?
—It’s over there.
He points at a portable in the corner and Alastair turns it on, starts flicking through the channels.
—You carry on playin, feller. Tetris, is it, yeh? Crap at that, meself. Useless. What’s yer highest score?
The boy answers something but Alastair doesn’t hear – he’s found the local news. He sits through some item about flooding somewhere and another one about a gun amnesty or something and he thinks that it may have not made the news yet but then the newsreader says something about a post-office robbery in Cilcain or somewhere. About almost four thousand pounds stolen. About how the post office acted as a bank for the villagers and how the proprietor trusted and well liked among the community was found by her husband in a pool of blood.
—You okay, mister?
In a coma in Wrexham General may not survive heavy blows to the head with blunt instrument probably brain-damaged doctors say if she should pull through.
—Mister? You okay?
Disgusting crime on a defenceless old lady. Catch the thugs who did this says the grey-muzzied copper and bring them to justice shocking wicked cowardly.
Alastair turns the TV off. The little boy asks him once more if he’s okay and Alastair doesn’t reply and leaves the room. Moves back up the stairs again stepping over Pughey who is spread on the risers with stinking sick across his face and clogging his hair and an empty bottle of Hugo Boss aftershave on his chest like a glass growth, a terrible tumour, and past the sleeping baby and crustie and back into Dean’s room. Even darker now and the music still strong and no figure alone, paired and writhing as they are in twos. On the bed and across Darren’s legs the skinny woman lies topless and supine, her ribcage almost bursting through her thin plucked-chicken skin and between yellow bruises and the breasts little more than brown nipples are three long lines of white powder. Her eyes are closed above a slack smile, her chin pointing ceiling-wards, her arms thrown back over her head and all this bare flesh astonishingly white in the curdling purple light. The stubble in her armpits like iron filings. The bruises on her torso like daubs of paint and Alastair approaches and falls to his knees and fancies he can see in those bruises a thumbprint, the whorls and swirls of some man’s unique stamp.
—Just in time, Ally, Darren says. —Musta fuckin smelt it, lar, eh? Livin fuckin
large
, man.
He leans with a note rolled up in one nostril, snorts one line. The girl laughs.
—Livin fuckin
large
, lar. He hands the rolled-up note to Alastair, across the marked and emaciated and bent-back body. His face, his gleaming face, the dark eyes tunnel-like in Alastair’s vision. —LIVIN FUCKIN LARGE!
Alastair takes the note, leans over the woman. What has this light been in Darren’s eyes. He feels heat from skin as he snorts and maybe can taste that skin mixed with the drug as it numbs his nose and gullet and he remains like that over the bared and stretched body, bending from the knee, as the galloping antelope is brought down in the grass and there are teeth and there are talons and roaring and blood in red jets and a light within which there is no light, not at all, when he looks. Or maybe there is; he’s not entirely sure. But fuck it anyway, Christ, light within light, the fuck’s
that
shite all about.
O
THERS
ALASTAIR, HIS DAD
THEM BUCKS TODAY
, yeh see em walkin around thinkin ther the big I AM givin it all this shit an thee don’t know thee arf, thee avnt gorrer fuckin clue. Think theev lived, think theev got experience, like, but I tell yeh what, I piss all over em I do, ah yeh, all fuckin over em. Got kids all over ere me, all over the North-West and Wales an bleedin Ireland n all, useter purrit about like there was no tomorrer when I was werkin the dodgems, like. Ah yeh, go for a walk in the Holylands now or even the whole of bleedin Liverpool, Wirral n Chester n all an yer’ll see undreds o’ kids look like me, all got my eyes n nose, likes, ah yeh, my fuckin strength n all! See, that’s what I was doin in them days, whatjacallit, enrichin the fuckin gene pool, likes. This fuckin upsurge in the city now, all down to me, tharriz. Times o’ me friggin life, lad, eh; aller tarts’d love goin on the dodgems, like, an it was all cozzer me, standin on the back of the carts, like, an them all gigglin and actin all that shy way, SHY! Jesus, not so friggin shy in the bushes rounda back of the ghost train or in me friggin carra, were thee? Dipped me wick in evrythin, I did, undreds of em, not one werd of a lie. Thee all spread ther legs for ahl Alastair, oh aye, altho I was
young
Alastair then,
of
course … an not so much of the friggin old
now
, either, eh? Still drink em all under the friggin table, still sneak off an give ther wives the kinda seein to theev not ad fer years while ther useless fuckin husbands’re sleepin off the bevvy. Oh aye yeh, that’s me, avnt aged a friggin day since me twenties, well not in any of the most
important
ways like … Lost a birrer hair, aye, bit more white in me muzzy, like, but am still the young fuckin buck I was back then. Still got the body n all, apart from the spare tyre, likes, but Jeez, yeh can’t put the bevvy away like I do an av done for fuckin years without sproutin a wee bit uvver belly, can yeh? Eh? Sign of a man this belly is, all bought n paid for. An
fuck
that ahl fuckin slapper thee other night, that ahl fuckin tan-from-a-can bitch oo said I ad bigger tits than her – not fuckin difficult that, love, I said, not with them two friggin fried eggs on yer chest. Slag. Gorrer learn some fuckin respect, these bitches, the things I’ve fuckin been through, women I’ve fucked, things av seen, things av done … All down to me, irriz. Not one werd of a lie.
Aye, an I can remember that one that time after thee Aintree races, which is a fuckin feat in itself considerin ow fuckin many there’s been down the years … when was it now, late sixties? Early seventies? Roundabouts then. I’d won a fuckin ton on the gee-gees like, tidy friggin sum them days, an there she was, on the cars like, waitin with her mate. Boots up to her knees, mini on, the werks – I thought aye-aye. Early doors n all, must be fuckin gaggin for it. An that’s exactly what she was, too right, shoulda fuckin heard her when I was slippin er one, all this ‘oooohh
yeh
, oooohh yeh’, derty friggin who-er this one was. Couldn’t help meself, spunked off inside er, didn’t I, said she was on the pill, like, so no one’s fault but her own, went back to her place that night an gave it a load more in the sitting room like, her ahl mother asleep upsters. Didn’t care in them days, me, fuckin wild one I was, tellin yeh … probly woulda boned the fuckin mother n all.
Still
would. Take a few lessons from me, them young bucks can … think thee know it all. Thee know fuckin
nowt
. Told the Judy I was gunna go get ferry tickets for us both, like, take her round Ireland with me winnins like, an the daft cow believed me; started goin on about gettin a cottage together over there, livin as man n wife like, avin bleedin babbies, usual shite that the tarts come out with. Left her packin her suitcase like, didn’t I, all quiet so’s not to wake her ma, jumped a cab down to the docks, overnighter to Dun Laoghaire,
straight
into the fuckin bar by the way, pissed before I passed the Isler Man. Blew all me winnins in a coupla nights, like, but I tell yeh, put me last fiver on a ranker at Lansdowne an the fuckin thing only went n won, didn’t it? So there I was again, back to square one, ginch in me pocket, werld me fuckin oyster. Fuckin charmed life, me, ah yeh. The gods’ve always smiled on this boy, too fuckin right.
So, anyway, I’m back at Aintree for the National the followin year likes, aren’t I? Gettin the cars ready, like, settin it all up, an there she fuckin is, this Judy like, holdin a baby. Like she’d been waitin for me all friggin year. Said the babby was mine an that she’d adter leave school to av it an all this kinda shite. Prove
it
, says I, I mean these were the days before DNA testin an all the rest of it an she says, ‘I’ve named im after you. I’ve called im Alastair,’ as if that’s any fuckin proof, like. So I tells er she shoulda called im ‘Any One of a Thousand Cocks’ but I tell yiz what, am dealin with one seriously fuckin dim Judy here, like, fuckin blank look on its kite, tellin yeh, lard fer friggin brains. So I tells her okay, let’s talk it through, takes it back to me carra an gives it another portion. The brat never stopped screamin once which made me think it couldna bin mine, like, cos no fuckin son o’ mine whinges that much (like
my
ahl man used to say, ‘Here’s somethin to cry for’). And the bint’s goin on, ‘Oh let’s go to Ireland, the three of us, take me away from all this, Alastair, let’s goan live in a cottage in the hills,’ an I’m all ‘yeh, doll, yeh’, I mean some fuckin dreamwerld this daft cow was livin in, like. Anyway, fucked it all night all fuckin ways with the brat bawlin its heart out like non-stop an I skedaddled when its ma nodded off, when I’d shagged it senseless. An I’ve never seen er since. She’s probly still waitin at Aintree racecourse for me, her an her son who must be about what, pushin bleedin therty now or summin … Tell yeh what, tho, if he friggin
is
mine, if he’s
any
kinda chip off thee ahl block he’ll be shaggin women all over the fuckin shop, lad, puttin it about like his ahl man did. Does. Never leaves, thee urge, like, an fuck knows what I’d do if I weren’t able to still pull the berds, like,
fuck
only knows what I’d do. I’m not like them other cunts my age, avin ter pay for it with the prozzies, fuck no. Thank Christ I can still get the women.
Ah yeh, I’ve got undreds of fuckin nippers, me. Thousands of em round ere, in this area, like. So many that I can’t remember em, not even one. None of the little fuckers, ah no.
DARREN’S VICTIMS: NUMBER 17
They did a wonderful job, those surgeons.
Wonderful
job. It took a while, a lot of time in theatre, but they really sorted it out; just a bit of scarring around the left eye, and a small curl to my top lip which Claire says sometimes makes me look like a young Elvis. She’s been brilliant, Claire has, never once flagged in her support in the three years since it happened. And the counsellors, too, especially that Dr Brierly; she’s been superb. Absolutely superb. If it wasn’t for her then I don’t think I’d be able to look in the mirror, still, even with this amazing work the surgeons have done. Honestly, she’s been an angel; so understanding, so supportive. All of them, Claire and Dr Brierly and the surgeons, they don’t realise what they’ve done for me, how they’ve stopped me being so afraid. Restored my faith in humanity, they have. Helped me to understand that there’s
not
danger everywhere. That not everybody wishes to cause me pain.
But it’s the boy, tho. Steven. My son. I fear that it’ll never be the same between me and him again. I know he finds it difficult now to look at my face for any length of time, I mean sometimes when we’re sharing a joke or something he’ll suddenly stop laughing and look away and fall silent and I know he’s remembering, he’s reliving that night and that thug and that
glass
. And it pains me, I mean it genuinely causes a pain in my heart because I can imagine what Steven is remembering at those times, it’s as if I can see it again through his eyes, I can see myself, my own face so terribly, traumatically wounded and the blood and that psychopath over me … Did I beg? I don’t recall. Oh God, I hope I didn’t beg. Maybe one day I’ll be able to ask Steven about it but when that day will come God only knows. He’s also had counselling, Steven has, and on the surface he seems to have adjusted well but it’s the little things, the small ways in which he’s changed his life; I mean he used to
love
football, he was Blackburn Rovers mad, but then he found out that Graeme Souness used to be connected to Liverpool and then he took all his posters down, stopped wearing his strip, his Sega World Cup Football game went in the bin … everything. He wouldn’t support England in the World Cup because of the Liverpool players so he switched to the Republic of Ireland, because of Damien Duff, but then he asked me why there were so many Liverpool flags among the crowd and I told him of the big Irish Catholic population in that city and so then he switched to Brazil. Must be so confusing for the poor little tyke. Neither of us watched the final, nor even the Brazil–England game, and Dr Brierly said that I shouldn’t push football completely out of my life, I shouldn’t let the attack change my life in such fundamental ways, but football, especially Rovers and Liverpool, obviously sets off the unpleasant memories, the horrors … Steven, tho, he can’t even watch
Brookside
any more. He used to love it, it used to make
him
laugh, he used to do mock-Scouse accents and find it funny. But not any more. I’m the same; that accent. It makes my palms sweat, now, whenever I hear it. It makes my heart thud. Once it made me hyperventilate and Claire had to call an ambulance, she thought I was having a heart attack. And all because a
Red Dwarf
rerun came on the telly.
And yes, I know it’s stupid, I know this reaction is ridiculous and irrational. It was just that one man, that one psychopath … just my bad luck that I happened to bump into that unhinged and unhappy individual that night. And, God knows, there are people like him in every town and city across Britain, even down the road in Blackburn, drinking cider all day on the steps of St George’s Hall, but I can’t help feeling partly foolish and embarrassed and naive because … well, Claire and I, we’ve had only the one argument since IT happened, and during the course of that she told me I was naive, that I never followed football as a boy, that there was no way I could understand the passions it aroused especially among more disadvantaged people and that going into a pub in the city where my team had just won, wearing their colours, was pure and simply asking for trouble. Thinking about it, I’m afraid she was correct; but it was for Steven, really, I did it for Steven so he wouldn’t feel excluded at school, and besides, I thought the days of hooliganism were long gone, that fans were largely friends, now … evidently I was wrong. Or partly; I mean, I still remember outside Anfield that night, after the game, a Reds fan shook my hand and said well done and good luck. ‘Good luck’! I had the worst luck in the world that night. If
only
Steven hadn’t’ve been there. If only we hadn’t’ve missed the train, or if only we’d gone to a different pub to await the next one. If only, Dr Brierly said, are the two saddest words in the English language. She’s right.