by Hayley Doyle
‘Bastards,’ I mutter, giving the collage a sly look. ‘Smug little bastards.’
Mikey Farley’s aged a lot, his hairline creeping backwards at a pace not to be envied, and Griffo – who’s always looked older, a middle-aged fella by the age of twelve – looked trimmer back then, less bloated, fewer chins. Helen, with radiant red hair on every photo, her sharp blue eyes alive, hasn’t changed a bit. Neither’s Snowy. And they still hit the hard stuff regularly. How do they manage it with two kids? But, God. Helen’s texts from last night. She’ll be in a world of pain today, her paranoia sending poor Snowy around the bloody bend.
I take the empty biscuit tin into the hallway, opening it once again. Bending down, I pick up the coins and put them back where they belong. I’ll just have to take the whole tin with me.
‘That was quick,’ Zara says.
I give a sigh, relieved, and tug on my seatbelt.
‘Where are the chips?’
‘Huh?’
‘The best chips in Liverpool?’
‘Oh. Yeah.’
‘Are they in that?’ She points to the back seat where I’ve just slung the biscuit tin.
I rub my eyes with the palms of my hands.
‘Jim?’
‘What?’
‘Are you okay?’
‘The chips are cooking,’ I say. ‘I was just checking you were alright.’
And back I go into Wong’s, and this time, for chips. I ask Mrs Wong if I can owe her later, expecting her to bollock me, but she says, ‘On the house.’ I presume this is due to my Netflix generosity. Then, she asks me if I want salt and vinegar on my chips, and still chuffed about the free fodder, I say yes. She hands me two hot paper packages which I hold against my chest and inhale the delicious, yet – ah, shit – overbearing smell. If anybody knows how much this particular smell lingers, it’s yours truly, the fella who lives above a chippy. What a dickhead. I’m about to expose my car to this awful stench, giving Griffo’s dad another excuse to knock further pounds off. I can’t ask Mrs Wong for fresh freebies. And I’m going to look like an even bigger dickhead returning to Zara a second time without chips.
‘Why you dithering?’ Mrs Wong asks.
‘I’m not …’
‘You are. You dithering.’
I never dither. I’m not a ditherer. I look at the clock above the extensive chippy menu, listing dishes from English stodge to Peking duck, and it’s bang on two. I try to work out how many hours it’ll be before today is officially over.
‘You still dithering, Jimbo.’
Through the raindrops dancing down Wong’s windows like fat wriggly worms, I can see the ridiculous state of my car. Nobody needs perfect vision to see its faults. Christ. Even a blind man’d be able to see it’s ruined.
‘I’m not dithering,’ I say again, and run through the rain, back into my car.
I toss a portion of chips into Zara’s lap. The rip of paper is satisfying and we eat in silence, the sound of the rain and the traffic rather therapeutic. I’m guzzling the hot chips, the potato burning the roof of my mouth. But, the sooner I eat, the sooner we can get on our way.
‘Can you put the radio on, please?’ Zara asks.
‘Yes, your highness,’ I say, not actually intending to say that out loud.
She doesn’t react. The atmosphere hangs between us like frost on a slippery path.
Perhaps she’s been crying? The tip of her nose is red raw, her eyes misty, black smudges kissing that scar. But, hey, it’s Friday! Friday, Friday, Friday! The radio is so kindly reminding us, its upbeat vibe barging into my car. A phone-in is taking place, callers going live on air to say the most exciting thing they’re about to do this afternoon, this evening, this weekend. Each caller is trying to outdo the previous, and if I hear another, ‘Whoop whoop,’ I might smash the radio up with my bare fist. The Black Eyed Peas come on singing about how tonight’s gonna be a good night.
‘You finished?’ I ask.
‘Mmm. They were tasty. Thank you.’
‘You haven’t eaten much.’
‘I’m worried about the grease staining my clothes, making them smell.’
I bite my bottom lip so hard it’s probably going to bleed.
Snatching the wasted chips, the paper, the plastic forks, the crappy little napkins, I nip out and toss it all into the bin outside Wong’s, give Mr Wong a friendly wave, get in my car and speed off.
The smell isn’t actually so bad. Plus, the food seems to have put Zara into a bit of a coma, all five chips she consumed. Her head is resting against her seatbelt, her eyes closed, heavy. I can tell she’s not asleep, her frown’s too deep, her lips too tightly closed together. Still, I won’t dare disturb her.
‘You having a giraffe, love?’ the girl on the till at the petrol station asks me.
She’s caked in make-up, her eyes two black buttonholes in a tangerine face. Intimidating spikes grow from her fingernails as she snarls, counting the change I’ve poured from the biscuit tin onto her counter. I try to help her out.
‘Move your hand,’ she says, already at the end of her short, short tether.
A fella behind starts whistling. The hole I’m falling down is getting deeper, the ground sucking me into the dregs of River Mersey puddles. I want a wave to come and wash me away. I don’t know how I can sink much lower.
‘You’re 10p short,’ the girl shrieks, like she actually can’t believe it.
I’m that kid in the newsagents all over again.
The fella behind stops whistling.
‘Here you go, mate,’ he says, tapping me on the shoulder. He places a twenty-pence piece on the counter. I scoop up ten pence to give him his change, but the fella waves his hand. ‘Ah, forget it, mate. No probs.’
Words can’t find their way into my mouth. I hope my gracious nod and pathetic sigh of relief is enough for the fella who’s just saved my arse, witnessed my demise. I back away, sort of waving, sort of hoping to disappear in a puff of smoke behind the display of Pringles.
‘Don’t you want your empty Quality Street tin?’ the girl with the tangerine face shouts.
I pause, just for a second.
‘Nah,’ I say. And get back into my car. ‘Shit.’
I flop my head onto the steering wheel. The stink of chips has seriously lingered.
At Lime Street station, there’s nowhere to park.
The temporary parking bays aren’t only full, but a big queue of cars trails behind and the longer we sit in that, the longer I’ve got to listen to Zara. She’s perked up. I can’t decide what’s more intolerable; the radio or her questions.
‘Is Liverpool always this busy on a Friday?’
‘Why does Britain have such terrible weather?’
‘Do you get snow here at Christmas time?’
‘Have you ever been stuck in traffic in LA?’
‘Haven’t you been to LA?’
‘Is it always this windy?’
Her accent’s bearable, a cute mash of not-quite English and not-quite American, but that doesn’t mean I want to talk to her. She reapplies something onto her lips, another coat. I glance across at her and watch her pout, then wipe some dried sleep away from the corners of her eyes with her pinky.
‘I like trains,’ she goes on. ‘They’re a bit of a novelty to me. The mode of transport I’ve taken least in my life.’
I indicate, move left and drive past the queue.
‘Do you?’ she asks.
‘Do I what?’
‘Like trains?’
‘Yeah. When I was, like, six.’
I drive past the main entrance to Lime Street station, its wide steps scattered with people scurrying to dodge the torrential rain, another umbrella blowing inside out with each gust of wind. On the opposite side of the road, St George’s Hall stands proud, unafraid of the storm dancing so vigorously around its grand pillars. The main road is chocker, bumper to bumper, and I unfasten my seatbelt, leaning across Zara to see if I can make out what the holdup is. A coach
, plus a couple of buses, perhaps.
I lose my balance a little and put my hand out to steady myself. On Zara’s leg. Just above her knee. I feel like a right prick. She lets out a sort of, ‘Ooh!’ and I turn towards her saying, ‘Soz.’ My hair’s falling across my eyes, partially stunting my vision, but I can’t doubt how pretty she is. Those thick lashes accentuate her dark eyes, like that posh chocolate that comes wrapped in cardboard with gold writing. Her skin looks tired, yet natural. I reckon she’d look gorgeous all dressed up for a night out. But, Christ, she’s had a shit day. I have to give her that.
‘I think what you did was pretty brave,’ I say, honestly.
Zara twitches, like a wild animal on its guard. I edge the car forward. The lack of conversation between us suddenly demands a filler. I’m over-analysing the leg grabbing; no, the leg touching; no, well, whatever it was. The total accident.
‘Really?’ Zara asks.
‘Yeah. It was ballsy. Not that you need to know what I think—’
‘No, I do. I’d like to know, actually.’
‘Well, it shows you’re not afraid of failure.’
‘But I did fail.’
‘Failing’s better than being afraid of failure, don’t you reckon? It’s active, not passive.’
Zara frowns as if this requires a lot of thought, which is cute.
‘So you don’t think I’m a psycho?’ she asks, eventually.
‘Oh, yeah. I reckon you’re a total fucking psycho.’
And we both laugh, cheeky grins mirroring each other.
‘How did you track him down?’ I ask.
‘It was so easy. His email signature had his company name and address beneath it.’
‘Jesus, he was asking to be found.’
‘Although, now it’s obvious his name is actually Greg Nicholas. God, even saying that name out loud makes him sound like a total stranger. Like who the fuck is Greg Nicholas?’
I want to tell her that he’s someone just not worth her time anymore, but instead, I shake my head, slowly. He’s not worth my words. Besides, I need to watch where I’m driving. The coach has moved on, which means the cars in front are going forward. I turn right past the Empire Theatre, then right again into the much quieter side street and park up outside the stage door. Opposite, the side entrance to Lime Street station is beneath a shelter, opening out onto a busy taxi rank. Zara can go in that way.
‘Do you mind helping me with my bags?’ she asks.
I do a swift check around for traffic wardens. Nobody would dare to roam the streets in this sort of weather, not even Rita the Meter Maid. I turn off the ignition, release my seatbelt.
‘Yes, your highness,’ I joke.
But, neither of us move. We sit still, our seat belts unfastened, our urge to get out at level zero. A bucket load of hailstones smash against the windscreen, this side street a wind trap, as my car rattles. Amidst taxis and cars honking horns, yelps and squeals of those caught outside echo through the weather. A gang of women are huddled under the small shelter of the stage door, and through the haze of my steamed window, I can see they’re all dressed in identical black t-shirts and trousers with a bright pink sash. One wears a white veil and a pair of L plates. None are wearing a coat, their hands shielding their hairdos. Shit. They’re not those girls from Belfast, from the Titanic last night, are they? Then again, Liverpool’s a haven for hen parties.
I look at Zara. Her head is pressed back against the headrest, like mine. She raises her eyebrows, slides her eyes in my direction. I return the eyebrow raise and we both let out a simultaneous sigh.
‘After three?’ I suggest.
‘After three,’ Zara nods.
‘One, two …’
And on three, we fling our doors open, Zara struggling with her side and scrunching up her face to push against the wind. I slam mine shut and, hunched over, run to assist her. Already, I’m drenched, the hailstones battering onto my fleece, my thighs sticking to my jeans. Zara emerges, and we both shift her belongings from the back seat onto the road. So much rain is dancing into the gutters that huge puddles have appeared, the ground unable to soak up the water. My canvas trainers squelch. My toes are cold and damp inside my socks. The women on the hen do start singing, badly.
‘She’s gettin’ married in the morning … Ding dong the bells are gonna CHIIIIME …’
They sound like gremlins being strangled.
Zara can’t shift her suitcase, it’s stuck in a whirlpool of water, and she drops her broken holdall into the puddle. I pick it up, thrust it into her chest and tell her to run.
‘I’ll get these,’ I say, gesturing her to get inside the station.
A taxi hoooooonks, the driver’s hand unmoving from the horn. Zara has run into the road without looking where she’s going. The honking continues and Zara stands there in the rain yelling about being sorry. I tell the driver to do one. The grease from those chips has settled in my stomach and I burp. That’s better. Using all my strength, I hoist Zara’s suitcases from the gutter and get them safely into the station.
Zara’s beneath the timetable board, searching for information on what time the next train to London departs. Her head tilts to the side and she’s wringing her long hair out, water dripping around her soaked feet. She takes off her tiny shoes – small enough to fit a doll – and pours water from the heels. Inside my trainers, my feet wrinkle in slush. I trudge the bags over to her and rest my hands on my knees, shaking out my wet head like a dog.
‘Have I got panda eyes?’ Zara asks, breathless.
‘What’s that?’
She points to her cheekbones and bats her eyelashes, drawing imaginary circles around them with her fingertips. Her makeup has run giving her a couple of black eyes, one much more prominent than the other.
‘No,’ I tell her. ‘You look great.’
Zara blinks. ‘Thanks.’
I give another shake and water trickles down my nose, sprinkling Zara. She looks down at her wet clothes and she bends over and laughs. I laugh, too. You’ve got to hand it to the weather. My side aches with a stitch, yet I’m still laughing, and for a moment, I could give this girl a hug, wish her well for the remainder of her trip.
Zara straightens up, pulling the band from her hair and using it to harshly scrape it all back and tie a knot onto the top of her head. Her whole face is now unmasked, bright like the moon.
Except.
‘You missed a bit,’ I say.
And I reach out, taking the few loose strands dangling down the side of her face, tucking them behind her ear.
‘What time’s your train, then?’ I ask, removing my fleece, flapping it dry.
‘Well, it says 14.47.’
‘Perfect. Time to grab a butty from the Upper Crust.’
‘No …’
‘Burger King?’
‘No … it says 14.47 … Cancelled.’
I stop flapping and look up at the board. She’s right. The 14.47 to London Euston is cancelled. As is the 14.39 to Manchester Piccadilly. And the 14.42 to Newcastle. And the 15.47 to London Euston, too.
‘Maybe there’s something wrong with the board?’ Zara ponders.
I’d presumed the hectic rush within the station was an amalgamation of the weather and a Friday afternoon, but I notice now that this isn’t general train station bustle. The place is utter chaos. Queues of passengers are crammed together, all demanding refunds at the desk, phones pressed against their ears or fingers tapping frantically, all trying to find alternative ways of getting to where they need to get to.
An older couple, complete with overnight bags and matching beige raincoats, stop the fella pushing a trolley fitted with a bin, the fella who keeps Lime Street station clean and tidy. They’re demanding some sort of explanation. The fella picks up an empty crisp packet with a helping hand grabber and mutters something to the couple.
‘A tree?’ the wife exclaims. ‘You’re telling me we can’t get back to Manchester because there’s a tree on the line?’
‘A tree?’ she says again. ‘How can a tree cause this much disruption?’
Her husband offers the handle of his overnight bag to his wife and rolls up his sleeves.
‘Tell me where this tree is,’ he says. ‘And I’ll move the bloody thing with my bare hands.’
Me and Zara look at each other.
‘Must be one hell of a tree,’ Zara says. ‘I’ll have to take a taxi.’
The problem is, the whole of Liverpool seems to have had the same idea. The line waiting for black cabs is expanding and Zara runs ahead leaving me to follow behind with the cases, a slave to her actions. She waves, calling me over.
‘Here you are, your highness,’ I say, out of breath.
‘Why do you keep calling me that?’
‘This line’s moving quickly. You’ll be home in no time.’
Zara sulks. ‘Home.’
‘That’s where you’re going, isn’t it?’
‘My papa’s villa is certainly not home.’
What the bloody hell’s her problem now, eh? Just the thought of a villa in Dubai is uplifting.
‘So you’re gonna get a taxi all the way to London?’ I ask.
‘Are you stating the obvious?’
A man standing in front of us whips his head around. He’s stout, balding, with steamed-up glasses and a soggy newspaper tucked beneath his armpit. He looks as knackered as I feel.
‘A taxi won’t take you all the way to London,’ he says.
‘Why not?’ Zara asks.
‘You’re best getting them to drop you off at Crewe, get the train from there.’