Off The Record

by Luca Veste

  Terry was slim and strong when they met. Now he was just scrawny. His face was bristled from cheekbones to chin, and his thinning hair was camouflaged by a number one. He had a job once, and he had it for a long time before he was given a statutory package and shown the door. Now he hung around with a lad called Fez. Fez looked like a stray dog, except he had small, nubby teeth that were more grey than white. When the pair of them weren’t running snide baccy from Belgium, they were shooting speed and pulling smash and grabs in town.

  But he was the breadwinner. He was the man of the house. He demanded respect.

  She was good for fuck all, even if she did have that little part-time till job at the Iceland up the road. Sometimes when he was crunched up and half-pissed he’d tell her at length how lucky she was, how other blokes wouldn’t put up with the kind of shit he put up with. She was feeble-minded and titless. She was dry downstairs.

  She barely heard him. She knew he went elsewhere for his hole, and she knew she was better off because of it. Normally it was a six-pint rut with that bottle-blonde bike Shona. Shona had tits to spare, and an arse into the bargain - it looked like two Volkswagen Beetles crashed in her leggings. The nicest thing they said about Shona was that she could suck the froth out of a drip tray from the other side of the pub. Shona was a lot of things, most of them mingin-dirty, but if Terry wanted his jollies with a side order of penicillin, that was fine by her. She had the bairn.

  The bairn was one of the few good things he’d ever given her, and the only good thing he hadn’t tried to pawn. The bairn was beautiful. Blue, shining eyes. The smallest nose you ever saw – it wrinkled when he smiled, which he did a lot, even though he never laughed. Right now his tiny fingers grasped weakly at her own, her skin red raw with the bleach. He touched the indentation where her wedding band used to be. He looked up at her and she looked back and they both smiled.

  The flat was clean now. Only hours before, it was a pit, Terry’s rubbish strewn everywhere - empty lager cans, old newspapers, takeaway boxes, overflowing ashtrays, crisp packets, one shoe over in one corner, the other out in the hall. She came in with the shopping, two big bags of frozen and another full of odds and sods, and saw him kipped out on the settee, crashed after four days straight. She looked at Terry for a good long while. Mouth open, snore rattling up behind his nose, sores on his arms that he got from the speed pins and wouldn’t get a doctor to look at. And all at once, she got scared.

  She dumped the shopping and rushed through to the bairn’s room.

  He was asleep in his cot. He was peaceful.

  She smiled, called herself daft for getting frightened.

  ‘What’s all them fuckin’ shopping bags doing in the front room?’

  She didn’t say anything. She closed her eyes for a moment and then continued gazing at the bairn. She felt a rough shove against her shoulder and smelled the alcohol as he spoke. ‘You fuckin’ deaf?’

  She didn’t move.

  ‘Oh, I get you. You thought the bairn was dead or something. Like I can’t be fuckin’ trusted to mind it.’

  ‘Did you check on him?’

  ‘Did I fuck.’ A click and hiss, the smell of cigarette smoke. ‘It’s alright, isn’t it?’

  ‘Please don’t smoke in here.’

  ‘You what?’

  She turned. ‘Don’t smoke in here. It’s bad for him.’

  He laughed – a crackling, wheezy sound - and walked out. She followed, her cheeks burning. She kept a few steps back from him as he passed the shopping and went through into the kitchen.

  Then he must’ve felt her behind him, because he turned sharply. ‘Fuck you doing?’

  She stared at him. She tried to remember what she’d seen in him all those years ago.

  ‘Mental case.’ He turned back and opened the kitchen cupboard. He took out a litre bottle of High Commissioner and talked to it. ‘Fuckin’ should’ve kicked the pair of you to the kerb years back. Nowt but a fuckin’ drain, y’are. Fuckin’ parasites.’

  He kept on talking and after a minute she couldn’t hear him over the music –

  ... asking what she’d be without him …

  - and then she shoved him with both hands. He was loose, light, and flew forward into the cupboards. The bottle smashed. He hung there for a moment, his head down. Whisky splattered all over the floor like he’d wet himself.

  And then, a few heartbeats later, the blood.

  His knees buckled and he tumbled forward into the cupboards again, sliding down to his arse. He coughed and blood sprayed from his mouth. She saw the wound in his throat, the sparkle of glass against something pink. One hand went up to cover it, but didn’t stay long. A large bubble of blood appeared at his lips as he looked at his hand, and he went white. He let the hand drop and sat there staring at her, his arms limp by his sides.

  She watched him. His eyes were wide, but he wasn’t pleading; he was raging. His mouth hung open. A clicking sound came from somewhere in the middle of the knotted, torn flesh where his Adam’s apple used to be.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘No, I won’t.’

  He made a feeble grab for her, and she stepped back away from him. When he slumped back against the cupboards, his hand skidded through the blood on the lino.

  His eyes narrowed. He opened his mouth wider and tried to speak. His tongue glistened. There was disdain now. If he’d been able to talk, it would have been the usual shit. Calling her a parasite. Telling her she was nowt. Saying he should’ve left well alone back in the day, would’ve saved himself a lot of fuckin’ trouble in the long run …

  She left the kitchen, closing the door behind her. She went back into the bairn’s room and watched him sleep, and when she returned to the kitchen an hour later, Terry was grey and still.

  She called an ambulance, but when they arrived they didn’t seem to be in much of a hurry, so she assumed that Terry was gone. They took him out to the ambulance, and when they asked if she wanted to go with him, she shook her head. ‘I’ve got cleaning to do.’

  And she did it. Scrubbed the kitchen pristine, and then set about chucking every last remnant of Terry’s presence. While she worked, she sang, quietly at first and then building in volume the more she did. When she was finished, she made herself a cup of tea and a bottle for the bairn and they sat in the front room. It smelled like the sea now, thanks to the new air freshener. It was quiet outside, just the odd breeze gust of rain hitting the window. Once the bairn finished his bottle, she held him to her and sang the song into his ear, just like she always had when Terry wasn’t in.

  She was fine without him. There were still stars above her, and the world could still show her a few things. There was a reason to be happy.

  Once she sang the song, she hummed it again. The bairn made a wet sound.

  ‘We never needed him, did we? Better off without, eh?’

  And the bairn laughed.

  BIO: Ray Banks shares his birthday with Chuck Barris and Curtis Mayfield and screeched into the world on the same day that Roberto Rossellini took his leave. He has worked as a wedding singer, double-glazing salesman, croupier, dole monkey, and various degrees of disgruntled temp. He likes to think of himself as a writer these days. He is the author of the CAL INNES series, and his latest novel DEAD MONEY, was released by Blasted Heath in November 2011. He currently lives in Edinburgh, where he's been known to falls into fits of curmudgeonly behaviour that normally involve foul language and lewd gestures. He can be found at www.thesaturdayboy.com

  EDITOR’S ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This collection wouldn’t have been possible without the help and support of a fair few people. In no particular order, I’d like to thank…

  Nick Q and Jools - for their constant support and for always answering emails. You both are as much a part of seeing this come to fruition as I am.

  Steven Miscandlon - for providing such a fantastic cover and doing so for free. Your talent is inspiring.

  Tommy, Fiona, and Ron - For leading the way with The Lost
Children Anthology. Your achievements with it are what drives me to want to do my best as well.

  Everyone who shared Off The Record news on Twitter, Facebook, interviews, and radio shows. I thank you all.

  Matt Hilton, Anthony Neil Smith and Howard Linskey - For coming through at such short notice, and providing such overwhelming support.

  Helen and Ray – For always providing the laughs. I promise to never reveal where the bodies are buried.

  Jack Daniels - For getting me through those long evenings, when all I could see was formatting issues. Any mistakes are mine, and mine alone. Or Jack’s.

  Nigel and Chris - For producing the incredible Pulp Ink, and showing something on this scale can be done.

  Every single one of the writers, for giving up their time and effort into producing such excellent stories. Your talent is really on show here, and I’m honoured that you took part.

  My Dad, Alan Veste - For coming up with a perfect title for the anthology. Ti amo padre.

  My two daughters, Abigail and Megan - For showing me every day that there is more beauty in one smile, than there is in anything else in the world. Daddy loves you, and promises not to spend the amount of time he has in the last few weeks in front of the computer!

  And lastly, my incredible wife Emma - For the patience and support you gave for my bright idea, that ended up taking up far too many of my evenings, when I should have been watching ER and The X Factor with you. At some point, I promise you’ll see more than the back of my head. Sei la mia vita, ti amo.

  In the style of that American guy with the hair…my final thoughts.

  The two charities who will benefit from Off The Record, both deal exclusively with Children’s Literacy. I’d urge you to find out more about these charities, and help in any way you can. As a child, reading was a way out for me, letting my imagination transport me somewhere completely different, to worlds conceived by a writer putting one word in front of another and creating magic. It worked for me, I hope it works for many other children. These two charities are doing their bit for these children, but they require help. I’m hopeful Off The Record will inspire others to provide this.

  Off The Record has been a real fun ride. People have looked at me oddly when I’ve told them what I was putting together, and I’ve been told it couldn’t happen…well, anything is possible!

  What began as a small idea I threw out online a couple of months ago, has become so much more. And that is due, in no small part, to the fantastic people I’ve met (online…no one meets others in real life any more) in the past six months. Making so many new friends in the writing community has been a real pleasure. Up until June 2011, I was a ‘lurker’, on the outside looking in. If I’d of known how nice people who write nasty stories every day could be, I’d of joined in a lot sooner! I thank all of you for your welcoming attitude, and for letting some Northern English bloke publish your stories, and bend your ears at length about your writing. I love being a small part of it.

  And finally, if you enjoyed any of the stories and writers in this collection, I’d urge you to discover more of their work. These writers need to eat sometime, and in this tough world, the writer is often overlooked as an important part of it. They truly work very hard (no matter how much you see them procrastinating on Twitter/Facebook) to share their stories with you, so please go out and buy all their books. I truly believe some of the best writers working today are included in this collection, so go out there, and find out more about them. You will not be disappointed.

  Luca Veste – Editor and Compiler.