Pig Iron

by Benjamin Myers

  And both of us with our black eyes like that.

  Your Dad celebrated by having a two day drink with the lads. They drank and they sang and they did fight one another; they visited marrers and relatives on other sites and Mac Wisdom did joke that he was glad to know his knackers were in full working order, telling everyone that he was going have another twenty nippers “just like me”, and then they drank and sang some more.

  And all the while I sat there alone, only eighteen, the Wisdom seed in us, wondering where me husband was and whether it would always be this way.

  *

  The street corner queues get longer as the days get hotter. And they do get hot. Hot as hell.

  Some days I have to gan back to the wholesalers halfway through the route just to pick up more tubs of cream and flakes and that. And with everyone after ices and kets the route takes much longer to get round. I’m hardly sleeping and out even longer so I take to smuggling little Coughdrop in the van with us. As long as I let him out to shit and piss and he has a pig’s ear to chew on he’s happy.

  I’m not back up at the Nook for a bit but when I do make it there’s this proper heaviness in the air that I notice as soon as I turn off the main road and into the estate.

  The road splits the Nook from the new build estate ower the other side where the middle-class kids live. It’s only a hundred yard away but it’s a world apart – there’s nee CCTV cameras in metal cages on big metal poles for starters; and nee speed bumps or road blocks down every alleyway neither; nee fences missing posts snapped off during running gang fights, or stray dogs, or scowling squinting lads who hold their tabs inverted in their cupped hands, or crescent streaks from tyre tracks across the communal patches of grass, or cars on bricks, or bricks on cars, or spliff-eyed pre-teens with scars from falls and fights and bungled burglaries across long latchkey weekends.

  The new estate dunt have scorch marks up the sides of half-burnt electricity sub-stations whose roofing lead was long since twocked either; or fridges flopped open in green spaces, or houses without carpets where the lights are never off, the front door never closed, the stereo and the TV always on, and a passing cast of rat-nosed characters crossing the doorstep.

  It’s a different world driving into the Nook where the air is tight. High tensile. Mega-para.

  There’s summat about this place I divvent like; summat that makes us want to accelerate right on through it. It’s like when you stand close to an electricity pylon and you can feel a crackle or a charge, or the times inside when I’ve walked into the dining room for some scran and it’s so quiet that you know you’re seconds away from a proper old school Borstal-style kick-off. It’s your senses doing what they’re supposed to do: warning you to cover your whatsit. Cover your scut.

  And today the Nook is proper humming and crackling with a demented energy.

  I’ve not been up there five minutes and she’s out again. That lass. That Maria. She waves us ower from down the road. She’s wearing proper tight jeans this time, and a T-shirt with sleeves torn off at the shoulder and she’s got a tiny band of belly showing at the waist. Her hair’s in a pony-tail again. Proper tight.

  Hiya soldier, she says.

  Hello.

  How’s it gannin?

  Aye, canny.

  We stand there for a moment.

  Can I get you owt, I say after a bit.

  No ta.

  It’s on the house, I go, like I’m charlie big potato all of a sudden.

  Whose house? Where?

  No, like I mean it’s free.

  I know what you mean you daft bugger, she goes. I’m just joshin you. What you been up to?

  Nowt.

  Nowt?

  Aye.

  Well that’s sounds exciting.

  I suddenly remember about little Coughdrop. Lasses love stuff like that.

  Oh aye, I go. I got mesel a dog.

  Did you? I love dogs, me.

  Aye. Me an all.

  What type is he?

  What type of dog?

  Aye.

  A small black un.

  I meant what breed.

  I dinnar. A terrier I think. I’m not very good with that stuff.

  What’s his name?

  Coughdrop.

  That’s a funny name.

  Aye.

  Where did you get him?

  Up at Snowball’s place.

  You what?

  Snowball. He’s this farmer up the back of beyond. Out in the sticks.

  So where’s he at now then?

  Snowball?

  No, you knobber. The pup.

  Oh, he’s at mine. Sometimes I bring him with us but I’ve left him at home today. He’s mebbes just sleeping or chowing a pig’s ear or summat.

  Pig’s ear? That’s minging.

  Not to him it’s not. He bloody loves them.

  I’d like to see him sometime. I’m great with dogs, me.

  Aye well. You can if you like.

  When, she says, and this takes us off guard a bit. I thought she was just being polite and that. I didn’t expect her to actually want to see the wee fella.

  Whenever you like, I say. Dead casual, like.

  I need an invite.

  Aye.

  Well?

  Well what?

  Are you going to invite us?

  Oh aye. Well, mebbe. I mean, if you like. Or I could bring him out with us on the round.

  Are you not going to invite us to your place? I’d rather see him there, me.

  I shrug and start to turn plum red again. I’m hesitating because it feels weird letting someone know where I live, even this lass. It’s always been that way. Growing up I’d not even tell anyone what site we were on. It was summat me Mam and Dad always taught us: don’t tell nee fugger where you’re at unless you need to. Them that wants to proper find you will find you right enough.

  Aye, I hear me big plum mush stammering. Aye mebbes.

  Why only mebbes?

  I hesitate, me mouth proper floppy like it’s got a life of its own. It always bloody does this. Gives up on us right when I need it to work the most.

  It’s just a bit of a shit-hole that’s all. A proper toilet, like. I’ve not had much chance to get anything nice yet. It’s just somewhere to sleep really.

  Just sleep?

  Aye. And eat.

  And nowt else?

  Nor. Not really. I spend all me time working and when I’m not working I’m walking the pup.

  And there’s just you is there, Maria says.

  Aye.

  Nee-one else?

  Why’re you asking, like?

  Nee reason. I’m just asking. Divvent worry I’m not the social or owt. You’re bloody para, you are.

  I’m not on the social.

  You don’t sign on?

  Na. Never.

  And you just get by doing this, do you?

  Aye.

  Maria shakes her head.

  Bloody hell, you’re a one-off you are. I’ve never met anyone who’s not on the dole before.

  I divvent know if this is a compliment or she’s taking the piss so I say nowt.

  Here, she gans. You’ve not answered me question.

  Which one?

  About whether you live with anyone.

  It’s just me and our Coughdrop I say, and though I’m trying to play it cool inside me heart is a butterfly trapped in me jam jar chest and I’m thinking – Christ, I’d love to jump your bloody bones.

  Tell you what, she gans. Why don’t you text us sometime. When your Coughdrop is ready for a bit of company, like.

  Shite, I think. No bloody phone.

  OK.

  What’s your mobile number, she says. I’ll call it now so you’ve got mine stored.

  Hellfire, I’m thinking. Bloody mobiles. I’d not heard of them when I went in five year ago, now they’re bloody everywhere. They’re just another reminder of how out of step I am with the rest of the world. I come out and it’s all bloody Britney th
is and Tony whatsit that. Everyone gannin on about this bloody internet game on the computer like it’s important or summat. And what’s everyone got to say to each other that’s so important that they cannot say in person anyway? Nowt, I bet.

  Then I’m frowning and mumbling. Um, I’ve not got one.

  You’ve not got a mobile?

  Not yet, like.

  How come? Everyone’s got a mobile.

  I’ve just not had a chance to get to the shop.

  I’m proper stumbling over me words now. Me mouth feels like it’s got ten pieces of chutty in it. I cannot even talk proper.

  I’ve been busy like.

  You’re proper mental, you are.

  Well, I lie. I did have one, like. Someone twocked it though.

  Oh aye, she says, like she’s knows I’m pulling her leg. What type?

  One of them what-do-you-call-it?

  How the bloody hell should I know, she smiles at us.

  You know…

  Nor.

  I blush.

  So who nicked it? she asks us.

  Well, if I knew that I’d get it back wouldn’t I?

  Would you though?

  Aye, mebbe.

  Is that what you’d do then? Find out who chorred it and gan round and break their legs.

  I say nowt to this.

  Hard fucker are you? she says. Proper radge?

  I shrug and try not to blush mesel any redder than I already am.

  Not really, I say.

  I telt you you’re weird, you. You sound weird an all.

  How’s that, like?

  I don’t know. It’s your accent isn’t it. It’s just dead funny. You don’t sound like you’re from round here. But at the same time you sort of do.

  Aye, it’s probablys because I’ve lived all over, me. Moved about a bit and that.

  Maria’s leaning on the sill of my hatch now. She’s pretty close. So close I can smell her. The natural smell of her.

  I’ll tell you why else you’re weird, she gans. You’re weird because every lad round here reckons they’re dead hard, thinks they’re about summat, but you just stand there and shrug and say nowt. And you’re not on the dole. You’re a bloody ice cream man.

  What’s wrong with that, like?

  There’s nowt wrong with that, it’s just most of the lads round here wouldn’t be seen dead selling ice lollies to kiddies.

  Why’s that?

  They’d be worried what people’d think.

  How do you mean?

  They’d worry that people would think they’re a paedo or summat.

  I just look at her for a moment, then I say, is that what ye think, like?

  What – that you bribe kids with the promise of a free Mini Milk then take them off and bum them somewhere? Don’t worry, she laughs. I can tell you’re not like that.

  How?

  I just can.

  She falls silent and there’s an awkward moment where we both just stand there, and I’m wondering how the hell you tell if someone diddles kids just by looking at them.

  Then Maria gans, so how you going to text us if you’ve got nee mobile?

  I dunno. Smoke signals?

  You can phone us if you like she says, missing me joke. Or I can phone you.

  Shite, I think. Bloody great skipfuls of sloppy shite.

  Aye.

  Give us your number then and mebbe I’ll ring you up sometime.

  Shite.

  I shift from foot to foot, then scratch my elbow. Thing is, I’ve not got a phone either.

  He’s got nee phone either, she says, as if to an imaginary friend or summat. How do you talk to people then?

  Like this.

  Like what?

  Like we’re talking now. The auld-fashioned way.

  And he reckons he’s not weird, she says, her eyes widening with exaggeration. I can’t help smiling at this an all.

  Aye well, I grin. Mebbes a bit weird.

  Aye, mebbe just a bit she says. Then turning away, sighing she says: well, perhaps we’ll not bother then eh.

  Had on, I say, surprising mesel and suddenly feeling like summat good and new and different and scary could happen here. Or it could happen if it wasn’t slipping away. But then I think: I don’t want it to slip away, even if it is different and scary and she’s always taking the piss out of us. Had on a minute.

  Aye? she says, stopping.

  She’s got one eyebrow raised like she’s waiting to hear what I have to say next, like she’s waiting to be impressed, and I know in this moment that I have to say summat good, summat that will surprise her and make her heart pump and her fanny tingle, and I know I have to get it right because I’ve never even been with a lass before, never felt a lass’s tits or owt like that, I know that if I say the right thing I might be able to change all that, and I might stop feeling so alone in the world, even just for ten minutes, or I might stop living in the past, even just for ten minutes, and things might even change and get better and I might end up becoming an upstanding, functioning member of society and that; a reformed character and that. No longer a slave to my animal DNA and bad family name. Even just for ten minutes.

  I can give you a ride in me van if you like, I say, me face darker than beetroot.

  She screws up her face, as if she’s having a big hard think. She’s holding her chin and her mouth is sort of crooked and her hip is cocked and she’s having a gleg at the sky with one eye closed.

  Then she gans, Christ. I thought you’d never fucking ask.

  *

  I was beached, me arm wrapped around me stomach, an itchy wool blanket pulled tight across my back, the rattle of the rain on the roof like tambourines as the glow of the fire’s embers cast the van in a haunting orange hue. Winter was on its way; it was in the air. There was a cruel front coming. You could feel it.

  And there was a right devilish pain inside us.

  “What’s wrong with you, girl?”

  Your Dad was at the table supping milky tea and excavating his nose. I said nowt, knew it wasn’t worth it; words wouldn’t cover this dull fiery roar in me abdomen. There were no words to describe it. Only moans and groans and wet eyes.

  He leaned over, opened the door of the wood-burning stove and jabbed at the logs with the poker. Embers rose then he flicked a bogey in there and closed the door.

  “Well?”

  “I want me Mam.”

  “Well your Mam’s not here.”

  “You need to go and find her.”

  Mac snorted.

  “I reckon she’s up Northumberland way,” I said. “Mebbe you could ask around.”

  He slurped his tea like a hog. I watched his Adam’s apple throb as he swallowed then slurped again.

  “Or mebbes a pig’ll fly right into that frying pan, sliced and salted,” he said.

  I reached round for the blanket and wrapped mesel tighter in it.

  “I want her here.”

  “You’ll not be needing her.”

  “But she’s me Mam.”

  “You’re a Wisdom now and all Wisdom bairns are born strong as an ox and stubborn as a donkey. We’re famous for it. You’re worrying about nowt. You’re just soft, is all.”

  The burning in me middle had us bending double. Someone had lit a fire there, then put it out with bleach and now they were scraping us clean with a blunt tatty peeler. My thighs were slick with blood. Blood as black as you’d ever see.

  Mac rolled a tab, lit it, then smoked while staring into the flames. The smoke came through his nostrils. The crackle of the burning logs and his breathing were the only sounds cutting through the tambourine rain.

  “I’m not soft,” I finally said. “And anyroad it’s gone.”

  “What ye yacking on about now?”

  “The bairn. It’s gone.”

  “Eh?”

  “It’s miscarried.”

  He turned to look at us.

  “It’s miscarried an I want you to fetch me Mam.”

  Then I adde
d, “And you’re a heartless bastard, Mac Wisdom.”

  I said this as soft as a could, and for once he didn’t raise an eyebrow, much less a hand. It was the one time I could get away with calling him like that. The one and only time.

  He just sat there staring into the fire, the dimp between his fingers and smoke wafting from his flared bull nostrils.

  “Well,” he finally said, his voice thick and flat. “We’ll just have to put another one in there then, won’t we.”

  *

  I divvent even know your name.

  We’re out of the estate and riding down the country roads. It’s starting to rain a bit but I don’t even care because it’s warm and the window is open and it proper smells of a pungent summer and this lass Maria is eating a white chocolate Magnum, the most expensive thing on the menu. I’m behind the wheel with a fag between my fingers, the breeze blowing in my sweaty pits. I’m just just hoping I’m not stinking too much.

  We’ve got the radio on top whack. It’s playing this song she seems to know but I’ve never heard before. It’s sung by some lad. The chorus gans Upside inside out, she’s livin’ la vida loca or summat like that.

  Eh?

  I divvent even know your name, she says again.

  It’s John-John.

  It’s what?

  John-John.

  That’s a daft name isn’t it. Blatantly. Here, turn it up. This song’s proper dopper, this is.

  I turn up the radio and look in the rear view mirror because she’s sat just behind us clapping her hands, the Magnum wedged in her gob, doing a funny little dance, where she’s making a circle with her hips and her bare arms are up in the air, and her shoulders are tanned except for the white bit where you can see where her bra strap has been. The breeze is in her hair and there’s the faintest smattering of drizzle tapping at the window, but it’s summer drizzle so it doesn’t matter, and she looks so free and so into the music that I feel a bit weird, like I just want to grab a hold of her and wrap my arms around her and kiss her all ower. Kiss her tits, her belly, her feet, her eyes, her fanny, her arse – everything.

  Upside inside out, living la vida loca.

  Have another Magnum if you like I say, drawing on me tailor-made and shouting over the music and the noise of the breeze and the engine. Have two if you like – I’m not arsed, me. Arty says I can scran what I like.

  Does he?

  Aye. Perk of the job.