Hater

by David Moody

  There’s a gang of kids under a broken street lamp in the alleyway which runs between two of the houses on my right. I see them there most nights, smoking and drinking and driving beat-up cars around the estate. I don’t like them. They’re trouble. I put my head down and walk a little faster. I worry about my children growing up around here. Calder Grove itself isn’t that bad but some parts of this estate are rough and things are getting worse. The council is trying to run apartment buildings like ours down so they can flatten them and build new houses. There are six apartments in our building—two on each floor—and only ours and one other is left occupied now. We try not to have anything to do with the people upstairs. I don’t trust them. Gary and Chris, I think they’re called. Two middle-aged men who live together on the top floor. They don’t seem short of cash but neither of them ever seem to go out to work either. And there’s a constant stream of visitors ringing their doorbell at all hours of the day and night. I’m sure they’re selling something up there, but I don’t think I want to know what it is.

  I finally reach the communal front door and let myself into the building. The door sticks and then opens with a loud, ear-piercing creak which can probably be heard from halfway down the street. I’ve been trying to get the council to come and sort it out for months but they don’t want to know, even though I work for them. Inside the building the entrance hall is dark and cold and my footsteps echo all around me. The kids hate this lobby and I understand why. They get scared out here. I wouldn’t want to spend too long out here on my own either. I unlock the flat, go inside, and shut, lock, and bolt the door behind me. Home. Thank God for that. I take off my coat and shoes and, for almost half a second, I relax.

  “Where’ve you been?” Lizzie scowls. She appears from Edward and Josh’s room and crosses the hallway diagonally to the kitchen. Her arms are piled high with dirty washing.

  “Work,” I reply. The answer’s so obvious I wonder whether it’s a trick question. “Why?”

  “You should have been back ages ago.”

  “Sorry, I got delayed. Got stuck with some woman having a go at me. I missed my train.”

  “You could have called.”

  “I’ve run out of credit on my cell phone and I didn’t have any cash on me to refill it. Sorry, Liz, I didn’t think I’d be this late.”

  No response. I can’t even see her now. The fact she’s gone quiet on me is ominous. Something’s wrong and I know that whatever it is, any problems that I might have had today will now have to take second place. All my worries will pale into insignificance alongside whatever it is that’s bothering her. This seems to happen almost every day and it’s really beginning to piss me off. I know Lizzie works hard and the kids act up, but she should think herself lucky. She should try dealing with some of the shit that I have to put up with each day. I take a deep breath and follow her into the kitchen.

  “Your dinner’s in the oven,” she grunts.

  “Thanks,” I mumble as I open the oven door and recoil from the sudden blast of red-hot air which comes from it. I pick up a tea towel and use it to grip the edge of a dried-out and overcooked plate of meat pie, fries, and peas. “Are you okay?”

  “Not really,” she replies, her voice barely audible. She’s on her knees shoving washing into the machine.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.”

  I crunch into a burned fry and then quickly smother the rest of my food in sauce to take away some of the charcoal taste. Don’t want to risk Lizzie thinking I don’t like it. I hate playing these games. It’s obvious something’s wrong, so why won’t she just tell me what it is? Why do we have to go through this stupid routine every time she has something on her mind? I decide to try again.

  “I can tell something’s wrong.”

  “Very perceptive of you,” she mumbles. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Obviously it does.”

  “Look,” she sighs, switching on the washing machine and standing up and stretching her back, “if you really want to know what’s wrong why don’t you ask the kids? Maybe they’ll tell you why I . . .”

  Right on cue two of the children push their way into the kitchen, jostling with each other for position. Edward digs his elbow into his little sister’s ribs. Ellis shoves him back out of the way and then slams against the table, spilling Liz’s coffee.

  “Dad, will you tell her?” Ed spits, pointing accusingly.

  “Tell her what?” I ask, distracted by the pile of bills I’ve just found on the table.

  “Tell her to stop following me around,” he yells. “She’s just doing it to annoy me.”

  “Why don’t you both just leave each other alone? Go and play in your own rooms.”

  “I want to watch telly,” Ed protests.

  “I was watching it first,” Ellis complains.

  “She’ll be going to bed soon,” I sigh, trying to reason with Edward. “Just let her watch it for a while then you can change the channel when she’s gone to bed.”

  “But my program’s on now,” he whines, not having any of it. “It’s not fair, you always take her side. Why do you always take her side?”

  I’ve had enough.

  “Let’s just leave the television off then,” I tell them. Both of them start screaming at me but even their god-awful noise is drowned out by Lizzie who shrieks at the pair of them to get out of her sight at a deafening volume. Ed pushes his sister as he barges out of the room. Ellis slaps him on the back as he passes.

  “Well handled,” Liz mumbles sarcastically.

  “Little sods,” I mumble back.

  “That’s why I’ve had enough,” she snaps. “I’ve had to put up with their rubbish constantly since we came out of school and I can’t stand it anymore. Okay?”

  She storms out of the room. I don’t bother following, there’s no point. There’s nothing I can do or say to make things any easier so I take the easy option and do and say nothing.

  FRIDAY

  ii

  “HE WAS LOOKING AT me.”

  “Get lost! He was looking at me. He’s not interested in you!”

  Josie Stone and her best friend Shona Robertson walked down Sparrow Hill and across the park together arm in arm, laughing as they discussed Darren Francis, a boy two years ahead of them at school who they’d just passed outside Shona’s house.

  “Anyway,” Josie teased, “everyone knows that Kevin Braithwaite fancies you. You stick with Kevin and leave me and Darren alone.”

  “Kevin Braithwaite?!” Shona protested. “I wouldn’t be seen dead with him. He’s more your type.”

  “Shut up!”

  The two friends tripped and slid down the greasy grassy bank, still giggling and holding onto each other’s arms as they struggled to keep their footing. Their speed increased as they stumbled farther down the hill and onto level ground. Josie slipped as they ran across the middle of a muddy football field. Shona instinctively reached out and yanked her back up before she hit the ground.

  “Careful!” she laughed as she struggled to stay standing like a bad ice-skater.

  Josie and Shona were as close as sisters. They’d met at school three years ago and, both being only children, had quickly become inseparable. They spent almost all of their free time together and often slept over at each other’s house. Last summer Josie had even spent two weeks in Spain with Shona and her family. Nothing was allowed to come between them, not even boys.

  “I heard that Dayne was around Phillipa’s house last night,” Shona said, suddenly remembering a vital piece of gossip she’d heard on the way home from school. “She’s a dirty tramp that Phillipa.”

  Josie stopped walking.

  Shona carried on for a few seconds, oblivious.

  “Danni said she saw her with her hands down . . .”

  When she realized she was on her own she stopped, turned around, and looked at her friend.

  “What’s the matter with you?” she asked. Josie didn’t answer. “Come on you s
illy cow, the others will have gone if we don’t get a move on.”

  Still Josie didn’t move. She simply stood and stared at Shona who, not understanding her friend’s behavior, turned around again and continued walking toward the shops and the group of girls from school they’d arranged to meet there.

  Josie broke into a sudden sprint. She ran directly at Shona and shoved her in the back between her shoulder blades, knocking her off her feet and down into the long wet grass. She tried to stand but before she could get up Josie kicked her in the stomach. She rolled over onto her back and whined in pain.

  “What the hell are you doing, you silly bitch?”

  Josie didn’t answer. Instead she simply dropped her knees onto Shona’s exposed chest, forcing every scrap of air from her lungs. Shona gagged with surprise and shock as she struggled to breathe in. Stunned and wide-eyed she stared into Josie’s face.

  “Why did you . . . ?” she began to say. Josie wasn’t listening. She’d found a stone half-buried in the mud and grass nearby and was desperately digging her fingers around its edge, trying to pull it out of the ground. Panting with effort she picked up the heavy, brick-sized rock and held it high above her head.

  “Josie, don’t . . .” Shona whimpered.

  Holding it with both hands, Josie brought the stone crashing down on her friend’s chest. She felt her ribs crack and splinter under the force of the undefended impact. In too much sudden pain to scream, Shona groaned in agony and watched helplessly as Josie lifted the stone again and brought it down on her for a second time. She hit her with such savage force that a broken rib punctured one of Shona’s lungs. Her breathing became erratic and rasping, then desperately shallow and forced. Her shattered rib cage began to move with sudden, juddering movements as her damaged body struggled to continue to function.

  Josie leaned down over her dying friend and looked deep into her face. Her skin was ghostly white, smeared with splashes of mud and dribbles of blood which now gurgled and bubbled from the corners of her mouth. Her dark, panic-filled eyes began to glaze over and lose their focus. She was aware of Josie lifting the stone again, but nothing more.

  She knew that her friend was dead but Josie had to be certain. She smashed the rock into her face, breaking her left cheekbone and almost dislocating her jaw. Exhausted with effort she rolled away from the corpse and sat panting on the wet grass nearby.

  Josie stared at the sprawling dark shadows of the town below her. She couldn’t go down there now. She couldn’t go home either. She didn’t know where she was going to go or what she was going to do. Maybe she could just stay in the park and hope no one comes looking, she thought. Either that or she’d have to take her chances and just run.

  She hadn’t had any choice. She’d had to kill Shona. She felt no guilt or remorse for what she’d done, just relief.

  4

  WE’RE OUT. WE’VE ESCAPED. For the first time in months Lizzie and I have managed to get away from the house together without any of the children in tow. I can’t remember the last time we were out together like this. The fact that we’re crammed into a small, dark, and sweaty concert hall with six or seven hundred other people doesn’t seem to matter. The gig hasn’t even started yet but the background music is already deafening and the lighting is virtually nonexistent. The chances of us actually managing to speak to each other are slim.

  “Doesn’t feel right, does it?” Liz shouts at me. She has to lift herself on tiptoe to yell into my ear.

  “What doesn’t?” I shout back.

  “Not having the kids here. I’m not used to it. I keep looking around expecting to see at least one of them.”

  “Make the most of it,” I tell her. “How long’s it been since we went out together on our own?”

  “Months,” she screams, struggling to make herself heard over the noise.

  The conversation is over quickly. The effort of having to yell at each other is already making my throat sore and the gig hasn’t even started yet. I watch the stage as roadies and other crew members check the lights, the sound, and the instruments. How long does it take them to get ready? They seem to have been setting things up for ages, there can’t be long left to wait now. Someone’s going around putting towels and drinks down and gaffer-taping set lists to the floor.

  Christ, what was that? Something hit me from the side and I’m down on the floor before I know what’s happened. I try to stand up quickly, my heart thumping in my chest. Liz grabs my arm and pulls me to my feet. I don’t want any trouble tonight. I’m not good at dealing with confrontation. I really don’t want any trouble.

  “Sorry, mate,” an overexcited and half-drunk fan shouts at me. He’s holding two (now) half-empty drinks in his hands and I can tell from his blurred and directionless eyes that he’s off his face on drugs or booze or both. We’re standing close to the mixing desk and there’s a carpet-covered bump running along the floor next to us which protects the power cables I think. Looks like this idiot has tripped up the step and gone flying. He mumbles something about being sorry again and then staggers off deeper into the crowd.

  “You all right?” Liz asks, wiping splashes of drink from my shirt.

  “Fine,” I answer quickly. My heart’s still beating at ten times its normal speed. Relieved, I pull Lizzie towards me and wrap my arms around her. Having her next to me makes me feel safe. It’s not often we’re able to be this close anymore. That’s the price you pay for having too many kids too quickly in a flat that’s too small. Funny how we can stand in a room with the best part of a thousand strangers and have less chance of being interrupted than at home with just three children.

  Lizzie turns around and lifts herself on tiptoe to speak to me again.

  “Think Dad’s okay?” she asks.

  “Why shouldn’t he be?” I yell back.

  “I worry that he thinks we’re taking advantage of him. He’s already there looking after Josh most days now and he’s there again tonight with all three of them. It’s a lot to ask. He’s not getting any younger and I think he’s starting to get fed up with it.”

  “I know he is. He had a go at me before we left.”

  “What did he say?”

  How much do I tell her? Harry and I don’t get on but we try and stay civil for Lizzie’s sake. He was not at all happy tonight but I know he wouldn’t want Lizzie to worry about it.

  “Nothing much,” I answer, shrugging my shoulders, “he just grumbled something about him seeing more of the kids than I do. He made some bad joke about Josh calling him Daddy instead of me.”

  “He’s trying to aggravate you. Just ignore him.”

  “He’s always trying to bug me.”

  “It’s just his age.”

  “That’s a crap excuse.”

  “Just ignore him,” she says again.

  “It doesn’t bother me,” I shout, lying and trying to save her feelings. The truth is Harry is seriously beginning to piss me off and it’s getting to the point where I can see us coming to blows.

  “So what did you say to him?”

  “I just told him how we appreciate what he does for us and reminded him that it’s been at least four months since you and I last went out together on our own.”

  “He’s just trying to get you to react . . .” she starts to say. She stops speaking and turns around quickly when the lights suddenly fade. The crowd erupts into life as the members of the band walk through the shadows and step out onto the stage. After a few seconds delay the music starts and I forget about Harry and everything else.

  This is the fourth time I’ve seen The Men They Couldn’t Hang. It’s been a couple of years since I last saw them and it’s great to see them again. I’ve been looking forward to tonight since I bought the tickets a couple of months ago. I never get enough of the adrenaline rush of hearing good music played live and played loud like this. Hearing these songs again snatches me out of the day-to-day and helps me forget all the things I usually waste my time worrying about. I hold Lizzie close. As lon
g as the music’s playing I don’t have to do anything except listen, relax, and enjoy myself.

  Six or seven songs in now—not sure exactly how many—and this place is really alive. The hall is packed and there’s a great atmosphere here. Swill plays the opening notes to one of my favorite tracks and I recognize it instantly, way ahead of most of the crowd. I feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end and I squeeze Lizzie tighter. She knows just how much I love this.

  They’ve really hit their stride now and it’s like they’ve never been away. Hearing this music again brings back so many memories. I remember the first time I heard this song on the radio just after I passed my driving test. I’d just bought my first car. It was an old heap that cost more to insure than it did to buy, and me and a few mates had gone down to . . .

  Swill has stopped playing.

  Strange. He was strumming his guitar and singing but he’s just stopped. The rest of the band have carried on without him. It’s like he’s forgotten where he is and what he’s supposed to be doing. He’s let go of his guitar and it’s hanging by the strap around his neck now, swinging from side to side. This guy has just spent the last forty minutes playing and singing his heart out but now he’s just standing completely still center stage, head bowed, and staring at the microphone in front of him. Has he forgotten the words? Bloody hell, he’s been doing this for long enough. Surely it can’t be stage fright or anything like that? Is there a technical problem? Maybe he’s ill? The rest of the music continues for a few bars longer. One by one the rest of the band realize that something’s wrong. The lead guitarist has stopped now, and he’s staring at Swill trying to work out what the hell’s going on. McGuire, the bass player, comes to a faltering stop just leaving the drummer to pound out a few more empty and unaccompanied beats before he stops too. Now Lizzie, me, the rest of the band, and the entire audience are staring at the slowly swaying figure of Swill standing awkwardly in the spotlight.