Wreckage

by Niall Griffiths

  She turns. —Come on, Thomas. Am takin you out of this bleedin place.

  He follows her out and stops to point and laugh at the teachers but she grabs his arm hard enough to bruise and yanks him through the door, drags him down the corridor that claps and echoes to her wood-soled clogs and out of the school into the abrupt sunlight and out of the school grounds and across the road to a bus stop where she spins her son like a top to face her and slaps his face. Shock and ear-ringing. Instant tears.

  —So yerrah friggin gangster now, are yeh? Don’t you fuckin ever embarrass me like that again or al take the friggin skin off yer back. If I ever have to come up to that school again … An stop yer fuckin whinging or yer’ll get somethin to cry about. Little bastard yerrah.

  Blurred and swimming in his tears she lights a cigarette. Blows smoke through her nostrils like a dragon and asks an old staring man what the fuck he thinks he’s looking at then points at Tommy’s face with the lit end of her Regal King. The smoke makes his eyes water further, the burning coal seems further to inflame the heat in his stinging cheek.

  —You an yer brother, I’m ashamed of yiz both. Honest to God, the pairer yiz, I am, I’m fuckin ashamed. Notten but trouble from the both o’ yiz. God help me but sometimes I wish yer brother ad’ve friggin died of that fever.

  She crosses herself. —Think I wanner come out to the school every week? Ey? Must think I’ve got nowt better to do, you. Is that what yeh think?

  —Mam, I –

  —I don’t wanner hear it, son. Don’t say another fuckin word. Yer no son of mine any more. An you can fuckin shurrup before yeh start n all.

  The old man red-faced and tutting turns away again and the bus arrives and they get on it and the ignoring of him from his mother is worse. She says not one word to him and jerks her arm away from his when he touches her elbow and he blubbers and sobs and she simply stares straight ahead and alights at the correct stop and walks stiff-backed and merciless ahead of him homewards and he must follow and inside the house she points wordlessly upstairs and he goes to his room and there among the posters, the football posters and Bay City Rollers and Mud posters, he cries himself out and climbs under the covers and buries his face in the pillow and screams muffled swear words until the word ‘cunts’ stops him because he can think of no worse but that is what they all are, all of them, especially her. A short time later he hears his dad come home and hears him talking to his mother in the front room, no specific words just mumbles, and then there are heavy footsteps on the stairs and the door opens and there is a presence in his room, big and heated. He can smell his dad. He can feel his dad standing there, outside of the pulled-up blankets, displacing air and breathing. To show his face might invite a slap so he keeps it hidden. Hot and hidden under the hairy blanket that makes him itch at nighttime.

  —So yeh wanner be a gangster, son?

  It is a deep but gentle voice and Tommy is surprised. He expected a roar, he expected a swooping open palm. He feels a pressure on the bed and then a hand softly pulls the sheets down to reveal his face. And there’s his dad; a smile, bushy sideys, a big once-broken nose. A smile; what’s going on here? One fat hand lies just below Tommy’s eyes and he can see the letters L-O-V-E big in his vision and blurred and blueing.

  —I hear you’ve been playin at gangsters. Av yeh?

  Tommy nods.

  —Well, ad berrer show yiz how it’s done, then, hadn’t I?

  Tommy nods.

  —Come ed then, well. Get yerself up.

  Tommy gets out of bed and follows his dad through the house and out into the car, the black Capri. No words, no directions, just out through the house and into the car.

  —Know the first thing yeh need to be a gangster round here?

  Tommy shakes his head and his dad reaches into the back seat and recovers a hammer which he places on Tommy’s lap, between his pudgy knees. It feels very heavy. Tommy tries to lift it and can but only with difficulty and with both hands. The car starts and pulls away.

  —So why’d yeh fancy yerself as a gangster, then, eh? Is it cos yeh wanner be like yer dad? Yeh?

  Small nod.

  —Well, howjer know that I’m a gangster? What makes yeh think that?

  A shrug.

  —Well, yer wrong. Cos what I am son is a businessman. That’s the first thing yer’ve gorrer learn, Tommy; that there are no gangsters there are only businessmen. Djer understand that?

  A nod. Tommy cannot take his eyes off his father, off the wedge-heeled shoes working the pedals, the chunky-ringed hands gripping the steering wheel, the wide face with the flat nose and chipped teeth and the dark eyes flicking between rear-view mirror and windscreen and the large arms beneath the yellow cheesecloth shirt and the long hair hanging down over the back of the vinyl seat. And the hairy handbacks with the blue tattoos snaking and anchoring out from beneath the flapping, unbuttoned cuffs and the gold identity bracelet. This is his dad, all bulging in the car. All sinew and confidence look at me now, Lyons, Stinkygob Powell, this is my frigging dad and I am sitting next to him.

  —Business, that’s all it is. Makin money, like. There are a thousand different ways of makin money an I just happen to use a certain way. And, y’know, when yeh grow up?

  He looks at Tommy now, a sideways glance. A small but humourless smile revealing a gap where an upper incisor should be. He shakes his head and faces front again.

  —Ah, yer’ll find out.

  —What, Dad?

  —Dozen matter. Yer’ll find out in a bit.

  —Wharrabout, tho?

  His father doesn’t answer, just swings the car into the car park of a huge pub.

  —Am pickin up yer uncle Dusty. Remember him, yer uncle Dusty? Baldy feller?

  Tommy nods but he doesn’t.

  —I won’t be a minute. Just sit still an behave yerself.

  He leaves the car running, goes into the pub, comes back out with a stocky man in an orange boiler suit and a bald head streaked with what looks like oil or grime, coal dust maybe. This man grins at Tommy and climbs into the back of the car on the driver’s side and leans and ruffles Tommy’s hair.

  —Y’alright, big man? I’m yer uncle Dusty, remember?

  Tommy stares. This man has a Belfast accent the kind Tommy’s heard on the news and some pink scars on his face. He looks at Tommy then grins again then asks the back of the driver’s head: —Ye sure about this, now, Shem? Not think it’s mebbe goin a wee bit too far, like?

  —No. Gorrer learn, Dust, anny? Sometime, like. Might as well be now. Been playin up at the school again, like. Gorrer learn im sometime, avn’t I?

  —Suppose so, aye … His face suddenly brightens. —Ey, did I tell yis I was on a bus there the other day there at the back, like, an who should I see but Ian Paisley, Gusty Spence an Leo Sayer. And, just me luck like, there’s me with only the two bullets in me gun. Who did I shoot, well?

  Shem, father, smiles and shakes his head.

  —I shot that fucker Sayer twice! Make sure he’s dead an can’t sing any more fuckin records!

  He roars with laughter. Tommy’s dad does too and Tommy joins in although of course not understanding why and laughs even louder when Dusty tousles his head again and says: —Like that one Tommy, aye? Shot that fucker twice! Make sure he’s dead!

  Laughter again. He likes this, Tommy does, driving along and laughing with the tough and grown-up men, a hammer heavy on his lap. If Lyons and Powell could see him now. Wouldn’t dare to tweak his ear. Wouldn’t dare to take him into the office. They’d leave him alone all scared and do whatever he told them to do. Bastards. See Tommy now in the stylish car that George Best has advertised on TV. In the stylish Besty car with the two big tough men his father and his uncle, oh if the school could see him now.

  Tommy wants to ask Dusty to tell another joke or to tell one himself, wants to feel that giant hand ruffling his hair again but Dusty suddenly serious is gazing out the window and talking, it seems, to the outside world, the city passing.
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  —Not sure about this, Shem, so I’m not. It’s not sitting right with me, this.

  —What isn’t?

  —The wean.

  —He’s gorrer learn, Dust, anny? Never too young to find out about these things, like. I mean say he carries on the way he is doing an in a few years’ time he’s at the bottom of Ally Dock in concrete wellies, how’ll yeh feel then, eh? Or proppin up the fuckin motorway. How’ll yeh feel then?

  —Aye but still.

  —An besides anythin else he’s my lad. If this puts im off then great, sound, he’s not gunner follow in is ahl man’s footsteps. An if it doesn’t then that’s alright as well cos that means he’s got wharrit takes. So either way he’s gunner learn somethin, inny?

  Dusty sniffs. —Aye. Suppose.

  —No ‘suppose’ about it, lar. I know wharram doing.

  —Wharrabout your Joseph, tho?

  —Wharrabout him?

  —Shouldn’t he be here n all?

  Shake of the head from Shem. —Gorrer bit more brains, Joey has. He’ll work it out for imself, tellin yeh. He’ll be able to figure it out on is own, that one will.

  They skirt the city and head north, towards West Derby. Shem and Dusty talk and Tommy looks out at the passing world and the older men don’t seem to notice as little Thomas does the amount of people outside who react to the car, who squint their eyes at it and then either wave or look quickly away. And the difference in the wavings, how some are meek handflaps at chest height and how some are an abrupt rising of bladed hands almost like a salute. The two big men appear not to notice these reactions but the smaller boy does, some swelling in his breast and burgeoning in his belly as merely by sitting here in this car with the two bigger men he elicits some response in all these unknown people. Just by doing nothing, just by being driven, all these pedestrians react. As if the car itself is their dream or nightmare taken form and seen passing them in city street their happiness or horror here before them on this early-evening weekday. Their nocturnal secret longings drifting by and how they do respond, rise or recoil. Tommy first grins at them all, he does not differentiate, they all get a grin, but then a thing within him tells him not to smile but to scowl instead and he obeys it, whatever ringing thing it is. See the young boy in the car, the big boy scowl jowly.

  They enter an estate. New rows of pebble-dashed semi-detacheds no more than a few years old. Small front gardens and glassed-in porches. Children on Choppers or playing football whose heads swivel to trace the car as it passes now slow.

  —This it, Shem, aye?

  Tommy’s father nods.

  —Must av some money aye, livin here like. Can’t be cheap these places.

  —Exactly. Can’t afford to pay me back but can afford to move on to a good estate like this. Makes me fuckin sick, Dust, it does. Always pay yer debts off first, isn’t that right?

  —It is, sure. Hear that, young Tommy?

  Both big men looking at him. The car has stopped.

  —Always pay yer debts, Tommy, his dad says. —Yeh know why?

  Shake of the head.

  —I’ll show yiz why. Don’t forget that hammer.

  At the kerb outside one of the new, clean houses. No graffiti here, no flat planks for windows, no steel-sheeted doors. Net curtains twitch as they leave the car, Tommy carrying the hammer grunting in two hands, smiling too because this is interesting, this is a good game. It seems that someone owes money. He thinks that means that someone must pay.

  He walks between the two men up the trail of crazy paving across the well-kept small front lawn. Some children are called then dragged bodily inside if they do not respond and doors are slammed. A dog barks four times then yelps and falls quiet.

  Uncle Dusty raps on the door with his oil-stained knuckles. A soft, rhythmical tattoo; he plays a jaunty tune. Tommy smiles.

  The door opens. His father says: —Iya, love, then the door is slammed shut again and seared into Tommy’s eyes the woman’s face and her look of terror the recognition so quick and utter and feet are raised and thrust and the door bursts inwards. Wood splinters, glass shatters. There is a woman screaming. Tommy’s heart pounds hot and loud his skull throbs with each bloodbeat already he feels sick with excitement his mouth sandy dry and Dusty has hoisted him by the oxters over the threshold and into the house before he has even noticed it. He steers him by the back of the banging head down the hallway and towards the screams into the bright kitchen where his dad looks immense, King Kong-sized. There is a man seated at a round white table and a woman standing by him at his shoulder with her hands over her face and it is from behind these hands that the screaming comes. Shem is pointing at her with a ringed index finger but shouting at the seated man. The stabbing finger, the shouting mouth flinging spittle.

  —Tell er to fuckin shurrup! Tell er to shut er fuckin trap or al fuckin break it! Tell er!

  The man stands, puts his arms around the woman, manoeuvres her towards the back door. —It’s alright, love, it’s alright … you go in the backyard an al call yer when it’s over … it’s fine … don’t worry, al be okay … go on now …

  —I told yeh this would happen! Told yeh, didn’t I, but would yeh friggin listen?!

  —Shhh, now, it’s alright … go on …

  He opens the back door for her and ushers, shuffles her out, her hands still over her face. The man closes the door softly and turns, his arms spread in surrender. He has a kind of quiff and sideys like Alvin Stardust, Tommy notices.

  Sweet, ness. I like your dress.

  —Aw now, lads. It’s like this.

  And then he is on the floor, propped up against the fridge. His eyes roll and glaze and his head lolls and as Tommy watches his lips swell and blood leaps out on to his shirt. Tommy sees that his father’s fist is clenched white and realises that he has just punched this man.

  Who gurgles. Flaps his hands feebly at the height of his chest which is the height of Shem’s knees. Both Shem and Dusty pounce and Tommy behind them sees their stack-heeled shoes rise and stamp and sees their elbows working as they do when trying to start a lawnmower and between their frantic legs he sees chunks of the man, his own legs kicking in their tartan slippers, hands raised protectively to his face and those hands slapped away and how quickly that face has been changed has been altered the flesh swollen in folds purple and black lips split front teeth gone such instant mutilation. Nose smashed flat driven back above the champing jaw and there is screaming and begging in a voice gone thick what has happened to this man in so little time.

  See Tommy cry. His ribs ache with the whacking of his heart. His dad grabs the man’s ankles and Tommy sees his slippers fall off to expose bare feet very white and this makes him cry further. The wrecked man is dragged towards him and that smashed and purpled face is at his feet. Oh how smashed it is. It is like stew.

  There is a roaring in his ear, his dad’s voice: —The fucking hammer, Thomas! Wanner be top dog? Wanner be a gangster, son? Welly the fucker! Hit im! IT im!

  There are noises coming from that pounded mouth. Faint screechings, kitteny noises.

  —IT im!

  Tommy raises the hammer. It takes all his strength. It is not right what has happened to this man. Tommy raises the hammer and cannot see through scrunched and stinging eyes.

  —Go on, now, Thomas. His uncle Dusty’s voice in a whisper. —Ye must hit him now, sunshine. Or just drop the hammer.

  Little Thomas raises the hammer. He feels a scrabbling on his legs and looks down and sees the smashed man’s fingers crawling up his shins, pulling at his socks, grabbing at his ankles. The thin screeching. The bubbling blood bursting on those noises high and rising. He is trying to plead Tommy thinks but his face, that face, it is not like a face any more it is burst like jam it is –

  Tommy drops the hammer and vomits. Where it goes he doesn’t know, he doesn’t care. The spew just leaps out of him and he turns and stumbles.

  —Take him to the car, Dust.

  He is lifted. He is airbor
ne in arms. There is cool air on his face then he is lying on the back seat of the Capri. Probably he sleeps because the next thing he knows he is moving and he can hear laughter.

  —Djer see it, Dust? Bleeurgh, all over his kite. See it?

  —I did that, aye. Straight in the mug. What the fuck has he been eatin, the wean? Looked like corn.

  —Probly all them Golden fuckin Nuggets his mother keeps feedin im. Loves them things he does burrit’s all the lazy cow ever feeds him. That’s why he’s so fuckin fat.

  Tommy keeps his eyes closed. The colours there now the colours of a face, plum and black and maroon, a face so easily altered. So very easily ruined.

  —What do we do with im now?

  —Take im back home. Let his mother look after him, clean im up, likes. Us two can goan avver few wets, spend some of this ginch, yeh?

  —Aye. Think he’s learnt his lesson?

  —I’d say so, aye. Poor little bleeder pissed isself n all, did yeh see? Friggin terrified he was, the poor little get. See im? Ee ain’t gunner grow into this fuckin business, no way. Not one doubt about that, lar.

  —Aye. In future, tell im to stick to playin cowboys n indians.

  —It’s all IRA v UVF at that school, Dust.

  —Well. As long as he’s a Goodie.

  —Oh fuck yeh.

  The car rolls on. The two men continue to talk and laugh. They laugh; how can they be laughing after what they’ve just done? What is so funny? The world to Tommy now is not what it once was. All is changed. There are things in it he didn’t know existed yet the two big men can laugh still. How, though? How?

  He doesn’t sleep that night, little Thomas. His mother, uncharacteristically gentle, tucks him in and kisses him and tells him tenderly that he’s learned a lesson and she even leaves the landing light on for him without complaining about the electricity bill but still he doesn’t sleep because of the fear of the dreams that may thunder. Floods of blood and faceless howlings. But the following night he sleeps better than he ever has before and when he returns to school Mr Lyons has one arm in plaster and a bruised face and he says not one word to Thomas, will not even look at him in fact not even when Thomas whacks Toasty Fagin on the back of the burn-scarred head with a ruler. And Tommy will never return to the way he was before; something new he will become to himself as he grows, as his bones stretch and his flesh fills further out. As his hands and face spread as if rolled and pressured out by the city’s winds he comes to love, at his ears, at his elbows, at his always active throat, these sea breezes strong and salted forever pushing him onwards, out into the available world.