I fear for him, I do, I fear for his life on this earth and his soul in the next. So many holes for us to fall into and most of us can never get back out again. He’s broken my heart, that child of mine. Honest to God he has.
One moment I’ll always remember till me dying day; he came back from the school one day when he was about ten and I asked him how it went and d’you know what he said? ‘How was your day, son?’ I asked and d’you want to know what he answered? ‘Boring an pointless, Mum,’ that’s what he said. About ten years old he was. And the thing is, he probably really had gone into school that day cos, if only for three words, he was articulate and he could express his feelings without shouting or breakin things. An I got a glimpse of the boy he could be, just for that one moment … of an energy inside him that, with help, might’ve been steered towards something positive. But then the next day the Truant Officer brought him home an that was thee end of that. I’ve never seen that potential a second time from him. Not even a glimpse.
But he’s my lad an he’s unhappy an he’s breaking my heart, he really is. I don’t know what to do. Big black holes are waitin for him an I don’t know how to keep him away from them, he’s gonner fall in. Maybe he fell in ages ago. Them Maguires are bastards, just smaller versions of Bush and Blair an bin Laden and that Thatcher one. There’s no difference – all of them, thee all target innocence. Why does He let this happen?
Father Donaghy. I’m goin round to see Father Donaghy an I’m gonner ask him why he thinks God lets innocence be destroyed. An I’m not gonner leave til he’s given me a satisfactory answer an then I’m gonner ask him how I can defend meself before Him an then I’m gonner ask him what’s gonner happen to that big picture of New York in the Holiday Inn foyer, the one I have to polish every day, the one with them big buildings that don’t exist any more, the one with the hidden hole. Cos all these things need answers, an I can’t do it by meself, can I? No. No one can. Daft to even think otherwise.
ALASTAIR
Where where where where where
WHERE
Ow to find two neds in a city fuller fuckin neds when every second ned looks like the neds I’m after …
where the friggin hell
needle in a fuckin haystack, lar, no lie, no mess … how’m I supposed to find em … little twats could be friggin anywhere …
But:
Find em. Then money. Then return. Then laugh at Darren freakin fuckin out cos he’s back to square fuckin one. Then:
Then
?
Worry about it then … just now do what yer know yer’ve gorrer fuckin do … deal with this, man … sort it fuckin out …
First time in yer life man this this this this thing … what is it … just avin this fuckin thing to do … nowt else just this thing to do …
… ow me ed … pure bangin man …
but this thing this thing I’ve got this thing
d’yeh know wharrit is I’m … I’m what …
what if she’s dead? Thee ahl queen that cunt hit with thee ammer, what if she’s carked it? What then?
I
don’t fuckin know
just know that this thing
I’ve
got this thing
got this thing to do.
DARREN
I’m norra bad guy. No way. Know some people think I am, like, but I’m norra bad guy rerly. I’ve just adter do bad things sometimes, to defend meself an get what’s mine by rights, like, an live the way I wanner live I’ve sometimes adter do some bad things.
But I’ve never wasted anyone as far as I know but if what I’m suspectin terns out to be true then that Alastair one is dead. Pure fuckin dead, lar. No lie. Cunt’s a corpse.
Only one werd for this shit: BETRAYAL. Sums it up, that one werd. No two ways about it, lar, that Ally is one betrayin twat an that’s that.
Gorra keep calm, tho. Just calm it down, like, think it through. Lose it an yer’ll get nowt done, end up locked up an that Judas cunt’ll be walkin around laughin. That cunt. Laughin. Fuckin laughin at me walkin round with his swag an I was gunner buy me ma a prezzie with that swag cos thee ahl queen’s been on a lowey lately about summin, just dead sad aller time like, an I was gunner buy her a prezzie to cheer her up a bit like, but that twat Alastair has fucked all this he’s
all me fuckin plans, man – fucked over – battered – smashed in bits this ain’t fuckin right it ain’t fuckin right
betrayal
Thee. Werst. Thing yeh could ever do to anyone is stab em inner back like this, graft with em an then nick all the swag. Like that gobshite Colm who did the runner with Joey’s droogs, meant to be livin somewhere in Wales now. Or that Belfast musher Gillespie who T managed to track down an is now fertilisin a field on the Wirral somewhere an that’s gunner happen to that Alastair that thievin bastard that Judas that fuckin
calm down yerself
don’t lose it lad keep it togeth
BETRAYALBETRAYALBETRAYALBE-TRAYALBETRAYALBETRAYAL
shame and
some fuckin shame
he’s fuckin well dead, man. I kid you not that twat is dead.
JAPANESE TOURIST
Ai!
OLD LADY
Gah! Me ankle! Jesus Mary Mother an Joseph God an all the saints me ankle!
LENNY REECE
Surprised at Tommy I yam, see. Never seen him this upset I haven’t an I’m surprised cos he’s surprised; I mean, could he not have seen this coming? Didn’t he know that at some point a feller like Darren would rip him off? It’s happened before, many times, so why’s he gettin so hot an bothered this time? It’s not because Darren’s a slimy stoat scally who yew carn trust as far as yew can throw him but simply because yew carn trust anybody, an I’m shocked that T doesn’t seem to know that. I mean, that’s why I entered this game in the first place, see, cos I knew from an early age that the world was all dog eat dog, all betrayal, all survival of the fittest like, an looking arfter number one so what was-a point then of joining it? That’s what I asked myself; why join-a workforce, like, the rat race, when with the right kind-a backing an-a gun I could make a life for meself in whatever way I wanted to? Which is why I’m yur, now, having me ear barked off by Tommy on-a mobile:
—I mean it’s the fuckin lack of trust that herts, Len, know wharram sayin? I mean I gave them blerts a cushy number to keep em sweet, like, a jaunt inter Wales, piecer piss, fuckin day out rerly, likes, an I find out thee’ve binned the fuckin motor I gave em an screwed a fuckin postie without tellin me. Without even friggin askin me, likes. Just went n did it off theer own backs an thee weren’t even gunna give yours truly a cut, weren’t even gunna fuckin tell me about it. Believe this shit, Len? Can’t fuckin believe it, me, no lie. Notten down for cunts like that, is thee? Notten fuckin down for them, lar.
I make a tutting noise. —Shockin, Tommy. What’s wrong with these people, eh?
—You know it, man. Summin’s gone dead wrong somewhere along the line, like, too fuckin right. I mean, didn’t I always treat em proper? Avn’t I always fuckin done well by em? An this is how thee pay me back. Bein taken for a cunt, I am, Lenny. Tellin yeh, these little gets don’t half need a lesson in fuckin manners, like. No –
Lie. —T, I’m entering the underground now, see, so me mobile’s about to go dead. What do you want me to do, here?
—Well I want yeh to fuckin well. You in a bar, lad?
—No, no, I told yew, I’m at James Street underground. Tell me what yew need me to do, mun, an I can get straight on it.
He tells me to find Darren. Find Darren! In a city that contains a hundred bloody thousand Darrens!
—Will do that, Tommy. Carn promise anything, like, but I’ll do me very best.
—Aye an when yeh do yeh bring the cunt here an am gunner fuckin –
—Signal’s gone, Tommy. Yewer breaking up. Later.
I close my phone and put it back in me pocket an gesture at-a barmaid for another pint-a dark. As she’s pourin it she asks me
where I’m from an I tell her an she tells me that her mother’s from-a same area.
—Oh aye? So yur’s some Welsh in yew, then?
She nods. I smile. Wonder if she wants any more.
Chat to her for a bit then she goes off to serve somebody else, a Taylor clone; tracksuit tucked into-a socks, all-a sovereign rings. Never goin-a find him around yur, am I? Might as well look for a specific pigeon; thousands-a them too an they all look exactly-a bleedin same as well. Altho Tommy did say that Darren’s been given a dig by them two other scallies who came round to see him, trying-a set up some sort-a coke deal, so Darren’ll probably have a few bruises or somethin, providin ey were tellin-a trewth which of course is doubtful in itself. Yur’s no honesty in people any more, if yur ever was; lying, deception, it’s a condition of existence now, see. It was a shock at first like, cos, bein brought up in-a countryside like, yur is no lying; everythin an everyone is just out-an-out brutal. No sneakin around or games-playin like, it’s just eat or be eaten, all out in-a open, see, not hidden. But yew get used to people bein sneaky an it doesn’t take long before yew realise to look under an behind what people’re tellin yew, cos on-a surface, it’s never-a trewth. An why Tommy’s all upset by that revelation baffles me, mun. I mean has he always trusted Darren? Has he never entertained-a notion that Darren or someone else just like him would rip him off, first chance he got? This might mean, shockin as it may seem like, this might mean that Tommy, even, has somethin inside him that’s offended by human snakey-ness. Or no, forget that, mun; all it means is that Tommy needs a sense of what, indignation, he needs to feel righteously insulted so that when he gets out-a pliers or-a Stanley knife he can feel justified. Morally vindicated, see. That’s what it’s called.
Jeez, these papal pagans and eyr twisted, twisted morality. An yur’s me among em with my own Methodist jihad. Next time yur’s a home game at Anfield or Goodison I’ll hijack the sky-camera blimp an float it into Paddy’s wigwam. Just float it on to-a spikes, all gentle. No one’d be hurt an even I, suicide hijacker, would probably get out safe n sound if I climbed careful down-a fireman’s ladder. That’s-a way to do it. See, Osama? No need to cause all that pandemonium, is there, now? Just make a bit of a fool-a yewerself, that’s all it takes. The futile gesture, mun – us boyos are used to that, see. An that’s all everything is, in-a end, innit?
I finish me pint an leave-a pub, turn left up towards-a city proper. Now where is a nasty piece-a dark-hearted work like Darren Taylor likely to be? Pub, crackhouse, brothel, church … that’s narrowed it down to several bleedin thousand, that’s all. But I’ll find him, I know I will; the sun’s beamin down on me today, I can feel it, mun, even through-a drizzle. Luck’s name is Leonard. But first: food. I can smell onions. Yur’s one-a them burger kiosks round-a corner, if I remember right. That’ll do for me, mun.
ALASTAIR, HIS GRANDMOTHER KATE
Someone
is someone there?
Who is there?
Pwy sy’ yna?
A shadow … a voice
Cysgod
One of those men those men with the wounds those blasted children arms gone legs gone minds gone no hope for them no hope
dim gobaith dim gobaith
I cleaned them
I washed them
Helped them cope those poor ruined men
Back to
Nain
Nain?
Who’s there?
eira
eira
mynyddoedd
Alastair my grandson is that you?
My lost child is that you?
Are you
here I
angen
ANGEN
Alastair?
I cannot hear you my boy
I cannot hear you
through this
hiraeth
in me it kills me it hurts me it is destroying me
hiraeth
Alastair are you here to wash my wounds to rub cream into my inflamed stumps to help me help me sing again remember like I helped you no you were
in this war
dros y mor
My children all my children floating drifting cut from me
You leave
you have gone
You
mynyddoedd
they burst in my head
eira ar Eryri
it’s falling in my breast
ANGEN
No pain at last
Some small augmentation now to this city’s sense of rage and shame and although it cannot be witnessed swimming in the oily harbour pools or prowling the roof like one of the feral felids that are a further secret populace of this conurbation it is nonetheless here. Not in any acceleration or deceleration of the general pace of living nor in any inflective altering of the collective voice if such a hubbub polyglot and motley, pidgin and patois could ever be encapsulated in such a term but nonetheless here it is. Devoid of tangibility or immediacy maybe it can be located in some incipience that hangs like a stormcloud or smog in a coming perturbance, in the individual lives that are yet to be startled in some specific way and which move at the moment unknowing and thus in a bliss of some sort, universal if acknowledged but since it never is then scarce-seen, lurking rarefied in these individual lives. Maybe something of it in the chance splat of the raindrop on the pecking pigeon’s head and in the sudden flight of that dirty bird from the gutter and the startling of the Japanese tourist and in his flinching and his accidental striking of the mother with the pram and in the toppling of that pram and the spillage of shopping but not child and the overlooked tangerine and, later, the old lady’s foot which will squash that fruit on the slippery sidewalk and which will buckle and maybe in the weakened decalcified ankle bone that will snap. And maybe then in the citizen who will stop and administer and the ambulance driver and the concerned family members who will gather at hospital bedside and so on and so on and so on and maybe in such a causal chain unheeded and unstated, maybe only in its waiting-to-happen, maybe only in the falling raindrop and the as-yet-undisturbed city bird pecking in the gutter at a discarded kebab are such tiny additions detectable; these new sparks of rage and shame located as yet only in the what-is-to-come, the what-will-be.
And, too, there is something else. Something that can be seen in propulsion, in matters of striding, in a notion of happiness even bound as that term is to ideas of determination and purpose and goal and aim. In a sense of something to do. In the eternal perversity that drives the heart through and between the diurnal traffic and that which appears desultory and often is on some level beneath the need for bread or attire because how can the way be possibly lit by a purpose that remains unknown? How can the route through a plan be followed if its architecture was drawn up in a language arcane? Or if the training of a light upon it casts only a deeper, blacker shadow?
Darren moves from pub to pub, and does not drink in any. In each, there are surreptitious glances at the discolorations and scabs on his face and the stitches in his scalp but his eyes are seldom met and in every bar he stands among the seated drinkers with his big bruised head pivoting on his big neck like a predator seeking prey. Twice he is asked by bar staff who he is looking for but on each occasion he merely shakes his head and leaves the pub and moves on to the next one to be ticked off on his mental itinerary, a list of the places where Alastair might be. One of these is Ye Cracke.
The barman recognises his face, even under the blueness and blackened blood. He’s seen it many times before. Heeds the mental alarm bells that clatter in his head but does not ask anything of Darren, only keeps one eye on him as one of the old men who daily gather in the corner by the beer-garden door, the old feller with the limp and the cane, shouts him over:
—Hi, Darren! C’meer, son!
Darren goes to him.
—Alright, Grandad.
—Jeez, lad, what happened to the face? Battlin again, av yeh?
This old man pushes a stool away from the table with his cane and
Darren sits down on it and shrugs.
—Ah, y’know, Grandad. Just some gobshites in town, like, that’s all. Too many of em.
—Oh aye?
—Aye, yeh. Two against one, like. Did me best like but … adder friggin pool cue, one of em.
Darren shrugs again. The old man’s faded blue eyes drift over the beaten face of his grandson and the pupils are as black as the Guinness that rises to touch the thin bloodless lips that slowly sip. He replaces the pint on the table top and shakes his head sadly and in disgust.
—Two against one, ye say? Tooled up n all? Ach, friggin cowards. Nowt down for them types. If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s –
—Shite-arse spineless bastards, Grandad, yeh, I know. Yer’ve said before.
—Aye, well, you watch out for them toerags, son. Only look after themselves, like, an don’t give two fucks who else might suffer as a consequence. Cowards. Human race’s fuller them, lad. See, in the war, we –
—Ah, Grandad, I’m rushed off me friggin feet. Don’t av the time right now.
—Oh aye, well? What is it yer’ve got to do that’s so important that yeh haven’t got the time for yer ahl grandad? Not gunner be around much longer an yer’ll regret it then, won’t yeh?
—I’m lookin for someone. And indeed Darren’s eyes do now scan the bar. —Got somethin to sort out, likes.
Who?
—Alastair.
—That dopey sod, always wearing the cap?
—That’s him, yeh. Seen im?
—Not for a few weeks, no. Last time I saw him he was with you in the Caledonian.
A plangent chord rings out. A band is setting up on the long bench beneath the big mirror; fiddle, bodhrán, squeeze box, acoustic guitar, penny whistle and gobiron. Warm-up notes ring and wheeze and tootle in the smoke-strata’d air.
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