Wreckage

by Niall Griffiths

  Darren leaves to screams. A big black guy stands in his way, gold teeth and necklace gleaming, blocking the door. Boxing gloves in the colours of the Jamaican flag on a thick chain around his neck.

  —You want some n all, lad? Darren says. Looks him sneering up and down. —Youse Yardies and yer fuckin bling. Nowt down for yeh.

  Dull blade. Hooded eyes regarding Darren as the black guy steps aside and Darren leaves the uproar behind him.

  Insane dogs again in the garden. The brandished rolling pin.

  —See yeh, Jegsy.

  —What’s goin on in there, Darren? What’s all the fuckin fuss about?

  —Fuck knows, mate. Don’t ask me. Think some little blert’s OD’d or summin. Am out of here before the bizzies tern up. Fuckin amateurs, lar, eh?

  Jegsy from his deckchair watches Darren leave the garden and barks at the dogs to shut up but this time they don’t, panicked as they are by the sounds of chaos from the house, the screaming and the shouting. Jegsy sighs and rubs his face. Never easy, this shit. Nothing ever is. All is chaos. Ash is everywhere.

  Darren, small in the street, running down towards the lit city. Across waste ground of weed and wreckage where a tree of flame once stood, a tree of fire with a lifespan measurable merely in minutes yet an aeon in its echoing.

  The concourse at Central Station is heaving and long lines stretch from the ticket offices, watched over by a pair of transport police like buzzards; black-dressed, hands clasped behind their backs with their elbows spread like wings. Alastair joins one queue of rush-hour length and waits patiently, the rucksack held to his chest at all times and when at last he reaches the window he buys a one-way ticket to Wrexham. He shows his ticket to the police at the barrier and they nod him through and he goes straight to the manky public toilet at the top of the escalators and enters one of the cubicles there and drops the toilet lid and sits on it, the sack of money at his feet on the pissy tiles. He holds his face in his hands. He examines his fingernails, badly bitten. He notices a glory-hole in the left-hand wall of the cubicle and takes out his keys and scores in the paint around it these words:

  DARREN’S COCK HERE

  MMM SUCK IT BOYS MMM

  Then he takes up the rucksack and leaves the toilet and descends the escalators to the underground and boards the next West Kirby train and alights at Bidston where he waits twenty minutes for the Wrexham train, he alone on the empty platform in the dusk dropping on to the marshland surrounding and the zipping lights and perpetual muffled roar of the motorway and beyond that the high lights of the tower blocks beginning to snap on in the marooning sky. A New Brighton train passes and he regards the passengers on it, their featureless faces blank and purulent under the fluorescent bulbs like yellow water. Like a train of the drowned. The Wet Hell Express. He smokes three cigarettes in succession as he waits for his train shivering in the cold and when it arrives he gets on and finds a window seat but soon he can see nothing except his own reflection, soft doppelgänger in the streaky glass, and the illuminated names of the stations the train calls at, those on the Wirral southbound like Neston and Parkgate and then abruptly those in a different tongue as he enters North Wales like Pen-y-ffordd and Gwersyllt and Caergwrle, where on the opposite platform northbound the signs point now in the direction of Lerpwl. Not far from here, she was born. Nearby, his grandmother was born he thinks but what vast barriers she had to cross both physical and in the form of the Eryri range and others. Others which he can comprehend but never really articulate, kin to the Cymric signs that flash past the reflecting window; on the inside, he can pronounce these words.

  Wrexham; Dean’s do. Two nights ago? Last night was it? Jesus, how eager time seems to die. To escape the burden of its appointed role and office. Life itself in its headlong rush like this train. One hurtle through a drizzly darkness.

  He gets off at Wrexham General and climbs the stairs alongside the racecourse ground where he went once to see Tranmere play just for the chaos in it and he legged it when the locals began to pelt the group he was in with bottles and he hid beneath a bush on the platform until the train came. He crosses this bridge over the railway track and carries his sack which seems very heavy now into the edges of the town to the bus station where the many bays and waiting buses bewilder him, as do the wall-mounted timetables with their confusing place names and times like some arcane treatise on the movements and reactions of ferrous metals. The booking office is closed but he can see a uniformed man in there behind the counter so he raps on the window with a knuckle. The man ignores him so he raps harder and then the man looks up.

  —We’re closed.

  —Aye, I know, but I need to get to Cilcain.

  —Where?

  —Cil. Cain.

  The man approaches the door so he need not raise his voice.

  —Where’d yew say?

  —Cilcain.

  —Next bus quarter to seven.

  —In the morning?

  —Yes. The man nods and gives Alastair a look. —Or yew could always get a taxi.

  Alastair leaves, approaches the cab rank and asks the lead driver the fare to Cilcain. The quoted price seems absurdly high so he traverses the bus station, weaving between waiting travellers and over and around the swaying or prostrate jakeys these places seem for some reason to attract and enters the big grey bunker of a pub propped up against the row of shut shops.

  Noisy bar. Some footy on the big screen. Ally asks one of the bar staff the price of one night’s single room and the price is reasonable, is at least a lot lower than that quoted by the cabbie so he accepts it and is shown upstairs to a small and stuffy but clean-seeming room, bed table portable telly shower and hospitality tray, with an unrestricted view across the bus station. Alastair showers quickly then takes some money out of the sack and hides the sack beneath the bed and goes down to the bar and finds a seat in a corner and drinks until he is drunk and says not one word to anyone or even himself and when the bell rings and the lights flash to signify last orders he throws whisky into himself and ascends the stairs to his room like a pinball, bouncing from corridor wall to corridor wall and finds the door to his rented room and enters it after several bungled attempts to get the key in the lock and collapses clothed on the bed. He gurgles as he snores. On top of much money.

  Peter’s up at the bar. Peter the Beak. Must be sweltering in that long black leather coat but he never takes it off. Told Darren once that it was like Samson’s hair, that he’d lose all his special powers if he ever took it off. What frigging ‘special powers’? Divvy.

  Darren taps him on the shoulder and he turns and grins and they punch fists.

  —What y’up to, Dar?

  —Tryna find Alastair. You seen him?

  —Alastair?

  —Aye, yeh know, dopey twat, always wears a baseball hat.

  —Oh, him.

  —Aye, yeh. Seen im, well?

  —Tonight?

  —Yeh.

  Peter shakes his head. —Not for days, man. Weeks, even. Last time I saw him he was with you.

  —Aye, well, he’s not tonight. Need to find the cunt, tho. If yeh see him make suren give me a bell, yeh? I’ll av me moby on.

  —Alright. What happened to the face?

  Darren taps his nose. —Keep this out. He turns to go but suddenly remembers something. —Ey, guess who I saw thee other day?

  Peter shrugs.

  —That berd you were seein. That cracked slapper who strangled her boyfriend, what’s her name now?

  —Kelly? Peter is abruptly upright, back straight, taller than Darren. —Where djer see her?

  —Chester. Adder kid with her n all. Lil baby, like.

  —Chester?

  —Yeh. Just crossin the road, norra bother on her. Merdrin fuckin whoo-er if yeh ask me, like.

  Peter’s face unreadable as he thinks. Darren taps the side of his nose and makes a sniffing sound. —Info like that’s werth a wee bump, Peter, innit?

  —Not carryin tonight, Dar. Night
off. But I’ll make sure yeh get boxed off soon as, yeh?

  —Aye, well. See that yeh do.

  Bighead longcoat arsewipe and Darren leaves the bar and once outside his mobile gets a signal and immediately it screams at him to indicate incoming text. It’s from Tommy. He reads it:

  DAZ

  ALLS SOUND

  MONEY BACK

  NO PRBLMS

  GIZ CALL M8

  He reads it twice, deletes it then presses the hash key and puts the phone to his ear. Tommy answers on the third ring.

  —Darren. Where are yeh, lad?

  —Just got yer text, Tommy.

  —Aye. Yeh haven’t been answerin yer friggin phone, av yeh?

  —Tryna find that fuckin Alastair, that’s why. Been all over the fuckin city an –

  —Fergerrit, lad. No need any more. We’ve got the money back, every fuckin penny. Get yer arse round ere an yeh can take yer share an we can avver toot an a bevvy, alright? To celebrate, like. Sound with that?

  —This straight up, Tommy?

  —Wha?

  —Straight up, all this? Money back an all that, God’s honest truth?

  —God’s honest truth, lar. Al tell yeh all about it when yeh get ere. Am choppin the beak up now an Lenny’s pourin the Baileys. Want someone to come an fetch yeh?

  —Nah, yer alright. I’m only round the corner.

  —Alright well.

  —See yiz in ten.

  —See yiz in ten.

  Darren ends the call. Tommy’s voice was calm. He even sounded happy. Trust here in this world is as faint as the breath of a moth’s wing but without it there is only an abyssal plunge. Only friction burns on your face from the speed of the passing air because that’s how fast you fall.

  Darren walks down into the city centre, hands in pockets, fingers caressing the metal of the Stanley knife. Has a life of its own, it’s thirsty for blood. It’s like a tiger. No, he’s the tiger, Darren is, terrible beast of prey stalking the night-time city, ravening, of immense and terrible power. Huge he is and hungry. He’ll be in ozzy now, that rude bastard round at Herbie’s. Getting his kite stitched up. Deserved it, tho, the gobshite. No fuckin manners. Tryna make Darren look small, well who’s the dickhead now, eh? Bastard. Deserved it. Asked for it. They always, always do.

  The beams from the Tower restaurant have been turned off now but some pollution palling the city still casts a reddish sheen on the moon’s face. Darren looks up at it, it lights his way, it leers into Alastair’s cheap rented room scores of miles away. Blood-red visage of a wrathful god regarding them all, all who mix and move and sleep and walk and all the buildings and vehicles they exist within. Everything they have built.

  OTHERS

  CABBIE

  AW JEEZ IT’S norron. Tellin yeh, this is well out of friggin order. Pays good an all that like, but this is what yeh get, these battered balloon’eds bleedin all over yer back seat and Lenny just tellin yeh to drive. Oh aye thee pay well these friggin so-called gangsters like, but sooner or later one of them no-marks is gunner take revenge on thee easy target an who’s that gunner be? Fuckin Muggins here. Me.

  —Aw Lenny lad, wharrer yeh tryna do to me? Get me into fuckin trouble, you will.

  Big feller, that Lenny. Big Welsh feller like. Must av some strength in them arms cos he’s only using the one to hold thee other lad down like no bother. He’s thrashin around, tryna escape but Lenny’s got one hand on the lad’s neck an is forcin his ed down between his knees. Some strength in that arm, tellin yeh. An a loader friggin dough in his other hand, like, which he passes through to me.

  —Aw stop yewer skriking, Shirl, he says in that funny voice. Dead relaxin, that accent is. Feel like noddin off just lissnin to it like. —Buy yewer missus something nice on-a way home, see?

  —Yeh burrit’s out of order this, lar.

  Big wedge this is, tho. Glance down at it as I edge out into the traffic. Few tenners, few flims an all. Nice one that, man. —Where djer wanner go, anyway? Tommy’s gaff is it?

  Course it’s Tommy’s gaff. Where the fuck else would it be? That lad Lenny’s holdin down, he’s done somethin naughty an I don’t envy the poor get. Can’t tell who it is, not with his ed bein held down like that, but it could be Maggie fuckin Thatcher an I still wouldn’t envy the poor get when Tommy gets ahold of em. Bad piecer werk, that Tommy one. Somethin friggin pure wrong about that lad, no messin round. Got them eyes like … bad, bad man. One bad, bad man.

  Still, if it’s his friggin money I’m not complainin. Big wedge in me shirt pocket like, feels fuckin boss in there, it does. Fuckin top. Lenny wants me to hurry up, put me foot down like, but in this traffic? And this bleedin rain?

  —Jokin, aren’t yeh, Len?

  Big feller doan answer. Just gazes out the window like. Wipers need to go on now cos the rain’s comin down in buckets.

  Can smell onions. Onions n tomato sauce an meat. One of em must’ve adder burger before thee got in. Or used it for friggin aftershave cos that’s wharrit smells like. Pure friggin honks, lad. One of the weekend whiffs, that burger smell – do a weekend shift an that’s all yeh smell all night, greasy burgers like. Chips as well. An chicken wings. An also sick and piss an even shite on a few occasions, some dirty bastard who’s cacked his kex wantin a lift home. Thee drink too much, that’s the problem. Aye we all enjoy a bevy like, but some of these young uns … can hardly friggin stand, some of em. No lie. Young girls lyin there in the gutters like, showin everythin … not right, lad. Just not fuckin right.

  So, yeh, we all need perks, don’t we? Bein a fuckin mobster’s cabbie has its perks, like, an this big friggin wedge in me pocket is one of em. Buy Charlene somethin nice, me first granddaughter, like. Ice Age, she loves that film. Loves it, she does. Al nip into that Toys R Us place on the way home an buy her the DVD. Pure loves that film, ar Charlene. Bit partial to it meself, must admit. Makes me laugh. Big kid I am oh aye, the missus –

  Shoutin from the back. Lenny’s ignorin it, still holdin the lad down, still just gazin out the winda. Funny feller, that Lenny. Big, gentle feller like, speaks all soft, would never in a million friggin years guess that he worked for Tommy Maguire. Or Joey, rather; I mean, Joey’s the brains, the bossman like, Tommy’s just the cold psycho who puts the fear of shite into people. Friggin loves doin it, n all. Bad, bad man, that, tellin yiz. Friggin hate it whenever I’ve got him in the back, like – just this yowge friggin menace behind me. Like drivin around with an open friggin fridge in me cab, knowmean?

  One mad friggin job, this, tellin yeh. Mad friggin job. Been at it over thirty years an it gets no easier, in fact it gets werse – all the nutters in this city now. Only last year I gave a lift to a girl terned out to be a fuckin merdra. Merdered her friggin boyfriend, like. Strangled the poor sod. Gave her a lift home from the pub like, on the dock road, shouldna done cos I’d been drinkin, but, y’know, pretty young gerl seemed upset about somethin carn have her walkin the city onner own at three in the friggin mornin, so I gives her a lift like an at the lights down Catherine Street she jumps out the cab an legs it into the church. Terned out that she later went home an tied her boyfriend to the friggin bed an choked the poor get to death. Friggin pervert, like. Shockin. Just goes to show yeh, dunnit? I mean who’d a thought it, eh? Pretty young gerl like tha …

  Shook me up a bit, that did. No messin round. Fair got me goin a bit, that did, when I read about it in thee Echo … I mean, what’s happenin ere? What’s happenin to people?

  This friggin traffic, lad. Gunner take owers to get to Tommy’s gaff at this bleedin rate. An me belly’s rumblin n all; the smell from the back is makin me hungry for a berger. Big berger with double fries an a Coke. Can’t, tho; doctor’s sworn me off. Dicky ticker. Gorrer stick to salads an boiled fish – salads an boiled fish! Fuck that, lad. Gunner gerra big bagger chips an some gravy, I mean they’re only friggin spuds. Carn go wrong with friggin spuds, can yeh?

  Group a scallies blockin the road. Pissed up by the looks. It’s like that
film: ‘Some day a real rain will come an wash all the scum off the streets.’You know it, lad. Fuckin love that film, me. No messin. Might treat meself to a DVD n all, there’s enough cash in me pocket to buy moren one. Ice Age n Taxi Driver, sound. Wither big bagger chips. Or a pizza, even; there’s vegetables on a pizza. Healthy, like, innit?

  FRANKIE MAGUIRE

  Best thing I ever did, lar. Best thing I ever did bar none. Wake up every mornin in the sunshine with the parrots squawkin on me seven acres an I think: You’ve fuckin well made it, Frankie lad. You’ve fuckin made it, son. No more drizzle, no more bizzies on me case, this is the fuckin life. It’s made. You’re made. This is pure happiness. Oh fuck yeh.

  No regrets. Not one. Doan even miss me brudders, an thee probly don’t miss me, either; the postcards I send em probly get binned unread. But I couldn’t give two fucks, man; the parrots squawk somewhere on me seven acres an the sun always shines an I am Top fuckin Man. No regrets. Not one.

  JOEY MAGUIRE

  When Joseph Ferdia Maguire was eight years old he saw an angel. He was feverish and bed-bound after being pushed in the canal and swallowing water three days earlier by a bigger boy who laughed and threw stones at him as he floundered and yelled and who then ran away, and among his sweat-soaked sheets and the stink of vomit from the bedside bowl Joey had also seen gigantic spiders on the ceiling and zebras hiding in the curtains, but when he was eight years old and seriously ill Joseph Ferdia Maguire also saw an angel at the side of his bed. It was white and tall with a thin face. It cloaked him all cool with its wings and put a cool hand on his forehead and Joseph felt the sickness being sucked out of him into that hand. He was special, the angel said in a voice that sounded only in Joey’s head, clear among the clagginess and the buzzing, a deep voice of no determinate gender. Special, and he was being saved for great things.

  The fever lifted early the following morning and Joey ate Ricicles and toast and jam for his breakfast. By mid-afternoon he was playing football in the garden with his father Shem and his uncle Dusty. Doctor Muttu came round and declared himself amazed, said Joey must be especially strong to come so quickly out of such a sickness but that he must not exert himself for a week or so just in case. And that he must drink plenty of liquids. And to eat only soup.