Wreckage

by Niall Griffiths

  —You want some n all? im say. Threat’nin me, can anyone b’lieve. —Youse fuckin Yardies an yer fuckin bling. Nowt down for yeh.

  Can only be carld a sneer, seen. Only carld a sneer an it be directed at me, b’lieve? Directed pure at me, mon.

  Me watch im go. Theer’s all dis hollerin around me now, arl dis shoutin an ascreamin an feer bitta bleedin goin on additional. But me tinkin bout dat baaaad bwoy, dat Darren; me tinkin im awight. Mean, im got barls, mon, im got barls. Theer’s a feelin in me dat it not gunna be long wait befo’ me an dat Darren mon be meetin up ageern. An me don’t know whetha it be t’plug-a man’s knees or offer im graft, knahmean? Cos a man like dat, I gots t’do sumtin widdim - gots t’deal widdim sumway. Ceernot leave im out in de world alone, mon. Gots t’deal widda bwoy like dat through war or peace mon, de one or de otha. War or peace, mon, seen? Unnerstan me? Knowomsayin? Peace, mon, or waaaaaaarrrrr.

  SAMMY GALLAGHER

  Like I’m wearing Marigold gloves all the time, them pink shiny ones with the pads on. That’s what me hands look like now. Dunno about me face cos I don’t look in mirrors any more if I can help it, an I close me eyes when I’m in the shower or the bath but I can’t help thee occasional glimpse, like. An wharrit fuckin looks like … what I fuckin look like. No wonder Marie buggered off. No wonder she took the kids. Tried to grow a beard to hide it like but the hairs only grow on the unburnt bits. Just these patches of long black hairs comin out of the pink raw stuff, horrible. I am horrible.

  It was out of order. It was all my fault. Too big for me fuckin boots I thought I could –

  It was well out of fuckin order.

  It was all my fault.

  That’s all that goes through me ed now, them two phrases, unless I’m bevvied. Which I always friggin am. Only way to deal with it, see, only way to drown the memory of me own stupidity. What was I thinkin of? How could I av been so fuckin soft?

  Every day yeh think it’ll get berrer, that yeh won’t wake up with them two phrases goin round n round in yer ed: It was out of order it was all my fault. It was out of order it was all my fault. Burrit’s always the same. Always the fuckin same. An then yeh think: is this me, now, for ever? For the rest of me life is this all I’ve got, just the booze an them two phrases? No family, no friends, an oo’s gunner employ a freak show like me? Can ardly leave the house, unless it’s to the offie or the Railway at thee end of the road where thee let me sit in the corner by the bogs an get hammered. Victim Support was no bleedin good either. What could thee do? I am beyond their help. I am friggin ruined. Pure fuckin ruined. I am not the man I once was, them an their fuckin iron changed me for ever. Their iron. Fuckin evil bastards. But it was all my own fault.

  If only thee had’ve used a knife. Or a gun. If only thee had’ve killed me cos I wish now I was dead. Thirty-fuckin-five years old an me life is over, fucked, ruined.

  ALASTAIR

  Since he was a boy and he went fishing at Bala Lake and startled a basking viper beneath a weeping willow Alastair has been dreaming not of that serpent but that he is it. That he is all one muscle; that he is convincingly camouflaged, able to hide from the world; that he packs poison; that the universe has shrunk to just one hunger, easily assuaged. These have been wonderful dreams yet he wakes from them invariably with a skin-prickling sadness when he slips into water and the dreamed shock of that catapults him out of sleep which it does now, here in this cheap room at the edge of a town called Wrexham at the inland edge of Wales.

  He does not know where he is. Half drunk still he sits up on the edge of the bed with the blackness rushing to buzz and flicker against his face like flies in swarm. He flaps at it with loose hands then holds his face in those hands then gropes and staggers to the toilet and shower room, a converted cupboard by the door. He fumbles for the light switch and flicks it, squints his eyes against the rude glare. Swills his face at the tiny sink then examines that face in the mirror; sees the cuts and bruises, the swellings subsiding. Sees the skin sallow and puffy with too much alcohol and not enough sleep. He urinates an ochre syrup into the toilet bowl then turns the light off and crosses the room in the darkness to the window where he parts the thin curtains and gazes out over the bus-station concourse, the empty apron and the deserted bays lit up weak yellow by the surrounding sodium. Chip wrappers and placcy bags like lungs roll like tumble-weeds across the blank tarmac and on the roof of the public toilets a lone gull screams, convulsing its entire body as if vomiting sound although behind the glass Alastair cannot hear it. He watches this bird for some moments, this creature lost among concrete and calling into the darkness forever unanswered. He sees it spread its wings then sees it taken up by a sudden gust wheeling through the lamplight and higher, beyond that watery glow into the upper night above.

  It is cold in here. A warp in the window frame is letting in a draught and Alastair can feel this like an icy digit stroking his cheek as if the outside world is trying to entice him even freezing as it is. Somewhere in it and outwith the town’s illumined rim is a place or an event or both that Alastair can hear calling and has been harking to for days. Since before Dean’s party. Since the futile trip to Aberystwyth to find and hurt further a one-armed absconding man. He envisages it as two footprints in blooded mud the contours of which will fit no feet but his.

  It is very cold in here. He lights a cigarette but the first pull makes him gag so he stubs it out and climbs back into the bed, curls up under the starchy duvet that smells unfamiliar, that has a texture of unwelcome. Outside, the wind continues to wail across the abandoned tarmac escarpment and down into the dark and deserted streets of the town, and he is coaxed by this sound into reseeking his hiss, his secret scaling, but the brief sleep that follows is as hollow and bereft as the outlying town itself, the howling blackness tearing down the alleyways and passages as if in hunt of any survivors of some kind of apocalypse and finding not one.

  This Alastair, he has been a viper. He has known in some way a strength of some sort. But his succeeding sleep is empty and he will wake early with no memories of that, agog as he is for what he is about to do. For the only thing left here for him to do.

  LENNY REECE

  Oh no no no mun this is not good. Some kinda beatin aye no worries bout that see but this –

  THIS –

  Tommy’s got the nine-mil to Darren’s head. Both of em screamin, they are. Darren’s tied to-a chair an Gozzy’s holdin his head still an Tommy’s got-a gun pressed against-a top of his skull, in his curly hair all matted with-a blood from-a beatin he’ve just received. Squires is grinning. Lovin this he is, see. An Tommy’s screamin an yellin an he’s gunna pull-a trigger, mun, I can see it comin I can see it about to happen it’s –

  Not good not good. Like that time some years ago when Joey gave some scally a load-a money to go off to Amsterdam an pick up some drugs an none of us ever saw the boy or the money again an Tommy convinced isself that a lad called Noel was in on it an took me round to his bedsit an after a big argument with this Noel one stood an put a cushion across his face an I thought he was gunna suffocate him but then he pulled out a gun an put three fuckin bullets into that cushion. Made me sick, it did. Totally fuckin unnecessary it was, see. He’s not right, Tommy. Not right in-a head, mun. In his early twenties Noel was that’s all an now he’ve got no life just cos Tommy needed to save face an he’s gunner do-a same thing again, here, he’s gunner put a bullet into Darren’s brain an weaselly little scally that he is this is not right, mun, not fuckin right. Somethin fuckin wrong here, mun, aye.

  This has to be stopped. This has to be prevented.

  —Where the fuck djer think you’re goin?

  —Toilet, Tommy. Need a slash, see.

  —Alright well. Be quick.

  An then he resumes his screamin at Darren an Darren resumes his screamin back but he’s beggin, now, Darren is, he knows what’s about to happen like an he’s beggin, pleadin. I can smell his piss. See it on the floor, underneath-a chair.

  Tommy’s
gunna shoot him. Tommy’s gunna kill him. An this isn’t-a way of-a world, mun, no, not this. It’s brutal aye an it’s dog-eat-dog but it don’t need-a go this far. No fuckin way, mun. It’s only a few grand. No one deserves-a die for that amount-a money, mun. Tommy will go on about the principle of-a thing an that mushers avta be taught that he can’t ever be taken for a cunt an respect an all that shite but bollax to that, mun, no one deserves-a die over a few thousand quid not when Tommy isself drives a thirty-grand Shogun an owns three properties including one in fuckin Marbella an four grand-odd to im is pocket fuckin change. Fuck that, mun. What’s about to happen yur is nothin but pure fuckin murder an if I can prevent it from happenin then I will.

  I go through-a kitchen where Shea Neary’s in a frenzy, snarlin, frothin at-a gob, whipped up by all-a commotion like. The whole place is goin mad. I lock meself in-a bog, take out me mobile phone. Scroll down through-a list-a names like until I reach Joey then press YES.

  JOEY MAGUIRE

  What do I hate most in thee entire friggin world, lar? What do I hate most? Not Bluenoses or bizzies or even Mancs, it’s the fuckin number 350. That’s what I can’t fuckin stand, them three fuckin digits. That number’s like a fuckin wall or somethin, a fuckin mountain; I just can’t fuckin get over it. It’s just pure too fuckin much.

  —There yeh go, Joe. Dezzy slaps more weight on the bar above me, a disc on each end, like. —Yer topped out. Yer on 340.

  But fuckin hell I’m not spunkin a fuckin fortune each month on ’roids only to be stuck on fuckin 340. Not stickin that shite in me veins only to be stuck on 340 fuckin pounds, no fuckin way, lar. Pure is not gunner happen. That is not the Joey way.

  —Whack another ten on, Dez.

  —Ten?

  —Each end, aye.

  —Yer goin another score?

  —You herd me. Bump it up to 360, lad.

  Dezzy does. Then he tightens the collars. The fuckin bar’s bendin in the middle like it’s gunner snap. Them weights look pure fuckin yowge. Like a fuckin gorilla couldn’t lift this, lar. It’s too much. Too much.

  Not for Joey friggin Ferdia Maguire, tho. Fucks no, not for me. Strength is the thing, lar, no messin. That’s all I’ve ever been taught throughout me life like, that yer’ve gorrer push yerself and keep on pushin yerself an when yeh think yeh can’t push yerself any more yeh just fuckin push yerself again. Me dad, me grandad, an probly his grandad before him; just fuckin push yerself, son. That’s what thee’ve always said. Be fuckin strong. Even when yer starvin, be fuckin strong. Some thin-faced feller from me childhood probly one of me uncles like, he told me about the strength inside yeh. About how it’s always fuckin there.

  Be strong. And trust no cunt.

  Me arms reach up. Thee grab the barbell at either end, just behind the weights, like. Me back sticks to the bench with sweat. Dezzy steadies the bar with a loose grip on the middle and –

  Me fuckin phone rings. Me moby in me coat pocket, I can hear the friggin thing ringin.

  —Aw fer fuck’s sakes.

  —Leave it, Joey. Do the lift, lar.

  —Can’t, Dez. Waitin for a bell off me daughter, like.

  Fuck’s sakes. I gerrup off the bench an fetch me phone. Lenny’s number shows up on the wee screen burram up now so might as well answer the fuckin thing. Sometimes it’s important.

  —Len. What’s happenin, kidder?

  An he tells me. That fuckin brudder of mine. I’m back in the country five fuckin minutes an the off-is-fuckin-chunk knob’ed’s only gunner do some more slaughterin, inny? Don’t that friggin cack-for-brains ever learn? Am tempted just to let the divvy gerron with it like, an waste wharrever fuckin no-mark mule he’s gunner waste but if I do it’ll bother me for fuckin months, lar. Some friggin burden, this, tellin yeh, bein the fuckin conscience of the family, likes. Some fuckin burden. Specially with a fuckin brudder like that.

  I tell him I’ll be round in ten. Just round the corner. He tells me to give it toes like before it all kicks off big time an I doan even get changed, just fuck off round there in me sweats. That fuckin brudder, tellin yeh. Saved the cunt’s life when he was a babby likes an I’ve been savin the dick’ed from himself ever fuckin since. Shoulda just let the bastard choke.

  Honest to fuckin God. Avin a conscience, lar … some friggin burden, tellin yeh, no lie. Some big friggin burden to carry, this.

  TOMMY MAGUIRE

  IT’S HAPPENIN AGAIN IT’S ALL FUCKIN HAPPENIN TO ME AGAIN BETRAYAL BETRAYAL BETRAYAL YER BEIN FUCKIN LAUGHED AT TOMMY LAD

  Like me Uncle Dusty bein shot before me very fuckin eyes an I was only thirteen fuckin years old some Billyboy cunt from over the water comes over an waits for him in the pub

  BOOM

  and Jesus Christ the blood

  BETRAYAL

  KILL THIS FUCKER

  SHOOT THIS FUCKER

  Pure fuckin laughin at yeh, lar

  WASTE SMOKE SLAUGHTER

  Like Noel that time after that cunt Colm fuckin Downey ripped me off an NO CUNT RIPS OFF TOMMY MAGUIRE should never av trusted that jippo bastard no way an he’s got blood on his hands now that bastard. BLOOD on his hands cos it was his fuckin fault that that Noel lad got bumped pure fuckin innocent musher like but that fuckin Colm

  BETRAYED

  His fuckin fault that I hadter waste that Noel an I hope he’s fuckin miserable that Colm cunt wherever the fuck he is now his life fallin to shite around him, hope he’s got SARS AIDS cancer an me with me Shogun an me three fuckin gaffs an moren that RESPECT an fear aye FEAR no fuckin money can buy this friggin gun in me hand know that with one wee twitch of this fuckin finger

  That Colm cunt comes back to this city an his fuckin knees’re gone elbows n ankles n all six-pack the bastard

  THAT’S WHAT YER GET FOR LAUGHIN AT ME

  But BETRAYAL

  Make im a cripple

  Fuck im right up like Sammy fuckin Gallagher

  Like DARREN FUCKIN TAYLOR’S gunner be pure is gunner happen

  Like a hundred fuckin others cos no cunt rips me off or treats me like a knob’ed fuckin NO ONE does I am DEATH to the toerags I am DEATH to these no-marks fuckin scum I am DEATH to them who think ther better than me think thee can make me look a twat I AM

  There’s a knockin on the door. Darren fuckin Taylor that’ll be.

  I nod at Gozzy to goan answer it. Ee nods back an does.

  This cunt’s gunner die.

  BUS DRIVER

  Can’t say that I noticed him, really, to be honest. Boy just got on, paid his fare, went and sat at the back. Noticed that he kept his rucksack held all tight to his chest like and when he got on that early in the morning I thought to meself: Aye-aye. Here’s trouble. I mean you would, wouldn’t you? Scouse lad with his face all bruised and cut and the baseball hat and that, that shellsuit? Mean, a boy like that gets on the bus and you’re automatically on your guard, aren’t you? I’d heard of the Cilcain robbery, like, but I didn’t make the connection and anyway as I say, all’s he did was get on, pay his fare and go and sit at the back. Why should I have noticed him? Perfect passenger, he was. And them you don’t notice. Them’re the best kind.

  And it’s still a job I love, to be honest. I’ve been doing the Wrexham–Mold circular for years and I never get bored. Up early, open roads, day all new and fresh, badgers and foxes and all the other animals you see at that time. It’s brilliant, I love it, to be honest. The early run, like, the roads’re all empty and I go through all the little villages on the way, across the Vale of Clwyd, beautiful it is, see. Breathtaking. I’m too busy looking out at the scenery and concentrating on me driving to notice one particular passenger although as I say I did notice this feller when he got on but after that … well, he just kept himself to himself, like. Didn’t even notice when he got off at Cilcain although he was probably the only person to do so at that time of the morning, to be honest. I mean, I was just enjoying meself, as I always do. It was a beautiful morning. But I do recall stopping at Cilcain because I remember
watching some big hawks circling over the post office, the one that was robbed, big buzzards, they were. But that’s all I remember, really … as I say, you tend not to notice the good passengers, them who cause no problems, just pay their fare and sit quiet. You tend not to notice them, and they’re the best kind, to be honest.

  ALASTAIR, HIS GRANDMOTHER KATE: HER LEAVING

  MUGGED

  Come to Wales, Simon says. Stay in my parents’ holiday cottage, he says, do some climbing, canoeing, get drunk in the pubs, have a great time of it. Shag women called Rhiannon, show the boyos how to drink. Have a great time, he says. What he doesn’t say is: Come to North Wales and get rolled by some scar-faced Scouser for ya mobile fuckin phone …

  Capel Garmon: that’s where Si’s cottage is. So I got the London–Chester train and took a bus out into the hills and did a bit of walking on my own and spent the night under canvas on my own by some river. Few spliffs, few tinnies, did a bit of writing … didn’t sleep very well tho cos of all the noises. God, the noises. Snufflings and scrapings and screechings all night outside the tent, felt like I was camping in Africa or somewhere. So I woke up knackered, like, and packed up the tent and took a walk to the nearest village for a bite to eat and a cuppa and to catch the bus out to Si’s place at Capel Garmon, and just as I turn the corner I see the bus pulling away. Missed it. And standing there as if he’s just that moment got off it is some scally in a baseball hat holding a rucksack to his chest and he calls me over and what does he do? Only takes my fuckin mobile, doesn’t he? Only mugs me for my fuckin mobile … Honest, he’s like some Harry Enfield Scouser, he is: Ceeeerrm down! Ey, lar, ey! Ceeeerrm down!

  Oh yes, come to wonderful Wales and get mugged by some Scouse bastard in a shellsuit with cuts and bruises on his face. Oh nice one, Si, nice one, my bravvah. And all those noises in the night as well … tellin ya, this is the Wild West, my friend. Too fucking right. This is the Wild West.

  And he goes off with my mobile, round the corner somewhere, and I’m just about to chase him and knock him on the back of his head and take the fucking thing back when he reappears, like, and just hands it over. That’s all he does, just hands it straight over back to me. Says sammink to me in that awful nasal accent and then waves and walks away. Waves! Politest mugger I’ve ever encountered, not that I’ve met many, like … in fact, to be honest, he was the first. And it could’ve been much, much worse … but he was still a fucking Scouser, tho, wasn’t he? All the fucking same, man, them bastards, all the fucking same. Lucky I didn’t get me face Stanley’d.