Wreckage

by Niall Griffiths

  —DON’T LISTEN TO IM TOMMY THAT GOZZY CUNT I NEVER I NEVER NO PLEASE DON’T FUCKIN

  Wrexham spreads and scatters into low brown council estates and these soon too dissolve, absorbed by the surrounding green. As if that word ‘green’ could sufficiently encapsulate the thousand tones and shades of that colour lying and rising roundabout. How much greener green was when as children we’d yet to learn the word ‘green’. How immeasurably more wonderful grass was as we crawled like quadrupeds through it whether in meadow or on hillside or even in the scrappy squares of dogshat and littered vegetation that separated then and still do the big beige blocks of corporation housing. Green the grass and green the leaves. Green the lichen, green the weeds.

  Alastair holds the sackful of money tight to his beating chest and gazes out the window at the land beginning to swell, into the hills he moves through and towards the blue glassy mountains now visible in the near distance. He recalls this landscape as a recent acquaintance, familiar as he is with it from the unsuccessful trip to find and hurt for his sins the one-armed absconder. Three days ago, was that? Four? Seems like an entire childhood since between then and now was that THUNK and the falling old lady. The awful way she crumpled and in a coma in Wrexham General may not survive heavy blows to the head with blunt instrument probably badly brain-damaged doctors say if she should pull through. Trauma trauma and

  THUNK. Darren, that psycho evil bastard. Yeh but the fucker’ll be tampin now, won’t he, runnin round the city tryna find this fuckin money … tryna escape Tommy … that bastard that evil fuckin …

  THUNK with the hammer disgusting crime on a defenceless old lady. Catch the thugs who did this says the policeman on telly and bring them to justice, shocking wicked cowardly. This

  Aye but she might be out of hospital. She might now be at home, back at her shop or her husband may be there but what if it’s empty? What then? Post it all back through the letter box note by blood-soaked bastard note all of it every last red penny. Because there must be more than this. Just get rid of the fuckin stuff just return it, give it all back because because there must be more please God let there be more cos otherwise this is this is all unfuckin –

  The bus slows to a crawl to squeeze past another bus along a narrow lane, high hemming hedges on each side. Just two, three inches between the two vehicles, that’s all. Length of a thumb. Alastair regards the other bus, close as it is, notes its destination (RHYL) and that the driver of it is a woman and that she carries no passengers and that someone has fingertipped the words ‘CLEAN ME’ into the dried muck on the rear window. And that that muck is made up of a million brown pointillistic particles each one seen in close focus cracked and scaled like the surface of a salt lake. Each one and there are millions.

  A torrent to him, the world is now. Each of the leaves that brush against the glass by his face, he sees their spines, their veins, the tiny frilled holes where grubs have fed. And the twigs from which they depend, knuckled like fingers, gnarled like the twisted fingers of arthritis like

  Kate. Or those hands that handed to him his fudge and dropped his change. Curled atop starched white sheets in a hospital like –

  The bus speeds up. Through a village still sleeping apart from a postman in a yellow rainproof although the drizzle of the last few days has now gone and the air hums blue, yet still cold. Alastair wonders what made that drizzle, how it was formed. Why it fell on him as he lay beaten to blackout in the gutter outside Ma Egerton’s pub. And why nobody stopped to help him unless of course down that quiet back street nobody passed in the mere minute or two that he spent unconscious.

  Rhyl. It was going to Rhyl, that other bus. He recollects visiting the funfair there as a child. Several times, he went, often with Kate. And he wonders, here on this bus among the swelling hills, whether Darren, whether Tommy, whether Joey did the same, and whether like him they stood spun like candyfloss and awed by the mad machines that whirled people through space and scattered the screams of their lovely terror out over the throbbing lights and through the spokes of the Ferrises like the gearings of giant clocks. Wonders whether they stood dazed like he did in that gorgeous gaudy kingdom, the sweet smells and oniony smells and barks and blarings and saw something in those strobes of a vista open only to a child’s grace, pre-caries pre-sex pre-knowledge of a certain sort but known certainly to the lost and the lonely that tend for some reason to orbit those loud crowds as they do bus stations yet do not commingle since to do so would insist that what they search for is not only unattainable to them but is even in any form demarkable wholly unknown, and that that unknowing is part of the knowledge unwanted, never yearned for. And part of Alastair long interred but still writhing asks whether something of that wonder is ever able still to survive. Or whether it ever dies entirely. And thinks probably that at a certain age in such places among exhaust and bodies moving aimlessly that it does.

  The bus enters another village and Alastair sees a sign, half hidden in a hedgerow as if it too is organic, a peculiar privet. It reads: CILCAIN. Alastair thumbs the bell-button and moves towards the front of the bus, towards the doors. The bus decelerates as it approaches the shelter. Considering what he’s already done he will risk injury or worse should he return to his home city but after what he’s about to do if indeed he does it he will never be able to go back to Liverpool ever again. These small villages hereabouts with their barns and bus stops and small pubs and post-office-cum-grocery-stores and their crumbling stone shells adjacent to the huge dwellings built recently to house the rich and also the hills and mountains above and the rivers and woods too, these places must now and for ever be his portion in the world, his cold and only home, if he gets off the bus, if he actually does what he’s planning to do. They will be from now on what he lives within adrift for ever until he dies.

  The bus stops and hisses. Alastair disembarks, with his rucksack. The bus pulls away and leaves him there.

  * * *

  —NAH TOMMY DON’T FUCKIN DO IT MATE PLEASE TOMMY LISTEN

  —Someone at the door, Tom.

  —FUCKIN IGNORE IT WELL! THIS CUNT’S GUNNER –

  —It’s Joey, T.

  —Who?

  —Joey. An he ain’t lookin too fuckin chuffed.

  —Aw shite.

  —What should I do, lar?

  Sigh. —Answer it, well. Lerrim in.

  The post office; it’s just a small, whitewashed building beneath a tree. That’s all it is. High above it three big birds soar, circling on thermals, making high squealing sounds as they search for prey. Hawks of some kind, Alastair thinks. Like vultures in a Western. Don’t see such things in town, no hawks, no, but plenty of fuckin vultures, oh aye yeh; millions of them. Without wings, like.

  There is a telephone call to be made. Two telephone calls to be made. He has only fourteen pence in change but there is a hiker, boots and a knapsack, walking towards him.

  —Gorra moby, lar?

  —Pardon?

  —I said av yeh gorra mobile phone, lad?

  —Yes, I have.

  —Giz it well. Need to use it.

  —It’s, it’s got no credit. I’ve –

  —Give me yer fuckin mobile phone!

  Alastair’s hand held out. The hiker delves into the pocket of his Gore-tex and takes out an Ericsson and places it on the waiting palm.

  —Can I have it back when you’re finished with it? I need it round here, don’t I?

  Ally ignores him, walks over to the lay-by beneath the tree where he and Darren parked the Morris Minor what seems like an age ago. The Morris Minor; beneath running water now. Newts and frogs for passengers, a stickleback for a driver. He regards the phone, notes with a smile the Orange display in the LCD and taps in 453 and listens to a robotic female voice inform him that his remaining balance is twenty-two pounds and seventy-three pence, goodbye. No credit, the hiker said; lying fuckin knob’ed. Gobshite. Alastair taps in another number from his memory, General Enquiries at the Royal Liverpool Infirmary. A voice
answers. He gives it a name. The voice asks him if he is related and he says ‘grandson’ and is told that sadly that person is no longer with us. She passed away during the night. He terminates the call then taps in another number from memory, hears it ring and knows that it will be playing ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’ in Darren’s pocket somewhere. He waits for it to be answered but after several rings it is transferred to voicemail. He leaves a message:

  —Darren. It’s me. Djer know where I am? I’m at that postie in North Wales, lar. I’ve got the swag with me an djer know wharram gunner do? I’m gunner give it back, lar. Every fuckin penny. I’m gunner give it back. Djer know why? Cos yerra fuckin wacko. Yer fuckin soft in thee ed, lar. An yeh know somethin else? I told Tommy that you’ve skanked the money. So if he’s not friggin wellyin yeh now then he soon fuckin will be. Like that, Darren? Like all this shite, do yeh? You are fucked. Pure fucked. Av a nice life, yeh evil fuckin psycho sacker shite. See ya. Fuck off.

  He turns the phone off, goes back over to the hiker who’s still standing in the same place and gives it back. Just hands it over. The hiker looks down at it in his hand and beams:

  —Ah thank you very much, my bravvah. Quality, man, quality.

  Alastair grunts and waves his hand and moves away. Soft southern blert.

  He moves. His feet take him over the road. The rucksack held again to his chest feels like it is full of sodden sand so heavy has it become yet light inside he is as if all burden has been sucked from him, drawn into the sack and with the money it holds within. Something new awaits him in that small white shop, shadowed by tree, under the hungry circling birds.

  Lenny comes back in. Joey’s right behind him, steroid-swelled deltoids bulging from his sleeveless sweat top. He stands and surveys; there’s Darren tied to a chair, his face a mask of blood, there’s Tommy standing by him with a guilty gun at his side. Gozzy there with a clenched fist held out towards Joey at chest-height which Joey looks down at incredulous.

  —The fuck’s that, Goz? I ain’t punchin fists with you, lar. Ain’t a fuckin social visit, this. Thought you ad some people to meet today, anyway?

  —Aye, yeh, I do. Just thought I’d –

  —Yeh thought fuckin notten, lar. Just gorra call from Raymond on me way round here, he’s waitin on yeh down the dock. Like we arranged, remember?

  Gozzy just stands there staring. Strange glint in his misaligned grey eyes.

  —The fucker yeh waitin for? Fuck off down the docks! NOW!

  Gozzy does. He just leaves.

  —An you. Joey points at his brother then that pointing hand turns over and uncurls into a flat palm. —Giz that fuckin gun.

  —Nah, Joey, listen, lad. This lil fuckin get’s just –

  —I don’t care, Tom.

  —He’s fuckin ripped us all off, Joe! He’s screwed us over! He’s fuckin –

  —Tommy, I couldn’t give two fucks what he’s done. I’m not avin you bringin the fuckin glare down on us again cos yeh can’t control yer fuckin soldiers. Giz that fuckin gun.

  No movement. Joey roars:

  —GIZ!

  Tommy flinches and hands the gun over and Joey takes it and stuffs it down the elasticated waistband of his kex and pulls his top down over it. A sniggering is heard. It’s Darren. Pink bubbles pop at his split lips as he laughs.

  —The fucker you laughin at, knob’ed?

  —You. Distorted Darren’s words are, coming as they do from such a damaged mouth. —Yer just a little kid, aren’t yeh? Scared of yer big brudder. Like a shitein little fuckin –

  Tommy punches Darren again with a fist the size of a melon. Droplets of red spatter across the computer screen.

  —Oi!

  —But he’s fuckin laughin at me, Joe! Yeh heard him, didn’t yeh? He’s takin me for all the cunts under the sun, lad!

  —No one’s gettin wasted here, Tom. Don’t care what he’s fuckin done, no one’s gettin smoked. Len; need a word.

  The two men go off into the kitchen. The dog barks four times then calms as it recognises the incomers. Tommy stares down at Darren. Darren all smashed grins back up at him, sees Tommy’s stupid jowly face up there by the ceiling, above his bellies. Sees over that flabby shoulder some postcards from Australia stuck to the wall, remembers that the eldest Maguire brother, Frankie, lives in New South Wales and has done for several years. Land of opportunity. Small cities. Plenty of immigrants opening restaurants and bars and eager for them not to be burned down. Step One.

  Money for the airfare. Easy. Bit of dealing through Peter. Then

  Cos he can’t stay here. Not after this. Unless he gets in with the Steg or Willy Hunter and gets some payback off this fat fucker cos he’s gorra get it, this bastard. Oh aye yeh and that friggin Alastair who

  Darren feels his phone vibrate in his pocket, hears it playing its tune. Tommy shakes his head but Darren has no intention of answering it anyway even if he could, even if his arms weren’t roped to the chairback. After a few bars it stops and moves on to voicemail. Darren’ll answer it later cos he knows he’s going to survive this now. Knows he’s going to get out of this alive cos did yeh see the way Tommy shat it when Joey came in? Pure shiters. Is right; fuckin bully, Tommy. Hasn’t got thee arse to –

  Joey comes back in with Lenny and a rifle which he hands over to his brother.

  —The fuck’s this, Joe?

  —That’s all yer gettin, Tom.

  —It’s a fuckin air rifle, lar.

  —Aye, I know.

  —Aven’t even got any pellets for it, lar.

  —Hard fuckin lines, well. But that’s all yer gonna get. Can’t trust yeh with a proper shooter, likes, so that’s yer lot. Fuckin kid’s gun. An I mean this, Tom; I hear that this knob’ed here or anyone else has been fuckin slaughtered then that’s you an me fuckin finito. Unnerstand me? Fuckin end of. No friggin brudder of mine. Unnerstand? Come ed, Lenny.

  Joey leaves with Lenny who glances and shrugs at Tommy. Doors slam. Tommy regards the rifle. Darren laughs.

  —Ooo big fuckin man with his airgun, eh? Fuckin big man! Gunna shoot a few pigeons are yeh, big bad gangster man! Fuckin airgun, lar! Not even friggin loaded! Big bad fuckin gangster man with his –

  One of Tommy’s huge hands engulfs Darren’s blood-bristled skull. The thumb and forefinger stretch the lids of one eye apart and that eye blood-laced and terrified spins and darts in its socket. The barrel of the rifle is jabbed into that eye, actually against it, screwing into the tear duct.

  —Think am fuckin funny, yeh?

  Darren gurgles laughter. He can smell his own piss and his eye screams with pain but still he gurgles laughter. This won’t kill him. It will hurt a great deal but he will come out of this much more alive and bigger and stronger and badder. So he gurgles laughter, of a sort.

  —Well laugh now, dick’ed.

  So much ahead of him. Oceans and deserts and revenge. There is so much to live for.

  —Mudderfucker no-mark thinkin am fuckin funny, let’s see yeh laugh now.

  The world is his and it shines brighter than he ever thought possible. Tommy pulls the trigger.

  Them big birds. The blue sky and the distant mountain and how light the money feels against his chest like a kitten like a lamb, a bushel of wheat like something hollow, barely there. And his chest too with this sensation as if he’s been emptied out removed from the bloodied sludge of existence. Become something else.

  There it is, the post office. There is a man. There is a shotgun raised.

  As if weightless enough to soar with those big birds, over that mountain. As if transformed enough to adopt their effortless grace, high as they are, remote as they are. Something of their grace some way shared.

  And oh what clarity; what intense resolution of sight. The webbing of the man’s hand that grips the stock of the shotgun, the soft flap between thumb and forefinger; Alastair sees that it bears two tiny blisters. Peppercorn-sized. He wonders how they got there. Wonders what burnt the man.

  The sunlight
bounces off the man’s spectacles, making him light-eyed. Words amass and jostle in Alastair’s throat, words like SORRY and FORGIVE and PLEASE and NO and LISTEN but he cannot utter them, suddenly supine as he is with his chest torn open and the money falling around in tatters set aflame by the storm of white-hot shot, the storm that lasted a second. Some of those flaming shreds seesaw down to land inside Alastair’s rent chest and sizzle in the puddles there and in their falling stands a man and behind him is a shop and behind that is a mountain and behind that is a sky in the wide blue of which soar and circle three winged things, so high, so high. Their spread wings to catch him. A breeze blows across him and soothes his exposed slowing heart and so high they are, those winged things, high enough to see the whole of Wales up there. Liverpool as well, even. The island entire.

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  Published by Vintage 2006

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  Copyright © Niall Griffiths 2005

  Niall Griffiths has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  First published in Great Britain in 2005 by