Abide with Me

by Ian Ayris

  I knock, really soft, like I don't really want no one bein in. No answer. Not a peep. I wanna walk away, but I can't. Not fuckin like this.

  I knock again. Louder.

  The door creaks open, but it's on the latch and all I can see is these eyes squintin through the dark. It's her. Kenny's old girl.

  'Kenny?' she says, her voice creakin just like the door she's just opened.

  Reeks of fags and booze, she does, and it's like she's holdin onto the door to stop her fallin on her face.

  'It's me, Mrs Montgomery. John, across the road.'

  She's still squintin at me, tryin to make me out. It ain't like she can't see me proper or nothing. Ain't gonna be dark for a while. Just she's pissed, that's all.

  'John?'

  'That's right, Mrs Montgomery, from Kenny's class at school.'

  It’s clear she ain’t got a fuckin clue who I am. Then this look sort of flashes cross her face.

  Massive smile, she does. Shows all her black and crusted teeth. Fuck me, they're awful.

  'Have you come for tea, love?' she says.

  Fuckin hell. Away with the fuckin fairies this one.

  'That's right, Mrs Montgomery. Come for tea.'

  She closes the door a bit to get the chain off and opens it up wide. And, fuck me, she looks like she's just been dug up out the garden. She got a fag hangin out the side of her mouth, an inch of ash crumbling off, and her hair's all stiff and up and all over the fuckin place. She's in this filthy fuckin dressin gown and got lipstick smeared round her mouth and the make-up round her eyes is all comin off on her cheeks where she's been cryin. Gaff stinks of cat shit and piss and sick. I sort of gag, but I cover it up by wipin me nose on the back of me hand. The fag hangin out her mouth's all ash now, and it breaks off, droppin on the carpet and she just walks right over it.

  'I'll get you a drink,' she says, but instead of headin for the kitchen, she staggers into the front room, like she's already forgot what she just said.

  I follow her in. She's climbed right up one end of this shitty settee, right tight in the corner.

  'Sit down, dear. John, did you say?'

  'That's right, Mrs Montgomery. From Kenny's class.'

  I sit up the other end from her. Nowhere else to sit. Just this settee. Telly's blinkin in the corner. A little black and white portable. The screen's so fuzzy I can't hardly see what's on. Some fuckin quiz show or something, I think. I look round, thinkin there might be a picture of Kenny up somewhere, but there's fuck all. Wallpaper's peelin off the walls, and the carpets stained with patches of piss. Probably the cat. Although, lookin at the state of Kenny's old girl here, I wouldn't put it fuckin past her.

  'Would you like a fag, dear?'

  A fag? Brings a smile to me face. First time in ages. She’s askin me if I’m wantin a fag?

  'If you got one,' I say. 'Cheers.'

  'I'll just get you one, dear,' she says.

  Never turn down a free snout.

  After a bit of a struggle, she manages to pull herself off the settee. And as she staggers past, I see she's pissin herself as she's walkin.

  She comes back ten minutes later, with a carrier bag.

  'I've got them in here somewhere, love,' she says, shovin her hand in the carrier and rummagin around.

  But she can't find em and ends up tippin the whole lot on the carpet. There's all sorts of shit in there. Sweet wrappers, old bus tickets, a purse, some letters, couple of stuck together Spangles, and about half a dozen screwed-up fag packets. She looks in all the boxes then puts em back in the bag, sort of lookin surprised every time she finds one of em empty.

  I'm watchin her do all this, all this fuckin shit, and wonderin what the fuck I'm still doin here, when she picks up a screwed up bit of paper that's come out the bag. She flattens it out right gentle, like it's something sort of special. I can see it's typed but can't see nothing else. She holds it right up to her eyes and she's readin it, and her mouth’s movin, just like what Kenny used to do.

  The smell of cat shit's got down me throat and I think I'm gonna throw up. And I ain't gettin no fuckin joy here. I'm just gettin up when she sort of wails. Wails like a proper fuckin banshee. Scares the shit outta me. She's holdin this letter tight to her chest, and bawlin her fuckin eyes out.

  Ain't no point stayin. Not with this fuckin lunatic. I've made me mind up, and I'm off. What the fuck was I thinkin anyway? I'm just about to open the front door, when everything goes quiet. She's stopped. She's fuckin stopped. Then it hits me that bit of paper might be something about Kenny. Deep breath, but not too deep, you know, and I go back in the front room.

  She's asleep, head nodded forward. Snorin all quiet like a fuckin baby. The bit of paper what she was lookin at's on her lap, under her hands. I sneak over, tryin not to tread in her piss. Wouldn't wanna do that. Not really. I'm nearly there, right in front of her, when she farts and it sort of wakes her up. She sits up straight and snorts then goes straight back to sleep again. It's like playin 'What's the time, Mister fuckin Wolf?' like what we did as kids. I wait a while, but she's out for the fuckin count this time.

  I whip the paper off her lap quick as a flash, and I'm gone.

  It’s got bloody freezin outside, like it does when the sun disappears all of a sudden. The street lamp’s just comin on, the same one Kenny spent half his life lookin at. I lean up against the lamp-post and have a gander at the letter. And it is. It's about Kenny. It's from the hospital, some mental place out in Essex. Date's two months back. Says Kenny's too old to stay there, bein a kids’ place an all. They want his old girl to come to some sort of meetin. Reckon they can't find nothing else for him. He's much better, so they reckon. Anglin at gettin him home, that's what I think. Well, that obviously ain't fuckin materialised, has it. Like I says, this was two months ago. He could be anywhere now.

  Only one thing to do. Old girl's fucked, she ain't gonna be no use. Gotta have me, Keith and Thommo go over Kenny's nut-house, see what the score is. If he ain't there, like if they've moved him some place else or something, we get em to tell us where he's gone and -

  Shit. Who the fuck am I kiddin? Three fifteen year old fuckin knobs like us, turn up at a nut-house in the middle of fuckin nowhere, tell em we gotta see Kenny? Fuckin right, they're gonna take some fuckin notice of us, ain't they? And, anyway, what the fuck's the point? Kenny, yeah, he knows what it feels like, but fuckin look at him. Been half his life in a fuckin lunatic asylum. Like he fuckin coped.

  I go home, let myself in. Mum's got the telly blarin. Probably don't even hear me come in. Don't wanna see her anyway. Don't even wanna look at her. I sneak upstairs. Me bedroom door’s open. Becky's lyin on the floor, colourin. I step over her. She don't move a muscle. Tongue's out the side of her mouth,concentratin too much to notice. I'm steppin over her and headin towards the window.

  I look out the garden. Grass a foot high and Dad's flower bed's all gone to shit. Mum hangs the washin out, but apart from that no one goes out the garden no more. I see me old Raleigh Chopper stood up against the back fence, paint peelin off. Brakes are rusty and the gears are fucked

  The sun's goin in. And there's shadows. Long, thin, shadows creepin towards me.

  BANG!

  I put me fist through the window.

  Blood and glass all over. Becky's screamin and Mum's runnin. And I'm lookin at how the top of me hand's opened right up and how the bits of glass stickin in it look so fuckin beautiful. It's like they've been stuck there me whole life and I've only just noticed.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Uncle Derek has a right pop at me after that stunt with the window. Says I'm the man of the house now and ought to start fuckin actin like one. Gives me a right goin over, he does. And he's right. I know he's right. 'Yes, Uncle Derek,' I says. 'No, Uncle Derek.' Three bags fuckin full, Uncle Derek. And all the time I'm thinkin, Who the fuck do you think you are? Talkin to me like you was fuckin worth pissin on. You Yid cunt.

  Me sixteenth birthday comes and goes without so much as a
fuckin balloon. Not that I want it all jelly and ice-cream or nothing but, you know, something would have been nice. Mum give me a card with a tenner in it. That was it. A card with a tenner.

  'Love, Mum and Becky.'

  I pocket the dosh and rip the card to bits.

  Keep myself to myself most of the time. And when I get right down, when I get really fuckin low, I got this little penknife what I nicked when I was up west with Keith and Thommo one time. Give me arm a little scratch with it or the top of me leg, or just push the blade as hard as I can without goin in. I got a couple of old scars I open up every now and then when I'm really pissed off, but I always got a smile ready for Mum. And I'm sayin all the right things, makin all the right noises, and she's none the fuckin wiser.

  I got me a little part-time job with a mate of Dad's, Charlie Paynter. Charlie's got this fruit and veg stall at Brick Lane, and me and Keith help put it up for him and take it down of a Sunday. Thommo ain't up for it. Too fucked off his face on Evo-Stik to get up that time of the mornin. Half past four, heftin lumps of steel up and down, tryin to bolt it together when your fingers are so cold feels like you ain't fuckin got none. But I like the harshness of it, you know, the cold and the dark. Don't even like no one talkin to me. Just wanna feel the cold and breathe the dark right in.

  Good bloke, Charlie, salt of the fuckin earth. I tell Mum I'm savin what Charlie's givin me, cos that's what she wants to hear. But I ain't got a penny to me name. All goes on burgers and kebabs and shit. And there ain't nothing else I want that I can't get by other means, if you know what I'm sayin.

  We got the old shopliftin down to a fine art now. Tapes, sweets, tins of beans. Fuckin anything. Thommo's dad, he was inside for a while, he's got this pitch at the market, other end of the Bethnal Green Road. He tells us what he wants, and we get it. Then he flogs it. Don't give us much of a cut, mind, the tight cunt.

  But it's gettin so it's a right pain in the arse, you know, like he's really fuckin muggin us off. All right when we first started, we was just kids. It was a bit of a laugh. But we're gettin a few close shaves now. And I'm thinkin it's time to get out.

  Last straw come when I'm in this record shop down Bishopsgate not long back. I got me list of tapes what Thommo's old man wants. Like I says, we're nickin to order now, real fuckin professional. Long as you follow the rules it's a piece of piss. Check where the staff is. Have an exit. Just get what you gotta get. And keep your head about you at all fuckin times.

  I gotta pick up four tapes; AC/DC, Queen, Deep Purple, Rollin Stones. I got loads more today, but four tapes is all I can get in me coat. Once I've got em, the plan is to drop em off to Thommo waitin round the corner with his big fuck off sports bag. Then it's on to the next gaff.

  Place is half empty, makes it a bit harder. But I'm sort of makin me way to the front, pickin up a record here and there, lookin at it for a while, then puttin it back. That's what everyone else is doin, so I know I ain't standin out. There's two blokes behind the counter. One's a fuckin fat-arse, looks about fifty, so he ain't gonna be no trouble, but the other one, he's younger, and he looks like he can shift a bit. I slip Queen in me pocket. One down, three to go.

  The fat bloke puts some electronic shit on the record player. OMD or some sort of fuckin rubbish, and he's up there dancin like a cunt behind the counter, like he wants everyone to see him and say what a fuckin laugh he is, what a great fuckin bloke he is, but he ain't. He's just a sad, fat wanker who probably lives at home with his mum and wears her clothes when she ain‘t about.

  I pick up Deep Purple and stick it in me pocket when the young bloke's countin some change out to a punter. I'm thinkin I better make the most of it while he's busy, and stick AC/DC in quick. All done. And they ain't got a fuckin clue. Just pick me last one up on the way out, and it's off to the next gaff.

  But I'm fuckin careless. I don't like the look of the young fella, and wanna get the job done quick. When I go for The Stones I knock over a stack of fuckin Leo Sayer discount tapes. Shit. I look round. Everyone's lookin at me. Young bloke, specially. I'm weighin him up, and he's doin the same, like the O.K. fuckin Corral. I can see what I want, I'm nearly touchin it, but he won't take his fuckin eyes off me.

  Fuck it. He's gotta get over the counter and through the shop before he gets to me, and I'm almost on the fuckin door as it is. Odds in me favour. I grab the tape and have it away on me toes.

  I'm runnin. Fuckin peggin it. I ain't done that in a while, and pretty soon I'm fucked. All them fags, see. All them fags since I was twelve. I'm leggin it round the corner, and down this alley, and me lungs are fuckin burnin. I'm headin for Petticoat Lane cos I know I can lose the fucker there. But the cunt's still behind me, and I can hear his size tens slammin on the pavement like a fuckin machine gun.

  Thommo's waitin not far off. I can see him, and he’s fuckin shittin himself. He looks more fuckin scared than what I am. I'm thinkin all he's gotta do is trip this cunt up, stamp on his bollocks, and we're fuckin away. I try and shout something to him but nothing comes out cos I'm too fucked. And as I'm gettin nearer, instead of waitin for this geezer chasin me, Thommo’s havin it away on his toes himself, the stupid cunt.

  We're stumblin now, me and Thommo. The market's just round the corner, but we're both fucked on our feet and this cunt's still on our case. Thommo's more fucked than me, his lungs bein all stuck up with Copydex or whatever the fuck he's had up his snout lately, but I ain't fairin much better. Market ain't far, and it's gonna be packed, so we ain't got long till we can lose this cunt. Just gotta keep goin.

  But there's this bloke right up ahead of us, right in our way, goin down a rubbish bin. Fuckin huge, he is. Shaved head. Wearin this big dirty green parka like a tent.

  And there's something about him.

  I forget about this fucker chasin me, cos I think we've lost him anyway, and I slow down. Got me hands on me knees, bent over, catchin me breath. Thommo's carried on without me, got his second wind and he's took off like his fuckin arse is on fire. And I'm watchin this bloke pull a bit of pizza out the bin.

  Thommo's noticed I ain't with him.

  'Fuckin come on, John! Come on!' he screams, then turns on a fuckin sixpence and carries on runnin.

  And the big man turns his head to me, chewin on the pizza. His eyes are like they got too big some time, and they sort of burst out his head, and he's got these dark circles under em like he ain't had a sleep for fuckin years. And the fat's hangin off his face like a bloodhound.

  He’s lookin at me, straight in me eyes, but he ain't sayin a word, like he can't even see me. Like I ain't even there.

  Kenny.

  And I want him to say something to me. Anything. Just so I know he's in there proper, so I know he’s all right. Mind you, I've just caught him goin down a fuckin bin for his dinner, so it don't look good. Then I hear them size tens bangin down the street again and I remember why I can’t breathe no more.

  ***

  The three of us is over The Barmy, me, Keith, and Thommo. Me legs are still fuckin killin me from gettin away from the fucker out the record shop. I ain't said nothing about Kenny to Keith or Thommo. We got business to discuss.

  Me and Keith's on the swings, knockin back some of Thommo's old man's cheap cider, and Thommo's sprawled out on the roundabout, off his nut on a bag of glue. And there's these two little fuckers spinnin him round and round and round. He’s already chucked his guts up once and it looks like these little bastards are seein if they can get another load out of him.

  Keith's on his third can, and I've snapped open me fourth. He's quiet, Keith, like he's thinkin or something.

  'John?'

  'Yeah?'

  'What you reckon on Thommo's old man?'

  'His old man?'

  'Yeah, I mean, you know, d'you reckon he's muggin us off?'

  Muggin us off?

  Keith ain‘t stupid. He's just bein careful. We both like Thommo, see. Like him loads. Wouldn't wanna hurt him. But course his old man's muggin us off. I mean, i
t's us that does the fuckin business, and it's him takes all the fuckin money. And what he weighs us out end of the week just ain't fuckin worth it no more. And after the other day, I'm ready to jack the whole fuckin thing in. I look back at Thommo on the roundabout. Don't want him to hear us. Not slaggin off his old man. No chance of that, though, not the way those little bastards are chuckin him round.

  'Fuckin right he's muggin us off, Keith,' I says. 'He's been fleecin us fuckin ragged since the day we fuckin started, mate.'

  Keith chucks his empty beer can in the bushes, and blows his cheeks out.

  'So what you thinkin?’ I says.

  'We ain't kids no more, Johnny. Time we fuckin moved it up a notch.'

  Keith's a steady lad. Knows what he's talkin about. And he's fuckin right. This film comes in me head, something I see when I was little. Can't shake it.

  'It's like that thing,' I says to him, still tryin to think of the name of the film, 'that thing with those kids, nickin and stuff, and they give it all to that filthy old cunt with the beard.'

  'Fuck me, yeah,' Keith says, 'I know what you mean. Fuck, what was it?'

  There's a thud from the roundabout and the two little fuckers are runnin away, pissin themselves. Thommo's come right off. He's tryin to stand up but he's all over the fuckin place.

  'Cunts!' he shouts back at em, shakin his fist. 'I'll fuckin have you next time.'

  They couldn't have been more than eight or nine, but I'd still rate em against Thommo in the state he's in.

  'Thommo?' I shouts. 'What's the name of that film with all them kids nickin stuff? Old. Got music in it where they all sing, and shit?'

  'Fucked if I know,' he says, stumblin towards us.

  'Dodger,' says Keith. 'Something Dodger.'

  Then I got it.

  'Fuckin Oliver Twist, ain't it. Fuckin Oliver Twist. And who was that old cunt?'