Abide with Me

by Ian Ayris

  ***

  It's been a year since Kenny's gone. I think about him every day.

  I see him sometimes. In me dreams, or if I close me eyes real tight. And he's lookin at me. Just lookin. And his eyes, they're big and they're bright and they're shinin, and it's like he talks to me with em. And when I squeeze me eyes even tighter and look really close, his eyes shine even more. And they're just like what he said about Becky's all them years back in his diary.

  And that's when it really gets me, that's what makes me really fuckin sad. Cos behind that glue, underneath all that shit what ended up being his life, those eyes of his, they never stopped shinin.

  Shinin like fuckin rainbows.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Some people say time heals. But time don't heal. Time gets in your throat and it chokes and it crushes and it rips you into tiny little bits till there ain't nothing left of you but dust and tears.

  That's what time does.

  Been two years since Ronnie Swordfish cut my mate Kenny in half.

  Two years.

  Ever since he got banged up for it I been waitin for something to happen. A knock at the door. A phone call. Anything. Someone like Ronnie Swordfish, see, he don't get sent down without someone wantin a piece of who done it.

  With Kenny six foot under, that just leaves me.

  Me and everyone I love.

  13th April Nineteen-ninety-one

  We been home an hour, me and Charlie. The market was busy as fuck. Rushed off our feet, we was. Mum's in the kitchen doin egg 'n' chips for tea. Becky's still out. Hangs round with her mates from college and comes home late as she can get away with. Fair enough. She ain't little no more.

  The phone rings once. Stops. Rings again.

  I'm edgy right away.

  Habit.

  Could be anyone.

  I hear the kitchen door open, and I jump out me chair and run in the hall. I get the phone just as Mum's comin out the kitchen for it.

  There's a funny breathin sound on the other end. And the whole thing's full of echoes. The words are all thin and high, mumblin a million miles an hour, all over the place.

  Thommo. Me oldest mate. Grew up together, we did. Fucked about, mostly. Ended up thievin for his old man when we was only kids. That's until me, Thommo, and Keith thought we'd go out on our own – move it up a notch. Ended up gettin nicked tryin to do the offie over. In court, Thommo flipped. Went mental. That's when we see all that glue he'd been doin for fuckin years had finally stuck his brain together. Got dragged out kickin and screamin and callin the beak a cunt.

  Me and Keith ended up with seven year apiece. We got off light. Thommo never.

  Thommo got sent to the nuthouse.

  He's been fucked ever since.

  'Hello, mate,' I says. 'How're you doin?'

  Me heart slows down.

  'Yeah,' Thommo says, and carries on with his mad chatterin to himself.

  'Still up for the football tomorrow?' I says to him.

  Thommo's hearin's fucked, so he don't hear everything. Glue sniffin half his life's done that. That's what the doctors said.

  'The football, Thommo,' I says a bit louder, but I can't go too loud cos Mum don't know. 'The Hammers, you know? Semi-final? Forest?'

  He catches the last bit.

  'Forest, yeah' he says. 'Forest.’

  Then he goes on about something to do with lions and tigers and tree-houses, or something.

  He weren't never much into football, Thommo. Was mostly me and Keith. And Dad. Thommo'd come along for a laugh more than anything. Used to be a right giggle, he did. Class clown, you know. But what with bein on the Diamond White and Copydex from the age of fourteen, plus whatever the fuck they've been pumpin into him in the nuthouse these last few years, he was always gonna come out fucked.

  I just never realised how much.

  Another voice comes on the phone. Deep. Irish. Asks me what time we're pickin Thommo up tomorrow.

  'Hang on, mate,' I says.

  I shout out to Charlie in the front room.

  'Charlie? What time we pickin Thommo up?'

  Charlie comes in the hall.

  'Tell em about ten,' he says. 'Give us plenty of time.'

  'About ten,' I says to the geezer on the phone.

  He says cheers, and puts the phone down.

  Next day, five o'clock in the mornin, me eyes are stuck together and me whole body's shiverin. I'm sittin at the kitchen table waitin for Charlie to be makin the tea. All this gettin up early lark, don't do me no good. Don't do no-one no good, I reckon. But it's how it is. Brick Lane market of a Sunday, Romford - Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday – Monday and Thursdays do what I like.

  Sundays, I have a bit of a lay-in. Brick Lane's only down the road, and we don't have to go to Spitalfields to pick up the stock cos we keep some back from Romford overnight in the van.

  Charlie's rattlin the spoon in me tea, stirrin the sugar. That's all I need, that sort of clangin in me ears this time of the mornin. I open me eyes wide and lift me eyebrows up to let him know I'm a bit narked, but he ain't lookin. Charlie carries on clangin his spoon till he stops, and I close me eyes again.

  'Here you go, son,' he says, scrapin me tea across the table.

  Like nails down a fuckin blackboard.

  It's all right, him callin me son. Weren't at first. Wanted to hit him every time he said it. He'll always be in me heart, Dad. Always. But it's more than ten years since he's been gone, and Charlie, Charlie's all right. Treats Mum well, and it's like me and Becks was his own blood, you know.

  'Cheers,' I says, pickin up me tea and yawnin at the same time.

  I fold me hands round the steamin mug to get me warm, and take a big slurp.

  Mum's only day off – Sunday. Back at the supermarket tomorrow. Been there years, she has. Makes me heart bleed thinkin how hard she's worked her whole life. First bringin me and Becks up, then stackin shelves and ringin up the till for fuckin ever. Even today, when she ain’t even workin, she'll be up before six, potterin about, tidyin up and gettin dinner sorted.

  Uncle Derek and Auntie Ivy's comin down for the day, so Mum wants the place spick and span. They've been up Clacton with me Auntie Gwen since Christmas. Uncle Derek was wastin away down here. Doctor said he needed some fresh air, no stress, a quiet life. You don't get any one of em this end, so Auntie Ivy and Auntie Gwen cashed in all their premium bonds and lumped it with Uncle Derek's redundancy to get em a little bungalow on the coast. Mum says it's lovely. Me, I reckon it’s nothing but an old people's home.

  I only been there once. Quiet as fuck, it was.

  Drive me fuckin mental, gaff like that.

  The other semi-final to us is Uncle Derek's mob against the Arsenal. Been a Yid all his life, Uncle Derek. There weren't no way Auntie Ivy was gonna let him go to the game, so lettin him watch the match with Charlie round ours was the next best thing. She told Mum he'd have been sulkin for fuckin ever if she hadn't give him least that.

  Charlie swigs down the last of his tea, goes over to the sink and starts washin up. I can tell he's wantin to be off sharpish, so I glug mine down quick and nearly burn me fuckin throat cos of it.

  'Give us yours here,' he says, holdin out his hand, washin up bubbles all over it.

  I finish what's left, get up and lean it over to him. Charlie carries on washin up. I close me eyes, drinkin in the last of the night.

  'We'll stop at Elsie's for a sarnie,' Charlie says. 'Bit of breakfast.'

  He says things like that, Charlie, like it's just for the sake of it. We always stop off at Elsie's for a bit of breakfast. Every mornin – even on a Sunday. Always have done. Whenever Charlie starts statin the bleedin obvious, it's like he's just wantin to say something, you know. Like he needs to break the quiet all round him when it gets too much, like it's really proper hurtin him.

  Elsie's all-nighter's on the Shoreditch High Street, on the corner. I been goin there years, like I says – first with Thommo and Keith when we bunked off school to go nickin
up West, and now with Charlie four times a week on our way to the market.

  Charlie finishes washin up the mugs.

  Time to go.

  I get me Hammers scarf off the bannisters on the way out, wrap it round me neck and tuck it in the front of me coat. When I'm done, I follow Charlie out, shuttin the door quiet behind us so as not to wake Mum up.

  Soon as I get out the house, the rain starts comin down.

  Charlie gets in the van and I go round the other side, me eyes half closed, me stomach rumblin, the rain pissin down me neck.

  Charlie tries to get the van started, but it ain't havin it. Fuckin thing coughs and splutters like me grandad puttin too much pepper on his dinner. Charlie gets the van goin in the end, but we both know it ain't got long.

  Cos of the van playin up, there ain't no time for Elsie's. Charlie says I'll have to make do with a burger or something off Sammi at the market. I'd rather not. I know where Sammi puts his hands, and it ain't funny.

  I got me feet up on the dashboard, tryin to get a bit of kip. I'm thinkin about Thommo. I'm wonderin what he's gonna be like when me and Charlie's pick him up later from the nuthouse. Thommo never paid me or Mum a blind bit of notice at the hospital meetin to get today sorted out. Had his head down and his eyes half-closed the whole time, so I ain't expectin too much when I see him.

  Plan is, we pick Thommo up, go back for a quick cuppa to say hello to Uncle Derek and Auntie Ivy, then Charlie drops me and Thommo at Marylebone to get the train to the match. Charlie's got a couple of geezers from the boozer mindin the stall while he's droppin us off. Lofty and Little Alan. My age, bit younger. Went to my school, but I don't remember em. Always toutin for bits and bobs, them two, so they weren't never gonna say no when Charlie asked em.

  The blowers in the van are fuckin rubbish. I wanna shut me eyes proper for a couple of minutes, but it's too fuckin cold so I just close em to stop Charlie talkin to me. Rabbits for fuckin England, Charlie does, when he gets goin. But he's quiet today, sort of tired. Not tired tired, you know like me, fucked, but sort of life tired, like I used to see Dad get. Like the whole world's heavin down on his shoulders and his knees are fucked and the air in his lungs is bubblin and burstin.

  Thinkin about the football, we ain't got a fuckin chance against Forest. We're shit enough to have lost one-nil at Brighton in the week, and Forest are a division above us. Mind you, I remember thinkin exactly the same before the Arsenal game years back with Dad – thinkin we'd get slaughtered.

  Look what happened then.

  Some sort of shit comes on the radio. Out the blue, Charlie starts singin. Can't sing for fuckin toffee, Charlie, but he don't let a little thing like that stop him.

  I put me hood up on me coat to drown out Charlie's racket, and turn me head to the window.

  When Charlie stops singin, it's like it's cleared something in him, like it's blown away all his misery. Even gets a bit chirpy for a while. Music can do that. Not the sort of shit Charlie listens to – all that old country bollocks - but good shit, you know. The Clash. Jam, Ramones – stuff like that. Great music, it don't never die. Just goes on beatin inside you for ever and ever. Nowdays, only Jesus and Mary Chain comes close.

  Pretty soon, it's all gone quiet again. The wheels in Charlie's head spinnin round's all I can hear – grindin and scrapin and creakin away, just like this fuckin van. If I had to guess, I'd say they're both fuckin fallin apart.

  Mind you, it ain't like I'm fuckin sorted. That's why I don't try to think of nothing at all, if I can help it.

  When it's quiet like this, with me and Charlie, I start off thinkin closin me eyes is gonna help. Sort of makes sense. But when I do, everything on the inside just gets louder and louder and louder. And it's only by puttin words to the pictures what quietens em down again. Thing is, once the pictures have got words, it makes em real, you know.

  And that's the most frightenin fuckin thing of all.

  It's gettin better, me and Charlie. But when we've both got too much in our heads, it’s hard. Two blokes with so much to say and no fuckin idea how to say it.

  I'm droppin off when the radio goes up, and Charlie starts singin. But it's soft this time, sort of under his breath.

  I get a lump in me throat.

  Elvis. American Trilogy. Dad's favourite.

  Charlie don't know what it means to me, this song, other than he was a mate of Dad's, and he knowed Dad loved Elvis. The first verse goes by. There ain't no words to what I'm thinkin, just a load of pictures scatterin in me head.

  Football over the park on me birthdays with Dad and all me mates.

  Dad at Christmas, ringin his little handbell when he's pissed, orderin Mum to get him a cuppa with a big grin on his face.

  Dad sittin in his chair indoors at the Jubilee, can of Skol in his hand, tellin Mum he ain't comin outside cos it's all a load of bollocks.

  Dad the day we done the Arsenal at Wembley.

  Dad.

  He loved Elvis nearly as much as he loved the Hammers. I never got it meself – the Elvis thing. But Dad said Elvis changed the world.

  I push me forehead onto the window to feel the cold. I close me eyes tight, then tighter again to try and get back to me and Dad.

  We're sittin quietly in the front room, the two of us, just home from the Boleyn after gettin beat two-nil by Bristol Rovers. American Trilogy starts comin out the record player. And it's like by sittin here without a word, listenin to Elvis singin his song, me and Dad are sayin something to each other about how we are on the inside, you know, like them things we can't say out loud, Elvis is sayin em for us. That stuff, you know, that stuff what hurts so much there ain't even no words for it.

  When Elvis stops singin, me and Dad look at each other, with tears comin slow down our faces.

  Fuck me, forgot all that till now, that thing about Dad sayin Elvis changed the world and me and him sittin there in the front room listenin to American Trilogy after the Bristol Rovers game.

  Back here in the van, Elvis is buildin up, and the chorus kicks in.

  Me and Charlie join in. We're slowin down in all the right places and windin up for the big bits. But it's like, although we're in the same place singin the same song, we're singin it all on our own, like it means something completely different to the both of us.

  Charlie's got his stuff.

  I got mine.

  Just the way it is.

  When the music fades out, Charlie turns the radio off, and we go the rest of the way to Brick Lane without even lookin at each other.

  April Skies is out now

  About the author

  Ian Ayris was born in Dagenham, Essex, in August 1969. Having spent most of his childhood more interested in kicking a tennis ball about the school playground with his mates than actually learning anything, he managed to leave the public education system in 1985 with but two O' Levels and a handful of C.S.E.'s,

  And a love of writing.

  His academic achievements set him up nicely for the succession of low paid jobs he has maintained to this day. These jobs have included a three year stint as a delivery boy for an electrical company, five years putting nuts and bolts in boxes in a door factory, one day in a gin factory, and three months in a record shop, He has spent the last sixteen years, however, working with adults with learning difficulties, and in the meantime, has become a qualified counsellor.

  Ian's love of writing resurfaced late in his thirties, in the guise of short stories. He has since had almost thirty short stories published both in print and online, and is currently studying for a degree in English Literature.

  Ian lives in Romford, Essex, and is a lifelong Dagenham and Redbridge supporter.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Firstly, I'd like to thank my friends from the early days over at FS – special mentions to Brooke, Jude, Macka, Ray, Sarah Beth, and Jo Lynn. Thank you all – for everything. Couldn't have made it without you. And over at Ch79 – Ragna, Janie, Gav, and Claire. Thanks, guys. Your words, wise and kind, pushed me
right to the end.

  To Elodie and Sue for beta reading the early drafts. Your support and encouragement will stay in my heart for a very long time. Thank you.

  And thanks also to everyone at Caffeine Nights for their continued support throughout the publishing of this book. Special mentions to Carol and Bob, Alison, Jools, and Darren. And Mr Nick Quantrill, a brilliant writer and a great friend. Cheers, mate.

  Thanks also to Graeme Howlett and his fantastic West Ham website – Knees Up Mother Brown (http://kumb.com/) And thanks also to all the other diehard Hammers out there who helped me with some of the football details in the book. Especially my best mate, Tony – a scholar and a gentleman. A Hammer through and through.

  If I've left anyone out, please forgive me. The writing of this book really does feel like one big group effort. Thank you all.

  Finally, thank you to my parents for the constant belief and encouragement they gave me throughout the writing of this book.

  And my sister, Louise, for showing me what courage is.

  If you enjoyed Abide with Me, please consider leaving a review. 

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