I went back to the flat. As I opened the door, Ray managed to get to his feet and hobble to me. I made a big fuss of him. He was obviously in a lot of pain, but he wasn’t soft. I gave him half a tin of dog food and I watched him eat it all up. I stroked him and poured him a fresh bowl of water. I won’t be long, I said, and shut the door behind me. The pub was quiet. It was Wednesday. Another two days of work before I would have money. Then Saturday. That was when I planned to go back. I had to think it through.
What you having? Steve said. He was at the bar, chatting up the barmaid. A married man with two kids, chatting up anything in a skirt.
I’ll get my own, I said. I don’t have enough to get you one back.
Shut up, you daft cunt, he said, and bought a round.
The barmaid poured our drinks and went to the till.
Very fuckable, Steve said, under his breath, and winked. I’d fuck her all night. I’d tie a knot in it.
It was more than likely that Liv would be going somewhere at some point on Saturday. Best not to bump into her outside her house. That would give the game away. ‘Bump’ into her somewhere there was every likelihood I’d be passing. Get there early.
Fancy a bit do you? This was Steve, talking to the barmaid.
She was young, probably a student, and a worthy adversary. She looked him up and down. Not with you, she said. I was impressed by the efficiency of this retort. She was not fazed by his come-on. She clearly felt he was unworthy of her attention.
You’ve not seen my secret weapon, he said. They both looked at his crotch.
I’ve left my microscope at home, she said. Steve looked taken aback.
Well it’s only six inches, but some women like it that wide.
She just shook her head at this, realising that she wouldn’t shake him off with insults. She was probably thinking what I was, that this bloke was a massive twat. It occurred to me that she might be casting me in the same light. Did she think I was like him because I was drinking with him? I flashed her an apologetic ‘I’m-not-with-this-prick’ look. She smiled.
I had a pint. I had a pint. I had a pint. I had another pint. All bought by Steve. Steve tried again with the barmaid. This time she told him to fuck off. Talking his language. Steve fucked off – back to the wife and two kids. I went back too. Ray didn’t quite bound across, he was still limping, but he was in good spirits. He lay down and let me inspect him. The wound seemed to be healing. I gave him the rest of the tin, then made myself some beans on toast. I saved Ray the crusts.
It started to rain. I picked up my dead dad’s fucked guitar and strummed a few old blues numbers. I strummed some Dylan. First, It’s Alright Ma then Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands. But I couldn’t get to the end of that one. It was the line about eyes like smoke. Twenty-two years was a long time to wait. It felt like I’d been hollowed out. Her eyes like moonlight. Her magazine husband (that’s you, Andrew – although you were too porcine to really fit that description), her magazine children, her magazine house, her magazine life. It was also your magazine children and your magazine house. Your magazine life. And I wanted it for myself. All of it.
Water was dripping from the damaged ceiling. Drip-drip. I found a bucket and put it over the wet spot. Plink-plink. I played three of my own songs. The drips were my drum. Then the bucket was full and I had to empty it. Not drip-drip now, not even plink-plink, but a steady stream pouring from the ceiling. I dug out the landlord’s number and rang it.
What the fuck are you ringing me at this time for?
It wasn’t even nine o’clock.
It’s an emergency, I said and told him about the leak. He said I’d have to wait until tomorrow. I built up a spliff. I emptied the bucket again. I rang up the landlord, explaining the water was now gushing in. He told me it was a bad line and hung up. I went to bed. When I woke up very early in the morning the carpet was sopping wet. I lifted Ray onto the bed. The rain had stopped but the flat was a flood plain. I rang up the landlord.
What the fuck you ringing me at this time?
It was six o’clock. I tried to tell him about the flood damage, but he said the line was breaking up and next it went dead. I gave Ray half a tin of dog food. I let him eat it off the bed. Fuck the landlord. I went to the lock-up, picked up Steve. It was a new job today, another conservatory. Over an hour to load up the van. Steve smoked and drank coffee with a bloke in white overalls, while I did the loading. Why have a dog and bark yourself?
When we got to Guiseley we had to ask for directions. We found them eventually, on the outskirts of the town, a semi-detached retired couple. He was creosoting the shed, she was doing some gardening. She stopped to make us a drink. She brought me a tea and Steve a coffee. Happy families. At three o’clock Steve said, Let’s call it a day.
I drove us back to the lock-up. Fancy a beer? Steve said.
Skint.
I’ll buy you a pint, you daft cunt.
I said I’d see him in there. I wanted to check on Ray. As I closed the door behind me he came rushing over, tail wagging. Still limping, but he wasn’t limping quite as badly and he was able to put some of his weight on his injured leg. I lifted him onto the bed. The rain was pouring through the ceiling. I rang the landlord. It went to voicemail. I left a message. I gave Ray half a tin and went to The Royal. Steve was at the bar, chatting to the barmaid. He bought me a beer. I sat on the stool beside him.
You’re all right you, he said, after some time. Bit of a shit driver, but we can’t have everything. He laughed and patted me on the back. In his own way, he was trying to pay me a compliment. He wasn’t all bad. I told him about the flat and about the dog.
You daft twat, what you take in a stray for?
The barmaid overheard us talking about the state of the flat and the leaking ceiling.
There’s a guy drinks in here who’s after a lodger, she said.
That right?
Yeah, lives just up the road in one of the back-to-backs. Richard he’s called.
When does he come in?
Every night just before eleven. Three pints of cider and three Bells chasers. He’s a bit of a character, she said and raised her eyebrows.
Steve bought me another beer. I listened to another tale of one of his conquests. He fucked this lass, he fucked that lass, he fucked these two lasses together, on and on. Mr Fuckface: Fucker of the Year.
Then I was back there. 1989. You were urging me on, Andrew. The Top Cat was open all night. It was almost two. The bar staff were already telling people to drink up. Fifteen more minutes with Liv, I wanted to adore, I wanted to adore, I wanted to adore, but you wanted to go before the crowd. It was, after all, your last blowout. You were off to university the next day, down South, to start your new life. I wouldn’t be seeing you until you came back at Christmas. A big deal. It was almost incomprehensible to me then, that you would move away from the north, away from your family, away from your friends who had meant everything to you. It was important that we made your send-off special – a night to remember. I think we can both agree that we certainly did that.
I made an excuse, said I needed the toilet. Liv was coming out of the ladies.
I’ve got to go, I told her. You sure you don’t want to come with us?
Best not, she said. Sharing a taxi with Helen and Jill. Then she put her arms round me and whispered in my ear, I chose the wrong one, she said. Wham. Like that. Blood banging. Head fucked. She chose the wrong one, Andrew.
I wanted her. But you were my best mate, Andrew. I had known you since I was three. We went to the same nursery, the same primary school, the same comprehensive. What the fuck was I doing? So I walked away from Liv and out of the club with you. I gave Liv one last look, physically wrenched, as though there was an invisible thread between me and Liv, and there was no slack in it. I thought I might topple over, but I kept on walking behind you, up the stairs and out into the cold
night. Along Whitworth street, through Piccadilly Gardens, towards Oldham Street.
We soon arrived at the Top Cat club, Manchester’s secret all-night boozer. Home to pimps, crooks, druggies, alkies and gangsters. I knew why you wanted to go there. One last bender. One last mad one. One last flirt with the underworld before you spent the rest of your life on the other side, on the right side of the law. For you there was something final about that evening which gave your motivation mettle. I had no real stomach for it, but the pill was still working, I was still buzzing, happy to go along with your plan, for you – to please you.
Next, we were on the dance floor, dancing to an unfamiliar tune and eyeing up the women. You were dancing like you always danced: like a dizzy vicar. You got chatting with a man who I didn’t like the look of. He was wearing a black three-piece suit, a black shirt and a black tie. He had a shaven head, an earring and a beard. He was leaning into you, whispering in your ear. You were nodding. Then you were both laughing. When I next looked over where you were, you were both walking off. I knew you were up to something.
I went to the bar. I didn’t need anything alcoholic to drink, there was no point. It wouldn’t have any effect, the pill the stronger poison. I bought a lime and soda. Then you were back, walking over to me, grinning. You gave me a nudge. You’d got something for the send-off, you said. You’d scored a gram of coke. Why not, I thought, it seemed right we should push the boat out. We went to the gents, found a cubicle and locked ourselves in. You chopped two lines on the cistern lid and we hoovered them up. I felt an instant numbing of my nose and then a euphoric rush. It mixed well with the pills, propping up their waning powers. You chopped two more. They went down nicely. We felt indomitable.
Dancing. Lights. Smoke machine. Strobes. Flashing. Men, women. Back to the bog. Another two lines. It’s four o’clock. Both buzzing to fuck. Chatting, laughing. Flirting with some girls. Having a banging time. Music thumping. Smoking. Thumping. Buzzing. Another line. Five o’clock. You chatting up a girl. A bloke watching you. Ugly bloke. Staring.
Let’s go, I said, coming round a bit. Let’s go before the rest.
Ok, you said. But what’s the rush?
I nudged you. The bloke was staring. Staring a hole right through you, Andrew. You shrugged it off but I persuaded you to leave. You were never any good at fighting, but nor did you have the coward’s ability to second-sense danger and scram. We were outside, waiting for a taxi. There was no one around.
I need a piss, I said.
I ducked behind a wall and pissed long and hard. I walked back to where we’d been standing. You were on the ground, the bloke from the club on top of you, punching you in the face.
I run across, grabbing the bloke by his shirt, throwing him around. He’s swinging punches with no great accuracy. I duck a few with ease. Then he’s swinging another punch and I’m getting him on the floor. Punching, punching, punching. He tries to get up. Grabbing my leg. Kicking, kicking, kicking. Boot, boot, boot. Blood on his face. Blood. I don’t remember the detail. I think I went looking for a phone to call an ambulance. Next thing I remember is you with your head on his chest, listening for his heart. You looking at me. Shock. Run, you’re saying. Come on. You’re running. Away. I’m standing. Blood. Over the man. My heart racing. Adrenalin pumping. Frozen. One man, then a woman. To the spot. Then more. Accusing. Shake my head. Shouting. Two blokes holding me. You’re going nowhere, pal. Going nowhere. Nowhere. Sirens. Lights. Police. I’m asked. Speechless. Questions. Can’t think straight. Can’t think. Bundled. The van. Into the back. The doors. Shut. Black.
One for the road? It was Steve’s voice bringing me back. It was 2011. Steve ordered one more pint and tried to cop off with the barmaid one more time. Then he went home to his wife, home to his kids. Eight o’clock. I found a corner and sat down at a table. I watched people come, watched people go. I watched couples laugh, watched couples kiss. I thought about Saturday, about you and Liv, your house, your family, your life. I rolled a fag, put it in my mouth. I was about to light it, but it was 2011, not 1989. Something’s Gotten Hold of My Heart, was on the jukebox. A jukebox which contained only mp3 files, no vinyl. Fool’s Gold on the Jukebox. 2011. 1989.
At five minutes to eleven, he walked in. I knew it was him because he ordered a pint of cider and a Bells chaser just as the barmaid had said. He sat in a darkened corner opposite my own. He looked like John Peel, only smaller, slighter, balder. I stood up, a little unsteady on my feet, and walked over.
Mind if I join you? I said.
He looked around. Plenty of other spaces but he just shrugged. Sure, why not.
I pulled out a stool from under the table and sat down facing him. Barmaid said you were after a lodger.
Maybe. It depends. I’ve had lodgers before. I like lodgers but I like my own company.
His voice was a whisper. I had to lean in to listen to what he was saying. We were almost touching. He must have been about fifty. Black shoes, black jeans, black shirt, white beard, three ciders and three chasers.
We went to his house, a back-to-back terrace three streets up the hill from the pub. It was run down, full of dust and cobwebs, but everything in its place. A grey sofa, a grey armchair, two mud-coloured cushions. There was a stack of M magazines lined up by the side. He had an old fashioned cathode ray tube TV covered in dust in the corner. It would soon be obsolete, the analogue signal was due to be switched off later in the year. Blu-Tacked to the top of the TV was a plastic model of Chewbacca – about three inches in height. Along the bookshelf, there was another plastic model, this time of Yoda.
You’re a Star Wars fan then?
He looked confused. No, he said.
The kitchen was also grey and drab. There was a lingering smell of fried fish. No fridge, just a few shelves with items of food neatly stacked. A large wicker bowl where he kept vegetables: three potatoes, a bulb of garlic, a green pepper, two carrots and a mooli radish. The cooker looked like something from the seventies, a white enamelled design with a grill above the hob.
I’ll clear a shelf for you. Is one shelf enough?
Without a fridge there was no point in buying in bulk. There was no kettle. He boiled water in a pan. He showed me how to light the gas hob. It involved allowing the gas to flow for ten seconds and then lighting it so that there was a small explosion. The grill was a similar technique, only it required you to place your hand to the back of the contraption so when the small explosion occurred, it singed the hairs on the back of your arm. I noticed his scarred arms were kept bald.
We went up the narrow, steep, uncarpeted staircase, avoiding cobwebs heavy with dust, and into my room – a decent size and empty apart from a shop manikin painted pillar box red.
It’s not furnished, he said. Have you got your own furniture?
Neither of us mentioned the manikin.
I’ll be ok.
I live mainly up in the attic, he said, pointing to the ceiling. He’d got a lot of recording equipment up there, he said, as if that explained it. He was a keyboard player. I told him I played guitar.
It’s seventy a week.
What about the bond? I said.
He didn’t want a bond. He wasn’t your average landlord. He wasn’t your average house owner. Or even your average weirdo.
I’ve not got any money at the moment.
Pay me when you get some.
I’ve got a dog, I said.
I like dogs, he said. I like dogs more than I like people.
You are no longer under section. They have dismissed you from Health Care. You have beaten your illness. You have beaten the subbies, but you haven’t beaten the dope. You need something to hush the noise in your head. You take some silver foil and cover the mouth of the bottle. You perforate the silver foil with a needle. You pack the silver foil bowl. You take the bucket filled three-quarters full with water. You sink the bottle into the water so that the m
outh of the bottle is poking out. You light the bowl. You draw the bottle up from the water, watching the clear plastic bottle fill with two litres of pure white smoke. You want to replace the thoughts in your head, with two litres of pure white smoke. You remove the silver bowl and empty your lungs. You put your mouth over the bottle and sink the bottle back down into the bucket, forcing the pure white smoke into your lungs. You collapse on the concrete floor, clinging on, trying not to fall off. This is what you have to do to forget. But you can’t forgive. Not the man who put you in here, and not yourself.
6
Friday. The knife arrived from the courts in a brown envelope. I’d completed four days’ graft. My muscles were aching, my hands were cracked and calloused, my nails chipped, but mentally I felt fresh. I felt awake, alive and ready. We finished off the old couple’s conservatory and we were given a cup of tea and some biscuits. Sitting down to eat the biscuits, I noted their wedding photo in a frame. She was shining in a white dress. He was dapper in a three-piece suit, bright blue tie and a white carnation in the lapel. They were both smiling, their whole lives ahead of them, and now they had reached the end of that journey – a PVC conservatory.
Back at the pub, Steve bought the first round in and took a bundle of notes out of his pocket. I’d never seen so much money. He counted out the tenners on the bar. Four days graft. Nine hours a day. Nearly two hundred quid. I thanked him as I put the bundle of notes in my pocket. It was pathetic how grateful I felt. I’d earned thirty pounds a week as an apprentice in 1989 – the bundle of notes in my pocket was the most money I’d ever had. We went outside.
Have a proper fag you daft twat, he said, and offered me a Regal.
I’m all right, I said, and smoked a roll-up.
We were approached by a man in a torn Harrington jacket. He had a carrier bag full of meat. Steve told him to fuck off, but I bought a roast chicken off him, and some sausages.
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