Before the Fire (13 page)

‘Iain was a popular boy with lots of friends.’ The priest had a posh voice; he sounded like he’d said the same thing a thousand times before. ‘A good student, a loving
son, Iain was about to embark on a trip to southern Spain before his life was tragically cut short.’

Before he was stabbed to death by a twat called Owen Lee. Stick wanted to push the priest to one side and say, ‘He wasn’t a boy. He definitely wasn’t a good student. He was my
best fucking mate.’ But the priest was on to the prayers now. Heavenly Father. Soul of Christ. Mac didn’t even believe in God, so what help was all of that now?

The priest closed his Bible with a slightly too-enthusiastic snap, took a handful of soil from a white box and dropped it onto Mac’s coffin. The sound made Stick jump. Crappy Manchester
soil on polished white wood. It looked like spilt coffee. It looked a mess.

Mrs McKinley took a handful of soil and did the same as the priest.
Thump. Spill.
They were taking it in turns, clockwise around the grave. Stick didn’t want to be there. He
wanted to be down by the canal with a joint, throwing stones at some target Mac had chosen – a plastic milk bottle, a rotting piece of wood, a bloated condom.

He wanted that girl J to be there, standing next to him, her hands in her pockets, her skinny shoulders hunched up towards her ears. The silver stud on her top lip. The bright stripe of pink
hair.

They were waiting for him – someone he didn’t know offering him the box. He took it, got a handful of soil, dry and gritty in his palm. Everyone was waiting for him. Fuck them. Fuck
all of this. He wanted to turn and throw the soil at the priest, with his softly-softly voice and his smug face. Or at Aaron who was standing there crying like that was OK. Or lift his arm and let
the earth fall onto his own head. Instead he did what everyone else had done – held his hand over the grave and opened his fingers.
Thump. Spill.

Stick rubbed his hands together to get rid of the dirt. He stared down at the coffin.
Don’t have died.
They should be in Spain, drinking beer, washing dishes, clubbing until the
sun rose.
Don’t have died, you bastard.
The first court hearing was on Friday. Owen Lee in the dock. A load of bloody clothes in clear plastic bags with paper labels tied on with
string.
Don’t have died. Please. Don’t have fucking died.

Everyone was going to the Queen’s. Free bar and a buffet. Stick wanted to stay at the cemetery, watch them fill in the grave with all the soil hidden under the fake
grass and then catch a bus home and get into bed, put his duvet over his head and try to make his mind go quiet. But Mac’s uncle offered him a lift and it was easier just to go than think up
an excuse.

They got lost on the way back and the pub was already on the way to drunk-loud when they arrived, the sandwiches half gone – stray bits of cucumber and lettuce littering the trays. Stick
took a handful of crisps and chewed without tasting them.

‘Kieran!’ Mac’s ma was sat at the bar with two glasses of white wine. She beckoned him over.

‘Kieran, love,’ Mrs McKinley slurred, her voice still raised even though he was standing right in front of her. ‘Give us a hug. Come on.’

He let her pull him towards her. She squeezed him tight, then sat back and put her hand on his head, stroked his hair.

‘So nice,’ she said.

‘Need to get it cut.’

She shook her head, kept her hand where it was. ‘You used to have such nice hair. Smart. You and Iain with your smart hair and your uniforms, off to school.’

They’d dump the ties soon as they got out of sight, scuff up their shoes so they didn’t look like knobheads.

‘Come on, sit here, by me.’ She dropped her hand and felt into her bag, took out a scrunched-up tenner and half threw it at the barmaid. ‘I put three hundred quid behind the
bar,’ she told Stick. ‘They said it’s done, though. What’ll you have? Come and sit here, talk to me.’

Stick ordered a pint of Foster’s, sipped at it and tried not to stare at the smear of egg mayo on her dress.

Mrs McKinley finished her wine and started on the next glass. ‘Iain was going to drive lorries,’ she said, as though Stick had asked her a question. ‘Like his dad,’ she
said, looking over towards the fruit machine where Paul was feeding in another quid, his fingers dancing over the lit-up buttons.

Stick frowned. ‘Is that what he does?’

Mac’s ma nodded vacantly.

Last summer, Stick and Mac had found a fucked-up door down by the canal. Half of it was burnt black, but they got it in the water and it stayed afloat, even with Mac standing on it. Stick had
run along the path and Mac had paddled with a branch he’d yanked off some tree, his arse hanging out of his trousers. ‘I am transport and logistics,’ he’d shouted.
‘Anyone need any transport or logistics?’ And then later, drinking cans of warm beer and watching the sun dye the undersides of the clouds pink, he’d told Stick he was going to
have his own truck; no, his own fleet of trucks, ‘Mac McKinley’ printed in two-metre-high letters across the side of each one.

Mrs McKinley tapped her fingernails against the bar and said, ‘Talk to me, Kieran. Talk to me some more.’

The pub smelt of farts and cheese-and-onion crisps and old carpet. Framed black-and-white photos lined the walls – pictures of the estate being built, some party at the pub with flags and
bunting. The food table looked depressing: limp bits of salad, half an egg sandwich, biscuit crumbs and something yellow spilt across the paper tablecloth.

‘I was going to have a cake,’ Mrs McKinley said. ‘Because it’s a celebration, isn’t it? It’s a celebration of his life.’ She took a large gulp of wine.
‘I couldn’t think which one to get though. They don’t do funeral cakes.’ She laughed.

Stick watched Mac’s dad, stood with two other men now, waving his arms about as he spoke, resting them on an imaginary steering wheel and then lifting them up again, fingers spread. Mac
never said he drove a lorry. Mac never said anything except he was a lazy twat who couldn’t keep his dick in his pants.

Stick started rolling a fag and Mrs McKinley patted his arm. ‘You go on, love,’ she said.

Outside, he smoked slowly. The estate was quiet. A man stood watching his dog run in crazed circles on the grass behind the pub. Ricky’s little sister and a girl Stick didn’t
recognise pushed a pink plastic doll’s pram up the street and round the corner. A white van with spots of grey undercoat along one side sat with its engine idling – a man in the
driver’s seat with a newspaper spread over the wheel. Stick thought about Owen Lee standing in a courtroom, handcuffs cutting into his wrists.

‘You didn’t write on his Facebook page.’ Lainey stood in front of him. She wore shiny black leggings, baggy at the knees and stomach. Black high heels and a tight black top.
False eyelashes and big rings of eyeliner. Her hair was piled up on her head like one of those film stars from forever ago. He hadn’t even heard her come out.

‘You’re supposed to be his best mate,’ she said.

‘I am. Was. I just haven’t—’

He’d spent enough time thinking about it. Lay in bed typing versions over and over in his head, but none of them sounded right. He’d thought about uploading the photo from his phone
of Mac and Lainey, Aaron and Malika, but he hadn’t done it.

Lainey wiped her forefinger under one eye and then the other. ‘It was all right, wasn’t it?’ she said.

Stick dropped his cigarette butt on the concrete and ground it under his foot. ‘The priest was a twat.’

Lainey frowned. ‘I thought he was sweet. And nice Mac’s dad came.’

Stick scowled. ‘Not much use coming once he’s dead, is it?’ Stick thought about Mac stood outside the Printworks, jabbing the end of the cigar towards Stick, saying
you
should make nice with your dad, before we go
.

‘Everyone’s inside,’ Lainey said, and Stick shrugged and followed her back into the pub, to the large booth opposite the bar where Shooter, Ricky, Aaron and Malika were sat,
talking about riots in Greece – firebombs, tear gas, street fights with the police. Stick sat with his head down and said nothing.

‘Hey, Stick.’ Aaron tapped his shoulder. ‘I had an idea, about Ranger.’

‘Not now.’ Malika hit him on the arm.

‘Thought I’d change his name,’ Aaron said. ‘To Mac. You know, like a tribute.’

Mac would kill himself laughing at that, Stick thought – I die and they name a dog after me.

‘That’s fucked up.’ Lainey leaned over the table, her breasts ready to spill. ‘That is proper weird.’

‘Nah, it’s a compliment.’ Aaron pretended to tug at a dog’s lead and said, ‘Hey, Mac. Sit.’

Malika hit him again.

Stick picked up a beer mat and turned it round and round between his thumb and finger.

‘You all right, mate?’ Aaron asked.

He wasn’t about to cry. He wasn’t about to lose it. He just wanted to drink his pint and have everyone leave him alone.

‘I’ve been making enquiries,’ Ricky said. He had his black Yankees baseball cap perched on top of his head. ‘Should shoot the bastard if you ask me.’ He lifted his
right hand, fingers out like a gun barrel, and pretended to shoot, making quiet explosions with his mouth. ‘But there are other ways.’ He grinned.

Stick nodded. ‘Hearing’s Friday.’

‘Hearing smearing. Got to sort that shit out yourself.’ Ricky was shadow-boxing now,
right, left, right, left
.

Stick stared at the tiny amber bubbles racing up to the surface of his drink and wondered where they came from, and if he sat there for long enough whether they’d ever stop.

‘Why did he do it?’ he said.

No one responded. Maybe he’d said it in his head, not out loud. ‘Why did he do it?’ he repeated.

‘Hate crime,’ Lainey said. ‘It was a hate crime.’

‘No one hated Mac,’ Stick said. ‘That cunt didn’t even know him.’

‘Because he was different,’ Lainey said.

‘He wasn’t different,’ Stick said.

‘Maybe he bad-mouthed the guy on the bus,’ Shooter said. ‘Said he’d shagged his mum or whatever.’

Stick shook his head.

‘Or that Lee guy’s a proper psycho,’ Aaron said. ‘Like he goes out on a weekend with a knife, looking for someone to bang.’

Lainey tutted and nodded. Stick ripped the beer mat in half. Shooter coughed and said, ‘Drink? The man needs a drink.’

‘You’re all right, I’m going,’ Stick said, standing up.

Aaron stood too, trying to get Stick to meet his eye. ‘Mate. Mate? You all right, mate?’

Stick kept his head down and made for the door.

‘Mate?’ Hand on his shoulder.

‘Crybaby,’ Stick said and pulled away from him. Outside it was still light, but the sky had clogged up with clouds and the air had turned cool. He went up to the railway tracks and
sat on the ground, even though it’d mess up his suit. Tipped his head back against the fence post and listened for the whisper of a train. When one came, he opened his mouth and shouted every
swear word he could think of, one after the other. He carried on even when the train had passed, lowering his voice to a whisper.

The envelope from his dad came the day after the funeral. Brown. A4. His name and address in neat capital letters. Stick kicked it off the hallway mat onto the carpet.

He was tired. He’d been in bed by nine but had lain awake for hours, thinking about Mac in his coffin and the weight of all that soil on top of him, and then thinking about the court case,
and what it would be like to be in the same room as Owen Lee – whether he’d be able to get close enough to touch him. Around three he’d heard his mum downstairs. He’d
pictured her in her blue dressing gown and her rabbit slippers, her hair scuffed with sleep, her fingers worrying at the switches, but he’d not got up to help her. He must have fallen asleep
eventually because he woke with a start, from a dream he couldn’t remember, except for an image of himself sat on a coach looking out of the window – a coach, not a bus, and there were
fields outside, not buildings.

That morning, before the post arrived, he’d sat opposite his mum at breakfast and seen the dark smudges under her eyes and he’d felt bad. Even though he wanted to feel angry, he felt
bad.

He told her he was going back to the site, to give it another go, see if the other bloke had fucked up or fucked off. But he went the opposite way, into town. He wanted to buy her one of those
burners, with the dish where you put the scent and a bit underneath for a tea light. And a little bottle of lavender oil. His nan said lavender was good for relaxation.

Market Street was packed. Legs and arms. Cleavages. Knees. Everyone’s tattoos on show: butterflies and horses, hearts and arrows, words in fancy writing:
love, Kyle, forever, Mum
.
A man stood outside Miss Selfridge holding a massive bunch of silver-edged helium balloons: SpongeBob, Homer Simpson, and a pink horse covered in stars that Sophie would have loved. HMV blasting
Lady Gaga. Some bald guy with a sound system and a crappy electric guitar singing ‘Heartbreak Hotel’. The trams toot-tooting. Dummies looking blankly out of shop windows with their
perfect clothes and flat white faces.

Stick ducked into TK Maxx. The shop was too bright – all strip lights and shiny floor tiles – it made his head hurt. He kept thinking about the coach. It felt like a memory, but he
was pretty sure it wasn’t. Grey fabric seats. The smell of carpet cleaner and feet. Rain on the windows. The hum of the engine and the
tsk tsk
of other people’s iPods. The
comforting rock and tilt as they drove, and the sense that he could just stay there, going forwards, to nowhere in particular, forever.

He was standing by the low shelves packed with boxed-up toiletries and bags of cosmetics, note cards and china vases, when he saw J. Her hair was pink. All of it this time. Violent pink. She had
a black bag and wore the same tight black jeans and white Converse. Stick held his breath, as if that would stop her from seeing him. But she wasn’t even looking his way. She was stood by a
rack of sunglasses, trying on pair after pair, frowning at her reflection in the small square mirror just above her. Stick moved over a couple of aisles so he could see her better, but kept his
distance. Her hair didn’t look real – looked more like a doll’s than a person’s. He wondered what it would feel like to touch.