Before the Fire (4 page)

She’d turned her attention back to her drink. Stick looked at the thin gold cross on a thin gold chain falling down between her breasts.

‘I’d better go check on my mate.’ She scanned the dance floor. ‘She’s a bit—’ She waved the hand with the tattoo, to suggest someone even drunker than
herself. ‘Later. Maybe.’ She did that smile again. That play-it-right-and-I-might-just-give-you-a-blow-job smile.

The place was packed, people squashed against each other, shouting, laughing, holding drinks up above their heads as they tried to push their way through. Stick wasn’t good in crowded
spaces, and it was hot enough to make anyone queasy. He finished his drink and ordered another, then stood with one elbow resting on the bar and imagined the whole place on fire. It would start at
the back, he decided. Someone sneaking a fag, dropping it on the floor – too pissed to notice. Smouldering for a while, and then
whoomph
, catching the carpet, licking up the leg of a
chair with a coat slung over the back of it. The smoke was what got people, he knew that, but it was the flames he always imagined, the gentle orange ones and the white-blue roaring ones. How the
heat of it could blister walls and soften metal.

‘Drink. I am dying for a drink.’ Mac crashed off the dance floor towards him, Lainey hanging onto his arm, Aaron and Malika just behind them.

‘Shots. Hey, Blondie!’ Mac waved at the barman, who scowled but came over. ‘One, two, three, four, five,’ Mac said, counting them off on his fingers. His coconuts were
lopsided and he pulled them straight.

‘Jägerbombs.’ Aaron slapped his hand on the bar. He was addicted to the gym and had arm muscles to show for it. Stick had been sweating on a building site for six months saving
up for Spain, but he suspected he’d never look like that, however many tonnes of bricks he shifted.

Mac shrugged and the barman poured them out, five plastic shot glasses floating in piss-yellow Red Bull.

‘A toast,’ Mac declared. ‘A toast to Stick.’

Stick pulled a face and Mac held up his hand. ‘OK, all right. A toast to driving on the fucking right.’

Everyone downed their shots. They tasted like sick – made Stick’s head throb. He looked about for the girl with the blue-sequinned top but couldn’t see her.

‘Again,’ Aaron shouted. Malika plucked at his sleeve but he was paying no attention.

They tasted better the second time.

‘Photo,’ Stick said, the word coming out thick and loud. He got his phone from his jeans pocket and waved at the four of them to stand closer together. He stepped back to fit them
onto the screen and tapped. A bright white flash lit them for a second. It was like something you’d see in a film: everyone frozen, grinning, Mac’s arms around Lainey and Malika, Aaron
waving his empty glass to one side. When Stick lowered his phone Mac was kissing Lainey, Aaron was kissing Malika.

‘Get a room. Fuck’s sake,’ he said, but none of them were listening.

He turned away, about to walk to the toilet, even though he didn’t need to go, when there was a scuffle to his left, people stumbling towards him and someone shouting. Stick stood on
tiptoe to try and see. Ricky. Of course it was Ricky – he couldn’t have a night out without decking someone. He had more anger knotted up inside of him than the rest of them put
together, and that was saying something. Stick watched a bouncer in a black suit get Ricky in a headlock and drag him towards the door. Around him, people swore and tutted and repositioned
themselves. Five minutes later it was like nothing had happened.

‘Should we go?’ Stick shouted to Mac. Ricky was a tosser, but he was their mate.

‘Shooter’s gone,’ Mac said. ‘He’ll sort it.’ Mac felt about in his pockets and pulled out a fat brown cigar. ‘From pervy Mr Dunne,’ he said.

Stick took the cigar. It had already been cut and when he held it to his nose it smelt of honey and dust. Mr Dunne lived in Mac’s tower block, on the floor above. He was the fattest man
Stick had ever seen – his legs and stomach so big they reckoned he wouldn’t be able to find his cock in amongst the folds. ‘You wank him off?’ he said.

‘Twice.’ Mac headed for the door.

The bouncers didn’t let you smoke in the covered bit – even though it was made up to look like a proper street, with cobbles and lamps and fake old shop signs – so they went
outside. It was just about dark, the tall drooped street lights on, the glass office blocks down the end of the road lit up too. Stick felt the air chill the sweat on his face and forearms. He
looked around for Ricky and Shooter, but couldn’t see them.

‘Lap dancing over there.’ Mac pointed at the building opposite – orange brick and fancy arched windows. ‘Seriously. I’ve seen the pictures. Girl on girl. The
lot.’

Thick curtains hung in folds against the windows. Stick tried to imagine it inside. Cones of light on a dark stage. Women with polished skin and massive tits. ‘You’re pulling Lainey
then?’ he said.

Mac grinned. ‘She’s into me, don’t you think?’

‘She’s not coming to Spain.’

Mac laughed. He held his lighter to the cut end of the cigar until the smoke started. ‘Mr Dunne’s advice,’ he said. ‘Don’t inhale.’

‘I mean it.’ Stick took the cigar and put it to his lips.

‘I know she’s not coming to Spain. Now, just breathe it into your mouth, swirl it round a bit, blow it out.’

‘What’s the point of that?’

Mac shrugged.

Stick sucked on the cigar and felt the smoke pool on his tongue. He pulled it into his throat without thinking and ended up coughing and spluttering.

‘What did I say?’ Mac took it off him and smoked without coughing, puffing pale rings towards Stick. ‘Maybe we should be going to Cuba,’ he said. ‘That’s
where they make these babies.’

‘I’d rather have a joint.’ Stick jigged his foot against the ground. ‘Are you sure your mate’ll definitely let us crash at his?’

‘He’s fixed us jobs – I told you. Washing-up and that, but there’ll be bar jobs coming soon, he reckons.’ Mac jabbed the cigar towards Stick. ‘Sea, sand,
sex,’ he said. ‘And once we’ve got some cash we’ll get our own place. Have ourselves some parties.’

Stick took the cigar back, gulped a mouthful of smoke and looked up. Beyond the street lights, the sky was a washed-out grey and he could see just one star shining like its batteries were about
to give up.

‘You should make nice with your dad,’ Mac said. ‘Before we go.’

Stick inhaled again – coughed like he was an old man.

‘Seriously,’ Mac said. ‘Imagine if he has, like, a heart attack.’

‘I do,’ Stick said. ‘All the time. I do.’

‘You’d be gutted.’ Mac took the cigar. ‘You’d be gutted about it forever.’

‘He’s a cunt.’

Mac shook his head. ‘He’s just trying to help.’

Stick kicked his heel against the pavement. Mac’s dad had walked out on Mac and his ma around the same time Sophie had died. Which was how come they’d moved onto the estate. Mrs
McKinley called him the Bastard. Mac didn’t talk about him all that much.

‘This tastes shit,’ Mac said. He dropped the cigar onto the pavement and ground it out with his toe.

They both stared at it. ‘Maybe I’ll send him a postcard,’ Stick said, but Mac was already walking back towards the bar.

‘Come on. More shots. I can still see,’ Mac shouted back to him, pretending like he wasn’t bothered any more. And once they were inside, it was too hot, too crowded, too noisy
to talk.

Drunk. Proper drunk. All the words gone too big for his mouth, the edges of them shoving at his cheeks, catching on his tongue. Mac dancing like a prick, clutching his
coconuts. Shots: peppermint; coffee; tequila; flaming sambuca – beautiful blue fire. The girl in the sequin top – blue, beautiful blue. She didn’t step back when he put his hand
on it. The sequins scratched his skin, but she was soft. Her tits soft. Her mouth wide and wet and red.

And then Mac was there. Coconuts, grass skirts, grey trainers. He looked like a twat. You look like a twat, Mac. Fuck off. Lainey’s having a paddy. She’s being psycho. Stick’s
head thumping, like the whales –
dumpf, dumpf, dumpf
. His mum, checking plugs. He wished she’d stop that. The bar hard in the centre of his back. And Mac – I’m
going home. You coming? Home. But the girl with the top. Blue sequins. She was licking her tongue around her lips and leaning against him, her breath in his ear. Don’t go. Not yet. Got a
treat for you. And then kissing his cheek, and he was hard. Drunk as a fucking newt, but hard. He took off the plastic flowers and put them around her neck.

Come on, mate. Mac was pulling at his arm. But the girl. Give us a minute. Ten minutes. Mac was shaking his head, saying, I’m going home. I’m going now. Walking out the door without
looking back. Grass skirts all bunched up over his shorts.

The girl took Stick’s hand and walked, snake-hips, into the toilets. Up against the door. Lock digging into his spine. Jeans down to his knees. Someone banging on the partition. Get a
fucking room. Don’t need a room for this, baby. He wanted to come in her mouth. He wanted to come in her hair. Yes. Like that.

And then he was done, and she was wiping at her lips, pulling herself up from the floor. He grabbed at her tits. Ripping her top. Fucking be careful, man. The thin gold cross stabbed at his
chin. Soft flesh. And then she was moving his hand under her skirt and he was tired all of a sudden. Done. Drunk. He could curl up here, he thought, on the toilet floor, with the scraps of paper
and the dribbles of piss, and sleep.

She was rubbing herself against his fingers. Got to go, he kept saying. No – come on, you want to put it in? Her hand on his cock. You can put it in. Got to get back – look out for
Mac. He’s not looking out for you. Almost falling out of the cubicle, her storming after him, lips puckered, angry. Enjoy your trip. Cheers. Cheers for not much.

And then he was out on the street. Cold. His stomach churning. Everyone else gone. Well, fuck them. He got on the bus. Fell asleep. Missed his stop. Walked back down Rochdale Road. Left onto
Queen’s Road. The whole world in a haze – street lights and booze. Stopped at the end of his street. He’d wake his mum up, stumbling in. She’d be halfway down the stairs
before he’d sorted himself out. He couldn’t be doing with that.

He climbed up to the railway tracks at the back of Pitsford Road. Half fell up the steep slope. He’d sleep there. Could sleep anywhere. He’d brought Mac here when they were kids, to
show him the trains, how the tracks hummed and you had to hold yourself steady when they came past – a rush of metal sucking up the air and shouting in your face. Mac had shouted back and
Stick had stood next to him and opened his mouth, but hadn’t let out any noise.

Up by the knackered fence, Stick kicked at the ground to clear it, sat with his back against a tree. Manchester. Birmingham. Dover. Calais. Tours. Bordeaux. Bilbao. Madrid. Malaga. Shit-bucket
Ford Fiesta. Push the seats back and you could almost lie down. Sleeping bags. Pillows. Mac’s shitty pound-shop window blinds suckered to the glass.

His eyes were heavy as rocks. Head thick with sleep. Booze. That girl’s hair. Someone banging on the toilet wall. Mac and his coconuts and the grass skirts. Lainey with mascara halfway
down her face. He was tired enough to lie down on the ground, in the soil and the fag butts and the bits of paper and crisp packets and fuck knew what else, and sleep. He rested his head on his
arm. Tomorrow. Tomorrow they’d get in the car and drive. Tomorrow they were out of there.

Aching like a bastard. Soil on his face. Someone calling his name. Stick opened his eyes to sunlight pouring through the leaves, closed them again and watched the colours dance
on the backs of his eyelids. He listened. A bird, somewhere; a car; faint footsteps on concrete. A line of drool had dried at the corner of his mouth. He wiped it off, dug the plastic sunglasses
out of his pocket and put them on. He could smell himself: sex and stale booze and sweat. He imagined Mac kicking him in the side – get up, you dirty bastard, we’re going to Spain. But
his phone said it was only 6 a.m. – Mac’d still be snoring away and there was no one there but Stick, the tree, the rusted fence and the train tracks, grass and weeds growing in between
the slats like there wasn’t a hundred tonnes of metal running over them every five minutes.

He took the glasses off again; tried to get some moisture into his mouth by running his tongue around his gums. Tasted bad. The evening came back in sharp bright fragments. The bar, sticky with
spilt drinks. Yellow straws trampled into the floor. The cocktail umbrella in Ricky’s buttonhole. A blue sequinned top under the lights. Mac and those fucking coconuts.

It hurt when he stood up. It hurt when he moved, step by cautious step, down the slope, onto the pavement, round the corner towards home. He felt like he needed one of those massive neck braces
to keep everything still, like Aaron’s cousin had worn after his car crash.

Stick was so focused on putting one foot in front of the other, he didn’t notice the front door was wide open until he was down the path, reaching for his key. His brain did its
skip-jump-to-disaster move. His mum lying in a pool of blood, or gagged and bound on the kitchen floor. All their stuff gone.

‘Mum?’ he shouted into the hallway. His voice came out cracked and phlegmy. He cleared his throat. ‘Mum?’

Nothing. Then footsteps, and his dad with his shirt buttoned up wrong, standing in the doorway.

‘Oh, thank the merciful Lord. Thank you.’ His face was blotched red, his eyes bloodshot.

‘What the fuck? It’s like 6 a.m. Where’s Mum?’ He felt his stomach clench. ‘What’s she done?’

‘Your mum is walking the streets in her dressing gown, pulling her hair out, trying to find you.’ Stick’s dad took hold of his wrist and pulled him inside. Then wrapped his
arms around him. His shirt smelt like the inside of a car – musty, metallic. Stick pulled away.

‘We need to call her.’ His dad fumbled in his pocket. ‘You. You call her.’ He shoved his phone towards Stick but he didn’t take it. ‘You’re OK?
You’re not bleeding?’

‘What are you even on about?’ Stick’s head was throbbing and his skin was too hot.