Wreckage (15 page)

Oh aye yeh.

Them fuckin little neds tho, lar, them two, that fuckin Robbo and Freddy thee call themselves. Gorrer fuckin
admire
the little cunts inner way I mean the
cheek
of it, like. Got some arse like comin ere sayin thee wanner set emselves up, askin fuckin
me
for advice! Gorrer laugh like really, double fuckin brave. Remind me of meself, likes, when I was theer age, fuller fuckin ’tude but dem other two cunts, that fuckin Alastair, that fuckin Taylor one, I tell yiz summin’s goin on with dem two knob’eds, I fuckin shite you not. Fuckin
well
up
to summin, thee are, I can fuckin tell. Don’t find the thievin one-armed musher in Wales an then thee av ter ditch the fuckin motor? Not fuckin right, that. An now I hear all this about this big fuckin wedge floatin round the city with theer fuckin names attached … summin not right. Pure not fuckin right. Summin’s goin on, I fuckin
know
it.

Tommy, man, Tommy. Yer bein taken for a
cunt
, lar. Theer callin yiz a no-mark. Theer pure fuckin
laughin
at yeh be’ind yer back. Thee all think yerrah fuckin dick’ed. Yer bein pure
laughed
at, man. Theer all
laughin
at yeh. Fatfuck Tommy theer callin yeh, thick as fuckin shite. Do somethin about it, man.
DO SOMETHIN ABOUT IT
.

I will I will. I’m
goin
to. Just you fuckin
watch
me, lar, just you fuckin
watch
me. Shut up dem voices in
no
time, lar. No fuckin time at all.

Need a fuckin lesson, thee do. An
I’m
the fuckin teacher.
Mis
ter friggin Maguire.
Sir
. Sounds boss, dozen it?

THE POET

God, there’s always
one
, isn’t there? Always
one
ignorant fool who just doesn’t grasp the etiquette. I mean, look at him – the cheap shellsuit tucked into the cheap white sports socks, the shaven head, the baseball cap, that troglodyte pallor and those dead, dead eyes … Here he comes; he’s going to walk to the toilets between me and my audience and horribly interrupt my flow. But I’m not going to let him; I’ll ignore him; I’ll embarrass him when he comes back out. He’s
probably
gone in there to take drugs anyway, some sleazy cheap concoction.

and then I saw you

staring

as one would at a saviour

and in my whisky

I

wanted you more than

The toilet door closes. I hear someone in the audience snigger at his shellsuited back. What’s a scally like him doing here in the Egg anyway? During a Poetry Event? This is an artist’s place for God’s sake. I doubt he’s come in for the bulgar-wheat salads, he’s probably trying to find a safe place to indulge his addictions because he’s been barred from everywhere else, all those vile places his type usually go. Doesn’t he realise how difficult it is, to stand up here and read out work that you’ve sweated and bled over? Doesn’t he have any respect? I mean, I’m
alone
up here, truly alone.

the swan wants flight

more than the stars need us to augment them

and in my whisky

my four cans of beer

now I know fear

Maybe he’s one of those Scum Novelists researching his next Vomit Novel. Every year one comes out, some anti-intellectual spewing, some proudly plebeian vitriol
or
bile that everyone seems to need to make a fuss over and they’re all the same, exulting in filth and inverted snobbery. I
bet
that’s what he’s doing in the toilets, making notes for his next Vomit Novel. That’s all they are, just pages of exploitative nastiness; lacking in any kind of sensitivity or compassion and all written in the same grubby little voice. Oh, authentic depiction, they say! The voice of the common man! It all lacks vision, it lacks commitment, it lacks …
artistry
. And still they go on as if it’s still the year of
Trainspotting
and not the twenty-first century, as if they don’t realise that people are tired of them by now, all this sordid concern with the one voice and the one time. Society doesn’t need the Vomit Novel. It never did.

And I came to you on my wings

of Art

through the terror

like
–

Only it just doesn’t realise it yet. The New Sensitivity, that’s what I’m creating here; an outward-looking return to the pure Romantic sentiment. A reinvention and thus re-invigoration of a lyrical poetics into social life, into the world. I’ll enrich it. I’ll reinvest it with value. And by this time next year it won’t be
their
names displayed in Waterstone’s window it’ll be mine, Andrew Boswell, fulfilling my duties to the world, my service. And as soon as my name is known I’ll turn rapidly to criticism because someone needs to stem the flow of filth, someone needs to protect and guide the populace, steer them towards what’s right;
someone
needs
to ask the question, ‘Is it desire for fame and money, or a simple failure of talent?’ Society needs someone to ask such questions. The people need someone with the guts to come right out and ask such questions. And that someone is me: Andrew Boswell. Remember that name.

the bee navigates the thorns

the petrel the storms

because I, I
–

The toilet door creaks open.

I, I, I
…

I stop here, caught on the ‘I’ at this rude interruption. My audience watches me, expectant, and I glare at the scumbag over the top of my page, my poem. He suddenly realises I’m looking at him, feels my glare as he passes and looks up at me with those lifeless eyes from the shadow of the peak of his cap. The whole café is watching, agog.

—The fucker
you
fuckin lookin at, yeh knob’ed? Wanner fuckin photie, do yeh?

Oh God that voice. They all sound the same. Aggression, lack of education, makes their voices thick and heavy and I can see the deeds this one’s committed in his face, his eyes; half-witted, mindlessly violent deeds. Which is all he’ll ever do. But I’m safe because all eyes are on us and he won’t do anything if I retort: —What am I looking at? Evidently someone without the manners or bladder control to wait for me to finish.

He laughs like a drain and shrugs and leaves the café. We all hear him thumping down the stairs. He displayed his lack of intelligence there in full public view, swearing like that. Sign of a stunted mind, that quick recourse to swearing. The language has been degraded, debased by people like that and their Vomit Novel chroniclers and I will be the man to make it beautiful and valuable once more.

—Sorry about that, I tell my audience, and shuffle through my pages. After
that
little episode they need something to relax them, make them feel at ease again. I find just the thing: —This one’s called ‘Skimming Stones Against the Tide’.

Written on West Kirby beach last year – the playful bounce of the intellect over the dark depths of the psyche,
that’s
what this is about. And about being the only New Sensitivist writing at the moment. And it’s what we need and I don’t mean simply here, now, in the Egg, I mean here, now, in the world. We need this exploration of the human heart and mind, don’t we? It will,
I
will, help us to understand ourselves; me, Andrew Boswell, will help us to understand ourselves, and keep the world safe from the Vomit Novel. Remember my name.

DARREN, HIS MOTHER

He’ll be the friggin death of me, that boy. Honest to God, he’s gonner drive me into an early grave. Nowt but trouble since the day he was born and Jesus Mother and Joseph
what
friggin trouble; forceps delivery, he was. Didn’t want to come out; twenty-four hours’
labour
like, and he
still
had to be dragged out into the world kickin and screamin. And he’s been nothing but bloody trouble since. God knows what he’s been getting up to recently; my dad, ar Leon, he said he saw him in the Cracke yesterday with injuries on his face and stitches in his scalp, like, and he was all het up as well, a man on a mission, me dad said. Always so angry, that boy is. Maybe the lack of a father is to blame, I don’t know, but I can’t imagine that if
he
was still on the scene anything’d be any better. Bad piece of work, that man was. I still remember that day, years ago now like, I remember him sitting at the kitchen table with the footy
Echo
and ar Natalie sitting there n all, she must’ve been about fourteen, an I remember bending down to take the chops out of thee oven an I heard a sound, like a hissing and a tutting sound, an I turned with the hot pan of sizzlin meat like, an Mary an Joseph the
disgust
on that man’s face. Still remember it now as if it was only yesterday, that
disgust
; an I
knew
what he was thinking, of how ar Natalie or one of her friends would look bendin down like that an he just didn’t want me any more and hadn’t done for ages, me, this ahl fat-arsed cow. Lettin herself go. Letting herself go! Who friggin
wouldn’t
after five children an the bloody torment thee eldest put me through … But that expression on that man’s face, I’ll never, ever forget it; that sheer disgust for me and my age an decay an how completely unlike ar Natalie I was. Beginning of thee end, that day was. Couldn’t bring meself to put up with him any longer an he moved out soon after, God knows where he is now. Still married like, can’t get divorced like, but God am
glad
he’s gone, out of me life. Got rid of him without the mortal sin, I did. And I’m
well
shut of im. So yeh, if that get was still around I can’t imagine how it’d be any better for ar Darren like but then again I can’t imagine how it’d be any
worse
. How could it possibly be any
worse
?

He’s unhappy, Father Donaghy said. You must understand, your son is a deeply unhappy young man, that’s what Father Donaghy said. And I’m sure he’s right but that makes it all the worse for
me
, cos I mean I brought him here, didn’t I? It was me brought him into this world, like, I gave him his unhappiness. But I just don’t understand his anger … Where does it come from? Tell me, where does his anger come from? His dad wasn’t an angry man especially, he was just friggin pathetic, so why’s my Darren so full of this rage? Father Donaghy couldn’t answer that. He just said that we can never understand the ways of God and why He afflicts His children so, only that His love is a, what, an antidote for all the pain and suffering in the world and that the world is, at the moment, in a time of crisis, and Father Donaghy’s certainly right about
that
; I mean we had this conversation not long after them planes had gone into them towers an I couldn’t get them images of the falling bodies out of me head … I saw them in me sleep. Dreamt that I
was
one of em, falling like that. An then there was Afghanistan, with the pictures of all them poor people being bombed, an the
wrongness
of all that – the poorest country in the world being bombed by two of the richest … An Thatcher killed more people in this city in ten years, only not with bombs but she’s still responsible for it
like
, the despair, an pretty soon it’s gonner be Iraq again an the pictures of children, so many of the innocent children hurt and killed and they’ve got nothing to do with all this, nothing to do with it at all but they’re the ones who’ll suffer, aren’t thee? They’re the ones who always suffer.

But Bush and Blair and that friggin Thatcher, they’ll all have to answer to God.
All
of them. That friggin bin Laden in his cave n all, they’ll all have to stand there in front of Him an justify their lives and their actions and what’re they gonner say
then
, ey? How’re they gonner defend themselves
then
? Me too, oh aye, I’m not gunner escape … an what am
I
gonner say? How can I excuse meself, what reasons can I give for bringin a baby into this world who hates the world? It could’ve been
him
, hijacking one of them planes … he’s got the anger … Jesus, this world is full of holes that we can all any one of us fall through. It’s like in the Holiday Inn, the Holiday Inn in town where I clean, there’s three great big photographs in the foyer that I polish every mornin of the skylines of the three cities Liverpool’s twinned with; Shanghai, Dublin an New York. And what’re thee gonner do with the New York one now? Them two towers are still there, in the picture like, but they’re not there in real life any more. So what’re thee gunner do? Take a new picture or leave thee old one up, thee old one that lies? Cos everyone knows that them towers don’t exist any more, that there’s a great big hole where thee once stood.
Everyone
knows that. So what’re thee gonner do?
Somethin
has to be done, dunnit? Aye but what, tho?

He’s become a gangster.
That’s
what he is. He’s been
mentioned
in the
Echo
an everythin, ‘underworld activities’ thee said, an I caught him once burning clothes in a bin in the back alley, washing himself down with petrol as well in the yard, an he’s knockin round with them Maguires, nasty pieces of work, like. Thinks he’s friggin Al Capone now. I asked him over Sunday dinner last, just came right out with it an accused him of bein a gangster an all he could say was ‘Mum, am
norra
gangster’. Just that – ‘I’m
norra
gangster, Mum.’ He had me in tears. Ar Natalie was there with her feller and their baby and their
little
baby, juster few weeks old like, an he looked … he looked so bloody beautiful, like. Untouched. An I remember how Darren would look then an how he looks now, what he
is
now an it breaks my heart, it really does. Just like Bush an Blair an Thatcher an that bin Laden one he’s also gonner have to answer to God an what’s he gonner say? How will he defend himself? He can hardly string two sensible words together as it is, not without using the ‘f’ word between them, like … so how’s he gonner avoid it? How’s he gonner avoid being damned? An why aren’t thee others like him, his brothers an sisters? Why is it only him who behaves like he does?