Wreckage (6 page)

—See the friggin gob on that bastard, Ally?

—Who?

—Im in the ticket office. See the friggin kite on him? Fuckin ’tude on im lar, no messin. Shitehawk.

Alastair just shrugs, says nothing. They ascend the stairs to traverse the footbridge to the far platform.

—An see im when I gave im the fifty nicker note? Bet he thought it was snide, like, probly never even seen one before. That’s cos yeh werk in a ticket office in fuckin Wrexham Station, lad. Get yerself a life an earn some proper fuckin dough.

They pass graffiti: TRFC ARE HERE and SCOUSERS DIE. WREXHAM SHITE and ROVERS FUCK OFF. They descend on to the platform, empty but for three dirty pigeons picking at a pizza crust; the Racecourse Ground swelling above it all, the four spotlights like the stanchions of alien craft or illumination for a titanic operating theatre. Litterfruited bushes on the trackbanks shimmy in the wind and the sky is blue and almost cloudless yet seemingly without a sun. It is cold and their breath can be seen puffing over their shoulders as if driven they are by steam.

They sit in a shelter to await their train. The shelter, of course, smells of urine as such places always do, and
on
one of the paint-scabbed walls written in silver marker-pen Alastair reads a rhyme:

JO AND SARAH

HAVE BEEN AND GONE

BUT WE LEFT ARE NAMES

TO TURN YOUSE ON

Darren wedges the rucksack tightly between his feet and pulls his tracksuit top up over his face to shelter him from the wind as he lights a cigarette. The smell of the smoke entices Alastair and he lights one too and now they are enmisted; two breaths, two exhaled fumes. Their faces blurred behind a slender smog.

—Av a good time last night, Ally?

Alastair shrugs again. —Suppose so, yeh. Gorrer bit borin early mornin like.

—Bit fuckin
borin?
Aye for
you
yeh dull bastard cos you were lookin for somewhere to crash just when things were kickin off. Shoulda got yerself a Judy, man, tellin yeh thee were fuckin
chokin
for it. That friggin Gillian one gobbled me dry, no lie.

They say nothing for some moments, just blowing smoke down at the ground, each recalling in fuzzed and thudding heads an experience of empty sleep and sex, nullity or noise. A thin body. A slim slice of darkness under a bed where no peace was found. And experiencing anew a sorrow and a freedom, a rue and a potential dazzling. But some shadows across them both alike as have been before and will again.

A faint rumbling begins in the earth. They can feel it in the soles of their feet, through their trainies.
Darren
flicks his butt out on to the trembling track.

—There’s summin up with you, Alastair, isn’t thee? Summin not fuckin right with you this mornin, lar, I fuckin
know
there is. You fuckin plannin summin? Summin fuckin brewin in that mad fuckin ed of yours?

Alastair’s eyes slide once at Darren quickly then away again. He sucks again at the cigarette even though only the filter now smoulders.

—No, Darren, honest to God. I’m just fuckin knackered, that’s all. That’s all it is, lar. Truth. What the fuck would I be plannin anyway?

The rumbling gets louder.

—How the fuck should I know? Think
I
know what’s goin on in them addled fuckin brains o’ yours?

—There’s nowt goin on, Da, honest. Ain’t plannin fuck all sept how to spend my share of the swag, that’s all.

Alastair smiles at Darren but it is not returned. Darren is leaning forward pebble-eyed, looking beyond Alastair at the approaching train.

—Yeh well there’d berrer fuckin
not
be is all I’m fuckin sayin. I know yer still fuckin freakin over that ahl gerl like an I can’t be friggin arsed goin through it all again but you fuckin
know
what’ll happen, you open that fuckin gob o’ yours, don’t yeh?

He focuses on Alastair now, the train slowing at the platform, the wind of its wash tossing the tight curls on his crown. His muddy eyes are ringed by dark like bruising, this doubledark stare and a muscle twitches on his cheek. Alastair just nods.

—Yeh well, Darren goes on. —I hope yeh fuckin
do
cos I don’t wanner atchly avter fuckin
do
it, y’unnerstand?

—Yeh.

—I just hope yeh fuckin
do
, that’s all.

—I
do
, Da. An I ain’t plannin fuck all.

The train stops, the doors wheeze open. They get on, sit down, put their feet up on the seats opposite. A blue-rinser across the aisle glowers openly through the glass of her gigs at them and tuts and tightens her grip on her handbag, just as Darren does with the stuffed rucksack on his lap. One lurch and jerk and the train pulls away.

—Cos I wanner know there’s gunner be fuck all for me to tamp about here, Alastair. Just wanner be able to enjoy meself likes without worryin about fuck all, knowmean?

—Yeh yeh, sound.

—Wanner hear, from
you
like, that we’re all sorted an happy. Are we?

—What?

—Sorted an happy. Everythin’s boss. Are you lissnin to wharram sayin or am I just dealin with a dick’ed here?

—Nah it’s fine, Da. Honest to God, mate, it’s all gunner be sound.

—It fuckin
berrer
be.

—It
is
, man. Stop yer worryin. It’s all gunner be good. Nowt to tamp about at all, mate.

Darren sniffs and snuggles the rucksack even tighter to his torso, almost campishly aggrieved. Alastair gazes out the window at the passing estates, the wide roads easily surveyable, cul-de-sacs like islands. There is a
noise
beneath the chunkachunk of the train that sounds vaguely like a grinding of teeth.

—An yeh can guarantee that, can yeh?

—What?

—Fuckin ell, Alastair, ow much friggin bugle did yeh do last night? Not fuckin with it this mornin, you, no lie. No fuckin lie. Not that yeh are
anyway
, like, but …

A tutting from the old lady across the aisle. A fiddling with mittens.

—Guarantee what, tho?

—That everythin’s gunner be sound, like you said. Cos I wanner know one thing, lad, just one fuckin thing: who’s got the friggin pull here, eh?

—The pull?

—Aye, yeh. Who’s got the fuckin pull?

Alastair sinks his hands in his jacket pockets, tucks his chin into his zipped-up collar. —
You
av, Darren.

—Yeh, fuckin right.

—Everyone knows that.

—Yeh. Willy fuckin Hunter and his gobshite brothers know it. Stega knows it. All the fuckin Maguire brothers know it. So why don’t fuckin
you?

Tut-tut-tut from across the aisle. Darren glares at the woman and continues to glare until she slowly stands and moves off shakily down the carriage.

—I
do
.

—Do yeh?

—Aye yeh, I fuckin well do. Yer bein parro, lar. I’m not plannin fuck all, I’m happy to av the brewsters, there’s notten to friggin worry about. It’s all gunner be sound, yeh don’t avter tamp about fuckin anythin. Alright? Yis
happy
now? We’ll go back to town an start spendin the money on a bender, that suit yis? That make yeh happy?

Darren nods once, his eyes locked on to the middle distance, taking in the almost empty carriage. His head lolls on the thick gimbals of his neck with the rocking of the train and like some lord brought low he seems as if this transport is for him alone. As if he is forever vigilant to the bruising of his dignity, this possessor of rare bearing and scant standing amongst the common flock of men, those who are forced to travel this way because they can’t afford any better conveyance. And he this glitterer must temporarily mix but will assiduous remain unblemished and aloof.

It is a quality to Darren that Alastair has witnessed before: the chest comes out, the head tilts back, the eyes become heavy-lidded. A carriage of almost aristocratic trait that paints the world contemptible, that exposes its inconsequence. That says ‘this is not important only
I
am’, and it is soothing somewhat to Alastair to see this since in its all-holding only in disdain and not as usual disgust and thus not fury there is a lessening of tension, a relaxed permission. An ease in the knowing that fists will not be formed and there will be no flashing of glass or blade or even teeth.

—Gunner give Tommy a call, Da?

—Tommy? What for?

—He’s gunner find out sooner or later, mate, inny? About the car, like.

Darren sighs. —Aye, suppose yer right.

He digs his mobile out of his pocket and taps in a number. Holds the phone to his ear and smiles at Alastair.

—Voicemail. Nice one. Don’t avter speak to the fat blert face to … Tommy, it’s Darren, mate. No luck in Wales, like, we just couldn’t find the musher. Looked evrywhere. Think yis got snide info, to be honest. Adter ditch the motor as well, I’ll tell yiz about it later, but give us a ring when yeh get this message, yeh? Alright well. Laters.

He turns the phone off and replaces it in his pocket.

—Done. Cunt can’t say we didn’t try to contact him, can he?

—No.

—Can’t say we’re tryna avoid im or anythin.

—Is right.

Chester begins behind the moving windows. Back to where they began yesterday in the car now sunken and the futile hunt and the THUNK and the falling woman and the blood and the money all this yesterday formless before them now done and behind them and this city changed now, estranged, altered now irreparable by regret for one and chance for the other. How guilt and potential in turn have coloured the huddled rooves and spires of this ancient city red and black and glowing golden in the cold remote sun.

—An there’s no need to tell im just yet, is thee?

—About what?

Darren pats the rucksack on his lap in affection as if it is a child or his own belly pregnant. —
This
, lar. Don’t think fat fucker Tommy needs to know about this just yet, do you?

The train begins to slow.

—I mean keep it quiet like an we can divide the
whole
fuckin haul. Tommy don’t need to get a friggin penny, knowmean? Sixty-forty split, lar.

Alastair looks.

—An don’t go givin me that fuckin face Alastair cos if it weren’t for fuckin me we’d have fuck all, y’unnerstand? We’d have nowt. We’d still be in fuckin Wales lookin for that one-armed bastard an wanderin around in the fuckin rain so don’t start givin me them fuckin looks, alright? Sixty-forty split. Yeh can like it or fuck off.

The train stops at Chester Station. Doors hiss open. People get on, mainly shoppers returning home from this city or travelling towards the wider choice at Liverpool forty minutes or so away. They carry bags and wear fleeces against the cold and have red cheeks and take their seats talking, some small excitement about them the disposable incomes in their pockets pressing warmly. Christmas out of the way now although odd lights and decorations still linger in the larger towns.

—I mean look at all these bastards, Ally … could buy n sell em all, I could. Every last one of em, no lie. Werkin at ther shitey friggin jobs and takin home buttons and I’m here with four fuckin grand on me knee, I could buy n sell all these fuckers. Ther in a fuckin daze, lar. Thee avn’t gorrer clue. Can’t tell one from thee other cos ther all the fuckin same, same faces, same clothes, same shitty fuckin jobs. Same fuckin house n all on the same shitty estates. All adds up to the same fuckin no-mark life an we’re fuckin well
not
them, kidder, are we? Eh? No fuckin way, man. Too fuckin right. Could buy n sell
all
these twats. No messin round. Can do wharrever the fuck we want to, now. You
know
it.

The train pulls out of the station. Alastair takes his baseball hat off and rasps his palm over his shaven head, the stubble growing out now.

—Me ed’s bangin, Da. All that beak, like. Needin a bevvy to sort meself out, knowmean? Get me ed straight like.

—Oh no. We are fuckin
not
goin straight to the boozer off the train. No fuckin way. Need straight heads, lar, sort the bucks out like, knowmean?

—Aye but that’s wharram sayin, me ed
isn’t
straight. In need of a scoop or two to gerrit sorted.

Purselipped Darren shaking his head. —No fuckin way. Two scoops my arse. There’s four grand here lad, d’yeh really think we’d stick to the two? Back in town, like, with all that friggin beak floatin around? He shakes his head again. —Nah, me n you, we’ll gerrer few cans, go back to mine. Stuff needs divvyin up, lar, an fuckin soon
as
. Plenty of time for the boozer an it ain’t today. Tonight maybe, aye, but let’s get everythin sorted first before we do anythin else. Yeh?

Capenhurst Station. Alastair looks out the window and on the platform he can see himself and Darren around a table in the pub on the Lime Street Station concourse, he can see this scene, Darren beginning to slur and lurch and loosen his grip on the rucksack and his eyelids lolling lower and the rucksack money-stuffed sliding towards the sticky carpeted floor, it’s there, it’s present before him, it’s in the future awaiting him but it’s happening now too, just outside the window on the station platform, Alastair is watching it all unfold. He can
see
it.