—Boys bach! Shwd y chi?
—Sound Benj.
He passes a pint to Sion then necks half of his own in one go. The thirst coming off him in waves but it’s a good thirst, somehow, different to the thirst that hangs heavy over the heads of the drinkers in the back bar of the pub. It’s like a force or something; a kind of pulse in the air around his head and body.
—DuwDuw. Some right arseholes in yur tonight, inner?
—’Swhy we’re out here, mate. Wanted to gob him.
—Mister 20 we talkin about, aye?
—Yeah.
—Think someone’s about to do it for yew. Second goal’s just gone in as well.
—Oh for fuck’s sake.
—Aye but yur’s me just paid an I bear presents. Football be fucked.
He puts his pint on the wall an digs in his pocket. The froth on his glass has the shape of an elephant’s head, the trunk craning upwards in mid-trumpet.
—Hold yewer hand out, Sionie boy.
He drops a wee white pill onto Sion’s palm.
—Jes a very mild ecko, that’s all. Very mild. Jester nice little buzz, like.
—Sure it’s mild? Only I’ve …
—Oh God aye. Had one with me cornflakes this morning, jester get me through-a shift, like. Very pleasant, very mellow. And for me favourite scwelsh ex-junkie …
He hands me an ounce of American Spirit.
—Don’t smoke it all at once, now.
Ah. God bless the boy. —Starman, Benny.
—Anyway. I could’ve gotten yew a pill too cos yewer back yewsin, now, aren’t yew?
—What?
—Urd yew prolapsed, I did.
—The word’s relapsed, Benny. But no I haven’t. Who’s told you this?
—Up at Pendam last week. Bit of a rave up yur, wasn’t there? And some pills going around in which yew indulged? Or so I was told. So I’ve yurd, like.
—Oh Jesus Christ. Which gobshite told you this?
—Word gets round, mun. Small town.
The seriousness on his face. A great big concern in his eyes which I find touching and funny.
—What’s so worth grinning about, then? If this is yew relapsed then I don’t see what’s so funny.
—This true? Sion says.
I shake me head. —It wasn’t even MDMA. We were ripped off. Caffeine pill or something, swear down. No hit from it at all, it just kept me awake. Don’t worry yerselves, boys. I’m grand. An nor was it even a rave – equinox party or some shite. Few dopeheads and a crappy sound system, that was it.
—Takin a bit of a risk, tho, weren’t yew? Cos I mean …
—Nah, not really. I mean even if it hadder been proper MDMA … I give a shrug. —Crack n smack, now, aye, but no more, man. Never again. And the bevvy of course. But I was never bad on the E. Wasn’t my thing. Never got its claws into me like.
—Yeah but still n all. I’m finding it difficult to approve, feller-me-lad.
Ben’s right, really, I should’ve done a Grange Hill and Just Said No. But. Just sometimes I get so fucking bored. —I appreciate the concern lads and everything and God knows it’s nice to know that yis care. I put my right hand over me heart, national anthemy. —But why the worry? Youse didn’t know me when I was running wild anyway.
—No but I’ve urd stories, I yav. Tales from when yew were up at Rhos. In that right Sion?
Sionie nods. Dead solemn.
—What kind of stories? And from who?
—Never yew mind. Benny taps the side of his nose with his index finger. A fly circles the curls on his head, them tight curls all matted and knotty with sweat and dust. —Jest urd some things.
—Cack. I was a model fuckin pupil up at Rhos, lar. Poster boy for rehab, that’s me. Was more or less clean before I even checked into the place.
—Was yew?
—Aye. Hadter be, didn’t I? Wouldn’t’ve let me in otherwise.
—So why bother with it then? If yew were clean, like, why’d yew need Rhos?
—I’ve told you before. Yeh finish the job in Rhoserchan. The Twelve Steps. Yeh do the first six in nick.
The fly gets bored and decides to check out Sion’s head instead. Gets bored of that as well and drones away.
—He’s told us all this before, Ben, says Sionie.
Benny blows smoke in the air and nods. —Jes checkin, that’s all. Making sure his memory’s holding up under all-a pills he’s been taking.
I laugh. —Sod off, Benny. He gives me a wee wink and has a drink. Me hands feel useless, flopping about like without anything in them, an I don’t want another smoke so I just bury them in me pockets. There’s a tingling in the soles of me feet.
—Was it good, anyway?
—What, the pill? It was shite. Just told yeh.
—No, the rave stroke party thing. Was gunna go but we were otherwise engaged, weren’t we Sion?
—Aye. Women.
In my ankles now. Creeping up. —Wasn’t a rave like they used to be. Just like, a fire and some music and a load of weed and these crappy little pills. And they even played ‘Fluffy Little Clouds’, believe that?
—In the twenty-first century?
—I know. And not in a, like, ironic or nostalgic way either. Arrested development in some of them people, no lie. Retro. It’s in my knees, now, that tingle, and it stays there for a second or two before it rushes up through me body an into my head where it becomes words that I can’t do anything to stop leaving me gob: – An I saw something. In the sky.
—Did yew? What kind of thing? Like a UFO?
—No, not like that. Benny’s holding his drink to his chin so he can take quick little sips at it like a bird and Sion’s kind of leaning in towards me, at the waist, his hands in his pockets like mine. The noise from the pub is a background blur and I can make out no individual words or voice or even types of sound. It’s just here, around me. This beer garden, beer yard, beer square or whatever it is has become a bit too small. Too small for the three of us. I know that there’s blue sky above me probably beginning to get a bit less blue now but that doesn’t seem to be enough at the moment.
—A plane or something? One-a them jets?
—No, no.
—Paraglider, Sion says. —Get them on that mountain a lot. Cos-a the winds, see.
—No, it was nothing like that. It was a kind of shape, a a glow. Like a shape inside a glow.
—The sun, then.
Benny nudges Sion in the ribs with his elbow. He’s smiling but not in a nasty way; I mean it’s not a fuckin smirk or anythin. I don’t really want to say anymore but it’s like I can’t help meself:
—It was like a woman.
—A woman?
—Floating in-a sky?
God I wish I had a drink to hide behind. I take the baccy out of me pocket and roll up.
Sion asks again: – A woman in the sky?
—Kind of, yeah. I can’t really describe it any other way.
—What was she like, this woman? Fit, was she? Would you of?
I look up at Benny’s smile and it’s still not nasty. Sion laughs.
—An yew said-a E didn’t work, says Benj. —An en yew talk about women floating in-a fuckin sky.
—Since when has MDMA been hallucinogenic like that?
—Well it wasn’t MDMA then, was it? Yew ad some mild acid or something, didn’t yew? Women in-a sky, mun. Don’t be so daft.
All tingling gone, now. Gone, and what’s this sudden sensation in me chest as if I’m missing it? What’s going on here? Again, I wish I could drink. Wish I could drink like Benny and Sion and millions of others do, get happy-drunk for one night and drop a mild pill and enjoy meself and wake up with nothing but a hangover, just a grotty feeling and not an uncontrollable lust for fuckin mayhem. I really wish I could do that. There’s a little urge to tell of how happy I felt when I saw that glow in the sky with the shape hanging in it, just a small urge, like the itch for a shot of strong coffee. But it soon goes.
�
��Women in-a sky, Benny says again. —What are yew like, mun?
I light up and suck smoke deep into me lungs. —I saw it, Benj.
—I’m sure yew did, mun. I have no doubt about that at all. Which is another reason why my favourite scwelsh ex-junkie nutbag is yew.
He ruffles my hair and gives a big grin. Obviously coming up on that pill. ‘Mild’, he said. Sion laughs again and announces that he needs a piss and goes inside.
—Did anyone else see her? Iss woman?
—Yeh.
—Who?
—Some girl called Emily or Emma or something. Pretty. Kind of a cat face.
—Lives in Trefechan? Got a kid?
—Don’t know, I hadn’t met her before. She’s a mum, is she?
—One kid, aye. Little boy. Don’t know her very well meself, like, just know of her. Know who you’re talking about, I think. Got some stars here? He touches behind his ear.
—That’s her. And she’s got a kid, has she? Who to?
—Some crusty who passed through, few years ago. She’s not with him now, like, he had to do one cos Black Jerry was gunner stab him, if I remember right.
—Who’s Black Jerry?
—Before yewer time, mun. Black feller called Jerry. Did a bit-a dealin. Few years ago, iss was. And she took one-a ese pills as well, did she?
—Think so.
—There we are, then.
She’s got a kid. She’s a mother. Some crusty. Change the subject, Adam lad. —An some big fucker, dead sparky. He saw it too. Started on some students, he did, and taxed em for an iPod. He was there n all. Got a big red dragon tat on his neck.
Benny laughs loud. —Cowley, yew mean? Fuck sakes, boy, he’ll see women floating in-a sky pills or no pills. God almighty! He knocks back what’s left of his drink and puts the glass down on the wall. —So let’s recap. A slapper an-a nutter an-a ex-junkie, smashin as he might be, all take a fuckin pill which is supposed to be ecko but is probably acid or somethin an then ey all see somethin floatin in-a sky. All three of ese people have a history of hard drug use. Iss sum it up? An ey all see iss thing in-a sky after stayin up all night on top of a mountain. No sleep. Right?
I can’t help but return his grin. He’s well up on that pill, now, and it’s contagious. And behind him, over his shoulder, I see a small woman, not a dwarf or anything, I mean a small flat woman with blonde hair and wearing a bikini top rise up from behind the low wall that separates the beer garden from the alleyway. She rises up and speaks in Sion’s voice gone spooky:
—Wooooowooooo! I have come for the one they call Adam! I am the floating woman of Pendam and I have come for him!
Benj spins, starts to laugh. Sionie stands up from behind the wall, all pleased with himself.
—Daft bastard, Sion.
He comes over the wall with the woman in his hand. He holds her up in front of me.
—Yur she is, Adlad. Your very own floating lady. Sexy one n all. Been looking for yew, she has.
One of them KP display board things that packets of peanuts are stapled to. Didn’t know pubs still had them but this boozer’s hardly bang up to date. Still got a bag of dry roasted over her fanny.
—Where’d you get her?
—Asked the barstaff. Had yew going, didn’t I?
—Oi tort it was hurself, I say in a Father Ted voice.
—What yew gonna do wither now, then? asks Benji and Sion holds her up to, like, appraise. —Taker home, he says. Make a couple of holes in her.
—Dirty get.
He laughs. —Na, barman needser back. Only a lend, see. Apparently eyr collector’s items now, so he says.
Without any warning a memory pounces; I shagged one such woman once, years back, a model for them KP boards, like. Well, she was probably a model for a lot of other things as well but that’s how I met her, in a pub on the Wirral, when she was doing some promotional tour thing for the nuts. This was before I was using heavily and was drinking only like most people up there do. She came into the pub. We got talking. Went back to her hotel. And I don’t remember much more, not Her name, not her skin, just that she was wearing denim hot pants and she was nice.
The sun goes down and it gets a bit colder so we go back inside. Sion returns the lady to the barman and they share a laugh. Twat-head 20 has gone, I’m relieved to see, and the telly is showing replays and punditry with the sound off. It finished two nil. It’s all fucking up. Is the desire to put meself through this shite so strong? And why? Well, there’s the dead grandad and the memory of sitting on his shoulder on the terraces, for one. It’s one of them: if you need it explaining to you then you’ll never understand.
—What can I get yew, Adlad? Ty Nant, is it? Or ey’ll do yew a cup-a tea if yew ask nicely.
Benny’s eyes are big and he’s chewing his tongue a wee bit. The day in the pub has entered its third and final act, when the faces shine like the bottles arrayed on the gantry and the talk becomes darting and the body language becomes easily readable; you can tell, now, who’s gunner kick off with who, who’s gunner go home with who. That loud lad at the bar with the splashes of paint on his jumper is gunner get a smack from the feller in the lumberjack shirt, who in turn will, no doubt, get off with the overweight lady with the short purple hair who keeps putting her hand in his back pocket. The Brummy guy with the shaven head is gunner go home with the lad with the floppy white fringe who’s admiring his ink. It’s all a unique and lovely theatre which I’m on the outside of now. I’m just an observer of it all.
The glow.
—Nah, I say to Benji. I’ve had enough. I’m gunner get off.
—Yew sure?
—Yeh. I’m hungry.
—Can’t tempt yew wither bagger nuts? Go on, go crazy. Pork scratchings. Go wild.
—I’ll pick something up on the way home.
He hugs me tight, Ecstasy-tight. ‘Mild’, he said, but listen to him:
—What I said before, mun, yew being me favourite an that. I fuckin mean that. Truly fuckin do. Yewer one uv a best, boy. Never forget that aye? One-a the best. Yew and yewer floating woman.
—Aye, lad, alright. You n all. Now let me go yeh daft bastard cos yeh crushing me windpipe.
He does and I get squeezed by Sionie too and then I’m outside. There is the smell of frying onions and the noise of music, loud. At this top end of town the light is bright and the people are many, bare legs and pastel shirts gathered to smoke in the doorways. As if it’s all inside a dome, the night sky over it all like a skin. It’s alive and it’s electric and I’m outside it all.
Temptation isn’t so much everywhere as everything; lose two nil? Have a pint. Some dickhead with ‘20’ on his back? Have several pints and get right in the cunt’s face. And I know that ‘Jacqueline’ by Alabama 3, which I can hear from an open window somewhere, would sound even better and make me feel cool and strong with a bottle and a pipe or a line inside me. I know this as much as I know anything, as much as I know about abscesses and spewing blood and turning myself into a fuckin beast. This I know too and this I am entirely fuckin sure of.
Fuck it. None of this matters. Just the memory of that glow. And the knowing that the complexity of it all is a thing to be celebrated.
A bunch of burly boys dressed as cheerleaders spill out of the Academi. Welsh rugby boys dressed as women; someone’s getting a broken jaw tonight.
I head homewards, through the people, through the glow from street lights and pub/club doorways. Humid night. On the way I go to the whistling hippy by the twenty-four-hour garage and pick up fish and chips and a sausage for Quilty who’s on the bed when I get home, licking his balls. Wish I could do that. The old joke: give him a bit of your fish and he might let you. He rubs himself around me legs and purrs as I break the sausage up into his bowl and he bends to eat and arches his back when I stroke him. Little lion. Appeared at my window one day and didn’t go away; decided he liked it here, with me. Chunky grey tabby with eyes like jewels and nicks in his ears. I remember twisting ticks out
of his skin.
I sit on the bed to eat and watch the telly. Nowt on but Match of the Day or Graham Norton or a programme on Channel 5 called When Animals Attack – a more accurate title would be When Humans Act Like Knobheads. I watch Graham blethering to Tom Hiddleston for a bit until I’m sure that the lowlights are over and then I watch the rest of the footy. Turn it up a notch to drown out the revelry from outside. It’s Sunday night but tomorrow’s a bank holiday, hence all the fun. Well: fair play to em. Hope Benny and Sion are having a whale of a time.
SLOOOOOOW RELEASE
WHAT AV BIN thinkin is that that E I yad was slow-release. Dead slow release type-a thing. Or thingy, whatsit, delayed reaction or whatever ey call it cos yur was nowt from it at-a time, jes kept me awake like is all, but see since then … don’t know what it is. Jes that since A came down off that fuckin mountain Av bin on one, like. On a fuckin roll. Jes do not feel like any fucker’s worth it. I mean, iss is me – mellow. Jes-a mellow man, aye, that is what I yam. Jes like Popeye said.
I mean, see this: that brickie from Trawsfynydd or wherever-a fuck he’s from, he makes some snide comment about me mix, asks if Av got any bread to mop it up with like, an en ee gives me iss fuckin look, iss smarmy fuckin smirk on is gob, an I do not no I do not, it im in that fuckin gob. Like a usually would, piss-takin twat: bang, aye, smirk now. An A mean iss is not like a question of control or anythin, no, it’s jes that-a urge has gone away. Snot even there. Yur’s nothin in me that’s tellin me to it im; that part-a me is not workin today, same as it haven’t been workin since A came down off that mountain. Jes gone, it has. All’s I do now is give-a cunt a grin, like, jes show im me teeth an a nod an give iss little laugh like an ee looks at me more shocked than if I adder smacked im one inner gob. Fuck im an his stewpid games. I do not fuckin care. I feel pure mellow an I will not let no cunt stop iss feeling. Cos it’s nice. Like a good spliff sept I yaven’t smoked in a week. Delayed reaction from that E, mun, must be. Sloooow release, likes.
So I wash me hands n face in-a Portakabins an leave me boots an hard hat in me locker and put me trainies on an change me shirt an put me coat on an A leave-a site an head down inter town. Day off tomorrow. Bouncing on me feet I yam. I do a kebab in at-a bottom of-a ’Glais and get some cash from-a machine an double-back on meself to go-a Cooper’s. Why ey don’t av a cashie in iss part-a town is beyond me. Makin us walk alla way to-a square if we need spends and what if we wanna go-a Cwps or Scholars? Town planners, mun, must be fuckin stewpid. Banks n all. Makin everyone walk fuckin moren ey need to an wait longer for the pint ey deserve after mixin fuckin cement all fuckin day … Oo the fuck ey think ey are. Selfish twats.
Broken Ghost Page 2
