Broken Ghost

by Niall Griffiths

  And Am thinkin iss stuff but me heart is normal. Me head feels normal. Am fuckin right in thinkin iss stuff but still Am mellow. Jes bouncing along. Money in me pocket. Jes roll with it. Stay like iss. All’s yur is to it. Dead, dead easy. Tidy.

  Bernie’s already in-a pub, sitting right by-a door. His hair’s getting long an A give it a rub with me hand an give im a little song: – For goodness sake … I got the Bernie Bernie shITE!

  Cunt’s jes given me a dig in-a bollax. —The fuck was that for?

  —Yew called me a Bernie Bernie.

  —Aye cos that’s yewer name innit? Get yewer bloody hair cut if yew don’t like me takin-a piss. Yew can get-a bevvies in for that. Brains dark.

  He goes to-a bar an I give me plums a rub. Sound feller, Bernie is. Only he can get away with-a odd dig, likes. Truth be told he’s not all yur, in that noggin of his. Bit penwan as ey say. But he’ll do for me.

  I give his arse a pinch as I pass him on-a way to-a bog an he jumps in-a fuckin air. Barman gives a laugh. Me first squirt-a piss is black, like, with all-a muck from-a site. That’s how dirty that fuckin site is; the muck even finds its way down yewer japper. Soon runs clear tho, or well, not clear, exactly – greeny, like. Yellowish like cider. Day off tomorrow an Al have a good lie in-a bath, I will. Unless she gets on at me to fuckin do somethin like she normally does, specially if she’s started on-a fuckin cider with Jeremy Kyle like she normally does.

  Am washin me hands at-a sinks when Aney Lavin comes in.

  —Now then, Cowley, sor.

  Least I fuckin think it’s a Lavin. He’s called Aney, A know that much. Probly is a Lavin cos-a McBrides tend to be ginger an iss feller’s dark. I look at im in-a mirror an see the top of the tattoo on the back of is neck, the head of the fuckin goblin or whatever it is, the top of its pointy green hat. Saw it last summer when he was scrappin on-a south beach with Jason McBride an he took his top off: a fuckin elf thing in a green suit, bottle in one hand an a bomb in-a other, some words by it which A think said ‘Fighting Irish’. All over is back, like. A pixie. Looked a prick, Aney did, standin yur on-a beach and roaring like a fuckin gorilla, punching with is fists at is own belly and boobs. Wobblin like custard. Made me feel a bit sick, it did. An im with that fuckin goblin thing on is back.

  —How’s yehself, Aney?

  —Can’t complain, butt. An no cunt’d listen if I did.

  —True dat.

  I see his back shake as he shakes off. The top of-a pointy green hat moves up and down. I look at the ddraig on me neck in-a mirror an Am thinkin that I’ve got by far the better ink, here: great big ddraig goch, mun, roaring on me neck. What kind-a knobhead gets a fuckin pixie on eyr back? Bomb or no fuckin bomb.

  —Glad our paths have crossed.

  —Oh aye? Why’s that then?

  —Got what ye might call a proposition for ye, sor.

  He comes over to-a sinks. I can see all cement snots on me head in-a mirror so I start-a scrape em off with me fingers.

  —An what might that be, Aney?

  —Some Quinn cunt down Carmarthen way’s after a straightener. An wants it yesterday. Now I’m out of action cos of the oul ribs, like, still knittin. An in fact the only feller in fightin form’s our Frankie but ye know the like of him; boy’s a lover as he says. Useless with the oul fists, him. A lover, if ye don’t mind! Last thing I saw him push his prick towards was a crackhead down Swansea dock. Lover be fucked.

  —Ah. Not interested right now, Aney butt.

  —Hear me ou’, tho. Yer purse would be to say the least sizeable. An this boy, this Quinn. He spits-a word out so’s all spots-a slime go up-a mirror. —He’s a fuckin pussy. He’ll be sparko in two rounds, sor. Definite.

  —An yewer family will okay this, will they? An outsider steppin in?

  —If there’s enough money in it they will. He grins at me in-a mirror an I can see his teeth. Look like fag ends, ey do. —Easy enough to get a bye out of the blood if there’s enough zeroes at stake, ee says, rubbin the fingers an thumb of one hand together.

  Christ, mun, ese fuckin pikeys. Money’s all ey ever think about. Couple-a weeks ago I’d be up for this, like, I’d be getting-a time an-a place sorted right now. But tonight? Nah. I jes cannot be arsed. Slow release.

  —Not interested right now, A say again. —Am in temporary retirement. Ask me in a couple-a weeks.

  —There’s money in it, shag. A lot of fuckin money. Sure an couldn’t we all be using some of that right now?

  —Yur’s other things I can do to get it, tho, mun.

  I press-a dryer button so’s A can’t hear what he says next an leave-a bog. Don’t even dry me hands. Could-a done with stickin me head under-a hot air like cos A can feel ese wet spots on it where A rubbed off-a muck. Unless eyr from Aney’s spit … Dirty bastard. Cos he’s got hardly any fuckin teeth to keep is spit back in is gob, see. If he arsks me-a same thing next month A might very well say yes. Easy money; all-a Quinns I know of, none-a em can barney. An if Am rememberin right, Ikey Pritchard’s in Cowbridge jail for breakin-a jaw of one-a em an then torching his caravan. An-a fire spread to-a pub where the cara was pitched, in-a car park like. But aye, it’d be easy to give a Quinn a few taps like an if he arsks me next month I might jes well say aye but now? Tonight? I am a mellow man tonight. Aney can sort out his own straightener. Got nowt to do with me.

  Back in-a bar an Jack the Boy’s with Bernie, now. No Jac the Bird as yet but she’s probly onner way; fillin up on chips or somethin, rollin down-a road she’ll be like a great big wheel-a lard. Got to line me stomach, she says, an all’s she ever drinks is one glass-a wine. Line-a fuckin stomach! It’d take ten rolls-a wallpaper to do that.

  —Jack.

  —Shwmae Cow.

  —Seen-a ’do on iss fucker? I ruffle Bernie’s hair again.

  —Aye. Bleedin mess. Glen Hoddle, ’87.

  —Glen who?

  —Before yewer time, Bern. Footballer.

  Bernie haven’t got-a first clue what we’re on about. Not that he ever does. His home address is not on iss planet, no lie.

  —Where’s Jac?

  —Onner way. Stopped off at KFC.

  —So she’ll be with us in about three hours then.

  He doesn’t laugh. To him, his Jac is Megan fuckin Fox. It’s all blind, innit? Sept he cannot see how to others his missis is a case of roll her in flour an aim for-a wet patch. Fart and give us a clue. Which is a question I will not be arskin tonight. If Am not in-a mood for a paid scrap I am not in-a mood for that. No lie.

  —She’ll be needin-a energy, Bernie says, with-a daft drooly grin on him. He smacks-a inside of is elbow with is hand an pumps is fist in-a air. A look at Jack an he looks-a same as Bern – pervy.

  A jes shake me head an have a drink.

  —Not tonight, Jack. Not with me, anyway.

  —Eh? What yew sayin?

  A jes shake me head an change-a subject. Or change it back, like: – Seen-a urdu on iss twat? Larst time I saw anythin like that it was bottom-feedin in-a harbour.

  He’s not havin this. —So what you sayin?

  —Am sayin that Bernie’s got a fuckin mullet on his head, mun.

  —No no. About Jac. Well into it larst month, yew were.

  —When I was full-a billy, aye. Stick it in a hairy knothole when Am full-a billy.

  —Lucky A came prepared then, ay?

  He puts a wrap on-a table. I flick it back off towards him, with me finger. Bernie grabs it up an scarpers off to-a ty bach.

  —What’s wrong with yew, mun? Jac’s expecting, she is. Expectin another night like-a larst one. Been going on about it ever since, she has. Says she’s never felt so sexy.

  —Jes not in-a mood tonight, butt.

  —But it’s yur on-a plate, boy! Fanny on-a fuckin plate! What kind-a bloke turns down-a offer of free fanny? What kind-a normal bloke, that is.

  I give him hard fuckin eyes. He’s very close yur to crossin-a line. —Don’t, Jack. Jes fuckin don’t. One warning, dim ond.<
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  —But tell us why tho, Cow.

  —Why? Cos it’s all jes a bit fuckin sordid, innit?

  —Sordid?

  —Aye, y’know. Sleazy, likes.

  —Sleazy?

  —Aye, sleazy. Yew a fuckin parrot now? A deaf parrot? To tell-a God’s honest I don’t fancy yewer Jac anyway.

  —An what’s that got to do with anything? Christ, mun, it’s just friction, innit?

  —It’s not, tho, is it?

  —What?

  —It’s not jes anything. What it is is yew watchin an wankin in-a corner at two fellers, yewer mates like, spit-roastin yewer missis. Puts a bloke off is stride, that does.

  —Didn’t hear yew complaining larst month.

  Twat sounds all sulky, like a kiddie told he can’t go out to play. —Aye, cos I had-a speed horn, didn’t I? Duw, coulda knocked nails in with-a hard-on I had on me. An it seemed like a good idea at-a time.

  —An yew regret it now?

  Daft twat looks like he’s about-a cry. I can’t help but take a bit-a pity: —No. It was a laugh. But I’m not in-a mood tonight, butt. Bernie is, tho. He’s yewer man.

  —Aye but-a two of yew. That’s what made it. Never felt so needed, Jac says. The two of yew together was what made it so special, that’s what she said.

  —Well I’m jes not in-a fuckin mood tonight. I don’t want-a have to tell yew that again.

  He kind-a yelped like a dog, Jack the Boy did, when he came. In-a corner, like, as if he’d been sent yur for being naughty. He made an orrible yelping sound like a kicked dog when he came an en ee started-a cry an begged us to stop. An Jac the Bird, she told im to shut-a fuck up an ordered us to carry on an it was horrible but A shot me load anyway an had to get out-a there. Bernie jes carried on thrusting like a fuckin puppet or somethin, doin that stewpid brain-dead laugh ee does, all spit on is chin an drippin off onto-a top of Jac’s head. And yer’s Jack the Boy in-a corner, crying like, beggin Bernie to stop. I fucked off to-a kitchen, I did; I remember havin the idea that A needed to scrub me dick n balls with bleach. Couldn’t find any bleach so A used washing-up liquid instead. Which was probably for the best, cos bleach woulda burnt.

  And, ew, God. Not fuckin puttin meself through that again, not tonight, mate or no mate.

  Bernie comes back, sniffin, eyes all shiny.

  —That’s set me up, that has. Raring to go already, boys, I am. He sits down and slips-a wrap back in Jack’s pocket an en gives us a look, from me to Jack and en back again. —Oi oi. What’s a do yer? Fuckin faces. Oo died?

  —Arsk im. Jack nods at me an Am jest about getting fuckin fed up-a this.

  —What’s up with yew?

  —Fuck all, Bern. It’s him getting a fuckin strop on cos Am not in-a mood for porking his missis tonight, that’s all. Daft twat that he is.

  Bernie gives a shrug an sniffs a load-a snot back up his nose. It gurgles. —Suits me. All-a more for me, then, innit?

  —Aye but it was-a two-a yew that made it special. Never felt so needed, she said.

  —Oh for fuck’s sakes Jack. Special be fucked. Shut yewer gob about it, now.

  —Now now. All mates yur, boys. Bernie grabs me around-a waist an his hand clunks against the thing in me pocket.

  —What’s this? Baccy box?

  —No. It’s one-a these. A take it out to show him. —One-a them music things. Like a Walkman, aye? Plays music.

  Jack ignores it all an goes off, to-a bar or-a bog. Fuck im.

  —Aye-Pod ey call it.

  Bernie picks it up an looks at it, holds it about an inch away from his face as if he’s blind. Which he’s not, jest thick.

  —Where’d yew get this then?

  —Up on-a mountain. That party last week, remember?

  —Never went.

  —No but yew heard about it. Yew were gonna come, remember? But The Apprentice was on.

  —Did yew nick it?

  —No. Found it on-a floor. In some plants.

  —Oh aye. Bet yew nicked it.

  —I found it on-a floor, mun, told yew.

  He pokes at it with his fingers. God this boy has sheep shit for brains, honest-a God. From Tregaron, originally, see.

  —How’s it work? How’d yew use it?

  —It stores songs.

  —Aye but how’d yew then get them out?

  He’s jest poking at it, stabbin at it like with his fingers.

  —Can I have it?

  —No can yew fuck have it. An giz it back now before yew fuckin break-a bleedin thing.

  I take it back off him and put it in me pocket. Tell-a truth I don’t know how to use-a fuckin thing either but I’m not goin to tell Bernie that. An I know better than to jest peck at it with me fingers like Am a fuckin chicken.

  He has a drink an wipes-a foam off his lip, spreading speed-snot all over his face. —Was it any good, then?

  —What, mate?

  —Iss rave yew went to.

  —Wasn’t really a rave. Jest a few people. Stew-dents mostly. Did an ecko which A at first thought was shite like but now Am not so sure. An I saw iss glowing thing.

  Why am I telling him this? Them words jest bounced out. I saw a rising sun, that’s all it was. No shape or anything, it was nowt but-a fucking glow in-a sky like-a sun.

  —A glowin thing?

  —In-a sky, aye.

  —Probably jest the sun, mun.

  He sniffs again. Could do with a line meself, really. Bernie seems happy on it, like. But then Ad end up with me dick in one-a Jac the Bird’s holes an then Ad feel like a right dirty cunt in-a mornin.

  —I slept on that mountain once.

  —Did yew, Bern?

  —I did.

  —Why?

  —I had to.

  —Yeh but why?

  —Got lost. Had to have a shit in a plastic bag. Ever tried that? Not easy.

  —Why did yew have to av a shit in a plastic bag?

  —Found it.

  —Found what?

  —The bag.

  —Aye but why shit in it? Why not jest have a dump in-a grass or something?

  —Didn’t want-a leave a mess on-a mountain, did I? Nice up there, it is.

  Oh Christ. See what Av got to deal with, yur? A boy all in-a sulk cos A won’t spit-roast his missis with a retard from Tregaron an that retard from Tregaron who’d sooner have a shit in a plastic bag than leave it on-a mountain which is full-a shit anyway from sheep and cows an everything else. An a pikey tryna get me to fight his fuckin battles. How the fuck did I end up yur? I am a mellow man aye that is what I yam but how-a fuck am I? Still, A mean?

  —Missed with most of it. Bit loose, I was, see, an it went all in me socks. Ad to fall asleep in me shitty socks, I did.

  A Lavin scrum comes through-a door jest then, five-a them, dark boys all, all done up in eyr bling, fuckin gold ropes an rings, all eyr tats greased up an on show. Loud, ey are. Bunch-a wankers. Ey go straight parst me an Bern an parst-a bar to where Aney is sitting an A see Steve the barman give em iss look, like: yewer not fuckin welcome in yur. Most or if not all of em will be barred but who’s gonna say anything? Stevie? Wither body on him liker corner flag? He’ll have a pickaxe handle handy underneath-a bar like but that’s no fuckin good against a crew-a Lavins. When it kicks off which A know it will soon he’ll probably try an rope me in an I am not in-a mood tonight, mun. Not in-a mood for that at all. Iss is one mellow man yew have before yew an he is jest not in-a mood tonight.

  —A thing to do is to wear it like a nappy, Bernie’s sayin. —Put yewer legs through-a handles like an tuck yewer dick an balls in and it all just squirts right in.

  Pictures in me head now of Bern on-a mountain with a bagger runny shite hanging down-a back of his legs like a horrible udder. Goin squelch with each step. An yur’s sounds in me ear of Steve tellin-a Lavin boys to take eyr custom elsewhere an all-a them jeerin an shoutin, stampin on-a wooden floor. An no doubt if I went in-a bogs now all’s I’d hear is Jack cryin in one-a the traps. Fuck all this.r />
  —Trouble over yur, Cowley butt. Or gunna be.

  A finish me pint. Never made me mind up so fast about anythin.

  —It’ll kick off soon, aye. I’m getting off.

  —Yewer what?

  —Getting off. Going home. Getting fed up of all this I yam, see.

  —What about Jack tho?

  A stand up. —Bird or boy?

  —Both.

  —Not my problem, Bernie. Al give yew a bell at-a weekend. Enjoy yewerself butt.

  I pretend not to hear Steve callin me name as I leave-a pub. The Lavin boys go all quiet but I am out of there. Not fast, A mean a jest walk it, likes, cos it’s not that Am fuckin scared, it’s jest that Am not fuckin interested tonight. Let em sort out eyr own crappy little problems, which av got fuck-all to do with me. Not Cowley’s problem, not his concern. It is jest not in me tonight, that feelin in-a belly that would burn me up if A did not let it out, or that feelin like Am being squeezed, crushed like, by a snake, a great big fuckin boa constrictor, getting tighter n tighter n crushin alla air from me lungs. Jest not in me, now. Or on me, wherever-a fuck it is. It is all daft and like little fuckin children in-a playground an A feel like Am lookin down on it all tonight. Mellow, man. Slooooooow release.

  Outside-a pub A roll-a smoke under a street light. A picture on-a packet is that one where the feller’s got iss horrible fuckin growth on his neck, a big pink horrible brainy growth. Av known hundreds-a smokers in me life an some-a em have died from lung cancer or bad hearts but Av never known anyone to die of cauliflower of the neck. Must think Am fuckin stewpid. A move away from-a pub so’s A won’t be able to hear it if it all kicks off an so’s Jac the Bird won’t see me if she comes down-a road all stinkin-a KFC and leavin a trail-a grease on-a pavement behind her which she probably will do any second now. Unless a-course she’ve stopped off for a bagger chips after her KFC. A go down Cambrian Street to avoid-a main road like an surprise meself by not chuckin-a brick through-a windows of-a chapel when A pass it. See? Not even that fuckin place can put a badness in me tonight. I jump in a cab by-a station. Front seat.