Broken Ghost

by Niall Griffiths

  He gives a wee smile. —They’ll take me in, my brother. They’re expecting me.

  I imagine that Suki would’ve told me if she was expecting another rez as well as the one-armed scouser but I don’t say anything about that.

  —Everyone’s expecting me, the guy says. —The whole world is waiting for me.

  I can’t help smiling. —Is that right?

  —Hunnerd per cent. Hunnerd per cent.

  —Good luck to yeh, then.

  A hand chunky with rings comes out of the window. I shake it and it gets pulled back in.

  —Thank you, my brother. God shine his light upon you.

  This makes me laugh. A voice from the driver’s seat says: —We go down, Mr Larry? and the window slides up and the car pulls away and turns left onto the track and is swallowed by the trees. What the fuck was that? Who the fuck was that? Had to be a rock star. Could only be a rock star, with that Christ fixation. I imagine the Major’s reaction when that guy turns up … but then, if it’s working with the Major, as it seems to be doing, he’ll just accept. No doubt he’ll just give a little cough and a whiffle of breath. And if he was wearing the monocle that, really, he should be wearing, it’ll leap off his face in astonishment.

  I head down the hill. From up here, the valley opens out below, the massive and deep green V of it towards the sea and the town there, which looks like a model from this distance and height, Monopoly houses like, with the castle tower sticking up. It looks all baked. There’s a big walk ahead of me but it’s all downhill and anyway I feel up for it, bit of exercise, fresh air. Get the heart going a bit. Madder every day. Ladybirds and rock stars. Reality Therapy, man. Pure fucking heart.

  FIVE BIG WHITE UPSIDE DOWN YS IN A LINE

  BLOODY HELL FIRE! A come out of-a bog and she’s standin yur, on-a landin, right outside-a door. Hell of a fright, mun. Near shit meself again, I did.

  —Christ, woman! What yew doin yur? Lur-kin.

  —Am not lur-kin. Am dying to go. Been knockin for ages, I yav.

  —Give it ten minutes, then, A say, waftin me hand at me nose.

  —Didn’t yew spray?

  —Aye, course A did, cider shite all up-a walls.

  —A meant with air freshener. Fuckin mochyn.

  A ignore this and go down-a stairs, laughin to meself as a hear her gaggin in-a bathroom. Sounds like a backed-up drain. Well, if she fed me at least once in-a while with stuff that wasn’t fish fuckin fingers or baked bastard beans from Lidl, maybe ad produce somethin from me arse that didn’t look an smell like rotten cawl left in-a airing cupboard for a month, mun.

  Fair dos, tho, she’ve left me a tea and two bits-a toast next to-a telly. Only marge on-a toast, like, an A coulda done with a bit-a jam or somethin but still, fair dos. Spose A could go in-a back an fetch a jam meself like but Am gunner need me energy if Am gunner be workin on that fuckin bridge all day. Blows-a fuckin gale down yur, it does, close to-a sea. Paintin, they said, an bolt-tightenin. Tightenin bolts! On a bridge! I ask yew! Shoulda been me on-a team that put-a bastard thing up in-a first place like but the fuckin foreman was a right girl, he was. Wouldn’t take a tellin. Got all sulky, got this fuckin art-itude on him. Well bollax. Workin on his fuckin bridge now, arn I? No wonder-a bolts are coming loose if it was put up by Poles. Fuck does he expect? Still be tight as a nun’s cunt if Welshmen adder done-a job, see.

  News is on. Some twat with too many chins in a tie. Politicians these days, what is it with them an their chins? Ey’ve either got too many or none at all. Lissen to this one: it’s morally wrong to pay someone cash in hand. Morally wrong! Makes me spill me tea all over me toast, makin it go all floppy. Ruined it. Be fucked if Am makin another piece tho so A eat it as it is. Well, kind-a slurp it, like. Drink it. These fuckin politicians, mun, ey just don’t have a clue. Not a first fuckin clue. If his policy was to make me avter take me brekkie through a fuckin straw, then he got that right. Nowt else, tho. Cash in hand. Morally wrong. Fuck me.

  Got to fuckin move it now, tho, as well. Not a bad payer, this bridge job, an-a boss is okay, like, least compared to some-a em, so Am not gunner be late on me first day. She comes down as Am lookin in-a kitchen drawer for me cream.

  —What yew doing?

  —A need me cream.

  —What cream?

  —That stuff for me disco eczema.

  —Discoid eczema.

  —Whatever-a fuck it’s called, where is it? I left it in yur. Now it’s gone.

  All kinds-a shite in iss drawer, fuckin Sellotape and light bulbs but no fuckin cream.

  —Wharrav yew done with it? It’s gone.

  —I haven’t touched it.

  -Must-a been Mrs Jones from next door, then. Snucked in in-a night she did and nicked me disco cream. A terror for doin that, she is. Remember that time she snucked in an smoked all me ganj?

  —Stop bein daft. Yew put some on last night, in-a bathroom. I remember yew doing it.

  I go back upstairs. Exhaustin meself before Av even left-a fuckin house. A bog is stinkin, my shite and hers, horrible, but yur’s me cream on-a cistern. A squeeze some out onto me finger an roll up-a leg-a me jeans an rub-a cream in. Four spots, purple round things like, look like bullet holes. Discoid. Suppose she’d know, havin once been a nurse like. Before they closed-a ward an mader redundant cos of-a cuts. Well, and because she hadder good sideline raidin-a medicine cabinet for-a boys in town. Not that I blame her; support a kid on a nurse’s wage? Fucks. An that idle twat of a dad … lazy fuckin junkie. Allergic to work, him. So no A can’t blamer for makin a bit on-a side like but God she used to whinge about it, getting sacked, like, she did. Not fuckin half. Me, tho, A don’t say nowt about her having a kid to that waste-a space when she can’t have one to me. No, his useless spunk produces a smashin little girl, but mine ends up as bloody gunk in-a toilet bowl. Where’s-a justice?

  All creamed up A go back down-a stairs.

  —Yew find it?

  A nod.

  —Told yew, didn’t I?

  Smug cow. A ignore this remark.

  —What yew got lined up for today, then? A usual White Lightning and Jeremy Kyle is it?

  She blows fag smoke at-a telly screen. Some other chinny twat in a suit on there now, looks just-a same as-a other one sept he’ve got a different-coloured tie on.

  —Am seeing Shawna, she says. —Got an afternoon with her today I yav.

  —So that’s yew off to Cardigan then, is it?

  She nods.

  —Do us a favour while yewer down there, then. Tell Shawna’s dad to fuck off and die from me, will yew?

  —Aye, will do.

  —Tell him I hope he gets that AIDS and dies on his own, yeah?

  —Aye.

  A leave-a flat. A Morris’s letter box goes up. Without lookin A give it-a fingers, nosy pair-a cunts, an go down-a stairs an out of-a block. Sa bright mornin. Bin bags all over-a pavement, burst like, all kinds-a cack leakin out of em an-a load-a seagulls flap away squawkin. Messy bastards. An-a dog an all, that fuckin pitbull thing of them scruffy cunts live on-a next avenue, the Jenkinseseses, be a fuckin danger that mutt would if it weren’t so bleedin scrawny. One of em gulls could take it, mun. It looks at me an tries to do a snarl but A aim a boot at it an it runs away for a bit then turns an does a snarl again, showin its horrible yellow teeth. A walk away from it, leave it to-a rubbish for its breakfast, KFC bones an pizza crusts an whatever other shite a people on this estate live on.

  A roll up a smoke for the walk. It’s im again, on-a packet – old cauliflower neck. Three times in a row. What’re the odds? A few people on iss estate who av jobs are goin-a work, gettin into eyr cars, waitin at-a bus stops, walkin along with eyr butty-boxes an wearin eyr dirty clothes, overalls n stuff. Not many of em, like; most windows still av eyr curtains drawn. Few kids headin across to-a underpass. Some new words, painted like, on-a garages: FOXY IS A DEAD MAN. Ooer fuck’s Foxy? Don’t know any Foxy. Maybe some chickens wrote it up yer. Maybe eyv formed eyr own, what’s it ca
lled, vigilanty gang. Some windows av pale faces lookin out-a em, people who’ve been up all night, party boys an girls an mad boys an girls, penwan, em ones who A hear screamin in-a night-times when Am tryin-a get to sleep. Iss is where A live, with ese people, up yur on-a hill always in-a clouds.

  But-a view from up yur, tho. A library up on-a hill on-a other side uv-a valley an-a town below me feet an-a sea on-a left. People pay for views like iss, mun. A jes stand an look at it an av me smoke. My town, likes. Am not feelin like A did jes after A came down off-a mountain after that rave thing like, that E feelin’s gone now, a slow-release thing A was talkin about, but Am not feelin like A normally do either. A mean, like – yur’s me, avin me first smoke uv-a day, enjoyin-a view. Appreciatin-a view. Fuck’s sakes. Somethin’s changed, see. For good or bad A don’t really know yet but something’s changed, it has.

  Town wakes up down in-a valley. See-a railway going up Consti, see-a uni, a library, all-a town kind of like cwtched together down yer. A can hear it, as well; all-a cars an stuff, a train honkin. A siren n all, iss early of-a mornin; wonder who’s in trouble. Probly some farmer boy out in-a hills, got is arm stuck up a sheep’s minge. Or is knob. It’s gunner be a nice day, iss. Way away A can see a edge of-a land, way up yur where-a Gogs live, humps of it stickin out into-a sea. What is it, a Llyn? Bardsey, can that be seen from yur? All them saints. Find thousands-a saints in Gogland? Shite. Jes fuckin stories. Land-a singers an gobshites. And, ese days, land-a fuckin Poles and Liths an Lats, cabbage-suckers, mun, thousands of-a cunts all swarmin in. An how can I not be fuckin pissed off by iss cos, see, I can lay bricks, I can put slates on someone’s fuckin roof, do a bit-a chippyin, bit-a sparkin, bit-a fuckin plumbin even, but all em east Europeans have them jobs now. No room for-a natives, fuck no; all’s we’ve got left is mixin fuckin cement and paintin a bridge that is gettin a bit fuckin dodgy cos Poles put-a bastard up in-a first place. Not fuckin fair. Need a plumber, these days? Look under Z in-a Yellow Pages. Not for long, tho, not for long, now we’ve said tara to fuckin Ewrop. Doubt anythin’ll change, tho – stuck like this, it is. Or fuckin I am, me, labourin for a minimum wage, no kid an a fat drunken whoor of a lazy missus, Housing Association flat all damp an mouldy, dopey fuckin bollax me still sloggin is bastard tripes out jes so he can pay-a bills. If my mam was alive now she’d be spinnin in her grave. But she’s not, aye, an who gives a shite? Not fuckin Cowley, mun. Some fuckin mam she was, aye … The Reverend Williams would never do such a thing! Horrible boys! Stop telling lies! Smack, smack, one for me an one for Rhys; then locked in-a fuckin bedroom for two days, no food or drink, just the fuckin Bible. Sick in the head!, that’s what she’d say. Or scream, likes. Us! Sick in the head! You have the Devil in you and you are no sons of mine! Smack, smack, out with-a fuckin stick or-a poker from-a fire. Me n Rhys tryin-a hide, fuckin Dad spineless bastard behind is fuckin paper … cunts, em both, an that fuckin Williams … sick fucker mun aye … any fuckin wonder I—

  Breathe, Cowley, breathe, mun. Eyr dead an buried in-a ground, boy. Probly Williams an all. Let em rot. Ey can’t fuckin bother yew no more. An yur was a glow in-a sky, wasn’t yur? Remember that, mun. Even if it was jester rising fuckin sun.

  Aye but I yavter sit on-a bench opposite-a caravan park for a bit. Me head’s all spinnin an me heart’s goin like fuckin mad an A feel like A can’t breathe. Calm, Cow, calm. In an out, boy, at’s all yur is to it. All in-a past, it is. Tonight yew can go round-a Bernie’s and get him to email Rhys down in Cardiff. Ask him how he is. That always makes yew feel better.

  A start-a calm down a bit an A roll another smoke but when A light it A look out again at-a town an it all looks so fuckin dirty, mun. It all looks so fuckin sleazy to me. A see a steeple-a St Michael’s an it makes me think of horrible things, what it looks like, all stickin up, stickin out. Right down in me guts Am feelin fuckin sick an A get that feelin in the skin-a me hands an A think about bein in-a Cwps the other night when A left after all em Lavin boys came in an what A should’ve done is, A shoulda asked Steve for his fuckin pickaxe handle. That’s what I should’ve done. Cos now ey must all be thinkin that am a bottlin twat. Callin me all-a bottlin cunts under-a sun, that’s what ey’ll be doing now.

  Me breathin starts-a go all funny again and me skin goes all tingly but then, what’s this, a minibus stops right by me. In a second Am on me feet like but then A see five big white upside-down Ys in a line squashed up against-a windows of-a bus an A can hear all this laughin, this ladies’ laughin. ABER WRUFC it says on-a side of-a bus and five of-a team are givin me-a moons. A burst out laughin. An then ey turn around an pull eyr tops up and squash eyr tits up against-a glass and it’s like ten massive eyes lookin at me. Iss is dead funny. Then yer’s faces pressed against-a window and the bus pulls off and some hands come out of-a windows an wave an A can hear em all laughin again as ey drive away. Am laughin as well. Jes what I needed, mun. Fuckin medicine, that. Five big moons an ten starin eyes, that is jes what I fuckin needed. Glimpse-a bush n all. Oi!

  Am still smilin about it as A walk down into Trefechan. Good girls. Not bad arses on one or two of em either; tight little cracks, like, not too hairy. Wish A could say-a same thing for Jac the Bird; she’s like a fuckin yardbrush down yur, she is. Got to part the thicket with me hands before A slide him in, likes. Jack the Boy, he told me once that all the hairs had knotted together into a kind of net across her hole so every time she had to shite it came out like long chips. I didn’t ask him how he knew this, likes; didn’t want-a know. He said he had to get down yur with a pair-a scissors an snip it all away likes, which gave me pictures in me head that a didn’t need an which gave me fuckin bad dreams, mun, for a few nights. Still shudder about it now, I do.

  But them rugby girls … made my bloody mornin. That was brilliant. Made me feel alright so to celebrate A go into-a Londis opposite a fire station an get meself a Twix an a can-a Coke. Bit of a sugar hit, likes, that’ll do. Good girls, good girls. Funny fuckin things around, mun. Jes hang around an ey come to yew.

  Outside-a shop A can see some smoke comin up round-a side-a Pen Dinas, on-a south beach, like; a pikeys have eyr sites yur, both-a Lavins and-a McBrides, close, even tho ey can’t stand each other. Probly cookin brekkies. A pass-a Fountain Inn an am glad it’s closed cos if it was open an A got that smell through-a door, that pub smell like, then A know it’d be fuck work, mun, giz a Guinness an a whisky chaser. Resistance is fuckin futile.

  A finish me Twix on-a bridge, the old stone one, like, where, surprise sur-fuckin-prise, it’s not blowin-a gale; gunner be a nice day, this. A look over-a side an up the river to the other bridge an see a few blokes on it in white overalls an two of em in hard hats. A watch these two sit in ese sling things, ese kind-a harnesses that ey tie around themselves, an en ey climb over-a railings an swing down underneath. Like great big horrible fuckin spiders under-a bridge in eyr webs. What is it that lives under bridges? Trolls, that’s it. That’s what aye are – trolls. Waitin for-a Billy Goats Gruff.

  A go onto Glanrafon Terrace. Trefechan, this. Land-a Turks, ey used to call it; all-a people lived yur useta get called Turks, probly cos ey all useta wear rags wrapped round eyr heads cos ey all worked in-a lime kilns that aren’t yur anymore. Protect emselves from-a sparks, like. Or maybe cos Turks – A mean, people from Turkey, like – set up a community yur, once, off-a ships, when iss useta be a workin port. No more, tho. Still plenty-a Turks, oh aye; oo else would yew get yewer kebabs from? Unless ey all get sent back soon. Useta be a poor area, ese houses along-a edge of-a river, ese terraces; now every cunt wants-a live by-a water so ese av all shot up in price. Cost-a fuckin fortune now, ey do. Second homes, some of em; empty for most of-a year. Ow’s a poor cunt like me meant to buy a house in-a town where he was born? Fetch me my fuckin petrol bomb, mun.

  A bridge bounces a bit beneath me feet. Wobbles, like, cos it’s a suspension bridge. Feels a bit like bein on a boat. Not that Av ever been on a boat, sept for that time me an some of-a boys screwed that yacht i
n-a harbour, an that wasn’t exactly on-a open sea. Still not on-a ground, tho, still floatin, like, an it felt like iss bridge feels now. Wobbly. An, Duw, that fuckin yacht … plush, mun, it was. No other word for it. Bigger than my fuckin house. Jewellery, crates-a wine, ornaments, bottles-a whisky that probly cost moren a week’s fuckin wage … Set me up for about three months, that job did. Got clean away, n all. Coppers had no clew. Still remember-a name of-a boat, I do: Cash Flow, it was called. Next to another one called Liquid Assets, if I remember right. Asking for it, mun. Jes fuckin askin for it, yew call yewer boat that.

  —Cow! Over yur, boy!

  A give a bit of a wave. Want-a stand yur for a few more minutes, like. Jes listen to-a river goin past under-a bridge an watch-a ducks an-a swans. Them ducks sound like eyr laughin. that noise ey make. Wack-wack-wack. Got some babies down yur, ey av. Fluffy litttle buggers. Pike’ll av them soon. Or-a otters.

  —Today would be good, Cow!

  Art-itude on that twat.

  But he’s-a man with-a money, inny? An that makes him-a boss. A bounce over to him. Doesn’t feel a hundred per cent safe, iss bridge, if yew ask me. Sure it’s not supposed to bounce this fuckin much. Poles, see. Shoddy workmanship.

  —That feel alright to yew?

  —What?

  I jump up n down a bit an-a bridge shakes an I hear some shouting from underneath it. Ad forgotten about them trolls.

  —Stop doing that, Cow. None-a yewer concern anyway.

  —It will be if it snaps an A go down into-a fuckin river.

  Ee jes gives me a look. Shakes his head a bit en points at some stuff on-a planks; tins-a paint an creosote, wire brushes, white spirit. Tells me that Am to put-a lick-a creosote on-a wooden bits an-a lick-a paint on-a metal bits. As if Am fuckin stupid.

  —An make sure yew put it on thick around-a bolts an welds, he says, as if Am really fuckin stupid. —An give it all a good scrubdown first, ee says. —Yew know how important prep is, an if he keeps speakin-a me like Am jes out-a fuckin nursery he’s goin over-a side, he is, into-a fuckin river.