Broken Ghost

by Niall Griffiths

  He’ve got a big ginger beard, he has, but ee still looks as if ee should be still in school. Looks about fifteen. No wonder ey call him Pinkbits. I hear iss funny language comin up from-a planks beneath me feet. Time for a wind-up.

  —I want-a go under yur, I say, pointin down. —Ey said a could go under yur.

  —Oo did?

  —Em cunts in-a agency, like.

  —Not gunner happen, Cow.

  —Why not, like? Can only go under if yewer a Pole or a Lat, is that it? Only they can be trusted with-a big jobs, is that what’s goin on?

  —Don’t be daft, mun. Yewer not insured or trained. They are. And anyway eyr from Estonia.

  —Estonia? Ewrop, like? What they still doing over yur, then? Shouldn’t ey have left by now?

  He ignores this. An fuck sakes, mun; not enough Poles an Lats over yur? Ship a shedload-a fuckin Stonians over an all. Must still be some decent jobs that we can take away from-a locals.

  That’s my mood fucked. All-a nudey ladies’ arses and glowin things in-a sky in an entire fuckin world cannot lift me out-a this, mun. Slike Am in a fuckin lift, goin straight fuckin down. An anyway all’s it was was a rising fuckin sun. A saw nowt. An what-a fuck did we vote Leave for?

  —Al be back around lunchtime, see how it’s gettin on. Got to go an put up a new postbox now in Llanilar cos the old one got crushed.

  A don’t say anythin. Jes look down at-a planks. A can see glimpses-a white ovie between em an hear a funny language.

  Pinky gives me another look. He’ll be fuckin Blacknbluebits if he don’t stop givin me them looks.

  —Alright, he says. —Al see yew later.

  God al-bleedin-mighty. Someone’s tied bits-a ribbon to-a bars an planks on-a bridge at-a parts where ey need me to scrub an paint so A get me wire brushes and start work. Scrape-a rust off, a mould stuff, whatever it’s called, a manky bits. A monkey could do iss job. Fuckin Bernie could do iss job. An what gets me, what really fuckin pisses me right off right down in me guts like, is that ese are-a kind-a jobs I started out doin, twenty fuckin years ago. I’d mitch off fuckin school to do ese jobs, I would. I was a fuckin boy when A started doin iss kind-a work. An I can lay bricks an tiles an fix someone’s wiring an stop eyr fuckin leaks, I can lay concrete, I can plaster for fuck’s sakes. An all that stuff Av learnt meself, no course or nothin, picked it all up meself A did jes through watchin others an lissnin to em an learnin from em, for twenty fuckin years mun, an what’s it fuckin got me? It’s gotten me a job scrapin rust an mould off a fuckin wobbly bridge. A mean, fuck’s sakes. Doin work that a fuckin chimp could do while-a skilled stuff goes to Stony-hands or Poles.

  Aye but it’s money. A need-a fuckin money, mun. An Al take whatever A can get. No fuckin choice.

  Already me back’s complainin. A stand up, stretchin it, feelin-a muscles slippin back into place. It’s a relief. A hear clangin sounds from-a direction of-a Fountain an A look over at it an a can jes about see its roof from yur. Must be openin time, or thereabouts. Barrel delivery. Soon av enough spends for a Leo in that pub, I will. Which is summin-a look forwards to, and that lifts me mood, makes me feel better, lets me switch off an jes get to work with-a wire brush. Almost start enjoyin it, even, all-a rust comin off, makin clean patches that A can stick-a bit-a white on, make it all clean-lookin again. Not bad work, iss, really. An it’ll give me-a money to put towards goin on a Leo, won’t it? Sept yur’s that fuckin gas bill. That’s what-a dosh from iss job’s supposed to be for, a gas bill. Aye, well. Some things are more important.

  Coupla hours later an me belly’s rumblin. A down tools an go back to a shop over-a bridge an get a cheese bun an a bag-a Monster Munch. A av me dinner on-a bench by-a river an watch-a ducks an-a geese an en A go back to-a bridge an A see that them slings, them straps that the Stony-hands av been sittin in, are jes lyin yur on-a planks. Must-a gone for eyr dinner, them boys. Wonder where ey’ll get cabbage an pig’s-arse soup in Aber. Pinkbits is gunner be back soonish but fuck im. What-a fuck does he expect, mun? A temptation’s too big. Resistance is futile, as they say.

  A step into one of-a slings. It goes up around me back an under me legs an A tie it tight in-a clips around me waist to make a kind-a seat. A step through-a railings so’s Am standin on-a outside of-a bridge, holdin on likes, a river goin past under me feet. How deep is it, yur, in-a middle? An-a current’s strong. Stew-dent fell off is bridge last summer an his body got washed up in Ireland months later. Iss sling – will it take me weight? Em Stony-hands, ey looked like big fellers. Got to be safe, iss, or ey wouldn’t be allowed to do it. If it snaps A could get to-a bank-a silt in a middle, easy. Be dead easy. Only one way to find out, Cow. Let fuckin go.

  A do. Well, a bit; A hold me weight up with me right arm an kind of ease down off-a bridge so that Am swingin out over-a water. Me fuckin heart’s goin like mad. A can see under-a bridge, now, see-a web-a ropes that will take me under-a bridge if A let go. A seat thing Am in will jes be taken under-a bridge. If it’s strong enough, like. Let fuckin go.

  A do. Iss time A do. A feel meself swing under, me body jes gets kind-a sucked under, like, an A expect yer to be some jerk but those twats must know what eyr doin cos when A open me eyes again Am under-a bridge, jes hangin yur, swingin a bit. Me knuckles are dead white around-a rope but after about a minute A realise that it’s safe an me heart goes back to normal an A let go of-a rope an yur A am, yur’s me, jes floatin in-a air underneath-a bridge. An it’s a fuckin buzz, mun. A thought it’d be all cold but it’s not. A sunlight comes down between-a boards in slices an lands on-a runnin water under me danglin feet. Spiderman, I yam. Fuckin superhero. Iss is one big fuckin buzz. A water makes a nice sound an-a sling makes a creakin sound but that’s all yur is, no other noise. Can’t hear anythin, jes a lovely sound of-a water. A don’t think Av tied-a sling on proper cos it’s diggin into me bollax a bit but it’s not too bad. Not bad enough to make me want-a go back up, anyway, onto-a surface. A surface? Aye, that’s what it feels like; like Am under-a sea. It’s like Am a fish, like A can breathe underwater. Fuck mun iss is one fuckin good buzz.

  Everythin goin away, an me jes danglin yur. Gas bills, pikeys, still doin shitty jobs after twenty years’ education … It’s all gone away. A feel meself driftin off, not asleep, more like Av jes smoked a fat spliff a size of-a fuckin pool cue. Like Am yur but not yur. Bit like A felt after A came down off-a mountain likes, after that party. After that glowing thing an after Ad found that eye-pod or whatever it is, a thought of which reminds me to pat me top pocket to check it’s still yur, where A keep it, to see that it hasn’t fallen out; it’s still in yur. A feel it over me heart, which makes me think of them soldiers who were saved from bullets by silver ciggie boxes or Bibles n stuff – they’d be in eyr pockets an stop-a bullets from hittin eyr hearts an keep em alive. Don’t know why it makes me think-a this, A mean A don’t even know how to use-a fuckin thing, but it’s like A need to carry it round with me now. Snot like A feel fuckin safe with it or anythin like that. Jes like a habit Av fallen into. Fuck knows why.

  Fuckin lovely, mun. Fuckin amazin, iss. Like Am floatin. Slike Av never been born. A could easy fuckin spend me days under yur, mun, jes hangin yur, someone bringin me food n stuff every now an again, keepin me alive, alive an pure jes fuckin happy. Iss is … what’s-a word? A don’t know. Bliss, is it?

  An en a hear footsteps, on-a bridge. Ey kind of go boom, an eyr gettin louder, an A start-a bounce a bit in me sling. A look up. See-a shadow fallin through-a boards, cut up, like a strobe in-a disco or somethin. Ey stop right above me, cuttin off-a sunlight, makin it in a split fuckin second all cold an dark.

  Pinkbits’s voice goes: —How’s it goin under yer? An where’s Cowley?

  Fuck. What would a Stony-hand say? How-a fuck do ey talk?

  —Yah, A say. —Iss all go very gut.

  —Cowley? Is that yew under yer?

  Aw fuck.

  —Fuck’s sakes mun! Gerrout! Av told yew, yewer not fuckin insured! Gerrout!


  Iss fuckin boy tellin me what to do. Fuck im.

  —Fuck yew playin at mun? Am haulin yew out.

  A feel meself movin along-a ropes, out from under-a bridge, bein dragged into-a light. It’s gunner hurt me eyes. Iss is like some nasty bastard is wakin me up from me favourite dream as a kid, iss is. An fuckin Pinkbits is goin on as he drags me back out into-a light again, freakin fuckin out ee is, tellin me off, tellin me off as if I’m the fuckin boy yur …

  —Fuck’s sakes Cowley mun! A told yew not to go under yur! Didn’t I say?

  Am grabbin onto-a boards but yur’s nothin I can do to stay under. He’s at the controls. And ow, the light’s like salt fuckin water in me eyes, an now yur’s another one who’s gunner get a smack at some point in-a future. Yur’s a tap waitin for yew soon, Pinkbits, too fuckin right yur is. Draggin me back, mun, bollax. Out of me fuckin buzz. Let me stay under yur, yew cunt. Jes let me fuckin stay.

  DO ONE, MOTHER NATURE

  HE DIDN’T EVEN cry, Tomos, when he came out of me. I did – I blubbed enough to fill Cardigan Bay, I did – but he just looked around without any expression on his tiny wrinkled face and when the midwife placed him on my tummy he just lay there not making any sound and just calmly looking around at everything and she said: Well, he’s been here before. And he looked up at my face with them eyes like blue targets. On the spot where he lay, just above the belly button, the cord all curled around it, I have his DOB tattooed and his name. One lad once said it reminded him of the carvings on a gravestone and I said yeh, except it’s the date of birth, dur, not death. He didn’t last long.

  Period pains always make me think of that, they do – Tom’s birth, I mean. All crampy and bloated and irritable and it’s like: do one, Mother Nature, I’ve already propagated the bloody species, haven’t I? Go bother someone childless. And supermarket shopping when I’m feeling like this … just horrible. There’s an old Doris at the bread shelves, squeezing every fucking loaf in the rack, prodding and poking, tutting away. Christ! Hurry up! I just need some bastard bread! I reach over her and pick up a loaf, the Brace’s white sliced that Mr Humphreys likes, and she gives me daggers. What does she expect me to do, stand here patiently waiting while she squeezes every last loaf in the entire fuckin shop? I’ve got stuff to do! As I move away, I see her start on the crumpets and muffins – the poking and the tutting. Good God.

  Eggs and bacon, a tin of tomatoes and the bread for Mr Humphreys. Choobs, yoghurt, bottles of water and crisps for Tom’s sarnies; rolls and Dairylea. This is all I need. Oh and a few tins for the food-bank trolley. Some co-codamol. And a litre bottle of Smirnoff blue but I don’t buy that. Doesn’t mean I don’t need it, tho, aye. Best painkiller, especially when mixed with the aspirin. Just lie on the couch and drift away … Down the condiments aisle I see Bas checking out the jam, which is fitting and which makes me laugh because I’ve never seen a human being who looks more like an ant. Might be hard to imagine, that, but honest to God, he does; the man is antish. I ask him how he’s doing and he tells me that his wife, Sandra, is pregnant again and I think to meself: Yeah, with eggs.

  —Congratulations, I say. —That’ll be what, the third?

  —Fourth! He says; shouts, almost. —Turning into a right little army. How old’s yours now?

  —Year 2. Just gone six.

  —And he’s well?

  —He is, yeh. Doing great.

  —My eldest starts school soon. End of the summer.

  We blather on for a bit about schools and that and I get quickly bored so I tell him I’ll see him around and go to move away.

  —I’ve been reading your blog, he says. —Interesting stuff it is.

  —Yeh?

  —What’s all this about a woman in the sky?

  —Ah. I don’t want to talk about this, now; it’s early in the day, I’m tired, and I’ve got stuff to do. Mr Humphreys will be needing his brekkie. And I’m feeling irritable enough as it is. —I’ll update later on today, I say.

  —Yeh but what was it, like? Causing a bit of a fuss online it is. What did you see?

  —I explained it all in the blog. I’ll write more later, yeh? Got to go now.

  I scoot off before he can ask me more questions or squirt some formic acid on me or something. It’s not something I want to talk about at the moment. I think about it a lot and I see her, sometimes, when I’m falling asleep and I think all the time about those three words I heard her say but it’s become like something that I just don’t want to talk to anybody else about. Chucking words out into cyberspace is different; alone in the house at the computer screen, I can say whatever I want to say, but to have to answer questions and see the reactions in people’s faces, see their expressions change as they think, that’s not something I want to do. Can’t think of anything worse, to be honest, at the moment. Don’t know why that should be but it just is.

  Dig and wild. Alright, I get them. But bridge. Bridge.

  I don’t know. Maybe it was just the wind in the reeds. I mean, bridge? At this time? When what we’re building mostly is walls?

  At the tills I see the bread-botherer handing a load of vouchers and coupons to the checkout lad so I go to another one. Some hippy here, with his smock and smirk. I put me stuff on the belt. The hippy, I notice, and I’m surprised to see, is a bit of a hottie; what I took to be some crappy tie-dyed shawl is a big old coat splattered with paint and what I thought were crappy white-boy dreads (like Weasel’s, aye, fuckin shudder at the memory) is a bandana knotted so that a tail of it hangs down his back. Some kind of artist, maybe, he is. Or just a painter and decorator like. Whatever he is he’s got a good smile and fiery stubble on his face. Few years older than me, I think.

  —Great boobs, he says.

  —What?

  —Fruit Choobs. He nods down at my stuff. God my hearing must be going. —The healthy option, is it?

  —They’re for my son, I say, then wish I hadn’t, and then feel slightly ashamed. —He likes them in his lunchbox. Got to be a few vitamins in them aye?

  He gives me a little smile and a nod and goes away with his shopping. Looked as if it contained pity, that smile did. Why? What did he see in my face?

  Dig. Wild. Dig. Wild.

  I bag me stuff and leave the supermarket, dropping some tins in the food-bank trolley. Might well be picking them up again soon, for meself, aye. It’s going to be another warm day; the sky is like the opening of The Simpsons. The heat has already settled down here, at the bottom of this valley, the hills around looking all hazy. Up one of them go the Penparcau estates, like something spilled, and on the other one opposite I can see the National Library, massive, like a castle. The supermarket is at the bottom of a kind of bowl in the hills so it traps the heat in the summer; later on today the tarmac of the big car park will be all shimmery. A couple of summers ago, when another heatwave hit, the tarmac went all squidgy in parts and a mobility scooter got stuck in it; I remember it clearly, the great big fat feller on the scooter bellowing as the wheels sunk slowly down into the melty tarmac. Made me think of that picture of the mastodons in the tar pit in one of Tom’s books. Couldn’t help but piss me knickers laughing.

  I’d like to sit here for a while, I would, on a bench by the river, with the insects buzzing over the water and feel the sun on my face, but I’ve got stuff to do. There’s always stuff to do. At least I can walk back into Trefechan alongside the river, tho, and that’s just what I do, listening to the rippling water and the birds. The shopping’s quite heavy and the straps on the bags are digging into me fingers but I can ignore that, with all these distractions, the dragonflies and butterflies and the fast birds that skim the water, zipping low with their forked tails. Swallows, they’re called. Summer birds. They’ll be around for another few months yet. I like to see them, knowing that they’ve come back. All the way from Africa. And this walking relieves the cramps a bit.

  Fucking periods. Should be able to choose the menopause. I mean I’m happy with the one kid so I should just
be able to say: right, that’s it, time to turn the body clock off. Get an operation on the NHS. It’s just pointless, this – making me miserable for a week every month. Biology is daft. Mother Nature hasn’t got the first fucking clue what she’s doing when it comes to women.

  I can see a supermarket trolley in the river, close to the bank. Looks like a skeleton of some river creature rotted down to the bones, which makes me think again of the otters; I imagine one swimming into the trolley, that graceful, oily movement they have, and playing in it, just rolling around in the water like they do, chasing his tail like a cat. Love to see an otter in the wild, I would. Love to see one with Tomos. He loves animals, that boy; that time I fed the robin out of my hand and he jumped up and down and fell over, so happy he was. I love my boy. Love him more than anything. He lay on my tummy making no sound, just looking around at everything with those big blue eyes of his, taking it all in, and I remember thinking: I need never be alone again.

  God it’s warm. Good summer so far, this. And one that I’m aware that I’ll always remember, for as long as I live – that shape in the sky. The summer of the floating woman and the three words she spoke.

  It was the rising sun and the wind in the reeds.

  In this heat, and with the damp spring just gone, the plants are going mad; over this part of the path the branches have grown on each side to touch each other over my head and form a kind of tunnel so, for a bit, I’m walking in the shade and it’s nice and cool. Japanese knotweed is running riot. My dad told me once about that stuff; it was taking over his garden in Trefenter and killing everything else, strangling it, and he had to call somebody in to get rid of it properly. Had to use some kind of acid. Rich Victorians brought it over here, he said; they saw it on their travels and liked the look of it so they brought it back for their gardens without any thought of how it would effect the native ecosystem. Typical. Rich bastards, aye; they ruin everything. They’re locusts.