Broken Ghost

by Niall Griffiths

  BRIDGE

  HE IS TOLD by the newspaper that beyond his door lies danger. That out there in the world of unexpected noise and unpredictable movement, all is predatory; no one is what they seem, on the surface, to be; all, to the last, are out to scavenge and plunder, all are habituated to idleness and have constructed schemes of great deviousness and skullduggery to allow that idleness to continue. This he is told, every morning, and every morning the response in him is the same: his body releases gases, fumes of anger and fear, the vessels of his blood constrict, clotting agents enter his arteries in anticipation of injury. His heart and his lungs are forced to work harder. The cumulative effect of his daily world-data has impaired his memory and his thyroid gland has deteriorated in the efficacy of its immune response. His blood pressure has been elevated. The high hormone levels in his adrenal glands now show him suffering from acute levels of stress. The chronic has taken over.

  And he’s old. And there are the pains in his chest which he’s been biopsied for, the results of which the postman will deliver probably today, if not tomorrow, but he knows what the pains signify; the smoking and the asbestos – there’ll be tumours blooming like toadstools. And there’s the blood in his motions and in the phlegm he hacks up into the sink every morning. The creaking decrepitude of his knees; to stand up from his chair, to get out of bed, these once-simple movements are now monumental applications of willed preparation. Add to this the hopelessness, the ever-present fear, the isolation now that the day centre has been closed and the nights spent sleepless and cowering, and he knows he’s done. The wasting cannot be arrested. In a bleached world the young man he once long ago was is a tiny dot of colour, fading fast: remember me? I’m still here, just about. Don’t let me fade completely.

  Everything is done with pain. The washing of the cup, the combing of the hair, the knotting of the tie – this is all done in great pain. Needles in his joints, ground glass in each inhalation. As he’s safety-pinning the fly of his trousers he pricks his thumb and raises it to his face. Look at that: no blood: there must only be dust inside.

  He leaves the TV on. Bombs falling somewhere in the world. Riots. Plunging pound, economic ruin. Walls going up. Gnashing teeth on each side of each wall. Aye, well, let’s see them issue a final demand now. He thinks of leaving the oven on too but decides against it; could cause a fire, harm the neighbours. He dials the speaking clock and places the receiver on the side table. At the third stroke, the voice says, and yes, he’s had two; the last one on Christmas Eve. He does not take one final look around as he leaves the house but he does look around at the world outside the front door, the greyness of it, all washed out except for the glitter of the river at the end of his street. Walk, walk. The word is ‘dodder’. How did he ever get this old. So fast.

  Never trusted the new bridge, the footbridge, with its wood and wires and patches of rust. Fellows working on it recently, swinging in harnesses underneath. Perfectly good stone bridge not 500 yards away, stood firm for centuries, why they thought the river needed a new bridge across it … Waste of money. It bounces a little as he steps onto it; such a slight person, years taken all muscle, yet it bounces with the weight of him. Was right not to trust it.

  He moves slowly, into the middle of the bridge, where a section of railings has been replaced by high-tensile wire. The water racing below, out to the anonymous sea. He leans against the wire. His thin body. A seagull alights nearby, on the wooden slats underfoot. Bye, bird, he says, and raises a foot. Or tries to. These knees, these knees. The pain. Like a knife blade, a terrible obstruction, set concrete in the joint, it’s not a case of forcing a movement through the pain as encountering something immovable. Oh no. Oh no. He leans against the wire because maybe the forward weight of his trunk might tip him over, but the top rung of wire digs into his floating ribs. This isn’t going to work. This is ridiculous. It’s farcical. Lean. Lean. He forces himself up onto tiptoes, the knees screaming, trying to create a top-heavy situation, God he can smell the sea. He leans with his arms held out over the onrushing river, its current working below, taking things out into the big wide sea. He leans and falls.

  SABOTAGE

  AN YUR I am again, in iss fuckin room, an-a worst thing is, Av done fuck all to deserve it. Only thing A did was try an do a decent day’s fuckin work-a put food in-a fridge. Cunts. Eyr using that word ‘sabotage’ again. Sabotage! A don’t even know what-a fuckin word means.

  —Told yew, A say. Again. Eyr not getting nowt out-a me, ese two twats. Not that er’s anything to get out anyway. —Yew get Poles an Stony-hands to put-a fuckin bridge up an what jew expect? Only a matter-a time before a fuckin thing comes down, innit?

  —That’s by the by, the older one says – Totally irrelevant.

  —And anyway. A younger cunt – A recognise him, went-a school with him, fucked if A can remember his name now tho – sits back an folds his arms all fuckin smug. —It was erected by a Bangor firm. I have the records here.

  Ee taps a sheet-a paper on-a desk.

  —Ah well, Gogs, A say. —Almost as bad.

  —A Welsh firm, he says. —Not eastern Europeans.

  —Aye but ey were working on it with me, mun. Em Stony-hands. Under it, ey were, in these swingy things. Already told yew this.

  —We’ve spoken to all the guest workers, Mr Cowley. And to Mr Pinckney himself.

  A laugh. —Pinckney? Is that his real name? Pinkbits, like?

  Learn something new every day, aye.

  —And you’re the only one with a criminal record.

  A look at him, the younger one, like. Him from-a school. —Now who’s being irrelevant? What’s that got to do with anything? You tell me.

  —Well …

  —No, go on, tell me. Cos Av never been done for fuckin up a bridge, have I? Or of drowning some poor old feller.

  A older one goes through some forms. Love forms, these fuckers do. —Vandalism. Vandalism again. Theft. Burglary. Grievous and actual bodily harm, twice. Vandalism a third time, these are serious offences, Mr Cowley.

  —Aye, go on, son, carry on. Soon’s yew get to-a word ‘sabotage’ Al hold me hands up and lock meself in-a cell meself. Or, or a fuckin custody suite, is it now?

  —We’re not charging you with anything, a younger one says. —We’re after information, that’s all. This is simply one avenue of inquiry we’re exploring. One possibility, that’s all it is.

  —Aye well Av got another possibility for you. Another avenue of inquiry, like. You listening?

  Both of em lift eyr eyebrows. Eyr like fuckin puppets.

  —Shit happens, there yew are, A tell em. —Sometimes shit jest happens. Enquire about that, aye?

  —A man has lost his life, the older one says. —Very probably. We’ve yet to find his body.

  —Aye, very sad, A say. —Me art’s all broken. But it’s got fuck all to do with me.

  —Well, then. Maybe you can tell us if it’s got anythung to do with this.

  A older one slides a latest edition of the Cambo News across-a table at me.

  —With what?

  Ee taps the paper with his finger. Well into his tap-tapping, he is, this twat. —Read it.

  A shake me head. —Never read that in me life. Not gonna start now. Always had it in for me, it has. Won’t have it in-a house unless Am out-a bog roll.

  —Well read it now.

  —No. A jest shake me head. Cunts can’t make me do anything A don’t want-a do.

  —It’s alright. The younger one takes-a paper back. Ee gives me iss look like he’d give to a raspberry ripple or something. Like he’d give me money if he saw me down Great Darkgate Street with me hand out an a scabby dog on a string.

  —It concerns the gathering, erm, commune up at Llyn Syfydrin, ee says. —On top of Pendam. It’s an article about that. Do you know about this?

  Yer’s a poster on-a wall behind him. On it is a woman with a black eye an a face like a smacked arse an some words an a load-a phone numbers an stuff. A horrible ye
llow light from a bulb is shining all around her head. Makes me think-a that rave thing an that E that wasn’t an E. But it was jest-a rising sun. Something like that. An a only reason it made me feel all that fuckin happy way was cos-a that pill, whatever-a fuck it was. Slow release, like, that’s all. An that’s all fuckin gone now anyway. Could do with another one, very fuckin quick release iss time. Because A am getting fuckin annoyed, yur, A am.

  —Got nothing to do with me, A say again.

  —That’s not what I asked. I asked if you were aware of it.

  A shake me head.

  —You don’t read the paper?

  —Jest told yew. No.

  —Go online?

  A jest shake me head again.

  —So you can tell me nothing about this word ‘bridge’, then.

  —What? How many times …? For fuck, isn’t that why yew brought me yur in-a first place? How many times do I have to tell yew? A did some paintin on-a fuckin thing, that’s it. End of.

  —And Mr Pinckney said he caught you underneath the bridge, a old twat pipes up. —In one of the harnesses. Where you were not permitted to be.

  —And a little prick gave me a bollockin, A say, an A feel a bit-a hotness in me face which makes me fuckin angry which makes me go even hotter. Not yur, Cow, not yur. Don’t lose it in yur. Hot n angry. Fuckin angry. Some cunt will—

  Aye but A saw fuck all. Nowt but-a rising sun.

  —Am I under arrest?

  —You know you’re not.

  —Tara, then. A go to stand up.

  —But you were there, tho, weren’t you?

  —Where?

  —On the mountain. At the party. Which was technically an illegal gathering, by the way, but we don’t intend to pursue that.

  —A saw fuck all. An A heard fuck all. Am off.

  This time A do stand up. —A remember yew, A say to-a younger one, an A really don’t know why A say it.

  Ee nods. —I’ll see you out.

  —Don’t need a fuckin guide, mun.

  —Aye you do, ee says, an holds up a bunch-a keys. Again; ey do it again. Ey can never get fed up of making yew feel small. Cunts, all of em. Every last one.

  Outside-a room ee unlocks a door an we go through an ee locks it behind us. —A remember yew, A say again, an A still don’t know why. An then it comes to me; ee was getting bullied behind-a gym by one of-a Wren brothers, a ugliest one. A gave him a tap. Broke-a cunt’s jaw, as A recall. Not cos A liked-a victim, like, this copper cunt with-a keys, but cos A really fuckin hated that Wren brother. Hated em all, in fact, A did. An that was a good enough excuse. An it comes back to me, now, iss copper when ee was younger, like, crying his fuckin eyes out, all snot an blood up his face … makes me feel a bit better, that does. Less angry. Bit bigger n all. Still don’t remember-a twat’s name, tho.

  —Aye, he says, an goes to open another door. Puts a key in-a lock. —Listen, he says, but quiet, like. —That’s all bullshit, that stuff about-a bridge.

  —A know it is, A say.

  —Jest an accident, that’s all. Shit jest happens sometimes, in that right?

  —That’s what A said.

  —But yur’s an ASBO coming out for yew, Cow.

  —What?

  —An ASBO. Been complaints there has.

  —Which fuckin cunt …

  —Ey, ey. Remember where yew are, mun, aye? An who yewer talking to. An yewer on camera so right now we’re jest talking football or some shite, aye?

  —Don’t care. Just wanna know—

  —No kickbacks now. Not one recrimination, yew hear me?

  A jest nod, again, but Am promising fuck all.

  —Some neighbours-a yours have made some complaints. Not gunner tell yew who, and I’m only telling yew this much cos I owe yew one. Oh, an-a DSS are onto yew n all.

  —DSS? What?

  —That bridge work. Ey know it was a hobbler.

  —How’d ey know that?

  —Someone’s got flappin lips, mun, that’s all Am gunner say. Am jest tellin yew so yew know. Ey’ll be cutting yewer money off soon if ey haven’t done so already so make arrangements, aye?

  Yur we fucking go again. Fuckin rollercoaster ride, iss, mun. —How fuckin, A say but ee shakes his head an unlocks-a door an waves me through.

  —That’s yew, boy. Mind how yew go now.

  Ee locks-a door behind me. A stand yur for a bit an a copper behind-a reception counter thing gives me a look so A leave-a station. Sun’s shining again. Gunner be another hot one. A sit on a bench an roll a smoke. Im again, with all-a vegetables on his neck.

  Alright, alright. Yur’s a way out-a this. Yur’s a way to make iss better. Use yewer fuckin brains, Cowley man. Yur’s always a way out.

  A smoke me smoke. A riot wagon comes past an goes into-a yard behind-a station. Yur’s rolls-a razor wire along-a top of-a wall. Behind it is Pen Dinas, dead big an green, an A imagine being on top-a it when-a sun’s coming up. Maybe it’d put some fuckin shapes in-a air. At a bottom of Pen Dinas is south beach. An yur’s also a field where-a pikeys live. That’s where-a Lavins are.

  Alright, alright. Use yewer skills, Cowley boy. Every last one. Cunts that they are.

  SANCTIONS

  DREAMS ARE SO strange. Like, last night I met Cedric Davies from The Wire, of all people, and he was wearing sage green slacks which, he told me, only people who like celery are allowed to wear. I told him that I can’t stand celery and he told me that, in that case, I couldn’t wear the slacks. And the funny thing is, in the awake world, I like celery, especially dipped in hummus; Tomos does as well. We’ll sit there watching the telly, the two of us, with celery and a tub of hummus, just snapping it off and dipping it in. Most small kids I know hate the stuff. But Cedric Davies, tho – what the fuck was he doing in my head? Strange things, dreams. And I’ve always fancied him so it was no surprise that I woke up with a wetty. Been a while since I woke up like that, a bit slippery down there. Was going to give the old bean a flick but I had to friggin come here, didn’t I, straight after I’d got the Tomster to the school.

  —Are you listening to me? You’d do well to pay attention. This is a very important matter.

  Wish I was back in my dream. Wish I was anywhere but here …

  —Fraudulent claims are taken extremely seriously. Extremely seriously

  … having to listen to him bang on, this, this rancid little pissdrip of a man.

  —I know. Just tell me what’s going to happen, I tell him.

  —We’re going to get this sorted out, that’s what’s going to happen. We’re going to get to the bottom of this.

  —I mean with my benefits. The money we need to live on, me and my son. What’s going to happen to us now.

  Carlos – that’s his name. Johnny’s mate. I’d know his name anyway cos he’s got it tattooed in swirly letters on the side of his neck. What kind of knobend …? Maybe he needs to remember what he’s called because he’s so fucking thick. Has to look in the mirror to remember his own bleedin name, aye.

  —Well, there’s nothing I can do to stop the sanctions, I’m afraid. The wheels are in motion, as it were.

  —I know, I say. —I read the letter. And I haven’t eaten properly for two days.

  —I’m sorry to hear that but that’s a situation which, I must add, is entirely of your own making. You should’ve been well aware that any work, paid or unpaid, has to be declared, without exception. And if I take a look back at your records …

  He taps on his keyboard and looks at the screen. Raises his eyebrows, one of them with a nick in it. I blink, and in that instant of darkness I see wild white teeth flash and I know that somewhere inside me they’re wanting to bite, fucking bite as hard as they can, but what’s the point? What is the fucking point? It has come to this – that this smug little squirt sitting across the desk from me has the power to make me and my son go hungry. And there’s fuck all I can do about it ey. He knows nothing about my life and cares even less. Behind him I can see the office, people c
licking away at keyboards, other people sitting opposite them, separated by desks, hanging on what they say. It smells in here. The air is too warm and all kind of thick and heavy. Think they’d have air con in here but no. It’s horrible and I hate it and I want to get out of here as quick as I fuckin can.

  — … there’s an under-occupancy penalty on its way, too. Now, that’s not really my department, but—

  This shit never ends. When I leave this building I’ll be filled with most of the negative emotions that a human being can feel: fear, anger, despair, hatred. What’s going to happen to me? What’s going to happen to Tom?

  There’s a spot on Carlos’s shiny nose. It’s got a small yellow head. Makes me think of that lump on Johnny’s head that looked like a dick … He’ll be in Greece, now. Hope it’s still there, that lump. He’ll be trying it on with the Greek girls and they’ll be saying: Scuse-ay, but you are sporting a big red penis on your head, innit?

  —This is no laughing matter. You’d do well to take this seriously.

  —Do you see me laughing?

  —Are you listening to me? It’s my job to clearly outline to you what will happen vis-à-vis your benefit claim and I feel that you should really be paying attention.

  Vizza viz? Did he just say vizza viz?

  —Of course you have the right to appeal. That’s your right. I can—

  Saturday tomorrow. I can take Tom to Trefenter. See the folks, aye. Take a walk across the moor. See the wild horses maybe. Try and forget about all this shit for a bit and there’ll just be the four of us, my mam and dad and me and Tom. The lake—

  Ah God, ah God. Where are you now. I close my eyes again, and hope to see those weasel teeth but there’s nothing. Just a hole getting bigger. Swallowing everything and spreading a kind of numbness across my skin and everywhere inside.

  And the old feller took a header off the bridge, or so it said in the cambo. That bridge. Is that what the word meant? Dig, wild, bridge? Is that what she was trying to tell me? And there’s been no body found as yet. Out to sea. Pick pick pick. Or no bodies, plural, because I can feel mine vanishing; every time I look online and see all the words I feel more and more incomplete, cos bits of me are off there, in cyberspace. Pick pick pick. And in this world, here, my body, my skin and meat, the, the physical fuckin fact of me, how false it is starting to seem, a lie, a—