Broken Ghost

by Niall Griffiths

  I get a blast of breath. It’s warm, clammy like, and smells a bit of bacon. I open my eyes. Carlos is leaning across the desk at me, on his elbows. His face with its spot and its tattoo and its piggy breath is close to mine.

  —I can’t actually stop any of this, he’s saying in a low voice. He’s looking at my ear. —I mean, I don’t have that power. Once the wheels are in motion, like, well. He shrugs. —But I might be able to do something.

  —What kind of something? I say, and there’s a tingling going on underneath me jaw. This is a place I’ve been before.

  —Well, I can, I can slow things down, a bit. Put in a good word with the emergency fund. Arrange some sort of interim payment, maybe. Emergency loan, pull a few strings. I’ve got the power to do that.

  —Oh aye?

  —Aye, yeh. Cos, well, remember what we did? At Iestyn’s party that time?

  Oh yes, it comes to me now; apparently I’ve had this idiot’s dick inside me. I remember Johnny saying something about it as that big red knob sprouted out of his head. I went threes up, that’s what he said. I don’t remember the first thing about it. I was probably off me head, for one thing, and shagging everything that moved, for another. How’m I supposed to remember this face, here, leaning across the desk and blowing gas at me? I try to picture it slack and loose above me but I can’t.

  And there it is, behind his looming leer – the desperation. Something pleading in the eyes, like. I could get something back here, couldn’t I; some sort of revenge. Aye, I could, but it’d be empty and pitiful and the old feller would’ve drowned for nothing, if he has drowned (what? Where the fuck did that thought come from?) so instead I just get up and leave. Turn me back on the little turd and just walk out of the building, away from it and him and the clicking fucking screens and all the people and the things they need. Something opens wide inside me, outside in the heat, I feel it, not like a flower more like a hole. Familiar; the numbness spreading, like I’ve been given an epidural, and the thing inside me like one massive yawn. He’s been here before. Oh yes I fucking well have. When the waves of no-feeling recede there’ll be a feeling in me belly like I want to throw up, and all’s I’d sick out would be black air. Fuck them all.

  Do normal things, then. Dull things before the hole can start to suck everything in. It was just the breeze in the reeds and the rising sun and maybe that pill had some effect after all. I buy a local paper and go to a caff, order some tea and sit at the pavement tables outside. Do normal things. The cars and buses passing by. All the different people. The seagulls and the sounds they make. A woman walks past with a little dog and stops to let the dog sniff at a bin, at all the piss smells there that, to him, must be like reading the local paper. Which I look at. The old man feared drowned. Already read about this online. All the words. Bits of me drifting away, out to sea like him.

  TO TELL YOU THE TRUTH

  OOF, A FACE on this fucker; got a horrible black-red gash from jaw to eyebrow.

  —Fuck me, mun, what happened to-a face?

  —Got it in Nam, he says.

  —Nam?

  —Chelten-nam. Gold Cup. Some bad boys there, sor. Some fuckin Londoner. Tried to put a Chelsea smile on me dial so he did.

  —Tried to? Looks to me like he succeeded, butt.

  —Aye, well. He would have been takin his jellied eels through a straw for a while after. Ee rubs at the ’tush on his lip an looks me up n down. —Anyway. What brings you here?

  —Looking for Aney. He around, is he?

  He nods.

  —Tell him Cowley’s yur, then.

  Ee looks me up n down again. —I know who you are, chavvy. Wait here.

  Ee fucks off, back into-a camp, like. A caravans. Dogs everywhere, little kiddies runnin around, a group-a older boys around a fire givin it-a full gyppo works; playing cards an wearin pork-pie hats an waistcoats an braces. Eyr nudging each other an givin me looks so I give em a little wave an turn me back on em an find a rock-a sit on, facing-a sea. Ireland somewhere over it. Must be funny for ese pikeys, like, livin yur in a different country an every day knowin that the place ey come from is jest over yur, over-a water. Sometimes ey must see-a Fishguard ferry goin over, back to eyr homeland. Must be funny that. Why’d ey come over yur in-a first place? Don’t know. Not even pikeys know why pikeys do what pikeys do. An not all of em are Irish, even. Least, ey don’t sound Irish, some-a em, like.

  A roll a smoke. Some shite-hawks start hanging around. A gyppos eat ese fuckin things, ey do; put em in-a stews, like. Must taste like turds. It’s a clear day an A can see down-a coast, the cliffs like, a towns down yur where-a cliffs join-a sea. A furthest one, that must be Cardigan, where she is. Soon as A told her about-a fuckin ASBO an-a fuckin jobbie stoppin me money that was it – offski. Back down to Cardigan, she says to see Shauna, and that was fuckin days ago. Haven’t heard a word frommer since. Yur’ll she be, with Shauna’s useless fuckin dopey bollax junkie idle twat of a dad, suckin at a bottle of White Lightning in front-a the fuckin telly. An yur’s Cowley on his Jack fuckin Jones. Again. Been here before, aye, many fuckin times. Dozen bother me. Al jest use what Av got. Know yewer skills, like, that’s what it is.

  On me right is Pen Dinas an on me left is another big hill, don’t know what it’s called. Know it was once some kind-a fort, like, ages n ages ago; ey told us that at-a school. Been forts n castles yur for fuckin ages, all over-a shop, an-a farmers are always ploughin up blades n bits-a weapons n plates n stuff. Ey all thought ey could come in yur n take over, turn us into slaves, like. A Romans and the English; pair-a cunts, both of em. Jest couldn’t leave us alone, them wankers. What we’d do, we’d build our own places on top of-a big hills – easy to defend, see. So, ages ago, people lived on top-a ese hills, built eyr huts up yur, had little towns all-a way up yur, ey did. Must-a blown-a friggin gale all-a time, all that way up. But maybe, on days like today, when-a sun came up, like, maybe ey’d sometimes see things in-a sky. Things that glowed. Maybe that’s what it is, yew need to be high up, on-a ridges like, cos when-a sun comes up—

  Aye, an maybe yew jest need a fuckin pill. That’s all yur was, is, to it. Fuck sakes. Fuckin tab-a ecko will do.

  —Now then, Cowley boy.

  Aney comes up, stands in front-a me. He’s got no top on an is skin’s al crawlin with tats. He’ve got that stewpid friggin pixie thing on his back, A know that cos Av seen it, when he laid into-a McBride that time. Down on-a beach yur.

  —What can I do for you, sor? he says.

  —That Quinn straightener still on, then, is it?

  Aney gives a grin an A really fuckin wish he wouldn’t. Them teeth, like.

  —Ah, knew you’d come round. Easy money, it’ll be, sor.

  We make arrangements like, where and when he’ll pick me up, all that stuff, an en we spit in our palms an shake hands. Got-a do that; pikeys won’t settle on anything without it. Fuck knows why, but it’s true. They probably don’t know why emselves.

  —And sure we’ll drink on it, he says, an takes a hip flask out of-a pocket of a old suit kex he’s got on. Unscrews it and takes a swig and gives it to me. Whiskey; feels fuckin tidy going down. Glowin.

  —Oh aye, A say. —An Al be needing a sub.

  Ee takes another swig an wipes his gob with-a back of his hand an puts his hip flask away. —Now?

  —No, after the scrap. Of course now, Aney, that’s what a sub is. Fuck sakes mun.

  Ee looks at me, thinkin. A don’t say anything, jest let him think. Am beggin for no cunt, no matter how bad A need the fuckin spends.

  —How much?

  —That’s up to yew, butt. But yew know how it works, aye.

  Ee thinks a bit more then nods an takes a roll-a notes out of his pocket, size of a bog roll. Must be thousands. Got the right idea, ese pikeys av, whatever-a fuck that idea is.

  —Alright. Ee licks his thumb an peels off some notes. —That’s yer halvers. Second half when that fuckin Quinn is swallowing his teeth, aye?

  —Loud n cle
ar, mun.

  A go to put the wad in me top pocket where A can keep an eye on it but something’s already in yur. Oh aye; Ad forgotten about that, probably cos it’s always with me. Again, a don’t know why – it jest is. A put the cash in me hip pocket like an Aney knocks a knuckle against the machine in me top bin.

  —Mobile is it?

  A take it out to show him. —No.

  —What’s that?

  —It’s one-a them Aye-Pod things. Got music inside it like. Found it, I did.

  —Let’s have a look at it.

  A give it to him an he holds it up an looks at it. Pokes at it with his finger.

  —What’s it do?

  —Jest told yew. Keeps music inside. Songs.

  —How’d ye get them out?

  —Dunno. Jest found it, like.

  He looks at it some more, closer up. —I’ll buy it off ye.

  —No, A say, an take it back off him an put it back in me top pocket where it belongs. —A wanner keep it.

  —Fair enough. Ee loses interest in half a second. —Al see ye tomorrow then, aye?

  —Aye.

  —Get on the bags, son. Ee holds his fists up boxer-style. —Can’t wait to see that Quinn cunt go down. Lot of money riding on this, boy.

  —Aye, you’ve said.

  —Alright, well. Tomorrow.

  A head off, towards-a town. The wad is already burning in me pocket. A can feel it. The heat. Am thinkin pub. Am thinkin charlie. But no, Al leave that for tomorrow, after Av buried that Quinn an yur’s something-a celebrate. Al leave it til then.

  Can’t help thinkin, tho … it’s been a while since Av had to give out a tap. What if I – A mean what will fuckin happen if I fuckin—

  No, fuck, don’t think about it, mun. It’ll come back to yew. Jest like riding a bike. An, Duw, A can feel it in me shoulders an fists already, like the burning from-a money is spreading through me, making bits-a me tingle. Almost like A felt after Ad seen that, that thing, after that pill had made the rising sun go all amazin. A feel a bit like that. Power. Tomorrow. To tell yew-a truth, A can’t fuckin wait.

  CAMERA OBSCURA

  I CAN STILL hear her begging – one kid on her knee, another holding her hand, another rolling around on the carpet, all of them grizzling and crying. Please, she said, you can’t do this to my children; let me starve, I don’t care about that, but not my children. She begged, right there in the middle of the fuckin office. I thought she was gonner offer herself to the guy on the other side of the desk, drop her joggers and bend over the computer terminal and whore herself out in the middle of the job centre. Would everyone just stare or look away, embarrassed? They’d probably just look down at their feet, understanding her desperation, altho I bet one or two would get their fuckin phones out. But that silent slumped demeanour that the beaten-into-resignation always have. Buckled under the sense of their own worthlessness. Drilled into them. Can’t help but wonder – how will the memory of this affect them kids? They’ll always remember their ma begging and pleading all snot-nosed in a public place. Horrible to think how that will work on them as they grow up. At least the guy on the other side of the desk from her – the assistant, like, the clerk, the Aspiration Aide or whatever the fuck they’re being called these days – had the decency to get embarrassed for her; beamed a right reddener, he did. Still sanctioned her, of course – he’s got his fuckin targets to meet if he wants to keep his job. I swear, tho, my feller gave a wee smirk when security took the woman and her kids away through a side door. Couldn’t fuckin help himself, smirked all the way down to that stupid tattoo on his neck that said CARLOS in swirly letters. Thought it might’ve been his boyfriend’s name at first, like, thought he might’ve been Colwyn Bay, but then I saw the same name on his ID badge. Dick’ed had his own name tattooed on his neck.

  Anyway. The politicians blether on about the great new opportunities for Britain outside of the EU. Endless shite. And in all the fuckin job centres up and down the land not one thing changes. In all the bedsits, in all the pokey flats at extortionate rents, at all the foodbanks … the same fuckin thing goes on. The crying and the pleading. The fucked up children. The fuckin air is thick with it.

  I move the handle, the joystick thing, to the right and the screen below me swoops over the town and down to the harbour. Ace thing, this camera – it’s like I’m a drone, a spy in the sky, a bird bozzing over the town. See all the sunbathers on the south beach and with better resolution and magnification I would close in on the babes in bikinis. This is a poor man’s version of Google Earth sure enough but then I am a poor man. And besides, I like the control in the joystick; gives you a better sensation of flying than clicking on a mouse does. Swoop out to sea. There’s a fishing boat. Back to the beach. Christ the shapes of women … I seem to be appreciating that a hell of a lot more these days. Since that rave thing on the mountain. It’s like my libido has returned with a vengeance. Take away the heroin and the hard-ons return, after a while. There’s a dog chasing a ball into the ocean.

  Smug cunt, that Carlos. Seemed to take pleasure in what he told me. I wasn’t working up at Rhoserchan I said. No pay. Yes he said but while you were up there you weren’t available for work were you? But I was doing voluntary stuff I said. It’s classed as experience and looks good to any prospective employer. Yes he said, those potential employers who were waiting for you to contact them but instead you were incommunicado up at Rhoserchan.

  His voice in one ear and the woman’s voice begging in the other. I knew this was going to happen soon. That word ‘sanction’ in both ears. Should’ve prepared meself for it. I’m old enough to know how it works.

  I pan back, away from the beach and hover over the railway station. There’s a train in at the platform. Borth, Dyfi Junction, Machynlleth, Caersws, Welshpool, Newtown, Shrewsbury, Wellington, Telford Central, Wolverhampton, Birmingham. All the stops on the only rail route out of this edge town. I swing away. The dog bounds back into the sea again.

  But how can you prepare yourself for this shite, tho, really? Aye, sobriety is a high in itself, that I understand. Involvement. Focus on the present. Planning, above all. No excuses no punishment never give up. I get it, aye, I get it in me bones. And then you see a woman forced into making a holy show of herself, in front of her kids. A wanker like Carlos with the authority to turn her into a pleading dribbling wreck. You hear the word ‘sanction’, you get told off – told off, at your age – for not taking your job search seriously and now what the fuck do you do? Where will that woman be now? What will she be saying to her kids? I’ve no man, she said repeatedly. I’m on my own with my children. Made me think of that time in the Moorfields job centre back in the late 80s when the feller came in, a baby under each arm, plonked em down on the counter and said: you fucking look after them, then. You fucking feed them, and buy their nappies, cos I can’t afford to, and just walked out. Just left em there, screaming on the counter.

  Christ. All those years ago and nothing has changed. You’d think that, eventually, they’d run out of shit to dump but no, the supply is evidently inexhaustible. Oh this brave new Britain. Standing tall in the world. Taking back control. Fuck off.

  I make the camera eye hover.

  That fucking sneer when I mentioned Rhoserchan. Resident, were you? he said. Some people just refuse to see the ‘ex’ in front of the ‘junkie’. All they see is housing estate, scouser, thief, feral underclass, ghetto scum, and aye I was fucking wild, aye I ran fucking mad, and who do you think taught me to be that way? What do you think was inside me? Cunts, every day I saw and I see you behave exactly the same and it’s just like the shite from my childhood: do as I say, not as I do. I had to understand, from a very early age that the most powerful tool in teaching was behaviour; compared to that, words barely mattered. They meant nothing, compared to models of behaviour. And so a dysfunctional upbringing is the model for social nurture. I mean, for fuck’s sakes. I mean—

  Swoop back over the train station. Over the footy fiel
d. Looks like someone’s going over the white lines with one of them single-wheel things. Hover out over the river. Bits of yellow, ribbons like, across the new bridge; looks a bit like police tape.

  Remember this:

  the individual is suffering from a socially universal human condition rather than a mental illness … it is in the unsuccessful attainment of basic needs that a person’s behaviour moves away from the norm.

  Alright, alright. Like Glasser Thompson. Like Carlos. Like a mother forced to beg in public.

  Aw man … aw man … The camera eye moves in a quick circle. Sunlight rebounds back off the bonnet of a silver car on the prom and I see a woman – that shape – walking past it and for a second she’s caught in the flash and it’s like she’s glowing but then she walks out of it again because in this world people do not glow or float. And them words … that was just that bloke with the dragon on his neck muttering to himself as he farted about with that iPod. Which he ‘found in the reeds’ my hairy drug-free hole; there’s probably some student somewhere still nursing a sore jaw and hoping for a new iPod for Chrimbo. Hillbilly, that one. Not that I know him but … if you can’t fight it, fuck it: that’s written all over him. The hillbilly motto.

  And now look – who won’t see the ‘ex’ now? What’s the word – essentialism. Aye, I read, these days. I’m being an essentialising arse. This is what boredom does to your head.

  That word hits me with a jolt – is that what I am, bored? Am I? Is that what this no-feeling feeling is? It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this way and I’ve forgotten how horrible it is. All this cack about ‘muddling through’ … that’s at the hollow heart of it. The British people will always muddle through, that’s what some cunt said on the radio this morning, and they’re the same words that the guy said to the woman in the jobbie this morning when she asked him how she was supposed to feed her kids on no money: you’ll have to muddle through somehow. Same fucking words they use about austerity, about Brexit, about everything that they won’t suffer from and is this it, then? Is this something to be proud of? This state of being a robot who doesn’t rage or even question, just ‘muddles through’? Is this all there is, for us?