Broken Ghost

by Niall Griffiths

  —Squatting? On a fucking mountain? What’s he on about?

  No one answers Cowley, not that he was seeking an answer anyway.

  Many of these people have left their jobs to form this, this commune, jobs that many others would be grateful to have. And in doing so they are jeopardising the economic recovery which this government has worked so diligently to bring about. Not only that, but their presence is making a demand on the public purse which the hard-working British taxpayer is paying for, and this at a time when we need everyone in this country to get behind the government to make a success of leaving the European Union. We all need to pull together on this. And the, the site has been earmarked for wind-farm expansion, for investment, and these people are trespassers on that land. If they do not leave of their own accord and out of their own goodwill, and with the good grace that they have been allowed the opportunity to, ah, to show, then I’m afraid there will be an, there will have to be an eviction and that’s the very last thing we want to do.

  The buffering circle turns in centre-screen.

  —What’s going on? Why’s he stopped?

  —It’s buffering.

  —What’s that?

  He tries not to smirk, the lodger, but Cowley sees the small wrinkle in his lip. —It’s loading. Give it a few seconds.

  There are designated places for this kind of thing – Glastonbury and the like. What we are seeing in west Wales at the moment is simply illegal. The gathering itself is a breach of the law and we have it on good authority that illegal drugs are in use and, even, the sheltering of illegal immigrants might be taking place, of those who do not have the right to be in this country. It’s impossible to say for certain that this is not going on.

  He appears to be pinkening, the man, his cheeks getting gammoner, more shiny.

  —Goes on a bit, dunny.

  —That he does, brar. Government, innit.

  Society, to function properly, needs structure. It needs the rules of social contract, mutually beneficial to all involved. This, ah, this gathering; well, this kind of thing, if left unchecked, could usher in the very breakdown of that. We will have a dispersal, make no mistake about that. They are

  The spinning circle. Then:

  breaking the laws of the land and not only that but the unwritten laws of social contract and mutual respect. I dread to think how many man-hours have been lost to the workforce, have been denied to the economy which this government has worked so hard to restore to a position of health and growth, by this, this commune. These people are the enemies of progress and growth, pure and simple. A religious gathering? It is hedonism, and criminality, pure and simple. These people think they can, can do whatever they please and trespass on private land and, and, do whatever it is they’re doing up there while those who do the right thing and work hard and look after their families have to foot the bill. We as a government will not let that happen. If we learnt anything from the, the lawlessness of 2011 it is the need to

  And then the circle that spins again. The man’s face is frozen in mid-snarl, a glint of blunt grey tooth.

  nip this type of thing in the bud. Stop the rot before it spreads. We have no desire to witness a repeat of such, such, such shocking scenes.

  The man’s mouth closes and he nods firmly and turns slightly to the side as if to move away and indeed he does take one little step before he turns back again, kind of pirouettes back to re-face the camera:

  And another thing; the 12th of August is fast approaching. Parts of that land have been set aside, are, are used and have been for a long time, have been traditionally CONSERVED as a grouse moor. If those people are still up there on the 12th, when the season begins, then I shudder to think of what will happen. There are children up there. We need to get these people off the mountain and back in work and we need that to happen as soon as possible. This is a time for unity. Thank you.

  And the man’s face freezes and stops.

  —Look at this, the lodger says. —This is what’s got him so worked up. Funny as fuck it is.

  He taps at the screen and more footage appears; the same landscape, with the ridge and the lake, all of it upland, and this time the crowd not dancing, amassed instead on the pebbly shore of that lake and looking not out over the water or up at the ridges but towards a line of policemen in hi-vis and some other figures in sober suits. One of these raises a loudhailer to his mouth. A voice comes from behind the footage, slightly apart from the image, evidently the voice of the filmer, that of a young man: Uh oh. He’s not happy.

  —Watch this now, the lodger says, and repeats: – This is funny as fuck.

  Mostly distorted to inaudibility through the megaphone and by the openness of the landscape out into which the voice is thrown, only certain words of the suited man’s speech can be discerned: trespassing is one, repeated, and disperse, and fair warning. You can see the crowd listening, mainly still, some flags aloft of crosses and dragons and the EU stars, and when the megaphone is lowered those at the front, as if at a prearranged signal, turn and drop their trousers or lift their skirts. Loud laughter, footage ends, and words ticker-tape across Cowley’s inner eye: all them white upside-down Ys in a line.

  —Ha! The lodger barks and snaps his iPad shut. —Have that, man! That’s what we think of your fucking threats. And rules. Telling you, I have got to get myself up there. Got to.

  —What are you doing? Cowley says.

  —What?

  —You turned it off. I wanna see more. Show me more.

  —But there’s loads. I don’t—

  —I wanner see more from that lake.

  Rhys cracks another can. —Show him a bit more, brar.

  —But there’s fuckin loads of it. What’s he wanner see?

  —Just show him some stuff.

  Without looking at Cowley the lodger erects the screen again. Taps and swipes. Two men in armchairs now appear.

  —What’s this shit? Where’s the lake?

  —They’re talking about what that girl saw.

  —What girl?

  —Up at the lake. That floating shape thing that she blogged about. I’ve just told you. They’re talking about what it might’ve been and why it all kicked off. There’s loads of this stuff online.

  Cowley leans in, elbows on his knees, the dragon on his neck livid in the low-hanging light. A horn honks outside. The machine in his breast pocket, its weight falls forwards and down in this leaning position and gravity tugs it floorwards, causes Cowley’s shirt on the left side to protrude pointedly like a moob.

  —Wanner see the lake, Cowley says, yet he leans, still, leans in listening.

  It’s not a particularly rare phenomenon, one of the men is saying, on the screen. Indeed, it’s rather common in that part of Wales. The prevailing conditions in that area and at that time were perfect for this sort of, ah, apparition if you like, phenomenon to occur.

  Another voice asks, off-screen: Atmospheric conditions, you mean?

  Yes, atmospheric conditions. And the discussions concerning this that are occurring on social media and the, erm, the gathering, the commune that has been generated by this … well, the sociological issues are intriguing, to do, perhaps, with societal atomisation and the like, or, or, the contemporary need for something transcendent, to believe in. To offer meaning in uncertain and turbulent times. To have a reason to come together.

  —What’s he talking about? Why are you showing me this? I wanner see-a fucking lake, mun.

  —Hold on a sec, the lodger says, and holds up an infuriating finger. Cowley looks at that finger. Knows the sound it would make if bent very far back.

  Such matters are not my field, but there are many educated and astute minds out there that are studying these things. What we are seeing, in effect, fundamentally, from a scientific point of view, is a hysterical reaction to a Brocken spectre; an easily explainable atmospheric event. As I say, the, ah, the hysteria, well that’s not my field, but I can tell you all about water droplets and convection and the
confusion of depth perception and the other scientific reasons behind the apparition. The optical illusion, which is all that it is, essentially. It’s just physics. Let me quote, if I may, Johann Silberschlag, who, as far back as 1780 wrote

  —Get this twat off, says, almost shouts, Cowley. —Can hardly understand a fuckin word he’s on about mun. Get this shite off.

  The lodger raises an eyebrow at Rhys who gives him a firm, small nod and the little finger is reset to swish.

  —The fuck yew show me that for? An what’s a fuckin Broken spector?

  The lodger laughs. —Broken spector? It’s not a what, it’s a who.

  —What?

  —It’s a who’s a Spector. Record producer, he was. Is, if he’s still alive. Mad feller, mad hair. Shot his wife. Phil Spector.

  —Don’t act the cunt, brar, Rhys says, in a voice lower than his own ankles. —No need for a wind-up.

  —I’m just messing with yeh. A spectre is like a phantom. A ghost.

  —A ghost?

  —Aye, yeh.

  —So why didn’t he just say that, then? A broken ghost. That’s what she saw. Fuckin big words these twats use. An he can’t even say em proper. English cunt, can’t even use his own fuckin language in-a right way. An it wasn’t even a broken ghost either. Doesn’t know what he’s on about.

  —Alright, brar. Have another can.

  Cowley accepts the tinnie and opens it. —Broken ghost be fucked. A ghost! Eyr like, like fuckin kids, ese twats are. What did yew make me watch that shit for?

  The lodger has folded his iPad away and placed it on the sofa next to him. On the TV now a lad in a baseball cap is placing a hand over his heart. Nearby, outside, the eastern border is a land border, mapped, a smooth tectonic enmeshing. Yet it is on it where – just as at the spiked grykes and sea-cliff serrations of the western endlands – uncaringly carved and jagged edges rip and make us bleed.

  There is a sear in Cowley’s stare. The rapid rise and fall of his chest and the snorting in his nose. Rhys says his brother’s name, twice, but elicits no response. The lodger looks at the can he raises to his mouth and fakes a noisy gulp out of.

  —Slurping, now, Cowley says. —Can you not drink that proper like a normal cunt? D’yew have to make such an horrible fuckin racket?

  Rhys sighs and rubs his face with a hand. Repeats his brother’s name. Feels the air in the room hum and he knows, fully, if he knows nothing else, what will soon happen; what cannot be stopped from happening, now. What has its origins behind heavy drapery in a mote-mad sacristy in a small coastal town to the north, a four-hour journey away by bus, as do the muscles and fleshy swellings that now just flop uselessly against Rhys’s bones.

  He’s waiting outside the bog; Emma stiffens when she opens the door and sees him in his abrupt tallness, the eyes slanted down towards her and the whitening lips turning back over the long teeth. In a nanosecond she knows who he is and she’s aware of her own grin as she looks up at him. Her grin and what’s in it.

  —My war-man in yur? he asks. Accent strong Swansea. —Yew been in yur with my war-man? Someone said yew av.

  —I don’t know, Emma says. —You tell me, and she raises herself on the tippy-toes of her cork platforms, gains a few more inches, sufficient so that she can lick the man’s lips, swipe her tired tongue twice across them. —That taste like her, does it? Anything in that you recognise?

  The man rubs the back of his hand across his face. SCFC on the knuckles. —Fuckin lezza. Fuckin rug-muncher.

  He puts Emma to one side and breaks his way into the toilet and the door swings shut behind him and Emma hears him shout: – Meg? Meg! Where yew fuckin to?

  Meg. So that’s her name. Nice name. And Emma’s knees are wet because she knelt on the pissy floor and the taste on her tongue is herby so she drinks whisky at the bar, one double shot, two, and with the second the barman gives her a napkin.

  —What’s this for, then?

  —To wipe your face with. He puts a fingertip on her chin. —Here. A kind of black stuff.

  She wipes and looks and, yes, the napkin comes away black-smeared. It has the greasy clog of lipstick and there was, very recently, a mouth so adorned that snapped and sucked. To get away from the toilet behind her and whatever might come out of it Emma takes a third whisky around the other side of the bar into the furthest and busiest room. Obviously alone as she is Emma is touched in this room, hands on her hips and arse as she sways through, prowing with her chest. How they want to touch her, these days; to contact the crackling sparks. God how Emma burns. How the muscles shear in her legs and flanks and back and the smells of her, the stickiness of her, the imprint of clutching fingers at her nape. Encrustations, seepages. The living body leaks and reeks and moves like this – like a thing aware of the displaced air. She orders a drink, lager, at the bar with which to chase the spirits and when she goes to pay a voice in her ear says I’ll get this and a hand gives a note to the barmaid. Emma looks, sees hair cropped very short like copper filings, a dressing steri-stripped to the skull on the right-hand side above the ear.

  —Hello.

  Emma can only smile.

  —Don’t remember me, no?

  Electrics do ignite in Emma’s head but the connections made are minimal. So many faces recently; so many hands. The faces above her and the hands below, often in a half-light, and through a blur of booze and blaze – the fires that carry her. And those faces loose, in the semi-light above hers, or buried between her spread legs and the crowns conveyed across her vision like a choice of toupees.

  —Can’t say I do.

  —No? Aberaeron caravan park not ring any bells?

  Emma hides behind her drink.

  —Had my head shaved since then. Cos of this.

  He inclines his head and points to the bandage.

  —What’s that?

  —Seven stitches. Got bottled by some fuckin gorilla. Pardon my language.

  —What for?

  —Ey?

  —What did he bottle yeh for?

  —Don’t really know. Not that it matters anyway. Just some fuckin psycho, that’s all. Mind if I just check something?

  And he reaches out and lifts Emma’s hair behind her ear, where the stars are; just lifts it out of the way for a moment so he can see. He nods. —Thought so.

  —What was that about?

  —Just had to be absolutely sure about something. Comen have a drink with me and my boys, yeah? Won the darts so we’re flush, we are. Drinks on us.

  Where he touched her, where his skin brushed against hers, there is heat; it is like the stars there have become real, spheres of flaming gas and their awful scorch. Suns. At that very faintest of touches. Need, need. Emma was on her knees. The roots of her tongue ache. And then there is a hand on her hip, steering.

  A brontosaur is Cowley from the doorway of Dorothy’s chippy, his big surge and stumble. The drunk and hungry queuers part for him and once beyond them he leans back against a wall in a half-squat, his tray of chicken curry chips in his left palm. The knuckles of his right hand, well, he gives them a little lick; like a cat he draws his tongue across the gashes made in them by the lodger’s teeth. Only the one punch before Rhys was on his brother’s back like a chimpanzee and dragging him off but one punch was all it took, one mighty moment to block out that smirk and that swishing finger and the intrusion of it all. Him taking up all of the couch like he did. Back on there now he’ll be, spitting blood into a bowl, crying over his screen-machine.

  Caroline Street around. Spicy stinks and the people in a shifting lattice, boys in their shirts and girls with their legs and heels, the stiffish way such stilts make them walk. All the noise. The planet spun into a greasy night-time, the capital’s hoard of heat belched back and made slippery through the film of hot hanging oil in which bits of birds have been boiled.

  The saliva soothes, on the cut knuckles. Forgotten to pick up one of them little two-pronged wooden forks and not being arsed to go back in, Cowley fists the food into h
is mouth, the turmeric in the sauce yellowing his whole hand. It stings. He sees he is being stared at; four boys in t-shirts gawping. Cowley says something. The boys laugh.

  What did you say?

  Cowley forces the food down, gulps massively. —I said what the fuck are yew looking at?

  More laughter. —Oh you do surprise me, son.

  —Look like a fuckin pig, man, you do. D’you have to eat like a fuckin pig?

  More food stuffed in. Cowley chews like a dog with a toffee, all visible tongue and teeth and rolling bolus.

  —For fuck’s sake. From Newport, is it? Gotter be from Newport. Where’s your fuckin manners at?

  Cowley barks: – Manners!, and shovels more food in. The curry sauce is smarting inside not just the cuts on his knuckles and the bared red beds under the nails he’s recently bitten raw but also in the very skin of his chin; it stings there like sunburn.

  —Making me sick to look at you, boy.

  This one, the last to speak; he’ll be the one to get the hot food in his face. He’s the one closest and is standing slightly side on, to present a smaller target, his fingers beginning to curl up into the palms, the head tilted back a bit.

  —Well stop fuckin looking, then. What’s wrong with yew? Wanner give me one, aye? Look away, mun, now.

  The hot food will be slammed into the face followed by a boot to the balls and then fists to the face. Less than two seconds of ferocity – and it must be ferocious – and the others’ll back off, one of them will pick his fallen comrade up and they’ll retreat, probably shouting something. The want of this throbs in Cowley’s forearms and behind the wide balls of his eyes that have seen such things.

  —I said fuckin look away from me, mun. Now.