Broken Ghost

by Niall Griffiths

  —Chopsin fuckin prick, the man says but there’s still a small shift in his feet, a tiny movement backwards; probably didn’t even notice he was doing it. But Cowley did.

  —Don’t bother with him, says another boy and puts his hand on the main man’s shoulder. —Look at him. He’s fuckin redneck. He’s fuckin beyond.

  —His head’s gone, says another and the movement begins now, away from Cowley, a backing-off. The fingers are pointed:

  —You’re fucking lucky. Lucky.

  Cowley laughs and licks the now-empty tray.

  —Fuckin pig. Get back to the farmyard where you fuckin belong. Mingin twat.

  A few more steps away now. Further down Caroline Street and its human zoo some chanting goes up, the kind of thing that declares Stag Do, and one of the lads says:

  —Here we go, boys. I can smell fuckin English, I can.

  There’s a bit more pointing, a few more words, and then they’re gone, into the crowd. Cowley drops the tray to the floor. Licks his knuckles again. He looks around him at all the people in their busy fun, at the women wobbly as foals, at the pumped-up boys. He sees eyes that stare. He sees the hint of hunt in it all and he just can’t be arsed. He’s had enough of it. Wants out of it, away from it – that’s his need, now. He is eaten by a titanic tiredness. One colossal yawn.

  He moves, in the direction of the bus station. Around him the city bangs and boils over. Of course there are puddles of putridity underfoot and berms of garbage in the gutters and types of sordid underbellying. Of course there is the lilac lightning of ambulance and cop car. Of course there is the clog of spice and fume, of course people fight in the streets and grope in doorways, and of course there are the pigeons, always the pigeons, one of which squalls away from Cowley’s feet and he watches it rise and fly to be lost in the great eruption of the Millennium Stadium, there to roost among the beams and struts, some topped with stars. They soar static through the emptiness, these giant slanting rafters, through the endless black that hangs above this. Tiny man, the pointless dust of him below the unlit forever. An unbearable weight comes down to buckle his knees. He wobbles and would sit, were there anywhere to do so; the wide window ledges of the big buildings nearby are stippled with stubby spikes. He stares. An iron maiden, this. Disciplinary. A public space designed to repel the public. Some of the spikes shine with what looks like bile. Cowley moves away from them and wishes hard that he’d laid into those boys down Caroline Street; that he’d crushed and stamped. Because the heat that rises from his feet to spit and sizzle in his face cannot be borne.

  He sways to the left, through people, crosses the road. Bus station. No traffic out of it at this hour but from here and soon he can begin his movement back to the north. Shining eyes become dull pebbles in one quick trip of the heart. Easy, easy. Set up for life said Aney. Just hit harder than he hit the Quinn. Cowley curls around himself in the doorway of Marks & Spencer. He takes his tobacco out and there he is again, him with the bumfluff moustache and the neck-vegetables. Cowley stares. A couple of hours, just, before the first buses start to leave the city. Unbearable weight. Set up for life said Aney.

  Benny’s turned around in the passenger seat, twisted at the waist:

  —Where the fuck’ve yew been? We’ve been calling yew and calling yew and yewer phone’s never on. Dropped off the radar, yew. And what the fuck are yew doing with Darren the Pipe?

  —Yew back using? asks Sion, driving. Doesn’t turn around. Adam regards the back of his head, the shirt collar, a kink at the side of it that makes him think of Elvis Presley’s upper lip.

  —And look at the fuckin state of yew. When was-a last time yew ate? Or slept? And yew fuckin stink. When did yew last av-a bath, man? Fuck’s sakes.

  Adam can feel his jaws, in the dexedrine surge, doing an ungulate thing, a gurning, and that might be because there’s some ersatz gabbling taking place – the maxillo busy-ness standing in for the tongue that needs to flap and form words but which a small sober section of the brain will not permit to do so, aware as it is of what such sounds will convey: sorrow and shame and guilt. He forces his eyes to meet Benji’s.

  —The fuck are yew on, mun? Yew’ve been on the pipe. Haven’t yew?

  —No.

  —Then what’s with all this fuckin tongue-chewing? An yew smell like a fuckin brewery.

  —Dexies.

  —Dexies?

  —Just dexies. And the bevvy. And you’re not me dad.

  Benny barks a laugh. —Hear that, Sionie? Says I’m not his dad.

  Sionie laughs too. —Just dexies and the drink. Not just a quick snifter, tho, is it? Yew’ve been hitting it since we last saw yew.

  —Yeah, and? That’s pissing youse off cos of why?

  Benny shakes his head. —Jesus, Adam. This is what it does to yew. That was all one great big waste-a time, was it, in Rhoserchan? All for fuck all, all that effort, the drying out?

  They drive through the town, the windows down and the warm night wafting in. Lights out there, people moving through the hot clog, cars, taxis, faces behind bus windows. Adam sees a man in a shop doorway, a dog curled up on his lap. Behind the backs of the buildings on Adam’s left is the place where he used to live, could still live, he does not know; does not know whether he’s been evicted, whether his belongings have been flogged off for pennies at a tawdry auction somewhere. In a heated pocket behind his eyes he sees Quilty on a windowsill, mewing; sees him broken on a kerbstone. His mangled little body.

  —Where are we going? Where are you taking me?

  Benji is now facing front. The backs of two heads before Adam. Coconuts on a sty.

  —Away from the crackhouse, says Sion. —And the pub.

  —Yeah but to where? Where are we going?

  —Yew can get out whenever yew want, Benny says. —Yewer not being kidnapped, yew fucking idyit. But to answer the question we’re going up Pendam.

  —Pendam? The mountain? Why?

  —D’yew not know what’s going on up there?

  —What’s going on? What d’yeh mean?

  Sion and Benny exchange a look. —Christ, mun, where’ve yew been? It’s this big thing.

  —What is? Speak to me, lads.

  Benny twists around again. —Remember-a last time we saw yew, yew’d been to that party at-a lake? Yew’d necked a pill. Yew an two others. That mad-head Cowley and that woman from Trefechan. An yew were going on about seeing this, this fuckin vision thing in-a sky. Remember it? Like some, some fuckin floating woman or something yew said it was. Not remember this, no?

  Adam hears a distant roaring in his ears, as of a Tube train on a branch line two tunnels away. His lips are sandpaper. So are his eyes. The dexedrine and lots of other things.

  Benny repeats: – Do yew not remember?

  —Course he doesn’t, Sion says. —Boy’s been on one. Be surprised if he can remember his name, me.

  —What about it, anyway? says Adam, and then thinks he might weep, because drifting through his recall as if blown across there by a wind is, again, the small boy in the dinosaur t-shirt and the small girl in the pretty pink dress. The wooden owl that needed a hug. And all the mayhem of the latter days and Ebi maybe dead, alone amongst the northern mountains and how hot it has been, still is, washing humid through the car as they climb Penglais, past the hospital and the national library and the university, the shape of a woman up there on the footbridge and Adam wishes that the moon was behind her so that she’d be in silhouette, and he turns his head so that he might regard her longer, that eloquent shape which is quickly hidden by the crest of the hill and when he turns around again Benny is looking at him and seems to be awaiting a response.

  —What?

  Benny laughs. —‘What’? Is that it? Have yew heard one word of what I’ve just said? D’yew hear that, Sionie? Fucking ‘what’, he says.

  —Well. He’ll find out for himself soon enough.

  —Find out what for meself? Will yis tell me what the fuck is going on?

  �
�Ah, Adlad. Benny reaches through the gap between the front seats and tweaks the end of Adam’s nose. —Don’t worry about it. You’ll see. Bottom line is, we’re going up Pendam mountain cos there’s a big party going on up yur and you’re coming with us. Alright? If not we can drop yew off yur and yew can hoof it back into town. Downhill all-a way. Alright?

  —Alright.

  —To what? Coming with us or getting out the car?

  —Coming with. Might as well, mean.

  —Good man. There we are, then. An yew might as well have a top-up, aye?

  Benny delves between his feet and comes back up with a can of cider which he passes back to Adam. Sion snorts.

  —Boy’s already pissed, Benji says. —One more’s not gunner send him back to rehab.

  Adam takes the can and cracks it and slurps. Warm and sweet. Horrible, really, but there is the burn in the windpipe and the gleam in the guts. Oh this need to liquefy; to drink until the ooze within him that is him pushes apart his bones and leaves an empty packet of skin behind. To be the rain that has not fallen for so long, to become the sea that laps at the baked land. There is another rush from the dexedrine, this one a lot milder than its predecessor. Adam gulps back half the can. One of his feet starts to twitch in the footwell. He is returning. He is being taken back up the mountain and that knowledge alone calls for alcohol. His genitals shrivel. Other organs, inside, squirt stuff and throb. The car swings into the hinterland and ahead of him Adam sees black bursts of trees and as he is lurched over the railway bridge he sees the moon, searing light, and he feels that it is new, as in never seen: an unfamiliar, startling ball, perfect sphere of shocking rock. And this summons something in him, a thing like a power, a thing the mad explosion of which needs to be arrested with alcohol before it can stun and terrify. So he drinks.

  —Bit dry back here, boys.

  —Already?

  —C’mon, lads. I’m drinking. Giz another can. Pay the ferryman.

  Sionie almost splutters: – You’re the ferryman? Who’s the one driving the bastard car?

  Benji hands back a can.

  —Ta B.

  —Don’t take this the wrong way or anything butt, but see when we get up to the lake, give yewerself a going over with a wet wipe or have a dip in the lake or something. Honest, mun, yew fucking pong.

  —Nothing wrong with being a bit whiffy, man. Good honest sweat.

  —Aye but it’s not that, tho, is it? Yew smell bad. Yew smell like yew’ve pissed yewerself. Have yew?

  —Not in the car, no. Adam smiles but whether that is returned by Benny he does not know because Benny is facing front again. Adam leans a bit, bows his head and takes three rapid sniffs and, dog-like, takes in an entire library of olfactory information, no item of which he feels, particularly, inspired to explore. So he sits back, moving his face away from the lifted niff of himself and the recent history of his span on the planet. The warm cider goes down. The sweat on his throat cools.

  The grassland research station goes past. They enter Penrhyncoch. —Look at this, says Sion as he turns left at the war memorial and slows; around that white cross, and around the general store behind it, a group has gathered, lining the walls and benches. The people appear happily animated, engaged with each other. No one looks at the car.

  —What’s going on here?

  —They’re all going up the mountain. This is what we’ve been trying to tell yew, Ad, it’s this big party thing. Everyone’s going up yur. Yew not been online recently? Think it was on the news n all.

  Adam does not hear, absorbed as he is at the surging crowd heading up through the village, some with buggies, some on bikes, some bent under bulky backpacks. One or two with children on their shoulders, others using sticks. All types. All ages. Agog is the word for Adam.

  —Coppers, says Sion and slows a little and sure enough there is a police presence outside the football club; two cars, a van, several standing uniforms. A dog. They’re talking to a group of youngish people, one of them with his arms outstretched to facilitate a patting down. Eyes under a peak follow the car as it passes.

  —The fuck do they want? says Sion, his eyes fixed firmly ahead.

  —Duw, I’d be surprised if there weren’t any busies around, says Benji. —They’re wound up about this, they are. Worried it’s all gunner kick off. Not seen the politicians going on about it? All-a fucking time, mun. Shitting themselves. Criminal Justice Act and trespass and all that bollax. On-a telly and everything. Saw another one last night on YouTube going on about unlawful gatherings or some such shite. His voice goes all Tim-Nice-But-Dim: – Yah, if we larnt one thing about the riots of 2011 … crim-in-ahl-ity, pure and bladdy simple, yah yah. Fuckin wanker.

  The crowd thins out until, at the bus depot – the sleeping coaches motionless and white, a school of belugas – theirs is the only presence on the road, climbing out of the village and towards the bulb of the moon. The dexedrine leaves Adam completely in an abrupt rushing-away and the booze takes over and instantly he is drunk, sloppily and groggily so. He feels the urge to sing and his jaw hangs down to do so but then another thought blurts in and he says one word and then repeats it, lower, as if it carries a spell:

  —Rhoserchan. Rhoserchan.

  —What?

  —Wanner go see Rhoserchan.

  —It’s closed down, Adlad. Empty. Nothing there to see, now, butt.

  —Don’t care. Wanner see it.

  —What for?

  —Just wanner see it.

  Benny looks at Sion. —Whatjer think? Got time for a quick detour? Keep him happy?

  —Aye, yeh. Might do him good.

  —Stop at Rhoserchan.

  —We’re going to stop at Rhoserchan, mun. Stop saying the word.

  Up, up. Between trees, familiar to Adam, this vegetation and contours, this camber of the land. Memories come to him in broken flashes; all the times he trudged up here. Ebi and Sally and Suki, Ralphie the sniffer dog, all the cats gone feral that would be drawn. I don’t ask for a luxurious life. The hillside humming with psilocybin. The whole world’s expecting me said the man with the quiff in the Hawaiian shirt and the cloud of rum and Ebi told the stars that only the pure heart can sing but that they already knew, have always known. Be honest with yourself at all times. All the dark parts. Even the slime. Not just a disease of the spirit and there is perpetually something more.

  And even further up. The car’s headlights catch the low lope of a polecat, the robber’s mask of his face scoping the car in a second before he is taken by the ryegrass and bilberries, there to leave the musk and scat of himself, the wing-cases of beetles to draw blue bits of the moon down into curls of shit. And the rowans, up here, sprouting through the tops of the old beeches, their seeds freighted there in the mutes of birds. No one speaks in the car; Benji and Sion face front and Adam, head lolling loosely, casts glances left to right in a kind of visual hunger. Moths tumble across the front screen. Bats spin and hairpin. A tumult of smells rolls into the car, the vanilla of the gorse, the pine’s turpentine, all the boiled saps and it is all of a gallivant, torrid, night-blue. Through a thick and sloppy fog Adam knows, in some sunken chest of himself, that there is permanence, importance, there are things that matter in this high place; and, for the years in which he didn’t know that, there rises in him now a tug of sadness at irredeemable waste. So he raises the can to his mouth. Then wipes a slick of cider from his chin with his sleeve.

  —Might’ve cordoned it off, says Sion. —The driveway like.

  —Then we’ll just park it up and hoof it down.

  —And hoof it back up? To the car? Fuck that, man. Near fuckin vertical that path. And I wanner get up to the party.

  —Well then we’ll have to sack it off.

  —Laughing boy in-a back won’t be pleased.

  —Aye well. He’ll be sleeping boy soon enough.

  But there is no cordon across the track and the car swings left to descend. Inside it the three men lurch and rock. Sionie drops the gears. A
cobweb spanning the track appears for an instant like taut silver wire.

  —Let me out.

  —In a sec, Adam. Car’s still fuckin moving.

  Buildings around, now. Angular, lightless lumps in the dark. A KEEP OUT sign is ignored and Sion parks next to it and Adam is out the door before the engine is off.

  —Best go with him, Sion says to Benny. —I’ll stay yur with the car. Case yur’s a night watchie or something.

  Benny gets out and follows Adam across the bridge. Adam stops halfway over and peers over the edge as if looking into a river yet no water runs beneath and he holds his face for a moment and then walks on. The night-time has a rhythm, a steady thump-thump; Adam looks in the direction of the noise and sees the top of the mountain, lit up a little with regular flashes. There is something going on up there; there are those flashing lights and there is music. Adam moves in a shambling half-run, around the dark and hollow Second Stage house, followed by Benji. The polytunnels look like nothing more than big, discarded plastic bags, branches and leaves pressed up against the murky material of their curved sides but the impression is less of a healthy hothouse and more of a mound of clippings left to rot down in the heat.

  Adam stops. Benny comes to stand beside him. Here, the noise of distant drums, fainter, somehow accentuates the quiet of the night; seems to deepen the hush. There is no lick of wind.

  —Yew alright boy?

  Adam does not answer. Just continues to stare at the wreck of the polytunnel and Benny takes in the shape of him, the clothes sagging on the bones, the heavy lids of his eyes and the jut of the lower lip. There is an urge to touch him. To hold him. And then there is a noise from the tangle that has surged up at the polytunnel’s entrance, a voice from a throat of some kind and it puts a start in Benji because there is a cow-sized felid that still stalks in the species-memory and in the nerve-cluster at the base of his skull and hairs rise on arms and nape but Adam drops into a squat and holds his hands out, palms up, towards the shape that has detached itself from the shadows and moved uncertainly towards them:

  —Is that you? Aw, man. Is this you?