Broken Ghost

by Niall Griffiths

At Adam’s voice all tentativeness leaves the low shape’s movements and it becomes a cat which strides, tail erect, ears high, towards Adam. That body, and the potential shapes within it; never a bad one, could such a body make. Never contort itself at an ugly angle to insult the air.

  —Aw man. Quilty. Quilty.

  The cat makes noises, all Ms and Rs, and Adam’s arms. Adam falls back onto his arse and holds the cat to him and starts to make strange noises himself.

  —Aw you. I’m so sorry. So fucking sorry.

  —Yew alright, butt? That yewer cat, is it?

  Adam says something but his words are muffled because his face is buried in fur. He makes more noises and Benny recognises them as sobs.

  —Ey now. Ey now. C’mon, now. He crouches at Adam’s side and puts a hand on his shoulder. —It’s alright, boy. Look at him; that’s one happy cat, he is. All the freedom up yur. All-a things he can hunt up yur. Look how healthy he is. He’ve been having-a time of his life, he has.

  Adam weeps and squeezes. The cat writhes so Adam lets him go and he drops to the floor then spins and bunts against Adam’s knee.

  —Good puss. Good puss, Quilty. My tomcat.

  The cat arches his back up against Adam’s stroke, leans into his touch.

  —Can we come back for him, Benj?

  —Come back for him? On our way back down, like?

  Adam just nods. His drenched eyes gleam in the moonlight and he sniffs snot back up his nose and Benny re-feels the need to embrace.

  —Course we can, mun. Or, tell yew what, Sionie can drop us off yur and we’ll look for the cat while he goes off to-a vet’s and comes back with a carry-box. How’s that sound? Sound good, does it? Best to av a carry-box, in a car like, innit?

  Adam nods. Quilty bunts his fist one more time then turns, all fluid and mighty, and becomes a shadow amongst shadows again.

  —That’s a healthy cat, that, Adam boy. Prime specimen, him. Bet he’s got a, a fuckin ha-reem up yur, he have, loads-a little kittens all over-a place looking just like him.

  —He’s been neutered.

  —Ah. Well he’ll be king of-a cats then, he will. A boss-cat likes. Tellin yew, perfect place for a tomcat, up yur. Purr-fect, see?

  Adam smiles tinily and at the patheticness of it Benny feels the urge, odd but strong, to harm himself; to knock out his own front teeth. And then a car horn toots once and turns the entire situation into something else. One honk in the muggy night that bounces back from the far valley flank.

  —That’s Sionie. He’s tamping for his party. Come on, feller.

  Benny offers a hand and Adam takes it and lets Benny hoist him to his feet.

  —I’m fucking tired, Benj. So, so tired.

  —Have a kip in-a car, then, yeh? No probs, jes get yewer head down for a bit in-a back of-a car.

  They move away from the polytunnel and whatever glorious beasts it might now harbour and the crunch and scrape of gravel under their shoes sounds out a rhythm to which the libretto no excuses no punishment never give up perhaps fits. A fragment of memory comes again: an ear, bitten in a half-moon. The toot of the horn again.

  —Impatient fucker, ey? Yew okay to walk? Bit unsteady on the old pegs, there, Adlad.

  —I can walk.

  —There we are then.

  And they do, across the bridge and towards the car that will take them all up, further up the mountain in the direction of the drumming and the flashing lights.

  The barman leans over to collect the empties and in this position he can whisper into Emma’s ear:

  —Don’t leave your drink unattended here.

  Emma turns her head. It grinds slowly on her neck: – What?

  —One word: roofies, says the barman, and goes back inside the pub.

  One of the bleary faces around her takes on a frowning form: – What did he just say? Did he just say something about fucking roofies?

  Emma shakes her head.

  —Know him, do yew?

  Emma shakes her head again and uses her drink to hide her face behind. On each side of her sits a man and they vice her between them and opposite her is another man, leaning across the table into her space, if the very concept of personal space had not been wrenched wide open by her. Out in the night at this table on the small square of cobbles and surrounded by smokers and passed by reeling groups walking and cars with music leaping from the open windows. A hand on each of her thighs, the toecap of a shoe abrading her shin beneath the table. The guy on her left, him with the dressing on his head, takes a half-bottle of vodka out of his pocket and glugs some of it into Emma’s glass.

  —Top yew up, lovely. Happy days, eh?

  The hands squeeze harder. One moves up towards her crotch so she shifts on the wooden seat to dislodge it: not here, on display, even if the summer’s steams have been absorbed into her own microclimate, the smoky stuff going on in the crannies formed of her flesh. Even if, drunk as she is, she stays gravid with something, her body throbbing visibly with its requirements. Like when Tomos was inside her and she’d watch her belly with awe as it rippled with his kicks and punches, his impatience to be out of her, to be in the world. Tomos. Tomos.

  —So you’re coming back with us then? To this party.

  It’s the one to the left of her, speaking hotly into her ear. She jerks her head out of its nod. —Where is it?

  —At his. A finger is pointed to the man across the table who grins. He has pointed sideburns.

  —Gotta be at his, see, cos he’s on tag. He’s not back in his house in ten minutes and he’ll be getting a knock from Plod, innat right, Rye?

  Rye nods. —You know it is.

  The hand again, creeping up. Emma knocks it off with a knuckle and it slithers back in half a second.

  —Got some charlie and a few bottles of ouzo. The Greek stuff? It’ll be a laugh.

  —Who else is gunner be there?

  —Oh, loads. This is met with a snigger from the man on Emma’s right. —Loadser people going. We’ll have a wild time, ey boys?

  —Too right we will.

  Wild. That word makes Emma bite at her drink, whatever it is, falling fiery down into the lightless deeps of her. It never ends. Nothing she has done has made it quiet, nor stilled; this thrash inside. That place to which any bridge built must quickly crumble and to which any dig shortly falls in on itself. All mud, all dirt. All of a dreadful stink, the stench of an entire species’ epochal demise and her, spotlit at its heart, just one glowing woman floating alone in a mayhem void, never to be reached but to be sought in such dark pits. Dig, bridge, wild. The slithering hand now starts to stab with rigid fingers. Emma reaches down and grabs a bulge and rubs and makes that bulge bulge further. A panting in her ear.

  —Yes. Yes. Faster.

  An ambulance blazes past, over the bridge and into Trefechan. Something about an old man drowning, there, recently. The siren loud enough to fill the townscape, to nullify all lullabies. Hidden fingers probe and a memory arises of an old man’s feet, of cleaning the feet of an old man. Her hand works harder, faster, and there is a twitch and rapid pulse beneath her fingers and a small yelp in her ear. The eyes on the man opposite – Rye? – go very wide,

  —Jesus Christ. Did she just …

  —She did. Heavy breath in Emma’s right ear. —She really fuckin did.

  —Fuck, man. Fuckin intense.

  —Right. The bandaged man stands abruptly up. —Drink up all. I can’t wait any longer.

  Drinks are necked. Emma’s shoots right through her, from gullet to urethra, bypassing the entire wet network of her guts.

  —Need a pee first.

  —Na, c’mon, it’s only five minutes away. You can have one at Rye’s.

  —I want one now. Bursting.

  —Oh fer fuck … alright. Be quick.

  She stands, steadies herself with a hand on the tabletop and then enters the pub. Her vision not so much swimming as trying to swim: floundering. She finds her way to the toilet, enters a cubicle, sits and squirts.
This is where Meg sat. Emma fancies she can see dinges in the tiles between her feet, made by her own knees. These flames inside. Meg sat here with her knees apart; she had a teddy bear tattooed on the inside of a thigh. A yellow teddy bear with Xs for eyes. Emma lets out a laugh then stands and wipes and flushes and then is caught by some invisible thing strong enough to shove her back against the cubicle door, strong enough to set her shoulders shaking, to put her face in her hands. Above the cistern, someone has gouged the word HELP into the paint, and someone has written the word NO beneath it.

  Back into the bar. The heat, the closeness. Everything sliding away from itself, away from its own mooring referent. The planet itself is spinning the wrong way. The barman sees her standing, staring about herself, and comes from behind the bar to put his hand on her shoulder.

  —Listen, he is saying. Words leaving his mouth. —Stay away from them boys. I don’t know what you’re doing with them but they’re bad fucking news. That one, Ryan? He’s been done for rape. On bail. He’s tagged up. They’re not safe to be around, cariad. Are you hearing me?

  This man’s face is big in Emma’s eyes. The light from the gantry behind him is forming a glow around his head. He looks so terribly worried that Emma can only laugh.

  —It’s not funny. Honest. Don’t put yourself in danger with these pricks. Stay well away.

  —Emma? You alright?

  Another man has appeared, out of the shine. He has a face that is familiar.

  —Ey. Antman.

  —What?

  —You know this one, Bas?

  —Aye, yeh. She’s called Emma. What’s going on? She alright?

  Bas and the barman talk to each other, just wak-wak-wak to Emma. Her eyes flit between the two as if she’s watching tennis and there is a tendon working in the barman’s neck and Emma knows how that would feel between nibbling teeth, how the stubble on his face would feel as it rasped against her skin. They look very serious, the two men, which hits Emma as funny.

  —See? She’s shit-faced, Bas. Look after her, yeh? Keep her away from that twat Rang and his mates. She needs looking after.

  —With fuckin pleasure. She’s going nowhere near them while I’m around.

  —Good man. And use the back door.

  The barman moves away and Bas holds Emma’s elbow. —Come with me, Ems, yeh?

  She falls against him. She’s drunk, she’s rambling; she’s saying something about thousands of eggs and carrying leaves. He steers her through the pub.

  —Where you taking me? Where’s them boys?

  —You don’t wanner go anywhere with them. I’ll take you somewhere interesting.

  —Interesting? Where?

  Out the back door and again into the night-time, the blue humidity from the gigantic electric tree above. Into the car park. Bas holds out a key fob and nearby a car flashes its lights.

  —Where we going?

  —Up the mountain. Fancy it?

  —Up the mountain? What for, up the mountain?

  —You’ll see. There’s something interesting going on up there. Something that you started.

  —I started? What did I do?

  Bas opens the passenger door and gently arranges Emma on the seat. Passive, she is now; rag-doll. Bas secures the seat belt across her. Her eyes are closing, her lower jaw drooping. Bas sees her prettiness; how even now, in this big relinquishing, her facial form stays one that lifts the lungs.

  —That blog you wrote. The floating woman. I haven’t been up there yet but I keep meaning to so might as well go now, yeh? With you, like. The one who started it all. Plus I’ve got the night off.

  Pointless to talk to her; she can’t understand, nor probably even hear, the state she’s in. But like talking to a pet he does it anyway, and then closes the door and rounds the car and gets in and starts the engine.

  —Don’t …

  —Don’t what, Ems?

  —Don’t squirt acid on me, will yeh?

  —Don’t squirt acid on yeh? Like, like Katie Piper? Don’t have the first clue what you’re talking about cariad. I’m not gonner hurt you. Let’s just go and see what all the fuss is about, aye?

  The car starts to move. Bas glances left at Emma’s bonelessly nodding head. It seems to him, just for a moment, that he is ferrying not just a drunken woman but a thing appallingly fragile yet immense in scope, the embodiment of a sorrow so vast, of a need so great that the mountain he’s aiming for is nothing but a blackhead next to it. It is all he can do to stop himself from touching her, from putting a fingertip to her slack face, just to check that she is what she seems to be – just skin, and beneath that, meat. Her chin slumps to touch her collarbone. Before the car has started the climb up Penglais hill she is snoring, making noises similar in sound to disappointed groans.

  This taste in his mouth – metallic, sharp, like raw meat. It is the taste that has always invaded his face just before his muscles lock and the weight of him gets anchored in his right leg because it is from there that all of his power will very soon be let loose. Funnelled through the web of muscle that joins his right foot to his leg and chest and deltoid and arm and fist and that will splash everything he is out into and all over this stinking pit into which he did not ask to be thrown. He clicks his tongue against that taste then gets out of the van and slaps the side of it twice and it moves away towards the industrial estate at Glan-yr-Afon. He’d struck a seam of luck, down there in Cardiff, seeing that mate of Pinkbit’s come out of the M&S in the bus station with a bagful of sarnies for the drive up north. I know you, Cowley had said, and that fuckin mate of yours owes me one, and that was all it took to secure a free and comfy journey back home; told the bloke to stop at the garage outside Merthyr so’s he could pick up a half-bottle – the man had his prawn butty, Cowley needed sustenance as well. Not much more than two hours ago, did they leave Cardiff; fair dos, the boy put his fuckin foot down. Anyone else would’ve been glad of the company but this boy, this mate of Pinkbit’s, he hardly said a word; just stuck his earphones in and did the driving. Which suited Cowley fine. At one point he thought of asking the boy to show him how his own machine worked, the eye-Pod thing in his pocket, how to get the music out of it, but he didn’t bother, not with the bottle sowing songs in his head anyway. He passed the place where he’d watched the sheep die; remembered the ease with which the life leapt. Outside Carmarthen, Cowley recalled in his flesh the sounds of thump and whuff that led to the feel of the notes bundled and heavy in his pocket which led to the heaviness in his fists and this taste, well, nothing led to this; it has always been there, filling his face with fizz. Or nearly always, at least; in truth it has recently returned after a short vacation but that fact only illuminates that it never goes away. That pale grasping hand in the sacristy’s floating motes. Pain and shame.

  Pen Dinas is glassy in the heat-haze. The monument atop it shimmers, seems to break apart at atomic level and then reassemble again. The tip of Cowley’s tongue goes rootling between his teeth. The face of his brother suggests itself in the hanging steamy static around him but then dissolves and, unlike the monument, does not re-form. Such a taste, this – like he’s been sucking on an exhaust pipe. If he looked to his left he’d see the roofs of the estate where he’d start to wonder if he still lived; emptied flat, mildew taking over, turning it into a chain-smoker’s lung. No need to wonder if she’ll be there because she won’t be; down the coast she’ll be, scrunched up around a bottle of cider that has never seen an apple. And if he walked to the south beach by way of the river he’d pass the bridge under which he hung like a bat like a monkey like something not him. Above the running water. So this is the way to go – down Park Avenue. Keep the estate and the cop shop behind, which is always the best place for it to be. Sabotage, they said. Fuckin idiots. And like a spider he hung.

  Almost jaunty, now; a thing like a spring in the step. Sprightly, despite or because of the alcohol amassed in his arteries and the sleep-lack and the abrasion against the world, energy given off by a turn
ing dynamo and, too, this movement towards a clear goal; to get set up for life. The banishing of all worry, all need. In such a lively way does the body respond – like predator to prey. At the building site, where the day centre was demolished to make room for the Tesco, a big man is working low on some scaffolding, doing something with a drill, and as he passes beneath him Cowley imagines how he’d kill the man; with one massive blow to the throat, one windpipe-shattering impact either from knuckles or boot. It’d take mere seconds. There wouldn’t even need to be any blood; that stuff would stay inside and blurt into the lungs. The light would go just as it does when a switch is flicked. The batter of the big drill fills Cowley for a few seconds as he walks and for a moment he can taste only brick dust and then that too is gone.

  Never been so in the world. In such a haze as this humming summer, in which everything appeared to be lost and refound swiftly and repeatedly, the body feels full and, as a consequence, apart. Cowley can feel not just the movements of his muscles but all of the organs inside, all the coils of them and the ichors they leak. He folds the fingers of his right hand over his eyes and he sees the cuts in the knuckles and smells curry sauce. His gait is that of an acrobat on a trapeze, above it all, swinging, net-less underneath. He alone in the blood-blast of decision and it is just his. He lifts his eyes to take in the glow of the sun but it sears, sore, as of course it fucking would because it’s the sun and the sun burns.

  Some little brown birds are thrashing in a puddle of dust. Cowley wonders why they do that, as he has on rare occasions wondered before about the things with which he shares the world: the mangy dogs of the estate, the stabbing gulls with their stupid eyes. He wonders how he would be, could be, if he would, could, wonder about them more – whether there might be something apart from the dull frustration and numb anger. He passes the Mill pub where he takes a deep sniff but can smell no yeast and at the foot of Trefechan Bridge he stops in the beating heat of the sun to roll and smoke a cigarette before he crosses the bridge because, all of a rupturing sudden, that bridge seems so very long; it unravels before him and becomes the bridge over the Severn, not the Rheidol; to cross it will need a huge effort of will. It spans not a small river but an abyss. From it there’d be, on the right, the glare of the open sea and on the left, upstream, the newer bridge under which he once hung. That calmness. Nothing of that at all on the journey over the bridge to the south beach and the Lavins: a desert trek that will be, sweat-soaked and parched, with a screeching emptiness beneath the bridge and above it only a blue void without end and of a terrible silence.