COWLEY
An A see her by-a fire. With some feller who A don’t know. A go up behind her an tap her on-a shoulder an she turns round an looks at me, at me face an en at me neck, me dragon, like. Fit as fuck iss woman is, still is, even if she does look fuckin knackered.
She says somethin but A don’t hear it proper. Me arm’s coming up and me hand’s going into me pocket. Am taking out that song-machine an Am giving it to her an why-a fuck am A doing this?
—What’s this? she says.
—Prezzie, A say. —Sfa yew, it is. Want yew to have it.
—Why?
—Jes do. No reason. Cos of all iss stuff.
Now me arm is pointing at things, like, at fires an people an-a, a lakes n stuff. Don’t really know what Am doing, to tell-a truth. Jes feels like somethin Am needing to do. A don’t proper know what’s going on yur.
—Is this the iPod that you …
—It is aye, A say an then pull me hand down cos, fuck me, it’s reaching up again, like, going up to touch her, touch her on-a face or-a shoulder or something an it’s all A can do to stop meself from doing it. Nowt fuckin pervy in it like but it jes wouldn’t be fuckin right mun. Not up yur, it wouldn’t. So A jes give her a nod an A look at-a bloke she’s with an give him a nod n all an then A walk away. Don’t look back.
Coulda sold that thing, flogged it for a few quid inna town. Why did A give it to her? Aye well. Found-a fucking thing anyway, didn’t I? Cost me not one penny an A couldn’t even work-a fuckin thing. Sure she’ll get more use out of it than me an she deserves a prezzie, that one. Looked knackered she did. Buggered. An Av got me beer an it’s fuckin lush, it is, going down tidy an me belly feels like it’s laughing its arse off. Different world up yur, it is.
A look around. See Marc n Griff n them boys, mates-a Ikey, climbing into a rowing boat an pushin emselves off into-a lake. A see loads-a people, people who A know have been an maybe still are junkies an alkies, women who A know have turned tricks from-a caravan parks. Every fucker’s up yur. A see some women which avter be men dressed as women – A mean, a big hairy hands on um, some-a um’ve even got fuckin beards, fuckin gobs an teeth all red with lippy. Jeez-us. Iss is one mad fuckin place. An am jes standing yur avin a good look like with me can, watchin it all going on, no weight in me pocket now, an A feel, like, A feel – sloooooww release. That pill A took, last time I was up yur – maybe iss is it, kicking in now, all mellow. Dead slow release, innit. A mellow man again, I yam.
Think A could live up yur, me. Rest-a me life. Build a log cabin. Grow veg n ganj. Set up a still. Do fuck all sept tend me crops an drink me moonshine on me porch n smoke me weed and look up at-a stars. Get fish from-a lake. Keep some fuckin chickens, even. Some chookchooks. An some fuckin hiker’d come up yur – no, some stew-dent from-a uni would come up yur looking to dig up some old coins or tools or somethin an she’d see me in me cabin and she’d be all like ooo, man-a the mountains, ooo what’s it like to be so free and she’d move in with me to get away from it all, from all-a shite that happens to yew when yewer not on-a mountain like an we’d set up a life together with our vegetables an chooks. And we’d do nowt but shag an get drunk an smoke ar weed. And we’d get a dog. No, fuck that, we’d train a fox, jes me and her an ar pet fox. We’d train him to hunt rabbits and we’d eat stew by-a fire and foxy would go-a sleep all curled up on-a rug.
Christ almighty. What is iss fuckin place.
A stand and drink. A watch a girl walk past, see the arse on her in them leggings all tight she’s got on. She walks into-a trees. A can hear a feller’s voice in them trees, shouty like, but he doesn’t sound pissed off or anything, jes, like, excited. Like he’s telling an interestin story or somethin. A music’s loud an yur’s a sound of all-a people an A think A can hear a helicopter, up in-a sky like cos where else would it fuckin be, but when A look up A can’t see it; jest-a moon above-a ridge, that ridge, an A can see some people on it looking at eyr phones ey must be cos ey’ve got, like, light in eyr hands – like ey’ve caught light. Like ey’ve caught stars. Oh fuck off.
Now I can hear a woman singing about a monkey.
A take me can around-a ridge, where it’s darker cos it’s away from-a fires. Couple-a candles on-a rocks an some torch-things outside some tents but that’s it – no firelight yur. A wanner see what-a ridge looks like from this side of it, I do. Wanner see-a place where I stood, with them other two, an see if A can maybe stand under a place where that thing floated, like; aye it was only-a rising fuckin sun or something-a do with that but A wanner see if A can bring-a memory back or somethin like that. Go through it again. A know that’s not gunner happen cos, well, it’s night-time now an it was day-time then but maybe if A jes stand yur an wait for a bit … jes see what happens …
On-a other side of-a ridge is a giant fuckin bat. Not really, it’s jes some cunt in a cape, but ee looks like a giant bat. He must-a been sitting down cos he stands up when he sees me come round-a corner. A moon’s shining right down on him, on his head. A see that white band around his neck. A see the way his top lip comes out over his bottom one. A see his fuckin eyes, them fuckin eyes on him, A see em go all fuckin big an wide when he looks at me face. An a feel all-a fuckin fires up yur come inside me an A feel meself fuckin burning and A know what-a word for this is an a beer in me gob goes all horrible and sticky.
—Is that … oh Lord, is that …
And that’s all ee says, all ee can say cos Av stuck the nut on him and he’s down. Cunt’s down. A boot him and fuckin boot him, yur’s a fuckin screaming noise in me head an ee curls up underneath his cape an ee’s shouting an then some twat sticks his head out of-a tent:
—Oi! It’s not about that, up here! This is not the place for that stuff!
A chuck me can at him, half full n all, an tell him to fuck off an A grab ahold-a Father Williams’s legs an A drag-a cunt across-a ground, across-a stones, an A see his hands scrabbling at-a ground tryna hold on an A drag him an boot him in-a bollax an A can hear him fuckin crying. Crying like a kiddie. Yur’s a boggy bit on-a other side of-a track an A feel it squishing under me feet an some stinky water splashes up an A grab-a bastard’s head an A push it down hard. A grab ahold of his manky grey hair and pull his head up. Mud all over his face, his tongue wrigglin about in it like a horrible fuckin worm. Feel the shame yew cunt.
—Oh God I’m so sorry! So sorry! Forgive me please I—
Feel the fuckin hate. Feel my fuckin shame. A dunk his head again. Press down on-a back of his perverted fuckin head. Bubbles burst up around it. All fizzy, as if his head’s an Alka fuckin Seltzer. Is arms n legs are kickin an waving and going mad. A pull his head out again an bend down and scream into his face.
—Sick cunt! Sick cunt! A kid! A little fuckin kid!
In-a mud he goes again. Am gunner stand on-a back of his head. Am gunner stamp him down into-a fuckin mountain. Drown him in-a mud. Take iss sick twat out of-a world so he can’t hurt any more kiddies. Make him know what it feels like to drown. Have no fuckin control. Iss is what yew did to me and Rhys my brother yew twisted sick fuckin pervert scumbag fuckin evil fuckin sicko cunt. Feel my fuckin shame.
—No! Stop it! Let him up! He’s drowning!
Someone else shouting from a tent. A go to reach for a stone to fling an as A do that iss fuckin Williams squirms over onto his back and his arms reach up. A remember them reaching too fuckin right A do an Av wished for years that A fuckin didn’t. Grab that hand. Bend-a fuckin fingers back til ey go snap.
He’s proper crying like a little fuckin babby. Not so nice is it, yew fuckin—
—Please. Please. Forgive me. I am so sorry. Believe me when I say that you do not hate me as much as I hate myself. I was wrong. I am wrong. Please. Please.
Ee takes my hand in both of his. Yer’s mud and spew and stuff all over his face and God how easy it would be now just-a stamp on that fuckin ugly face. Stamp it with me boot. Not stop fuckin stamping til it’s jes another patch-a mud, a puddle-a red fuckin mud up yur on iss mountaintop a
t-a bottom of iss ridge. Where I stood that time not long ago an saw that rising sun.
Ee’s breathing like he’ve jes ran a mile. Is eyes all big n white in is muddy, pukey face. Is hands are dead tight around mine. Fuckin old man, now. Fuckin old cunt. Manky old twat. What must he be seeing, what must I look like now hanging over him. He’s like that sheep. My face. A moon behind me head, that’s what he’ll be seeing. A moon behind me. My teeth. I could bite his fuckin nose off now I could. Jes rip it off with me fuckin teeth.
—I know what I did. Believe me my boy I know what I did. Please. Please. Put it on me, now. This is your chance to take all of the pain I gave you and give it back to me. Put it all on me. I am so sorry.
Haven’t got-a first fuckin clew what-a sick twat’s going on about. All I know is that he looks like that sheep. And like Rhys did all them years ago when we were fishin for sticklebacks in Plas Crug ditch an ee fell face-first in an I had to pull him out. Covered in shite. Crying n all, like iss twat is now. Iss, iss man – iss old man – he’s not a man anymore. Not a giant coming towards me in a small room in a church. All he is, all he is at the moment, now, is this.
God. I can’t be arsed. I jes really cannot be arsed. A move away from him an sit on a rock.
—Oh bless you, he’s saying. —Oh I am so sorry. So very very sorry for what I did to you all.
A moon’s shining down on him like a spotlight. A sit on a rock an watch him kind of flop out of-a mud, drag himself out of-a mud. Iss old man. It’s like he’s coming out of it – like he’s coming out of-a mountain. Being born by it. God almighty what is this fuckin place, what’s going on up yur. Iss cunt.
UP HERE
The beat is brought down; some people on the beach recognise the song as ‘Monkey 23’ by The Kills and they yell in unison and if it could be danced to they would but it is instead part of some settling, some stint; small things with wings relax in leaves and pass the torch of insectile purpose to moth and May bug. These rise moonwards, fuzz the wobbling air behind those that top the ridge with light held in their hands, soften their silhouettes as if therianthropes they are, in the initial throes of shifting shape that they too might rise, dissolve and drift, take themselves upwards into owl-light, shredded now by metal blades, a din and frenzy dampened by height and other more grounded sounds. Still there are eyes up here, in the emptinesses that join the stars, eyes that see everything they need to see but not the ghosts, never the ghosts: not the Gwrach y Rhibyn, her of the swaying drool and the tongue kissy-kissy for blood, not the rag-clad armies that yet harass and hack. Nor the blood that drips invisible from the leaves or the tunnels that capillary the peaks – the mines and dungeons and guerilla redoubts. What is seen and transmitted by these high eyes could never be such things; only the shifting shapes of citizens, made luminous on a distant screen, and their traffic in a place where such traffic has been deemed unwanted. Yet how they move, these shapes, even in this lull; how they move, and meet. A woman’s voice wails it makes me act like that and how could it not, even as a tremor begins in the mountain’s guts, a rumble in and on the roads that lattice its shape when seen from above, a thrum as of mass movement of, say, armoured men and their machines. A leap in the epoch about to happen. The mountain will not be split, no, but so stuffed with history is it that its matter is leaking out and has ruptured seams.
THIN AND GREY
And the made-grey ones are still at it in their remote bunker, fixated by the screens. Ever-alert here in this bunker where all light is artificial and every colour is bleached. There is much whiteness on the screens, much that glows, thermal imaging magicking breath and blood into phosphenes, bioluminescence, and termites on a mound these screens could be capturing but termites do not move like this, flitting from one to one in a magnetism divorced from utility and dictated only by will. The fingers tap at the keyboards and the image on the screens lurches queasy away from the black splat of the lake and now there is a road below, and many vehicles. Some of them look like horseboxes and others have numbers on their rooves. The headlights dipped or even entirely off for stealth and surprise and if they convey people the glow of them cannot be seen through the glass and steel that holds them and moves them up towards the lake and its grounded galaxy, its earthed stars that drift apart and re-form and drift again and always incessantly form new shapes. Eyes stare, afar. Fingers tap at keyboards and that is the only sound in this distant strengthened room. Orders and instructions are transmitted out of here and into those vehicles that move in one vertical rank up towards the peak where people have been turned into beacons.
ADAM
I wish I had Sally for a ma. I wish Sally was my ma. She’s only a few years older than me but, I mean, she’s holding my hand in both of hers and she’s looking into my face and she’s going:
—Are you sure? You’re absolutely certain sure? Is this you telling me lies?
She cares, like. She worries herself sick about me. Wish I was younger, smaller, so I could just curl meself up against her and let her put her arms around me and tell me nice things.
—Positive, I say. —Abso-lutely positive, Sal. Hundred per cent.
—Cos yew even still stink of it.
—I know I do. Told yeh, it’s been bad. But it’s not anymore.
—How many times, tho, Adam love? How many times? And the next time—
—Might be me last, aye. I know that. But each day as it comes, isn’t that right?
She lets go of me hand, stands back. Her daughter’s face in hers. Or hers in her daughter’s, I suppose I should say. Cos Sally came first, like, into the world.
—Christ, sons. She shakes her head all sad. —Nothing but trouble. So glad I had my Jessica. What substances?
—Ey?
—What did you use? How bad did it get?
She grabs hold of my left hand in both of hers and she turns it so that the inside of my arm is exposed to her. This touch I don’t like and I pull me arm, yank it back to meself.
—Aw c’mon, Sally, don’t do that. And do yeh really need to know?
—Yes I do. I need to know how much I should worry about you.
—Why?
—Why, she says. Cos it’s what I do, cariad. And plus it’s me job, look.
She tugs one side of her fleece out towards me to show me the crest sewn into it. It reads ‘Cysllt’.
—Know what that means? Contact. It means contact. So here I am, contacting. Outreach is the word and I’m reaching out.
—I know all about it, Sal. What it is. When did yeh get the job?
—Don’t change the subject.
—This is the subject. This is the subject. I’m changing nothing.
—Which is precisely the bloody problem.
—Oh Christ.
I can’t help it; I start to laugh. It’s her – she’s just got a way about her that makes me laugh, even now, even in these circles we’re going around. I just can’t stay pissed off at her. Bit irritated I was at that arm-tugging stuff. But now we’re just looking at each other and laughing.
—What’s so bloody funny, then?
—Just you. You make me laugh.
Out of the crowd of people on this beach, all the different people and all the different things they’re doing, comes a smiley feller with a bristly head. He’s beaming at us both.
—Well don’t youse two look happy.
Irish accent.
—Are yis?
—Are we what, mate?
—Happy, so?
—Course we are, feller. Why wouldn’t we be?
—No reason at all, sure. Keep up the laughing.
He hands me a spliff, unlit. He points it at me but it’s Sally who takes it and puts it behind her ear.
—Free sample for ye. Give it a blast and if it does the job for ye then come find me so. I’ll be around. Or just ask for Liam. Ask anyone.
—Alright, man, ta.
Another freebie. What’ll be next?
—Incredible, this, is it no? says
this Liam feller, and sweeps his arm around him, over the lake. —As it fuckin should be, am I right?
—You’re not wrong, I say, and he laughs loud, altho it wasn’t funny. Then he grabs me shoulder and gives it a bit of a friendly shake and kisses Sally on the cheek and he’s off, he’s away. I turn to Sal.
—See?
—See what?
—That spliff. I didn’t touch it, did I? Left it for you.
—That’s cos it’s not Class A. Had it been a crack-pipe, tho.
—Had it been a crack-pipe I would’ve done exactly the same thing. Don’t believe me if yeh don’t want to but I wish yeh would. Only thing I need now is a hot dog or somethin cos I’m fuckin ravenous.
And soon as I say that I realise how empty my belly is. Can’t remember the last time I ate anything and I imagine me stomach, the organ like, all shrivelled up like a walnut. Sally tells me to go with her and she leads me further down the beach in the direction of the trees at the bottom of the ridge, the ridge like, where there’s another fire, a smaller one, with a big blackened pot in it. Close to it and I can smell it now. People are sitting or standing around eating a mush off paper plates.
Sally says something to this Gandalf bloke and he ladles stuff out of the cauldron onto paper plates and Sal passes one back to me.
—What is it, Sal?
—Beans. I think. Does it matter? It’s food, innit? Get it et, boy.
She finds a space on the pebbles and sits down and I sit next to her. She gives me a plastic spoon. I dig in. At the first swallow me throat kind of constricts but as soon as the food hits the belly I can feel the burst of energy from it, the goodness in it like, and then I’m shovelling it in. I think I even make an mmmm noise. Me body gives out a sort of physical sigh. I look up at the stars and I see a big white bird move across. Maybe the same owl. I see bats. I see a bigger thing move across the sky and think that I can hear it, faintly, behind the music – whuppa whuppa.
Broken Ghost Page 33
