Please

by Peter Wild

  ‘Listen,’ she says, her head next to his now. Pillow-talk. He dreams of her breast, lovely in his mouth. ‘Can you hear it? The music. Next door’s.’ It’s an instrumental, faint through the wall. He can’t quite get it, though he was once an encyclopedia of song. It’s a loop of sound: cool, restless, spooky-music for a cold war soundtrack-then, against the odds, out of nowhere, a rising crescendo of something that sounds like joy…

  And Abi’s breath warm on his cheek.

  Only there are footsteps, heavy on the stairs-she’s lifting her head off the pillow and Liam can’t hear the music any more because Eoin is talking from the foot of the bed. His brother, his long-estranged brother, his sombre sibling who hardly knows him, is saying, ‘Abi, leave him. The girls should be at their father’s side.’ But Katie and Sonia are fine where they are, in the corner of his room, sifting old photos, content, near him but not so near that they’re frightened by the sight of his wasted body beneath the sheets.

  Abi goes quiet. He can feel the sudden strain of her hand on his. She is afraid of Eoin, of his deadly earnestness. She is afraid to argue, to disturb the calm of the room, and Eoin is speaking to her as if she is a servant of the house. How dare you? Liam wants to shout, but his lungs can’t find air, his lips won’t move. Then her hand is leaving his, her voice is fading, he can hear her step on the stairs, he’s losing her–Jesus, no–no, Abi—

  And he’s on his feet, running–somehow–he has no idea how he’s managed it–down the stairs–Abi, don’t leave me–he’s breathless behind her–why doesn’t she turn?–Abi!–every muscle in his legs is driving him forward as—

  Great-Uncle Gaston’s cemetery flies past: the women in the slippery dresses, the houses of the dead, and his mother too, a red scarf tied at her neck. The stone bollocks are heavy in his hand but he feels as if he could run for ever–Abi!–or does until he finds himself face to face with Oscar Wilde’s angel. He draws breath. His uncle is at the tomb already. The old man nods. Liam knows what he has to do. He unwraps their paperweight from the piece of chamois leather. He moves to the angel’s side. He bends down and slides the bollocks and their stump of a penis back into place.

  The angel’s flanks shudder to life. Its feathers ripple. Liam backs away and sees the impassive eyes blink, the mouth tense. He watches, dazed, as the monumental wings quiver, then beat the air, loud as a windmill’s sails. He turns his face to an unsettled sky and stares as the angel heaves itself into flight.

  And in those moments, in that dizzying commotion of shadows, air and light, Liam feels again the wild oscillations of his life: the swinging, the running, the trembling, the chucking-up, the busking, the pushing and the humping; his sperm swimming, his babies babbling, Hamlet soliloquising, his body handspringing, his eyelids blinking, the joy rising and those wings spreading, defiant and tremendous, as the train at the crossing tears past.

  Sweet and Tender Hooligan

  Charlie Williams

  I was probably just a little bit too young when I watched the Smiths performing ‘This Charming Man’ on Top of the Pops. Took me years to get over the gladioli but I made it, eventually, some time in the mid-nineties. I was in a record shop in Leadenhall Market and ‘What Difference Does It Make?’ came on. It struck me like a call to arms and that moment has left its print on my memory. The eighties were full of tribes and ‘Sweet And Tender Hooligan’ reminds me of the one I was in back then. Which explains my problem with the gladioli, perhaps.

  ‘Do us a bag o’ chips, Trace.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Erm…’ Bean drummed his fingers on the counter, leaving dirty prints on the greasy surface. ‘Nah, chuck a saveloy in there an’ all.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that, I meant Is that all you’re gonna say to me?’

  Bean shrugged.

  ‘You stood me up,’ said Tracy, looking down at the chips that she was shovelling. ‘I waited for over an hour.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Monday. After work on Monday.’

  Bean drummed his fingers some more. ‘Eh?’

  ‘You was meant to meet me. I waited nearly an hour.’

  ‘You said over an hour.’

  ‘You was meant to meet me.’ She paused to wipe a tear from her eye, leaving a smudge in her eyeshadow. An exquisite lock of dark hair fell in front of her eye. She brushed most of it aside, the rest sticking to her forehead. ‘Wrapped or open?’

  ‘Open. I don’t remember sayin’ I’d meet yer, Trace. (Can you put some more vinegar on, mate? Ta.) Monday, you say?’

  ‘Yeah. You came in about seven and asked what time I clocked off, then winked and said “See you later”. You did.’

  ‘I never winked, Trace. I don’t…I mean, I never meant it like that. I weren’t askin’ you out, like.’

  She put the food on the counter and turned away.

  ‘No,’ said Bean. ‘No, I don’t mean that. I mean, I never even knew you liked us. I thought—’

  ‘I don’t,’ she said, turning to face him again. ‘I don’t like any lad who don’t mean what he says. That’ll be a pound fifty.’

  ‘A pound fifty…Er, Trace, I mean, if you wanna go out with us, I’ll…I mean I never even thought you’d—’

  ‘You’ve had yer chance, now give us a pound fifty or I’ll get Frank out.’

  Bean looked behind her at the open doorway, from which came TV sounds. A large gut was visible over the side of an armchair, rising up and down. Suddenly the gut flinched and Frank sat up, rubbing his hands and shouting: ‘Wahey! That’s us into Europe. Ha ha! Yoo-rop! Yoo-rop! Yoo…’

  Bean put his last two pounds on the counter and walked out, hoping that Tracy would call him back with his change. She didn’t, although she did say:

  ‘You’re just a boy, really, ain’t you?’

  Bean ate his chips in the park, spinning slowly on the merry-go-round, tossing the occasional lump of batter to the pigeons. He cheered up when he saw Joe approaching, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a fag. There was another fag behind his ear. His head was turned sideways towards the road. He looked the other way, revealing yet another fag behind that ear.

  ‘Bean.’

  ‘All right, Joe.’

  ‘Got a fag?’

  ‘Nah, soz.’

  Joe sat beside Bean and took a chip. It was the large one that Bean had been saving, but he didn’t mind Joe having it.

  ‘I’m collectin’ em.’

  ‘What? Fags?’

  ‘Yeah. Case I gets sent down again. So me mam can bring em in for us, see. I don’t want her shellin’ out for my fags all the time. I loves me mam, me. And I ain’t afraid of sayin’ it. You know why I got expelled from school?’

  ‘Well, I dunno all of it, but didn’t you—’

  ‘Cos the cunt called Mam a…a…ah, summat horrible. Horrible. And do you know what I said back to him, as I bounced his head off the wall? “Anyone,” I says to him. “Anyone who upsets, hurts and/or talks shit about my mam, I will fuckin’ kill that man. Fuckin’ kill him.” Heh. Anyway, you want a fag?’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t wanna—’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. Just have one.’

  ‘Oh, ta, mate.’

  Joe and Bean smoked and finished off the chips and watched an Austin Maxi go slowly past on the road. The driver was either a young boy or a very small person with a tiny head. Bean smiled at this thought. He was in a good mood. Joe had never given him a fag before. Things were looking up after all.

  ‘You skint?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Me ’n all.’

  A seagull, hopelessly far from the sea, flew overhead and dropped a wet white shit on the tarmac in front of them. Bean watched the bird fly away, hoping that it would find the river and follow it all the way downstream until it came out in the ocean (although he didn’t know for sure that the river came out in the ocean). Joe, meanwhile, just watched the shit as it hardened in the gentle autumn breeze. After a while he said:

  ‘I heard you g
ot blowed out.’

  ‘Who off?’

  ‘Ah, so you did, then?’

  ‘Who told yer?’

  ‘Frank at the chippy.’

  ‘Fuck sake, that fat fuckin’ bastard. I never even got blew out, Joe, I just…Ah, don’t matter.’

  ‘You gotta have a bit of wedge behind you, Bean. You wants birds to go out with yer, you gotta shell out. You can’t take em for a bag o’ chips at the park. Specially not yer older ones like Trace from the chippy. You gotta impress em, like, show em how the other half lives. Like…like motors, and that. You gotta have a motor. You can’t expect em to walk everywhere. How you gonna shag em if you ain’t got a motor? And togs. No offence, mate, but how long you had that old bomber? Fuck sake, Bean, you just don’t wear bomber jackets no more. Tell you what you gotta do, you gotta get yerself a nice leather box jacket. Burgundy. And them pumps you got, you need slip-ons, pal. Nice grey slip-ons, with a burgundy stripe down the front and some white socks to set em off. And some baggies. You needs a pair o’ baggies.’

  ‘Baggies?’

  ‘Yeah. Five pleats. Six, even. Burgundy.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Or grey. Mind you, baggies, slip-ons…all that costs. That’s why you needs wedge, pal. And yer skint, Bean, ain’t yer?’

  ‘Well…’ He thought of the 50p change that Tracy had not given him, and wondered whether that had been deliberate, so he would have a reason to go back. Probably not.

  ‘You are, though. Yer skint.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  The seagull flew back overhead, landed behind them, and started pecking at the screwed-up chip paper that Bean had tossed. The bird was driven half crazy by the smell of food, but he would find little or no sustenance within.

  ‘I got a bit o’ work. Two-man job.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ said Bean. ‘What doin’?’

  ‘How’s you with windows?’

  They found it down near the river, in a street lined with large trees. Bean didn’t know the name of the street, and didn’t recall ever being there before. He was excited and kept clicking his tongue. Joe ignored him, concentrated on watching the house with his hawk-eye. He stood motionless, face upturned, mouth hanging open and breathing hard through it. After a while he hopped into the tiny front garden, opened a low iron gate, and disappeared down a dark side alley. Bean followed and found him at the back of the house, back pressed against the wall. He motioned towards the window next to him.

  Bean moved in.

  ‘Is it movin’?’

  ‘No, think it’s locked.’

  ‘It ain’t locked.’

  ‘How d’you know?’

  ‘Cos you can’t lock these types of windows. All you got is a latch, and…Fuck sake, Bean, I thought you was all right at windows? Just fuckin’ stand aside and giz a go, I’ll show yer.’

  ‘I am all right at…’ Bean trailed off. Joe wasn’t listening anyway, busy as he was with the window.

  ‘Nnnng. Mmmmmpf. There yer go. Piece of fuckin’ piss when you knows how. Now, you can climb through, can you? Want us to give you a leg-up, or summat?’

  ‘Course I fuckin’ can. You go first, though, eh.’

  ‘You don’t wanna go first, is it? Oh, I see. Well, perhaps you don’t wanna go in at all? That it? Perhaps you was talkin’ shit when you says you was up to it, eh?’

  ‘I am up to—’

  ‘Go on, fuck off. Have a nice, borin’, skint life with no birds, no motors and no nice togs. And don’t ever cross my path again, you bottlin’ cunt.’

  ‘I ain’t bottlin’, Joe, I just mean…’

  ‘Well, shut yer face and get in there, then. And keep yer fuckin’ voice down, fuck sake. Them in there, they’re deaf, but the neighbours ain’t.’

  ‘How d’you know they’re deaf?’

  ‘Cos they’re old, you twat. Why’d you think we’re here? Old people is piss easy.’

  ‘Yeah, but how d’you know old folks lives here?’

  ‘Cos…cos I cased the fuckin’ place, you twat. Honestly, you dunno fuck all about this line o’ work, does you? I wished I’d of knowed that before I asked you. Fuck…’

  Bean looked at his shoes, which he couldn’t actually see, such was the darkness. ‘Not all old people is deaf, though,’ he said. ‘My grandpa ain’t deaf.’

  ‘Oh aye? How old is he?’

  ‘Well, he’s dead, right now. But he was old before he died, and he—’

  ‘Fuckin’ shut up and get in there, you twat.’

  Bean went in, followed by Joe. They started feeling around. There was a funny smell but, this being the home of old people, neither burglar was surprised by that. Bean located the mantelpiece and found what he thought was a carriage clock. He squeezed it into the pocket of his bomber jacket and went on with the feeling process.

  ‘Here, Joe.’

  ‘What.’

  ‘Look.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This. Fuckin’ look at this.’

  ‘How can I look at that? It’s pitch dark and I can’t even see where you is.’

  ‘I’m here.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘By the telly.’

  ‘Where’s the fuckin’ telly?’

  ‘Hold up.’

  ‘Hold up for what?’

  ‘Here we go…ta-da.’

  ‘Turn the fuckin’ light out, you twat!’

  ‘But you—’

  ‘Turn it off!’

  ‘All right, it’s off.’

  ‘Now it’s gonna take fuckin’ ages.’

  ‘What will?’

  ‘Night vision. Me night vision was just gettin’ going then when you turned on the light.’

  ‘I dunno why we can’t just use torches.’

  ‘We don’t need torches. God gave us night vision for robbin’ houses, not torches.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Just sit tight and shut yer face. It’s your fault, this is. What d’you wanna show us anyway?’

  ‘A pair o’ false teeth.’

  ‘A pair o’…?’

  A few minutes later (after Joe had stopped berating Bean in sharp whispers) they were creeping up the stairs, being careful to step only on the outside of each step. This was one of the ninja tips that Joe had told Bean beforehand, when he had briefed him in the park. Another was that you should not turn on any lights. There had been many others, Joe being well schooled in ninja techniques, and it was probably too much to expect Bean to remember them all, him being a relative novice. At the top of the stairs, Joe reached back and placed a hand on Bean’s pigeon chest and said:

  ‘Shhh.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You hear it?’

  ‘Hear what? I can hear you whisperin’. Not very well, though. You just say “You hear it?”?’

  ‘Shhh.’

  ‘I was just—’

  ‘That noise.’

  ‘Oh. Oh aye, I do hear it. What it is?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  They listened for a while, standing on the stairs in the darkness, Joe feeling like a genuine ninja, Bean feeling like a genuine burglar. After about a minute Joe whispered:

  ‘Stopped now.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Must of been snorin’.’

  ‘Yeah, snorin’ or summat.’

  ‘Come on.’

  ‘Where we goin’?’

  ‘That door there. First on yer left. That’s where he hides all his money.’

  ‘Hides? How d’you—’

  A muffled click and the door on the left was framed orange in the darkness. Both young men fell silent. The door swung open, spilling bright light on to the landing. In the doorway stood an old man in yellowed vest and Y-fronts. He looked confused, and there was some drool on his chin. The fingers of both hands curled and uncurled as if they were throbbing. Behind him in the room, on the bed, an old woman lay spreadeagled in her dark red nightdress, a book open on her chest. You could already see bruises on her neck. Her dead eyes were open.

&
nbsp; ‘She…She was old,’ said the old man, looking at Bean. ‘And she would of died anyway, if…’

  He was still looking at Bean but his face was changing, from confused to irate. He wiped the drool off his chin and seized control of his hands, clenching them into block-like fists, saying: ‘Oi, who the blimmin’ hell are you, you little hooligan?’ He didn’t seem to notice Joe, who had somehow slipped past Bean and down the stairs. The last Bean heard of him was the front door slamming. The old man stepped forward and took a swipe at Bean with an open hand that seemed as big as a frying pan. Bean stumbled back and lost his footing, tumbling down the stairs and landing by the front door (cracking his head on it). He tried to get up, but something had failed in his back, and hands and knees was as high as he could get. Hearing the old man coming down the stairs, he scurried into the living room like an abused dog.

  ‘Blimmin’ hooligans, breakin’ into decent folks’ houses!’ the man was shouting, coming through the door and turning on the light. His arms were covered in tattoos. Bean noticed that one of them read I LOVE BITCH (although that last word was unclear and seemed, when Bean later thought about it, to be crudely adapted from the name FIONA). On the other arm was a long, twisting serpent. Bean traced it all the way down to the hand, which was flashing a military knife.

  ‘You know what I do to hooligans, eh?’ said the man, rubbing his crotch. ‘I fuck em. Then I kill em.’ With that, he came forward.

  Bean, his back screaming with every movement, reached for something, anything. His fingers wrapped around an electrical lead.

  ‘And in local news, an elderly couple have been found brutally murdered in…’

  Bean put his fingers in his ears. The pain was too much. He couldn’t localise it to any particular place, but it hurt. He gritted his teeth and pulled the duvet tight over his scalp, and rubbed his bare ankles together.

  After an hour or so his ankles stopped moving. The radio droned on in the background, but no distinct words were coming through. Bean was in his own secret world of darkness and pain. It was no sanctuary, but it was better than the alternative. After three hours he fell asleep.