by Peter Wild
At some point he lifted the covers slightly to release some of the fart gas that had built up, and caught a few words from the radio. It was some sort of afternoon advice show, and the man offering answers had a sympathetic voice that inclined Bean to trust it. He thought for a while, then sneaked out of bed and on to the landing. He listened at the top of the stairs, then crept down. Mam’s shopping trolley was not in the hall, so she must be out. He sat on the bottom stair with the telephone on his lap. Hoping that he remembered the number right, he dialled.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello. I’ve done summat bad.’
‘Who is this?’
‘It’s Bean. Er, I mean…Bea…er, Beaver.’
‘Beaver?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Your name is Beaver?’
‘Yeah. But you ain’t the feller off the radio. I wanna speak to—’
‘Mr Cole.’
‘Eh?’
‘Old Jim Cole, “the wise old soul”. Yes, if you could just hold the line, you’ll be through to him shortly.’
Some music came on. Bean squeezed his eyes shut. The song was an instrumental version of ‘Green Green Grass’ by Tom Jones. Despite his anxiety, Bean found himself tapping his foot. He stopped when Jim Cole came on the line.
‘And we have a Mr Beaver on the line. How are you this sunny day, Mr Beaver?’
‘Fine, fine…Look, I got a bit of a—’
‘Problem, yes, but let’s not skip the pleasantries, eh? Do you know, I always find that—’
‘I done summat bad, Jim.’
‘Well, haven’t we all? What is this thing you’ve done, er, Mr…?’
‘It don’t matter what I done. What matters is that it ain’t as bad as it looks. I mean, I did do summat bad, but the main bad thing I done, I didn’t actually do. Not on purpose anyhow. I mean, I never meant to—’
‘Hold yer horses there, laddie. I don’t know about the listeners, but I’m getting confused. Have you or have you not, in your opinion, committed an act that you now regret?’
‘Yeah, but it weren’t just me. There was two of us, see, and we was both doin’ it. He made the first move, actually. I just went along with it, and…Well, it all went too far, like.’
There was a prolonged silence, followed by Jim Cole saying: ‘I see. And now you’re filled with shame, is it?’
‘Yeah, I am a bit, as it happens.’
‘Well, the first thing you need to know, Mr…erm, is that you should not feel ashamed. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that what you did with that other young man was natural, but, well, we are all different, I suppose. And you’re not the first to go through what you’re going through, let me tell you.’
‘I ain’t?’
‘No, no. There’s many others like you. As you might know, society frowns upon young men like you…and for good reason, I might add, seeing as there wouldn’t be any society at all if we were all of your persuasion. But there’s a lot of it goes on in the background, you might say. In the dark corners.’
‘Yeah, well, I ain’t ever gonna—’
‘Do you know what my advice to you is, laddie? I think you should go and talk to the other young chap. There’s no good in suffering alone, and where there’s two heads, there’s a way. That’s what my old mam used to say, and she was always right. What do you think of that, Mr…erm…’
Bean knocked on the door. No one came for nearly a minute, though he could hear noises inside. He knocked again. He had never been here before. He didn’t want to be here now, if he was honest, but he knew that Jim Cole was right.
The door opened. A gaunt-looking woman with dark-rimmed eyes looked at him.
‘Joe in?’ said Bean.
‘He’s not well.’
‘Ain’t he?’
‘No.’
The woman went to close the door but Bean said: ‘Can I see him, though? I just wanna—’
‘He won’t see no one. He’s…he’s took it hard.’ She seemed to have something in her eye, and rubbed it. ‘We’ve all took it hard.’
‘Took what hard?’
She was crying openly now, but made no attempt to hide it. Tears fell down her cheeks though she made no sound, and stood perfectly still. ‘There’s been a death in the family.’
‘Oh. Oh, I’m sorry to…Look, I won’t keep him more than five minutes. I just need to—’
‘He was very close to em.’
‘Close to who?’
‘My…his grandparents.’ She got a handkerchief out and blew her nose, then squinted at Bean. ‘Don’t you read the papers?’
‘But…’ said Bean finally. The door was shut now, however, and no one was there to hear him. He stepped away from the front of the house and looked at the upper window. A face looked back at him, then faded to darkness.
Afterwards, running home, Bean wasn’t sure about anything.
‘If you don’t come out, I’ll phone a doctor.’
Bean didn’t move. He didn’t breathe. The bed was warm and he felt safe under the duvet. There were some bad smells but even they were comforting to him. It was a sanctuary now. It had to be. There was nowhere else to go. Everywhere outside his tiny duvet kingdom was treacherous and full of danger. People wanted him. People hated him and wanted him in prison, or dead. And all because of that electric fire. That old man and his army knife, and his stupid three-bar fire that had swung like a demolition ball into his decrepit head.
Bean closed his eyes and saw the blood. He opened them again and, quietly, hummed a nameless nursery rhyme.
A shrill voice at the door. ‘I wanna get in there and clean. You been in there for God knows how many days. Open this door. If you don’t open this door I’ll get Mr Jacks across the road to come up here with his toolbox.’
‘No!’ It felt bad, shouting. His throat was full of phlegm and he sounded like a sick, giant frog with an unusually high voice.
‘Andrew? Did you say summat?’
‘Don’t get Mr Jacks.’
‘Why not? I’ve got to get in there, and you won’t—’
‘Mam, I’m all right. I mean, I’m sick. I…I got a really bad headache, and I just need…’ He didn’t know what he needed. ‘I don’t need no doctor, though. It ain’t like that. I’ll be better soon. Honest.’
‘Well,’ said his mother, ‘all right. But I want you to eat summat.’
Twenty minutes later, Bean opened the door and looked both ways. He picked up a plate from the carpet and brought it inside.
He ate the ham sandwich, looking out of the window. From there you could see the road behind the house, and the little alley off it that led you past the allotments and towards town. Walking along the alley, smoking a fag, was Tracy from the chippy. Bean stepped back from the window and peered around the frame, watching her. There was a strange look on her face, as if she had just realised that someone had tricked her, long ago, into accepting her lot in life. To Bean it seemed that she was slowly being crushed by the weight of the world, and yet was unaware of it. To him she was beautiful.
When she was gone from view he went back to the sandwich, which was tasting nicer the more he ate. After the food he felt a bit better. He looked out of the window again. New possibilities were opening up before him. Avenues into the rest of his life seemed open now, whereas before, only minutes earlier, they had been barricaded shut. But he had to be brave. If he did not have courage, there was no point.
‘I’ll give you twenty pounds for it.’
‘Twenty quid?’
‘All right, twenty-five.’
Bean stared, mouth agape.
‘Thirty, then. And I’m goin’ no higher, mind you. That’s me final.’
‘Thirty quid?’
The man behind the counter appeared to clench his whole body and let out a prolonged, quiet whine. When that passed, and he was able to breathe again, he said: ‘It’s a good clock. I’ve not seen too many carriage clocks like this one. But it’s, erm, it’s got some corrosion. You see that th
ere? Corrosion. Thirty quid, take or leave. I’m doin’ you a favour.’
Later, in another shop, Bean asked: ‘Do you do these in burgundy, though?’
Later still, walking up the hill, he gazed longingly at the second-hand cars in the forecourt of Ernie Bast & Sons. One in particular caught his eye: a lovely Austin Princess, five years old. It was burgundy with a thin grey stripe all around, and seemed perfect for him. Bean was a long way from being in a position to buy a car, let alone a prestigious model like this, but it gave him hope. It reminded him that there are things in the world worth working towards, and that you should never give up on them.
He tried the door handle, glancing over his shoulder at the showroom, then carried on up the hill, holding his bunch of flowers.
Just over the crest of the hill, across the road, stood the chippy. Inside it was brightly lit but the windows were steamed up, so you couldn’t see whether the beefy arms frantically shovelling chips behind the counter were those of Frank or Tracy. Bean crossed the road and, using the dark window of the house next door as a mirror, straightened the lapels of his (fake) leather box jacket and adjusted his hair, which felt sticky. The barber had put something in it without asking, and although it smelt nice, it hadn’t reacted well with the fine drizzle. An irritable, middle-aged face loomed out of the darkness behind the mirror-window, and Bean stepped back.
Both Frank and Tracy were working behind the counter. One orderly queue of eight customers wound around the edge of the floor. Bean took one step from the doorway and joined it. All eyes were on the menu on the wall behind the counter. Fingers were totting up prices and stomachs were growling at the thought of a piece of halibut or a fishcake, so no one noticed Bean standing at the back, dressed head to toe in burgundy and holding a bunch of deep red, market-bought carnations. As the queue moved forward people came in behind him, and may or may not have found something curious about his apparel, or the way he was chewing the filthy fingernails on his killer’s hands. But Bean didn’t notice them. All he saw was Tracy. Please please please, he kept saying in his head, although he never got around to adding let me get served by Tracy. Before that could happen, and after perhaps forty-five pleases, Joe walked in.
Bean didn’t notice, intent as he was on studying Tracy’s face. Her expression changed from blank to panicked, and Bean blushed, crestfallen, thinking that this was her reaction to seeing him waiting. The queue was going down fast, most customers wanting just chips. Bean felt his shoulders sagging more and more the closer he got. He even hoped now, just a little bit, that he would get served by Frank. But then his turn came.
She shouldered Frank aside and leaned over the counter. ‘Go out the back,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t turn around, just go out the back.’
‘Eh? Why?’
Frank was watching her now, ignoring his customer, who was going on about the football. She grabbed Bean by the lapel and yanked sideways, wanting to drive home the message but only tearing off a handful of cheap PVC. Bean turned and looked outside. Nobody there. A bus went past with no passengers on board. Tracy lifted the partition and hissed: ‘Bean!’ She grabbed him again (by the elbow this time) and wrenched him through the back room and into a dark corridor. It smelled of damp and rot. Sacks of potatoes lined one wall, many loose and squashed on the concrete floor. Tracy faced Bean and said: ‘You gotta leave town. He wants to kill you.’
‘Who does?’
‘Joe.’
‘What?’
‘Joe wants to kill you. You killed…He says you upset his mam.’
‘I never upset his mam.’
‘It don’t matter, he thinks you did. He told me all about it, Bean.’
‘He what? When? Why’d he tell you?’
‘Last night. On me way home from…Look, it don’t matter. I don’t believe it anyway. I can see you’d never do summat like that. You’re not the same as all them others, Bean. I can see it. Don’t let no one tell you different.’
Bean stared back at Tracy, shaking his head so slowly and slightly that Tracy didn’t notice. His mouth was hanging open, and she lunged at it with her own, clashing teeth and splitting his lower lip slightly. But Bean didn’t notice that. He felt himself standing on the edge of a vast precipice and he threw himself off, diving with perfection into a warm, calm sea of soft lips, fleshy arms, tight aprons and the smell of chip fat. He forgot who he was and where he was, and knew only the moment that he and Tracy had created together. Then she stepped away from him and opened the back door.
‘Run,’ she said, looking at the floor. ‘Run away. Leave town. He’ll kill you.’
Before he could argue he found himself outside in the drizzle, the door shut behind him. He was in the yard behind the chippy, which was strewn with old potato sacks and unemptied dustbins. Around the edge was a brick wall about seven feet high, and in one corner a wooden gate. The gate opened and Joe stepped in, then stopped.
The drizzle had stopped and the sun had come back out for what time it had left, and it perched low behind Joe’s head, obscuring his face. It was the same dark face Bean had seen in that upstairs window. Joe popped a flick knife and held it out sideways, as if pointing at one of the upturned dustbins and demanding to know who had upturned it.
Bean went for the wall, jumping off the one remaining upright dustbin and getting just enough spring off it before it went over. He briefly straddled the wall on his way over, only to meet the jagged glass embedded all along it. He yelped in pain and tried to fall sideways away from the yard, but a large hook of glass snagged his inner thigh and held him firm for a couple of seconds before snapping off. He landed shoulder first in an alley and ran. His thigh was numb and something didn’t feel right between his legs, but adrenalin and Tracy’s final words kept him moving. At the end of the alley he met the main road and kept running. A few people were on the path but they all moved aside for him. He ran hard for a long time, and when he stopped he keeled over on to the grass, paralysed by screaming lungs and a stitch in his side. When his body allowed him, many minutes later, he pulled himself up and sat for a while. He saw the shredded material between his legs, the drenched trousers and the white socks turned red, and started sobbing loudly, leaning back on a large piece of masonry.
Joe entered the twilit cemetery and stood still, sniffing the air. He heard no sounds other than the traffic on the road behind. He moved on, keeping low, blade out. Within a couple of minutes he saw a cruciform headstone with a figure slumped against it. He crept close, then walked tall. Five yards away he stopped. He looked at the face drained of colour, and the dark red spreading through the white marble gravel, and frowned. With a boot he prodded Bean’s shoulder. Bean fell sideways and remained still. Behind him, on the headstone, were the words: IN THE MIDST OF LIFE WE ARE IN DEATH.
Joe put his knife away and walked home.
You’ve Got Everything Now
Catherine O’Flynn
The Smiths were the perfectly timed soundtrack to my teenage years. Their first single was released as I turned thirteen. At fourteen, I saw them on the Meat Is Murder tour. By the time I was eighteen they were gone. Throughout it all I endured the knocks and jeers of pastel-shaded Duran Duran and Wham! fans shrouded in my old man’s coat and ridiculous hair. What I loved most about The Smiths was the way they made me feel nostalgic and wistful for something I’d never had. ‘You’ve Got Everything Now’ is a typical example of that. I’ve tried to write a story that captures the song’s sense of regret and desire, and I’m very sure I don’t come close.
Quinn sits at the front of the class. I suppose he feels some protection from the teacher, though of course the back of his head and shoulders are covered in ink and gob. There’s something prim about Quinn. His uniform fits him, his movements are neat. He is small and dapper in a way that the rest of us aren’t. I look at Millsy, distorted by hormones, some hideous halfway stage of the experiment, pustules on his face, limbs too big to control, wiry hair trying to escape his head. Quinn is not half-boy, h
alf-man. He is a mini-man–tiny, but perfectly formed. On the rare occasions he speaks, his voice is deep and clear. On the rare occasions he speaks. Mr Edwards is late for class, the volume rises. Banks throws an apple core at the back of Quinn’s head. It hits him in the neck. Wet, white debris sticks to his skin. We laugh. He turns around and looks at us. Always that same look.
Now at night, in bed when the house creaks and Alison’s breath catches in her sleep, I still see that look. It waits behind the eyelids. I get out of bed and go and look in at the children. Amy lies face down, spreadeagled as if dropped from the sky, her hair pasted across the side of her hot and sticky face, her breathing deep and ragged. She engages in gruelling battles during her sleeping hours, deep, intense struggles that never quite break into nightmares. Her night-time self is somehow more corporeal, more burdened than the sunlit wisp she seems during the day. Eddie sleeps neatly on his back, his face turned a little to one side, his expression untroubled. Each morning when I take him to school I scan the faces of the other boys. I look for groupings and patterns in the playground. I look for bigger boys and idiot friends. I look closely at his face for signs of worry, indicators of anxiety. I stroke his head and try and breathe.
We smoke all through dinner break. Behind the sports pavilion we consume coke and fags. Our insides fill with gas and clouds. Banks runs to Greggs and brings back five cream cakes. Millsy wants to know who’s going to miss out on a second cake. Banks answers by stuffing the surplus two in his mouth at the same time. He laughs so hard at Millsy’s outraged expression that cream bursts from his mouth and nose. I lie on my back and let the winter sun press against my eyelids. If I try hard enough I can forget that Millsy and Banks are there. If I try hard enough I can leave this place behind. I imagine I’m lying in the middle of a vast prairie. The grass is high and moves around me in the breeze. My horse is tethered to a tree. A stream runs somewhere nearby, and there by the stream under the shade of a tall tree, someone is waiting for me. I sit up suddenly and find myself blinded by the light. I stare ahead waiting for my vision to clear. A group of girls emerges from the shadows, one of them turns and smiles just at me.
