Life in Passing
I stared down at my fucked up dead Da’. I’d like to say he looked content and peaceful in death but that woulda been a lie. He looked ragged and scrawny and beat up. There’s only so much Max Factor you can stick on a corpse before you just gotta give up. They’d done the best they could but there was just no getting’ away from the big fuck off gash on his jugular.
I stuck my hand out – reached out so I could feel his skin against mine. One last time. I held my breath as we connected – like I expected him to jolt back into life – jump up and do a crazy pissed-up Irish jig like he always used to after the whisky got in him. I exhaled as my fingers ran down his jagged stitched-up scar. So cold – so fuckin’ cold. I felt for the memories – the memories of two weeks past. Da’ all screamin’ and cryin’ like a baby as the blood ran outta him. I felt half way along the scar where the skin was all mangled and mashed from where I pulled the bottle out of him. I would have the picture of that fuckin’ Turbo bottle etched inside the walls of my head for all eternity. That shitty green bottle had caused me nothing but trouble.
I leant down and whispered in Da’s right ear. The one next to the wound. His ear was big - bigger than I remembered.
I whispered up close – so close that I was worried my breath would tickle his lobes and wake him – “quit yer messin’ Micky! – away with ya’ or I’ll bleedin’ burst ya!” But he never stirred – just like you’d expect. I pictured our last moments together and felt a lone tear trickle down my cheek and drop onto his forehead. I composed myself and gripped the casket tight as I leant in.
“I got him Da’. I got him.”
I turned from Da’ and choked a final “Slainte” as I raised my can of Guinness to him.
I stumbled outta the back room and the throb and throng of the wake hit me full on. Steve Harley and the Cockney Rebels were belting out their greatest hit – “Come up and See me….” Da’ loved this record. I smiled as I launched my can into the corner of the hallway and headed into the kitchen for another.
“Pick that up Micky O’Brien ya feckin’ hooligan!” Aunt Sally hollered over at me.
Jesus, my Aunt never missed a beat. She really didn’t. I went back over and picked up my crumpled can. I wandered into the tight-packed kitchen and stuck it on top of the overflowing bin.
“That’s better Micky – now give yer Aunt a big kiss,” and the great woman spread her arms out and smothered me in her impressive bingo-wings. I felt the sobs welling back up inside me and her tears fighting to break out from deep inside her. We gripped tight – so tight I was gonna burst. I took five and then released. Wiped a tear back and smiled back at her. I looked over at Ma’ – she turned away from me – wouldn’t even catch my eye. I was the prodigal son returned, but she wanted none of me. I had wrought destruction on her fucked-up family – I had put the final nail in the coffin of her shattered marriage – her bag-a-shite life. I wasn’t sure she’d ever forgive me.
I grabbed two beers outta the fridge and headed for the living room. Rezza, my best mate, was fiddlin’ with the stereo. Always a bad idea. I gave it three seconds before he blew the speakers.
“Oi – don’t fuck up the music Rezza – Aunt Sally will fuckin’ kill you,” I joked – but half serious – he really could mash up even the most top-notch sound system.
“Aunty S loves me man – I’m like her suffragette son man!” Rezza joked.
“Her surrogate son you pillock – surrogate,” I laughed despite myself.
“Yeah yeah – whatever – what is this music? This is bollox. Now check this out…” and with that Rezza launched the Sizzling Seventies Partymix out of the player and into a bowl of spicy nachos and chilli dip.
“Now get a load of this dope shit…” Rezza grinned through drug-fuggy eyes.
Rezza drunk-fumbled with the volume knob and settled on ramping it all the way round and BOOOOOOMMMMM! The CD kicked in.
“Bingy Bingy Bingy Bingy Bango……Bingy Bingy Bingy Bingy Bingy Bango…” Basement Jaxx screamed from outta the speakers.
“Rezza!” I shouted in his ears as he nodded along to the bass-heavy beat. “This ain’t a rave. This is my Da’s wake you pratt!”
“You what? I can’t hear a word you’re saying….too loud in here…”
We went outside. Past the Priest and the Sextant – Father Patrick and Derry the Dummy as Da’ used to call him. I mean – he was thick like a brick – a big fat thick-brick. Backward – soft in the head… “head’ the ball” as Da’ always said. Anyway, off past him and the girls – the girls from my old school - Trisha, Kylie, Rozella, Teresa and YoYo-Pants herself – Jenny Ball. And in the corner of the kitchen my old gang – the tag gang – I think there was an ASBO stuck on all of us. Weren’t allowed in the same room or they’d slap our wrists and send a nasty letter to our parents. Well fuck me – they could send one to Da’ – 1 Fucked up Deadbeat Street, Coffin up Bloodsville, Corpsetown…6FT 11NDR.
Rezza lit up as we headed past the new front door. A psycho butcher nailed the last one.
The gange-smoke drifted sweet and pleasant on the cool April air. We stood on the balcony together – silent. I dragged back ‘til I could feel the gange seeping through my lungs and into my bloodstream and on up into my head. My brain wobbled a little – I wasn’t too sure whether gear was a good idea after major head surgery. Ahh fuck it – what was the worse it could do?
“It’ll kill you – you moron,” came a response from outta nowhere. I turned one eighty degrees and there she was. My girl, my lady, my beautiful Katie. Katie who was as fucked up in the head as me – so maybe it’d work out.
I gave her a small welcoming kiss and tried for a bit more but she wasn’t havin’ any of the tonsil tennis. “What gives?” I thought.
“It’s your Dad’s fuckin’ wake Micky…” she said, embarrassed and confused.
“Exactly – he’d want me to have a good time...” I said pleadingly. Rezza nodded sagely as he sucked back on his spliff.
“Lay off the booze and gear Micky – you’re only just outta the hospital and you’re up in court tomorrow.”
“Alright alright…” I agreed.
We stood in the corridor for a long while. In silence. Lost.
Jenny headed over from inside. I smiled as she squeezed past us in a skin-tight black miniskirt and pink hoody, zipped up tight against the April cold.
“You alright Micky?” she asked and caught me in her wide, brown sumptuous eyes.
“I’m okay, keeping it together,” I replied trying to combine upbeat and nonchalant with suitable pathos. God she was a babe. I regretted never making a move on her back when we hung out at school. Rezza tried and failed but then again – he pretty much tried and failed with everyone. Matty tried and succeeded – all the lads tried with varying degrees of luck. Hence the rather unjust nickname that had stuck YoYo pants. She’d kill us if she ever found out – but who’d be dumb enough to tell her? I still had a little thing for her I guess. But I was with Katie now.
“Thanks for coming,” I added as she teetered down the corridor slightly the worse for wear.
“See you around Micky,” and she waved as she turned the corner and headed down the stairwell.
Rezza openly gawped… “I could ave ‘er – honest – I could. She likes the sotisficated man.”
“You been reading the dictionary again Rezza?” I asked guffawing through the gear.
But before he could answer he was off inside to change the CD again. “Time for some old SKOOL Beats!” he announced as he charged back in.
I wanted to laugh but I couldn’t – not right now. I needed to be on my own. “Katie…” I asked but she was already on her way back in. “I know – you need some time…just don’t take too long or I’ll be gone…” and the look in her eyes told me she wasn’t just talking about leaving the party.
I stared out into the night and shut my eyes and let the noise wash over me. The cackle and laughter and wake-merry that was all about. All for my Da’ – despite his fucked-up, violent existence in life – his memory was far better in death. All the malice and drink cruelty were forgotten and turned to anecdote and joke…why the fuck was that – why did we all forget so quick? Or was it just ill to speak of the dead so soon…give it time. Let his dust settle. And so I took a walk – a little walk down the corridor. Down the steps and across the estate and over to the offie for ciggies.
I met Derry the Dummy as I headed back over. He shuffled quickly past with his head down and his coat hood drawn up and over. It was one of those 70’s parkers with the fur lining around the hood and the orange lining inside. If you got up close – the coat really stank. So did Derry. But he was simple – so most people let it pass.
On the corner of the estate I bumped back into Matty and Trisha from the wake. I hadn’t really talked to them for months now. Being in jail was one way of cutting ties and losing mates.
“So how’s things?”
“Cool. All good man. All good,” Matty replied.
“You?” Matty asked as he sucked back on a Mayfair.
“Ok I guess. Court tomorrow.”
“Sure…” and the awkward silence hung about us. Matty stubbed his ciggie out and lit another almost instantly.
“I better get back I guess,” I said as I pointed back to the wake.
“Yeah – see you around,” Trisha added as they headed away towards the offie.
A year ago we’d been inseparable – the girls and the gang. Now I felt like I hardly knew them.
I stopped to light a Marlboro. My lighter flickering in the stiff breeze. A nasty drizzle beginning to soak me through to the skin. Up in the flat I could hear the party thumping away and the sound of chatter and laughter. I caught sight of Rezza up above sloping back into the party. That boy spent more time outside sucking on his sweet ganga than he did anything else. I rounded the corner and made my way up the stairwell to the second floor.
Memories of climbing these stairs two weeks before flooded back. Of rounding a corner and seeing my Da’ lying there half dead in the flat.
I was about five seconds back in the wake when Aunt Sally handed me two massive black bin bags full to the brim with empty beer cans and bottles and the remains of the wake food.
“Put the bottles in the recycle bins will ya? Think of the environment,” she hollered after me as I traipsed down the stairwell and round the back to the massive man-sized metallic bins.
I launched the black sack full of pork pies and half eaten bread rolls into the least overflowing of the bins. Then I began delving into the other liner and launching the beer bottles into the massive blue bottle bank next to the industrial bins. It was therapeutic. Mesmerising and beautifully therapeutic. Pushing the bottles through the hole and smashing down as hard as I could. I went through about twenty five bottles before I snapped out of it.
Something was niggling at me. Niggling and then overriding. Overiding all my senses. Something was way out of place.
“Who’s there?” I asked.
“Cut it out Rezza you nonce,” but only the wind and rain answered back.
I looked about. Trying to place my unease. Like there was someone or something watching me. I was giving myself the right shit-me-ups.
“Keep off the fuckin’ wacky backy Micky boy,” I whispered to myself.
I was getting way too paranoid. Katie was right – it’d be the death of me.
“Grrrrrerkkkk,” the wheelie bin rolled slightly on its casters besides me and I freaked.
“Katie? Katie? Is that you?” I could feel the sweat and fear prickling up my back and neck now. The blood thudding through my head like a bastard.
“Grkkkkkkkk!!!!” the wheelie bin came smacking towards me at a rate of knots. “Slam!” I hit the cold concrete floor hard. Scrambling, mad scrambling, I managed to lever myself back up as fast as I could just in time to see the massive bin looming over me and “Whooooomp!” the metal clanged into my head and I felt the world burst into blistering 3D technicolour pain-o-vision.
I stuck my arm up to protect my head as the bin slammed into me again and again.
“Help! Help me!” I screamed as loud as I could. Praying for salvation. For some respite from the onslaught.
Up above I could hear a clatter of feet thomping down the stairs.
“Help!” I howled with all my remaining reserves.
Black spots began roaming and circling in front of my eyes, dappling my vision and crowding out the grey metal assault. I pushed hard – as hard as I ever could. I would die here in this stinking shithole if I didn’t fight back.
“Herghhhhh!” I roared as I thumped into the bin and rammed it and my attacker on the other side as hard as I could into the opposite wall of the stairwell. “Hearghhhhhhhh! You fucker!!!!” I raged as I shoulder charged the bin repeatedly into my enemy. Until the whole dank, rotting confine echoed and clanged with the screech of metal against concrete. Finally I stopped. My attacker was gone. And new voices were coming to my rescue. I slumped to the ground and felt blood and vomit spill out of my mouth as I began to lose consciousness. As the lights faded in my head I caught my breathe and nearly choked on my own vomit.
“Oh Jesus no!” I thought as I stared at the dead girl lying behind the bin four feet from me. Yoyo pants was dead.
Waking. Briefly. There was yoyo pants Jenny Ball all twisty and broken across the steps with her legs spread apart and her tiny white knickers wrapped round her ankles and her soft sheeny false-tanned legs splayed all funny and her skirt ridden up above her crotch and her teeny pink top off and over her head so her face was all covered up and hidden and she was as fucked up dead as Da’ in his casket upstairs. Casket for two anyone?
I tried to crawl over to her. Scrape my way across the grimy, rank floor. But there was nothing left in me. I was clean out of reserves.
Erghhh. Darkness.
* * * * * * * * * * *
It takes about a year for the (in)-justice system to process shit like this. So the shock’s worn off and I’m ready – ready when it comes.
“Will the jury please stand. What is your verdict?”
“We find Michael O’Brien Guilty. Guilty of manslaughter.”
I sigh and smile at my Ma’. She smiles back – sadness haunting her eyes. I’m not surprised. One more shitbag off the streets. One more statistic for the government’s PR drive. They’re making our street’s safer. Coming down hard on crime. Doesn’t really matter on the details. The devil lurks there.
I can appeal. Eventually – maybe three or four years time the groundswell of opinion will turn in my favour. I’ll wait ‘til then…ain’t much choice really.
Sometimes at night in the cell I wonder who did it. I wonder who is out there living a free existence instead of me. And I shut my eyes and think of Ma, and Da’ and Rezza and Katie and the life I had. It weren’t much of a life. But it meant something to me. And I vow – to the day I die – some other fucker can empty the bins.
Recycling might be good for the environment but it’s done fuck all good for me.
(c) Tom Arnold 2008