Dark Humour

12. (Something Like Life)

~ Matthew Roys ~ Leave a comment

Something Like Life.

Terrance left about an hour after we’d picked out a room and made the bed. That alone took far longer than it should have. Bedsheets are one of the great mysteries of life. There were three spare rooms to choose from, each one bigger than any single room in Steph’s house. If you could ignore the creepy dolls and pot figure faces, then I was living like a king.

I can’t escape the sense of banishment though. Betrayed by my family, cast out from my home, and my fortune stolen from me. Dark thoughts circle through my mind. There’s a part of me that’s seriously considering marching back to Steph’s and taking the scratchcard by whatever means necessary. I hate Pete more than I’ve ever hated someone before. Ramming a knife into his throat would be pure catharsis.

I don’t. Even through the cloud of anger I know that I’m too much a coward to do something like that. This thought triggers the self-loathing, and the vicious circle begins again.

Now I’m back at the table opposite Mabel, another cup of tea in hand. I’m getting the impression that whenever the tea reaches a drinkable temperature, the kettle is filled and set to boil. She examines me over the brim of her cup. I shift my weight uncomfortably. The moment that Terrance had left she had swapped her pink ‘Best Nan’ mug and was now using a flesh-coloured ceramic horror with a poorly sculpted dick and balls as a handle. She’s already trying hard to fuck with me. 

She offers me another biscuit. I try to decline, but she isn’t lowering her arm. I sigh and accept it. I’ve eaten more biscuits in the last hour than in the previous ten years.

“Is everything to your liking here, dear?”

Is it? I think back to the room and see outdated wallpaper, elegant oak furniture, and a wide collection of weird old people junk. The house has no internet connection. The only technology is bedside lamps and old fashioned radios. It’s even less mine than the room at Steph’s had been. Still, it’s a place to sleep, a place to maybe think and rebuild my life.

“Yeah. Everything’s good. Thanks.”

“I know exactly what my son is thinking. He’s cold these days. Everything’s about money, and I have a lot of it. He worries about me, but he worries about my money more. If it didn’t bleed out of his inheritance then he’d stick me in a nursing home in a heartbeat. We came to a compromise.”

I listen to her absently, nodding my head where it feels appropriate. She leans back in her chair and closes her eyes. 

“I intend to have a little more fun before this old body gives out on me. My clock’s ticking. I hear it in the quiet moments. Listen. Can you hear it?”

There is a loud ticking from an old grandfather clock in the corner. I have no idea how to respond. She laughs at me then bites into another biscuit. I try to change the subject.

“I never knew Terrence came from a wealthy family. He’s so… plain.”

“My husband was a steel worker who made some wise investments. We lived in squalor for years. Moved straight from a one bedroom place with a leaky roof into this house. He paid for our Steven to have a good education. Maybe Steven took away the wrong lessons though. But the past is the past. Our Larry doesn’t have the same drive as his parents. What good’s having more money than you can rightly spend? That was my Frank’s motto. Larry does what he enjoys and everything else be damned. Good on him. What about you? What do you love?”

“Me?” I try to think but my mind is blank. What do I love? What do I want from life? “I don’t know. I like telling stories I guess. Books always used to make me smile as a kid, so I wanted to feel special by making other people smile too. Now it’s just another chore. I don’t really love anything.”

“Nothing? Not even a special someone?”

“No. Maybe love is dying out. We enshrined it in Valentine’s Day cards and M&S Christmas adverts like rhinos in a zoo.”

I think back on the women I’ve been close to. Most had no emotion attached to them. The early ones did, but I was young and naive. All the hope and enthusiasm that an excitable teen could muster still hadn’t been enough to carve out one of those classical Hallmark love stories. In reality, it’s all just broken people trying to force something to work until they eventually settle. Love is just another relic of the past like affordable housing and jobs for life.

“That’s your problem then. You visit zoos to see the rhinos. Love isn’t something you set out to see. It just springs out at you one day when you least expect it. More like a snake in the grass. But enough of this heavy stuff. Let’s get some food in us. You look half starved.”

Mabel disappears into the kitchen. She returns after a while carrying a handful of cutlery. I help her carry two plates of boiled veg and canned casserole to the table then we sit down to eat. The food is bland and soggy. Tinned crap heated to a barely lukewarm temperature. Still, it fills a gap in my stomach that I haven’t realised was there. I’ve not eaten anything all day.

Mabel speaks the entire time. Her stories meander across her life almost nonsensically, one moment speaking about babysitting Terrence, then transitioning into a tale from her days as a school girl. At first I just want to be alone with my thoughts, but gradually I start to enjoy the stories. My dad used to love telling us stories around the dinner table, but after he’d died, meals had become a solemn affair. 

In the end, even the strangely pleasant company isn’t enough to keep up my energy. It’s been a long day and it’s all catching up to me now that I have a moment to breathe. I excuse myself and retreat into my temporary sanctuary. The bed is uncomfortably soft, and even with the light on the room is gloomy. 

I lay here for a while, lost in thought, until a knock on the door brings me back to the present. Mabel opens it and peers in at me.

“I’ve run a bath for you, deary. I’m not one to judge, but you look rather rough. Go and have a soak. Clean yourself up and wash away some of your worries. If you keep that frown up, your face will look as wrinkled as mine well before its time.”

She grins at me devilishly. “I won’t peek. Don’t you worry.”

I hadn’t been worried until she brought it up. Still, a bath sounds nice. I haven’t had one in years. Steph’s house doesn’t even have a bathtub, just a cramped shower. I follow Mabel to a bathroom that could be a master bedroom in a normal house. The floor is tiled with mosaics in swirling patterns and the centrepiece bathtub is pearly white ceramic.

Mabel leaves. I strip out of the dirty clothes and dip a foot through the layer of bubbles into the water below. It’s hot. Almost unbearably so, but I embrace the discomfort. As I ease myself fully into the tub, the warm water rises up around me until only my head sticks up above the bubbles.

The room is silent other than the faint crackle of the bubbles and the occasional slosh of water as I adjust my weight. Without a phone to look at, or someone to speak to, I find myself isolated from the world. There’s nothing to distract me from my own thoughts. I think about Steph, and about my life.

Something runs down my face. It takes me a moment to realise that it isn’t sweat but a tear.  For the first time in years I can cry. I sink lower into the water and let the emotions take over. It hurts and I hate it. Maybe I am human after all.

Previous – 11. (Something Like Life)

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11. (Something Like Life)

~ Matthew Roys ~ Leave a comment

Something Like Life.

The streets Larry takes me through are more upmarket than my usual haunts. Nice detached houses, well-kept gardens, and newer model cars. We’re not far from the city centre, but it might as well be another world. The place doesn’t belong to the faded industry that was the heart of the city’s past, or to the universities and tiny offices of its present.

“It’s just up ahead, down a little cul-de-sac,” he tells me. 

He takes a final long drag on his cigarette then puts it out and tosses the butt into a carefully trimmed hedge. From one of his many pockets he pulls out a small can of deodorant and sprays himself down, then crams a handful of chewing-gum into his mouth.

“So is your family rich or something? These are pretty fancy houses.”

Larry chews heavily on the gum. He shakes his head. 

“Not rich, no. Perfectly middle class. My mum’s a dentist and my dad’s a senior accountant.”

“Sounds pretty rich to me,” I mutter. 

But then again, a steady Tesco wage seems rich compared to my upbringing of living on government handouts. From when I was ten it had just been the three of us in a rundown house, Mum too off her head on drugs to hold her own life together, let alone a job.

“I’m not sure this is a good idea,” I add. “I already feel out of my depth here.”

“Maybe,” Larry shrugs. “But then I’ve seen puddles of piss on a night out with more depth than you’re used to. Live a little.”

“Larry, you don’t leave the house. Ever heard the term ‘pot calling the kettle black’?”

“I live plenty. Just mostly via a digital landscape.”

The cul-de-sac matches the rest of the area. The whole place puts me on edge. I know I don’t belong here. I can feel eyes watching me from the houses. Even Larry seems a little uncomfortable, though he looks shifty at the best of times. He approaches one of the doors and knocks. 

I look over the house while we wait. Like the others it’s well-kept and lacks any outward sense of personality. A black Mercedes sits on the driveway while a red BMW is parked just outside. Through the window I can see a spacious living room with a huge TV.

It was the sort of house where the scratchcard would only just cover the deposit. I could never live here. Thinking of the scratchcard sends a spike of anger through me, but it also makes me think about the woman and her Pot Noodle. I wonder what kind of place she lives in. I can’t imagine her in a prim suburban neighbourhood like this, even if her choice of meals was based on taste rather than finance.

The door opens and a middle-aged man with neat, greying hair opens it. He has glasses, is clean shaven, and is wearing a shirt and trousers despite it being a Saturday. He looks as different to Larry as it’s possible to get.

The man’s eyes move over Larry without lingering, instead focussing in on me. I shift my weight uncomfortably and wait for someone to speak. 

“Come in,” he finally says. I’m left with the distinct feeling that Larry and his dad don’t get on much. 

The inside of the house is strangely empty. There’s plenty of furniture and technology, all of it expensive looking, but the walls are plain white and there’s no shelves or pictures. It almost looks like a display house, maybe even less so. Nothing is out of place and everything is purely functional. 

As we enter the main room, a woman is working at the table on a laptop. She doesn’t look up. The man grabs a sheet of paper and a pen from beside her and hands it to me. He directs me to the kitchen counter.

“I’m not in the business of housing freeloaders,” he tells me bluntly. “This is just a trial scheme. We have full rights to kick you out at any time, and we have a connection to you so we can track you if you decide to betray our trust and try to steal from or abuse my mother. If the lodger situation works, then we can look for someone who can actually pay rent. Someone to keep an eye on her while paying us, not the other way around.”

I look at the paper. It’s a long list of rules that reads like a legal document. No smoking, no drinking, no inviting people over, and no loud music. It sounds boring, but pretty standard. I sign it without too much hesitation and hand it back.

Larry’s dad nods then disappears into another room. The woman, who I assume is Larry’s mum, still hasn’t acknowledged us. Like his dad, she looks attractive enough. I can’t imagine Larry being a product of their genes. 

I open a cupboard and it’s empty. Looking around the kitchen I can’t see any food. There are plenty of appliances, but I’m again left with the feeling that they’re more for show than actual use. I give Larry a questioning look and he just rolls his eyes.

“Let’s wait outside,” he says. He turns to the woman. “Tell Dad we’ll be out front.”

“Sure.”

We leave the house and Larry fidgets with anything he can touch. I can tell he’s desperate for a fag. 

“Your parents are weird. You adopted?”

“Not to my knowledge. It’d make things easier.”

“So what gives? Why aren’t you handsome and successful? It seems to run in the family.”

“Luck of the draw.” 

He leans against the car and takes out his comically large collection of keys and starts moving them along the ring like a Catholic would with Rosary beads. 

“They tried, believe me. I spent my childhood studying, and when my grades weren’t where they wanted them to be, they piled more and more on. I didn’t have friends. They saw it as a waste of time, like being social was the reason I was failing. That I just needed to work harder. Turns out some people just aren’t that smart.”

“You work with computers, don’t you? That’s got to take some brains.”

“Yeah. I’m good at it too. It’s not traditional though. Coding just seems to click with me, you know? It doesn’t matter that I’m making decent money from something I enjoy. To them, if you’re not a doctor or a manager of some kind then you’re a failure. But they stopped trying to push me, so now we just civilly coexist.”

“That sounds kind of fucked.”

“It is what it is.”

Larry’s dad steps out. The car clicks open and he motions for us to get in. I climb into the backseat and admire the interior. This is possibly the first time I’ve ever been inside a car that isn’t filled with crumbs and food wrappers. 

The engine starts and the radio fills the car with the dull voice of a man talking about quarterly financial statements. Larry’s dad makes no move to change the channel, so I settle in for the dullest ride imaginable. Nobody speaks. I stare out the tinted windows and watch as we leave the main city behind. There’s more trees now, and the buildings become more eclectic. 

It’s about twenty minutes of stock forecasts and heavy silence until we pull up outside a large house. We get out and approach it. It looks like one of those big American houses that are built to imitate European mansions but lack any of the style of the original. Several of the houses I can see are similar. They look almost too big. I feel tiny in their presence. Insignificant. 

There’s a buzzer on the door which Larry’s dad rings. A long stretch of time passes before we hear noises behind the door. A series of locks and chains are undone, then the door opens. 

An old lady greets us. She’s thin, almost inhumanly so, but her white hair is styled in a massive perm that gives her a weird sense of proportion. She’s in a pale blue dress that looks like it was pulled straight from the sixties.

“Hello!” she exclaims enthusiastically. “It’s so nice to see you all. Is this your new partner?”

She directed the last part at Larry while pointing at me. I don’t know which of us looks more disgusted. She sees our reaction and cackles merrily.

“Well, in that case you must be my new lodger then. Come in! Come in!”

Inside, the house is nothing like that of Larry’s parents. Photographs and paintings are everywhere, as are an assortment of cups, teapots, and vases. The whole place looks filled with clutter. 

We all sit around a coffee table in a living room filled with so many armchairs and settees that there’s barely any room between them all. I introduce myself and she gives me a toothless grin.

“How lovely, dear. I’m Mabel, but you can call me Nanna. Oooh, it’s going to be so nice having a strapping young man around the house.”

I don’t think anyone has ever seen me and had the word ‘strapping’ come to mind. I hope to God that she’s just trying to mess with me. I haven’t fallen far enough yet that I’m willing to be an old lady’s toyboy. Well, not unless I can wiggle my way into a hefty inheritance.

The kettle is boiling on the hob. Mabel quickly busies herself making cups of tea for us all. She follows this up by passing around a tin of biscuits. It’s like she has a checklist of old lady tropes she’s working through. 

Larry’s dad divides his attention between watching me and then watching his mother. For the first time in my life I start to feel bad for Larry. No wonder he’s socially awkward. Finally, the older man seems satisfied that I’m not going to pocket the cutlery. He finishes his drink and stands up.

“Well, it seems like you both get on acceptably. I’ll leave you to get better acquainted. Call me if anything is amiss.” He turns to leave then pauses, suddenly remembering Larry’s existence.

“Do you need a ride back?”

“I’ll stay here a while. Thanks anyway.”

He leaves without another word. Larry doesn’t watch him go, instead just staring into the bottom of his cup between sips. Mabel hands him another biscuit.

“Cheer up, lad. Ignore the stick up his rear. Just wait for the day you can stick him in a home.” She cackles again and winks at us mischievously. “Now then, our Larry, help your dear old Nan set up a guest bedroom.”

I frown. Is the universe playing a trick on me? I look from Larry to the old lady.

“Your Larry?”

Mabel cocks her head quizzically at me. Even Larry looks at me confused. I blink, trying to make sense of everything that is happening.

“Larry, what is your full name?”

His confusion seems to grow.

“Laurence Davis. Why?”

“So I’ve just been calling you your actual name all these years?”

“Wait, you didn’t know my name was Larry?”

“Why would I call you your real name? Everyone else gets a stupid nickname but little old Larry just gets called by his name? You didn’t think that was weird?”

“Well, yeah, but then why would you pick Larry as a nickname? It’s a perfectly good name.”

“You looked like a Larry!”

“I am a Larry!”

Mabel watches us while sipping delicately on her tea. More biscuits have appeared on her plate. She’s enjoying the show. I take a calming breath.

“Alright then, Terrance, care to show me to my room?”

“You can’t just change my name! That isn’t how this works!”

“Watch me.”

Previous – 10. (Something Like Life)

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10. (Something Like Life)

~ Matthew Roys ~ Leave a comment

Something Like Life.

I don’t pay attention to where I’m being taken. My eyes are fixed firmly on my feet. Eventually Corgi sits me down on a bench and I’m dimly aware that we’re in a small park. A light rain has started to come down so the place is empty. 

Neither of us speak. I close my eyes and try to slip away. Time passes. I don’t know how long. I feel someone grab my hand and something warm is pressed against my palm. It’s a paper cup filled with steaming hot chocolate. Beyond the cup, Toto is smiling down at me, flanked at either side by Tink and Larry.

“Christopher messaged us. You are in a bad way,” Toto tells me. He crouches down so we are eye to eye. “Life always continues, but sometimes it needs a helping hand. You luckily have several.”

“You can’t even help yourselves. There’s no place for us. There never was.” 

My words come out with more emotion than I expect. I want to thank them, to hug them for being there, for existing, but I hate that they can see me like this. I don’t think I’m built to accept help from others, or to open up. It’s like I’m reaching out a hand and can see them do the same through the darkness, but neither hand will ever meet.

“You are right. This world cares nothing for us. But would the past make you happy? Your grandfather had a place, but it was long hours in a physical job, returning to a cold home with little food and poor healthcare. My past was slavery, and Johnathan’s was death in a meaningless war. Men had places, but they were not good ones.”

“I don’t care about any of that. Life is shit, that’s a universal fact as far as I’m concerned. I’m just tired of failing. I tried and failed, so I stopped trying. But I just can’t let go, can I?”

Tink is studying me. I can feel his eyes on me from behind Toto. While Toto can be hard to read, Tink is a practical guy, simple and to the point. I know exactly what he’s thinking and I wait for the inevitable question.

“You’re not allowed to feel sorry for yourself when it’s you pilling the shit on your own head. We’re all guilty of it. My cousin’s offer is still open. Do you want me to call him?”

I close my eyes again and exhale a long breath. This was a fork in the road I’d avoided for years, but it looks like I’ve been walking in circles, going nowhere and always finding myself back at this point. 

I try to shut the world out. Odd drops of rain still linger in the air. I can smell smoke, telling me that Larry has lit a cigarette. My mouth is dry and I’m aware of the taste of stale alcohol on my breath where I haven’t had a chance to brush my teeth. I take a drink of the hot chocolate to try and wash it away.

“Sure,” I finally answer. It feels like the heaviest word that’s ever left my mouth. “I’ll do it.”

Tink nods and steps away from us to make the call.
“Do you have anywhere to stay?” Toto asks and I shake my head. He is about to continue when Larry interrupts him.

“I have a place, and it’ll be more spacious than what Toto is about to offer you.”

Toto raises an eyebrow and shrugs. “My home is yours. Larry is right though. Mamma Jaques has a very small house. It is crowded with just the two of us.”

“Exactly,” Larry says. “My Nan’s got a massive gaff where she lives all alone. The poor woman’s losing her mind though. My dad wants to throw her in an old folks home but she refuses. Promise to give her some company and you can stay there a few days while you get yourself sorted.”

“Larry, you can’t just offer your nan’s house to people without asking her.” Corgi cuts in. “Especially, and no offence meant, to someone like this dickhead.”

“She and my dad made a compromise. She gets to stay in the house but somebody has to stay with her. I’m not going to do that, and nobody else in the family is either because old Nan is batshit crazy.”

“I can’t look after myself, let alone some crazy old lady,” I point out.

“No worries. She’s pretty spry and independent, just a bit forgetful. You’re skint, so you can’t get drunk, and aside from that you’re not too awful of a human. Look, just come with me, I’ll talk things over with my dad, then I’ll introduce you to my nan. No obligations. Your alternative is Toto’s couch.”

“Fine. I’ll go with you, but like you say, no obligation. It’s not like I have anything else to do with my time anyway.”

“Great!” Larry says then breathes out a lungful of smoke. “My dad was going to force me to do it, and Nan has a zero smoke policy.”

“Smart lady.”

“You’re such a hypocrite. Alcohol is hardly a healthy lifestyle.”

“No, but nobody else has to deal with my liver failure,” I snap as I waft the smoke away.

“Nah, just your drunken bullshit.”

Tink returns before we can get stuck into the argument. 

“Josh says the job’s yours if you want it. He’s out of town for a few days, but as soon as he’s back he’ll get you signed up. Just remember, you’re there on my recommendation, so don’t fuck it up. You’re playing with my reputation as much as your own,” says Tink.

I nod solemnly. 

“Good.” His stern look lightens and he offers me a smile. “Now then, you want a drink? My round.”

I bite my lip and sigh before shaking my head. 

“I shouldn’t. It looks like I get the joy of meeting Larry’s family this afternoon.”

The prospect of that genuinely makes me want to drink. I think I’ll need a bellyful to deal with strangers, especially ones related to Larry. I don’t voice this aloud though, and for the first time in a long while, I know that I really will stay sober for it. I’m done with fucking up. Something has to change, and unfortunately, I’m pretty sure that something is me.

Previous – 9. (Something Like Life)

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9. (Something Like Life)

~ Matthew Roys ~ Leave a comment

Something Like Life.

Without really thinking about it, I’d already walked most of the way to the pub. I shuffle in and collapse into a corner seat with the bag on the chair beside me. The big clock above the bar says it’s only quarter to ten in the morning. I realise that I don’t even know what day it is. Hell, I don’t know who I am.

I notice one of the staff watching me. Are they seeing my dishevelled appearance and bag of possessions and judging me as the homeless nobody that I am? Or are they familiar with me and the shitshow that is my life? I guess that despite everything, I have made this place my homebase. I try to mix it up, but I always end up back here. They probably do pity me. I’m just another of the miserable old pissheads but without the excuses that they at least boast.

I smile at them and make a show of pretending to text someone. I don’t have any data on my phone so I’m forced to just sit and wait for salvation. When your guardian angel is a chubby dwarf who lives with his grandparents it really puts your own life into perspective.

I spot Corgi at the bar and I’m ashamed how relieved I feel. He waddles over with two ciders and plops down opposite me. He slides one across then interlocks his fingers as he studies me with dramatic scrutiny.

“This is Doctor Wolff sitting down with patient number six. So, my files suggest that you suffer with delusions of self-grandeur, fueled by excessive use of alcohol. I’ve interviewed several acquaintances of yours and the common theme of their statements are, and I quote, “He’s an utter bastard”. What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I didn’t know they did apprenticeships for psychiatrists. If it’s anything like the sparky one then I wouldn’t trust you to diagnose a dead cat as being a little under the weather.”

“I don’t think psychiatrists deal with dead cats, to be fair.”

“Was Shrodinger a psychiatrist?”

“Was the cat dead?”

I shrug. The cider stands a few inches from my hand. I stare into the pissy depths, looking for answers. The sight of it turns my stomach. I’ve drank too much the last few days, and it’s caused far too many problems. I don’t want to drink. So of course I do. Corgi hasn’t touched his. I wonder if he even drinks if I’m not around. Maybe he’s just another person I’m pulling down with me.

“What happened?” he asks after a contemplative silence between us.

“I don’t know. Everything’s a little fuzzy. Pete was being a dick like usual. He fucked everything up. I was pissed, and then something happened. I wanted to celebrate, so I might have had a few glasses from Steph’s personal stash. Then I wake up with my room gutted and Steph refusing to look at me.”

“Wait, so Pete was in your face like usual, then you wanted to celebrate?”

I think about it. Between the alcohol and all the emotional bullshit, I’m finding it hard to fish the memories from the abyss of my mind. There was a pretty girl. She stands out like a beacon. Why did she stand out so much in my memories?

“The scratchcard!” I say aloud as the memory clicks into place. Corgi stares at me blankly.

“I went to the shops and this cool chick bought me a scratchcard. It was a winning ticket! Fifty grand! Fuck! I put it in a bottle but Steph had cleared my room out by the time I woke up. How did I forget that?”

I punch myself in the face. People from the nearby tables stare at me. I bare my teeth at them and most look away. 

“Corgi, that’s it! I just need to find that card and all my problems disappear. Steph probably threw the bottle away, so I just have to dig through the brown bin, find it, and I have a lovely £50k pumped into my account. I don’t even have to talk to her.”

“Are you sure you didn’t dream this? A pretty girl giving you a winning scratchcard hours before you get kicked out of your home seems a little unbelievable.”

I neck the cider and stand up. “We have a mission. This scratchcard is the single most important thing in the world right now, okay? We head to Steph’s, grab the bottle, then get the hell out of Dodge.”

“It’s your sister’s bin, not Fort Knox.”

“Are you in?”

Corgi sighs and starts to sip his drink. “Sure. It’s not like I have anything better to do.”

I impatiently wait for Corgi to finish. I know the brown bin isn’t due for collection, but I still feel tense. I’m pinning all my hopes on a piece of paper. If it isn’t there, I genuinely don’t know what I’ll do. 

It seems to take an age for him to finish before we finally set off. I’m lazy by nature, but I can’t help but power walk along the streets with Corgi trotting behind me. I don’t know if it’s the weight of the bag and speed of my pace, or pure nerves, but god damn do I need to start working out. I’m sweating like a priest at a preschool.

I round the corner and Steph’s house comes into view. Seeing it gives me a strange jolt of anxiety. I lived there for years and have only been gone for an hour, so how can I already see it so differently?

The three bins are lined up against the fence between our garden and the neighbours to the right. They’re in clear view of the kitchen window. I take the time to scope out the house in search of Steph. Her car is there, but I can’t see her through the window. This is my chance.

I open the bin and find it filled with bottles. It’s almost like we have an ingrained drinking problem. There’s zero chance of being quiet with the clinking glass so I go for speed over subtlety. I dig, wincing with every sharp sound. A whisky bottle slides to the side and I see the scratchcard rolled up inside a wine bottle. I reach for it.

A hand grabs my shoulder and pushes me away roughly. I stagger back and catch my balance just before I fall.

“Digging through the bins like the rat you are.”

It’s Pete. I tense up and hate myself for it. 

“Look, something of mine was thrown away. I just want it back then I’ll be out of your hair.”

“Something of yours? You don’t get it, do you? You own nothing and you are nothing. The clothes on your back, the stuff in that bag, and the inevitable booze in your gut, it’s all just charity. You’ve never earned an honest penny to buy anything for yourself, and if you did, you’d owe it to everyone you’ve leached from your entire life. So no, there’s absolutely nothing of yours here. Or anywhere. Now get lost.”

I take a step closer to him. My fist curls.

“I need this.” My conscience is waging war with itself. I take a breath and swallow my pride. “Please.”

“Aww, what’s up? You going to cry?”

The genuine part of my conscience surrenders. His words are like steroids to my inner bastard. That suits me just fine.

“Cry? Nah mate. What do I have to cry about? I know who I am. I’m not the bratty rich kid who spends his life trying to find meaning in his own disillusioned sense of superiority. Let me guess, Mummy and Daddy never gave you any love so you can only feel by holding power over others. Pay people to kiss your ass because nobody would even look at you otherwise. I bet you can’t look in a mirror, can you? You’re a tiny dicked moneybags who’s never physically or emotionally satisfied a living creature in your life. Even Steph is only with you for your money. It certainly isn’t for the two minute circus that you call your love life.”

I can’t begin to describe the satisfaction I take from the look in his eyes. I know I’ve hit a nerve and a Cheshire cat grin splits my face. The satisfaction is instantly replaced by agony as he lunges a fist into my throat.

This time I do fall. I can’t breathe. I’m clutching my throat and writhe with my legs. Seconds of panic feel unending, then something releases and I can draw a gaping breath. In the corner of my hazy vision I see Corgi crouch beside me. Pete is breathing almost as heavily as I am.

“If I see you here again I’m calling the police. Now fuck off out of Stephany’s life. Go die in a ditch like you deserve.”

Pete turns back to the house, making sure to wheel the bin with him as he leaves. With him goes any hope I had left. I lay there struggling to breathe, my mind blank other than an overwhelming longing for death.

“You okay?” Corgi asks. I don’t answer. What’s the point?

“Come on. Let’s get you out of here.”

He tries to help me up. After a few moments I pull myself up and let him lead me away. He even grabs my bag. I don’t deserve him. I don’t deserve anyone.

Previous – 8. (Something Like Life)

Next – 10. (Something Like Life)

Chapter 7. A New Look. (A Rubber Ducky at the End of the World)

~ Matthew Roys ~ Leave a comment

To believe that we live in a world of order is to ignore just how hard it is to be ‘good’. Indulging in your desires is the easy path, it is our instinct and grants us the most personal satisfaction. Take what you want and have fun doing it. The only fear in this world is crossing someone stronger. To be good though requires sacrifice. It requires patience, compassion, and often sees you doing things against your best interests for the benefits of others.

We see this here in our protagonists. Damian tears at his body and soul, killing or manipulating any that stand against his ideals. He commits sin in a quest for power, but a quest that is motivated by a desire to do good.

Peace though, well, he isn’t really a nice person. He lives for himself and actually enjoys the wanton violence that his powers permit him. But he isn’t grasping for power, and neither is he going out of his way to hurt others without cause. As we look down upon him we actually see him protecting a downtrodden minority against a cruel world. The fact that this is purely for personal gain will be forgotten. Actions speak louder than intentions afterall.

So we find Peace yawning expressively beside a burned out campfire. For him it was the small hours of the morning. To the more grounded Daisy, it was the dizzying heights of 10:30 AM. Not that time had much meaning anymore.

Peace chewed idly on a handful of berries from a small bag he had been collecting them in. He’d never been that knowledgeable on nature, but even he was sure that the Change had affected plants like it had people. Everything looked and tasted different. His general theory at the moment rested on the hope that if anything was poisonous then his new body could take it. So far that had proven to be the case.

Daisy stood nearby, tapping her foot agitatedly. Peace had made her power his phone well into the night, and even after he had fallen asleep, she had found little rest. Life had taught her not to be trusting. She didn’t trust Peace, she didn’t trust being out in the open, and she didn’t trust anybody else that might have been nearby. So she sat awake for most of the night, the stungun clasped firmly in her oversized hands.

“Are you going to sit here all day?” she asked.

Peace shrugged. “Maybe. Don’t have anywhere more pressing to be. Neither do you, so far as I can tell. You seem in a real rush to be going nowhere.”

“No. Here is nowhere. Anywhere else is somewhere. We’re sitting ducks out here. I need to find somewhere far away from people, somewhere safe where I can live in pea… err… live undisturbed.”

“Yeah? You want a little cottage out in the woods that’s nice and secluded. Sounds real nice. But hey, where are you going to find food? What about clothes? You any good at foraging, hunting, sewing, you know, anything useful for solo survival?”

Peace crammed the last few berries into his mouth and chewed them messily. “You see, our new powers are worthless out in the wilds. Here in the cities and towns though, we’re kings, or queens, maybe, I dunno. What good is your electric powers out there? In a city you are a god! Goddess! Whatever you damn well want to be! Don’t you get it? You’re strong now. You don’t have to run and hide anymore.”

The words had all the effect of bugs hitting the windscreen of a truck going at 80mph down a motorway. It apparently takes more than superpowers to overcome years of victimhood and self loathing. To Daisy, the world had changed, but she hadn’t. Though of course she had. Everything had.

“You can keep your delusions of grandeur. We’re in the bloody apocalypse, not some fantasy story.”

Peace stood up and threw his phone over to the woman. She clumsily caught it and the screen instantly lit up. Peace stood in front of her, tapping his foot impatiently as he waited for the phone to start up. 

It is a universally acknowledged fact that nothing is slower than a piece of technology when you need something from it quickly. Waiting for the phone to boot up every time he wanted to look at it was going to become annoying very quickly. Peace vaguely wondered if he could run some wires from Daisy’s body. The phone finally loaded and Peace tapped the screen a few times. Guitar and drums began to play from the speaker. He nodded then hopped up onto a log.

“Delusions and dreams are just opposite sides of the same coin,” Peace began in an attempt at an inspirational speech. “You have lived a fake life. The world forced you to be something that you didn’t want, tortured you for it and taught you to run and hide. I hated that old world. It was an utter bastard. But now it’s broken body is lying bleeding on the ground, just waiting for us to finish it off. 

“For people like you the world isn’t any scarier now. People wanted to abuse and kill you before and they want to abuse and kill you now. Well fuck that. Fuck them and the horses they ride in on. This is your time now. Don’t run from it.”

Peace had grown up watching movies where inspirational speeches were made and the group cheered or looked on with teary eyes. Daisy just sighed and shook her head. An important part of such characters was charisma or gravitas. Peace had the charisma of a puppy on cocaine. Sure, most people liked him, but they were also worried by his continued existence and felt pity as they wait for the OD to kick in while he dies in a pool of his own vomit.

“That’s all a little rich coming from you, a suicidal teen with no long term plans.”

“I prefer the term ‘Motivationally Challenged’ thank you. But that’s what you’re not understanding. I wanted to escape, just like you. I don’t have to anymore. Here I can just exist, and that’s really all I’ve ever wanted. Why complicate it with other things? So what say we head into town, rob a store and get you some nice clothes and some makeup. Treat yourself. It’s the end of the world afterall, that’s a pretty special occasion.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Crazy, lazy, and my motivations are hazy. So what say you, Daisy?” Peace rapped poorly. He turned his back and started to walk toward the town, singing offkey to himself. Daisy cursed then jogged after him, his phone still in her hand.

They walked back into town and made their way to the shell of a supermarket. The place was a mess. Shelves were smashed and the ground was littered with boxes and spilled liquids. A group of three men were scavenging through the debris, but after one look at Peace they quickly left.

“Bloody idiots,” Peace muttered, indicating the wreckage. “Society has broken down with all food chains falling apart, so what does some bright little prick do? He destroys food supplies for the shits and giggles. This is why we can’t have nice things.”

That phrase actually sums up humanity quite well. Human history is filled with death and destruction that all basically stem back to someone wanting something and making it bad for everyone in the process. One wonders what humanity could have achieved if they took a step back and worked together. But then, they wouldn’t be human, would they? It’s one of the species’ main quirks. 

If Peace could gaze back into the mists of time then he would have seen that two women had actually cut the expected lifespan of the locals by destroying a source of food. Being an ambiguous narrator makes me basically a god, so that’s no problem for me. You see, once the initial dust of the change had settled and the adrenaline faded, base human nature took the reins again. The looting became less about panicked survival and more about filling the void of impending doom with pretty things. It’s the human way.

So it was that we find two women looting the supermarket two days before Peace arrived. A nice dress caught both of their eyes, but what a tragedy, there was only one. The women fought, destroying the store, and the dress in the process.

Back in the present though, Peace picked his way through the store with the thinly veiled anger that men in a supermarket who are unable to find what they want can relate to. He hadn’t visited the store in over two years, and even without the destruction, nothing was displayed in the same area as it had been back then. 

He finally found what he wanted and called Daisy over. He was surrounded by makeup, most of which was somehow intact. The change had taken the concept of beauty down a few pegs, replaced instead by the concept of how nice a tin of baked beans actually was. 

Peace motioned towards the pile proudly. Daisy still looked unimpressed. 

“New world, new woman,” he stated. “Let’s ignore the fact that your dreams of transitioning have likely been dashed on the rocks like a newborn seal after society’s collapse. Embrace yourself. What have you got to lose at this point?”

“This isn’t about who I am. I’m not scared to embrace myself, If I was I’d have never come out in the first place. This is about survival. Pretty clothes and makeup aren’t going to help with that. Why do you care anyway?”

“I don’t.” Peace shrugged. “It’s just my personal philosophy. I value freedom. So many rules and expectations are stifling. I want to live my life how I want to live. If it doesn’t inconvenience me then I’ll help anyone find their freedom. Consider me a missionary for the Church of Not Giving a Fuck.”

As he spoke, he dug through the makeup until he found a tube of eyeliner. He was no stranger to makeup himself and began framing his eyes in black. As he dug through the supplies, applying and pocketing anything that took his fancy, Daisy simply watched. When he was finished he looked peak emo as though he was ready to join the Black Parade itself. 

“This is a waste of time,” Daisy snapped when Peace held up a selection of bottles and tubes.

“What even is time anymore? You’re in such a rush but you don’t have any destination or goal in mind. Life is for living, and all time is now is a measure of life. So either try and relax or tell me what you’d rather be doing?”

“I don’t know. All I want, all I’ve ever wanted, is to feel safe. Well, feel safe and feel comfortable in my own body, but that isn’t going to happen now.”

 “I’ve heard rumours of people gathering together in the south. It sounds like they’re trying to rebuild things. That’s as safe as you’re gonna get unless you learn to live off the land real quick. I’ll take you there. How’s that sound?”

“Why would you do that for me? You’ve already said you don’t care what I do.”

“I don’t care what I do either. Wander south or wander north, it makes no difference to me. There’s zero additional effort to help you out.”

“You just want access to your phone for a while longer, don’t you?”

“Absolutely.”

Daisy took a deep breath. “Okay. I’ll go south with you. But first, let me find some good makeup.”

Previous – Chapter 6. A Shelter of Hope.

Next – Chapter 8.

8. (Something Like Life)

~ Matthew Roys ~ Leave a comment

Something Like Life.

A vague notion that I’m alive nags at the corner of my brain. This quickly grows into a piercing pain that wars with the urge to slip back into blissful unconsciousness. I can hear bangs, each thud and clink driving icicles into my skull. 

It takes me a moment to unstick my eyes. The curtains are open, flooding my room with light. They’re never open. I don’t have time to wonder about it before an unholy roar tears into my head. 

Steph enters my room with the vacuum cleaner. The noise hurts. I try to retreat under the covers but the thin sheet does nothing to dull the assault. The pain makes it hard to collect my thoughts. 

“Jesus, Steph. Fuck off with that. You’re killing me.” 

She isn’t looking at me. I glance blearily around the room and it seems bare. My desk is empty and the usual piles of rubbish that litter the floor are missing.

“Hey, don’t mess with my stuff. Where’s my laptop?”

“Fuck you and fuck your laptop!” she shouts. “I spent all night defending you to Pete and when I get back I find you passed out from my wine! Time and time again I keep giving you chances that you throw away. You’re determined to drown yourself and I can’t let you pull me down with you anymore. I have a chance for a better life with Pete. I won’t let you ruin that!”

“Steph, I-”

“No more excuses! I want you out.”

The words hit me hard. She still isn’t looking at me. I try to form a response but the words seem to slip through my grip like sand. My whole body feels like lead. 

“Your stuff’s in that bag,” she says then leaves the room. 

I don’t move. Time ticks by, maybe ten minutes, maybe an hour. I feel sick. My legs still won’t support me. I blink and cast a slow glance around the room. I can see the bag Steph mentioned. It’s a Tesco bag for life. Now it contains my entire life. Over twenty years of life and I don’t even have enough possessions to fill it up completely. A handful of old clothes, a laptop, Xbox, a small screen TV, a handful of games and books, and dozens of bits of paper. Piled together as they are, it all looks so insignificant. 

The only things that haven’t been tidied away are the wall of post-it notes on the wall above my bed. It all feels like a bad dream. I know it isn’t. The list of failures stare down at me. Each one stings. I know what they say even though I can’t make out the bad handwriting from here. I suddenly can’t bear the thought of them.

Anger races to fill the emptiness. I stagger to my feet and tear at the notes. They fall down around me like snow. In seconds the wall is bare. I’m breathing heavily but the anger has drained away as quickly as it came, leaving behind an even deeper emptiness than before.

I start to collect them up, more to busy my hands than anything else. A part of me is aware that I should be crying, but there’s no threat of tears. I drop the notes into the bag and pick it up. It’s heavy and I know I won’t be able to carry it for long. The coarse handle is already uncomfortable to hold.

I’m too proud to beg Steph to change her mind. I’m pretty sure I could. Why would I though? The knowledge that she sided with a controlling dick like Pete over her own brother is more devastating than I can admit. It hurts. Through everything that we’ve been through, we always have each other’s backs. Maybe we don’t actually like each other, and maybe I’m not reliable, but we’re always there for one another. Apparently that doesn’t mean much in the face of a shitty relationship with a man who overcompensates for his small penis with bags of money and an ego the size of a student’s debts.

I never took my shoes off yesterday, so I waste no time swinging the door open and slamming it shut behind me without so much as a backwards glance. I’ll never give anyone the pleasure of seeing me upset or full of regret. Spite is about the only motivation that hasn’t been burned away from me.

It’s not until I’m near the city centre that I slow down and allow myself a moment to think. I have no home, no family, and no money. It wasn’t a great start. I consider my options and quickly realise that I don’t actually have many to consider. I reluctantly grab my phone and tap my contacts. 

“Hey Corgi. You fancy a drink?”

“What’s up?”

“What’s up? I just want a drink. Does something have to be up?”

“You never call me and you always sound extra confident when you’re upset. Conmen only ever con strangers.”

I can’t keep it up. I slump against a shop wall and close my eyes. 

“Steph kicked me out. I… I don’t know what to do.”

Corgi doesn’t answer straight away. I can feel him piecing together his response like a jigsaw puzzle.

“Sounds like you fucked up.”

“Big surprise, I know.”

“Shocking.”

“Yeah.”

“Right. I’ll see you at Spoons. My round.”

“Thanks, Corgi.”

“Don’t start getting sentimental on me. You’re a miserable bastard and don’t forget it, okay?”

“Yeah. See you soon, prick.”

“That’s more like it.”

I end the call. I want to laugh. I want to cry. I don’t do either.

Previous – 7. (Something Like Life)

Next – 9. (Something Like Life)

Chapter 5. An Electrifying Transition. (A Rubber Ducky at the End of the World)

~ Matthew Roys ~ Leave a comment

Peace gazed into the still water of the canal. It was brown and smelled, but compared to the smell coming from Peace himself, it was the lesser of two evils. He hadn’t had a wash since the night before the Change. It had rained on the previous day, but he was beginning to doubt the benefits of his natural shower.

His clothes were in a bad state and his hair was slick with grease. The bandages that wrapped around his arms were yellowed and torn. All in all, he looked like something the cat had dragged in from a minefield.

He stripped then unwound the bandages before climbing down metal rungs set into the stone into the water below. It was cold, but then Peace was numb to most sensations so it didn’t affect him much. He scrubbed at his skin and the bundle of clothes, splashing around noisily as he sang out of tune to himself.

These past two weeks had been the best of his life. The gray cloud that had hung over his soul for the past few years had faded. There were no expectations placed upon him and there was no stress about money or finding a career. He didn’t have to fake being nice to people and he didn’t have to do anything that he didn’t want. This was true freedom.

Lots of people had tried to attack him at first, but word of the black haired youth with wrapped up arms had spread quickly and people had learned to keep their distance from him. Now his life was simple. Pure survival was his only concern and that was almost too easy with his newfound strength and endurance. 

Only a few minutes had passed when his bath was interrupted by nearby shouts. He tried to ignore them but they showed no signs of going away.

“Damn it!” he hissed angrily. “As fun as it is, I wanted five minutes without having to smash someone through a wall. Inconsiderate pricks.”

Peace grabbed one of the rungs and launched himself straight out of the water and onto the grass with a single movement. Not even thinking to dress, he stormed off in the direction of the voices. The commotion was coming from an adjacent bungalow where a group of men could be seen through the front window. 

Peace kicked the door open. It flew off of its hinges and through several walls before exiting the building on the other side. The men all turned to see the intruder. Peace took in the scene before him. Six men stood around a seventh person with an assortment of makeshift weapons. 

In stories, the character’s eyes, the narrator’s eyes and the reader’s eyes can all see very different things. What Peace saw was a long haired man in a dress stood in the centre. An effeminate man, sure, but a man none the less. As an omniscient presence, I can delve deeper into the scene and say that, despite what evidence her eyes suggested, this person fervently believes with her whole heart and soul that she is a woman. As I have stated before, personal belief usually supersedes universal fact, so who am I as a voice in your head to argue with her?

“Six against one doesn’t sound like very sporting odds,” Peace said into the tense quiet. “Unless I am the one. If you want to fight me then I’d call in some friends if I were you.”

“Stay out of this!” the woman growled determinedly. “This is my fight. I will not be pushed around any longer!” Her voice was not right either but Peace couldn’t quite put his finger on why.

Peace stared at her for a moment then shrugged and slumped into an over-stuffed armchair.

“Go ahead then. Put on a good show.”

In this time the men had not reacted. Two of them turned back to the woman while the others watched Peace cautiously. Having a naked man barge in on them then sit himself down to watch had not been a part of their expectations for how this scene was going to go down. Peace simply watched with an amused expression. 

The woman gripped something tightly in her hand. Peace observed her curiously. Weapons didn’t do much good since the Change. He couldn’t see what it was but knives struggled to cut through human skin and blunt objects could barely make a bruise, let alone break bones. Whatever it was, it looked too small to do much of anything.

“This is our place now, freak,” spat one of the men. 

He grabbed her shoulder and made to shove her. Her hand darted out into his ribs and there was a flash of light and a crackling sound. The man’s entire body convulsed and shook violently. He fell to the floor in a twitching heap.

This sparked events into action. All of the men jumped towards her. She jabbed out with the small object repeatedly, filling the room with flashes of light. The sheer number of opponents still overwhelmed her. She took several hits but kept fighting, using her nails and feet as well as the tiny weapon.

Peace was pretty impressed with the display. She had zero fighting skill but refused to go down. Without the device she would have been beaten quickly but with it she was actually winning. This just made Peace all the more curious.

The last man spasmed then fell. Covered in her own blood and panting, the woman staggered away from the pile of unconscious men and supported herself on a nearby table.

Peace appeared at her side. “Not bad, though it was over too quickly. Where’s the fun if you knock everyone out with a single jab?”

“Fun?” she muttered. “I was fighting for my life.”

“Yeah. Heart pounding, adrenaline flowing and everything on the line. That is how you feel! That is a real thrill.”

“You’re mental.”

Peace just grinned insanely at her.

She shook her head. “Who exactly are you?”

“Me? I’m a nobody. Peace is my name though.”

“Peace?”

“Yeah. Hippy parents. Named my sister Love. I think that I came off easy. Now it’s my turn to ask a question. What the hell did you do to them?”

The woman opened her hand and turned it toward Peace while keeping it far enough away from him that he couldn’t easily grab it. It was a small, black stungun.

“Hold up a second,” Peace began. “Electronics don’t work any more. Trust me, I tried. Life without music was unbearable until I discovered the sweet sounds of carnage. How can your stungun still be working?”

“Haven’t you noticed that people have developed more powers than just being really strong and fast?”

“Not really.”

“How are you still alive when you are this ignorant of what’s going on around you?”

Peace thought about this. “I punch things really hard until they leave me alone.”

The woman sighed. “Look, people can do things now that we never could before. I can make technology work. I don’t know how but it’s like any electronic that is touching me becomes a part of my body. I can control and power them. Our bodies are stronger now but they seem weak to electricity. I’m not sure why but electric shocks hit people really hard now.

“So let’s say that I find a phone with some good music on it…”

“It would only work in my hands. I can’t just get something working then hand it back.”

“Crap. So you’re useless.”

“Excuse me?” the woman exclaimed, affront in her voice. “Is that it? I can’t charge your bloody phone so you no longer care at all about me? You have no intention of even asking my name?”

“Nope.”

 The woman’s face was becoming flushed with indignation. 

“Well I’m going to tell you anyway! It’s Daisy! Remember it! I’ve found out humanity’s new weakness and have, to my knowledge, sole access to use it. I will not be pushed anymore!”

Peace ignored most of what she had said. He looked at her quizzically. 

“Daisy?”

“That’s right. You got a problem with it?”

“No. Only, Daisy is a girl’s name and you kinda look and sound like a man. No offense.”

Daisy clenched her fist around the stungun. “Saying ‘no offense’ doesn’t make something not offensive. I am a woman locked away in a man’s body. Are you a bigoted jerk who is going to take issue with that?”

Peace shrugged again. “Not really. It’s just weird is all.”

“Weird? Coming from the guy with scars all across your arms. Self inflicted by the look of them. Cutting yourself up to feel. Attempted suicide too, right?”

“Yeah. I guess you’re right. I am pretty weird. You know what though, I see it as a badge of honour. I’m weird and I’m proud of it. My insanity keeps me sane and my pain brings relief. I am not normal and never want to be. To be normal is to be boring, to be part of the 99%. I am me and you are you and nobody can take that away from us.”

Daisy lowered the stungun and dropped onto a wooden stool. She didn’t know whether to punch Peace or hug him. She had spent the weeks since the Change hiding wherever she could. She had been homeless before the Change and had plenty of enemies for no other reason than what she was. She had escaped most but there were always people ready to lash out at that which they did not understand. This bungalow had only been her home for two days but now it looked time to move on.

“What’s your plan then, kid?” she asked him as she began to gather up supplies. “Got a family to go back to? A place to go?”

“I’m just wandering around. I checked out my house but it was empty. No idea where the folks could be,” he answered through a long yawn.

“Don’t you want to find them?”

“Nah. I’m enjoying this life. They’ll be fine without me. Or already dead. Either way means I’m good to just chill wherever. What about you?”

Daisy thought hard about her answer. Her general plan had never progressed beyond survive.

“I’ll find somewhere new to hole up in. It’s worked alright up to now.”

“It’s gonna be dark soon,” Peace observed. “You won’t have much time to look around. I have a shelter in the woods if you want somewhere to camp for the night.”

“Really?” Nobody had shown her any compassion since the Change. If she had a kind word thrown her way then that was a blessing but here was someone offering her a roof over her head and some company, if only for the night.

“I’d be grateful. I haven’t had a real conversation with anyone for months. Though I’d appreciate it more if you put some clothes on first.”

Peace offered her a grin. “Cool. I still have my phone on me. You get my amazing company and I get some music. Everybody’s happy.”

“God damn it…”

Previous – Chapter 4. A Flock of Faithful.

Next – Chapter 6. A Shelter of Hope.

4. (Something Like Life)

~ Matthew Roys ~ Leave a comment

Something Like Life.

We finish up our drinks then head out into the cold gloom of the British evening. Corgi is directing us using a map on his phone, and leads us in the wrong direction three times before I snatch the phone from him and lead us the wrong direction twice. Larry ends up loading his own map, and in a matter of minutes we arrive at the right address.

It’s a terrace house with a small, gravel front garden that’s overgrown with weeds. I can already hear shitty rave music pumping out through the windows and wonder how much the neighbours currently hate our host. Then again, it was a street of mostly student digs, so a quick invitation to anyone close enough to be disturbed might be enough to avoid trouble. It’s what a courteous person would do. Frankly, I’d just tell anyone with a complaint to go fuck themselves, but then, I don’t like people and people don’t like me, so the issue of social gatherings never really became an issue.

Larry goes to knock on the door but I stop him.

“Jesus, dude. This is a young woman’s party. What’s she going to think when she looks through that little peeper there and sees your ugly mug. She’ll be like, ‘Why is there a bald forty year old paedophile knocking on my door? He must have the wrong address. I’m eighteen and the nursery is on the next street over’. Let Corgi do it. He radiates pity.”

“I’m twenty four.”

“Look, birth isn’t kind to all of us.”

“Why am I friends with you?”

“I always assumed it was because nobody else wanted to be.”

We are interrupted by Corgi giving the door a polite knock. I shake my head disappointedly. 

“Corgi, you hear that deep bass music, right? That thing that sounds like a giant spider that’s high on acid and is trying to toss off with all eight arms at once? Your love taps aren’t going to cut through that. Be assertive!”

Corgi gives me a look of uncertainty then knocks slightly harder.

“No! Like this.”

I saunter up to the door and slam my forehead into it with enough force to make the frame wobble, repeating the action three times in a row. I can see stars, and a dull ache tells me that it had probably been really painful. Still, I can hear someone on the other side of the door. I step back and allow the full force of Corgi’s puppy dog eyes to dominate the scene. 

The door opens and a woman stares at us. She is pretty unremarkable. Brown hair, brown eyes, a few years younger than us. It’s clear from her expression that she has no idea who we are, and, to be honest, I realise that I have no idea what Tink’s brother’s girlfriend’s cousin is called, let alone what she looks like.

“Madaline, happy birthday!” 

Toto greets her with a characteristic smile that somehow seems genuine. I don’t know how he does it, but somehow Toto’s smile is like a Swiss army knife of emotion without ever seeming to change. 

“We are Johnathan’s friends. Here.” 

He reaches into the plastic bag he had been carrying and passes her a bottle of almost fluorescent pink liquid.

“Are the Miller brothers here already?”

“Yeah.” The girl nods as she accepts the alcohol, returning Toto’s smile drunkenly. “They’re in the kitchen. Come on in.”

She steps further into the house and beckons us inside. The place is already packed tight with people, the smells of sweat and alcohol hanging thick in the air. Sex, drugs, and uninspired auto-tune. I’d forgotten how much I hated student parties, but then free alcohol is free alcohol.

Madaline pointed us in the direction of the kitchen. She returns to the living room where she immediately begins to swig from the bottle Toto had given her. I watch her thrust her body around in a rough approximation of dance. I see a little part of myself in her, and have to shoot down the sexual innuendo that pops instantly into my head. It’s in the eyes. In far too many of the eyes around the room. They don’t want to have a good time. They just want to escape their own meaningless lives for a few hours. It’s like an anaesthetic. Numbness is always preferable to pain.

It isn’t hard to spot Tink. The kitchen is tiny and Tink is a good foot taller than almost everybody else. His younger brother, Tommy, or Po as I like to call him when he isn’t around to hurt me, is standing at his side. Po is five years his junior, but is already a tank of a man. Give it another few years and he’ll have outgrown his brother, which is exactly why I try to stay on his good side.

I ignore them for a moment as I make a b-line to the fridge and pull out a few cans for everyone. I hand them around. Then, my act of charity done for the day, I begin to drink.

“Have you guys heard the good news?” Tink asks us as we try to find space to stand. He knows we haven’t, and if we had we wouldn’t have listened, but Corgi feigns interest and spurs on the conversation. 

“Tommy has passed his training. You’re now looking at one of Her Majesty’s finest.”

We offer a round of congratulations and raise our drinks in Tommy’s honour, not that we needed the excuse. Tommy nods his head at us and smiles, but his eyes always seem cold. I can never get a read on the kid. I can’t help but feel that he looks down on us, and honestly I can’t blame him. He’s got brains, looks like a Greek god, and has a solid career path planned out. His dream of being a soldier is about as far from our drunken, petty lives that you can think of. And it isn’t a dream anymore. The kid is going places. The places he’s going are active war zones though, so who’s really the fool?

That said, Po’s a sound lad. He never minds when we tag along to events, and he buys me the odd drink. Tink almost worships him despite being the older brother. I think he sees the shit that everyone else is sinking in and knows that Po has the best chance of escaping it. Maybe it’s too late for Tink, but he’ll move mountains to keep his brother’s head above the torrid brown waters.

“So I guess you’ll be heading off soon?” Larry says. “On to bigger and better things.” 

“Yeah. I’ll be leaving next month. Probably won’t be back down here for a while.” Po answers in his usual slow, methodical tone. He offers us a small smile that doesn’t seem to fit his already intimidating features. “You never know, I might come back and find some of you being productive members of society. Though I’d hoped for that when I went of for basic training.”

“Mate, you went to Richmond, not Narnia,” I tell him dryly. 

“Forget all that,” Corgi begins. “This is cause for a celebration. Let’s drink to Tommy’s future, and party it up as it might be the last chance we get for a while.”

It’s rare, but once in a blue moon, Corgi does speak sense. I drain my drink and return to the fridge for a refill, but the only cans left are some indie dark ale. If things get desperate then they’ll do, but my tastes are generally sweeter. 

I slip through the crowd in search of a more favourable drink and spot a few bottles of spirits on a table in the cramped living room. The music is physically assaulting me almost as much as the tightly packed mass of swaying bodies and thrashing limbs. It takes me far too long to cover the short distance to the table. At least the selection of alcohol makes the effort worth it. I reach out for a bottle of Jack but someone else beats me to it.

I trace the offending arm up to the smug face of the birthday girl herself. It takes me a few moments to rake my brain for her name. Madaline. That’s the one. She takes a big swig straight from the bottle then hands it across to me. Despite everything, I don’t usually have my drinks neat, but I wasn’t about to back down and be beaten by a younger woman. I follow suit and drink deeply, maintaining eye contact the whole time.

“So who are you again?” she asks as I drink.

“Me?” I start, trying hard not to gag. “I’m nobody. Going nowhere. Doing nothing. A leech hanging onto the charity of young Po.”

“Po?”

“You know, big guy with a buzzcut. Tink’s brother.”

“Tink?”

I realise I’m getting nowhere. More alcohol is needed for this whole socialisation malarkey. I match the thought to the deed and take another drink of whisky and point through to the kitchen where Tink and Po were clearly visible over everyone else.

“Them two lanky cunts. The younger one is Po, er, Tommy. His lass knows you or something. The little fat one is Corgi, the scary black fellow is Toto and then the one who looks like he has a restraining order on him is Larry. To be honest, you don’t need to know, or remember, any of them.”

She laughs then stares at me with that strange intensity that comes from far too much alcohol. 

“Your friends all have weird names.”

“Well, they’re all weird people, to be fair.” 

I shift uncomfortably under her stare and have another swig before offering her the bottle. She takes it and starts drinking.

“I like giving people names,” I say absently. “It’s like with pets, isn’t it. Names give a sense of ownership or something. They’re utter fuckups, but they’re my utter fuckups, you know?” 

God, what am I saying? The alcohol must be hitting me harder than I thought. All that sentimental shit is a sign that the very immediate future will contain vomit and blackouts.

“They’re good names,” Madaline laughs, oblivious to my dread.

“Bollocks they are,” I snap. “Tink is a big fucker who was wearing a purple shirt when I first met him. I thought he looked like Tinky-Winky from The Teletubbies. His real name is Dean. How Tink stuck I’ll never know. Corgi is called Chris Wolff and wanted to be called Wolfie, but I’ll be damned if that little shit gets such a cool name. He’s small, fat, and overly excitable, so sticking with the canine comparisons, Corgi was really the only pick. Toto’s name is even worse. He’s called Alexander Campbell, but he’s black, and so is Dorethy’s dog in The Wizard of Oz. Then there is the song Africa by the Band Toto. He isn’t even African. The bastard is of Jamaican descent. All of the names are awful.”

Madaline seems genuinely amused by my ranting. Poor girl. I blame the cocktail of poisons she’s been drinking. She hands me the bottle back then steps closer to me, almost tripping over her own feet in the process.

“I like them. How come you never gave the other a cute nickname? That Larry?”

I blink at her slowly, my mind trying to process her question.

“Larry is his nickname.”

“It is?”

“It is.”

I think about it for a moment. 

“Huh. I don’t actually know what his real name is. I never asked. He just looked like a Larry.”

“You don’t know his name? How long have you been friends?

“Er, six years I think.”

This was apparently hilarious. She drapes herself across me as she laughs, as though she needs my body to keep herself standing. I’m barely standing myself. It affords me a nice view down her top, which I quickly try to ignore. She notices my glance and tries to grin seductively. It comes off more goofy than sexy, but then I’m in no position to judge. I smile back and she gives me a subtle little flash of her chest. It’s as subtle as a sledgehammer in reality, but I’m not complaining.

“This’ll be a big mistake.”

“What isn’t?”

I consider her response and shrug. She isn’t wrong.

“Well, when you put it like that…”

Previous – 3.

Next – 5.

1. (Something Like Life)

~ Matthew Roys ~ Leave a comment

Something Like Life.

I watch as the world passes by without me. From my perch atop the old Record Ridgway factory, I can see for miles across the city. The void is calling me. It’s the only thing that ever does. 

I’m just high enough to trigger that strange human urge to jump, but low enough to fear the fall would only shatter my bones. Cold stone and corrugated sheeting surround me, rust, broken glass, and thick moss covering everything like a post-apocalyptic botanical garden of abandonment. 

I sit on the concrete lip and admire the frescoes of graffiti that punctuate the 1930s architecture. Ninety odd years doesn’t seem too long a time, all things considered, but the view from here has changed drastically in that time. So has the world. The men who worked their trade in the factory below were long gone. My granddad had been one of them. The company was sold to an American firm, and all production moved to China. Sheffield Steel couldn’t hold a candle to Chinese slave labour apparently.

Despite the brooding figure I like to imagine I strike, I’m no vigilante or prowler of the night. In fact, it’s eight in the morning on a cold Tuesday, and I’m hunched up in a little ball with a pounding headache after drinking a full bottle of Jack the night before. Why choose a derelict factory? Why not? I find it a good place to reflect. The factory, like me, is little more than a ghost. 

My manuscript had been rejected by every agent again, and my healthy coping mechanism had of course been to resort to excessive levels of alcohol. I’m pretty sure that I’d decided to kill myself as the weight of my failure pulled me down into the dark depths of depression, but I’d got distracted at some point by drunken thoughts and ended up building a Lego house when I found an old box of the stuff while searching for a rope. Feeling groggy and strangely reflective, I’d wandered up to the factory when I woke and couldn’t fall back to sleep again. I always end up here when I need to think. Maybe I’m here to contemplate life. Maybe I’m here to end it.

Time passes in erratic waves up here, as though the weathered stone is caught between two conflicting presents. Look down and the world is a hectic kaleidoscope of colours and movement as thousands of people go about their meaningless lives. Look up and all is a slow churn of blue, white, and grey as clouds creep across the skyline, stretching and shifting their shapes subtly, almost unnoticeably. 

As someone who spends far too much time staring at the clouds, and also as someone with what is often insultingly called a philosophical nature, you’d imagine that I’d wax lyrical about the sky. Many poets had. But then, at the end of the day, what even is the sky? A big old pile of nothing. I wandered lonely as a cloud… Ha! Sure. This is England. Every cloud and their mother are up there partying it up. A British cloud wouldn’t know loneliness if loneliness hijacked a plane and flew straight through it.

This mess of idle thoughts is pretty common. Welcome to my mind. Watch the low door frame as you enter and don’t bother wiping your feet as the place is a shithole already. To the right we have alcohol dependence, and down the corridor you’ll find self-deprecating humour and an empty room where I’m told the emotions should have been installed, but nobody ever got around to it. There are cracks in the walls big enough to slide your hand through, and the roof is held on by duct tape. It may not be much, but it’s where my thoughts call home.

“Now then, Quasimodo! Get down here before that ugly mug of yours puts some poor gargoyle out of the job.” 

I sigh, consider ignoring the voice for a moment, then glance down. Corgi wouldn’t go away because of something as simple as me ignoring his very existence. This is a shame, since the cold terror of the void is usually better company than the pudgy excuse for a man that has invaded my sanctuary. 

“That’s not what your mum was saying last night.”

“Really? Mum jokes? I expected more wit from you. Has the drinking finally killed off your last brain cells? Anyway, my mum’s dead, so joke’s on you.”

“Decomposition produces a surprising amount of warmth and the silence of the grave is a welcome change from the usual incessant chatter.”

“Cheery fucker, aren’t you?”

“You know you love me for it.”

“Someone’s got to. If I stop talking to you then nothing would stop you throwing yourself off there.”

“You’ve quite the ego. Who do you think drives me to come up here in the first place?”

I contemplate just how much of a bastard Corgi is as I edge myself from my perch and begin the short journey through the inner ruins of the once proud unit. The tools here had been world famous, the workers well respected, and now it is empty and half flooded, a haven for street artists and urban explorers. 

It doesn’t take long until I slip out of the factory and squeeze through a hole in the metal fence near where Corgi is waiting for me. We hate each other. It’s really the best foundation for a friendship you can have. It takes effort to hate, so it only makes sense to reserve it for people you can just about tolerate.

I take a final look at the shell of former industrial glory. You can almost see the shadows of the workers, ghosts of a dead age. I find them pleasant company. They don’t buy me drinks though, so I have to turn my attention to less favourable souls like Corgi and the lads.

We leave the factory and weave through the streets until we reach the city centre. A fine drizzle is in the air, but that’s nothing surprising. The cold bites at me. It’s nice to feel something. As we walk, we trade small talk, mostly about video games. It’s all we ever really talk about. Most other topics spiral towards depression with surprising speed. Politics, the environment, relationships, careers, or aspirations, all of them are sensitive subjects these days.

The Bible-bashers are out in force today, their signs and stands filled with booklets cluttering the already cluttered pavement. One is set up next to a homeless man. They each ignore the other’s existence. I don’t really get it. I’m no God botherer, but my general understanding is that kindness and charity were the foundations of faith. Yet these guys stand around all day with their signs, oblivious to the real world suffering around them. Give food to the poor, raise money for the homeless, lobby for better education. Hell, fuck off abroad for some charity or other helping out developing nations. Do anything. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I don’t do anything either. But unlike them, I don’t pretend to care. 

Corgi grabs one of the booklets as we pass and leafs through it. He stops at every image of a woman and holds it up for me to see.

“Her?”

“Too old.”

“Her?” 

I consider the picture with the same scrutiny that a fine art dealer would examine a Da Vinci painting. “Passable. Good body. Weird eyes though.”

“Ooh, what about this one?”

“I’d nail that one like Christ on the cross.”

Corgi laughs then slings the booklet into a bin as we pass. With enough boredom, you turn everything into a game. The more bored you are, the shittier the game. Casual sexism roulette is an easy one. Devalue others because you don’t value yourself.

I cheer up a little as we reach our destination. Nothing quite warms the soul like a sign for a J.D. Wetherspoon. I pull open the door and bow theatrically to Corgi as I let him past. The pub is quiet this time of day. Huddled close to the bar are a handful of older men, mostly ex-labourers of one kind or another, who sit nursing pints of John Smiths. They show up every day at nine o’ clock on the dot when alcohol can be served, and stay there for most of the day. This place is the closest thing to a home they have, and it’s a sight mirrored in every pub across the country.

Slightly further back than the pissheads are the old biddies sipping their fifth refillable coffee and gnawing at a slice of toast that they had started eating an hour ago. This is another universal constant. 

A young girl is manning the bar. She looks slightly haggard. My expert eye knows a hangover when it sees one. Probably a student. The faces of the bar staff change every time I visit, though they all have a slightly worn quality to them. The key is to mix up which pubs you visit on a regular basis so none of them can get used to your destructive lifestyle and feel pity for you. Variety is the spice of life after all. That’s where the old pissheads went wrong. They became part of the furniture and the staff know exactly how sad their lives are. When your eventual funeral is made up of more Spoonies than actual family and friends, you know you fucked up somewhere.

“I’ll have a BBQ burger and a vodka tonic,” I tell her in a voice pitched low enough to ease her headache. Her eyes seem to thank me. It always pays to be nice, at least when it takes absolutely zero effort to do so. 

“Dude, it’s twenty past nine in the morning,” Corgi says accusingly. His voice makes the girl wince. He has that effect on people.

“Yeah, you’re right. Make it a double.”

“Burger or vodka?”

“Yes.”

“Double vodka tonic isn’t covered in the deal.”

“Better throw in a cider while you’re at it then, please.”

She shrugs and taps away slowly on the screen. Corgi orders a large mixed grill, then we take our drinks and settle into a corner table as far from anyone else as possible. I quickly down the vodka then nurse the cider as we wait for the food.

“So how’s the writing going?” Corgi asks me. 

“Well, I’m sat in a Wetherspoons drinking before ten. My spirits are clearly high.”

“Nobody liked your story then?”

“Fuck if I know. That knowledge requires communication. What I get is the cold silence of jack shit. But hey, it was only two years’ hard work. No real loss, right?”

“I don’t know why you keep trying. You clearly aren’t very good at it.”

I’m torn between dry sarcasm and trying to defend myself. I could explain that agents receive hundreds of submissions every week, but that sounds like an excuse even as I think of the words. I’m not sure I even believe it either. Maybe I am just not good enough. That would be more fitting with my usual MO. Sarcasm it is then.

“Tell me again how your apprenticeship went. You know, the one that would guarantee you a job for life? Oh, that’s right! You did unskilled grunt labour for pennies, then got let go the second they’d have to start paying you minimum wage.”

“Point taken.” Corgi looks deflated, and I almost feel sorry for him, but then the food arrives and his emotions instantly bounce skyward. He tucks in and I have to respect his ability to devour steak without wasting time on such menial things as chewing. I return to the bar a few times and start to reach that perfect state where time ceases to have meaning. It’s only when a shadow passes over me that I really look up from my latest drink. 

Three men of varying shades of ugliness are standing over us. In generous terms, they are what could loosely be described as the rest of ‘The Lads’. Tink is a tall fellow with that wide kind of build that isn’t fat or muscular, just kind of there. Larry is scrawny with a shaved head and a sense of fashion that screamed neo Nazi, even though he is soft as a brush and listens to shitty teen pop, while Toto is dark skinned with dreadlocks and an easy smile.

“Are you boys ready for tonight?” Larry asks, clapping his hands together.

“Yesh,” I answer. I may be drunk. Fuck if I know. A drunk guy should be the last person you trust to make a judgement call about anything.

Toto gathers up my empties and shakes his head, but a soft smile still plays across his lips. He’s always a glowing pillar of positivity. 

“It isn’t eleven yet and you’ve had three doubles,” he tells me, as if I didn’t know that already.

“And a cider,” I add proudly. “You said we’d do pre-drinks.”

“Yes. An hour or so before we go out. At ten. PM.”

“PM, AM, easy mistake to make. You’re still going to have a drink, right?”

Toto’s smile grows. “Of course. My round. Though, I think pints will do us for now.”

“Whatever you say, mate.”

I settle further into my seat as Tink and Larry join us around the table. Corgi chats with them about any old bollocks. I’m not really listening. A war is raging inside my skull, the alcohol fueling both sides like the Americans at the beginning of every war. On one hand I am drunk and surrounded by friends with a party on the horizon. On the other, I’m drunk and fucking miserable. Part of me wants to brood, the other part wants to laugh. My body compromises by hiccuping then slamming my head onto the table.

“You have bad coping methods, my friend,” Toto tells me as he returns with the drinks. This doesn’t stop him from handing me my cider though. Toto’s good like that.

“We can’t all have your cheerful disposition,” I say without raising my head. The words come out mumbled.

“We each hold the key to our own happiness.” 

Toto speaks with a calm assurance. The sentence holds warmth and confidence, enough to convince you that the world wasn’t really all that bad. 

This time I do laugh. 

“All I seem to be holding is cheap alcohol, so maybe you’re right.”

“You are a clever man. Don’t beat yourself up. The world is all too eager to do it for you. Keep trying. All you need is a little luck, and luck is nine tenths probability. Try enough and you have to get lucky eventually.”

I can’t help but to chuckle. Toto is that rare breed known as an optimist. To him, the glass is always half full, even if it’s being smashed over his head. Not that anyone would dare to try that. He has an intimidating presence that’s at odds to his nature, kind of like Larry, except Larry is as fearsome as a wet bit of bog roll, while I have no doubt that Toto really can fuck a man up. With him and Tink, we lesser mortals have a nice shield between us and any threats that our drunken antics might incur on any given night.

“I wish I had your optimism, mate. Maybe it’s easier to be happy when you’re a cheery bastard. I’m preconditioned to see the worst in everything. Frankly, I think you’re a naive idiot living in a dream world of rainbows and ignorance. But hey, you know what they say: Ignorance is bliss.”

“You are wrong,” Toto says, his eyes suddenly hardening in some undefinable way. “You take the easy path. To be negative is simple. It’s optimism that takes real strength. You call it naive, but to see pain and think you are powerless to make others’ lives better is what’s truly naive.”

We all stare at him wide-eyed. Even I find myself speechless, and that’s pretty damn uncommon. It’s Larry who finally speaks up after taking a large gulp of his hipster real ale.

“Bloody hell, you two. Without drawing the obvious race card, why’s it always have to be black and white? Middle of the road. That’s where most things live.”

“Why would anything live in the middle of the road?” I snap. “Bloody stupid place to live. You’d get hit by a fucking car, dickhead.”

Toto’s eyes soften again and he breaks into a booming laugh that instantly lifts the mood of the room. Well, our moods anyway. The crones scowl at him with that thinly veiled racism that English grannies have mastered. 

Tink drains the last of his lager and stands up. Watching him stand is like watching a deckchair unfold. 

“Right, lads! That’s me done. I have to pick up Tommy then run errands before getting ready. I’ll see you all tonight, yeah?”

“Yeah, yeah!” Corgi chips in, his metaphorical tail wagging excitedly. “A good party is just what we need. Some drinks and some pretty girls. It’ll help us all forget the shitshow that is our lives. It’s going to be great!”

I don’t even have the energy to stamp on his heart and tell him no women will spend a second in his company. The alcohol is hitting me hard now. I’ve passed the equilibrium and am on the rough side of the curve. I try to stand but can’t.

“Agreed!” I nod. “I just need to cool off for a bit first. Anyone fancy carrying me home? It seems my legs have forgotten how to be legs.”

Tink and Toto exchange glances. Finally Tink shrugs. “Fine. Just don’t throw up down my collar again.”

Next – 2.