Sheffield

15. (Something Like Life)

~ Matthew Roys ~ Leave a comment

Something Like Life.

By way of congratulations, Toto has invited me to one of his Mama Jaques famous home cooked dinners. The old Jamaican woman is a goddess in the kitchen, and I’m never one to turn down a free meal, so of course I accepted, even if I don’t feel that debasing myself deserved much of a congratulations. 

Toto lives with his Mama Jaques. As he tells it, his parents worked away a lot, and one day just never came back. He was only a little kid at the time, and he’d lived with his maternal grandma since before he could remember, so he never seemed too fazed by the matter. But then that’s Toto down to a T. It could be Armageddon and he’d still be there with his smile telling us all to look on the bright side and focus on the good in the world. 

Their terrace house is tiny. I knock and wait. Music is playing inside. It always is. The smell of food fills the air. The place should make me angry. It’s a run down, almost forgotten neighbourhood filled with immigrants from across the world and the dregs of society too poor to find somewhere better, yet somehow the place radiates homeliness. The neighbours hold regular parties and exchange food, and children play on the streets without a care in the world. Every inch of the limited space is filled with passion and love.

Toto opens the door and greets me with a big bearhug. I indulge him for a moment then push him away with a laugh.

“Just because you’re providing food doesn’t mean you can have your way with me. I’m a virtuous flower after all.”

“Of course you are,” he laughs as he ushers me into the house. “Anyway, it is Mama who will have her way with you. I wouldn’t want to get in the way of her affection.”

As if on cue, Mama Jaques bustles down the corridor towards me like a guided missile. Resistance is futile. She has me wrapped up in her meaty arms in a heartbeat. Despite her age I’m confident she could still crush me if she was so inclined.

“Aww, look at you, my boy. What are they feeding you? Naught but skin and bones. I’ll make sure to give you an extra large serving. Get some meat on those twigs you call bones.”

“You insult me in the kindest of ways,” I manage to wheeze as I wiggle from her grasp. She hits me playfully across the arm with the force of a lumberjack’s axe.

“It’s no insult to tell the truth, boy. I keep telling Alexander the same thing. A girl wants some meat to hold on to while hugging. Look at you both. You could have a girl’s eye out on those collar bones. Ah, but forget that. Come in, come in. Get yourself settled.”

She leads us through to the kitchen. It is the beating heart of the house. The smell of spice fills the warm air. A small table surrounded by mismatched chairs is nestled into the already tight space. Nik-naks crowd the shelves between all of the usual kitchen clutter, and the tinny sound of the old radio washes over everything like a unifying cosmic force. Even when she isn’t cooking, the kitchen is Mama Jaques’ sanctuary. Her sovereign domain.

“So, Alexander was telling me you got a job with a charity. You are helping to spread good in the world.”

“I don’t know about that,” I mutter. “He was probably very kind and failed to mention that I parade around town in a liver costume handing out leaflets.”

She shakes her head at me, not looking up from the chicken she is busy preparing. “What does that matter, you daft boy. A job is a job. My first job was scrubbing toilets. Lord did I see some sights there. But the work needed doing, and if not me then I’d be some other poor unfortunate soul. I experienced racism too. Of course I did. But it was also my culture that allowed me to follow my dreams and work with food. I mean no offence, but you full Brits have no wits for food. Some might even call it an affront.”

“I can see where Alex gets his optimism from.”

“Optimism is just words. Dear Alexander has too much British in him. You all speak the words and go through the motions, but you lack the passion for it. Sometimes people need a good smack to make them see sense. Counselling is all fine and dandy, but a well meaning hand can cut through to the core of an issue in ways words never can. 

“Violence doesn’t solve anything, Mama,” Toto cuts in. “You taught me that yourself.”

“Violence is a fool’s game. But violence is more than an action. It’s an intention. If you love someone and have to slap some sense into their head, then that’s one heart reaching out to another with love, not hate.”

I can’t help but laugh at that. It makes sense in its own way. Mama Jaques’ world feels so simple. Everything as black and white, good or bad. I like it, but I’m all too aware that the modern world is too complicated for such simplicity to exist anymore. 

The song changes to a catchy dance number and any seriousness is lost as Mama Jaques begins to dance and sing along, throwing on herbs and grabbing plates to the rhythm of the music. Her words turn to a chesty cough without warning and she is forced to hold onto her knees and wheeze for several seconds.

“Getting old is fun and all, but it has its drawbacks,” she finally manages to say as her breathing steadies. “I remember dancing all night. The music would take me and hours would slip by like shooting stars. Now one good song can do me in. Enjoy your youth while you can, my boys. I can’t bear the thought of you looking back in your senior years and having no cherished memories to hold on to. One day memories will be all you have left.”

The moment strikes me as incredibly sombre, but Mama Jaques has already moved on, humming to herself as she plates up the food. She ushers us to the seats and presents us with a chicken curry that makes my stomach rumble hungrily at the smell of it. 

“Let this be a fresh start for you. A positive change,” she announces as she grabs a small bottle of Jamaican rum and pours out a drink for us all. “There’s so many excellent ‘F’s in life, but let this meal be for good food, good friends, family, and the future.”

I raise my glass and drink to that.

Previous – 14.

Next – 16.

13. (Something Like Life)

~ Matthew Roys ~ Leave a comment

Something Like Life.

Life is strange here. I should absolutely hate it. No internet, no alcohol, and no company other than an old lady. But here I am, a few days in, finding the whole experience strangely peaceful. I eat bland but healthy meals with Mabel, then for the rest of the day I isolate myself in one of the many spare rooms and write. 

I never really thought about how much of my time is spent trying. Trying to find a job. Trying to find an agent. Trying to find inspiration. Trying not to fail. It’s exhausting, and ultimately it’s got me nowhere. None of those are really an option here. I have nothing but time and blank pages to fill.

Every day I’ve had texts from my friends. I think I’ve spoken to them more since coming here than ever before. Their concern actually makes me uncomfortable. I like to think of them as bastards, not caring individuals with my best interest at heart. 

This is weighed against the complete lack of communication from Steph. Nobody else has spoken to her either, so I could be anywhere for all she knows. For the first few days, this was the hardest part. Had I really been that much of a burden to her? Was she really glad that I was gone? Now I don’t care. What’s done is done. The only thing important now is my future.

I’m not much inclined for optimism, but I’ve hit rock bottom and it’s proven to be softer than I imagined. I know this sense of peace won’t last so I’m enjoying it while I can. I view it as a holiday, or a writing retreat. 

When was the last time I had a holiday? Not since I was eight. Our parents took us to Skegness for a week. I don’t exactly remember much, but we used to go there every year. After Dad died, Mum never took us anywhere. All I remember is the sea. I’ve not been to the seaside since.

My phone starts to ring. It’s a number I don’t recognise. My stomach lurches. I hope it’s a cold-caller. It isn’t.

“Hey, it’s Josh, Tommy’s cousin. I’ve just got back to the steel city. If you’re still wanting the job then come down to the store this afternoon and I’ll get you sorted.”

“Yes, I still need it. Cheers mate. I’ll see you soon.”

Fuck. Seems like my holiday is over. Reality is knocking. I knew this was coming, but I’d still hoped for a few more days of peace.

“Off into the big world now then?” Mabel grins over her mug at me after I explain the situation to her as we eat lunch. “You’ll be grand, don’t you worry.”

I’m not so confident. The job is one I dread, and even if I somehow don’t hate it I know I’ll manage to fuck up somehow. I always do. Not for the first time my thoughts whiplash back to the scratchcard. Blaming all of my problems on Pete would be disingenuous, but all the major life-changing ones were squarely on the bastard’s shoulders. Steph’s betrayal and the straight up theft of my only hope. Things would be different if I still had that damn card.

I finish up my cuppa and stand.

“Anyway, I’d best be off. It’s a long walk from here.”

“Nonsense,” Mabel says sternly. “Look at those clouds. You can’t walk all that way in the rain. You’ve got to make a good impression on a job interview. You don’t want to be all sweaty and wet.”

“It’s not really an interview and I already know the bloke.”

“That’s not the point. It’s all about showing willingness and pride. That’s what my Frank always used to say. I can’t have you turning up in a state. Frank would be spinning in his grave. Here.”

She holds out a crisp £10 note that had been tucked into her apron pocket. I stare at it for a moment then try and turn it away. Mabel is having none of it. She grabs my wrist with surprising strength and shoves the money into my hand. 

“Get yourself a taxi. Go on. I’m not one to take no as an answer.”

I offer her a smile and make a dramatic show of ringing the taxi company. A shrill voiced woman confirms the booking. 

“There you go. A taxi’s booked. You happy now? I was looking forward to the walk. I’ve not left the house since I got here. One might call it a prison.”

Mabel frisbees a digestive biscuit at my head with a quick flick of her wrist. Her smile belongs on a demon, not a granny.

“Ain’t nobody stopping you from wandering. You scared I’ll block you in and force you to the floor if you try? These frail bones are mighty intimidating, eh?”

“Heaven, no! A sweet old dear like you would never try to overpower me. It’s poison I worry about.”

She laughs like a hyena and I start to fear she might have a heart attack. Still laughing, she stands up to make the habitual trip to the kettle. 

There is a well worn path on the floor from her seat to the stove. The house is huge, but her entire life is encapsulated within the narrow zone between kettle, table, and bed. I can’t help but wonder if she’s really happy. She’s rich, wants for nothing, and has a cheerful personality, but her life seems so empty. 

I wasn’t lying when I said I was looking forward to the walk. I’ve never much liked cars. Walking is an excuse to avoid responsibilities for a little while, a time where there are no expectations beyond simply reaching your destination. Even I struggle to mess that up. With a taxi booked instead though, I’m now left with spare time that I don’t know how to spend. 

I’ll never admit it, but I’m too nervous to do anything productive. I know the job’s guaranteed. These nerves are for once entirely unrelated to the prospect of failure. They drip from the inevitability of the future, and from my pride and ego when the mirror of reality is held up to them. I can see the only available path clearly before me, but is no path the better option? Is life at any cost a life worth living?

Content that I’m trapped here for a little while, Mabel pours me another cup of tea. I feel more tea than man. This is the longest I’ve gone without an alcoholic drink in years. Good hydration, regular sleep patterns, and a diet not made up almost exclusively of junk. My body doesn’t know how to cope.

“It’s your first trip out since you got here. Any grand plans for after your meeting? A special lady who’s been lonely without you?”

I snort and almost choke on my tea. Madaline had never called me back, so that was that avenue closed off. My mind barely has a chance to settle on her though before it jumps to the purple-haired girl from the shop. I feel a strange pang thinking about her. Though this in turn only reminds me of the scratchcard and sends a spike of anger through me. I try to shake it off.

“No special ladies for me I’m afraid. You’ve got no competition for my time. You’re truly blessed.”

“A young man like yourself should be looking to settle down soon. That’s what I keep telling our Larry. Folk these days just don’t seem to want it.”

“Want’s not got a lot to do with it. The world’s different these days. Everything’s bigger. More open. You meet more people, and have people from across the world all vying for the same jobs. Even our expectations are bigger. If I managed to get a decent job and find someone who I wanted to live with, you can’t raise a family on a single income anymore. We’re all little fish thrown into the primordial ocean.”

Mabel nods sadly. “Yes. That’s basically what our Larry said too. I don’t envy you youngsters. My generation had hardships, terrible ones, but it all felt like it meant something, that we were working towards a better tomorrow. Somewhere along the way I think we all got very lost.”

I don’t answer. What can I possibly say? Things are fucked. But how much can we blame on the generations before us? I look at certain people in the generation below me and I see burning anger. A desire to actively change the world. They’re born knowing that society is broken and that the dreams we are force-fed are lies. But for us, we’re complacent. Too bought into the system to rebel, and too utterly tired to care. 

A horn beeps from outside. I give Mabel a smile as I stand.

“Well, that’s my ride. Philosophy will have to wait.”

“Good luck. Show them your worth!”

Previous – 12.

Next – 14.

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)

Next – 13. (Something Like Life)

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)

Next – 12. (Something Like Life)

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)

Next – 11. (Something Like Life)

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)

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)

7. (Something Like Life)

~ Matthew Roys ~ Leave a comment

Something Like Life.

My brain drifts semi-consciously through memories as I lie here half asleep. I feel good for the first time in years and my mind brings me to the last time I had this feeling. Steph had just turned seventeen and was working every hour she could at a shitty waiting job to move away from our mother the second it was her eighteenth birthday. Things were tense at home. They always were. For all of the years there, I have so few memories that I can look back fondly on. 

But one day we saw a competition in one of Steph’s trashy magazines that wanted short stories. I can’t remember what it was about. Something nebulous and cliche like ‘Change’ or the like. It was ages sixteen plus and Steph brought it into my room and shoved the magazine in my face excitedly. She had the idea for me to write something up and for her to submit it in her name since I was too young to enter. That was probably the first and last time she ever had faith in my ability to win something. 

The first place prize was £100. To us that was a fortune. Steph stroked my ego about how good my writing was, and finally convinced me to sacrifice a few evenings after school to draft up a piece about letting go of the past to embrace the future or some bollocks like that. When it was finished, Steph added in a few words and phrases that she said were essential for teen girl magazines, then she posted it and we waited. In the end we didn’t win, but we did manage to snag second place for a nice £50.

To me, we may as well have won the Lottery. I’d never seen that much money. Even to Steph it was a hefty amount, at least for the level of work that went into getting it. We didn’t let Mum know we had it. We’d not have seen a penny if we had. I kind of expected to be handed a tenner and for the rest to be put into Steph’s savings. But she surprised me.

In a rare showing of reckless rebellion, she managed to buy some vodka and wines without getting ID checked. She took me out to the woods near my school. It was the first time I ever got drunk, and even through the awful sickness and even worse hangover afterwards, I still remember that evening. It was probably the last time I saw Steph happy, at least in that carefree childhood way. She’d been happy on the day we moved out into our own place, but that had been the birth of adult Steph with bills to pay and full-time employment. 

It was such a good party for just the two of us, something fun we could share. We bought ice cream and chocolate with the spare money, which in hindsight was a poor choice to mix with alcohol, and Steph had brought out her bright pink CD player and a few discs. 

We talked about our dreams for the future, sang along with shitty 90’s pop, and laughed until we were in tears. I think Mum was close to murder when we got back, but thankfully I can’t remember a thing of the aftermath. Maybe she’d been strung out on some drug or other and never even noticed we’d been gone. Whichever it was, Steph had shielded me from it like usual. 

I guess money can buy you happiness. We’re certainly overdue some. Things will change now. I smile at the thought, then slip fully into pleasant dreams.

Previous – 6. (Something Like Life)

Next – 8. (Something Like Life)

6. (Something Like Life)

~ Matthew Roys ~ Leave a comment

Something Like Life.

At some point I must finally have dropped off as I’m woken up by violent shaking and a piercing voice that takes a few moments to resolve into words.

“Get up, you lazy piece of shit!”

I wince and glance up at the gloomy silhouette of Steph. She doesn’t look happy. She rarely does.

“It’s five thirty! Stop wasting your damn life!”

“Five thirty! Christ, why are you waking me up at that time?”

“PM, you sack of shit!”

“Ah. Err, just give me five more minutes. Honest.”

Steph yanks the cover off me and I’m thankful that I fell asleep still fully dressed. She grabs onto my clothes and drags me off the bed. I hit the floor with a dull thud that I hardly feel. The carpet is comfortable and I can already feel myself slipping back into sleep until Steph’s foot kicks me in the gut. I groan and she kicks me again. It isn’t hard, but it’s more than enough to drive the sleep away.

“Fine, I’m up,” I grunt as I swat her foot away agitatedly.

“I’ve been at work all day, you can at least help me get dinner ready. You make me question why I don’t just listen to Pete and kick you out.”

“Because he’s a dick.”

“And you’re not?”

I don’t dignify that with a response. Going back to sleep doesn’t seem like an option anymore, so I hold out my hand for Steph to help me up. She ignores me and leaves the room. I sigh and struggle to pull myself to my feet. 

I make the effort to get changed into clean clothes. While I’m swapping t-shirts, the doorbell rings and I have a moment of lurching fear that it’s Pete again. I hear Steph answer and I’m relieved to not hear his blunt tones.

“Alex? How are you?”

“Good evening, Stephany. I’m good, thank you. How are you? I’d heard that you have been feeling under the weather.” 

The voice is the overly formal sentence structure of Toto. He always speaks clearly, as though each word is a hand-picked flower chosen by a master florist. The tinge of Jamaican accent gives his speech a slightly musical edge, making everything he says simultaneously clumsy and poetic.

“I’m much better today, thank you. Are you wanting my brother? The lazy bastard has only just woken up.”

“Not today. I just popped around to offer you this. You know what my Mama Jaques is like when she gets cooking. I figured you’d both be tired.”

The thick scent of spices is already cutting through the general musk of my room. I don’t need to ask to know that Toto has brought over some of his grandma’s home cooked chicken. The woman is a saint, and her food is nothing short of heavenly. Even I can’t find a bad word to say about it.

By the time I’ve changed, Toto is already gone and Steph is in the kitchen plating up his offering. She scowls at me, and even the prospect of the meal isn’t enough to ease her temper. I watch her wonderingly. She got laid last night, her cold is on the mend, and she’s about to enjoy a delicious meal that she didn’t have to cook or pay for. What does she have to be so grumpy about?

“Are you going to help?” she snaps at me. 

“What would you like me to do?” 

She stares angrily at the plates stacked with food and the already placed cutlery. She takes a moment to try and discreetly glance around the room.

“Put the kettle on and make us a drink.”

I don’t argue. I’m thirsty anyway. I flick the switch on the kettle and busy myself with the cups. As I stand here and listen to the low bubble of boiling water and the clink of the plates being placed on the table, the air full of sweet smells, I can almost imagine us in a real little family scene. I know that feeling second hand, watching it play out on TV, and even seeing it first hand when Toto invites me over for meals with Mama Jaques or with Tink’s family. Both me and Steph know how these scenes are supposed to work, and maybe we both want it, but somehow, something is always missing. When our dad died, I think our sense of family died with him.

We sit and eat in silence. Steph knows that I have nothing interesting to say about my day, and I don’t care about whatever petty office gossip or boring spreadsheet she could possibly have to tell me about. What are people supposed to talk about? Other than the blood in our veins, we have nothing in common anymore, no shared interests, and broader topics like politics or philosophy would only end in an argument.

As expected, the food is beautiful. It offers a moment’s respite from my dark thoughts. Not for the first time I feel a slight inclination to learn how to cook like this, but any past attempt I’d ever made turned out as either tasteless slop or charred scraps. Maybe Toto could give me some tips?

I open my mouth to make a goodwill gesture of smalltalk when the light flickers and goes out. I remember something important at that moment and wince. If Steph’s eyes could kill I’d be little more than a smoking crater right now.

“You didn’t top up the meter when I asked you to, did you?”

I like to live my life on the edge, doing the absolute bare minimum to get by. This, unfortunately, is well beyond the bare minimum. This was me fucking up in a way that threatened my already unstable position as Steph’s personal parasite. In an uncharacteristic display of enthusiasm, I jump out of the chair and grab the electric dongle from the side. Within seconds, I have a jacket on and am at the front door.

“I’ll have the power back before my tea is cold.”

I don’t wait for an answer. I’m off down the street, my feet slapping against the pavement with the unsteady flatfooted rhythm of somebody who doesn’t run often. It’s already getting dark and the sky is threatening more rain but my eyes are locked firmly on the uneven ground in front of me. 

By the time I reach the closest Sainsbury’s Local, I’m breathing like a chain-smoker going into cardiac arrest. It isn’t even a far run. I skid to a stop outside the automatic doors and try to look casual as I step inside. The effect is ruined by the sweat and heavy breathing, but I think I play it off like a champ. I offer the Indian chap behind the counter a smile and he nods back with casual indifference.

I dig deep inside my jacket pocket for my emergency wallet. It was reserved for times when Steph needed tiding over or I risked being kicked out. Inside is a dog-eared £20 note I stole from a drunk a while back. I’m a regular Robin Hood, stealing from dickheads who cause trouble in bars, and giving to the poor, namely myself. 

To be on the safe side, I grab a cheap bottle of wine and a box of chocolates as a peace offering after reluctantly stepping away from a bottle of off-brand rum. Even a can of the cheapest cider would be stretching the money too far. I dump the items on the bar and hold out the dongle to the cashier.

“Just these and a tenner on the electric, cheers.”

The man stares at me for a moment and offers a friendly frown. He motions at a small pile of items beside my own. A loaf of bread, some milk, and a Pot Noodle.

“Waiting on another customer. They’re a pound short. Said they’ll be back in a moment.”

“Can’t you just void it, serve me, then re-scan everything?”

“I can, but it’s awkward. If they’re not back in two minutes then I’ll get you sorted.”

Two minutes is a long while in Steph time. I look at the offending items angrily. Someone’s having a worse time than me if they don’t even have the money for such pitiful supplies. The whole pile couldn’t come to more than a fiver as it was. What sort of a world is it we live in if a man can’t even afford an evening alone with a Pot Noodle?

“Look mate, I’m in a bit of a rush. I’ll pay the extra quid if we can rush this along a little. That suit you?”

He nods, and in a rare show of charity, I hand the twenty over as he finalises the other guy’s purchase. It cuts me deeply on an emotional level, but I don’t have time to waste. Merry Christmas and happy birthday rolled into one. I imagine some emaciated methhead huddling over the steaming Pot Noodle for warmth in an empty house, fervently thanking their benevolent patron.

The cashier scans my stuff then hands me the dregs of my change. Balls to paying for a bag. I try to balance all of the items in a way that allows me to jog back without catastrophe. I hear the doors slide open but my back is to them.

“It’s all sorted. This guy paid the rest,” the cashier says.

Great. Now the dickhead knows who helped him and will try to waste my time with praise or smalltalk. I turn around with a scowl on my face to try to put off any pleasantries but my face falters.

The person behind me is a young woman with bright purple hair that instantly puts me in mind of a can of dark fruit cider. I look past the hair to blue eyes that sparkle with the vivid shine of Curacao. Pierced nose, black nails, ripped jeans and a black band shirt of Papa Roach. 

She smiles at me and I become very self aware. I don’t know if I’ve been staring at her for minutes or half a second.

“Thanks for helping. I must have dropped the pound on the way here, but luckily I found it. Here.” 

She holds out her hand. A dull pound sits in her palm. I shake my head.

“Don’t worry about it. I’d only waste it.”

Her smile twists slightly and I get the feeling that she’s assessing me, searching me for answers to questions I don’t know. I feel strangely cornered by her, pinned in place by her eyes.

“That won’t do,” she says brightly. She turns to the cashier, her arm swinging around until the pound is inches from his chest. 

“One scratchcard please.”

He takes the pound and gives her the sheet without a word. In a heartbeat the woman is in my face and tucks the card between the chocolates and my fingers. I half expect a powerful scent of perfume, but there’s nothing. 

“You never know, a good deed might earn you a bit of good luck. Now we’re even, okay?”

She gives me an impish smile and a casual salute, then, before I’ve really registered it, she’s gone. The whole interaction feels surreal, like she was some kind of fairy that had appeared and disappeared again simply to confuse me. I look to the cashier, seeking some kind of confirmation that she had been real. He grins at me and gives me a thumbs up. 

Then reality catches up. Shit! I have a minor emergency to sort before I can start daydreaming over a pretty face. I leave the shop, a part of me hoping to see some trace of the girl, but there’s none. I’ve already wasted enough time, so I push her from my mind and begin the body-breaking five minute jog back to a no doubt furious Steph. 

It isn’t Steph who greets me when I burst through the door though. A broad hand grabs me by my t-shirt and I hit the walk hard. I barely have any air in my lungs to knock out but they still lurch painfully to expel what little there is. Pete is staring down at me. His mouth is set in a snarl but a glint of joy stirs in his eyes. 

“You had one job and couldn’t even do that. What did you spend the money Stephany gave you for electricity on? More booze?”

I can see Steph standing in the doorway to the living room. I’m surprised by how nervous she looks. It’s almost like she’s more scared than I am. The look on her face sparks something in me.

“Yeah, I did. I’m a useless idiot. Nothing new. But I’m sorry, and Steph knows I am. I topped it up with my own money and I bought some gifts for her. The rest is between me and her.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Another opportunity to twist her around your finger and get away completely free from consequences again.” He yanks the wine from my hand. “How typical of you, thinking that alcohol will solve all of your problems. It isn’t even a good vintage. You say you bought them with your own money too? Money you don’t earn and should be paying to Stephany as rent?”

He lets me go. I slump to the floor as he towers over me. I fix my eyes on the ground and don’t move. I’m too proud to run. I know that he’s eagerly waiting for the day I lash out so he has an excuse to really put me in my place. What else can I do but sit here like the worthless sack of shit that I am?

“Come on, Pete. Let’s go. Don’t let this ruin our night, okay? You still want to go out for drinks, right?”

I can hear the edge in Steph’s voice, the false confidence. She’s more scared than I am. I want to punch the bastard so badly that it hurts my chest just thinking about it. But I don’t. I sit there and wait like the coward I am. Wait for my big sister to fix my problems again, even at a cost to herself.

Pete knows exactly what she’s doing too. He stares down at me a moment longer then grabs his coat from the wrack with one hand while his other closes around Steph’s wrist. 

“Fine. He isn’t worth the effort. The things I do for you.”

He all but drags her from the house, and as the door slams shut behind them, I’m left in silence. I can feel the adrenaline and hate boil inside me with impotent rage. Rage at Pete, and rage at myself. Plenty of rage to go around. But more than that, I feel the wave of nothingness pulling at me. The anger is the only thing that keeps me human.

I scan the corridor numbly. The wine and chocolates are still on the floor. Fuck it. I stand and gather them up, managing to have the wine open and pouring down my throat before I’ve even reached my room. The place looks too much like the inside of a coffin for my liking. I’m trapped, just like before. Fifteen years and a new roof to stare at, but nothing else has changed. I must have been a real bastard in a previous life.

The bed squeals in protest as I collapse onto it. I can feel the springs digging into me. The wine will help with that. It always does. I move to open up the chocolates and find the scratchcard stuck to the shrinkwrap. It peels off easily and I stare at it, reminded momentarily of the girl. I wonder if she enjoyed her noodles.

‘Match three to win! £50,000 prize!’

If you won a tenner you were one of God’s chosen prophets. I’ve known many desperate souls that buy scratch cards like I buy pints, but I’ve never seen anyone win anything noteworthy. They’re just another tool to part poor people from their cash for a moment’s hope. 

I pick at the grey foil absently with my thumb while my other arm goes through the automatic motions of pouring wine into my mouth. Three lines of three. 

‘Triple the chance to win!’

I’m barely paying attention to the pictures that my thumb reveals. It’s only when there’s no foil left to scratch that I actually look down at the card.

I stare at it. 

I stare some more. My gut lurches and I blink to clear the blurriness from my eyes. It isn’t the wine playing tricks on me. Three pound signs make a line across the bottom row. I reread the rules.

My heart is pounding. I’m conditioned to expect the worst but I can’t find anything to dash the furtive hope that was suddenly blooming in my chest. £50,000! 

I knock back the rest of the wine without thinking. A few more bottles of wines and spirits from Steph’s collection join my celebration. The world starts getting a little hazy. As a precaution I roll up the scratchcard and slide it into an empty bottle just enough for it to stay in place. I give it pride of place on my desk and admire it from the bed.

Fuck Pete. Fuck this shitty house, and fuck my worthless existence! I’m rich!

Previous – 5. (Something Like Life)

Next – 7. (Something Like Life)

5. (Something Like Life)

~ Matthew Roys ~ Leave a comment

Something Like Life.

I lie in Madaline’s bed and stare up at the poorly plastered white ceiling. The room is no bigger than the one I’m borrowing from Steph, but unlike mine, this one is filled to bursting with clothes, bottles, photographs and cheap memorabilia from holidays abroad. Madaline is laid next to me, her back facing me and a good foot of bed between us. 

The night had been purely business. It usually is. People crave emotional connection and often try to fill that void with physical intimacy. That’s my theory anyway. A moment of pleasure to ward off the numbness of life for a few blissful minutes. I know it, and Madaline knows it too. 

My head is pounding and my throat’s dry. I groggily weigh up my options. Water is priority one. Slowly, I slide from the bed and scan the gloom of the room for my clothes but can’t spot them in the sea of Madaline’s clothes. It looks like she could wear a different outfit every day of the year and still not have worn everything she owns.

I decide that it’s likely still too early for any of her flatmates to be up, so I risk opening her door and, after seeing that the coast is clear, stride stark bollock naked toward the kitchen. The place is a tip. Cans, bottles, and half eaten food litter every surface. That’s not my problem though, so I pay it no mind. It takes me a while to find a clean glass. I pour myself a drink from the tap and sip the water reflectively.

Gradually, I begin to feel more human, not that that’s a good thing. Now that higher brain functions are returning, I have to consider what my plans are for the rest of the day. Drinking is out of the equation, so I’m left with the prospect of wandering around the city or returning to Steph’s to sit alone in my room. That’s the option I should choose. To get back on the writing horse and be productive. To start a new story or something. Neither option fills me with much joy. On the other hand, I’m currently in a moderately attractive young woman’s home. It could prove to be a pleasant enough morning, if I play my cards right.

Playing my cards right means being kind to others for entirely selfish reasons. The thought triggers my inner gamer. That’s all role-playing games are: Solve puzzles to help people help you. Thankfully, this is much easier than fighting through a dungeon or the like. Today’s quest: Breakfast in bed.

I’m no cook, but I do like to think that I’ve mastered toast. I look around the kitchen until I finally find everything I need. It’s a good thing that I don’t want to try anything fancy to impress Madaline because there’s jackshit in her cupboards or fridge. Student life is a glorious thing.

My secret is to butter the bread before putting it in the toaster, then make sure that the heat isn’t set too high. The results are usually a warm, soggy slice that slides down your throat like fresh escargot. Perfect for dealing with that dry feeling you have just after waking. I slap on some Nutella, since it’s the only spreadable I can find, pour out two glasses of orange juice, load them all up onto a tray, then begin a careful walk back to Madaline’s room. 

She’s still asleep. I clear enough room on her bedside table to fit the glasses then waft the plates near her nose before gently rubbing her cheek. Mascara has run down her face during the night, giving her a dark eyed appearance and black tear steaks that look reminiscent of the tryhard emos of my youth. I’m somewhat partial to the style. Maybe it’ll help me lie to myself that she’s somebody else.

She stirs, makes a cute little grunt, then slowly opens her eyes. I watch the subtle stages of her thoughts through her bloodshot eyes. First there is pain, the pounding head and jumble of scant consciousness, compounded by a complete dryness of the mouth and eyes. Then comes the understanding. Memories of alcohol, that this is the price paid for a good time. The eyes focus, looking past the inner thoughts to the outside world, and to me specifically. A moment of softness, replaced almost instantly with fear, then a jolt of memory as my identity is pieced together. Finally comes acceptance. This is her life. She is here, I am here, and more importantly, food and a soft drink is here too.

We eat without much talking, and once the toast is gone we just lie there and dwell in our own private thoughts as the breakfast works its way through our abused system. It isn’t an awkward silence, but neither is it a comfortable one. It just is. After a while I turn to her with a smile.

“I’ve got to head off soon. If you’re feeling up for it, fancy another round for the road?”

Her eyes assess me and she shrugs. She doesn’t speak, but her answer is clear enough as she slides under the covers and I feel her warm breath against my inner thigh.

We share half an hour of fun, then I dress and leave, jotting my number down and handing it to her before I hop through the door into the pissing rain of another grey day. I wholly expect to never see her again. That’s the way things usually go. We’re all just passersby on the oppressive motorway of life, everyone looking for the first convenient pit stop to refuel at before continuing on to the inevitable cliffedge that awaits us. 

 I notice that greyness keeps popping up in my thoughts and I can’t tell if that’s the way the world is, or if my jaded existence simply casts everything in dulled tones. You’d think that being jaded would be to see the world in green, not grey, but here we are. 

It’s not been twenty minutes since I had a pretty girl wrapped around me and I can already feel the misery bleeding back in with every step closer to Steph’s house. I take a winding path since I’m already soaked to the bone, but I can only delay for so long. Eventually I bite the bullet and trudge up the gravel path to her front door, unlock it, and step inside. 

There are voices coming from the living room, one belonging to Steph while the other was the deep voice of her current partner, Pete. It sounds like an argument that trails off as heavy footsteps approach the living room door. I try to speed past to the sanctuary of my room but don’t make it before Pete steps out into the corridor.

“It was too much to hope you’d decided to grow up and stop pulling your family down.”

“And it’s too much to hope that you’ll drop dead.”

Pete represents everything I hate. He’s tall and tidy, his expensive clothes always neatly ironed, his designer glasses always smudge free, and his hair styled like a movie star. He’s a manager at the accountancy firm where Steph works, and is the type of person that can’t function unless he has control of every little detail in his life. 

“Stephany has more sentiment than sense, putting up with you. Can’t you see the blight on her life that you are? When are you going to grow up and move out?”

“Fancy giving me a job, or offering a place with reasonable rent? No? Then fuck off.”

I edge past him and retreat to my room as fast as I can without running. I’d long since learned not to push past him, as he always pushed back harder. Despite the suit, Pete was a man always looking to lash out. I’ve spent time with a lot of rough people in my life, and found myself face to face with guys who’ll beat you half to death for a pack of cigarettes, but something about Pete scares me.

Even before my door closes I can already hear his raised voice berating Steph to kick me out. I try to ignore it, sitting down at my desk to distract myself with some work. My laptop is old but it’s my most valued possession. Inside that plastic shell are all my hopes and dreams given form within the digital pages. 

As always, my first step is to open up my emails. There’s the usual bundle of spam, and buried amongst them are the kernels of hope that I cling to. Three emails from jobs I’d applied for and two from literary agents. I’d seen more than my fair share of these emails recently and had learned to tell the tone from the preview sentence alone. I still check them on the odd chance that I’m wrong, but I’m not. 

Rejection. Rejection. Rejection. Rejection. Rejection.

The word echoes through my head. I’d like to say that I’m numb to it, that my carefully constructed cynicism shields me from any emotional backlash. It doesn’t. Neither does it shield me from the following spiral into misery that is scrolling through pages of recently listed jobs. This is the point that I usually turn to the spirits to help, but I’m all out.

I know I should start writing, but there’s something haunting about the blank page I load. I try to think of words and anxiety hits me like a truck. Writing used to be my escape but now even just the thought of it reminds me of all the rejections and wasted time. I’d never admit it, but I realise I’m scared. Scared to open myself up to the creativity and effort only for it all to hurt me again in the end. Each time chips away at my sanity, at my soul, and I don’t know how much more I have to lose.

Eventually I can’t take any more and tab onto a porn site instead. I click through a few pages to try and find something that catches my eye but I’m not feeling it. I realise that I’m going through the exact same motions as on the job site, and don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I’d blame the morning’s activities, but in reality it’s an ever more frequent occurrence. 

In the end I close the lid and collapse onto the bed to watch shitty Youtube videos on my phone until I inevitably passout. Even such a simple plan as that is ruined though by the appearance of a rhythmic thudding noise punctuated by muffled groans from the next room over. I turn up the volume but the sheer knowledge of events is enough to traumatise me. The crashes of the Blitz would give me a better chance of sleeping through it.

True to form, two minutes hasn’t passed before the nightmare ends with a shrill noise reminiscent of a stuck pig. I long for a large amount of whisky to knock me out.

Previous – 4.

Next – 6.