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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 I think back to the room and see outdated wallpaper, elegant oak furniture, and a wide collection of weird old people junk.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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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