Urban

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.

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)

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

~ Matthew Roys ~ Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re crazy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Absolutely.”

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

Previous – Chapter 6. A Shelter of Hope.

Next – Chapter 8.

8. (Something Like Life)

~ Matthew Roys ~ Leave a comment

Something Like Life.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Steph, I-”

“No more excuses! I want you out.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey Corgi. You fancy a drink?”

“What’s up?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Sounds like you fucked up.”

“Big surprise, I know.”

“Shocking.”

“Yeah.”

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

“Thanks, Corgi.”

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

“Yeah. See you soon, prick.”

“That’s more like it.”

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

Previous – 7. (Something Like Life)

Next – 9. (Something Like Life)

Chapter 6. A Shelter of Hope. (A Rubber Ducky at the End of the World)

~ Matthew Roys ~ Leave a comment

Life is an act. An individual’s outward personality is nothing but a mask forged to garner acceptance in a world without truth. 

Damian knew this all too well. Everything in his life was an act. Working in fast food as he had, the number one commandment had been to always smile and be polite to customers even when 90% of the time they deserved a round of apple bobbing in the deep fat fryers. Life was miserable, and the job eroded any faith in humanity, but you kept smiling and said what people wanted to hear despite the truth of the matter.

This is true for all aspects of life. A common greeting is to ask how one another are doing, but it would be a breach of social etiquette to actually express any real feelings of sadness. Life was about putting on a strong front. 

When his wife had died and he had been left to care for a small child, everyone constantly asked him how he was coping. The answer was always ‘fine’ despite the darkness and hopelessness of his thoughts. His love was gone, his child would never know a mother’s love, and he was struggling to make ends meet. But he had to be strong. There was no other path to take.

Gods were much the same way. They were mental shields of strength designed to fortify the inherent weakness of humanity. Men needed gods to guide them. The Bible had got that right at least. Humans were sheep, too stupid to choose the right directions without somebody to show them the way and stop them from straying. 

Flames burned brightly, illuminating the darkness of night. A whole block of flats would be nothing but ash and rubble by the morning. That was the fate of any who opposed Damian Smithson. That was the price of order.

“All resistance has been quelled,” reported a dark-skinned man with greying hair. “Twelve dead. Eighteen came over to our side. Another six fled the scene.”

Damian nodded. “Good. I take it that none of our men were hurt too badly. The plan was as foolproof as humanly possible under the circumstances. It would all be so much easier if they just listened to me and joined us without a fight.”

“Humans love to be led but they’ll never make it easy. We are a people of contradictions. We are ever changing yet are so resistant to any change that they will drag their feet every step of the way. It will get easier.”

“Too easy I fear,” Damian sighed. “Tell me Jonathan, what gives you the faith to keep moving forward? You are a man of belief belonging to the Church of Redemption yet you follow a man who seeks to destroy the very foundation of your being. Why?”

“You can destroy the church and all organised religion if you wanted to but you cannot destroy belief itself. What I think and feel in my soul cannot be altered by you. Besides, your heart is in the right place. Like our Lord, you strive to be the father to humanity and guide us to a better future. Sometimes that requires unpalatable actions.”

Damian considered these words carefully. He had never considered himself a leader but here he was now. No point slowing down or doubting himself. It is amazing what humans can achieve against the odds with nothing more than a blinding confidence in themselves.

His thoughts were interrupted by a young man who came rushing to his side. The boy had been a delinquent from one of the previous gangs that Damian had dealt with who had seen the error of his ways. He was a good kid now that he had some motivation.

“Sir, I just spoke with some of the local lads. The only other major group in the area is a bunch of women. They say that all the women joined up and took over a school campus a few miles from here. Everyone who’s tried to break in has been beaten back.”

“Good for them. That is the kind of attitude that should be applauded,” Damian told them with a satisfied nod.

“Should I gather everyone up ready to pay them a visit?” 

“We are not conquerors and nor is the world our enemy. We should praise such groups, not march upon them in force. I shall go alone to speak with them.”

Jonathan nodded his head. “What are your orders for the rest of us?”

“Secure the area and comfort what people remain here. Begin the usual changes.”

“Sir,” the older man answered before leaving. 

Now Damian was alone. His Amelia was back at the church with an elderly woman who had reared five children of her own. Damian had no doubts that he could protect his baby but there was no reason to subject her to potential danger or the sight of death. He wanted her to grow up happy in a kinder world.

With that ambition firmly in his mind he set off toward the school that the locals now knew as the Shelter. He had always had a good sense of direction and found his way easily through the destroyed streets to the outskirts of the town where a collection of buildings sat huddled together a short way away from any other structure.

The area around the gated compound was in ruins but the school buildings themselves looked fairly undamaged. Damian approached the gate at a carefree pace then waited in front of them. At first nothing happened but after a few minutes the doors to the largest building opened and a group of women started to head towards him.

“Why are you here?” asked a dark haired woman when the group arrived at the other side of the gate. She was stocky but had fair skin and wrapped dignity around herself like a cloak. “Men are not welcome.”

Damian considered the woman’s words and offered her a small smile. “A fair policy during these troubled times. It will not help to rebuild society though. Humanity must stand together, not become divided over such trivial things as gender. It is what is inside of us that counts, not that which lies between our legs.”

“We will not support any rebirth of society based upon patriarchy. Men have caused all of the world’s problems throughout history so now we will make our stand,” the woman announced passionately. Some of the other women nodded their agreement.

Damian frowned. He had not expected this. He didn’t really understand it either. Sure, men were bastards who would kill you in a heartbeat and couldn’t think past money and sex for long in too many cases, but women were no better. Men tended to know that they were simple creatures and were happy enough to acknowledge it while women wrapped themselves in denial.

“You attribute so much evil to us but most men just try to get by, earning enough money to support their families.”

“Support? More like enslave,” she spat. “They tell us that we are weak and stupid then make us reliant upon them. Men cage us in marriage then use us to cook meals, rear children and have sex with. All men are oppressors, no matter how noble they believe their intentions to be.”

Damian was at a complete loss now. How did you reason with people like this? The scientific method to do so is that you simply can’t. Once again, these people’s personal reality supersedes the universal reality and cannot be shaken by such petty things as evidence or logic.

A slow fire had begun inside of Damian that took him by surprise. He was angry. He had worked hard all of his life in a job that he hated to pay for his ill mother’s care home, support his wife and then to bring up his daughter. If he was going to be vilified for trying his hardest to be a good man then he would give them something to vilify him for. 

Fiery sparks began to spiral in the centre of his palm until the appearance of yet another woman like a valkyrie from the skies caused him to cut them off abruptly.

“What is going on here?” the new woman asked with all the authority that the words could hold. “Fay, you have been told to report to me when outsiders arrive.  You’ve tried to go behind my back too many times. Go back inside and wait for me in my office while I speak with our guest.”

“He will only bring us trouble,” sneered the first woman

“Now!” snapped the newcomer. The group of women reluctantly turned and made their way back up the path to the building.

Anyone who believes that human society automatically veers toward patriarchal rule has clearly never seen a ‘mother hen’ type woman in action. Her word is law and some cosmic force ensures that everyone obeys. Men might seem outwards in charge but it is only the barbeque effect. Have you noticed that, in most cases, it is the women who cook 99% of the family meals but when it comes down to cooking meat outside on an open flame that it is suddenly the men who take charge? Men like to look powerful and in charge to fulfil their masculine ego when it is a public occasion then are happy to sit back and let someone else do all the important stuff. Rulers work in much the same way, appearing as figureheads while secretaries and advisors wield the real power.

The woman was short and had frizzy hair. She looked like she should have worn glasses, but then glasses were pointless after the Change. She wore jeans and a jumper that both appeared undamaged.

“Sorry about that,” the woman said. She began to open the gate. “We don’t get many peaceful men come here. At least, I hope you are peaceful or you will regret it.”

Damian held up his hands placatingly. “I’m here to talk, nothing more.”

“Good. I am Julie Winters. You could say that I run this place.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you. My name is Damian Smithson. I lead Redemption, the largest group in this area.”

Mrs Winters nodded. “Yes. I have had word of your organisation’s progress. You have achieved much in such a short time. I expect that you are far from finished through.”

She led Damian inside the building. The place still looked clean and orderly compared with the outside world. Tables and chairs had been moved and hastily arranged bedding filled several of the old classrooms. The women who moved around the corridors were not scared refugees seeking shelter but confident and in control. Damian was impressed.

He was shown into a small office containing two chairs, a desk, and pile upon pile of paperwork. Mrs Winters took the seat behind the desk and motioned for Damian to take the other. She took a small notebook from one pile and opened it up, a pen in her hand held like a cobra ready to strike.

“Please ignore the mess,” she told him. “Keeping track of supplies and who is doing what has proven to be a huge part of my recent life. You don’t realise how much space all of that data takes up without computers.”

 Damian sat and tried to look at ease. He felt uncomfortable here but couldn’t let it show. He couldn’t look commanding either though. 

In as friendly a voice as he could manage he slipped into salesman mode. “You have done well for yourselves here,” he began. “This is an island of calm in a raging ocean of chaos and death. May I ask what your plans are?”

Mrs Winters sighed faintly. “We are undecided. This place was set up as a sanctuary for people to come to and feel safe. Many here see no reason to alter anything so long as we are able to continue offering safety.”

“Tell me, do you believe that humans are fundamentally good?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Do you think that humans are good at heart and are driven to do evil by circumstance or are they flawed, selfish beings? Nature versus nurture?”

The woman frowned and was silent for a while. When she made no sign of answering Damian continued.

“What I am asking is: do you believe that if we leave the people outside of these walls to their own devices that they will pull together and end the violence or continue to rampage until the world is too damaged to recover? Can humanity walk the correct path without a shepherd to guide them?”

To be honest, nature versus nurture is a flawed human concept. Good and evil only exists to humans. Every other creature on the planet only does what is needed to survive. As babies, humans are selfish sacks of meat that scream and cry for its needs to be fulfilled and this continues as a toddler. They snatch other’s toys and throw tantrums to get their own way. Cruelty, honour, mercy and hate are all distinctly human traits. It doesn’t matter either how good a person is as they are only ever two meals, (or two cups of tea in England), away from breaking down and stabbing someone thirty seven times in the chest.

Mrs Winters fixed unwavering eyes onto Damien. “I suppose that things won’t get better without people trying. Society needs to be led. I assume that you feel that it is you who should be this leader?”

This was the moment. Damian’s next words would determine the future of the world. He didn’t know this. To him it was the balancing point in securing more allies but it affected so much more than he could ever have guessed.

“When the Changed happened I became stronger than those around me. Not only in my body but in my conviction of making this world a good place for my daughter to grow up in. She is my world. I didn’t want any of this, I was a struggling widow working in fast food, but I was given the power to make a change. To not use that power would be the real sin.”

“Are you a religious man, Mr Smithson?”

Damian laughed softly. “I am just a man. I believe that which I can apply logic to. Sadly, religion and logic do not see eye to eye. God is fundamentally a contradiction of himself, not to mention all of the contradictions in the Bible. How could God be all powerful yet choose to let people suffer? He would not be all loving in that scenario. Why pray to Him when, being all knowing, He would already know everything in your heart and head so would not need you to tell Him? Why do you ask?”

“Some would see you as chosen,” Mrs Winters said slowly. “That perhaps you are destined to greatness. By God or by Satan, somebody must have blessed you. Either way, let’s not beat around the bush. What do you want from us?”

“Want? It isn’t really a question of wants. It is a need. Humanity needs us to work together. Your group is the last collection of people in this town that haven’t pledged themselves to me. Can you imagine how rare a unified area is right now? I don’t ask for your loyalty, but for your cooperation.”

Mrs Winters watched him closely as he spoke. Damian felt uncomfortable under that calm scrutiny. He had grown used to anger and abuse. That was something he could deal with. Reasonable people felt much more intimidating these days.

“I sense a lot of darkness in you, Mr Smithson. You have a great gift, and we both know that you’ll use it violently. There will be a lot of blood on your hands by the end.”

Damian nodded, keeping his own eyes fixed on his thin hands. They were hands that had killed men, but then they were the same hands that comforted Amelia. 

“Great good demands great sacrifice. Somebody has to do it. Every drop of blood on my hands, and every bit of extra weight on my soul, is one less burden for the children that follow in the path we carve for them.”

Mrs Winters seemed to stare into his soul, assessing the damage it had already sustained. A kettle began to whistle from a small fire that burned in the corner. Only then did the woman look away. As she busied herself pouring out two cups she spoke slowly.

“I am willing to listen to what you have to say. Just know that we will not be bullied or threatened. I’d rather see humanity die out than build a society on the subjugation of the women in my care.”

“That is a fair stance to take. Let us begin then.”

Previous – Chapter 5. An Electrifying Transition.

Next – Chapter 7. A New Look.

3. (Something Like Life)

~ Matthew Roys ~ Leave a comment

Something Like Life.

Corgi is already outside waiting for me. I sometimes wonder where he goes when he’s not with me. He never really mentions his home or family, though I know he has them. He feels almost like a side character in my life, always waiting on the sidelines for somebody else to appear. Maybe I should ask him. I know he hasn’t been having an easy time recently.

“You linger like a bad smell,” is what I end up saying though.

“Yeah, and your attitude stinks, so that’s probably why we get along.”

I snort and give him the middle finger, which he returns like a patriotic salute. I start down the road and he trots behind me to catch up. Even at this time the streets are busy. The sky is black and a fine drizzle hangs in the air, but city life never slows. I notice that most of the beggars are gone though. I wonder where they go when crowds die down and the nights set in. 

I take the path that I’ve walked so many times I could retrace it with my eyes closed. It’s a good job too, because coming back I’m usually so far gone that I might as well be blind. We don’t really talk as we walk. Most of our store of conversations had been drained during the morning. Thankfully, it isn’t long before we’re back in the shadow of the Wetherspoons.

Larry and Toto are already waiting for us inside. They’re sitting at the same table we had occupied hours earlier. The place is much busier now. Steak nights always draw in a good crowd. I slump into the chair beside Toto while Corgi goes to the bar to get us drinks. Again, I vaguely wonder where he gets his money from, but know I’ll never bother to ask him. 

“You are looking well, all things considered,” Toto tells me. “I worry about you at times.”

“Life is just the interconnecting tissue between moments of misery. I accept that, so have no reason not to live it to the fullest. YOLO and all that bollocks, you know?” I answer with a smile that rivals Toto’s. “Alcohol is just the mortar to fill in the cracks in that confidence.”

“To be fair mate, that sounds like something an alcoholic would say,” Larry quips.

“An alcoholic probably wouldn’t have the coherency required to articulate philosophical theories regarding the ephemeral nature of existence,” I answer, my brain working in overdrive to pull out the most pretentious chain of words possible and speak them without fucking up. My brain fails me on most things, but any attempt to be a dick usually succeeds with flying colours.

“That’s proper good mate. It’s almost like you should be a poet or something.”

“Fuck you.”

It’s at this moment Corgi returns, placing an orangish pitcher down in front of me.

“What the fuck’s this?”

“It’s a cocktail. Sex on the Beach. The bar lady recommended it.”

“Corgi, under no circumstances do I ever want to drink cocktails with you, let alone one named Sex on the Beach. Sex is the last thing I want to think about when I see your face. And why would you ever do it on a beach? Sand gets everywhere. That’s real uncomfortable. I can only imagine it’s like tossing off with sandpaper. Awful. So why have you put these thoughts in my head?”

“Because it’s fruity and filled with alcohol.”

I take a sip and it is indeed very sweet and filled with alcohol. I shrug and drink more. “Fair enough.”

Larry leans across the table and lowers his voice. “How’s Steph doing? I heard she’s been ill.”

“You’re as subtle as a sledgehammer to the balls. I want you to take any thoughts in your head involving my sister and thoroughly wash them away with bleach.”

“Hey, I’m only asking. It’s not like you care.”

“I care by association.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It means that I don’t care what she or you do in your own lives, but I don’t ever want to imagine anything involving either of you, let alone together. I have enough nightmares as it is. I’m pretty sure that she finds you disgusting though, so thankfully I don’t really have to worry about it.”

“That’s harsh.”

“The truth hurts. What can I say? It’s only the flu, so don’t worry your little head about it, okay?”

“You just don’t like to see people being happy.”

“True enough. I wouldn’t surround myself with miserable bastards like you lot if I did. Except Toto. His outlook is as bright as your pasty skin.”

“And your thoughts are as dark as mine,” Toto adds merrily. “Yet somehow you gather people around you like a mother hen. Fate laughs at your attempts to push people away.”

“Yeah? Well fate can take a long walk off a short pier. Let’s not get the wrong idea here, I don’t hang around you for your optimism or company. You just make good food and are generous with your portion sizes. It’s purely a selfish, one way relationship.”

Toto just laughs and drains his drink. He isn’t wrong though. Somehow it’s me that holds this little group together. None of the others knew each other before me. I’m the common denominator. I guess that shows how desperate they all are if I’m the best option to spend time with.

“Tink say’s he’ll meet us at the house. He’s heading there with his brother,” Corgi says into the lull between banter. He has his phone in one hand and the cocktail pitcher in the other. “He expressly states that nobody is to cause trouble.”

“I wonder why he felt the need to specify that?” I say innocently. “At no point have I ever started a fight when Tink has invited us to these little gatherings.”

“You did draw a dick on that fancy painting when we were at his uncle’s BBQ. I’m pretty sure you spent most of his cousin’s wedding reception flirting with the bride.”

“Look, this is an invitation from little Po, and frankly, I’m not going to do anything to get on his bad side. I’ll be on my best behaviour. Scouts honour.”

“You were never in the scouts.”

“No. And from what I read in the news, they don’t have much honour, so it all works out in the end.”

“Touché.”

Previous – 2.

Next – 4.

1. (Something Like Life)

~ Matthew Roys ~ Leave a comment

Something Like Life.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cheery fucker, aren’t you?”

“You know you love me for it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Her?”

“Too old.”

“Her?” 

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

“Ooh, what about this one?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Burger or vodka?”

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Nobody liked your story then?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Whatever you say, mate.”

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

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

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

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

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

This time I do laugh. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Next – 2.