Wreckage by Niall Griffiths Page A

paint-scabbed walls written in silver marker-pen Alastair reads a rhyme:
    JO AND SARAH
    HAVE BEEN AND GONE
    BUT WE LEFT ARE NAMES
    TO TURN YOUSE ON
    Darren wedges the rucksack tightly between his feet and pulls his tracksuit top up over his face to shelter him from the wind as he lights a cigarette. The smell of the smoke entices Alastair and he lights one too and now they are enmisted; two breaths, two exhaled fumes. Their faces blurred behind a slender smog.
    —Av a good time last night, Ally?
    Alastair shrugs again. —Suppose so, yeh. Gorrer bit borin early mornin like.
    —Bit fuckin
borin?
Aye for
you
yeh dull bastard cos you were lookin for somewhere to crash just when things were kickin off. Shoulda got yerself a Judy, man, tellin yeh thee were fuckin
chokin
for it. That friggin Gillian one gobbled me dry, no lie.
    They say nothing for some moments, just blowing smoke down at the ground, each recalling in fuzzed and thudding heads an experience of empty sleep and sex, nullity or noise. A thin body. A slim slice of darkness under a bed where no peace was found. And experiencing anew a sorrow and a freedom, a rue and a potential dazzling. But some shadows across them both alike as have been before and will again.
    A faint rumbling begins in the earth. They can feel it in the soles of their feet, through their trainies. Darren flicks his butt out on to the trembling track.
    —There’s summin up with you, Alastair, isn’t thee? Summin not fuckin right with you this mornin, lar, I fuckin
know
there is. You fuckin plannin summin? Summin fuckin brewin in that mad fuckin ed of yours?
    Alastair’s eyes slide once at Darren quickly then away again. He sucks again at the cigarette even though only the filter now smoulders.
    —No, Darren, honest to God. I’m just fuckin knackered, that’s all. That’s all it is, lar. Truth. What the fuck would I be plannin anyway?
    The rumbling gets louder.
    —How the fuck should I know? Think
I
know what’s goin on in them addled fuckin brains o’ yours?
    —There’s nowt goin on, Da, honest. Ain’t plannin fuck all sept how to spend my share of the swag, that’s all.
    Alastair smiles at Darren but it is not returned. Darren is leaning forward pebble-eyed, looking beyond Alastair at the approaching train.
    —Yeh well there’d berrer fuckin
not
be is all I’m fuckin sayin. I know yer still fuckin freakin over that ahl gerl like an I can’t be friggin arsed goin through it all again but you fuckin
know
what’ll happen, you open that fuckin gob o’ yours, don’t yeh?
    He focuses on Alastair now, the train slowing at the platform, the wind of its wash tossing the tight curls on his crown. His muddy eyes are ringed by dark like bruising, this doubledark stare and a muscle twitches on his cheek. Alastair just nods.
    —Yeh well, Darren goes on. —I hope yeh fuckin do cos I don’t wanner atchly avter fuckin
do
it, y’unnerstand?
    —Yeh.
    —I just hope yeh fuckin
do
, that’s all.
    —I
do
, Da. An I ain’t plannin fuck all.
    The train stops, the doors wheeze open. They get on, sit down, put their feet up on the seats opposite. A blue-rinser across the aisle glowers openly through the glass of her gigs at them and tuts and tightens her grip on her handbag, just as Darren does with the stuffed rucksack on his lap. One lurch and jerk and the train pulls away.
    —Cos I wanner know there’s gunner be fuck all for me to tamp about here, Alastair. Just wanner be able to enjoy meself likes without worryin about fuck all, knowmean?
    —Yeh yeh, sound.
    —Wanner hear, from
you
like, that we’re all sorted an happy. Are we?
    —What?
    —Sorted an happy. Everythin’s boss. Are you lissnin to wharram sayin or am I just dealin with a dick’ed here?
    —Nah it’s fine, Da. Honest to God, mate, it’s all gunner be sound.
    —It fuckin
berrer
be.
    —It
is
, man. Stop yer worryin. It’s all gunner be good. Nowt to tamp about at all, mate.
    Darren sniffs and snuggles the rucksack