Wreckage by Niall Griffiths Page B

even tighter to his torso, almost campishly aggrieved. Alastair gazes out the window at the passing estates, the wide roads easily surveyable, cul-de-sacs like islands. There is a noise beneath the chunkachunk of the train that sounds vaguely like a grinding of teeth.
    —An yeh can guarantee that, can yeh?
    —What?
    —Fuckin ell, Alastair, ow much friggin bugle did yeh do last night? Not fuckin with it this mornin, you, no lie. No fuckin lie. Not that yeh are
anyway
, like, but …
    A tutting from the old lady across the aisle. A fiddling with mittens.
    —Guarantee what, tho?
    —That everythin’s gunner be sound, like you said. Cos I wanner know one thing, lad, just one fuckin thing: who’s got the friggin pull here, eh?
    —The pull?
    —Aye, yeh. Who’s got the fuckin pull?
    Alastair sinks his hands in his jacket pockets, tucks his chin into his zipped-up collar. —
You
av, Darren.
    —Yeh, fuckin right.
    —Everyone knows that.
    —Yeh. Willy fuckin Hunter and his gobshite brothers know it. Stega knows it. All the fuckin Maguire brothers know it. So why don’t fuckin
you?
    Tut-tut-tut from across the aisle. Darren glares at the woman and continues to glare until she slowly stands and moves off shakily down the carriage.
    —I
do
.
    —Do yeh?
    —Aye yeh, I fuckin well do. Yer bein parro, lar. I’m not plannin fuck all, I’m happy to av the brewsters, there’s notten to friggin worry about. It’s all gunner be sound, yeh don’t avter tamp about fuckin anythin. Alright? Yis happy now? We’ll go back to town an start spendin the money on a bender, that suit yis? That make yeh happy?
    Darren nods once, his eyes locked on to the middle distance, taking in the almost empty carriage. His head lolls on the thick gimbals of his neck with the rocking of the train and like some lord brought low he seems as if this transport is for him alone. As if he is forever vigilant to the bruising of his dignity, this possessor of rare bearing and scant standing amongst the common flock of men, those who are forced to travel this way because they can’t afford any better conveyance. And he this glitterer must temporarily mix but will assiduous remain unblemished and aloof.
    It is a quality to Darren that Alastair has witnessed before: the chest comes out, the head tilts back, the eyes become heavy-lidded. A carriage of almost aristocratic trait that paints the world contemptible, that exposes its inconsequence. That says ‘this is not important only
I
am’, and it is soothing somewhat to Alastair to see this since in its all-holding only in disdain and not as usual disgust and thus not fury there is a lessening of tension, a relaxed permission. An ease in the knowing that fists will not be formed and there will be no flashing of glass or blade or even teeth.
    —Gunner give Tommy a call, Da?
    —Tommy? What for?
    —He’s gunner find out sooner or later, mate, inny? About the car, like.
    Darren sighs. —Aye, suppose yer right.
    He digs his mobile out of his pocket and taps in a number. Holds the phone to his ear and smiles at Alastair.
    —Voicemail. Nice one. Don’t avter speak to the fat blert face to … Tommy, it’s Darren, mate. No luck in Wales, like, we just couldn’t find the musher. Looked evrywhere. Think yis got snide info, to be honest. Adter ditch the motor as well, I’ll tell yiz about it later, but give us a ring when yeh get this message, yeh? Alright well. Laters.
    He turns the phone off and replaces it in his pocket.
    —Done. Cunt can’t say we didn’t try to contact him, can he?
    —No.
    —Can’t say we’re tryna avoid im or anythin.
    —Is right.
    Chester begins behind the moving windows. Back to where they began yesterday in the car now sunken and the futile hunt and the THUNK and the falling woman and the blood and the money all this yesterday formless before them now done and behind them and this city changed now, estranged, altered now irreparable by regret for one and chance for the other.