Deadfolk by Charlie Williams Page B

turned on the telly and watched the news for a bit. They was talking about the war, as always. That were about the time they first started showing that big bomb sitting there in the silo. I had a flick and found my way to a film that looked like it had potential. Sure enough, within a minute or two a feller were taking the bird’s bra off and feeling her up all over. It were smart, like the stuff you ain’t meant to get on telly. Before I knew it I had meself out and ready. It didn’t take long. I didn’t really need the telly neither. All I had to do were close my eyes and think of Sal, up there on stage, half a can of motor oil rubbed into her tits and arse. I imagined it were me who oiled her up before her turn. And I had a feeling it soon would be, though the stage’d be charcoal by then.
    After I’d had a bit of a doze, I pulled me kecks up and went to the front window. You couldn’t see Hoppers from where I were standing, but there were a dull glow in the sky above a certain spot in town. I had a funny feeling at that moment, like a frozen clot of blood passing through my heart. But it passed. It were no real shock to see that Hoppers were blazing. Finney might have shite for brains, but if he says he’ll do summat he’ll do it. He were still standing there now, like as not, warming his hands and laughing. Fucking twat.
    It were with a heavy sigh that I switched off the telly and went upstairs. I opened the bedroom door as quietly as born clumsiness allows. I weren’t planning on kipping in there, mind. That’d be breaking the habit of twelve months. I just wanted to…dunno, really. See that Beth were akip, I reckon. But she weren’t. She weren’t in bed at all.
    She weren’t anywhere in the room.
    Hang on, I thought, scratching my head. I know what she went and done. She went to pick us up anyhow, even though I hadn’t called her back. She went to get us so she can lay into us, bitter and enraged as she were.
    ‘Ah, fuck…’ I says, downstairs again now, glancing outside at the warm glow over Hoppers. It were a clear night. Stars in the sky, full moon. Smoke billowed up like a grey genie out of a dirty old beer bottle.

     
    My throat already knew the feel of cold steel. My old man used to threaten to slit it on a regular basis. Just verbal threats at first, little reminders that one day he’d cut my neck open and hang us up over a tin bucket. After a while I noticed a pattern—the threats’d come when I looked happy, when I walked around the house whistling or bouncing on my heels. Then I started coming home with birds. Hiding em from Dad, course. But he always knew. He’d get the family silver out soon as she were out the door. ‘Thinks your life’ll turn out just how you wants it, don’t you,’ he’d say, throat rattling with all the fags and whisky. ‘Reckon it’ll be nice and happy, eh? Well forget it. Didn’t turn out that way for me, did it? And I’ll make sure it don’t for you neither, you little bastard.’
    ‘Shift,’ says Jess, nodding at the controls and sliding the blade off my skin.
    I knew he’d nicked us. I could feel the drop of blood reaching into my chest hairs and tickling us. But I didn’t wipe it away. I got the motor started and put her in gear. ‘Where to?’ I says as we joined an empty Friar Street.
    ‘Strake Hill.’
    ‘Car park?’ I looked in the mirror and saw his nod. Weren’t much else about him I could see besides his big silhouette. Reminded us of Baz. I’d never thought em alike before. ‘Been puttin’ on weight there, Jess?’ I says.
    He didn’t move. Or his silhouette didn’t. He just sat tight, filling my mirror. A car turned up ahead and flashed headlights in his face. I looked away. I liked the silhouette better.
    ‘Whereabouts, Jess?’ I slowed down, seeing the turn-off up yonder. ‘What we goin’ there for?’
    He leaned forward and rested his knife hand by me right shoulder.
    I pulled into the car park and straight away