Free Bring it Back Home by Niall Griffiths Page A

brought the bottle down onto it, as hard as he could. It didn't break but there was a terrible THUNK noise. Lewis felt the impact in his shoulder and Cakes went back down behind the bar as if shot. Lewis raised the bottle again and waited for Cakes to re-appear and when he didn't he leaned over the bar to look. Saw Cakes, on his back, his eyes rolled to show the whites. For a horrible moment Lewis thought he might be dead, but then he saw Cakes's chest rising and falling so he dropped the bottle and hoisted the heavy rucksack back onto his shoulders and ran.
    He made for the nearest tube station but suddenly it seemed very far away so he hailed a taxi instead. He could afford the fare, now, and could even afford to leave a tip for the driver at Paddington station where he bought a ticket, one-way, for the next Swansea train. It wasn't leaving for an hour, so he went into the station bar and bought a pint of lager and a whisky nip and sat in the corner facing the door so he could see who came in. His hands shook as he raised the drinks to his lips and they only stopped shaking after four drinks: two pints and two whiskies. The rucksack he held on his knee, protecting it with an arm as he might protect a child. His knees twitched. He chainsmoked cigarettes and drummed on the tabletop with his fingertips and his nerves screamed. He thought of sausage rolls that dripped blood. He thought about cutting into a pie and finding his own eyes staring out at him. He thought of Cakes, big man Cakes, and his fury when he regained consciousness, and when the Swansea train was announced over the tannoy Lewis ran onto it and found a seat. Only when it began moving was he able to relax again. As he moved out of London he felt himself calming down. Felt his heartbeat returning to normal.
    He took out his mobile phone and tapped a number into it. The Old Man answered.
    'Hello?'
    â€˜It's Lewis. I'm on the train and I'm coming home. I'll be there in a few hours.'
    'You okay, son? You sound upset.'
    â€˜I'm okay.'
    'You sure? You don't sound okay. What's wrong, boy?'
    â€˜Nothing, nothing. I'm fine. I've just…'
    â€˜Just what?'
    'Nothing. I'll tell you when I get there. In a few hours.'
    â€˜Okay, son. Bring yourself back home. It's been too long.'
    â€˜I've just…'
    â€˜It's okay, Lewis. Whatever it is, bring it back home and we'll sort it out.'
    Lewis hung up and sat back to stare out of the window. The Old Man's voice echoed in his head, which was spinning due to the booze. He thought of green hills and small white houses. He thought of his mother's gravestone in the churchyard on the hill that overlooked the village – he thought of his brothers and he thought of Manon. More than anything he thought of Manon, her skin and her smile and her eyes. He thought of Cakes and the Queen's Head pub and London and how happy he was to be going away from all of that. He'd never go back there again.
    Tiredness came on him. His eyes started to close. He put the rucksack on his knee and wrapped one of its straps tightly around his wrist. He leaned his head against the window and closed his eyes. By the time the train reached Reading he was fast asleep, dreaming of the place he was aiming for, the place he still called home.

Chapter Two
    â€˜Can you believe it? He hits me – me – over the head with a fucking bottle. He's taken every last penny from the safe and fucked off and I know where he's gone – back to bleedin' Wales. Taffland. Mark my words. Can't believe the fucking cheek of him. Thinks he can get away with this, does he? With this ?'
    Cakes removed his baseball hat and leaned to show the raised lump on his shaven skull. The size of a plum beneath the skin. Same colour as a plum, too. The three men around him looked and tutted. One of them, the one the others called Daft Larry, touched it gently; Cakes yelled and leapt back.
    â€˜Fuck's sakes, Larry! I didn't say to touch the fucking thing, did I? How