Free Wreckage by Niall Griffiths

Darren and a bitter shandy for himself. Their ninth drink. He orders also a double vodka and with the drinks hidden by him from Darren’s liquiding eyes and with hands slightly atremor he pours the Vladivar into the lager, a mixture which Darren has been drinking unwittingly for the last four rounds. He pays the barmaid, who has bright orange skin, and takes the drinks back to the table. Darren glugs half straight off.
    —Yer might be buyin the bevvies an all that, Ally, but yer still ain’t gettin moren a sixty-forty split.
    —That’s alright, Da.
    —Pure woulden av fuckin
anythin
if it weren’t for me.
    —I’m sound with it, mate.
    —Just so’s yeh fuckin know.
    —I do, lar, I do. Av got no problems with it, man.
    —Sound, well. Darren takes another long swig and stands unsteadily up. —Am goin for a slash. An I’m fuckin takin
this
with me n all.
    He hoists the rucksack on to his shoulder and takes it with him to the toilet. Alastair watches him go, his swaying back on wobbly legs and then lets his eyes drift to the TV above the bar where a stern young woman announces that police are searching for two men with Liverpool accents and then an image of a post office he has seen before. A post office whitewashed in a small village with a mountain rising behind it and he has seen that prospect before.
    There are two young neds playing pool. Evidently under eighteen because they are drinking Cokes out of the can. Alastair gulps at his shandy and wishes it was a stronger drink and gets up and approaches the pool table.
    —Yiz alright, lads?
    They stare. Both of them still holding the cues beneath their chins, the blue-chalked tips reflecting greyly on skin like hypothermic buttercups. Let’s see if you like slate. They stare.
    —I need a favour from youse.
    —Oh for fuck’s sake. One of them looks to the other. —Another fuckin hom.
    —Eh?
    —Another fuckin queg wants to wank us off here, Robbo.
    Robbo snorts. Alastair waves his hands frantic in front of his chest, palms out.
    —Nah fuck
that
, man, am no fuckin hom. All am asking is a small friggin favour, like.
    —Yeh, what? Not-Robbo tilts his head back and to the side, assessing, working out. —That’s what all the puffs say. What d’yer want us to do?
    —Well, owjer fancy earnin a bit of cash?
    —Thought yeh said yer norra puff?
    —Aw Jesus Christ, am fuckin well
not
, man, will yiz just fuckin
listen
to me. Alastair looks over his shoulder, sees a still Darrenless bar. —Yiz see the lad am with?
    They look behind him, over each of his shoulders, then face him and shake their heads.
    —No.
    —Yer on yer own. He’s on his own, Freddy, inny?
    Freddy nods. —Looks that way to me, like.
    —Yeh, he’s just gone the bog. He’ll be back soon n all so av gorrer be quick.
    —What does he look like?
    —Who?
    —This musher yer supposed to be with.
    —Yer’ll see im when he gets back from the bog. Big cunt with curly hair. Wearin an antwacky ahl shelly.
    Robbo and Freddy smirking look Alastair up and down, from his seamsplit Le Coq Sportifs to his trackie bottoms tucked into white sports socks. They glance once down at their own feet and grin back up at his face. They’re wearing Rockport and Stone Island and Firetrap and Burberry.
    —Wharrabout im, well?
    Alastair rubs his hands over his face. —He’s a cunt.
    —I bet he is, but what’s that gorrer do with us, well?
    Alastair sighs, glances back over his shoulders again. Fatigue has sallowed his skin and made murky his eyes. His lips, cracked, have adopted the inverted smile of remorse and regret. —He’s carryin a bag. A ruckie, like. It’s fuller fuckin swag and am tellin yiz fuckin
full
of it. An youse can av some of it if yeh like.
    —Ow much.
    —Ton each.
    —Ton fifty.
    —Alright.
    —Two hundred.
    —Fuck off. Ton fifty.
    —For doin what?
    —Jackin the bastard. We’re gunner be leavin in about half n hour, follow us round to Ma Egerton’s, welly the twat round thee ed an