Free Wreckage by Niall Griffiths Page A

al take the sack an box yiz off. Dead simple, like.
    Robbo and Freddy, they look at each other. One rapid glance that shares something. —An that’s it?
    —Aye, yeh. But yer’ve gorrer make sure that yiz give im a good hard belt, like. A mean a
real
leatherin. Gorrer knock the cunt sparko.
    —Sound, Robbo says. —No worries there, likes. This im now?
    Alastair whirls, sees Darren back in his seat scowling at him, the rucksack clutched to his chest, the overhead lighting shadowing his eyes and bouncing in twin beams off his brow as if double subcutaneous growths there stretch the skin. He raises his eyebrows and nods sudden once: The fucker
you
up to?
    Alastair moves back to the table, thanking the two lads loudly. Darren doesn’t need to speak, his expression alone is a question.
    —Just avin a lend of their moby, Alastair says. —Battery’s dead on mine. Tryna score us some beak.
    —Yeh?
    Nod. —Peter’s wasn’t switched on so I gave that Stega a bell instead. Says to meet im round at Ma Egerton’s in thirty.
    —Thirty?
    Nod. —Time for another coupla bevvies first, like.
    —Why didn’t yer use mine?
    —Your what?
    —My fuckin moby. Why didn’t yer use it? Why borrow them neds’?
    —Just safer, like, innit. Scorin some charlie, like, just safer to do it on some other cunt’s phone, innit?
    Darren’s thinking.
    —Can’t trace it back to yours, then, can thee? Never know
who’s
lissenin in, do yeh?
    Darren thinks. Then seems to slip momentarily into a trance for a few seconds then snaps abruptly out of it with a vigorous shake of his jowly head. Alastair smiles, but not with his face.
    —Don’t fuckin like that bastard, me.
    —Who?
    —That fuckin Stega one, Darren says. —Who d’yeh think? That fuckin Stephenson. Never liked that bastard, me.
    —Aye, yer one evil cunt yerrah, Darren.
    —What?
    —I said he’s one evil cunt that Stega. But he’s the man with the beak, tho, inny? Doan avter drink with im, like, do we? Just score the coke an do one.
    Darren thinks again. Even when he blinks it is plodding , ponderous; alcohol and sleeplessness have turned him into cement unset.
    —Aye, alright. Goan get the drinks in well, yeh tight-arsed get.
    Alastair goes to the bar and will do so twice more in the following thirty minutes before they leave, surreptitiously observed by Robbo and Freddy who play several more games of pool and sip at their Cokes until they are flat and warm, the temperature and consistency of spittle. In this half-hour all four of them will talk about nothing but money, how they will spend it, what wondrous times they will have. They will talk about the horrors of being poor and about the humming power of having money. About the unique and indescribable buzz of walking around a city when your pockets bulge with cash. About how the heart thuds and the pulse races, how you relax and settle into yourself when hitherto proscribed parts of the city suddenly become accessible. About advertisements and what they offer suddenly including you in their orbit, suddenly being directed at you, suddenly welcoming you into the once arcane arena filled with creativity and profound social significance and welcomed you will be into that shining realm. They talk about the pain of unsatisfied cravings and the contempt of the moneyed for the moneyless. They talk about buying presents for their mothers and Alastair alone thinks about hospital treatment for his grandmother, going private as if that could arrest ageing although he does not voice this thought. Darren recalls a recent Sunday dinner when he made his mother cry and remarks to himself that she seems to weep quite often these days, in fact she’s become a right fucking whinger but he still loves her. Robbo and Freddy discuss sprees on the skank for their good clothes and how they’ll soon be able to buy those Diesel anoraks they’ve been wanting for ages from that boss shop down Bold Street. They picture themselves wearing them, each