Free Wreckage by Niall Griffiths Page B

to his own, each looking cool, each having a better chance with Madeleine O’Shea when dressed in Diesel. There is talk of the best uncut cocaine and fridges full of Baileys and holidays in Ibiza or Rhodes. There are thoughts of whores. There are thoughts of sticking the head on Tommy Maguire. There are thoughts of clearing outstanding fines, of strutting into the Clerk to the Justice’s office and paying in cash and telling the stuck-up twat there where to stick his fucking penalties. There are thoughts of drinking and eating in Modo, the Blue Bar, the Living Room, 60 Hope Street. Of taking taxis, no, fuck it,
limos
to parties catered for by themselves; of lording it over tables bent with food and booze and big bowls of powder. Of impressing people. Of creating affection and admiration in them. Of the executive boxes at Anfield and, regarding Freddy, at Goodison. Of replica shirts signed by entire teams. Of buying cars, of learning to drive, even. Of how bouncers will stand aside to permit them entry and more of being ushered straight to the front of the queue. VIP lounges with footballers and musicians. Buying a kilo of pure-as cocaine and setting themselves up in business and building on it and building on it until unimaginable wealth accrues. Paying off the bizzies. Huge houses with gardens and swimming pools. Private jets. Loft apartments in London, Los Angeles. Paying some crackhead to bump Tommy Maguire or maybe merely break his bones. Never having a boss again. Answering to no one ever again. Buying property. Buying land. Investment. Speculation. Freedom and ways to live, so many different and brilliant ways to live. Then back again to merely scoring some ching and getting fucking wasted.
    —Aye … Darren is slurring. —Could do with some gack … bit friggin wrecked ere likes …
    —Come ed, well, Alastair says, standing up. —Get summin to cut through the bevvy, yeh? We’re both knackered. Been a hard coupla days, lar, annit?
    —’Sright.
    Darren tries to stand then falls back into his chair again. Alastair helps him up and once upright he flings off Alastair’s arms and snarls and clutching the rucksack leaves the pub at a reeling pace. Alastair follows, one quick look and nod at Robbo and Freddy. They nod back.
    Darren staggers across the station’s concourse cavernous and cold, the smooth marble floor awash with light and reflecting the long hands of the huge clock on the wall. He bursts through a line of back-packed and suitcased people at the ticket office, flailing his arms and shouting and bisecting the line, sending each half shrinking into itself. Alastair follows him, scanning nervously for police and seeing none. Darren is extremely drunk. The two neds might not even be needed here; Darren might just pass out. Ally could then give him a kicking himself and make off with all the swag and blame it on some non-existent baghead. God, what he could do with four thousand pounds. How, at least for a while, he could live. Not a life-changing amount but Jesus Christ how he could live.
    Out of the station, through the automatic doors which Darren attempts to open even as they are sliding apart so he bellows at them. Through a taxi rank and out into the drizzle, Alastair remaining several paces behind the floundering Darren, up past the side of the Empire Theatre and on to Lord Nelson Street where the thin drizzle drifts and Darren now turns to face Alastair who can see further up the street the sign for Ma Egerton’s pub and its hanging baskets. And Robbo and Freddy jogging across the road on the diagonal, each holding half of a pool cue in arms bent back over their heads.
    —Urry the fuck up, will yeh, Alastair … am needin a fuckin –
    Without breaking pace Robbo or it might be Freddy one of them anyway with full swing whacks the cue-half into the back of Darren’s skull. Alastair hears the THUNK bounce off brick and concrete and Darren collapses in an instant as if shot, all animation removed in