Booze 16.

Mum’s hammered by the time the train arrives. When we get back to London, she says she needs a couple more in the pub outside the station. She sits moanin about the price of booze an then we get a bus back to the estate. She keeps droppin megaton love bombs, saying how much me and Mike mean to her. It’s well embarrassin.  

I reckon she loves Mike more, but I don’t say nothing.

You’re not staying in tonight by yourself, she says. You’re coming to the pub with me.

I tell her I don’t wanna go. The pub on the estate is a mob of alkies. There’s a chance I’ll see Robert, Junior an Tracey an if that happens there’s gunna be murders.

It’s karaoke tonight, she says.

In her language, that’s supposed to mean it’s fun.

I do this look like I’d rather clean my ears with rusty nails.

Mum, though, she’s clever. She knows how to win me over. If you come, I’ll give you a few quid for the fruity, she says.

I think about the offer. Bribes are supposed to be bad but this one ain’t. The thing is, I don’t wanna sit in my room hip hoppin on the decks of my brain between Mike an Flapjack. It’s all I think about. So, I don’t know, maybe she has a point about me comin to the pub.

I agree to go with her an that makes her happy in her alkie kind of way.

Walkin onto the estate feels like stepping into a crime scene. I swear, I can’t fucken look at the Tower Block. It gives me serious twists an traumas, seein those ladders of windows, knowin Flapjack fell from the roof an then got scrambled. She didn’t fall, though. I need to get that straight.

I can feel my breaths go out of synch.

So, I keep my head low, walkin a few paces behind mum. She won’t take the lift in our flats cos she says she got stuck in it for hours once, although I think it was only about forty minutes. Crackies are sittin in the stairwell, gettin high on their foul chemical smellin shit. Get out the way, she shouts, not givin two fucks about their craziness an the insults they’d fire at her if they could get the words passed the globs of spit hangin like threads of cotton off of their cracky lips. It’s mental how they all have the same drawlin, whaaa-maate voices.

Mum says she’s bustin an heads to the bathroom. I fill a beaker up with water, take long gulps, fill up some more an go to my room, seein the bed where Mike doesn’t sleep an the litter tray Flapjack won’t use no more. All that’s left in the gravel are dry baby poos an the smell of her wees. I light a cigarette from the pack mum gave back to me an I break into this nutty coughin fit like when food goes down the wrong hole. I drink the water to try to make it stop, puttin the cigarette out in an empty can of Dr Pepper. There’s an image that starts looping in my head an I don’t know how to press pause. It’s the expression on Tracey Clarke’s face when she knew Robert an Junior were behind me. That moment she realised the trap had worked an I couldn’t escape.

There’s this heavy wave of a truth that drags me under. I’m sinkin alright. Same as when they give me a test at school an I realise I’m gunna fail. It’s the feelin I get when I start to think there’s a Tower Block growin inside of me. It’s not something I can go to the doctor for. I realise what I’m feelin is that I’m on my own. My dad used to call it bein on your Jack Jones. That’s the truth I’m dealin with. There’s no one to help me or to talk to about the stuff that’s happenin. The people I thought I could trust, I can’t cos they never stay around. Sooner or later, everyone bunks off. It’s not just physical leavin either. Like with mum, when I think about it, she’s near me, livin in the same little flat, but she’s not there. She says she is, but it’s like when teachers give me a deadline for homework, what I say to their faces an what I do ain’t the same. I’m not sayin mum’s a liar. She wants to do the things she says an wants to keep the promises she makes. Only, the thing is, right, the Bluetooth in her is fucked an she ain’t ever gunna make those connections.

 

***

Walkin to the pub, mum says, I wonder where Liam is?  

She’s gone back into her builder’s clothes. She likes them because they’re comfortable. It’s called The Brickie look. It’s gunna take the fashion world by storm. Skinny jeans. A black t-shirt an a black jacket which doesn’t really hide her udders. Hair pulled back in a pony with a scrunchie. Scuffed, no name trainers. I think mum must be the only person I ever heard of dressin down before goin out.

Mum, I say.

Yeah, she says, offerin me a smoke.

I take the fag.

That’s your lot. Today is a one off.

I know.

She flicks the wheel of the lighter with the tip of her thumb.

I say, Mum, can I tell you something?

You can tell me anything, petal.

Do you promise not to tell Liam?

Why would I say anything to him?

Promise.

She puts the lighter in her jacket and yanks up her jeans. She glances across the road, frowns an says, Check out those scallies.

I turn an see three blokes in tracksuits with baseball caps pulled low carrying stuff into a van. Two carry a giant flatscreen TV and the other holds a soundbar an a couple of speakers.

Sales come early this year, she shouts to them.

One of them looks up, ready to kick off, an then he recognises mum, Hey, alright, Carol, how you doin love?

I’m not so bad, hun. You still duckin an divin I see.

You know me, surviving, he says, grinning.

See you around, she says an we walk on an she goes, quieter, I wouldn’t mind, but he’s robbing off his own. Why not go to the posh houses? Never makes any sense to me. Maybe it’s cos the Old Bill don’t give a toss about what happens on the estate. Now, what was you going to tell me?

Don’t matter.

Go on.

Nah nah.

Jason.

Behind us, the transit van doesn’t start first time and there’s a chokin sound.

The gears crunch.

They’ve half-inched that van too, I reckon. Now, what is it?

The van drives by an the driver does a friendly wave to us.

Mum waves back.

The rattly exhaust puffs out a cloud of black fumes.

There’s your global warming right there, Jay. Come on then, tell me what you want to ask.

Liam.

What’s he done now?

He sent me round to Jimmy Clarke’s flat to pass on a message.

What message?

He can’t pay the money he owes.

Mum shifts through these stages of registerin what I’ve told her.

As she does this, I go, I only said I’d do it cos he said he’d let me keep Flapjack, but now Flapjack’s gone so it don’t matter an he shouldn’t have done it anyway, should he? Jimmy Clarke told me to tell you that he …

She flies off on one of her rants. The Clarkes? Those thieving pack of bastards. What’s he sent you round to that swine for? Getting a boy to do his bidding because he’s such a gutless, no bollock maggot of a man. And you’re telling me he owes more money? More? After all I’ve fucking done to help him pay back what he owed after he lost the shirt on his back on those fucking apps. The Clarkes won’t have to do him in cos I’ll do the fucking job for them when I see him. Who does he think he is? It’s my flat. Not his. And you’re my boy. How dare he send you round there on something like that. The sneaky, wormy, little fuckface that he is.  

I’m tellin her to press pause. She ain’t listenin, which is kind of what I hoped. I want her to be so angry she’s at DefCon 1 as we get to the The White Hart. It’s old skool in there an we go through the public bar door. There are blokes at the bar, some on stools, an couples sit at tables. It’s not packed or anything. Mum gives me coins for the fruit machine.

That’s your lot, she says. Don’t come running to me after you’ve lost it.

I take the money, lookin at two girls sharin a mic for the karaoke machine.

Liam comes out the gents. Babe, he shouts to mum.

She swivels round an says, I want a word with you.

I go into the corridor with white tiles like you get in bogs, through to the saloon bar, which has two fruit machines an a pool table. I have to check that Robert an Junior aren’t in there as sometimes they go for a game of pool. I push the door open. It’s just two blokes I don’t know at the table, rackin up, an a couple of old geezers. One is readin a newspaper for racin and the other sits at a different table starin into space like they do in here.

I can hear Liam across the bar, shoutin at mum, It’s not like that, Carol. It’s not like that at all. You’ve got the wrong end of the stick.

You can shove that stick up your arse sideways.  

I go to the fruity an push coins into the slot.

The Landlord is an Irish guy named Joseph. No one’s allowed to call him Joe, except his wife, an she died a couple of years back. He’s tellin mum an Liam to take their argument outside if they’re goin to carry on.

I hear Liam say it’s all fine. There’s no drama. Blamin me for always exaggeratin. He buys a round of drinks an mum quietens down. I realise my plan ain’t worked. That she believes him, not me. All she’s bothered about is boozin an stayin hammered for the rest of the night. Booze only wants more booze. So, mum ain’t goin to throw him out for what he did. It was another one of her acts.

I press two of the big square buttons for the cherries to hold.

What I normally do is sit at a table, nursin a Coke, watching some mug pump money into the machine first an then I go on an clean up. The owner of the local Chinese banned me cos I kept goin in there an winnin.

I get lucky on cherries an some coins rain into the plastic tray.

I scoop them up, feelin happy for the first time today. I push the coins into the slot an go again. I lose a couple of times an then the machine starts rainin cash money an I buy a pint of Coke an a bag of Scampi Flavour Fries.

Across the bar, I can see mum an Liam sittin together at a table. She’s doin her dirty laugh, Tracey Clarke style, an I honestly want to throw pint glasses at the pair of them.

I go back to the machine an press the buttons. The money rains into the tray an I switch to the second machine, but I should’ve stayed on the first cos no matter what I do I can’t get a single win an the money steadily disappears into the fruity.

I stand an watch the blokes playin pool. A fat guy has a bulldog tattoo on his forearm. He knows how to play, gettin the cue ball to do all sorts with the pub’s shitty cue. He does this pukka full table pot with plenty of check side to leave himself positioned sweetly for the black, which he kisses into a corner pocket without blinkin.

I hear Liam singin karaoke. He does the same fucken song every time.

I walk back through the corridor of toilet tiles an watch how mum laughs at him as he gyrates his hips an points at her. The door goes behind me an it’s the bloke with the bulldog tattoo and the guy he was playin, who I realise is skinny but hard looking. That’s when I both clock they’re wearin similar hoodies to the one Jimmy Clarke gave me.  

You know him? says the fat bloke.

The one on the mic?

Yeah.

He’s me mum’s boyfriend. He’s a bellend.

Your mum’s name Carol?

How’d you know that?

The two of them give each other looks.

No matter, says the skinny bloke. You might wanna go outside for a walk, lad.

What for?

Ah, too late, says the fat bloke.

The main door to the public bar opens an in steps Jimmy Clarke, wearin blue jeans an a hoodie.

I realise nearly everyone in the pub has one of his fucken tops on.

Liam keeps singin. He turns round an wiggles his bum, smackin himself like he’s a horse that needs to giddy up.

Joseph shouts, I don’t want any trouble.  

Jimmy spreads his arms and yells at Liam, Look at the arse on that.

Liam straightens up an turns round ever so slowly.  

Mum cries out, Jimmy, no, come on, an she accidentally knocks the drinks over on her table.

You, shouts Jimmy, pointin at Liam. Outside.  

Liam drops the mic. Nah nah, Jimmy.

Outside.

Liam makes a run for it, thinkin he can leg it through the corridor an out the other bar. He hasn’t spotted the two blokes. They’re ready an waitin. He basically runs into their fish net arms. They start haulin him out. His feet go limp an drag on the carpet of dirty flowers. Mum bawls at them to let him go, but they ain’t listenin.

Jimmy says, You never did have much taste, did you, darling?

Mum goes, Don’t you darling me.

We had our moment.

Don’t make me puke. What are you gunna do with him?  

Talk business, Jimmy replies, an he leans down an squeezes Liam’s cheek as if he’s a chubby baby. Ain’t that right? I see you’ve got enough for a piss up, so I reckon we need to settle some accounts, don’t we?

I sip my Coke, watchin the door swing shut.

Mum follows them . I start walking an Joseph says, Stay here, son. You don’t want to see that nonsense.

I ignore him. There’s nothing to look at anyway, apart from mum throwin an empty bottle at the red taillights of an SUV drivin fast down the road an out of the estate.

I take out my fags an light one for her an one for me.

Where are they taking him? she says to me.

I shrug.

I mean, as if I care.

 

***

Mum stays up drinkin.

I go to my room an don’t come out. I don’t want to be near her when she’s monster drunk. She don’t make no sense. Shoutin. Laughing. Wantin cuddles. Getting angry. Droppin fag ash on her top.

I must’ve fallen asleep cos it’s late when I hear bangin on our front door. I think it’s stopped an then, bang, bang, bang. The noise gets me up. The lights are still on an I go into the livin room, seeing mum out for the count on the sofa, a plastic bottle of cider on the coffee table.

I walk to the front door.

Carol, let me in.

I turn the Chubb key, unhook the latch an Liam falls across the doorway onto the matt. His eyes are swollen, nose bloody an his clothes are ripped up. I think he’s wet himself.

Get me in, he says.

I leave him in a heap an walk into the livin room. He calls for me to help but he’s dreamin. I start shaking mum, shoutin in her face to wake up. She mumbles her words like she’s talkin in her sleep. I keep on shoutin until she looks at me, hearing me say, It’s Liam. He’s come back.

All the while, he’s in the hallway, moanin.

Mum, you need to get up.

Before saying a word to me, she reaches for the cider left in her glass, drains it, refills the glass from the bottle an has a long mouthful. It brings her back to life like some kind of alkie sleepin beauty.

Is that him? she says.

That’s what I’m tellin you.

She pushes herself up off the sofa an staggers into the hallway.

He’s sittin with his back against the wall, struggling to get his breath. Carol, he groans, help me.

She slumps onto the floor next to him, putting her arm around him, runnin her fingers through his thin hair, making him yelp as he’s sore from his poundin.

I ain’t got the money, he says, his voice breakin with tears. They think I have, but I ain’t got it. I ain’t.

She kisses his cheek, tracin her fingers over the bumps round his eyes that will colour black an purple.

I know what to do, she says. I know how to fix that bastard.

She tells him how they’re gunna call the police on Jimmy Clarke. Do an anonymous tip-off about all the stolen goods in his flat.

I don’t think it’s a good idea. What she needs to do is get Liam out of our flat forever and ever, but that’s not what’ll happen. Nah nah. Not my mum. She brings him into the livin room an pours him a cider an rolls him a fat spliff, talkin about how they’re going to get revenge on Jimmy.

It’s proof of what I’ve been thinkin about mum not bein there. All that stuff she says, it’s about as believable as adverts for toothpaste an cars an trainers. It’s like the promise of exams an medals on sports day an swimming certificates. It’s real dad tellin me he loves me an then vanishin. Everyone’s doin acts at the end of the day.

Mum doesn’t see me in the livin room. She sparks up the joint an takes a long toke before handin it to fuckface, sittin there in his piss jeans. I turn round an go to the kitchen to fill a beaker of water, runnin the tap twice so it’s cold. I go to my room an lock the door.

All this stuff that normal people have in their lives is missin in mine. People like Edgar, with his mum cookin mad meals an a dad who buys homes with an upstairs an a downstairs an a garden.

I wish Mike was here.

He’s an idiot an everythin, but at least things made a bit of sense when he was around.