Night Crawling

The car is a volcano of smoke. Matt hands me the spliff and turns onto the high street. Streetlights pass above us like fireflies. The tip is moist but I inhale deeply. Flakes of tobacco cling to my lips. My lungs fill with smoke and I hold it for a second before blowing it out into the stale air. My muscles are heavy and my body embraces the distraction the weed brings.

Relax.

Matt changes gear. He’s only been driving a few days, and is still a little hesitant when driving at night. Encased in his battered Metro we drive past McDonalds, follow the road round Cash Generator, past HSBC, past Wetherspoons, turn at the round about and circle back again. On the streets groups of people screech like kids in a school playground. I watch as men cross the road without looking and women wearing scant clothing hug their bodies against the cold, their flabby thighs wobbling with every step.

“So,” I say, “How’s the new job? What is it you’re doing?” My reflection looks pallid, like a girl trapped beneath water.

“I’m a temp at an advertising company. You know, the one that puts out that free magazine with the Target?” Matt replies as he glances at me. “Restaurants pay us and give us a free meal if we print positive things about them. Advertorials, they call it. Last week it was the Golden Dragon.” He pulls the car to a halt and waits for the traffic lights to turn green. I take another drag and let the smoke slither out of my mouth. The lights change and we creep forward.

“Isn’t the Golden Dragon that one that sells dogs as pork?” I ask as I place the end into Matt’s fingers, yellow with nicotine. Matt barks out a laugh which echoes round the car.

“Yeah, but according to us, their Peking duck is the best in town.” He says and takes a drag. Black tar stains snake down the paper. We drive past Cash Generator and pause outside HSBC as a group of girls, each wearing identical angel wings, run across the road. One of them, with a pink BRIDE TO BE sash tied round her, screeches like a harpy and totters in her high heels. At the door of the bank sits a Portuguese looking man, his legs wrapped in rags, his empty hand stretched out before him.

We drive on.

“So that’s what you’re doing now is it?” I say. “Writing false adverts for the highest bidder?” I look down at my hands, my brittle fingernails still orange from the factory.

Matt sneers, winds down his window and flicks out the spliff end. Circling, curling clouds of smoke spill into the night air. “I don’t write the adverts.” He sneers and chokes out a laugh. “I’m just a fucking temp. All I do is sort out the client’s files. I don’t understand why anyone would want to read the magazine anyway. Who'd want to read something that’s just adverts? What’s the point? I read the other day that we’re subjected to more than five thousand ads a day. Why do that to yourself?”

We drive past Wetherspoons, circle the roundabout and turn back on ourselves once more. I reach into the glove compartment and take out Matt’s ‘baccy tin. The fading picture on the front says: A WEEKEND WASTED IS NEVER A WASTED WEEKEND. I take out his gear and begin to skin up. “Consumerism is replacing our need for God. More homes have an Argos Catalogue than a Bible these days.” I shift into a mock Southern American accent, “Darlin’ salvation is just a fifty two inch plasma screen TV away. Praise fucking Jesus!”

Matt laughs. In this light his teeth glint like shards of broken glass. Flakes of tobacco drift down on my lap as I roll. The rizla tastes like envelopes. I flip open the Zippo and light up. The first drag’s all paper and catches in my throat.

Outside HSBC a group of men gather around the crumpled heap that was, a few moments ago, the Portuguese man. Their legs swing back and forth as they kick. The Portuguese man’s hand falls forward, his fingers curled, and a few coins drop and spin down the street. The men shout, laugh and spur each other on. A pool of black blood congeals around their feet. Shines in the streetlight. One of the men holds on to another’s shoulder for balance as his foot finds its target and lands with a loud ‘crack’. Somewhere a girl is screaming.

We drive on.

I take a long drag and close my eyes to the world. I try to concentrate on my body, and the feel of the smoke as it curls around my lungs. But my mind is full with images of the day, of the white sterile factory, of the walk into town. And I can’t let go. I lean my forehead against the window and the car vibrates though my body. “I’m so sick of this fucking town.” I mummer as I open my eyes. My head lolls to the side and I watch Matt drive. “Can’t we do something? Go somewhere?” I pull on the spliff too quickly and it flares red with anger.

“Where do you want to go?” Matt plucks the joint from my fingers, places it in his mouth and changes gear. We turn past Wetherspoons, round the roundabout, and keep going. Follow the stream of cars on to the bypass out of town.

“I don’t know. Just drive.” I lean my head against the window again and watch my reflection. My lips form a thin line curved downwards and my brow is furrowed. My eyes look like black holes. Outside, homogenous houses skirt in and out of my vision. Inside, 2.4 children, a mother and a father, will be sat watching Saturday night television. Their eyes blank, their thoughts empty. Ant and Dec stand side by side and roll of a parade of scripted jokes to a nation of zombies. And if you call this number now you could be a winner. As easy as that.

Is that all I have to look forward to?

“How about the moors?” Matt says, “I used to go there as a kid.” The moors are secluded, quiet and safe. A place where you go when you want to be alone.

“Sure.” My breath mists up the window, then disappears as quickly as it came. We turn off the bypass and onto a county road. The car headlights stretch out before us with tentative fingers and feel their way though the dark.

Matt’s body is strained forward and he clutches the wheel with both hands. When he senses me looking at him he mutters: “Not used to driving in the dark,” and shifts in his seat. The car judders from side to side as the suspension tackles the battered country roads. He pauses for a moment, then says, “How’s things at home?”

A smile briefly plays on my lips. I could almost believe he cares. “Same as usual really. Mum’s still working at the Co-op. Though she and Steve broke up and things got ugly for a while. And Amy’s still a little brat.” Matt passes me the end of the spliff and I hold it between my thumb and fore finger. “She’s not gonna be happy when I tell her I’ve quit, she actually thought the factory was good job. And now she wants me to pay rent. Guess how much she wants each week. For a shared room in a shitty terraced house. Guess.”

Matt shrugs, his eyes lined with tiny red veins. “I dunno. Twenty?” Strange shapes spin around us through the darkness as we bump down yet another deserted road.

“Try fifty. Fifty! I mean for fucks sake!” I finish the spliff and send it out of the window. My throat feels swollen and my mouth dry. I purse my lips and rummage around in the glove compartment. Sort my way through a myriad of empty take away cartons, crisps packets and cans of beer. “Have you got any water?”

“No, sorry. There’s a bottle of vodka under your seat, I was going to take it round Sarah’s but you can open it.” Matt’s voice also sounds choked and I wonder if that second spliff was really such a good idea. I reach under my seat and find the vodka. It’s a cheap bottle and the high, chemical smell of white spirit tickles my nose as I open it. I take a long gulp and choke as tears film over my eyes. My mouth burns. I gasp for air and the warm liquid worms its way to my stomach.

Matt laughs at me and pulls the car to a stop. Gravel crunches and crackles underneath us. He takes the bottle from me and swallows greedily. Lumps in his throat dance about as he drinks. I glance outside. Darkness envelops us and an unknown weight presses down on my chest. Matt flicks on the car interior light and switches off the engine. He unclips his seat belt, turns to me and smiles. His breath smells of ethanol and I turn my head away slightly.

“You know,” he says, as his hand brushes my leg. “I haven’t christened it yet.”

My head’s still swimming from the vodka, “Christened what?” But he is kissing me. His mouth tastes stale and his stubble scratches my face but I close my mind to it. His hands are in my hair. On my neck. My breasts. I guide him to the right places and when I am done I focus on him. Afterwards he rolls up a fag while I take another swig of the paint stripper to rid his foul taste from my mouth. It slides down more easily this time, though there is still a strange, chloroform taste at the back of my throat.

“So, Sarah alright then?” I ask, as I pull up my cotton knickers and straighten my skirt, my tone deliberately casual.

Matt turns away from me and looks outside. “Yeah. She still won’t put out, if that’s what you mean. But other than that she’s alright. Wants us to move in together after she finishes college.” He lifts the roll up to his lips and draws deeply. It crackles in his fingers and tiny red sparks of miniature fireworks whirl in the air, extinguishing as they fall. He leans back into the seat and closes his eyes.

“You don’t seem so keen.” I raise my left eyebrow slightly at him, a trick I’ve been practicing for a while. Matt shrugs, his eyes still closed. A thick silence hangs between us. I stare out of the window at the starless sky and Matt smokes and picks his nails. My vision becomes blurry as my eyes dart about, searching the darkness for something, anything. But all I see is black. I have this sense that I am falling into my chair, that the car interior is pressing down on me. And still I can see no light. I run my fingers over the condensation on the window, drawing irregular circles and wide smiley faces. Matt passes me his ‘baccy tin and turns on the engine. We drive back to my place. Listen to Alice Cooper’s wails on the stereo.

Word count 1958