Paul

    - Have you seen him recently? I swear he hasn't been outside since like September.

    - Must be hibernating.

    - I see him walking Belle sometimes. Only at night though. It looks like he’s grown some of his hair back.

    - Ooo! Maybe he’s fully rehabbed now; a fully-functioning member of society. 

    - Nah, no ‘kin chance. That man is a ‘kin sad-case.

    - Oh, come on Jonny, he’s a nice guy really. 

 

    The ‘he’, the ‘man’, the ‘sad-case’ in question is Paul, the alcoholic over the road. In July, when the three moved into their new place on Bartlett Street, he had been a regular fixture, providing entertainment (or cause for concern, depending on your perspective) for passers by day in and day out. Now though, in the middle of winter, he seems to have disappeared almost entirely. 

Throughout the summer he would start his shift at about 11am and stay on until at least 10pm. He was a hard worker, nobody could deny him that and the three students developed a soft spot for him after the initial shock. Paul brought an energy to the road, they thought, one that they hadn’t yet experienced during their time in Liverpool and his willingness to talk to them at any time of day or night just proved to them that scousers were as friendly as they’d spent three years telling everyone. Over time they’d tried to get to know him a bit better, ask him questions and go over to pet Belle, but now in their memories it is clear to them all that by the time he’d disappeared, they were no closer to knowing him than when they’d just started out.

Sitting on the tattered kitchen chair which he routinely placed on the step outside of his front door, the heat of the high summer sun would paste layers of red skin on his cheeks as he sang along with the tinny collection of reggae and rock n roll that sounded from somewhere deep within his lair of a home, persistently. Don worreh abada ting, coz erry liddal ting gonneh be alride. His face looked like a fossilised strawberry - seeds and all - and he would lean his head down between his open legs at a particularly emotional part of  any given song, revealing a scalp that had been stung by years of this hobby. Mumbling along, feeling every lyric, he would be taken to a place of extreme psychological potency and as the drums came in or the chorus began to sound, he would jerk his head back with all the force of a seizure, half-singing and half-crying the half-remembered lyrics. By his side perpetually sat his two rival love interests: Belle, a gigantic dirty-white Staffy who never barked or moaned, but dutifully kept her head poked through the front yard gate, watching the world go by and being petted by the odd neighbour; and a three litre plastic bottle of indiscriminate cornershop vodka. He would tend to them both with equal care and offer himself completely to whatever task was at hand. If it was a sip from his bottle, he might as well have been kissing his long-lost wife after ten years apart; and if it was showing Belle some attention, one might have thought he was giving a final hug to his child before sending them off into the world. There was a lot of love in Paul and the three could see that. 

On moving in, Paul had taken it upon himself to find out a bit more about the three new residents of number 35 - Paul’s Neighbourhood Watch. In varying states of sobriety, he would quiz them as they were coming back from their weekly shops on a Saturday afternoon, or when they decided they would go for a fag outside the front door instead of the back. Asking about what they did, their courses, where they were from. Although they doubted he was actually taking any of what they said in, the three were happy to humour him and as time went on they found themselves occasionally crossing over to road to get a close up of his face and quench Belle’s thirst for some outer-world inclusion. By mid-August it would be safe to say that Paul, Vi, Jonny and Mills had all become what might be referred to as ‘neighbours’ - in the loosest sense possible. 

One Tuesday afternoon around this time, Vi and Jonny were stood on the front step having their eleventh and sixth fag of the day. As they stood in the shade and looked over to Paul, glimmering with a film of sweat in the sunbed of his yard and singing along - they thought - to Voodoo Child (Slight Return), they sent over waves and smiles. 

Weill Ah’ll stend urp neyxt to a mountayne… 

- Wicked song that, Paul. Jonny’s teeth looked arctic against the black of their front door. It took Paul a moment to realise where the praise had come from, but when he saw the two young bodies across the road he held up his hands in an air-guitar motion and opened his junkbox of a mouth, showing a smile which came straight from childhood.  

- Too focking right, mate. Fockin boss, la. Jimi, the fockin boss, mahn! His voice had the power and harshness of a car engine filled with sandpaper backfiring, but it was friendly and enthusiastic. 

N Ah’ll chap it doawn with the edga ma heynd…

- You into the ol’ rock n roll then, Paul? 

- YAH MAHN! Fockin boss. None of the residents at 35 knew where the affected Jamaican accent to show agreement came from, but they had all found it hilarious and started doing it around the house (when the front door was closed, obviously). Mills reckoned he’d heard Paul kind of telling a story about his involvement in the Ska scene in the 80s at some point, which might have explained it; Vi assumed he just loved the reggae lifestyle… he was always mumbling on about weed. Either way, it added depth to his character and it was fucking hilarious to tell the others about. - Ah used to be eh guitahrist, me, mate. Ya know tha? 

    - Oh, really Paul? That was an unexpected one.

    - Yah mahn… Only rhythm guitahr n tha, noh lead, like, boh still ah was a fockin rockeh. 

    I didern’t mean to take urp all yaw sweet taym… 

 Although she didn’t generally like to make the first move when it came to Paul (he’d spoken to the boys in private conversation across the street about ‘tha brunette berd’ and it had gotten back to her, strangely), after the ice was broken, Vi was always happy to give him the time of day. He was friendly enough and, let’s be honest, probably had no fucking clue what he was on about the majority of the time.

-  Can you play any songs, Paul?

NEAOW NE NE NEAOW NEAOW NEAOW. 

-  I don’t think he got any of that, Vi. Jonny chuckled to himself as he threw his fagend into next door’s plant pot and twitched his head as if to suggest he was heading inside. 

- Give me a sec. 

- OK.

Taking the last few tokes of her own fag, Vi threw it towards the pot, just missing it. Turning inwards through the door, her already extended arm lifted up and sent Paul a wave. Raising her voice, so she might be heard this time. 

    - We’ll see you later, Paul. Have a nice day!

    With both bodies trying to squeeze into the tight hallway in the same instant, it took a moment to navigate and just as Vi stepped in and was about to shut the door… 

    - OI! 

Confused and a little bit worried that they might have upset their friendly neighbourhood Paul with their untimely departure in the middle of his air guitar solo, the two opened the door once more and poke their heads into the gap. 

    - Sorry, Paul, we didn’t mean to- 

    He was sat there with a smile beaming across his scrunched-up face, which squinted in the light.

    - Yous loh… 

    - Yeah, Paul? Was he about to cut ties with them, perhaps? Oh, man. 

    - Ah jost want ye to know. Ah’m so praoud to be livin in fronta yous loh…  

Wow. This was a new one and neither of them really knew how to take it. What the absolute fuck was he on about? Yeah, he was pissed, but what the fuck! Still, they knew they wanted to keep him on side so just taking it as it was was probably the best thing to do. 

    - Aw, thanks Paul. How come? Vi’s voice had (and still has) a habit of sounding like compassion itself, inviting confidence from whoever she spoke to. It seemed as though it had done the same to Paul.

    - C-cause. They thought he might have forgotten the point he was going to make, until it suddenly reappeared in his eyes and sent a shock of motion through the whole of his body. - Cause yer all fockin doctehs aren’t ye? With ye degrees n tha. Yer all doctehs. 

    Neither Vi or Jonny knew where the fuck to go from there.

    - Ha thanks, Paul. That’s really nice of you, but we’re not actual doc- 

    - Fockin geniuses, yous loh. Jost like my boy. He closed his eyes and started shaking his head with violence. - Ah’m so fockin proud of yous… Fockin geniuses… 

There was quiet for a moment as Voodoo Child (Slight Return) faded out. Paul sat inside his mind for a second, possibly thinking about what he’d just said, but probably not. Vi and Jonny just watched from across the road, wondering if he knew they existed. Then the opening punches of Good Times Bad Times sounded from the back of his cave and Paul was off again… 

In tha dayz of mai youth ah was tawld what it means ta be a mayhan… 

When they closed the door on his headline slot, reality was restored amd they couldn’t wait to tell Mills, this was fucking gold!  

 

Mills had experienced his own magical moments with Paul in those early months of life down Bartlett Street, one in particular becoming folklore amongst their wider group of friends down at The Newie:

It was about 21:30 on a Sunday and the air outside was heavy with humidity. There was a storm coming, but it wouldn’t be there until the middle of the night. Mills had taken himself to his room to wind down; it had been a heavy weekend and he’d just about reached his capacity for socialising. In the darkness of his downstairs room - the other two had won the lottery of room-selection -, a beam of light pierced through the gaps between his blinds and landed itself exactly where his head naturally fell on his pillow. No matter which configuration he had tried to pull the dusty blinds into, he had never been able to remove that one ray which shone from the street lamp outside of Paul’s house. He lay there, awake but away. 

As was usually the case on Sundays, the road had been quiet for most part. They had agreed without speaking that smoking out of the back door would be the convention that day, because nobody could be bothered mustering up the energy to chat with Paul. They had all been extinguished by three nights in a row in the midsummer heat: 4am finishes, 7pm starts, dehydration, comedowns; and the rest of the week was to be taken off.

In the stillness of the late evening, Mills felt a welcome draft come through his open window and tickle the foot he had poking out from underneath his duvet. His eyes had finally begun to glue themselves shut and he thought he might be able to dedicate all of his energy towards resting. Falling, falling, falling asleep, he started to see dreams when… 

ARGHOUGHERARGHHHHH. 

- For fuck’s sake, he thought as the glue that held his eyes together melted and sent a trickle of anger down his dry throat.

ARGHHYOUUUU. 

He knew the voice, how could he not? It was Paul, shouting. For fuck’s sake. It didn’t sound usual, it had a visceral quality to it, as if he was in pain. Mills didn’t give a fuck though, it was fucking annoying.

- Fuck this. Rolling onto his side, he pressed one ear into the pillow and held the duvet against his other. With the sound now muffled enough to send it towards the back of his consciousness, he began to regain a little bit of comfort and thought he might actually be able to sleep. arghyoareghuoyouuuu. In the grip of his relaxation-relapse, Mills’ body turned over slightly onto the side of his right arm. Falling into the mattress, he felt a piercing sensation in his eyes and opened them up without thought. FUCK. It was the fucking street lamp. It burned and filled his vision with octagonal specks of colour. On another day it might have been intriguing, beautiful even - not fucking today. Agitated and desperate for sleep, he tried with all his might to glue his eyelids back down and force himself to drift off. But… 

ARGHOUGHERA!£$%RGHHHHHRG!!()()???HHYOUUUU:::

- No. No. No. This is not fucking on. He jumped out of bed with the full intention of going out of the front door and giving Paul a piece of his mind: shut the fuck up you sad little alchy cunt flap. Standing up, half naked and sweating with rage he moved towards the blinds to see what he was about to deal with. Opening the gap between blinds where that bastard beam kept coming in, he inadvertently lit up the whole bedroom as if it was daytime again. It took a moment for his pupils to adjust. He could hear a little more clearly now he was next to the glass... 

ARGHOUGHERILOVEYOUFGREARGHTH

The windows were dirty, because what kind of a student cleans their bedroom windows… ever? Through the dried, dirty water marks and fingerprints Mills could see the shape of Paul on the floor next to his chair. He was on his arse with his whole weight leaning on Belle, arms tied around her neck. She looked stoic as ever. 

ARGHHILOVEEEYOUUUBELLEARGGHHHTHTHFH

Mills could see and hear it quite clearly now, despite the reflection of the light on the window pain.

ARGHILOVEYOUBELLEARGHHHH

The rage which had forced him out of bed suddenly dissipated and was replaced with a feeling of emptiness in his hamstrings and lower back. He felt pity, but he didn’t know it at the time.

AHLOVEYOUBELLE… 

…YETHEONLYWOMANINMELIFE… 

AHFOCKINLOVEYOUBELLE

IFOCKINLOVEYOU…    

Frozen where he stood, Millsy let go of any plans he had made to teach Paul a lesson. Instead he just stood there, obscured by the shades which had not been moved, and watched a lonely man expressing love for his only real, living friend. 

He thought it was sad. But also knew that it was fucking hilarious…  

 

  。。。

 

… Paul sat there all summer, singing, talking, shouting and taking naps on the floor next to Belle in the middle of the day. The brands of vodka came in and out of fashion depending on their prices and the pores on his nose grew wider and wider as they soaked up vitamin D, converting it into sweat. The students kept talking to him and themselves became part of the ecosystem on Bartlett Street, faces that everyone recognised and greeted. Paul, who at first had seemed so novel and strange, had transformed into a staple in their day to day lives. That was how life became…  

 

The first time the ambulance came nobody knew who had called it. Paul had been sleeping on the step for most of the afternoon, which wasn’t unusual. 

It rolled in silently, but the neon colours and flashing lights were loud and took on the appearance of some kind of psychedelic badger against the limescale-coloured houses. Fitting between the wing mirrors of the parked cars which mounted the pavement at irregular intervals, the vehicle tried it’s best not to decapitate any innocents and cause a commotion. It stopped outside of Paul’s front gate. The paramedics moved like squirrels towards the unconscious body, making quiet hand signals to one another as if they were on some kind of army mission. Under the overcast, late summer sky there was warm silence. The sound of people talking outside didn’t reverberate, it just happened.   

- FOCK’S SAKE, AH’M ‘AVIN A FOCKIN NAP. FOCK OFF. FOCKIN LEAVE ME THE FOCK ALONE.

It left as quickly as it had arrived. 

 

Mid-September was the last time any of the students saw an ambulance pull up outside of Paul’s house. This time it left with somebody in it. Belle was left looking through the front gate, following the vehicle as it took away her friend.