the rabid rat-tat-tat of t’ footie commentator. I banged my ribcage mechanically wi’ my fist, making a ‘vuhh-vuh-vuuh-vuuuh’ sound.
‘Rick!’
That one wor closer. Like nearing explosions. That one came from t’ foot of t’ stairs. I pinched my nostrils between my fingers and held my breath ’til I began to feel light-headed.
‘R-i-i-ck!’
I sat bolt upright, gulping in air, shaped my hand into a gun and fired through t’ floor. I mouthed each shot soundlessly. Pow! Pow! Silencer on.
I scuttled out of my room, flattened mesen against t’ landing wall and peered over t’ banisters. In t’ hallway below I could see Mitch in his flip-flops and trackie bottoms, the neat little pate on t’ crown of his head like a bare patch where a bucket had stood on a lawn. In his hand he held a bottle of brown ale, which he wor giving a good blathering to.
‘What is it, eh, my little friend? What is it wi’ folk?’ Then he emptied his lungs. ‘Ri-i-i-ick!’
He wor out of sorts again. Likely as not, his two great passions, country music and footie, had been unable to raise him from his misery pit. Back to t’ wall, I fired again: Pow! Pow! Then I heard the sloughing of his flip-flops as he went back into t’ lounge.
‘Now what!’
I knew what. The TV screen had slipped again, presenting a game of two halves. Players’ upper bodies and players’ legs, dissected by a thick black line.
‘Bugger!!’
I heard a fist thump the top of t’ telly.
‘You do it on purpose, don’t you?’
I sniggered. Mitch wor always chuntering on to objects. Probably cos they wouldn’t answer back. Although sometimes they did, in their own way.
‘Now, if I park mesen, you’ll behave. You want chuckin’ out, you do. Any day now, you’re a gonner. R-i-ii-ck!’
Mother came out of t’ bathroom and almost collided wi’ me. She wor wrapped in her quilted dressing gown, ready for bed. ‘Leave him, Mitch!’ she squealed into t’ hallway below. ‘Whatever it is can wait ’til morning.’
She smiled tightly at me. Stripped of her make-up, her fox-like features seemed harder than I wor used to seeing, and her hair, minus grips, hung girlishly about her face. She had a magazine and a biro in her hand. One of her friggin’ competitions. Mandy’s tranny wor blaring out Abba’s ‘SOS’. Mother tidied her hair behind her ears.
‘You wor late home again this evening,’ she said. ‘Is this a regular thing now?’
‘Dunno, depends on how we’re running.’
‘I’ll keep you some dinner back.’
‘Ta, but no need.’
She pulled at a thread on her sleeve. ‘You’d best go see what he wants. You know what he’s like when he’s riled.’
A beam of light wor still shining from under Mandy’s door. Sis worn’t a morning person, she needed chivvying at every turn, all sullen, her school tie knotted between her breasts, her socks around t’ ankles, brushing her hair at the breakfast table, never wanting to eat owt, so that Mother had taken to slipping bags of crisps into her school bag in an effort to get summat down her. Waste of friggin’ time, if you wor to ask me.
‘Mandy,’ Mother called out. ‘Radio off, lights out, please.’
Hearing no response, she opened t’ door. Mandy wor asleep. I could see her, face-down on t’ bed, still dressed. Her skirt had rucked up around her waist, showing her knickers. One arm wor hanging floppily down t’ side of t’ bed and her hair wor hiding her face.
While Mother sorted out Mand, I headed downstairs. Mitch’s Adam’s apple wor piston-shunting as he glugged the pale-ale dregs down his throat. His small, droopy moustache glistened. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.
‘Didn’t you hear me calling?’
‘Along wi’ half of t’ street. I wor kippin’.’
‘You’re missing a bloody good match here.’
I shrugged. He closed in on me. I caught the whiff of ale on his breath.
‘I do believe, lad, you got paid today.’
‘Might have.’
‘Might have? Never mind yer might haves, let’s be having you.’
I took t’ buff wage packet from my jeans pocket and surgically peeled off a mangy tenner, holding it by t’ corner ’til Mitch’s fingers tugged it from me.
‘Ta,’ he said, the note vanishing behind his palm like he wor performing a card trick.
I said, ‘When I started this job you said that half wor going toward my upkeep and that.’
‘It is, my lad, it is. But then, who got you this job?’
‘I know, I know, you did. Only, you said that …’
‘Me! Right! And just one word wi’ Craner and I can take it from you again. You pay me and then I’m cheaper for your mother, then she’s got more for your upkeep. That’s common sense, that’s logic, that’s good housekeeping, geddit?’
‘If you say so, it must be so.’
Behind him, the TV screen wor barrelling again. There wor a long ‘Oooooh’ from t’ crowd. A near miss, which made him turn toward t’screen.
‘Fer Chrissakes!’
He leant over t’ back of t’ set, swearing under his breath, fiddling wi’ t’ horizontal adjustment.
I said to Mitch’s back, ‘They found a dead woman this morning. She’d been done in. A prozzie. It wor in t’ news. Makes you wonder, don’t it?’
Mitch straightened up and backed gingerly away from t’ telly. ‘Does it?’
‘I mean, if I’ve ever sold her a bottle of pop or summat. If t’ next time I walk up to some door in Chapeltown or Halton Moor or wherever someone’ll say, “She won’t be wanting no limeade where she’s gone.” Then I’ll know, won’t I?’
Mitch grunted. ‘Now, you stay, I tell you. Stay!’ Like he wor commanding a dog. A black line slid mockingly down t’ TV screen.
Next morn I wor up wi’ t’ lark. Mitch wor up before t’ friggin’ lark. I watched him through t’ ciggie burn in my bedroom curtain, loading boxes into t’ back of his rusting Austin Cambridge van.
I wor threading boot laces in t’ kitchen when Mother sauntered in and plonked the kettle onto t’ gas ring.
‘Wor that Mitch?’
‘Uh-huh. Just missed him. Just gone off.’
‘Gone
