Read Online The Dreams of Max & Ronnie by Niall Griffiths - Free Book Online Page B

Three nights? I’ve been asleep for three nights?
    â€“ Aye, you have. Worried sick we were, yeah? Helen’s gone off to pick up her baby and see if she can score some amphet, bring you round, yeah?
    â€“ Don’t need it, man. Cup of tea’ll do.
    Rhys makes tea and Ronnie goes groaning up to the bathroom and uses the toilet and swills his face. Feels alive again, or begins to. He drinks his tea and his co-soldiers tell him of their worries and their activities while he was asleep which, it seems to Ronnie, involved drinking beer and vodka and watching a lot of TV and waiting for him to wake up. He strokes the cat who offers him her arse and he eats some beans on toast and drinks more tea and then suddenly there is a hurry on the three of them, a hurry to get to their homes and see their parents and siblings before they ship out.
    â€“ To Eye-rack, man! Kill some fucking ragheads, yeah? Gunner be the nuts!
    Rhys raises his arms above his head and the sleeves of his shirt slip down to expose his tattoos, Chinese symbols, ‘war’ on his left arm and ‘peace’ on his right because that’s meaningful and says something about the terrible duality of the human condition. Robert mirrors his movement, revealing the lion’s head on his deltoid. He’d noticed, once, that Robbie Williams has that design and he thought it looked cool and original and individual.
    â€“ We’re the Queen’s Dragoon Guards, man, Welsh Cavalry! We’re mean and reliable! We’re a fucking Volvo!
    The three soldiers hug each other and slap each other on the back and Robert finds a piece of paper and a pen on the mantelpiece and they leave a note for Red Helen and exit the house. Into the village. Where nothing moves anymore.
    â€“ Told you we should’ve gone to ’Beefa, Ronnie says. – Three nights, man. Can’t believe I slept for three nights.
    â€“ Aye, well, you won’t be getting much sleep over there, man, will yeh? Rhys grins. Ronnie’s insides give a little lurch. – Not with all them sandstorms, yeah? And bombs and everything.
    No sleep or too much sleep. No sleep or an end-less sleep.
    â€“ Tell yer what, tho, Ron, Robert says. – You was having some mad dreams, man. Twitching all over the bloody place you were. And making funny little noises. What was going on in there, then?
    He taps Ronnie’s head with a stiff finger. Ronnie looks inside his own head and sees very little. A lot of faces. A fixed grin which makes him feel a bit queasy. Limbs torn from bodies, separated limbs with ragged ends. He scratches at his left forearm with the fingers of his right hand; the tattoo’s still healing. He wanted to go to Iraq with some sign of individuality on him, some indelible sign of his own autonomy, his own uniqueness. He didn’t want to be bleached into total anonymity by the army, the great faceless machine, so a week or so ago he got himself a tattoo – a Celtic knot on his forearm. Hasn’t healed properly yet.
    â€“ Dunno, he says. – Just dreams, yeah? They mean fuck all. Just dreams, like, that’s all.
    They’ve left the house of Red Helen and visions and now they leave the village. Soon they’ll leave their own villages and towns. Soon after that they’ll leave the country, and soon after that, Ronnie will leave the world.

The Dream of Max
the Emperor

 
 
 
 
Our man Max lives and works in the capital city, which is to say that he sells illicit drugs and stolen goods to the section of the conurbation’s populace which is forever hungry for such things. He has a retinue of men who are willing, eager even, to use violence and intimidation in order to protect his business interests; sometimes, and out of Max’s hearing, they will refer to him as ‘the Emperor’, in reference half-fond, half-mocking to his aristocratic carriage and mien. The Emperor, they’ll say, he