How guilt and potential in turn have coloured the huddled rooves and spires of this ancient city red and black and glowing golden in the cold remote sun.
—An there’s no need to tell im just yet, is thee?
—About what?
Darren pats the rucksack on his lap in affection as if it is a child or his own belly pregnant. —
This
, lar. Don’t think fat fucker Tommy needs to know about this just yet, do you?
The train begins to slow.
—I mean keep it quiet like an we can divide the whole fuckin haul. Tommy don’t need to get a friggin penny, knowmean? Sixty-forty split, lar.
Alastair looks.
—An don’t go givin me that fuckin face Alastair cos if it weren’t for fuckin me we’d have fuck all, y’unnerstand? We’d have nowt. We’d still be in fuckin Wales lookin for that one-armed bastard an wanderin around in the fuckin rain so don’t start givin me them fuckin looks, alright? Sixty-forty split. Yeh can like it or fuck off.
The train stops at Chester Station. Doors hiss open. People get on, mainly shoppers returning home from this city or travelling towards the wider choice at Liverpool forty minutes or so away. They carry bags and wear fleeces against the cold and have red cheeks and take their seats talking, some small excitement about them the disposable incomes in their pockets pressing warmly. Christmas out of the way now although odd lights and decorations still linger in the larger towns.
—I mean look at all these bastards, Ally … could buy n sell em all, I could. Every last one of em, no lie. Werkin at ther shitey friggin jobs and takin home buttons and I’m here with four fuckin grand on me knee, I could buy n sell all these fuckers. Ther in a fuckin daze, lar. Thee avn’t gorrer clue. Can’t tell one from thee other cos ther all the fuckin same, same faces, same clothes, same shitty fuckin jobs. Same fuckin house n all on the same shitty estates. All adds up to the same fuckin no-mark life an we’re fuckin well
not
them, kidder, are we? Eh? No fuckin way, man. Too fuckin right. Could buy n sell
all
these twats. No messin round. Can do wharrever the fuck we want to, now. You
know
it.
The train pulls out of the station. Alastair takes his baseball hat off and rasps his palm over his shaven head, the stubble growing out now.
—Me ed’s bangin, Da. All that beak, like. Needin a bevvy to sort meself out, knowmean? Get me ed straight like.
—Oh no. We are fuckin
not
goin straight to the boozer off the train. No fuckin way. Need straight heads, lar, sort the bucks out like, knowmean?
—Aye but that’s wharram sayin, me ed
isn’t
straight. In need of a scoop or two to gerrit sorted.
Purselipped Darren shaking his head. —No fuckin way. Two scoops my arse. There’s four grand here lad, d’yeh really think we’d stick to the two? Back in town, like, with all that friggin beak floatin around? He shakes his head again. —Nah, me n you, we’ll gerrer few cans, go back to mine. Stuff needs divvyin up, lar, an fuckin soon
as
. Plenty of time for the boozer an it ain’t today. Tonight maybe, aye, but let’s get everythin sorted first before we do anythin else. Yeh?
Capenhurst Station. Alastair looks out the window and on the platform he can see himself and Darren around a table in the pub on the Lime Street Station concourse, he can see this scene, Darren beginning to slur and lurch and loosen his grip on the rucksack and his eyelids lolling lower and the rucksack money-stuffed sliding towards the sticky carpeted floor, it’s there, it’s present before him, it’s in the future awaiting him but it’s happening now too, just outside the window on the station platform, Alastair is watching it all unfold. He can
see
it.
B OOK T WO
Very little physical pain there is but maybe a pang in the exposed heart for the facility of life to slide, to slip. For the fragility of it to bow and buckle before the distant mountain and the shop between that mountain and the old man with his gun and the
—An there’s no need to tell im just yet, is thee?
—About what?
Darren pats the rucksack on his lap in affection as if it is a child or his own belly pregnant. —
This
, lar. Don’t think fat fucker Tommy needs to know about this just yet, do you?
The train begins to slow.
—I mean keep it quiet like an we can divide the whole fuckin haul. Tommy don’t need to get a friggin penny, knowmean? Sixty-forty split, lar.
Alastair looks.
—An don’t go givin me that fuckin face Alastair cos if it weren’t for fuckin me we’d have fuck all, y’unnerstand? We’d have nowt. We’d still be in fuckin Wales lookin for that one-armed bastard an wanderin around in the fuckin rain so don’t start givin me them fuckin looks, alright? Sixty-forty split. Yeh can like it or fuck off.
The train stops at Chester Station. Doors hiss open. People get on, mainly shoppers returning home from this city or travelling towards the wider choice at Liverpool forty minutes or so away. They carry bags and wear fleeces against the cold and have red cheeks and take their seats talking, some small excitement about them the disposable incomes in their pockets pressing warmly. Christmas out of the way now although odd lights and decorations still linger in the larger towns.
—I mean look at all these bastards, Ally … could buy n sell em all, I could. Every last one of em, no lie. Werkin at ther shitey friggin jobs and takin home buttons and I’m here with four fuckin grand on me knee, I could buy n sell all these fuckers. Ther in a fuckin daze, lar. Thee avn’t gorrer clue. Can’t tell one from thee other cos ther all the fuckin same, same faces, same clothes, same shitty fuckin jobs. Same fuckin house n all on the same shitty estates. All adds up to the same fuckin no-mark life an we’re fuckin well
not
them, kidder, are we? Eh? No fuckin way, man. Too fuckin right. Could buy n sell
all
these twats. No messin round. Can do wharrever the fuck we want to, now. You
know
it.
The train pulls out of the station. Alastair takes his baseball hat off and rasps his palm over his shaven head, the stubble growing out now.
—Me ed’s bangin, Da. All that beak, like. Needin a bevvy to sort meself out, knowmean? Get me ed straight like.
—Oh no. We are fuckin
not
goin straight to the boozer off the train. No fuckin way. Need straight heads, lar, sort the bucks out like, knowmean?
—Aye but that’s wharram sayin, me ed
isn’t
straight. In need of a scoop or two to gerrit sorted.
Purselipped Darren shaking his head. —No fuckin way. Two scoops my arse. There’s four grand here lad, d’yeh really think we’d stick to the two? Back in town, like, with all that friggin beak floatin around? He shakes his head again. —Nah, me n you, we’ll gerrer few cans, go back to mine. Stuff needs divvyin up, lar, an fuckin soon
as
. Plenty of time for the boozer an it ain’t today. Tonight maybe, aye, but let’s get everythin sorted first before we do anythin else. Yeh?
Capenhurst Station. Alastair looks out the window and on the platform he can see himself and Darren around a table in the pub on the Lime Street Station concourse, he can see this scene, Darren beginning to slur and lurch and loosen his grip on the rucksack and his eyelids lolling lower and the rucksack money-stuffed sliding towards the sticky carpeted floor, it’s there, it’s present before him, it’s in the future awaiting him but it’s happening now too, just outside the window on the station platform, Alastair is watching it all unfold. He can
see
it.
B OOK T WO
Very little physical pain there is but maybe a pang in the exposed heart for the facility of life to slide, to slip. For the fragility of it to bow and buckle before the distant mountain and the shop between that mountain and the old man with his gun and the
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