Jig scrunched his nose at the stink from her mouth.
‘I don’t know where yer fucking jumper is,’ his ma shouted. ‘Do I?’
He pulled open the fridge. Bowie barked at the sound. There was a lump of butter, the dregs of milk and that onion cheese spread he hated. A bottle of vodka lay flat along one of the ledges, a thin film of liquid sliding from the force of the door opening.
‘And don’t be moaning about no food neither,’ she continued, shouting over Bowie and the chatter of morning TV.
‘Welcome back. Now, with the days getting longer and the weather, fingers crossed, I know, getting better, we have the lowdown on the coolest garden furniture.’
‘There’s cheese spread and butter there, and here,’ she said, throwing a squashed bag of sliced bread onto the table.
‘Shut up, will ya,’ she shouted at Bowie, moving to hit him.
Jig wanted to tell her to fuck the fuck off, but knew better. The TV presenter broke his ma’s concentration, giving him an opportunity to slip away. Bowie followed. He picked up his Man U scarf from the mound behind the door and wrapped it around his face.
‘Cunt,’ he said, closing the front door. The scarf muffled his curse. But he still looked over his shoulder to make sure she hadn’t followed to land him a couple of slaps. He hated her smacking him around the head outside, in front of people.
He grabbed a bicycle pump off the ground and swung it around, aimless. He kneeled over one of the bikes and gave it a good beating. Bowie barked with each slap.
Wonder how she’d like it if I gave her a smack in the gob with this.
He lashed into the bins.
The red mark on the back of his hand pained from all the hitting. He squirmed at the memory of his ma, blitzed off her tits on vodka and tablets and trying to make tea, swinging a boiled kettle. She tripped and spilled steaming water over his hand. He fucking roared the house down and lashed around the kitchen. He thought his bones were cracking. She smacked him one and told him to ‘give over’ and ‘stop his moaning’ over a drop of hot water. ‘No fucking way’ would she call an ambulance and have some ‘snooty staff’ at the hospital asking questions.
Jig held his hand under the cold water tap all night. But it still roared red after. All the while, she snored in the sitting room, in front of the TV.
Shayo had asked him about it, but he just told him he spilled the water on himself. He knew Shayo didn’t believe him. But he couldn’t give a fuck. That fella could be a nosy bollix.
Jig flung the pump at the bins. He stood on the bars of the gate and swung on it back and forth, listening to it protest at the strain. He kept doing it, hoping the rusted joints would just collapse out from the wall.
What else can I do? Not going up to school now.
He picked up a few stones and threw them onto neighbours’ roofs and listened to them rattle and bounce back down. Bowie barked and Jig tapped him on his wide head.
‘Let’s run to the canal,’ Jig said.
He sprinted down the road, Bowie zigzagging in front of him, looking back every couple of seconds, his big tongue lolling about.
As he stopped running, Jig heard the deep growl from behind. His hair prickled. He turned to the road. His eyes bulged as bull bars passed before him, silver and gleaming. He could see his face distorted in the reflection, like melted plastic. Huge shiny side mirrors and massive silver wheels, wrapped in jet black tyres as high as his shoulders, cruised past.
The jeep hummed to a halt.
Jig stood back and looked up at the tinted windows. He gaped in awe; his cheeks sweated behind the scarf.
The jeep vibrated from the bass inside and Jig tried to recognise the rap artist that was playing. The passenger window glided down with the smoothest of sounds.
‘Alright?’
Jig got on his toes, but the seat was so far back he couldn’t get a proper look at Ghost’s face. A hand rested over the window, a smoke lodged between blackened knuckles. Jig stared at the tattoo on Ghost’s long, bony hand. It was a grim reaper, coloured in black and white, a flowing tattered cape revealing the side of its face: a large black eye, a sharp nose and a slit of a mouth. Two scythes above its head arced down either side to a sharp point. Ghost had loads more on his arms and his legs and a huge one of a skeleton’s head all over his back. Jig had heard about that, but hadn’t seen it, yet.
He looked back up and squinted. He could make out Ghost’s shadowed head. His eye sockets were dark, like deep holes in the grass.
‘Ya off to rob a bank or something?’
Jig didn’t get it at first, then pulled down his scarf, and smiled up at Ghost.
‘Good man,’ Ghost said. ‘What ya up to?’
‘Not much,’ Jig said, scuffing his runners on bits of glass. He heard a crackle and saw the light of the cigarette creep around Ghost’s pale mouth.
‘No school, no?’
‘I hates that place,’ Jig said, kicking the ground.
‘No matter,’ Ghost said, taking a drag and then pointing at the road. ‘This is where ya learn, Jig. On the street.’
Jig nodded and gave Bowie a pat.
‘Ya down training the other night?’ Ghost asked.
‘Yeah, practising some frees, I was.’
‘How’s the Shayo? Still getting all stressed at youse keeping him late?’
Jig laughed and nodded. And waited.
‘So,’ Ghost said, lowering his voice. ‘Did ya hear what happened?’
Jig barely heard him with the music, but his tone had switched. Jig called it the ‘no fucking messing’ voice. He didn’t reply. He didn’t know what to say.
Ghost leaned forward and glanced at the side mirror. His cheekbone looked sore, pressed against his skin.
‘Ya thinking about it?’ Ghost said to him.
He nodded. That woman dying was scratching away inside his head okay, but he kept telling it to fuck off.
‘I’m gonna have to keep ya closer now,’ Ghost said, pulling on his cigarette.
Jig smiled at that.
I’ll be in Ghost’s crew soon, proper like.
‘Cos it’s a bit of a fuck up,’ Ghost muttered. ‘It’s gonna cause some heat.’
Jig’s stomach shrivelled. He was confused now.
I done what he told me to do.
‘There’s gonna be a price,’ Ghost continued, his voice nearly drowning under the music. ‘It will have to be worked off.’
Jig twisted on his feet, looking up at the shadows.
What price? What’s he on about?
The cigarette butt flew past him. Ghost slapped a hand on Jig’s head and shook his hair.
‘But that’s good, little man,’ Ghost said with a grim smile, the tips of his narrow teeth showing, ‘cos, ya be, like, my man.’
Jig smiled back as Ghost’s window glided up. He loved that sound. The jeep growled. Jig stared at the four exhausts as the jeep accelerated down the road and swerved around the corner.
Jig looked around, waiting for someone to salute him or give a nod of acknowledgement. Bowie jumped up against him.
‘Ya hear that, Bowie,’ Jig said, putting his arm around the dog’s head, getting a big lick in return, ‘Ghost said I’m his man.’