Shay sat in the darkness, facing the window. His head cracked with pain as he lifted the glass. He gasped at the rum and Coke washing through him. It was lukewarm, but he didn’t need ice.
The doorbell went again, the sound muffled. His ears were badly blocked. He pressed his fingers against them and shook the wax. One of the ears cleared, but only for a second, then closed over again.
Kids had always got decent treats at their house. Not this year, he thought bitterly. He finished the glass and emptied more rum in, with just a dash of Coke this time.
He wondered were Molly and Charlie still out. Molly was going to dress up as a scary witch and Charlie as Harry Potter. The drink swished inside him as he imagined them sorting through their goodies. The smoke alarm beeped behind him.
Through the half-open blinds, Shay watched the shifting blocks of orange and yellow and, in the foreground, dancing black silhouettes.
A white Hiace van drove slowly past his window and stopped. A man got out and swung open the back doors. There was a shout and kids came running. He fucked stuff onto the road – carpets, poles, seats of some sort and loads of rubbish bags. The back doors closed and the van drove off. Shay cursed the fucker. He savoured a passing thought of smashing his bottle over the man’s head. The kids milled around, pondering the best bits, and pulled them over to the fire, leaving the rest on the road.
Shay polished off another glass and poured more in. As he looked up, he noticed the kids’ music drum on the mantelpiece.
He pulled himself up, tensing at the pain, and stepped towards the drum. He rotated the lever. It was the ‘Chim Chim Cher-ee’ tune from Mary Poppins. The notes twanged as he turned it. The sweet sound stirred emotions inside him. Images popped up in his mind: of him playing it as he lay down in Charlie’s bed, his son’s eyes sparkling at the music and his dad’s presence.
He jolted as fireworks exploded on the green, and looked out. There was a huddle of kids around a bigger shape. They roared as fireworks sailed up into the air, smacking and briefly decorating the sky. But some went astray, shooting horizontally, zipping over the grass at speed, hitting off houses and roofs. He heard startled shouts from parents and kids and saw some figures diving for cover.
The combination of pain and swishing booze was making him queasy. He placed the music drum down, grim thoughts massing again.
He felt an urge to get out. He grabbed the bottle and opened the door.
His nostrils flared at the cool night air. His eyes shot back as the alcohol, the acrid smell and the cacophony of noise assailed him.
Shay heaved into the canal, just as two swans glided past, blissfully unaware of the madness around them. Their unruffled detachment grated him tonight. He stumbled down to a lock, and fell against a balance beam. He leaned over the inky black water and dropped the empty bottle. It landed with a plop in the chamber below, a good twenty feet down. The sound washed over him. Some of the spray ran up along his face, soothing his aching forehead. The sensation gave him a pleasant tingling. It felt enticing. He wanted more of it. Thoughts whispered inside him.
Lean in.
More spray played with his face and head. Shay smiled. He could feel himself wobble slightly, but he didn’t adjust his balance. He wasn’t going to fight it.
Soothing water.
He tilted.
The first clap he heard only dimly. He was tipping. Then there was another clap, and another. Parting his eyes, he tried to focus. It was one of the swans. He had pushed himself up out the water. His big wings were unfolded and he was flapping them, again and again. Shay reached to his side. He managed to grab the top of a rack gate and steadied himself, right on the edge. He blinked at the foaming waters and stepped back.
He gasped as he realised what he was about to do. He stumbled away, his mind a crowded boxing arena of half-shouts, ragged fantasies and mocking voices. The clamour of house alarms, dogs barking and bangers exploding muscled their way in.
His attention turned to the clipped noises of heels running. Ahead, a young girl in shiny red trousers tottered across the road, looking anxiously back at a house. Music blared from an open door and bodies spilled out. Dim voices in Shay’s head told him to turn around, but he didn’t heed them. Youths ran up the road ahead of him shouting at someone. Then they came back, towards Shay. He lowered his head as they neared.
There was movement and he heard a crunch, caught a glimpse of a fist passing his nose and he lurched to the side. He reached out. His wrist broke the fall. He sensed a body circling him.
Get up.
He pushed himself off the ground, and stumbled forward, his vision blurred. A bottle smashed close beside him. He broke into a run around a corner and up to a roundabout.
He threw himself against a low wall, heaving breaths. His wrist throbbed. He felt his nose with his left hand: it was huge and all zigzaggy. His top was covered in blood and was torn, his trousers too. He pinched his nose to try and stop the bleeding.
‘Fucking Jesus,’ he muttered.
He tore at a tissue in his pocket and put two bits up his nose.
As the adrenaline spent itself, Shay brooded over the attack.
If I hadn’t got up, I could have had my head kicked in.
He fought an urge to go back and jump on the guy.
He vented his spleen at the black sky. Just as his mobile rang.