Pete was climbing to his front door. He saw him through the glass and waited for the knock.
“I’m supposed to help you with the papers,” he said. “My mum phoned yours.”
“Yeah. I heard.”
They went down the hill. They had to collect the load of papers from the newsagents.
“We might get soaked. You got a jacket?”
Pete shrugged. He pulled his sleeves over his hands and hunched his shoulders.
“Where’s your new one?”
“They confiscated it. Said they were taking it back to the shop. But it’s gubbed. Fag burns. Bastards’ll probably fling it in the charity.”
Once they were loaded up with papers they started on the main road. Houses there sat high above sloped gardens, steep concrete staircases leading to the doors. He gave Pete a bundle and sent him over to the odd numbers. He carried the pouch and did the evens. When Pete was finished he came across for more. Nicky told him he had to quit skipping over the fences.
“You have to go up and down every bloody one?”
“They complain.”
“Stuck up arseholes.”
Pete took a shot of the bag. They turned off the main road and walked down the spiral then cut through the lane to the dead end. Pete said they should deliver on the way down and walk back with a lighter bag but Pete didn’t know. The shortcut wouldn’t work that way.
They started at the dead end. The houses lined one side of the street with a railway line on the verge opposite. Pete had to stop and switch shoulders.
“Want me to take it back?” Nicky said.
“How much d’you get for this?”
He told him.
“That’s shit. Pure slave labour. You should go on strike.”
Nicky flipped the letterbox, took the paper and shoved it through.
“My brother worked at the bakery for a bit,” Pete said. “They went on strike when some guy got fired for crashing a forklift. Turned out he’d been driving it pished, so it was pointless.”
Folk on this street were decent so they stepped over the fence into the next garden. There was a fat black and white cat waiting in the porch.
“Watch,” Nicky said. He took the paper and stuck an end through and the cat swiped for it. He dragged it out again. The cat crouched, eyes on the letterbox. He stuck the paper through slowly and the cat got on two feet and started flailing with both sets of claws, shredding as Nicky fed it in. The paper fell, flapping open and tenting over the cat’s face. It flung it off, pounced and carried on shredding.
Pete laughed.
“You know that French teacher Fat Jacques. That’s his house.”
Pete laughed again. “Le chat de Fat Jacques. It’s a mental wee bastard.”
They watched while it tore the paper to confetti.
A few houses along Nicky said, “What d’you think Danny Donnelly’ll do?”
“Says that guy’s getting a kicking. Barry told him to tell the police. Get him done for hitting a minor.”
“Think he will?”
“He’s your mate that guy.”
“Yeah. I know him.”
“Danny Donnelly won’t phone the pigs. Probably tell his dad and his brothers. Dunno what’s worse.”
Back on the main road, they went to the newsagents for the second lot. Pete bought himself a roll and crisps.
Blocks of flats stood across from the grass pitches. They were packed with old people. You had to climb to the top first and stuff your papers through on the way back down. If you weren’t fast enough they’d hear their letterbox rattle, come out and trap you in long conversations about the weather or pets or paper rounds they had when they were a boy.
He jogged out the last block puffing and sweating.
Pete waited, munching his roll. “What took you?” he said.
“How come you got done so fast?”
“Just dumped them at the bottom of the stairs. They can take it if they want.”
Nicky shook his head. “You need to post them.”
“Who gives a fuck about it anyway?” Pete unfolded a copy and read the front. “Burst Pipe Brings Mystery. What a lot of shite.” The rain had started. He watched wet dots appear on the paper and looked at the sky and said, “Let’s take a break man. It’ll be sheltered down the river.”
They went through the bushes, down the broken wooden stairs and sat on the flat rock, water dripping off branches. Pete took a handful from the dusty bank and chucked it into the brown river. He wiped his hand on his jeans and nodded at the wee cliff on the other side. “Mind that time everyone was jumping off there. You were too chicken shit.”
“You didn’t either.”
“Aye I did.”
“You said if we swallowed any water we’d get dysentery.”
“Bollocks,” Pete said, bringing out a crumpled fag packet.
“Manage to get some fags in the end?”
He shook his head. “Aye, thanks for that. Ended up getting me lifted.”
“What?”
“I was pure steamin’, man. Tried to get this big guy to go in, then the pigs pulled up. Ended up lifting me and taking me home. Folks went berserk.”
“Well. You’re an arsehole.”
“It wasn’t my fault.”
“Doesn’t mean you’re not an arsehole.”
Nicky looked away from him.
“You are. It’s the truth.”
“So are you.”
“We’re a pair of arseholes.”
He smoked through tight lips. The braces had changed his face, made him thicker around the mouth. “I’m grounded. Forever fuckin’ more. This is my last fag, so looks like I’ll be quitting.”
“Purdy must owe you some. All that lot.”
Pete spat, kicked grey sand over the dark patch. “My brother got us the booze the other night. And all the nights before. I’m a silly prick – during the shitstorm I ended up grassing him in to my folks. He’s fuckin’ raging. They’re fuckin’ raging.” He sighed. “Danny Donnelly’ll still want me to get the drink but I can’t. I was getting Jennifer Black’s n’all.”
“Might make life easier.”
“Thanks for telling her about me shiteing myself by the way.”
Nicky stared over the water.
“You said you wouldn’t tell anyone,” Pete said.
“It was years ago.”
“You told me you wouldn’t say anything about it, ever.”
Nicky shrugged. “Sorry.”
Pete blew smoke at the ground. His face broke into a grin. “I don’t give a shit anyway. I pulled her.”
“No you didn’t.”
“Don’t believe you.”
“Don’t care. It happened man. And not just that.”
The shower passed and the circles on the brown surface turned to pinpricks then the water smoothed. Following it along eventually led you to the big waterfall, where the river churned into rank foam and spat faded litter on the rocks and branches at the bottom. Sometimes there was a heron, standing skinny and grey and watching with a yellow eye.
Nicky said, “I had some joy too.”
Pete was savouring his fag, studying it between draws. He turned. “One of the mosher girls? Was it the big Nazi Witch?”
“She wanted to. I gave her the K.B.”
Pete laughed. “Yeah. Sure. If she’s that desperate mibbe I should have a word.”
“She likes deflowering young virgins.”
“I’ll be no use then.”
Pete smoked. He had about an inch of cigarette left. He watched it burn again.