Brass Read online

Sean walks into the lounge, the top few buttons on his shirt undone, revealing a healthy chink of golden down. He looks right into me, gauging my reaction. His eyes are bold, lascivious and scarce of a blink. They scorch the air between us. I stare back neutrally, and for a moment he seems almost crestfallen. Taking a note from his pocket, he rolls it up with an effortless dexterity and hands it to Mally who hoovers up as much as his right nostril will allow in one sweep. Kev goes next, followed by Jamie who snorts with an exaggerated alacrity. He passes the note to me, but I decline and produce my own apparatus – a rolled up business card for Sean’s salon.

  The beak hits me straight away. It doesn’t so much give me a high as it zaps the drunkenness away. I feel gregarious and magnanimous now, especially towards Sean. I tell him that I love his shirt. He drops his chin to his chest, eyes it up and down then informs me diffidently that it is a Donna Karan and he has one exactly the same in navy. He asks me if navy would complement his outfit better. I screw my face up this way and that way in a mock display of deliberation and then smile affirmatively. He takes the shirt off, tosses it over the back of a chair and disappears into the bedroom.

  Mally and Kev can hardly spit their words out fast enough. Like kids on speed. And the fluorescent yellow sweat on Mally’s face is starting to glow. No sooner has he wiped away one waxy layer with the sleeve of his shirt does another burst forth. His pupils are wide and wild and have swallowed the irises whole. I wonder if this is what people look like before they spontaneously combust. I saw this documentary once. It really freaked me out. Bodies melted down to the pelvis, lying forlorn in doorways, kitchens and on the stairs. Imagine coming home and finding your partner’s legs on the floor in front of the TV. Perfectly unblemished. Still in a skirt and slippers. And where the torso and head should be, just a heap of ashes. Not even a rib cage or a skull. Just pure ash. I didn’t sleep for weeks after seeing that. Every time I got palpitations, or I felt a little bit hot, I’d convince myself that I was about to implode. That my body was involuntarily mutating into a self-lighting furnace. That one day I would end up as an ankle which Dad would find festering in his study.

  I tune into their conversation which is rudderless, like they’re just spurting out every thought that rolls into their head and trying to procure some sort of discussion from it. Subjects which have absolutely nothing in common just glide into one another.

  Beak has the exact opposite effect on Jamie. It silences him. He goes into himself, becomes a spectator. Just sits there, riveted, with a blissfully sanguine grin splashed across his face. I light a cig and we share it, inhaling deeply, kissing it quickly down to the stub and the nicotine and the beak beat my bowels to life. I race to the bathroom, passing Sean in the corridor. He’s changed his shirt. He tosses me a quick nervous smile and when I open the bathroom door, I know why. It hums of shit. I pinch my nose, cushion the seat with bog roll and empty my bowels in one violent movement. I feel a stone slimmer. I check the contents of the toilet before flushing and feel gratified by the amount of toxins my body has disposed of. I wash my hands and spray the room with Calvin Klein. When I return to the living room, they’re up and wired and raring to go.

  We pull up outside Jamie’s and Sean instructs the cabby to sound the horn a couple of times. The metronic throb of the diesel prises open curtains where televisions beat out their sickly light. I think about all the life going on beyond the cathode blue glow. Maelstroms of worries and ravaged dreams. Jamie and Billy grew up behind one of those windows.

  ‘Fucken useless your brother,’ Sean says, shaking his head, ‘Worse than a fucken Judy. Go and get him will you?’

  Jamie rolls his eyes gamely and hops out. I don’t want to be left in the cab with these three. I follow Jamie.

  ‘Ay, where d’you think you’re going?’ Sean spits, accusingly.

  ‘Say hello to the oldens.’

  ‘Arr ay Millie, get back in will you. We’ve not got time for all that.’

  I shrug my shoulders and turn on my heels.

  A mob of young scals huddle a fire they’ve made in a metal drum. A couple of them slug cider from a bottle. They assemble into a neat line when they see us approaching, arching their backs, folding their arms and sporting choirboy smiles. Beyond them, on Jamie’s wall, a girl sits smoking; fantastic little snarl on her face. We walk past the row of lads and I brace myself for some sort of boorish comment.

  ‘Help the guy!’ they chant in unison.

  ‘Where’s your guy?’ I ask

  ‘Down the knocking shop,’ the oldest scoffs. His accomplices giggle loudly. The girl snarls on.

  ‘Sorry boys, you know the rules, no guy, no penny.’

  ‘Arr come ’ead, just give us a quid will you?’

  Jamie is already half way up his path, shaking his head, muttering to himself.

  ‘You should be in bed,’ I say, quickening my pace to catch up with him.

  ‘That an offer?’ They all laugh again. ‘Actually, you’re not my type, girl.’

  The snarl on the girl’s face opens up into a smile. She’s no more than fourteen. Plain common face with a graceless shock of yellow hair. But the tits, the tits are humongous. I try a seductive wink on her but it just bats straight through her. Shame, really.

  The Keeley’s live in one of those houses where the front door opens up into the living room and the first thing I see when I walk through the door is Mr Keeley sitting in front of a three-bar fire and the regional news flickering across his face. A billow of blue smoke sways above him. My tummy flips out with warm nostalgia when I see him. His face is ravaged and lined, and speaks eloquently of a life of hard work and delicate indulgence. His eyes are still bright and young and shine with an imperishable buoyancy that is replicated exactly in his sons’ eyes.

  ‘Millie!’ He sits up, twinkling at me. ‘I was just thinking about you girl. There’s been a thing on the news about young girls like yourself drinking too much and that. EUNICE? Our Millie’s here.’ He calls into the kitchen but his voice is drowned out by the vicious hammering of a washing machine.

  ‘Yeah, says them students are the biggest risk group, especially girls like. They’re drinking over twelve times the recommended daily units apparently. Sclerosis of the liver and all sorts before they even hit twenty-one.’

  He gets up and presents his lips, misses my cheek and lands a kiss of sorts on my nose. His shirt is unbuttoned to where the gentle swell of his belly begins. A soft blokey odour fans out from his chest.

  ‘It’s good to see you anyway. I were only saying to our Billy the other day that you hadn’t been round for a while. Thought you’d fallen out with us.’

  ‘Ah, sorry,’ I say, flopping my head guiltily on his shoulder, ‘I’ve walked past a few times on the way back from Uni, but… well I’m here now anyway. Why don’t you come into town with us for one?’

  Beyond him, Jamie shakes his head and mouths a big belligerent NO.

  ‘Or even better, why don’t you and I go out next Saturday? What about that Cain’s house, the brewery tap you keep telling me about?’

  ‘The Grapes?’

  ‘That’s the one. We could start there, walk up to The Nook, have a couple in there, then if we’re still thirsty we could stumble along to The Pineapple. Whisky doubles for a pound before seven.’

  ‘Bloody hell Millie, you’ll make someone a fine wife one day.’

  ‘So I’ll come for you at eleven next week?’

  Jamie is tapping his watch madly, making eyes at me.

  ‘I’ll let you know. I’ll have to consult with the Boss first.’ He flicks his eyes over his head towards the kitchen.

  ‘Ah, piece of cake, Mr Keeley. Tell her we’re going shopping for her Christmas present.’

  ‘Oh aye? And what do I tell her when I staggers in with no shopping, stinking of ale?’

  ‘Won’t matter by then, will it? Not to us, anyway!’

  ‘You’re too much you are – too much!’ he says, shaking his head affectionately, ‘I d
on’t know how your aul’ man copes. Eh James – go and pour us a couple of Scotches will you, son. Just frighten mine with a drop of lemonade will you and while you’re there tell your Mam there’s someone here to see her.’

  James? Since when did Mr Keeley start calling him James?

  ‘Sorry Dad – no time for drinks. We’ve got a cab running outside. We’ve only stopped off to pick up Billy. He calls up the stairs, ‘Aye soft lad, are you ready?’

  ‘Billy’s not here son. He’s been and gone.’

  ‘What d’you mean he’s not here? Where is he then?’

  ‘Don’t ask us lad. He was talking to that soft arse on his phone, what’s his name?’

  ‘Arr-ay! What a knob. Come ’ead, Millie. I’ll see you later Dad.’

  ‘Aye-aye – you not going to say hello to Anne Marie, then?’

  A delicious silence fills the room. A nauseous tingling rises in my stomach and stops in my throat. Half trepidation, half excitement.

  ‘Anne Marie? Is she here?’

  ‘Yeah, she’s in the kitchen with your Mam. Being measured her up for her wedding dress and that so you better knock ’fore you…’

  Jamie flashes me a troubled glance. I pretend not to see it.

  ‘Babes? Tell Sean I’ll be out in a mo,’ Jamie interjects. ‘Don’t let him go without us. I’ll just say hello to the Missus and then I’ll be out.’

  His eyes practically spit me out of the door. It’s quite obvious what’s happened. He’s not told her he’s going out tonight. Probably fobbed her off with some half-arsed story and she’s smelt it minging a mile away. So she’s turned up at his unannounced, with some lame excuse about wedding preparations – the devious bitch. Not that she would have been content with Seffie Park, Lady fucking Penelope. Would have regarded it as an insult. She would’ve wanted to be taken to some flashy display, throbbing with local celebrities, footballers and their tarts in leather coats freezing their plastic tits off. Finding him here in his glad rags is bound to spark a violent altercation. Finding me here dressed like a vamp is like dropping a nuclear bomb. And didn’t Mr Keeley just call me ‘Our Millie?’ Delicious! The Saint in me is imploring me to walk out the door, quickly, and help lessen his chastisement. The Judas in me however, has other plans.

  ‘I haven’t even said hello to your Mum,’ I say, with all the coy innocence I can muster. The washing machine starts to slow.

  ‘I’ll do that. Just GO AND GET IN THE CAR.’

  The cycle finishes and the kitchen falls silent. The low drone of the television is not enough to absorb Jamie’s rant. Mr Keeley frowns at him.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says, dropping his voice to an almost inaudible whisper, ‘Didn’t meant to shout. I’m just peeved with our Billy. That’s all.’

  The horn sounds from outside and I give Mr Keeley a valedictory hug, making sure my enthusiastic pleas for a drinking spree soon are heard from the kitchen. He squeezes me tightly and releases me with a contrite smile. I stare at Jamie. Guilt leaks from his face. I give him an injured snort and walk towards the door.

  Too late.

  Anne Marie bursts into the lounge in a white flannel dressing gown. In a series of montage cuts, her face passes from shock to bemusement to anger. She glowers at Jamie and then at me and then back at Jamie. I smile back, antagonistically. Stiffly, she lowers herself onto the sofa, still holding Jamie’s gaze, her mouth like a slit. The same sofa that Jamie and I have curled up on many a night, watching videos, drinking wine from tumblers, arguing about the impossibility of monogamy, musing over memories, laughing, rolling cigarettes, trying to stretch the night out forever. I’ve never come face to face with Anne Marie in the Keeleys. It’s something I always thought would flatten me. But is hasn’t. Not me anyway. If anyone’s hurting, it’s her. And she’s not as pretty as I remember her, either. Without the make-up and the sheen of a new hair do, she’s nothing really. Trash in fact.

  Mrs Keeley appears with a tape measure in her hand, a big smile annexing her motherly face.

  ‘Hello Millie, love. I thought that was you I could hear before. Thought I was going round the bend!’

  ‘Hello,’ I say, planting a kiss on her cheek, ‘We just popped in on our way to town to pick Billy up but he’s already left.’

  ‘He didn’t mention anything to us did he Antony? Just dashes in, sees we’re up to our eyes in wedding malarkey and he’s gone! Can I get you a drink?’

  ‘I’ve already offered,’ pipes up Mr Keeley, ‘There’s a taxi waiting outside, better let them go, eh?’

  ‘Yeah, come on Jamie,’ I say tugging on his arm. ‘Valuable drinking time you’re depriving me of.’

  Anne Marie stares at him, unable to absorb precisely what’s happening, here. I’m loving it. He releases himself from my grip and bends down to kiss her. She jerks away from him.

  ‘Look – why don’t you stay here tonight?’ he says softly, ‘I won’t be long. Wait up for me.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about her, son. We’re watching Key Largo tonight after I’ve got her fitted, aren’t we hon? Go on you scamps. Off with you!’

  Anne Marie forces a smile for Mrs Keeley then abandons it as she turns back to face Jamie.

  ‘Enjoy your lads night out, James.’ she says, hissing out the word lads.

  ‘We will,’ I say cheerfully.

  I give Mr and Mrs Keeley farewell hugs and peck Anne Marie on the cheek. She’s too stunned to stop me.

  Mrs Keeley smiles fondly and obliviously at the pair of us, but her husband has cottoned on.

  ‘Have fun,’ he says, smuggling a smirk beneath his moustache, ‘You’re only young once!’

  Ah but Mr Keeley, if you only knew how happy you’ve just made me!

  Outside the scals have dispersed into the night, but the fire still roars from the metal drum. We walk back to the cab, side by side, in silence, then just before I open the cab door, Jamie puts his hand on my shoulder and swings me round.

  ‘Look, about before…’

  ‘Forget it.’

  ‘No, come on babes, let’s sort it out before we head into town.’

  ‘There’s nothing to sort out. I’m fine. Honest.’

  Sean raps his knuckles against the window, mobile phone glued to his ear.

  ‘Let’s just forget about it Jamie. Come on. We’ve kept them waiting long enough.’

  ‘They can fuck off. Ignorant cunts. Beeping like that at this time of a night.’ He flicks the vs at Sean. Beyond him Kev and Mally do camp wrist flicks and pull dramatic faces.

  ‘I’m sorry for getting thingio with you back then. Really am. Especially in front of my aul’ fella. But it doesn’t take a genius to work out what’s gone on does it? Just try and put yourself in her shoes, Millie. Me and you, like. It’s difficult for her to get her head round isn’t it? She don’t see you as my mate. She sees this stunning looking woman that I chose to spend tonight with instead of her. And I lied to her. That makes me a cunt in her eyes wouldn’t you say?’

  If I was as good and as true as him and if I really believed she was a decent girl, and decent enough for my best friend, I’d send him back in. Tell him to forget tonight. Tell him to stop trying to please everyone and just please himself for once. Tell him to concentrate on the things that really matter. Them. Their future. But I truly believe she’s not worthy of a slumbered wank, let alone the rest of his life. I swear, if you had to cash in her love for him, it wouldn’t even buy you a shot of Scotch. Her masterplan’s written all over her and it’s about time James woke up to her. If he doesn’t wise up, he’s going to have to be told. She sees Jamie as nothing more than a stepping stone, a halfway house to bigger and brighter things. She’s the girl that sucks off the roadie to get backstage then bags off with the singer. She’s convincing though – so convincing that she’s even got wise old Mrs Keeley fooled. But not me, she hasn’t – and judging by the look on Mr Keeley’s face, not him either.

  ‘At least she was civil to me tonight,’ I say, and part of me is being ge
nuine here, part of me is being deadly sincere. ‘The way she speaks to me, Jamie, it hurts like fu… well, it doesn’t matter does it? She’s your fiancée end of the day and I’m not going to start slating her. I just wish she’d give us a go.’

  I climb into the cab, clamber over Sean and press my face up against the window. The sky is sharper now, almost as if the gunpowder has shocked it from its reverie. The taxi swings into Park Road, presenting me with a different view of the night. I attempt to arrange the galaxy of stars into designs and patterns and in the distance I hear the random sounds of gunfire. Gangsters trying out their guns. Along Princess Avenue the barrio falls silent as we pass through rows and rows of derelict houses with haggard roof tops, yielding to the cycle which will eventually lead to their recovery but as we cross the junction that throws us into Catherine Street and away from the Toxteth cavity it suddenly comes alive with brass, their johns, drunks and looting teenagers running from unknown locations into the lawless, demented night. I love this city. I do. I fucking love it.

  CHAPTER 7

  Jamie

  By the time we hit town it’s after ten. Sean takes control of the night and hauls us into some trendy new bar in the financial district. All dim lighting, leather sofas and mad flavoured vodkas and what have you – fucken pepper vodka if you will! I used to drink in the place across the road with my aul’ fella when it were The Rope and Anchor. Strange aul’ pub and all back then – full of labourers, mainly from the dock-lands, nursing pints of dark liquid and watching their drinks like an egg timer – wondering whether to linger on for that extra half, if it were worth the aggro they’d get when they rolled in late and bleary eyed. And most of em played safe. Slunk home just past six, as the television in the darts’ room reeled out the day’s racing results. It was mad la, all these weathered aul’ misfits, eyeing that TV with the same idiotic hopefulness of a man who goes to brass in search of true love. My aul’ fella used to steer us away from that TV with the same silent finesse he used to coax us away from Sean’s when we were teenagers but if the truth be known, I’ve never been a cunt for the betting. Fair do’s and that, I have been known to slap the odd fiver on when we’re playing the shite – nothing more than force of tradition I s’pose, but if I don’t make it down to the bookies, I’m not gonna be pulling my hair out or nothing.