Before the Fire Read online

  ‘And you’re a dickhead. Come on, girls love this stuff. They’ll all be in bikinis. We’ll drink shots. You might even get laid.’ He looked at Stick and then his shoulders dropped. ‘Come on?’

  Stick looped the blue plastic flowers over his head and Mac grinned.

  ‘That’s better. Your mum’ll be fine, mate, I promise. And tonight’ll be a blast, and then tomorrow –’ he held up his arm in a Superman pose – ‘we head for the sea.’

  ‘I ironed this fucking shirt,’ Stick said, but he unbuttoned it all the same and put the turquoise one on instead. What did it matter? Tomorrow they were out of there.

  The shirt would have fitted Mac but it hung loose on him. Stick chose a pair of glasses with blue plastic rims and smeary lenses. The flowers scratched at the back of his neck. He looked like a knob.

  Mac wore three strings of flowers, two grass skirts over his shorts, a straw hat tilted to one side and a pair of pink sunglasses. Stick helped him tie the coconuts on with gaffer tape and string.

  ‘More is more,’ he said when Stick started laughing. ‘At least I look like I mean it.’

  Mac’s ma howled with laughter too when they walked into the living room, Mac strutting about saying, ‘Hola, senorita bella, veinte cervezas por favor.’

  ‘Can you tell him?’ Stick said. ‘We can’t go out like this.’

  ‘You look cracking,’ she said. ‘Both of you.’

  She made them pasta with a thick creamy sauce and strips of salty bacon. ‘Line your stomachs,’ she said. ‘I saw you with that vodka.’ She winked at Stick and he held his hand to his face to hide the colour in his cheeks. He was just like his dad, always reddening up. It did his head in.

  4

  They crossed Queen’s Road and cut through the back streets to Rochdale Road, finishing off the vodka at the bus stop. Everyone kept staring at them but Mac didn’t seem to give a shit. When a white-van driver blasted his horn, his two mates leaning out of the window, laughing, Mac just fondled his coconuts and shouted ‘Want a lick?’ Stick wondered, sometimes, how one person could be so different from another.

  The vodka helped though, the way it always did, making him softer and easier than he actually was. On the bus, he sat next to Mac and managed to half smile at the people who grinned and made comments. He lowered the sunglasses over his eyes so everything darkened, and looked out of the window: a patch of tall grasses and yellow flowers where there used to be a shop or maybe a house; Cash for Scrap signs in front of a low-slung brick building; a nothingy sort of a park with a path cut through the middle of it and daisies dotting the grass. And then ahead, down the hill – Manchester.

  Some idiot had spread sand over the floor of the bar. It might have looked good before anyone arrived, but now it was gathered in thin, dirtied lines and Stick could feel it scratch against the bottoms of his trainers. Mac walked in and roared with laughter. ‘Fucking genius. Love it!’ he said. Plastic starfish wedged between the bottles of spirits; beach balls set loose amongst the crowd; the bar staff in bikini tops mixing blue cocktails; Ibiza anthems. Pretty much everyone had dressed up. Lainey in a red bikini top and black hot pants, Aaron and Malika with matching pink flower garlands down to their knees. Shooter dressed as a pirate for some reason – eyepatch, black hat, wide-sleeved white shirt. Even Ricky had a cocktail umbrella shoved through his top buttonhole.

  Stick headed for the bar. Double shot for the price of a single. He got a quadruple, with Coke, and a thin yellow straw that reminded him of being a kid.

  ‘Gets you drunk faster.’

  Stick turned. It was a girl he didn’t know in a blue sequinned top, her face already blurred with drink.

  ‘Through a straw,’ she said, lurching towards him a little and then steadying herself against the bar. ‘It gets it in your bloodstream quicker.’ She frowned. ‘Something like that. I’m Stacey.’ Her hand was on his forearm, Nan tattooed on the bit of skin between her thumb and forefinger.

  ‘Stick.’

  ‘Stick?’ She scrunched up her nose.

  ‘Kieran. Whatever.’ He’d almost finished his drink, the straw making sucking noises in between the ice cubes.

  ‘Is that cos you’re skinny?’

  Stick shrugged.

  ‘I’ve always wanted a nickname. Stace, that’s like the best there is for me. You can’t just come up with it yourself though, can you? Someone’s got to give it to you, or it doesn’t stick. Stick.’ She grinned at her own joke. ‘You getting another one of them?’ She pointed at his glass.

  Stick shrugged. She tipped her head to one side and batted her eyes at him, fake eyelashes like curling spiders’ legs.

  ‘I’ve got a trip to save for,’ he said, but ordered two doubles with Coke and ice all the same.

  ‘Where you going?’ She leaned on the bar, both elbows in front of her so her tits squeezed together.

  ‘Malaga.’ Stick looked at her cleavage, the soft flesh either side, and felt his cock twitch.

  She nodded. ‘It’s all right there.’

  ‘Yeah?’ He handed her one of the drinks.

  She put the straw between her lips and sucked. ‘Went last year. With my parents.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Which was, like, annoying. But I got a tan. Met a couple of nice guys.’ She smiled.

  ‘We’re driving. Me and –’ Stick looked over to where Mac and Lainey were dancing hip to hip – ‘him.’

  She frowned. ‘Why? It’s like two hours on a plane.’

  Because that wasn’t the point. Because the journey was the point. Because he’d never left Manchester, he’d never been anywhere, he’d never even been to the fucking seaside. And if they drove, then he’d have been to all those places, not just Manchester and Malaga, he’d have been everywhere in between.

  ‘It was a bet kind of thing,’ he said. ‘We were pissed.’ Which was also true, him and Mac shit-faced, Mac punching the air and saying, ‘Let’s go, let’s get out of here.’

  ‘We’re going for ages,’ he said. ‘Months. It’s like a trip, not a holiday.’

  She’d turned her attention back to her drink. Stick looked at the thin gold cross on a thin gold chain falling down between her breasts.

  ‘I’d better go check on my mate.’ She scanned the dance floor. ‘She’s a bit—’ She waved the hand with the tattoo, to suggest someone even drunker than herself. ‘Later. Maybe.’ She did that smile again. That play-it-right-and-I-might-just-give-you-a-blow-job smile.

  The place was packed, people squashed against each other, shouting, laughing, holding drinks up above their heads as they tried to push their way through. Stick wasn’t good in crowded spaces, and it was hot enough to make anyone queasy. He finished his drink and ordered another, then stood with one elbow resting on the bar and imagined the whole place on fire. It would start at the back, he decided. Someone sneaking a fag, dropping it on the floor – too pissed to notice. Smouldering for a while, and then whoomph, catching the carpet, licking up the leg of a chair with a coat slung over the back of it. The smoke was what got people, he knew that, but it was the flames he always imagined, the gentle orange ones and the white-blue roaring ones. How the heat of it could blister walls and soften metal.

  ‘Drink. I am dying for a drink.’ Mac crashed off the dance floor towards him, Lainey hanging onto his arm, Aaron and Malika just behind them.

  ‘Shots. Hey, Blondie!’ Mac waved at the barman, who scowled but came over. ‘One, two, three, four, five,’ Mac said, counting them off on his fingers. His coconuts were lopsided and he pulled them straight.

  ‘Jägerbombs.’ Aaron slapped his hand on the bar. He was addicted to the gym and had arm muscles to show for it. Stick had been sweating on a building site for six months saving up for Spain, but he suspected he’d never look like that, however many tonnes of bricks he shifted.

  Mac shrugged and the barman poured them out, five plastic shot glasses floating in piss-yellow Red Bull.

  ‘A toast,’ Mac declared. ‘A toast to Stick.’

  Sti
ck pulled a face and Mac held up his hand. ‘OK, all right. A toast to driving on the fucking right.’

  Everyone downed their shots. They tasted like sick – made Stick’s head throb. He looked about for the girl with the blue-sequinned top but couldn’t see her.

  ‘Again,’ Aaron shouted. Malika plucked at his sleeve but he was paying no attention.

  They tasted better the second time.

  ‘Photo,’ Stick said, the word coming out thick and loud. He got his phone from his jeans pocket and waved at the four of them to stand closer together. He stepped back to fit them onto the screen and tapped. A bright white flash lit them for a second. It was like something you’d see in a film: everyone frozen, grinning, Mac’s arms around Lainey and Malika, Aaron waving his empty glass to one side. When Stick lowered his phone Mac was kissing Lainey, Aaron was kissing Malika.

  ‘Get a room. Fuck’s sake,’ he said, but none of them were listening.

  He turned away, about to walk to the toilet, even though he didn’t need to go, when there was a scuffle to his left, people stumbling towards him and someone shouting. Stick stood on tiptoe to try and see. Ricky. Of course it was Ricky – he couldn’t have a night out without decking someone. He had more anger knotted up inside of him than the rest of them put together, and that was saying something. Stick watched a bouncer in a black suit get Ricky in a headlock and drag him towards the door. Around him, people swore and tutted and repositioned themselves. Five minutes later it was like nothing had happened.

  ‘Should we go?’ Stick shouted to Mac. Ricky was a tosser, but he was their mate.

  ‘Shooter’s gone,’ Mac said. ‘He’ll sort it.’ Mac felt about in his pockets and pulled out a fat brown cigar. ‘From pervy Mr Dunne,’ he said.

  Stick took the cigar. It had already been cut and when he held it to his nose it smelt of honey and dust. Mr Dunne lived in Mac’s tower block, on the floor above. He was the fattest man Stick had ever seen – his legs and stomach so big they reckoned he wouldn’t be able to find his cock in amongst the folds. ‘You wank him off?’ he said.

  ‘Twice.’ Mac headed for the door.

  The bouncers didn’t let you smoke in the covered bit – even though it was made up to look like a proper street, with cobbles and lamps and fake old shop signs – so they went outside. It was just about dark, the tall drooped street lights on, the glass office blocks down the end of the road lit up too. Stick felt the air chill the sweat on his face and forearms. He looked around for Ricky and Shooter, but couldn’t see them.

  ‘Lap dancing over there.’ Mac pointed at the building opposite – orange brick and fancy arched windows. ‘Seriously. I’ve seen the pictures. Girl on girl. The lot.’

  Thick curtains hung in folds against the windows. Stick tried to imagine it inside. Cones of light on a dark stage. Women with polished skin and massive tits. ‘You’re pulling Lainey then?’ he said.

  Mac grinned. ‘She’s into me, don’t you think?’

  ‘She’s not coming to Spain.’

  Mac laughed. He held his lighter to the cut end of the cigar until the smoke started. ‘Mr Dunne’s advice,’ he said. ‘Don’t inhale.’

  ‘I mean it.’ Stick took the cigar and put it to his lips.

  ‘I know she’s not coming to Spain. Now, just breathe it into your mouth, swirl it round a bit, blow it out.’

  ‘What’s the point of that?’

  Mac shrugged.

  Stick sucked on the cigar and felt the smoke pool on his tongue. He pulled it into his throat without thinking and ended up coughing and spluttering.

  ‘What did I say?’ Mac took it off him and smoked without coughing, puffing pale rings towards Stick. ‘Maybe we should be going to Cuba,’ he said. ‘That’s where they make these babies.’

  ‘I’d rather have a joint.’ Stick jigged his foot against the ground. ‘Are you sure your mate’ll definitely let us crash at his?’

  ‘He’s fixed us jobs – I told you. Washing-up and that, but there’ll be bar jobs coming soon, he reckons.’ Mac jabbed the cigar towards Stick. ‘Sea, sand, sex,’ he said. ‘And once we’ve got some cash we’ll get our own place. Have ourselves some parties.’

  Stick took the cigar back, gulped a mouthful of smoke and looked up. Beyond the street lights, the sky was a washed-out grey and he could see just one star shining like its batteries were about to give up.

  ‘You should make nice with your dad,’ Mac said. ‘Before we go.’

  Stick inhaled again – coughed like he was an old man.

  ‘Seriously,’ Mac said. ‘Imagine if he has, like, a heart attack.’

  ‘I do,’ Stick said. ‘All the time. I do.’

  ‘You’d be gutted.’ Mac took the cigar. ‘You’d be gutted about it forever.’

  ‘He’s a cunt.’

  Mac shook his head. ‘He’s just trying to help.’

  Stick kicked his heel against the pavement. Mac’s dad had walked out on Mac and his ma around the same time Sophie had died. Which was how come they’d moved onto the estate. Mrs McKinley called him the Bastard. Mac didn’t talk about him all that much.

  ‘This tastes shit,’ Mac said. He dropped the cigar onto the pavement and ground it out with his toe.

  They both stared at it. ‘Maybe I’ll send him a postcard,’ Stick said, but Mac was already walking back towards the bar.

  ‘Come on. More shots. I can still see,’ Mac shouted back to him, pretending like he wasn’t bothered any more. And once they were inside, it was too hot, too crowded, too noisy to talk.

  Drunk. Proper drunk. All the words gone too big for his mouth, the edges of them shoving at his cheeks, catching on his tongue. Mac dancing like a prick, clutching his coconuts. Shots: peppermint; coffee; tequila; flaming sambuca – beautiful blue fire. The girl in the sequin top – blue, beautiful blue. She didn’t step back when he put his hand on it. The sequins scratched his skin, but she was soft. Her tits soft. Her mouth wide and wet and red.

  And then Mac was there. Coconuts, grass skirts, grey trainers. He looked like a twat. You look like a twat, Mac. Fuck off. Lainey’s having a paddy. She’s being psycho. Stick’s head thumping, like the whales – dumpf, dumpf, dumpf. His mum, checking plugs. He wished she’d stop that. The bar hard in the centre of his back. And Mac – I’m going home. You coming? Home. But the girl with the top. Blue sequins. She was licking her tongue around her lips and leaning against him, her breath in his ear. Don’t go. Not yet. Got a treat for you. And then kissing his cheek, and he was hard. Drunk as a fucking newt, but hard. He took off the plastic flowers and put them around her neck.

  Come on, mate. Mac was pulling at his arm. But the girl. Give us a minute. Ten minutes. Mac was shaking his head, saying, I’m going home. I’m going now. Walking out the door without looking back. Grass skirts all bunched up over his shorts.

  The girl took Stick’s hand and walked, snake-hips, into the toilets. Up against the door. Lock digging into his spine. Jeans down to his knees. Someone banging on the partition. Get a fucking room. Don’t need a room for this, baby. He wanted to come in her mouth. He wanted to come in her hair. Yes. Like that.

  And then he was done, and she was wiping at her lips, pulling herself up from the floor. He grabbed at her tits. Ripping her top. Fucking be careful, man. The thin gold cross stabbed at his chin. Soft flesh. And then she was moving his hand under her skirt and he was tired all of a sudden. Done. Drunk. He could curl up here, he thought, on the toilet floor, with the scraps of paper and the dribbles of piss, and sleep.

  She was rubbing herself against his fingers. Got to go, he kept saying. No – come on, you want to put it in? Her hand on his cock. You can put it in. Got to get back – look out for Mac. He’s not looking out for you. Almost falling out of the cubicle, her storming after him, lips puckered, angry. Enjoy your trip. Cheers. Cheers for not much.

  And then he was out on the street. Cold. His stomach churning. Everyone else gone. Well, fuck them. He got on the bus. Fell asleep. Missed his stop. Walked
back down Rochdale Road. Left onto Queen’s Road. The whole world in a haze – street lights and booze. Stopped at the end of his street. He’d wake his mum up, stumbling in. She’d be halfway down the stairs before he’d sorted himself out. He couldn’t be doing with that.

  He climbed up to the railway tracks at the back of Pitsford Road. Half fell up the steep slope. He’d sleep there. Could sleep anywhere. He’d brought Mac here when they were kids, to show him the trains, how the tracks hummed and you had to hold yourself steady when they came past – a rush of metal sucking up the air and shouting in your face. Mac had shouted back and Stick had stood next to him and opened his mouth, but hadn’t let out any noise.

  Up by the knackered fence, Stick kicked at the ground to clear it, sat with his back against a tree. Manchester. Birmingham. Dover. Calais. Tours. Bordeaux. Bilbao. Madrid. Malaga. Shit-bucket Ford Fiesta. Push the seats back and you could almost lie down. Sleeping bags. Pillows. Mac’s shitty pound-shop window blinds suckered to the glass.

  His eyes were heavy as rocks. Head thick with sleep. Booze. That girl’s hair. Someone banging on the toilet wall. Mac and his coconuts and the grass skirts. Lainey with mascara halfway down her face. He was tired enough to lie down on the ground, in the soil and the fag butts and the bits of paper and crisp packets and fuck knew what else, and sleep. He rested his head on his arm. Tomorrow. Tomorrow they’d get in the car and drive. Tomorrow they were out of there.

  5

  Aching like a bastard. Soil on his face. Someone calling his name. Stick opened his eyes to sunlight pouring through the leaves, closed them again and watched the colours dance on the backs of his eyelids. He listened. A bird, somewhere; a car; faint footsteps on concrete. A line of drool had dried at the corner of his mouth. He wiped it off, dug the plastic sunglasses out of his pocket and put them on. He could smell himself: sex and stale booze and sweat. He imagined Mac kicking him in the side – get up, you dirty bastard, we’re going to Spain. But his phone said it was only 6 a.m. – Mac’d still be snoring away and there was no one there but Stick, the tree, the rusted fence and the train tracks, grass and weeds growing in between the slats like there wasn’t a hundred tonnes of metal running over them every five minutes.