The city is silent aside from the beggars and the thieves squealing below. Nobody is on the streets besides they. Not at this hour, no. You can hear them trying to force closed shop shutters open to no avail. They pour in and out of squats, forever shrouded in darkness. And as the world sleeps, I listen, and wonder what I will do tomorrow.
I hope to rise around ten. Yes, ten or eleven. And I hope to feel refreshed. More so than today. And I’ll head out and buy sausages, bread, and milk for breakfast. And then I’ll get down to writing before work. That’s what I hope to do anyway, but it never comes. No, it never comes. I am so punctual at stemming morning plans so late at night. Yes everything seems perfect at four am. I will do this and cook that, go for a walk; and then write write write. I’ll buy smoked bacon and chilies and tomatoes and prepare my favourite breakfast meal, and scorch the scolded tongue with hot tea. But never. It is only a thought before sleep. A plan which never comes. If only I was as prolific at doing instead of thinking and planning. I romanticised it all in my head. Every last thing. It drove Erin past the point of insanity.
I lie in bed. Scrolling through Facebook and Instagram awhile. Knowing I’m burning up my brain and ruining any chance of sleep with it, but it’s an addiction. We are all addicted. Just before, having a cigarette on the balcony, I looked into the other apartments. Almost every single person was scrolling… but why? I can’t complain for I’m the same. That’s it now isn’t it. Just scroll until you die. Scroll scroll scroll until you fucking die. And so I attempt to pull back. Away from the shit. But then my eye is caught.
A video, shared by a friend of a friend showing the last day for year eleven students at Saints Peter and Paul. And I watch as my memory is cast back. I see the old school hall. Nothing changed since I was there. Only the children’s faces. Even the teachers are some the same. There’s Mr Gough. All the girls fancied him. And Mr Murdoch. Mr Hall, and the dinner ladies too. I recognise her, not her, but her yes, and her. What was her name… Jane or something like that. Yes. Still looks the same. Always behind the pasta pots. It feels so long ago. Feels a hundred years ago. And yet it’s been… Less than ten? Six is it? No seven. Seven years. Jesus. Seven years ago tonight I would’ve been fast asleep. Awake in a few hours for school. Chemistry with Mr. Bienias. Sat in that cold damp classroom. Blue jumper and shirt on. Bienias with his grey suit. Sitting aside Mellor and Liv. Laughing. Ignoring his every word and laughing. He was a good one though. And then English with Goode. Me and Shepherd would get sent out no doubt. Right outside Mr Hall’s office. He always came out. Got a right thrill out of it. He’d come out and grill the two of us. He always did it facing one of us with his back to the other, so naturally if he had his back to you you’d do all you could to make the other laugh. He caught me a few times. Screamed the face off me. But we laughed. Report card signed at the end of the day and then attempt mum’s signature if it were bad. Yes. Seven years ago. And then it’d be meeting Cotty and Karl by the bike-sheds and walking home. Cotty talking about this girl and this arse and how Mrs Roberts bent over in Geography showing a bit of thong. Karl throwing digs into our arms all the way home.
We’d stop by the corner shop or the chippy. A bag of pistachios or a scallop or two. Remember once she gave me one for free because Cotty laughed that I was poor. And so we’d split from Karl on Derby Road and turn left by The Griffin. Then right at the bottom and down the bridal path. The trail of pistachios following our feet.
At the end, I would go left and Cotty would go right. Christ, it feels so long ago. I feel so old. I feel I’ve aged one hundred years since. When I look upon pictures of myself back then, I do not see myself, but somebody else. If I look at photographs of myself as a child, wearing dad’s work-boots, and a builders helmet or something like that, I do not recognise the face that’s looking back at me. I burst into tears a while back. Flicking through old pictures mum had sent me. Erin had no idea what was wrong with me, and neither did I. I just could not believe that that small child was me. That little kid laughing his head off on the swings in Sherdley Park was me. Or turning turf off Cloughbrack with Anthony. Mayo cap upon his head. I couldn’t understand it. Looking at my hands and feet and legs. How was this the same flesh and bone as then? It didn’t make any sense to me. And I felt sorry for that little kid. I did. I wasn’t crying for myself, but for who I used to be. I felt I’d failed this little child. I felt I’d forced upon him a life he did not deserve. I wanted to shelter him. To protect him. But I couldn’t. And so I wore my veil of tears until sleep took me away to somewhere new.
The last time I ever saw Cotty was on the alleyway by Saint Luke’s Church. He was my best friend throughout school. But after school that was that. All of the talk of staying in touch dissolved in seconds. We never saw one another again. I remember it was the last day of school. He bought pistachios that day. I remember their casings creating a trail behind us on the mud floor. I couldn’t believe school had come to an end. That after so many years of waiting the last bell had finally rang. Yet instead of the happiness anticipated, there was a sadness. We shook hands on Lunts Heath Road and said goodbye. I turned left. After five or ten paces, I turned to see my best friend walking away. But when I turned I noticed he too had done the same. We waved at one another before walking on. Another few steps and I turned again, he too. And so we waved and laughed and waved again, and then we walked.
He shouted something in the distance and for the third time I turned. But when I looked, his shadow had passed the bend going into the distance. Christ, life dissipates.
