YOU’LL THINK THIS FUNNY – or maybe not, depending on whether you’re fucked-up like me, or one of those pseudo social-worker/prison do-gooders or not, but anyway, not that it’s any big deal, but for a long time, when I was on the broo, I used to get up early, almost as if I was going to work – some chance – and get dressed, my balls freezing off in the ice cold bedroom with a thin sheet of dirty ice on the painted walls, out of the house, across the bone-hard council greens and the rubbish strewn waste ground, down the batten fenced alleyways, up the embankment, and wait like some oddball early morning fisherman for the commuter trains all one-way, to Belfast.
Fancy it, just sitting there at the side of the track, breathless, the rumble growing louder into an oven swish as the ground vibrated and, for a moment, a blur of metal hurtling past, clickety-clack, all the windows lit-up like Christmas, and those frog-eyed office-workers sitting with newspapers and polystyrene cups of coffee, not seeing this old boy on the outside. Though to be honest, I think the driver caught wind of me after a few times, for I’m sure the cocky bastard waved once. But imagine, sitting out there on my wet arse, to watch a fucking train rattle past, like in that song, what-do-you-call-it? About the man in prison, and he hears the train whistling on down the track, and there’s a big guy on board with a fat cigar. Some sort of country & western song, or something. Well, anyway, when the train was only a red light on down the track, with the stink of wind rush and coal and diesel in my hooter, I would get up, all zombie like, and walk back to the block of flats, get back into bed and try to sleep again, but I couldn’t get over, so I would just drowse there, thinking all kinds of crazy things, like what it will soon be like to no longer be a teenager, or how the sheets smelled sour like old vomit and sweat, about girls seen in dirty books or round the estate that I would like to fuck, or big Darkie – some of the boys called him the Sheriff, but I called him Darkie – with his bad leg that took a bullet and his rhinestone handled cane, with the faded tattoo of an eagle on his chest. Or I would try to dream about Shelia, but I could never get her up close enough to touch her. She always kept some distance off, never smiling with those thin lips, in that summer flowery dress with the lacy sleeves I saw her wearing the first time I saw her, down by the children’s play-area, the dark hair just a bit curly, the shape of her breasts and thighs, the sandals she was wearing, the fading nail varnish on her toes. She took one long look into my eyes, with those big sad brown eyes of her own, then turned her head slowly away and never looked again.
But then big fucking Darkie elbowed his way in, wanting the money I owed him. “Give it up son, or give me your dole cheque, or by fuck…!”
Fuck-off yourself, Darkie – but I felt a shit coming on at the thought of it. God it was cold, even with the blankets curled in round my legs, over my head like an Arab. Remember Eve? When was that? Last year? Nice little body. Soaking wet down there, my fingers out and in.
“Don’t be a prick, sniffing like that!”
I had to laugh, quiet like.
“Go on, oh yes, go on, deeper. Don’t put it in, use something…”
Too late, I had it well inside her, up against the fence of the Darkie’s yard, his pit bulls throwing themselves against the fence with every thrust. I swear, if there had been a gap, they would have ripped the little pink arse off her – and auld peg leg Darkie’s light on, as he got tanked-up on cheap cider and watched the telly – here’s your fucking money, my son!
