Black

“Did you burn down the chip shop”?
“No”
“Eddie Vedder Williams Rhys, look me in the eyes and tell me you did not burn down the Happy Wok”.
Ed stared at his Mam and saw age. He saw rot and wrinkles and decay. He wanted to shower and wash the worms from his skin.
“I didn’t burn down the chippy, alright?”
Batty stood in the kitchen doorway, nervous eyes flicking between mother and son. Conflict, man. It made him twitchy. Until the pointy finger was folded away, he would stay perched, neither in nor out of the room, with clear, straight access to the front door.
Batty was troubled. He loved being at Ed’s. His Mam left them alone and they could drink beer and have the odd fag up in Ed’s room. Celine never minded. Sometimes she popped her head round the door, unexpected like, and threw them a couple of bags of Spar onion rings. Ed’s mam was the best in the village.
The best mam was, at that moment, nose-to-chin with her son, unwilling to let the issue of the chip shop drop.
“The women in the Spar say you did it”.
Ed stared back at his mother. He didn’t blink.
“I say I didn’t”.
Celine’s face puckered.
“The women down the Spar say different”.
“The women down the Spar say Elvis lives up Trinant”.
“Eddie Vedder Williams –
“ED, mam! For fuck sake! It’s Ed. Why d’you have to name me after some stupid metal-head anyway? No one listens to Pearl Jam anymore. They had one good album, like twenty years ago. Fuck!”
Celine’s face slackened and Batty edged towards the front door. Breathing started to hurt.
“Get out”, Celine said, crumbling. “Don’t come back tonight. I don’t care where you stay, just don’t come back here tonight”.
Ed shrugged. He tore his jacket from behind the door and swaggered out of the house, Batty had no choice; he ran after him.
Celine watched from the parlour window until Ed was out of sight. She scrambled in her handbag amongst lipstick and tobacco leaves. She found her fags, lit one and lifted it to her lips and lit it with fingers that shook.
Alone and frightened of her own son, she took a deep drag. Celine stared at the spot where Ed had disappeared around the corner, a blue-grey tower of smoke curling around her head. A long tip of ash dislodged itself from the end of her cigarette and fell silently to the floor and shattered on the thin carpet.
Celine took another long drag.




Batty slid his gaze left and allowed himself a quick, sneaky glance at Ed. His friend had been different lately; sharper, meaner – less fuzzy. These days, Ed always seemed to have a crazy plan on the bubble, the depths of which he was keen to immerse Batty in. Batty wasn’t sure he liked new, pointy, Ed. He remembered when they wandered the streets of the village, air rifles slung over one shoulder, fishing rods under their arm and nothing more on their minds than scraping together enough money for a couple of cans of Tennants.
“Hey, Ed, remember when you shot at that bird from your bedroom window and blew that kid’s year lobe off?” Batty laughed. “His mam went ballistic, remember?”
Ed ignored him. Batty didn’t mind; he accepted the position of silent sidekick. He put up with it because hanging out with Ed was better than hanging out at home.
The smugness surrounding Ed was starting to get on his nerves, though.
“Did you, then?” Batty asked, knowing it was what Ed wanted, foreseeing the to-and-fro of the conversation to come and knowing that the day couldn’t, wouldn’t be allowed to, move on until it had been done.
“Did I what?” said Ed.
Batty felt a sliver of his soul slip away, but hid his sigh and caught his shoulders mid-slump. Ed never tired of the game. But then, Ed loved games; they were his gateway to greatness.
Winning was Ed’s path to God.
Ed was the unchallenged master of getting away with it. He was untouchable.
“You know”, Batty said, the whine in his voice gave him a headache, “the chippy. Did you burn down the chippy?”
Ed pursed his lips and regarded Batty through narrowed eyes.
“What do you think?”
Batty studied Ed’s face, looking for what Ed wanted to hear.
“I think you did it”, Batty said, slowly, as if he hadn’t quite made up his mind.
Ed laughed and slapped Batty’s shoulder.
“Fucking right I did it! Those chinky fuckers gave me day-old chips”.
“So you burned down their shop”, Batty said, another stone added to the weight on his chest.
Ed stopped so suddenly it looked like he was standing to attention. He turned to Batty; stared into his eyes.
“Yes, Batty. I burned down their fucking shop”.
Batty stared back for a couple of seconds before lowering his eyes. He swallowed the shame and shook his head.
“Yes Ed. You did”.
They walked in silence for a while. Batty knew he was being punished for earlier, so he kept his mouth shut and waited for Ed to come round.
“Devil’s Bridge”? Ed said, sometime later.
Batty breathed a sigh of relief. The bridge was harmless enough and it was away from people, which was, Batty thought, the only relief he’d find that day. He didn’t fancy stealing or burning anything down that afternoon.
“Great. I got a couple of two pences we can chuck on the tracks”.
Ed looked at Batty like he’d lost his mind.
“For the train to flatten – you know?” Batty stammered, embarrassed and not sure why.
Ed walked off, shaking his head, with a muttered ‘dick head’. Stunned, Batty stumbled.
Batty dug in his pockets for change as they approached the bridge. He liked flattening pennies under trains.
He scrambled up the banking and placed four two pence pieces on the track. After a moment, he added two more. Sometimes, the train scattered the coins and they were lost, but not today. Batty felt lucky today.
Ed was waiting half way up the steps. He rolled his eyes as Batty drew near.
“Jesus Batty, you freak me out sometimes, you know that?”
Batty smiled. Ed wasn’t going to push it. They were alright.
“How many you put down?”
“Four”, he lied.
Ed nodded and caught his lower lip between his teeth. “Half-half if they all come out?”
“Sure”, said Batty, lifting a shoulder. “Half-half”.
Ed squeezed the back of his neck, too tight, and pulled him up the rest of the steps to the top of the bridge.
Devil’s Bridge had been devoured and was easy to miss if you were walking past in a hurry or with purpose. Surrounded by dense foliage, the bridge was the only legal way to cross the train tracks for miles. Once splendid with polished wooden steps and turquoise metal framework, the bridge sat, shrunken and dilapidated, the wooden boards warped and split and the metal railings rusted and decayed. Nature had played a mean hand with Devil’s Bridge and had taken its house and car.
The boys sat, cross-legged, in the centre of the bridge. Ed pulled a pack of silver Lambert from his jacket pocket, extracted two cigarettes and offered one to Batty, who took it gratefully. They lit their fags from a single match and sat for a while, smoking and grinning at each other. Batty felt his chest swell.
They sat and smoked.
Ed took one last drag and flicked his butt over the bridge. He pulled up his sleeve, checked his watch and peered through the railings, down the tracks.
“Not long now”, he said with a sniff. “Should be here any minute”. He sprang to his feet, grabbed the railing and vaulted over the side of the bridge. Perched on a narrow ledge, both hands on the railing, he leant back over the tracks and grinned at Batty.
“You up for riding the railings today, Bats?”
Batty felt his chest cave. The other Ed was back; troublemaker Ed. He shook his head. Ed shrugged and spun round so that his body was facing away from Batty, facing the tracks.
Batty moved closer to the side of the bridge and stared at the back of his friend’s head. His eyes travelled down and he noticed a smudge of chalk on the back of Ed’s jacket, perfectly centred between his shoulder blades. He reached out to brush it off, but pulled back abruptly. He didn’t want to freak Ed out, break his concentration, or piss him off.
The train lines zinged into life, sizzling the arrival of the 12.45 to Barry Island. Curled, dying leaves roused themselves and fought along the edge of the tracks. Ed snapped his head around and grinned at Batty.
“One handed this time Batty, wha’dya reckon?”
The bridge started to rattle and shake, the hot smell of the engine reaching Batty’s nostrils. He shook his head, making no effort to mask his unease. “Come back over”, he yelled, his voice fighting the approaching machine. “Let’s go scab some fags off someone”.
Ed grinned, delighting in Batty’s distress. He let go of the bridge with his right hand and leaned out further over the train tracks, his weight resting on his left hand and sureness of grip. A sense of wickedness came over him and, countering the action with a realignment of balance, he lifted his hand from the railing.
Batty leapt forward as if the devil had poked him with a pitchfork and Ed, hand safely secured around the rusted railing once more, laughed in his friend’s pale face. Batty’s skittishness could always be relied on for a laugh.
The train was almost upon them. Ed leaned as far as he could without loosing his grip. The bridge shook and flecks of rust worked their way unnoticed into his skin. He glanced back at Batty once more and smiled.
“Anyway”, he yelled, the words whipped away the second they left his lips. “If they try to pin the chip shop on me, I’ll say you did it”.
The train shot past the bridge, the heat and stench of the updraft rocking Ed back on his heels. The smell of it pervaded his nostrils and the noise filled his ears and Ed became immersed in the rhythm, motion and music of the train whooshing past.
With a quick snap of his arm, Batty reached out and punched him in the elbow. Ed’s arm buckled like a hinge collapsing and his body pitched forward. His grip faltered and slipped; the sudden shift in weight too much. When he realised it was too late for his left, Ed tried to spin and grab with his right, but his body was too far forward, the angle too much. He fell, face first, onto the train and Ed lost for the first time in his life.
Batty winced as the screech of breaks pierced the air.
“I did do it, you fucking moron”.



“Black” blared from the crematorium speakers when the village said their final goodbyes to Ed. Track five from Ten; his Mam’s favourite.
Celine clutched Batty’s hand throughout the service, her plastic nails digging into his pale flesh. He absent-mindedly stroked her fingers, his own chewed nails picking at her cuticles.
The vicar spoke in warm tones of Ed’s flamboyance and his love of life; Ed, a soul that followed a crooked path, sometimes crossing the line but always finding his way back to the right side.
Batty hooked a finger into the knot of his tie and tugged it loose. He quite liked wearing ties, but this one felt a little too much like a noose around his neck. Lucky for Batty that the train driver had seen Ed leaning over the tracks.
Inside the church, villagers sang the hymns and bowed their heads in prayer. Outside they whispered to each other that it was a tragedy, a tragedy, for one to die so young.
No one mentioned the chip shop.

Monstrous City

“Shall we go cow tipping tonight?” Ed said.
Ed said. That always cracks me up. It’s my second favourite, after ‘I once knew a guy called Guy”.
Priceless.
My dad favours alliteration. Jenny Jones, Robert Redford, William Wallace – that type of thing. Top of his ‘A’ list is Roy Rodgers. Something about the way it tips off the tongue.
Still, as much as he loves those alliterated names, they don’t hold a candle to his all time favourite: John Wayne. Dad would be John Wayne if he could, dodgy slurred delivery and all. Well, you gotta love the Duke. At least you do if you grew up in our house.
“Oi, ignorant! I’m speaking to you”.
Ed’s elbow landed in my ribs.
“Aw! What?”
Ed tutted like I’d robbed an O.A.P or something, then spelled it out for me, nice and slow. In that moment, I felt for deaf people and the elderly the world over.
“Shall. We. Go. Cow. Tippin’. To. Night?”
“I’m up for it”, Jamie said, nodding to illustrate his decision. “Nothing else happening”.
Story of my life: nothing else happening and reduced to cow tipping with the village idiots.
“Whatever”, I mumbled.
“Good. Meet at the park at seven”, Ed said.
Ed said!
Gets me every time.

I went home and did the usual: let myself in, trudged to the kitchen, grabbed some food from the fridge, made a monster sandwich, trudged up the stairs to my room, slumped on the bed, ate the sandwich and had a little debate with myself. In my head.
What was I doing with my life? Nothing. What was I doing about doing nothing with my life? Nothing. What should I be doing? I didn’t know. Did I want to be doing anything about it? I didn’t think so. Why didn’t I want to do anything about it? Because I…because…
The last question was getting harder to answer because the answer was hard to take.
I started thinking about killing myself around three weeks ago. The thought just popped into my head one day, right in the middle of a dose of double maths.
“You could always kill yourself”, the thought went, “and then you wouldn’t have to worry about it anymore”.
The fact that the thought was there at all, inside my head, surprised me. I didn’t think I was the type to harbour suicidal tendencies, to be honest, and when such a tendency came out of hiding and started whispering in my ear, it kind of threw me.
Three weeks later, the thought was still knocking around in my head, like a rogue pinball. What I couldn’t figure out was if I was seriously thinking about it, like for real, or if I was seriously thinking about it like the time I seriously thought about taking a summer job overseas and spent the entire holidays sat in front of the TV…still thinking about it.
My life was pretty redundant, so what was the point of keeping the life support switched on? I was a just a burden to the planet; a drain on its natural resources. It would be kinder to switch off the machine and conserve the energy.
I put this argument to myself and waited for the inner voice in my head to pipe up with a fantastic, heart-stopping, life-changing, Quincy style rhetoric, starting with the words ‘yes, but…’
It must have been The Voice’s day off. Again.
I dared myself to get on with it, if I was serious, and stop jerking around. I’d worked hard at becoming this useless and pathetic. I didn’t want help, I didn’t want guidance, sympathy, a shoulder to cry on or a heartstring to tug. I wanted out – so why hadn’t I done anything about it?
Finishing my sandwich, I shrugged. Apathy, the curse of a generation.
With a noisy sigh, I got up and got ready for a fun-filled evening of pushing over sleeping cows. Pulling on an old Metallica ‘Ride the Lightening’ T-Shirt over my head, I hoped that I wouldn’t come back as a cow in the next life.
I hoped I wouldn’t come back at all.

It was dark by the time we reached the end of the lane.
“I stepped in cow shit”, Ed said.
Jamie groaned. “Jesus Ed! Already? We, like, just left the lane. Do you attract the stuff, or what?”
“Yeah, Ed”. I said. “You’re like a shit magnet”.
Ed sniggered.
“Shhhhhh. You’ll wake the cows”.
That did it.
Jamie burst out laughing, clamped a hand over his mouth and blew a huge globule of snot out of one nostril. Ed slapped his thighs and hooted with laughter.
Nearby, a cow shuffled its feet and let out a low ‘moo’. On cue, we fell silent. Cow tipping, you see, is a fine art (well, not really, but you have to have some delusions of grandeur. We were masters at cow tipping, therefore it was a fine art. Like nano surgery).
You see why I’m looking down the barrel of a gun here.
We ran, we pushed, we tipped over the poor, unsuspecting cow. We laughed, we rolled around on the floor. It was hilarious.
Not as funny as the fact that I was dead on the inside, but close none-the-less.

It rained on the way home. By the time I parted company with Ed and Jamie, I was soaked to the skin and couldn’t see my hand in front of my face it was so dark.
Anything or anyone foolish enough to be outdoors was battered senseless by a keen and cruel wind cold enough to freeze a man at ten paces. Not universally recognised as being the sharpest tool in the box, as the cow tipping incident clearly demonstrates, I chose not to take shelter from the elements, but to casually make my way home.
It was an impossible task. My clothes were stuck fast to my skin. There was chafing. It wasn’t pretty.
I glanced down at my sodden T-shirt and shook my head. Fat drops of water flew from the ends of my rain-soaked hair and were swallowed in the deluge.
Ride the lightening my arse. More like choke on the rain, stub your toe in the pitch black, fall flat on your face in a pool of watery cow’s piss and die of pneumonia.
I left the lane and turned into King’s road, sending up a quick prayer of thanks to a God I wasn’t sure even existed for the blessed arrival of street lighting.