inkbites authors: Peter Clayfield

DOG DAY DIMP: NOVEL

CHAPTER 1

Davey dropped the purse and scuttled for the door. He reached up, twisted the catch and was almost through to safety - when the heavy brass ashtray 'thonked' into the back of his head. 'Owww!' Through a vapour trail of dirty grey falling ash Zelda’s red-hot bark snapped at his heels.

'Gotcha; theivin likkul gett!' She was just a little bit annoyed. The weight of the ashtray and the venom in her words propelled him through the open doorway and out onto the long communal landing, where his feet executed a smart ninety degree skidding left turn and pulled him towards and down the graffetti covered, stale urine reeking, stairs.

At ground level he shot through the rough concrete stairwell and out into the weak mid-October sun, almost colliding as he did so with a hooded and scarf-swaddled youth on a mountain bike who was doubtless in the process of delivering a range of non-proprietary stress-relieving products to an impatiently twitching local clientele. ‘Piss off freak!’ the youth shot over his shoulder while pumping a third finger up and down as he wobbled on his way. Davey didn’t pay much attention to the words or the gesture. Why? Probably because he was quite familiar with such scenarios - after all there is a marked difference between being clunked over the head a hundred times with a blunt instrument and taking a single rapier thrust to the chest. The pain is still there admittedly, but because one is expecting it, the degree of shock is nowhere near as intense. Instead, he took a long and careful look around him to check if there were any dogs in sight. Fortunately, the only living creature on view was a thin black moggy that was sniffing at a pancaked pigeon corpse that was plastered in the gutter at the side of the road. ‘Good’, he muttered. Cats were not daft. If there were any dogs around this one would have been off like a shot. His safety ensured, at least in the short term, he blinked, lifted a short arm and with stubby fingers, gingerly felt the back of his head where, through the fair tight curls, a pigeon-egg sized lump had as if by magic, sprouted.

'Owww!' He winced, before checking his fingers for any sign of seeping claret. 'Bloody bitch! Cudda cracked me bastard ed open that could!'

Satisfied that he was in no danger of bleeding to death, he screwed his eyes against the watery glow of the sinking sun and squinted up at the top half of the open doorway on the second floor landing. Seconds later Zelda's peroxide bleached head and wide boney shoulders - with all the slow majesty and terrible import of a monster rising from the deep - loomed into view over the chest-high parapet wall.

Davey swallowed and ran his tongue over his lips nervously as he saw the stony look on her hatchett-sharp face. Uh-oh, he thought, she’s goin ter give me grief.

He wasn’t really scared of her he often told himself. She’d never actually gone so far as to give him a really mega clip around the earhole. No, It was just that she had a way of making him feel so much smaller than he actually was. A way of looking down her long thin nose at him; of sneering with her eyes and stabbing him with her tongue – and making him feel that perhaps it would be best if he did everyone a big favour by rolling up into a little ball and switching off.

He swallowed again then decided it was time for a little bit of smokescreen spreading. 'I wasn't goin ter pinch anyfin, onest Zelda. I was jus lookin fer a key...musta lost mine when we was in Asda this mornin.’ Zelda shook her head and stabbed a nicotine-stained red-nailed forefinger downward in his direction.

'Lyin likkul gett! I’m warnin you now, you touch me purse agen an I'll ave yer guts fer knicker elastic, so elp me Mary!’ Davey sighed.

She was in a fizzer of a mood allright; so, with the smokescreen blown he opted to play the pity card. 'Aw come on Zelda. I won't do it agen, onest. Let me back in eh?’ he wheedled. ‘It’s cold out ere wivout me coat. I cud catch me def; yuh wunt like that on yer conscience, would yuh?’ The blond-haired woman leaned forward and placed her forearms on the parapet wall; exposing as she did, a zigzag of black hair roots. Pointing to her mouth she said:
'Read me lips. PISS OFF!'

Davey sighed again. It looked like he was going to have to do some extra special crawling this time. 'Aw come on Zelda' let me in, eh?'
'You erred me. Go on piss off, before I chuck a bucket of cold water on you!'

Davey instinctively stepped back a pace; then, looking up, he smiled thinly. If angling for pity was a no-no then it was time for a spot of bribery. 'If you let me in I'll let you tie me to the bed...you know you like that...'

'Arrrggghhh! Shurrup you likkul barmpot!’ Zelda hissed, looking sharply left and right along the - fortunately neighbour-free - walkway. The little pleader appeared not to notice her annoyance.

'An you can put yer nurses uniform on an use that rotten emena fing if you want', he shouted up at her through a tentative and hopefully, winning, smile. Her roughly rouged cheeks turned a few shades redder and her grey gimlet eyes, even from a two-storey height, all but impaled him.

'ARRRGHHH! THE NEIGHBOURS! I'LL SWING FOR YOU, YOU...YOU...LIKKUL FREAK! Davey’s forehead creased into a frown.
'A'yup. That's not on Zelda', he whined. 'Can't elp it if I'm likkul an only got one arm...'

From her height she looked down on his even more truncated body and regarded him as one would a freshly trodden turd on the sole of one's best shoes.'Aye. One arm', she said. 'And no bleedin brain. Now PISS OFF!'

Davey opened his mouth in a last ditch attempt at appeasement, but the words were chopped off as she shot him a searing medusa look, spun on her heels and slamming the landing door on the way, disappeared from sight.

As the hollow echo of the closing door bounced off the grimey dun brown concrete walls and pounded dully in his ears Davey stood forlorn, alone and feeling very sorry for himself. Another slap down to tag onto a long list stretching back into infinity. Would he ever really come out on top in a big barney with a normal sized person?

‘That’s it’ he sighed. ‘Bitch’ll keep me out ear fer yonks now, jus ter prove ow ard she is. Catch me def I will…bloody bitch.’ Defeated, he glanced up briefly at a heavy sullen grey sky that suddenly seemed to mirror his mood. A chunk of sky that, if it was suddenly blessed with the power of speech, would probably be muttering to itself: What am I doing over this shit hole when I could be sunning myself above some glorious golden beach in Barbados? He sighed again and, rubbing the back of his head, turned and plodded off in the direction of the nearby Beswick Shopping Precinct.
* * *

In a politically correct world 30 year old David Ignacious Montgomery Parker would be referred to as 'vertically challenged', or a 'person of restricted growth'. Those of a reasonably errudite nature might even have referred to him as a victim of achondroplasia. However, while Political Correctness might very well be considered a must in the more salubrious middle class areas of Manchester, in Beswick and nearby Openshaw and Clayton - where many residents were more concerned with finding a job or eking out their Giro’s - the only PC’s of general interest were of the uniformed variety that had a disconcerting tendency to unexpectedly come knocking on the door in the middle of the night. Consequently, most of those who didn’t use his first name called him Shorty or DIMP. Some, like Zelda, made do
with 'Short Arse', or 'Likkul Gett'. Some people - especially Zelda - said he was thick. This was not, strictly speaking, so. Okay, for him the 24-hour clock was a mystery, as were the cut and thrust of debate and the intricasies of Keynsian economic policies. But ask him to work out the winnings on a 50p win three cross doubles and a treble at odds of 5 to 1, even money and 5 to 4 ...no trouble.

True, he did possess a wide streak of naivety and usually he tended to take the spoken word at face value, particularly if he was engaged in any sort of meaningful dialogue with ‘big’ people. For instance, if someone were to ask him 'how would you like a fik ear?' It was not unlikely he would have considered the question carefully before replying 'no fanks'. This would more than likely have been considered smartarsedness and would probably have lead to just such an augmented aural accoutrement.

An example of his naive side was well illustrated when, at the age of 14, he had teamed up with Tommy Higginbottom - a six foot tall beanpole with carrot red hair and a speech impediment which turned 'esses' into 'ths' - to rob a corner shop in Ancoats.

'We'll wear Zorro masks', said Davey.
'Yeth', said Tommy.

And Davey was convinced it would have worked, if only Tommy hadn't demanded of the shopkeeper: 'Thtick em up an hand over the bathtard cath!' To which the bemused man had replied:
'What?' 'I thed thtick em up an give uth the ...fukin money!' When this demand had also failed to produce results Davey had taken charge and waved the Daisy air pistol in the general direction of the man's privates - and the penny had dropped at last. They got away with two pounds thirty, a jar of jelly babies and 12 months in Approved School.

'I shudda dun the torkin; then nobody'd of guessed it was us', he had mused many times over the next 12 miserable months.

At 15 he left 'school' and signed on the Dole. He also refused Tommy's invitation to re-form 'the team'. Tommy, miffed, graduated to a Young Offenders Institution and from there to Strangeways and eventually to a successful career with Social Services. Davey graduated to ducking and diving; a spot of receiving here, a bit of contraband baccy and pirate cd’s and dvd’s there; which, when lumped together with his disability payments, helped to put food on the table. Usually there was even a bit left over for the occasional pint, packet of fags and a little flutter on the gee-gees.

And so David Ignacious Montgomery Parker stuttered and spluttered down life's pock-marked highway, occasionally crunching into second gear - but by and large having to make do with 'first' and the odd bit of 'freewheeling.' Then his mam went and died on him.

Ethel Parker was a large woman with a permanently florid face and beefy red hands; hands that could knock him sken-eyed, then caress his singing earhole with a tenderness born of love - and guilt that her body had somehow been responsible for his 'shortcomings'.

She was a devout catholic and prayed on her knees every night, asking God to look after her little lad after she was gone. She also asked for forgiveness for living in sin, as she had never quite gotten around to marrying Harry Posthlethwaite, the father of her two sons.

Harry was a merchant seaman on Manchester Liner's Toronto run, who, soon after the birth of his youngest son, Davey, had decided that it was time to try his hand at being a free spirit - a decision which ultimately led him to Vancouver and the brawny arms of a Russian ex-shotputter who earned her living gutting tuna and in her spare time arm-wrestling all comers in the seedier dockside bars.

Davey was not aware of his father's fate, and even if he had been it would not have concerned him - he had troubles of his own thank you very much. It wasn’t enough that fate had weighed in by kicking him twice in the plums, now he had to contend with this.

'Skint an battered...an proberly omeless anall now’, he muttered, as he wandered onto the flagged - and depressingly flagging - precinct. Eyes down he trudged past a number of boarded up shopfronts - sad testaments to the odds-on futility of East Manchester conceived bright dreams that had mis-carried to produce smothered ambition - and on to
the bookies. There, hand plunged deeply into an empty pocket, he paused for a few seconds to peer wistfully through the part frosted door. From inside TV monitors winked seductively, flashing scenes of green turf and galloping horses while the rough animated voices of punters provided a vibrant background to the race commentator’s more cultured delivery. Skint and proper pissed off he turned away from the door and half-heartedly kicked out at a passing Beswick tumbleweed - an empty Carlsberg Special can - as, wind assisted, it clanked and rolled drunkenly on its meandering way. He missed. ‘Figures’, he grumbled, as he made his way to a peeling green painted rotting bench and plonked himself down. Sighing heavily, he muttered ‘Yeah skint an proberly omeless anall now…’
'What's that lad?'

Davey started, the sudden movement sending a bright pain stabbing up the back of his head. 'Oww! What?' he said as he ran his fingers over the tender spot.
'I said what you goin on at?'

Through watering eyes Davey watched the small frail old woman, as on thin unsteady legs sheathed in wrinkled dark brown stockings she approached pulling a wonky-wheeled faded tartan shopping trolley.'Oh, allo missis Jones', he mumbled, still fingering his newly emerged embryonic second head. 'I woz jus finkin about that Zelda. Banjoed me she did...wiv a brass poker...and pinched orl me money...an kicked me down the stairs...'

'She never!' The old woman tutted, pulled her worn coat tightly around her thin body and, with a little groan of effort, lowered herself onto the bench by his side.

'Bloody did...bloody great brass poker...cudda took me bleedin ed off; ere, feel' The old woman raised a thin hand and gently touched the spot he indicated.
'Oh aye’, she said, ‘belter that is. Jus like a boil that’s ripe fer poppin.’
‘Yeah. Bloody urts it does.’ The old woman nodded in sympathy.
‘You should get the Cruelty Man on er. Doin that to a likkul lad like you.' Davey pursed his lips and briefly weighed up the pro’s and con’s of taking such drastic action.
'Don't know about that missis; wild woman is my Zelda when she's bin on't bokkel.'
'Ahh', said the old woman sagely. 'The drink is it? I know orl about that. My Enry used to be a drinker - till ee warked under a bus one night when cummin out of the Church Inn on the New Road. Aye, I know orl about the demon drink orlright’, she said as her eyes took on a distant look and her thin pale, deep purple-veined fingers, began to tremble like startled fawns poised for flight. Davey nodded.

'Yeah. Allus batters me up when she's bin on't booze.' The old woman’s mind ambled back from the misty lanes of memory to the chilly bright here and now.
'What? Oh yeah’, she said crossing her arms tightly over scrawny breasts.
‘Well you should do sumfin about it. Not right that, kekklin a likkul lad like you.' Davey nodded again.
'Yeah, you're right there missis. An I'm jus the lad ter do it anall. One day she'll go too far an I'll fump er one I swear I will!'

'Aye', the old woman said. 'My Enry used t'say sum wimmin need a good clout now an agen ter keep em in their place. Yeah’, she murmurred, ‘ee was always quotin that writer bloke, Noel Coward.”Sum wimmin”, ee would say, “need ter be struck reglar like gongs”’
'Yeah', said Davey with enthusiasm.

'Mind you ', she continued, 'firty nine years wed an ee never laid a finger on me did my Enry. Course if ee ad a dun', she added matter of-factly 'I'd a knifed the bastard in is sleep'.
'Yeah', said Davey swinging his dirty size four trainers backwards and forwards, 'I might jus go ome now an when she opens the door an lets me in I’ll say 'Zelda, bend down ere a minit, I want ter whisper summut...' an when she duz...Bam! I'll rakkul er bleedin earole good an proper!' These were real fighting words designed to impress a sympathetic listener. Unfortunately that’s all they were, because, even if she had given him a backhander first, Davey knew he wouldn’t have been able to give her one back as his mam had taught him that smacking a woman was only one step removed from robbing a church poor box.

'Course’, said the old woman with a degree of humility in her voice, ‘there was times when ee cudda bin in order to chastise me...when I was younger, an ee was workin regular nights at Johnson's Wireworks. Cupla dozen times when ee cudda bin in order then.' She looked off into time and space. 'Jus a likkul bit flighty I was in them days', she murmurred, more to herself than to him. Then more brightly: 'Mind you, you would be wunt you...young an ealthy an no man in yer bed? Course don't bovver wiv such fings now,’ she added, ‘ravver ave a cuppa cocoa...'

'Wunt she get a shock eh?' said Davey grimly.
'Who?'
'Zelda - if I lamped er one in't earole!'
'Oh. Aye.'

For a few moments they sat, each wrapped in private thoughts. His were coloured with the red of revenge, hers with rose-pink nostalgia...tinged with blue. The mood however was short lived as suddenly the old woman was jerked back to reality by a low whimper at her elbow. Startled, she turned her head sharply in the direction of Davey's stricken stare.

It was a dog. A very large and very frisky dog of uncertain pedigree. A vin ordinaire dog, with a soupcon of rough cider and meths thrown in for good measure.

Davey eyed the dog. The dog eyed Davey. Davey thought Oh fuk it's goin ter kill me! The dog thought Hiya. Do you want to play?

Davey scrambled up onto the bench. The dog thought you do want to play! and jerking its shaggy legs into roughly cohesive motion, it scrabbled towards him, tongue lolling, breath steaming on the late autumn air. Its new playmate then entered into the spirit of things by screaming and attempting to play hide and seek by dragging the old woman roughly in front of him by her coat collar.

'Urrrkk!' said the old woman as her breath was promptly curtailed.
'Nnnnggghhh!‘ said Davey, as he held the living shield between himself and the devil beast intent on ripping him to shreds.

Bloody great this the dog thought as it jumped up and thumped its muddy front paws into the old woman's lap, while its shaggy tail beat a frantic drum roll on the ground - the sheer vibrancy of which led to the demise of four ants that were gamely struggling to extract a mangled portion of soggy chip from an interestingly shaped splatter of congealed vomit.

Flustered by the two-pronged attack, the old woman barked at one or other, or both assailants 'Gerrrofff yer barmy bleeder!' From behind there was a slight easing of the pressure from fingers and knees. From the front there was a wheezing 'Woooff?' A woof that said 'make up your mind...do you want to play or not?' The answer came smartly from
the old woman. 'Go on sod off! Bloody smelly fleabag!' The dog sighed, emitting a cloudy breath that hinted of rotting meat, stagnant water and mouldy cheese and disappointed, thumped its paws back onto terra firma before trundling off with a single backward glance that translated as 'bloody humans!'

‘Phew!’ The old woman wafted a hand in front of her face - a face which, already well wrinkled, had taken on the appearance of a pickled walnut. 'Bloody ell! Last time I smelt anyfin like that was the mornin after my Enry ad ad six pints of draught Guinness an a chickin vindaloo at the Tibet curry ouse.' As she spoke a head appeared from behind her shoulder.

'Is it gone?' The old woman’s wrinkled face softened and some of the deep crevases eased themselves into mere shallow canyons.
'Aye it's gone. You can come out now.'
'You sure?'
'Aye. Anyway it wasn’t goin to urt you. It was only playin.'

Davey slid out and after a quick shufty to make sure it really was safe, he sat down again. 'Yeah, well’, he said quietly, ‘dogs dunt like me. They allus want ter chase me.' The old woman smiled and looked down into his still worried face.
'They jus want ter play, that's all...jus play.' Davey shook his head.
'Yeah well, that bloody Benji in our flats dunt want to play. Allus chasin me it is.’
‘What? Likkul Benji, that likkul Maltese terrier wiv the likkul pink bow on is ed what lives wiv old Mrs Morris on your landin?’
‘Yeah that’s im, bleedin devil dog ee is.’ The old woman snorted.
‘Go on! Eed ave ter jump up to bite yer ankles that one.’ Davey was not to be deterred. ‘Ee’s vicious. Got teef like bleedin daggers ee as. If ee jumped up ee could rip yer froat out no messin.’ The old woman ‘hmmmed’. Davey sensed she was not entirely convinced so he dusted off the well-used clincher. ‘An anyway, what about that bloody great Alsation then? That dint want ter play missis, I know that’, he muttered, fingering his empty sleeve. 'Slobberin gob an yeller teef. I remember that orl right...that an the blood... an the crunchin an crackin bones…'

The old woman's voice softened and she nodded. ‘Yeah must a bin orrible that...orrible.'
‘Yeah it was. Course if it ad appened nowadays’, he added lightly, ‘they cudda got me arm back and stitched it back on wiv that micra surgery stuff they can do.'

Glad of the change of tone the old woman agreed. 'Aye, yer right there lad. They can do some amazin fings now orlright. I read once there was this bloke in China oo needed an ed transplant...only they cudn't find a youman ed that’d fit proper so they used a goat's ed...an ee's fine now; cept ee only eats grass an when ee wants a pee ee as ter lift is leg...' Davey whistled.
'Go on!'
'Onest. Read it in one of our Wayne's old magazines so it mus be true. Aye...Privit Eye or summut, it was corled...'

Davey whistled again. 'Phew! Amazin, eh?' Then: 'Maybe if I went ter China they cud give me an arm transplant...an maybe two leg transplants anall! Make me big! What you fink?'

The old woman pursed her crepe lips and shook her head. 'Don't know about that lad; I fink they can only do eds...' Davey's face fell.
'Yeah...well...I fink I'll stick wiv this one - unless'; he added hopefully, 'they cud give me one like that Olemar Sheriff bloke off the films; my Zelda finks ee’s ace.' The old woman’s voice hardened and she turned to face him full on.
'Aye, well your Zelda dunt know when she's well off. Nice likkul flat...your disability allowance...' Her little companion nodded and sighed deeply.
'Yeah, an wiv orl that, she as ter batter me up an...an pinch all me money...' The old woman shook her head.
'Scanderlus. Bloody scanderlus that is! An I fought she was a good kafflik!'
'Aye. Well she does go ter mass most Sundees', he conceded.
'Well then!' said the old woman indignantly, 'she should practice what she preaches...'
'What?'
'Do unto uvvers, that's what...do unto uvvers as you would like em to do unto you.'
‘Oh, right. Well not my Zelda missis, that’s not er way. No, er way is to get in quick an do unto uvvers affore they as a chance to do it to er.’ The old woman sighed.
‘Well it’s a good parable that is anyway. Jus like that other one about rich people.’
'Eh, what uvver one?'
'Like Farver James said at mass last Sundee’, she explained. “It is easier fer a rich man to pass frew the eye of a neagle than fer a camel ter get into eaven...”
'Oh aye...'

They sat in silence for some seven long seconds reflecting on the wisdom of the good book, then, bored with introspection, Davey turned his attention to the old woman's annorexic looking shopping trolley. 'Goin shoppin are you?' he asked casually. The old woman shook her head.
'No. Bin. Jus got some lamb chops fer our Wayne's tea. Likes is lamb chops does our Wayne.'
'Aye. I like a bit a meat meself...but that Zelda won't do no cookin fer me.'
'Two-fifty fer free likkul chops! Scanderlus it is...bloody commun market. Decent folks can't afford meat no more!'
'Yeah. I like a bit a meat me...but that Zelda...won't do no cookin fer me’, he repeated with emphasis, ‘...only does me bread puddin an...an...corn flakes.'
'An look at the price of beer! Likes a pint does our Wayne. But ee as ter watch is pennies now ee's on't dole.' Davey nodded.
'Aye. I like a beer anall...but that Zelda pinched orl me money...affore she battered me wiv that brass poker...an…an frew me down't stairs.' He was well into martyr mode now. The old woman didn’t appear to notice.
'I said to our Wayne; it's gettin so the workin class as ter live on fresh air an promises. An the airs not so fresh eever, wot wiv orl them lorries an joggernauts chokin everyone wiv their rotten fumes.' Davey nodded in apparent earnest agreement.
'Yeah, an I'm chokin anall...me moufs like a dry stick...pinched me beer money, she did; affore she nearly took me ed off wiv that brass poker...an...an’, he added for dramatic effect, ‘chucked me over the second floor parapit...' It was now the old woman’s turn to nod – but this time, absently. Then as though his words had taken time to seep through, she said brightly:
'Chokin, did you say?'
'Yeah...dry as a bone.' He rasped, tacking on a sad little cough for extra effect.

'Well then, ear lad...' The old woman unzipped her trolley and fished out a thin alopaecia patterned purse. Davey grinned as she snapped open the catch, peered myopically inside, selected something and withdrew her hand. 'Ere lad', she said kindly, 'jus the job fer makin yer mouf water is these Opal Fruits.' She handed him a small dirty orange coloured paper wrapped square. Davey’s grin died a quick death as he looked at the offering nestling in his pudgy palm with about as much enthusiasm as one would look upon one's retreating hairline in the bathroom mirror.

'Fanks missis', he muttered, coming as close to heavy sarcasm as he was ever likely to. 'Jus the job that...jus what I really need...' Pleased, the old woman smiled and, with a weary groan eased herself to her feet.
'Mus be gettin on', she said. 'Our Wayne'll be back from't pub soon an wantin is tea.'
'Aye. Right. See you then missis Jones...an fanks fer the toffee', he muttered to her retreating back. 'Jus the bloody job that.'

Alone and gloomy he absently fumbled with the paper of the tightly wrapped sweet. After a few moments of total failure, his mouth began to work furiously in an effort to articulate his feelings. Air from his lungs rose and charged through the double-storey vocal tract of nose and mouth. Masses of brain-controlled muscle and tissue moulded and altered the shape of the tract walls, caused the soft palate to lift, shutting off air to the nose, prompting the tongue to change shape and position the lips to spread channelling air. Air that roared over his teeth and exploded from his mouth to provide the awesome wonder that was human speech. 'AWWW BOLLOCKS!' he yelled and, with extreme prejudice, hurled the offending object at a foraging sparrow that had the bare-arsed temerity to be hopping around the place without an apparent care in the world.
* * *

Breathing heavily, Ernie lumbered onto the almost deserted precinct. In his black ballaclava, heavy navy blue overcoat and fingerless woolen mittens he was a little too warm for comfort, but it was October and his mam always said October was ‘only round the corner from the miggul of winter’.

At six foot three and almost seventeen stone, 32 year-old Ernest Grimshaw was a big man – but a man in terms of years only. A psychological assessment that had taken place two years earlier when he had gotten into ‘trouble’ when two young girls had said ‘rude things’ to him, had placed him in the six to seven year mental age bracket.

As a child he had ‘sometimes’ attended Grange Street Special, a school in Beswick for those with learning difficulties. Ernie’s learning difficulties were profound.

His mother, Edna, was a chronic alcoholic – a condition kick-started years earlier by the death of her husband, George, in a particularly messy accident at Johnson’s Wire Works, when he had tripped and fell head first into a razor wire baling machine. While this tragedy had set her feet tentatively onto the slippery path to addiction, a year later when her 12 year-old daughter, Marjorie, died under the wheels of a hit-and-run driver, her until then aimless ramble towards alcoholism, turned into a full-blown lung-bursting sprint.

Left with only Ernie to look after she also developed a severe case of ‘mother hen’ syndrome. She fussed and fretted over him. If he sneezed, she called the doctor. If he had trouble going to the toilet, she dosed him with syrup of figs. If he went to the toilet too often she dosed him with dia-calm pills. With the first hint of autumn she made him wear a ballaclava, a heavy overcoat, fingerless woolen mittens and two vests – and Ernie being Ernie, accepted everything without complaint; she was his mam and she knew best.

In some repects he and Davey were kindred spirits – although Davey, if this had ever been suggested to him, would no doubt have hotly denied it.

Some of the less enlightened and politically non-pc of the local community referred to hulking Ernie as ‘Daft Ernie’. Some also referred to Davey as ‘short arse’. To some people Ernie and Davey became invisible when they approached in the street, or they lowered their eyes, or found something particularly interesting going on over the road that warranted immediate close investigation. Ernie was painfully shy and stuttered and stumbled over his words. Davey deferred to ‘big’ people and more often than not accepted whatever they said as gospel. So yes. In some ways, as the fallout from life’s capricious little games, they were two very alike units of collateral damage.

Spotting Davey on the bench he trundled over in that direction. ‘Hiya D-Davey, wh-what yuh doin?’

Davey - who had been staring moodily into space perhaps mentally nibbling at the edges of one of life’s great imponderables, like: Did the ball really cross the goal line in 1966? If Light is so bloody fast why, when it got where it was going, did it always find Dark sitting there waiting for it? Did Adam and Eve have belly buttons? What did Billy Joe McAllister throw off the Tallahatchie Bridge? Or, Where does earwax come from? - looked up and groaned. He was in no mood for a dose of Ernie’s sparkling conversational gambits.

‘Wh-what yuh d-doin eh Davey?’ Ernie repeated as he loomed over the little seated figure. Davey craned his neck backwards and looked up into the black framed, heavy featured face. ‘Waitin fer a bus’, he said sourly. Ernie frowned.
‘They d-don’t st-stop ere, th-they o-only stop on Grey Mare L-Lane’, he indicated, with a sideways nod towards the main road. Davey sighed.
‘I’m not really waitin fer a bus; I was jus bein sarky.’ Ernie frowned then beamed.
‘Oh r-right y-you was j-jus k-kiddin! Then wh-what are yuh d-doin eh D-Davey?’
‘I’m jus avin a quiet sit down an a fink.’
‘W-what you f-finkin about?’ Davey sighed again. There was a danger that if left unchecked this could degenerate into an annoying little tete a tete.
‘I’m finkin about ow long I would get in nick fer murderin someone.’ Ernie’s mouth dropped open in shock.
‘Aw y-yuh c-can’t do that D-Davey, it’s n-not nice!’
‘Yeah well, some people aren’t nice eever.’ Ernie closed his mouth and nodded.
‘Yeah I-I know, b-but…’
‘But what? There’s plenty people tek the piss outer me an there’s plenty oo call you Daft Ernie, an tek the piss outer you int there?’ Ernie turned this over in his head for a few moments, then decided on his answer.
‘Y-yeah I know b-but it’s still n-not nice.’
‘No it’s not’, Davey conceded, ‘but nice is fer fairy tales. An anyway’, he continued, employing a diversionary tactic before the conversation got too complicated, ‘what you doin ere? Does yer mam know yer out on yer own?’
‘Y-yeah she s-sent me out fer a b-bokkel of tonic from Quick Save.’
‘Figgers’, Davey muttered. Then: ‘Well yuh better urry up or they might ave sold out if yuh stand ere gassin orl day!’ Ernie’s smile disappeared quicker than Kevin Keegan in a crisis.
‘Oh r-right! I b-better go. Me m-mam gets u-upset if she dunt g-get er tonic!’ Davey nodded as Ernie turned quickly and with an ungainly trotting run, made off towards the supermarket.
‘Yeah tonic – a two-litre bokkel of Strongbow cider’, he said drily to the broad retreating back. There was however just the faintest hint of the green-eyed in his voice – he could murder a pint now himself and thanks to that rotten tightarse Zelda there was no chance of that. ‘Yeah’, he muttered making and shaking a little fist in the general direction of the flats, ‘tightarse bitch, she’ll push me too far one day an I’ll really get me mad up an show er oo’s the boss.’ Satisfied with the macho intent, he tucked thoughts of retribution to the back of his mind, ready for dragging out again when the time was ripe.

Alone again he ran parts of the conversation with Ernie over in his head. Ernie really was thick he concluded. Couldn’t he see that everyone took the piss out of him? Couldn’t he see that people looked at him like he was a dumb animal? Like he wasn’t able to think for himself. ‘Okay, people tek the piss outer me, yeah; but I can fink fer meself orlright’ he muttered to the empty precinct. ‘I know when people are tekkin the piss, yeah I know that orlright.’ He nodded to himself. But before his head had finished moving a little inner voice said: Yeah but if Ernie dunt know then it dunt urt im does it?

And there it was. There was the rub and the nub of it. Ernie didn’t know. He was blessed with ignorance. And although ignorance was surely far from bliss, it was a bloody sight better than having to go through life being reminded in a hundred different ways every day how different you were from everyone else. Unlike him Ernie could tie his own shoelaces (just). Ernie might not be able to tell the time, but he could fasten a watchstrap. Ernie could plonk himself down onto bar stools and easily see over bar counters. Ernie could stand at the back of a crowd and not miss everything going on. If he ever decided to start smoking Ernie could roll a fag. He had the tools to unwrap a birthday present, deal a deck of cards and if he chose - to take up basketball, pole vaulting or swimming as a pastime.

Davey’s mental processes were certainly not up to Mensa standards, but the little voice’s barbed words were not lost on him – Ernie didn’t know so it didn’t hurt him. ‘Yeah, I suppose not’, he admitted to the empty precinct, before adding: ‘lucky bastard.’

Please let us know what you thought, and we will pass on your comments to the author. Remember to enter a valid email address along with your comments.

Click to return to the top of the page.

Prologue
Mancspeak
Extract