A Guilty Animal

Mother and I had always moved around the country whilst she racked up winnings and debts. For a little over a year though, whilst she’s been comatose, we’ve lived in the city and the bread has been my burden. Standing here on the roadside past the city limits, the Astra with the clean plates moans into the early morning air that I’ve left the headlights on, whilst the mark I picked up earlier is unconscious in the boot and his son is laid out in the back seat. The young boy’s part of the score, and though his mouth’s taped, feet and hands are tied, and he’s strapped down by the seatbelts, I’ve made sure he’s comfortable.

I look past the pylons in front of me, where the sun is rising over the far end of the field and the pink hue in the distance blends into the blue-grey sky. This work is messy, and the grey silhouettes up there would hate me to forget it. One cloud for each hit and that’s five in the past eleven months. They’re always there, these ghosts in the sky, and they loom over me like giants staring into a snow globe. Tall, short, fat, thin. One of the clouds scratches his head, while another, the one who had the soul patch, rubs the trauma from his neck. That one had to have about six licks before she stopped swinging. Even though their lights are out, their cries have been filling the blank space left from Mother’s absent whispers. It’s been twenty-four hours since she clocked out fully, welcoming even greater waves of foreign feelings that have left me conflicted and repentant.  

After I found her yesterday, I stayed on the chair next to our bed for a while. If you’re privy to a Sunday sermon, Mother’s talk was once as sanctimonious to me as your favourite slice of scripture. Say, even if your God lives in lyrics from the radio, no words from any artist could have matched the way I thought she combined her own in magic. The TV next to the bed was playing GMTV Today whilst I used the last of the kitchen roll to wipe her mouth and then pull the sheet above her head. I was sobbing, though I think more so grieving for the normal life she’d never given me. Would I have even enjoyed the sand or the sun that she promised us once the cash bag was full? My strap had been loaded as I looked at her lying there under the stained sheets. Death had then whispered in my ear, letting me know that he was there for me as well if I needed him, and guilt came from the other in Mother’s voice:

“You cut yourself a fanny Daniel?...Treat yourself to one of my tampons…You can be soft or ginger, but you can’t be both.”

Fine, I’d decided. I’d do the final score and figure my life out later.

During the score earlier this morning, my reflection had been in the boy’s eyes and I’d seen myself like he saw me. Some sick, twisted animal dressed all in black. I froze. I was as kaput as a tired strap with a slide that’s rusted and can’t be racked. Sniffer said something like that happened to her once. She’s the one who lifted me into this line of work. She’d spent six hours under some smelly dog blanket in this bloke’s back seat, biding her time until the mark decided to take a spin. Finally he’d appeared, and the plastic bag came out. She’d gone to slide the thing down, pre-empting the mark wriggling and wrestling with her wrists, but she’d just sat there like he was a cabbie and she was his fair. She said she still got it done, but I never got to hear her say that the payday wasn’t worth the pain.

Once I’d managed to shake myself from that stupor, I hogtied the boy and his father and got them to the Astra. That’s no clean trip with one of them conscious and writhing around like Houdini in a straitjacket. With kiddo subdued and the dad in the boot, there was a strange stillness in the city this morning whilst I drove them here. It’s rained every day for as long as I can remember, which I used to think was because God left long ago and forgot to turn the taps off. That was Mother in me talking. Today though, the spouts are plugged and my wipers have had a rest. As I stand here and look at the ghosts up there, I believe they’re telling me that some of my sickness can surely be lifted, like a timelapse of rotting fruit played in reverse.

I turn around and head back to the car, popping my ski mask on and ignoring the blood that has left it a little sticky. I sit the kid upright and take off the bag and the tape.

“What’s got you nuts?” I ask.

His eyes adjust to the brightness of the day whilst he reels off the five Ws. I let him know his dad’s breathing in the boot before taking the keys from the ignition and setting them a little way down the road. I promise the kid he’ll find them there once I let him loose and he’s counted to five hundred. I walk across the field with the sun continuing to rise, knowing that he’ll probably cut his counting short. I should have bought myself enough time though. Enough for me to be away and begin my new life of searching, without her.

Joseph Chapman is an aspiring writer living in Bath, UK. He likes to imagine people identifying themes and patterns in his work, that will then help him figure out what the hell is going on...