Part 5

A few years ago, I watched Yann Demange’s ’71,’ set on the streets of Belfast during the height of the troubles. I would have been five years old, and recall watching TV news about bombs and soldiers. The stories were gloomy but Northern Ireland had been a world away and nothing to do with me. They left their mark, and even now Belfast is the last place I’d consider visiting.

There is a scene in a pub at the Divis Flats, a republican stronghold at the bottom of Falls Road. It reminded me of The Parkway on Long Henry Row. I found out afterwards that it was filmed at Park Hill, used as a double for the demolished block.

It came back to me when I walked into the convenience store.

There were two murals to the left of the entrance. The first depicted a red crown on a grey background. The second reminded me of those yellow bollards that you find at the end of an alleyway. I hadn’t seen them before, but I knew this had been The Parkway with its dreary concrete frontage. It looked completely different, the small windows replaced with shiny metal and gleaming glass, and the interior showed no evidence that this had once been a rough pub. There was trendy alcohol on sale, a dessert bar, American sweets, Costa, as well as general groceries. I speculated what Terry Watson might have thought had he still been around.

I bought skimmed milk, a sourdough bloomer with kalamon olives, and balsamic vinegar.

“I told you to buy milk, normal milk in a bottle, and only a Fletcher’s thick loaf will do. Your dad likes it for his packing up. And only Sarson’s vinegar for his chips.”

That would have been my mum screaming at me.

At least I’d bought them on a credit card, or an app on my phone, because once upon a time I would have nicked them and pocketed the money she’d given me.

I walked back to the apartment and thought of Terry Watson.

In my mind’s eye, he was still hiding around the corner, waiting for me to turn towards the lift. He’d jump out, grab me by the throat, and pin me against the wall, his eyes raging, and his breath stinking of beer.

Terry was in his thirties, and I was sixteen.

“I’ll kill you,” he threatened. “I want my fifty quid back, and if I don’t, the three of you will end up at the bottom of the canal in little pieces.” He’d waited for a reaction. I was shitting myself. “And I mean reyt little pieces.”

He’d meant it. Terry Watson would have killed every one of the Geisha Boys, including his own son.

Andy’s dad was a villain and never worked. He plied his trade in The Parkway, along with his cronies, and earned a living buying and selling knocked off gear, supplementing it with dole money, and spending most of it across the bar.

It was a bad idea, but fifty quid in the kitchen cupboard was too much of a temptation. We needed new clothes, and Colvin’s was difficult to nick from. Andy pocketed the cash, we skipped the last days of school, and spent it on new jeans and tee-shirts.

It turned out that Terry owed somebody else that fifty quid, and those threats had been filtered down to us.

He got his fifty quid back. I gave it him, but at this moment I won’t say how I got it.

***

There was a misconception that Andy was stupid because school had told him so. His parents had given him nothing, but he made up for this genetic deficiency, and was quite clever. He was far cleverer than Jack and me, and if you got him in the right mood, he was academically brilliant. But those occasions were rare.

I remember watching Sale of the Century and Andy would come up with all the correct answers. He was lazy, that’s all there was to it.

That snotty nosed little boy taught me how to distract shopkeepers so that he could nick sweets. And then it was record sleeves, because shops used to keep vinyl behind the counter, and we would stick them on our bedroom walls for decoration. Then it was clothes, and people wondered where we got our money from.

My mum and dad worried about him, an only child, physically abused by his father, but initially they didn’t like him. As we got older, their opinion changed, charmed by his friendly politeness at the kitchen table where he spent most teatimes at ours.

“You always make fantastic meals Mrs Oldham.”

When she turned thirty, Andy presented her with a marvellous bouquet of flowers stolen from City Road Cemetery.

And when dad hurt his hand on a grinder, and spent weeks off work, Andy nicked a copy of The Sun from the rack outside the newsagents and took it to him every day.

But there was another side to Andy, and I recall seeing it when dad paid for everyone to see Raiders of the Lost Ark at the Gaumont cinema.

We sat in the front seats, and halfway through Andy went to the toilet. He never came back, but when the lights came up, we found him sitting a few rows behind with his arm draped across Donna Wainwright’s shoulder. She was four years older and seemed incredibly old to us. He had a smirk on his face and the biggest love bite. We took the piss out of Donna, not him, telling her that she was the child catcher from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.

“There are children here somewhere. I can smell them. Come along, kiddie-winkies! Here we are children, get your lollipops, lollipops, come along my little ones.”

Andy grew more handsome, able to chat up any girl, and the older they were, the more it pleased him.

From the age of twelve or thirteen, girls claimed him. He spent dark nights pressed against cold concrete as they kissed and explored him. He was a magnet to every slutty teenage girl across Park Hill, and if they couldn’t have him, then they turned to Jack and me, and we’d find our own dark corner.

Andy was never serious about girls. They all thought he loved them, but the next evening it would be a different one in another part of the complex. And then they’d become jealous, and the girls would fight each other, scream, pull hair, and scratch eyes out.

There were times when boyfriends and big brothers came looking for him.

“You’ve been shagging my bird.”

“You’ve been shagging my little sister.”

“I’ll fucking have you!”

It added to the fun because three against one was easy competition and they’d end up covered in blood in a damp walkway.

And it was never about sex. It was about collecting trophies and trying to look good to each other. We were young boys and didn’t understand the other sex. Everything we did to them we’d seen on TV. Except that Andy was better at it.

And I know when he lost his virginity. He was fourteen.  

Mandy Brown lived with her bloke on the top floor of our block. She was in her thirties with peroxide blonde hair, mini skirt, and low cut top that showed off big tits. We joked as she tottered along to The Link in high heels and leopard skin fur.

Late one night, we were dossing on the steps when she returned home. She’d been entertaining married men at the pub and was drunk.

“Get out of my fucking way.” None of us moved.

“Go fuck yourself slag.”

Instead of pushing past, she slumped between us and lit a cigarette. She offered the pack and Jack took three out and pocketed the rest.

“Life’s a fucking bore,” she said. “Old blokes with beer bellies. Old blokes with shrivelled up willies. Old blokes who want to fuck me in exchange for a Babycham.”

“I thought you had a bloke already.”

She ran a hand through her hair and revealed black roots. “He’s a cunt. Sleeps all day. Works all night.”

“Get a new fella,” I told her.

She screwed her eyes up and stared at me. “Fucking clever bastard. Grow up and you’ll be God’s gift to fuck all.” I blushed and she relented. “If there are three bad boys, then you’re probably the best of the bad.”

Andy stretched his foot out and touched Mandy on the ankle. It was meant to be discreet, but I noticed.

She spoke again. “I think you want to be loved by your bad boy mates, but your conscience gets in the way.” She looked to the foggy sky and blew a cloud of smoke.  “Get rid of that and anything’s possible.”

“If you wanted to shag any of us, who’d you choose?” It was a question that Jack always asked.

“You’re boys. Fucking schoolboys.”

Mandy rubbed her skinny ankle against Andy’s outstretched leg and stole a sideways glance. He looked at me and said nothing.

“But if we were older, who’d be the one you’d shag?”

“If I were to fuck any of you then I’d go to prison. But if I had to choose.”

She looked long and hard at each of us.

She stared at Jack. “Too pretty. Too small. Massive cock. No fucking idea how to use it.”

Then it was me. “Dark horse. Weird looking. Big cock. Not sure where he wants to put it.”

Andy was last. She slapped him on the leg. “Dangerous. Good-looking. Nice cock.”

That was it.

“And so, if I had to choose, I’d say go and wank each other off until you’re older.” She laughed. Jack and I looked at each other and pretended not to be disappointed.

Mandy looped one arm through Andy’s, the other through mine, and we climbed upstairs.

“These steps will kill me by the time I’m thirty,” she joked.

“In your dreams love,” said Andy.

Jack walked ahead of us and when he reached his landing turned and smiled before disappearing. “Fucking loves himself,” she murmured.

It was my landing next, and I left Andy to walk her to the next floor. “Fucking strange,” she muttered.

I stopped and listened as they scrambled upstairs. They were talking but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. The conversation faded and I pictured Andy giving her a peck on the cheek, as he was prone to do, before heading home and turning on the TV.

I decided to follow them. I crept upstairs, peering around each turn, until I reached the next level. I looked along Andy’s landing, but he was nowhere to be seen.

I repeated the process, ticking off each floor until I could go no further. Mandy’s flat was at the far end, and I could see her fumbling for keys in her handbag. Andy was behind, steadying her by the hips, like a boy might help his mum. She found them, turned towards Andy, and giggled. And then she kissed him on the forehead. Once they’d gone inside, I waited for him to come back out. But he never did.

I was jealous, but I wasn’t exactly sure what I was jealous about. The green-eyed monster was something I became familiar with. When I got jealous, it manifested itself into anger, and when I got angry, I was inconsolable.

I sat on the floor and stared at the empty sidewalk. I thought of Mandy’s parting words. “Fucking strange.” And I thought how wrong it all was.

Despite every terrible thing the three of us had ever done – fighting, stealing – this was much worse. I swore that I would tell somebody, and Mandy would be in trouble, and Andy would be sorry. But I realised that if I did that, I would lose both Andy and Jack.

Then I thought that things like this shouldn’t matter, and I’d do something equally as bad.

Each hour I sat there was consumed with inner fury, and when I realised that I couldn’t do anything about it, I punched the wall and broke my hand.