A Pocketful of Glowsticks

CW: references to drug use/death and attempted child abduction, strong language throughout.

With a backward swing of his rucksack, and a purposeful length of stride, Jez Laurie got off the twenty past midnight bus. Lights out behind him and a grudged cheerio from the world-weary driver who thought he knew him from somewhere and had spent much of the two-hour journey grumbling about the state of the nation and a mix of personal and work-related matters. Was it even worth the company’s while to have him carry a single passenger? Did the overtime he received for doing that extra shift really make much of a difference? Kipperwaley to Gillirig? Who – present company excepted - would ever want or need to travel such an unlikely route at this time of night? Backwaters both of them, and in between, one pointless, under-populated midden to the next. Couldn’t even stop for a smoke; didn’t matter a damn that his passenger was gasping as well.

Oh, Jez had the measure of him alright. Clock-on, clock-off, misery in the mainstream, the rules of the road and a grasping ex-wife all that stood between his sober, respectable, dutiful self and a blissful if shorter rough-shag-on-demand existence shared only with John Barleycorn. Fuck all else to do around here anyway. Wasted whatever… Except there was something about the man which reminded him of his grandpa. Something about his face in the shadows, something a little prouder than he gave him credit for… And get that out of your head right now, Jez. Your grandpa’s dead and buried. Stop thinking shit…

It had been five years since Jez had last set foot in Gilly, five years since he’d dare show face, and his home town by night hadn’t altered one bit. Still as deserted and gloomy as ever. Sinister – yeah, that’s how that Random Tourist blogger guy had described the place back then. ‘Like a man in a great dark overcoat who shone a torch up into his face every now and then to reveal a manic grin.’ But there was something about the pockets too… Oh, yeah, that was where this shady townsman kept the glowsticks, all fixed together and bent into bangles for kids… He imagined Random Millennial Tourist Dude thought he was being clever. Bit of a dickhead really. But sinister, yeah, Jez had liked that, for at the time, along with the dimmest of dim sparsely-positioned streetlights, he was surely the one at the centre of that vibe, the one they all came begging to when they needed their fix. Top of the heap, no-messing-with-me, boy-racer on speed.

And you think that’s something to be proud of, lad?

No, Grandpa, of course I don't. I’ve learnt my lesson. I’m sorry.

I should think so too.

As he strode across the carpark, Jez raised a hand and banged the side of his head. Hood up, earbuds in. A tune might stop the voices. Techno, nah, he couldn’t listen to that anymore. Rather the rush of water under the bridge, all sparked up and blacker than black.

Tough love, that’s what his grandpa had called it when he’d come out of stir. Taking his phone away, deleting all his contacts, insisting he live like some goddamn hermit in that godforsaken village, getting up at 3am to slave away in that hothouse of a bakery till whenever. He’d resented it at first – all those menial chores, being told what to do, and had it been anyone else on his back, he’d have given them a good old pasting, but his grandpa was different. An ex-army sergeant, he deserved respect and he’d always been there for him when his louse of a father hadn’t. Football, fishing, and all those camping trips he’d taken him on as a lad. Best memories ever. Best time of his life. Maybe even better than when he’d first got with Saphie. Although she’d been good for him too. Couldn’t believe a girl like that would give him a second look. Real down-to-earth class, she was. Popular too. The hook-ups he’d had up till then (and ever since) had all been skanks. Fucked it up though, didn’t he? Or her fucking loudmouth sister had. What chance did they have with Jade forever sticking her beak in? Down on him from the start she was. Jealous most likely. Even got her mentor, that fucking black belt judo prick, to drive her up to the house when she came to take Saphie back to their mum’s – like she thought he might pose some sort of danger, like he might lose it and batter her, or go for her with a knife. Like he’d ever take a fist to a bird, never mind a blade…

Okay, so he’d been in a bit of a mood that day which was why he’d stamped on that garden snail she’d got so bloody attached to, but what the fuck? There he was trying his best, going out taking risks just to make them some readies, and all she had to do was kick back and wait a couple more weeks till she'd popped the sprog. He’d have been there for her then. Both of them. He’d have made enough dosh. He’d have settled.

Don’t you dare go blaming her, boy. After what you did. And have some respect when you talk about women. The way you go on, you should hang your head in shame.

Yes, I know, I know, I know. It’s my fault, everything’s my fault. And I’m not like my dad. I’m not, I’m really not.

Stop sniveling, boy. And stop all that bastard self-pity. Some might be fool enough to fall for your doe-eyed tricks, but they won’t wash with me.

Fuck’s sake. Tearing up again. The lights across the bridge were swimming, a haze of burnt orange above a line of shuttered and boarded up shops. The last time he’d been like that had been at the old guy’s funeral three months back. And before that, although he didn’t want to think of it, must have been when he’d knocked Saphie up and they’d gone for those scans. She’d got it all wrong the last time, the time he’d been so overcome he’d had to rush right on out of the room, and she’d thought he’d stormed out in a temper because they’d said they were having a girl.

You did what?

Well, I only wanted a boy to name him after you, Pops. But a girl, hell yeah. Takes a man to make one of them.

Man! You call yourself a man? And at eighteen fucking years old? No better at twenty-eight, I assure you. Going to prove me wrong, boy? Are you? And, don’t you Pops me.

He turned the corner by the pizza place and taxi rank, and wiped a sleeve across his eyes… A Meatzza Feast, he could go one of those. Might even work as a softener for his mother. Hadn’t seen her in yonks, apart from at the funeral, but she’d agreed to have him back now. Understood that he had changed his ways, wouldn’t cause her anymore grief…

Hey, what the hell was with the closed sign? The pizza guy had seen him coming. Fucking grinning dickhead tapping his wrist. And where the fuck were all the cars…?

Jez pulled out his phone and lit up a smoke. Straight tobacco now. He was proud of that. No denying the whiff of weed drifting up the close, though. Didn’t get so much of that in the village, so yep, had he been left blind and deaf after he’d smashed up his car, or after he’d taken that pounding in stir, his sense of smell alone would have let him know he was home.

‘Yeah, taxi now, from the rank to… What d’ya mean, you’re shut? It’s Friday night, you can’t be…’

Jesus effing Christ! Now he’d have to walk all the way out to the far end of Gilly, and once he got past the centre, it was all uphill.

You’ve got legs, don’t you? In fact, you should thank your lucky stars that they're still in one piece.

Yeah, but…

Oh, what’s wrong? That bag of yours too heavy? All your worldy goods weighing you down? Underwear, trackies and hoody, a pair of plims? Or maybe it’s the weight of your great-grandfather’s war vetran's medals. You should think yourself honoured that you got them. Could have been a whole lot less of an inheritance, could have been nowt after all I forked out to those low-life crims. And don’t think I did it for you, either. Someone had to step up to keep your family safe. You just bear this in mind when you look at those medals, and don’t you be fucking selling them either.

I won’t, Pops, I promise.

Sure. I’ve heard that one before.

Get a grip, Jez, he told himself as he passed by the pedestrianised square, its benches unoccupied, its trees as good as bare. And the statues – or art works - whatever they were. Some dwarf-like geezer in top hat and tails all cast in black, arm raised, hand pointing skyward – that was new, at least he thought it was. Didn’t want to get too close just in case. Chances were, this weird inanimate being would look like his grandpa too, but mostly, he’d been afraid of seeing the old crowd who, like as not, were still skulking somewhere around the corner, up the ginnel that stank of piss; Gorgy and Scurl and Frankie – no, Frankie was dead – and Chutz who’d never been one for the hard stuff till some cunt had grassed him up for rolling a joint in his lunch break and he’d lost his job in deliveries. Had a wife and a couple of sprogs too. Nowt to do once he’d been sacked, couldn’t make ends meet, so he’d started injecting.

Well, Grandpa, at least I can truthfully say, I never did that.

You did enough.

Naw, to be fair, I was just unlucky.

Unlucky? You were dealing cocaine and high on it when you tried to snatch that poor child and rammed your car into that wall.

That wouldn’t have happened if she’d been in it. If Saphie had let me see her in the first place.

If I remember rightly, she did. It was you who broke your promises. You who went on dealing. And using. Was it any wonder she stopped all contact?

But Anna was mine. Mine, not that wanker Steel’s. She’d no right to let her call him Daddy.

You, you and yours, that’s all I ever hear from you. I shook that man’s hand, you know. And not just because he had the presence of mind to wrestle that girl from you, or save your life when he pulled you out of that car before it went up in flames, but because he’s a hundred times the man that you are, and a thousand times the father. You want to be that now? You’ve got to prove yourself. But that’s going to take time. You might be clean now, you might have managed to hold down a job under my supervision, but you’ve got to get by on your own now and you still need to learn humility.

Yeah, no losing his head if he did land another job, and no storming in like a dickhead. Except Anna was ten now, and Saphie and Steel (there was an old-timer's gag in there somewhere if the joke hadn’t been on him) were getting hitched. Next thing he knew she’d be wanting golden boy to adopt her… He took a few more steps...

Music… Where the fuck was that coming from…? The Euphoria Club, Gilly's only half-decent nightspot - that's if it hadn't been closed down by now - was a couple of streets away and well soundproofed, and the two central pubs that might or might not still be in business stopped serving at midnight. And then he saw it - The Duck and Dimples where Saphie, when they'd first hooked up, used to work in the kitchen after college, and where he'd sometimes nurse a pint, near nodding off with boredom, waiting for her to be done. Never any trouble in there. No pool tables, dart boards, screens or machines, just a jukebox turned down low and those battery candles and fancified floral arrangements on the tables.

Looking out onto the fountain and public gardens, The Duck and Dimples - or the Double D's as it was sometimes called - was more geared up to your older crowd, your date-night couples, families through the day. But there it was with its windows all spooked up with cut-out witches and ghouls and this stupid white dancing skeleton with red flashing eyes. A black and orange banner advertising 'Halloween Karaoke Nite November 1st' had been pasted to the door, and if this dumb-ass belated Trick or Treat wasn't bad enough, Paradise By the Dashboard Light was currently being yowled out by a couple of Meat Loaf murdering piss-heads on the mike. They’d be praying for the end of time alright, those freaks in the bar, if he had to suffer much more of this.

Your song, right lad? Yours and Sapphire's?

The glowstick brightness behind him, that pocket in the bleakest of overcoats overstretched and overfilled, Jez thumped his head and swore, then swiftly replaced his earbuds. Rather techno than this, rather anything, with that long, dark climb ahead of him, and when he could still smell the blood and gak and weed every fucking which way he turned.