An ending fitting for a start.

BANG

BANG

CRUNCH

SLAM

Oh no, he is home. It’s time. Not again I won’t, no.

Its five to midnight and he has been drinking steadily since two pm. Personally I couldn’t give a fuck about football, but I listened alright, I had asked my boss at the shop if we could have the radio on to hear the match. It was 2-0 to ‘us’ at half time, things were looking rosy, dad will be happy as a pig in shit tonight, I thought.
I loved it when Dad was happy drunk, he would roar with laughter, slap me on the back and even embrace me sometimes, problem was, he didn’t know his own strength and would squeeze all the air outta me. His cheeks would be blushed bright red, making his weather beaten face appear like one of those bitter old red crab apples, the red spidery veins on his face more apparent when he was on the sauce. He’d burst through the door, pissed as fuck and do a victory dance up the hall and into the kitchen, he would kiss Mam and sometimes slap her arse which would make her giggle and me feel highly fucking uncomfortable. He would ask me to fetch two tumblers, pour us a bitter each and tell me to roll him a fag, do myself one while I was at it. I always felt honoured in an odd way as I lit both roll ups and passed one to him. My dad was not perfect, hell no, but when he was like this he was my fucking king, I his willing servant. We would sit there in front of the Rayburn, the wooden chairs pulled up close, one on each side. A basket of logs between us, and he would give me the highlights of the match. Like I said, I couldn’t give a fuck about football like, but fair play to the old bastard, his enthusiasm was catching, he would get so passionate, he would be spitting bitter all over the shop, his roll up always getting too soaked for him to get a drag out of it. Mam would always have a go of getting him to fill his belly with something to soak up the booze but he never did. ‘Fucks sake Erryl, I ad a pie at half time mun, fuck off and let me tell the boy ow it was yeah?’

But no, it wasn’t meant to fucking be tonight, the pricks must have spent quarter of an hour congratulating each other and sucking each others cocks at half time cos when they came back out they got their fucking arses handed to them. ‘We’ lost 4-2. My boss knew the score, he looked at me and shook his head, put his hand on my arm and said ‘here you go kid; you get on home and take a pouch of baccy for your Da, alright?’

Mr Griffiths was proper old school, only eight years older than my Dad mind, but God, he looked proper fucking ancient! Not just that, every time he moved, he would accompany it with a groan. He had different groans for different things. If he was reaching for his mug of tea it would be a UuuuPargh, if he had to reach a higher shelf for one of the shrunken grannies he would make an EeeeUghh. The most painful though, was when he had to stoop to pick up the mail from the floor in the morning, the noise he made went right through me, so much so I always tried to get there before him to collect it. Sometimes though, he would already be hobbling to the letter box and I knew it would bash his pride were I to overtake him. He would part his legs just before the descent to the wiry brown welcome mat. He looked like John Wayne with Parkinson’s, his legs juddering, his long bony fingers shaking as he began to bend at the waist. His spine would make such clicks they were audible from the end of the store. They were the intro to his hideous soundtrack... click click clunk ArghhhUghUghFfffffffuckingBasterinThing! I don’t think the posty had a fucking clue when he dumped his postmarked load through the slot that he was delivering an old man his own personal Everest.

Slipping on my coat and scarf, I grabbed a small pack of Drum off the shelf, thanked Mr. Griffiths and headed out the door, the brass bell above the door clanging as the door shut behind me.

The cold air stabbed at my lungs like minute frozen hedgehogs, I knew I should have brought my gloves, its bastard nobblin’ out here. I head across the street to where my bike’s chained to some railings, my fingers are stinging already, by the time I start fucking about the keys and the lock they feel like some other cunts hands, the sensation of burning more powerful than my capacity to actually use them. I get there in the end though and relock the freed chain around the railings. I quickly use my sleeve to wipe the seat and set off up the street.

I stood up to go up the hill, didn’t really need to, my calves were more than capable of powering me up the hill sitting down, but I kinda like the way the bike swings from side to side with every rotation of the pedal this way. My heart would be thudding hard under my jumper by the time I reached the top. At this point I always came to a stop, checked for cars coming up the hill stretching out beneath me and if the road was clear I would start pedalling like fuck. It doesn’t matter what mighta been going through my head before I reach this point, when my knees are jutting up and down like well greased pistons and I am forced to stop pedalling, there is no fucking feeling like it in the world. The wind fills up my coat, my eyes start pouring like an ugly bird at a wedding and all the crap in my head is blown out, thoughts fly the fuck off and somewhere in the whooshing, soaring, chaos my senses become sharp and my mind becomes still, burdened no more. It’s even better when you got your ass on the saddle and someone else is pedalling, we used to do that a lot me and my brawd. The reason it was better was cos when he was the one pedalling and watching out for cars I could shut my eyes tight, grip on tight and let it all happen to me. I dunno how I managed to trust anyone enough to put my life in their hands like that, but if my Da was my king, my brother was my fucking God. It wasn’t like I thought he couldn’t fuck up, it’s that I didn’t care if he did.

Get your head in gear boy; we are nearly at the crossroads, start breaking. My knuckles are killin me, I am sure one just fucking creaked then, Shit! I will be like Mr. Griffiths before I know it. The breaks squeak, its embarrassing mun, been meaning to sort that, fucking sieve for brain. I hear a beep and I pull closer to the edge of the road to make room for a few cars to pass, don’t recognise the first two, but the third is being driven by my uncle, he isn’t any relation to me like, he is a retired publican from the village. First landlord to retire round ere they say! All the rest died with their name still above the door, too partial to gulping away their profits. But here he is now, Uncle Tudor, can hardly see him over the wheel, he is another one who has shrunk with age. I wave frantically, leaning into the road, he sees me at last and indicates before pulling in, scuffing the curb with his back wheel. Silly fucker, you would think he could drive by now. I pull up beside the driver door and he winds the window down a bit, Christ he is out of breath!

‘Tudor! How are you? Where you coming from? Have you heard?’

‘Alright son, don’t mind if I sit by ere in the warm does ew?’

‘No, course not Tud, you stay warm butt, colder than a witches tit out here!’

‘I just come from yours as it goes, yer Mam said you would be back soon but I wanted to get home before it got dark see. Your mother had the radio on yeah, we caught the result. Erryl, I mean yer Mam, phoned Glenda down the street, there is a bed made up down there for her, just in case. She said you can ave the sofa if worst comes to the worst. You alright son? You look like a rabbit in the headlights?’

‘Aye, I’m alright Tud, better get back to Mam; she will be having kittens’ ‘Take care Tudor!’

He starts winding up the window, his face all serious, then changes his mind, opens the door and shouts after me as I am cycling away ‘Don’t let him hurt her boy! Not again, you hear me?!’

I didn’t answer, just carried on pedalling like fuck, through the crossroads, past a row of shops. The last one was the butchers, I slowed down to see Mr. Evans and his son, both clad in stained aprons, pulling down a carcass off a hook in the window. I nod as I pass and Tom, the younger of the two, smiles. I dunno how they do it, they work hard every fucking day, one of the dirtiest, smelliest jobs around, yet they always seem so fucking cheerful! I couldn’t be doing with all that dead flesh myself; I love to eat it like, but would rather not see it till it’s on the plate, maybe with some gravy and some mash. Dinner- not death.

I recall my dad telling me how before cows are slaughtered, it’s best to not feed em for a day and to keep em as calm as you can. Apparently, they taste like shit otherwise. Funny that, suppose you are tasting their fear.

I shudder at this.

Tudors' words are still ringing in my ears. My heart is pumping underneath my jumper again and I take a big gulp of icy air and think - no I won’t, not again Tudor. That cunt has swung his last blow.