Oscar and Apples

Like some crater the town rested in the
surrounding fields, black and glistening in the blazing
sun. Inspector McFell walked from his car towards a boy
resting against a street sign, hair wet with gel so that the
tips of his fringe dripped like brown Aloe Vera. Between
his fingers was a joint that trailed a little zip of smoke up
into his hand. He watched the inspector through semi-
shut eyes.
“Put it out.” said McFell as he quickly paced up to
the boy.
“What out?”
“Give it here.” he said, reaching for the joint as the
boy turned slightly. In some awkward embrace they
wrestled until McFell had grabbed the thin white joint
and thrown it to the floor then spun him around.
“You know herbal cannabis is illegal. What's your
name?”
“Sport.”
“You think I'm having a laugh? It's a Class B
offence. Are you going to tell me your name or am I
going to have to nick you on suspicion of buying
cannabis?”
“Lee Combolla.”
“Right then Lee.” said the policeman shifting his
weight so that he stood upright. He rested a hand on the
boy's shoulder. “You're coming with me.” McFell lead
Sport to his car and put him in the backseat, Sport started
protesting but McFell slammed the door on him and
quickly drove off, the street went quiet again.
“Whose your dealer Lee?” he said over his
shoulder as the police car lurched down the road.
“I haven't done nothing!” said Sport.
“Five years. By the time you come out you won't
be a boy any more. You'd be a woman.” Sport began
pulling on the door handles and found them locked.
“Whose your dealer Lee?” he repeated.
“The Woodsman.”
“Never heard of him.”
“He doesn't deal much. Just now and then like. Let
me out now alright. I'm serious.” said Sport.
“Alright. Listen to me. Listen. If you organize to
meet Woodman, alright, I'll let you go on a caution. Are
you listening?”
“Woodsman.” said Sport, arms folded. The car
rolled to a stop by the curbside.
“Are you going to do it or not?” McFell said softly.
“I'll give you his number.” said the boy.
“Well, that's nice of you. But I want you to be the
one to talk to him, not me.”
“Don't you have like, GPS trackers and that?”
“No we don't Lee.” said McFell as he got out of his
car. He opened the back door. “Now, you ring him.
Organize to buy some marijuana off him.”
“I won't go to prison for smoking a joint. You
threw it away anyway, that was the proof.”
The policeman went quiet, lips pursed as he
seemed to struggle with what to say. Instead he just
grabbed him by the collar and pulled him out of the seat
so that he landed on the road.
“Hey, fuck off!” said the boy, struggling. McFell
went through the pockets of his cotton trousers and
removed his phone.
“Here we are.” said McFell, taking a few steps
away as he started to go through the phonebook. He
dialled the number under Woodsman and waited for
someone to pick up. Sport got up and ran towards him,
where he was grabbed again and pushed against the car.
McFell waited, mouth open in preparation to deliver a
speech he'd prepared in case he ever talked to a drug
dealer over the phone. Nobody picked up.
“Woodsman eh?” said McFell. Up the street a
couple had turned the corner and had noticed the pair of
them. He let go of Sport. “If I catch you smoking that
weed again I will arrest you.”
“What about my phone?” said Sport.
“What about it?” said McFell, getting into his car
and driving away in one steady manoeuvre. The boy ran
a few steps after the car but quickly gave up.
“Fuck's sake man.”
* * *
An old house stood alone out in the countryside.
Apples woke and looked at the black wall of his
bedroom for a while, then at a few stones piled in the
corner in front of some metal shape. Every morning he
lifted the stones high above his head and put them back
down for a few minutes then go back to sitting on his
mattress. This cycle continued until he went to make
water and break fast. Two crow eggs and a bit of mutton
with a glass of water from the well. He picked amongst
the split yolk and bits of meat, then sat waiting for his
brother to arrive. Oscar was woken by Apples coughing,
though laid in bed for a while, head heavy with a
hangover. His room was decorated with a few posters of
rock and roll bands, serial killers, the occult, motorbikes
and a few of his drawings. He lead in bed, pulling a face
at the things around him before sluggishly rising from
his bed. Oscar walked into the kitchen, dressed in black.
Apples sat shirtless, finishing his breakfast off the clay
plate.
“Morning.”
“Good morning.”
They walked out into the dirt yard at the front of
their house. Tufts of yellowing grass sprawled across the
dried mud like some kind of primitive map. Just past the
old oak tree and destitute barn was the field of cannabis.
Row upon row of plants as tall as Apples, bushels of
leaves grew majestically. The wind swayed them lightly,
blowing the smell of the vegetation towards the brothers
little house. The sun shone down like a storm of light,
Oscar put on a pair of cheap sunglasses.
“It's hot out.” he said, whistling through the gap
between his two front teeth.
“Aye. Good for the crop.”
From the well they brought bucketfuls of grey
water which they slowly tipped at the base of each plant.
Leaf and stem huge, a jungle of flowering plants. Apples
walked over to the dilapidated shell of the old barn. It
contained a greenhouse made from scrap glass rescued
from the old windows and doors of empty cottages that
neighboured them. Inside was the mother of the clones,
seventeen feet high. Trichomes dribbled down from the
buds which were the size of pillows, brightest and most
vibrant green. Resin oozed off the leaves lavalike. He
delicately injected the trunk with a series of hypodermic
needles before going to meet Oscar.
“Sport rang.” said Oscar. Apples shrugged. Oscar
tapped the phone on the wooden stool he was sat next to,
drinking cold cider. He offered the jug to Apples.
“Which batch is this?”
“Tea and crab apple.” They sat together beneath a
cloudless sky, the landscape around them seeming to
scream silently to fill the great void up to the sun.
Down road and across field they walked, Apples
wore a backpack that looked tiny against his huge frame.
Sweat glistened on Oscar's forehead beneath the greased
brown curls of his hair.
“Where do you think people put the things in their
pockets if they don't have any pockets?”
“Don't know.”
“Fanny packs?”
Past the front gardens of houses kept neat and tidy,
Apples inspected the occasional Fuschia or Buddleia
with vague interest, sometimes plucking off a few
flowers which he tucked away into his pack. After a
while they reached the few buildings of Shawcliffe.
Shawcliffe was a hamlet, every building made from old
stone brought from the quarries a hundred or so years
ago. A dulcet yellow stained with black, dead moss
which seemed to absorb time somehow, sucking away
the life force of it's inhabitants and replacing it with a
twee ennui, a static existence. As children the brothers
had spent a lot of time playing in the streets with local
children although this had slowly been stopped when
parents started hearing strange stories about Oscar and
Apples. The brothers bought a weeks ration of bread,
teabags and blood pudding from a shop. It's interior
gloomy save for the sunlight coming in through the
windows which were tacked with notices of things for
sale, lost pets and planned things. They ate slices of
white bread, sitting on a wall by a bus stop.
“We should have got jam.” said Apples.
* * *
A cork board with two pieces of paper pinned onto
it, one had the word 'Sport', the other 'Woodsman'. They
were linked together with a piece of string. McFell had
hoped for glossy photos, maps, e-fits of potential
suspects and hundreds of names all linked together to
show the criminal empire in his borough but he supposed
everybody had to start somewhere. He had tried the
phone number on the phone he'd confiscated several
times that morning but nobody had picked up yet. He
mooched around his office for a while, drinking coffee
from a cup made from recycled plastic and sighing at the
cork board a few times.
“Who is the Woodsman?” he said aloud. McFell
had read a book once about realizing your goals, part of
the advice was that saying things made them more likely
for the universe to respond in some way. There was no
answer so far. He decided to go out and continue his
beat, polished shoes taking him forward to some kind of
destiny.
* * *
The boys got off in Extwistle to collect their
benefits from the post office, afterward going to The Dog
and Child for a round of drinks. They wasted away the
afternoon, drunk and merry getting tanned red under the
hot hot sun. Evening drew in, a group arrived at the pub
talking loudly and doing impressions unrecognisable to
the brothers. A man wore a t-shirt that said 'I Love Super
Blowies!'. It was flecked with yellowing stains; nicotine,
caffeine, protein. On the front of his face wiggled his
thin moustache, sometimes it served as a little tickler.
Sitting in the corner he was bellowed jokes to his friends
who all laughed between sips of their drinks.
“Say there funny boy, what's up with that shirt?”
said Oscar, walking over to him.
“Yeah?” said the short man.
“You sniff dicks? Stop sniffing.”
“What are you on about?” Oscar took his pint off
him and downed it in one. The guy stood up, face
beginning to flush.
“I hope you're going to buy me a new one.” he
said.
“We heard about you. Torturing cats, pissing the
bed.” said Apples.
“Aye. Heard you went in an old folks home and
started wanking in a cupboard.” joined Oscar.
“That wasn't me!” shouted the man, looking at his
friends for help. Nobody looked back.
“Maybe we got the wrong bloke then.” said Oscar,
heading towards the bar.
“Are you going to get me another drink?”
“Nah.” said Apples, then went off to join his
brother, leaning with his back on the bar. He watched
them talk for a while, shooting the brothers angry
glances before leaving. An old man sitting at the bar
started laughing.
“Good job boys.” he wheezed through a seemingly
lipless mouth.
“If I wanted to hear a bunch of dicks gurgling
bullshit into their beer I'd watch football.” said Oscar.
The old man raised a glass and the three drunks all
congratulated each other for being horrible.
Walking like strange marionettes with bloodshot
eyes and bad breath, Oscar and Apples went to a bar
further along the road. Music thumped from great
loudspeakers screwed into the walls painted in green
gloss.
“Why do we always end up here?” slurred Apples.
Oscar nodded over to a group of girls sitting at a table
and broke into a smile that split his sunburned lip. They
made their way to the bar. The barmaid walked up and
started to point between them silently, gesturing who was
going to order first. Apples turned to his brother.
“Shakespeare.”
“Longfellow!”
“What goes up the chimney?”
“Smoke.”
They both laughed and Oscar ordered two pints of
bitter. Though the bar was beginning to get lively people
were sat at a table playing some sort of game. Oscar
walked over to them, sweeping his fringe back across his
head in some attempt to look more composed though
failing miserably.
“What you playing?” he shouted at them.
“Jeremy Stickers.” said one of the players, looking
up at the grim visage. Dressed in black and reeking of
sweat and beer, Oscar didn't seem like the kind of person
who would enjoy a game of Jeremy Stickers.
Jeremy Stickers was played in small groups by
holding a Connect 4 board over a table horizontally.
Each slot was filled with a token and a shot placed
underneath each yellow or red token. The group then had
to bounce loose change across the table and try to land a
coin in a red token. This gave them four points, while a
yellow only two. The points could then be exchanged
with a designated banker who kept a tally and whoever
got the most points in the end of a round won that rounds
group of shots. Oscar didn't really understand it but
watched it for a while, sipping. Apples was standing by
the DJ booth, yelling at him the names of bands nobody
else knew.
Oscar noticed an old friend of his playing Jeremy
Stickers. He was older, but recognizable. Oscar walked
over to Apples to get his attention, pointing across the
empty dance floor.
“Look at him, it's Little George!” he shouted. The
two brothers walked over to their old friend, telling each
other old Little George stories before Little George
himself looked up from his stack of tokens. He frowned
at first, then raised his eyebrows in shock.
“Apples and Oscar...” he said.
It was a few minutes later and the boys had got a
bottle of wine to share between the three of them, the
two brothers laughing at the stories of Little George.
“Remember the time he had that compacted gut?”
laughed Oscar. The rest of the group smiled politely,
unsure who the two drunks were. The brothers calmed
down and watched the game of Jeremy Stickers for a
while, making the odd comment occasionally whilst they
quaffed their glasses of wine. Oscar sniffed up and
nudged Little George in the side.
“Hey. Do you smoke weed?” Little George looked
at Oscar, pausing before nodding his head. Oscar
mirrored the nod.
“I can sort you out. Meet us outside in a bit if you
want.” whispered Oscar as quietly as he could then went
back to watching the game, wondering what the rules
were.
Apples decided it was time to have a cigarette, so
went to the shop across the road for a packet. After
handing over the money, he slowly peeled away at the
outer plastic wrapper, top first. It stuck to his hands,
electricity. After brushing it into his pocket, he slid the
bottom sheath of cellophane off and tucked that away.
The box was a pale blue, the lights in the shop reflecting
on the silvery logo on the pack. Apples walked towards
the door then stopped near the fruit. The box opened
stiffly, cardboard flexing. Apples ran his fingers across
the foil inside, peeling it back gently and tugging it off.
He sniffed at the row of twenty white spots, each the end
of a cigarette filter. The smell was sharp and rich, royal.
He flicked the bottom of the pack, sending four
cigarettes out a bit and withdrew one, placing it between
lips. With his head held high, he walked out and brought
a lighter from his pocket and lit the end. He inhaled
heavily, he walked across the road to sit outside the bar.
The night smelled of summer and tobacco. Apples closed
his eyes, soaking it all in.
Oscar licked his lips. They tasted like milk. He
looked over at Apples whose pupils were like big black
coins, lights shining wetly in them. Oscar tapped him on
the leg and pointed at the group of girls sitting at the
table they had walked past on their way in.
“Watch this.” he whispered. Apples watched Oscar
go over to the bar and come back with a Martini. He
pulled up a chair and sat between two of the women.
“Hi. Me and my brother were just having a bet...to
see who has the biggest breasts. Not between me and
him, we mean you.” said Oscar.
All the group went quiet and just looked at him.
Somebody on another table started to shake with
laughter. Apples decided it was time he weighed in and
pulled up another chair.
“Who do you think you're talking to?” said one of
the girls.
“I don't know, I'm Oscar, this is Apples.” he said,
pointing. Apples waved at everybody. Oscar sipped at his
Martini, thinking. He had hoped his ice breaker had gone
down better than it had. An awkward silence had fallen
over the table, nobody really knew what to say. Apples
then tried talking to one of the girls next to him.
“Hey, so what's your name?”
“Cheryl.”
“Ah. Like the actress? That's nice.”
“Are you two really brothers?”
“Yup. Born in the same year. Practically twins.”
said Apples. Cheryl smiled and Apples thought he was
being charming. Oscar sipped at his Martini again before
speaking.
“Who do I remind you of? This is a Martini by the
way.” he said to anybody.
“A prick?” said one girl. Oscar frowned, then spat
on the floor.
“James Bond. James Bond drinks Martini.” said
Oscar.
“I think it's time we left.” said Cheryl, looking for
her handbag. Apples had been gently kicking it away
since he had sat down, stalling for time. It hadn't been
their best introduction, but there was still a chance of
rescuing it he thought. Oscar leaned forward in his chair.
“They say the Martini glass was modelled after
Marie Antoinette's breast. So maybe the pint glass was
based off Harold Pinter's dick, huh?” he grinned. This
got him a few laughs, albeit slightly forced. Apples saw
his chance and finished the rest of his drink. He stood,
unzipped his trousers and dropped his cock and balls into
the pint glass, nearly filling it. Everybody was silent,
they stared at him in some kind of awe reserved for
moments of extreme bad taste. Apples just nodded,
letting the glass swing free due to the suction before
sitting back down and setting the glass back onto the
table. The girls began to laugh. The two brothers looked
at each other across the table with huge smiles on their
faces.
A tea of cauliflower cheese awaited McFell when
he returned home, lukewarm and left in the microwave.
He sighed, watched it rotate in the radiation. His wife
entered the kitchen.
“Good day at work?” she said.
“Yes, things are getting pretty interesting.” said
McFell ominously.
“Oh good.” she said taking a cup of tea off the
counter and going back into the living room. McFell
winced slightly at the meal which awaited him.
The boys drunkenly arrived back at their house in
the moonless night, the stench of cannabis hung in the
air, an invisible fog. The flowers of the plants had
opened up, shaking slightly as the wind blew pollen
around.
“Won't be long now.” said Apples, taking in a big
lungful of air. He went over to the compost heap and
began to piss onto it.
“Aye. I reckon another week or so we'll start
getting seeds. Harvest by the end of the month.” said
Oscar, lighting a cigarette and looking at the crop. It
looked to him like one of those pine forests they had in
Canada, though instead of being frosted with snow there
would instead be a dusting of trichomes, swollen green
calyx and heavy leaf. Oscar and Apples sat at the front of
the house in wicker chairs, slapping cards down unsure
of what game they were playing before going to bed.
The phone vibrated, a text off Little George. 'could
I get a piece of cake.' Oscar read it with bloodshot eyes,
then went through the missed call list, all were off Sport.
“I think Sport had his phone nicked. Ringing us up,
not using the system.” said Oscar.
“If we see him we'll see. What you doing today?”
said Apples, wiping sun cream over his face in thick
white strokes like some kind of war paint. Oscar
weighed up marijuana on a little black scale, snipping
bits off with scissors and wrapping them in newspaper.
“Got a few drops to do. Want to come along?”
“Nah. Might go down to the lake for a bit then visit
a few farms. Running low on milk.” said Apples, making
a cup of tea with water from the tap. Oscar nodded,
putting the little balls of newspaper into the deep pockets
of his jacket.
“Right, I'll be back in a bit.” said Oscar.
“Aye.” said Apples. Oscar left. Apples drank the
tea flavoured water and left himself, going through a
copse and down a wee hill. A few starlings had caught a
breeze and just hovered above the field by the lake.
Nearly seven feet tall and white with sun cream, Apples
walked along a pebble beach and looked around the rim
of the lake. A few families trying to have a barbecue, old
fishermen smoking cigars, a lone goose was asleep
beneath a dead tree. Apples waded out into the water, the
sun tan lotion leaving an oily trail as he slowly
submerged himself in a baptism of algae.
Little George waited around the side of a
takeaway, hands in his pockets, moving dust around with
the toe of his trainer. He spat. Oscar rounded the corner.
“Little George.”
“Hey Oscar.” said Little George.
“Twenty, right?” said Oscar, handing him a ball of
newspaper. Little George poked a twenty pound note into
his hand and took away the weed.
“Cheers.”
“No problem.”
“So...what it is?” said Little George, he shoved the
drugs away in his pocket.
“What do you mean?”
“Like, is it cheese? Blueberry? Superkush?”
“Oh. It's a sativa, I've never really give it a name. I
suppose I should though.”
“Yeah man.”
“I'll go think about it. In a while Little George.”
said Oscar, giving a little wave before heading off. He
was quite overdressed for such a warm day, sweating
made him even more dehydrated. Oscar stopped off at a
Bargain Booze and picked up a cold can of lager,
pressing it against his head as he went along to his next
drop off.
* * *
McFell had given up with the phone, nobody
answered any calls. He guessed Sport must have told
people face to face. No matter. He would carry on his
investigation the old fashioned way, carrying on his beat
and interviewing anyone who looked as if they would
smoke herbal cannabis. The hot weather was good,
flushed out all the potheads to enjoy the outdoors.
McFell approached the skate park. He had been against it
when it was first opened, but for the last few years it was
pretty much guaranteed to have somebody breaking the
law on it. He didn't go there too often, didn't want to
scare them away, but it seemed like a good day for him
to catch a dope smoker in the act. Slayer blasted from a
boombox, the drum solo enhanced by the slap and
rumble of skateboards going up and down the ramp as a
dozen or so teenagers sat around. Most were drinking,
one stood on top of a ramp with a bong in one hand
which he quickly set down when he saw McFell.
“Right. Turn off that music! I said turn that music
off right now!” he shouted, walking towards them. A few
were walking away, McFell ignored them. He pointed to
the boy holding the bong.
“Get down here lad with that water pipe.” he called
up to him.
“Uh...I can't. No board mate.”
“I'm not your mate. Just run down, I've seen you
do it. The rest of you can pour away that booze unless
you want to be arrested.” said McFell. The boy stood on
the edge of the ramp, looking down with trepidation then
stepped off. He began to run down the ramp, his
momentum taking him right up to McFell. He took a few
steps back.
“Right. Name.”
“Nicky White.
“Nicholas White have you been smoking
marijuana?”
“Uh...” said Nicky. He looked at his friends who
were pouring several litres of beer and cider out onto the
floor. “Yeah?”
“Right. Is there anything in your pockets that
might harm me such as needles, knives or glass?” said
McFell, patting Nicky up and down.
“No.” he said. McFell rooted through his pockets
and pulled out a little baggie containing a tiny, dry bit of
weed. He sniffed it but couldn't really smell anything.
“Ah. What's this?” said McFell. “Are you aware
that cannabis is illegal?”
“Yeah.”
“Don't get clever with me.” said McFell before
turning to the other teenagers. “Is anybody else carrying
illegal cannabis? Say so now or you'll regret it later.”
There were a few sighs as one went for her pocket then
looked at the rest of her friends, stopping.
“You. Come over here.” he said, beckoning with
his finger. She joined Nicky. “The rest of you can go. If I
catch any of you drinking on here again you'll spend a
night in the cell.” They slowly walked away, skateboards
and speakers carried off leaving a large puddle of
snakebite on the dirty ground. McFell went through the
girls pockets and found a grinder full of weed, this batch
smelled incredibly strong.
“Where did you get this?”
“Off a friend.”
“You going to tell me who?”
“No.”
“Right then. You two are coming with me. I am
arresting you for carrying a class B substance, you do
not have to say anything but if you do it could get
brought up in court.” he said, walking behind them as
they made their way towards his car.
* * *
Apples was milking a cow out in the field. He put
the lid on the Thermos and headed to the next cow. He
often got milk this way. Sometimes he'd get spotted and
have to run away though most of the time he managed to
steal a few litres a week without anyone noticing. He
looked around at the fields around him. Shawcliffe at the
bottom, glinting away. The hill to his left, dotted with the
rambling society. They used to burn witches on top of
that hill. Stepping over dried dung and scrawny thistle,
Apples waved at the next cow.
“Hold on, hold on.” he said to it as it turned away.
He knelt by it and unscrewed his Thermos.
A living room, curtains drawn. A shaft of sunlight
caught the constantly moving smoke as Little George
stubbed the roach out into a pewter ashtray. He went
around to his girlfriends and they watched a horror film
about the Spanish Inquisition before going for a walk in
the dusk. The park was strewn with empty cans and
plastic bags, patches of grass burned by portable
barbecues. Over on the skate park a group of friends
were sitting around, drinking wine and laughing, they
joined them. It was a warm night, the last of the sun
shimmering on the horizon. The group walked to an off-
license and bought some drinks for the walk into town, a
shortcut across a bridge and around the back of a church.
Little George smiled and held his girlfriend's hand,
rubbing his thumb along the inside of her wrist.
Oscar was drunk, alone in his house listening to
the radio. Topless, he made a half-hearted attempt at
frying an egg before leaving the whole thing to bubble
and burn black on the dry pan. He took another swig
from the bottle, playing around with the radio dial until
he found something he liked then set about playing
solitaire under the bare light bulb in the kitchen. Apples
walked in. He sat down heavily at the table and Oscar
dealt him a few cards.
“Good day?”
“Yeah, sold eleven bags.”
“That's good.”
“We could really start making some money if we
had more females.”
“Less seed, you know.”
“I know. Just saying.”
“You get the rest. Must be a good weight in hash
out there.” said Apples. Oscar nodded, looking at his
cards before taking out a ten of spades and putting it on
the table.
“Aye.” said Oscar. A moth flew in through the
open window and began bouncing against the light bulb.
* * *
Days passed. The seeds began to grow, hundreds
on each plant. The brothers tended to them each day,
trimming and watering when needed. Oscar took a few
clones from the big plant in the barn and planted them
out around the base. Apples tended to his garden around
the back of the house. Oregano, Basil, Rosemary,
Coriander, Mint. A few long beds filled with potatoes.
One morning, a dawn the colour of steel rose groggily
from the night. Cold wind whipped around the house,
Apples was sat outside holding an air rifle. At the
wretched fence at the bottom a rabbit hopped from the
trees. He waited until it was just a few yards away and
quickly pulled up the gun and shot a pellet through the
side of it's head. He wrapped the innards in it's skin and
threw the thing off into the woods for the crows to pick
as he set about cutting the rabbit to pieces beofre placing
them in the old freezer they had in the scullery. Smoking
a cigarette, he watched the day begin from his bedroom
window. Rain.
The gutters sloshed with dirty rain water, pieces of
moss and bundles of black, dead leaves ran on the
surface then off into the blue barrel used to collect the
gutter water. It was overflowing onto the grass and
dandelions that grew around. Oscar walked in the rain
holding a plastic bag over his head, coming back from
the greenhouse inside the barn. He walked into the
kitchen where Apples was trying to make bread from
dried cannabis leaves.
“Good out?”
“Pissing it down.”
“Hope the plants don't float away.”
“We should take two, put them on a boat filled
with mud. Real floating island.”
“Aye.” said Apples, slamming the dough down
onto the wooden kitchen counter. Oscar lit a cigarette
and tossed the match out. He watched his brother
kneading the dark brown mass, blowing smoke out of his
nose. Outside the plants swayed in the rain. A bottle of
wine was opened and a measure poured into two mugs.
He handed one to his brother before sitting down at the
kitchen table, tapping ash into an empty fruit bowl.
“Hope it's a bit warmer tomorrow.”
“It's meant to be.”
“Well, if it's meant to be then it must.” said Oscar.
He drank from the mug and looked through a magazine
with no front cover. There were articles about the Inuits,
the olympic games and an interview with a scientist. He
had combined several different robots to try and emulate
a human, bionic legs, a working digestive system, a
supercomputer for a brain and so on. The whole thing
was as big as a whale. Oscar threw the magazine into the
bin and poured himself more wine. After a while the rain
stopped and the brothers went outside. Everything smelt
of o-zone, electric and green. They headed towards the
town telling each other dirty jokes as dusk began to
settle, the yellow of the sun glowed brilliantly on the
underside of a huge cloud that stretched across the sky.
Apples spat at it.
They went back to the bar. Lights flashed overhead
like psychedelic sirens as electrosmash played through
the speakers. The DJ started drooling all over the
microphone, making an offer that champagne would
only cost five pounds a bottle for the next minute. It was
a New Years themed night in which everyone would
dress according to the allocated year and imagine it was
the thirty first of December. That night it was nineteen
eighty nine, nobody was sure exactly what the fashion
was although most of them had it anyway. Standing by a
column was Oscar, sucking beer through his teeth.
Somebody nodded at him then motioned with his head
towards a corner. He followed, sold a teenth and went
back to the column. Apples was on the dance floor,
standing still amongst the milling couples. He drank
steadily, staring off at the far wall. Somebody bumped
into him.
“Why you just standing still mate?” he shouted.
Apples ignored him and the dance continued. Bass
thumped, girls stood in a circle, gelled microboys jived
from side to side in tracksuits with their eyes rolling,
jaws grinding up and down. A bottle of champagne was
dropped onto the floor sending hundreds of pieces of
thick green glass spraying out onto the sticky dance
floor. Over the carpet patterned with wavy shapes a
gaggle of old teenage misfits drunk on cheap wine
stumbled, jeering and swaying there arms from side to
side as they approached the bar for a round. The punch-
bag machine bleeped and flashed away in the corner by
the girls toilets. Inside a woman racked up a line of coke
on a toilet seat and pushed it up her nose through a ten
pound note, change from the bottle of champagne that
stood by her bare knees. Oscar finished his drink and
was about to go to the bar when somebody pushed him
in the chest gently. Oscar focused on him with a bit of
effort. He was just a little taller than Oscar, short hair at
the sides with a little ponytail that went down onto his
broad shoulders. He wore a polo shirt and smelled
heavily of the aftershave young boys used.
“You Oscar?”
“Aye lad.” he said, looking down at the hand
resting on his chest. “You wanna move?”
“Do I look like a dickhead to you?” he said
viscously.
“What?” said Oscar, leaning slightly. Apples
walked up to them.
“Whose this?”
“I'm his brother. Who are you?” said Apples. The
guy dropped his hand and looked around at his friends.
“Hoover. These are my lads. We heard you had
bud.” said Hoover.
“Sometimes.”
“Yeah?” said Hoover. Oscar shrugged. Apples
finished his drink. “Well you two faggots listen. I'm the
one who sells green in here. So you two can fuck off
back home alright.”
“Nah.” said Oscar.
“Think you're hard are you? I'm the fucking cock
of Exxy me. I'll fucking lay you out.” he said. Oscar
smiled a little. Apples looked at his friends. Half a dozen
or so, pale and big.
“Go on.”
“Not in here. Let's go outside, you and me.” said
Hoover.
“Get t'fuck. I'm having a drink.” said Oscar.
Hoover stared at him, starting to arch himself up slightly.
“Calm down lad.” said Apples. The song ended.
Michael Jackson started.
“You think you're hard?”
“Don't care.”
“I see you two again I'll fucking smack you both
out me, I don't give a fuck.” Oscar walked past him,
heading towards the bar with Apples not far behind.
“Who was that?”
“Dunno.”
The evening wore on. The brothers decided to
leave before the fake countdown, buying wine and going
down by the river running through town. They sat on a
brick block jutting out amongst the grass, it used to pipe
fresh water to the factory opposite but both the factory
and the pipe were now gone. In it's place were the edges
of the shopping centre lit blue by energy saving lamps
shining across the glass and plastic. The river bubbled
below them, black and calm.
“What you reckoning on doing with them seeds?”
“Not sure. Put em in a freezer until it's legalized?”
“Aye. Take time though wouldn't it?”
“Maybe. Could mix em in with some other seeds
and feed em to birds. Put the right chemicals in and
poison em so they're like a natural compost.”
“We could.” laughed Oscar. He drank from the
bottle. In the river below a plastic bag floated.
“You reckon it'd work like?”
“Why not?”
“Eh.” shrugged Apples. He got out a pack of
cigarettes and handed his brother one. They puffed away
quietly, enjoying the night air before climbing back up
the river bank, meandering through the town centre.
They decided to head out into the suburbs to see what
they could see. McFell meanwhile patrolled the streets
with his partner. It was coming close to midnight and the
club was beginning it's fake countdown. The two officers
waited outside, sometimes a fight would begin.
“I hear it's nineteen eighty nine tonight.” said Alia.
“Half of them weren't even born then. I was talking
to some kid the other day and he didn't even know what
happened on September the eleventh.”
“Seems like ages ago now.”
“Remember what you were doing then?”
“Think I was still in training...two thousand and
one? Yeah. You?” said Alia, checking at her belt.
“I had the day off and was cleaning out my shed.
My son comes running out of the house shouting about
planes, I thought he was making it up so carried on.”
said McFell.
“It's weird how you'll remember that forever.”
“Well, I remember good stuff to. Ey up.” said
McFell, nodding towards the window. Hoover was
staring down at them, eyes cold and black.
“Whose he?”
“Henry Boyd. His dickhead mates call him Hoover
because he's a coke head, piddles a bit of it about, thinks
he's a hard case.”
“Is he?”
“Never seen anything to suggest he is.” said
McFell. They watched him and he watched them. Auld
Lang Syne trumpeted pathetically in the background as a
hundred or so people cheered away before thumping
basspop wobbled the windows. They stood around for a
while before walking on through the streets, telling a
drunk teenager to get a taxi home. The shopping centre
was quiet, a few empty cans and bottles the remnants of
some pre-pub drinks lay by the still water fountain at the
centre of town. They patrolled on, through an underpass
where an odour of urine hung in the air, biological
graffiti. A car park, a supermarket and back around into
town.
“You ever hear of The Woodsman?” said McFell.
“Who?”
“Some drug dealer. I've been trying to get him for a
while but the trail keeps going cold.”
“Nope. I remember when I first came here my
brother used to buy off some old hippy who lived out by
Shawcliffe way. Maybe it's him? He must be really old
by now.” said Alia, looking through the window of a
pub. Karaoke night. She stopped to listen for a moment
before her radio buzzed.
“Old lag out by Dog an' Child is havin' some
domestic.”
“On our way. Put the kettle on will you?”
“Aye. Over.” The two officers walked off, leaving
the karaoke night behind. The warbles of drunk young
grandmothers echoed sadly.
Alpha and Omega. Oscar and Apples. They had
walked for a long time and found themselves in the
suburbs of Extwistle. Row upon row of semi-detached
house fronted in white plastic and red brick, petit shrubs
and flowers lining perfectly mowed gardens bordered by
expensive cars. Once in a while a light would be on up in
some bedroom or the blue and green glow from a
television shone through thin curtains.
“It's weird around here. All looks the same.” said
Oscar. Apples flicked the last bit of his cigarette onto a
car bonnet.
“Fucking shit.” said Apples. A dog barked in some
distant garden. A legion of snails slowly made there way
across the pavement, the brothers stepped over them
carefully.
“Here, they have some nice chairs.” said Oscar
pointing down a driveway. Just around the back of a
house on some decking were some wrought iron chairs
and a neat little table. They went and sat on them for a
while, admiring the garden in front of them. A tabby cat
made it's way towards them and jumped on Apples' lap.
“It's going to be Autumn soon.” said Apples,
stroking the cat. It purred loudly.
“Yep. Should start collecting wood for the burner.
Maybe even go and get a tv this year, hook up a DVD
player.”
“Really?”
“You remember when we got snowed in last
winter? There's only so much radio four a man can take,
plus it'd be nice to watch some films for a change.
There's a lot to catch up on.”
“Do it if you want.”
“I'm thinking about it. Not like we're strapped for
cash at the moment.”
“Make hay while the sun shines.” said Apples.
“Or weed.” said Oscar. He rooted around in his
pockets and found a little ball of newspaper and set
about rolling a little joint. After a few minutes they
walked back onto the street, after another few minutes
they realized they were lost in suburbia. Drunk and
stoned, they decided to go in a straight line towards the
hill. Through gardens and over fences they made there
way out into the fields as the cows and birds began to
wake. The morning chorus backed by foul jokes and
terrible singing.
They went for a hike the day after to try and shake
the self-inflicted illness.
“Apples, what do you think about most?”
“On purpose?”
“Yeah. Just your hourly thoughts, what do you
think?”
“I don't know.”
“Neither do I.” said Oscar. The two boys went
down by a lake, just sitting around on the grass. Oscar
watched a spider crawl up and down each green blade,
it's back glittering in the sun shine.
“I'm thinking of joining the army.” said Apples
after a while.
“Why?”
“What else is there to do?”
Oscar thought this over for a while, looking out on
the lake and sucking the air between his teeth.
“I don't know if you should Apples. People like us
don't do well in the army.”
“Sounds easy enough. Sit around most of the day,
walk around. It's all I do here really.” said Apples,
spitting between his legs. He swallowed rising bile.
“But you don't die. People in the army die all the
time.”
“Maybe.” said Apples, skimming a rock out onto
the water. It bounced three times then disappeared. The
two boys started searching around for more flat rocks,
seeing who could get the most bounces. The game ended
up who could throw the biggest rock the furthest into the
lake.
“You still want to go into the army?”
“Nah.”
A kestrel or some other bird like it swooped down
into the field and flew back up just as quickly holding
something squirming in its mouth. Oscar watched it
eclipse the sun briefly before flying off into a tiny dot.
He turned to Apples.
“What do you think about time travel? Do you like
it?”
“I'm not sure really. Don't see the point in it.” said
Apples, fiddling around with his belt. He was between
two holes at the moment and couldn't decide if he
wanted his jeans to be a little slack or a little tight.
“I don't know either. Seems like a lot of trouble.
Like, why would I want to kill my grandfather?”
“Or be my own grandfather.” said Apples,
laughing.
“I don't know about that. If someone isn't your
grandma yet but could be, is it incest?”
“Probably. As it's already in your genes.”
“Temporal Incest.” said Oscar. He went over to the
lake and knelt, cupping a hand and dipping it into the
water. He brought it up to his mouth, rinsed and spat.
Birds flew over the trees, a storm was on the horizon.
Oscar and Apple trotted down the lane, it was quite steep
and a little slippery. They eventually came to a set of
gardens with a path around the back, so they walked
behind these for a while and climbed a fence into
somebodies allotment. The bottoms of the trees were
wrapped with plastic, Oscar peeled one back. On the tree
was a small slug, a bright green beetle, a worm and an
earwig. As soon as the daylight hit them they all started
wriggling.
“Look at that. Insects can live together after all!”
laughed Oscar.
“Thump! That's a good idea!” laughed Apples
back. They set off walking through a little clump of
trees. The grass was dead and gold beneath their feet,
crunching.
“I'm thirsty. Let's go home.” said Apples.
Hoover sat bolt upright, a drop of blood rolled
from his nostril fringed with white powder. His pupils
shrank to pin-heads, his face went numb. He looked over
at Sport.
“So who the fuck's this Woodsman then?”
“Oscar?”
“Yeah, him and his spaz brother. Fuck are they?”
“They...sell weed?” said Sport, shrugging. Hoover
set about making another line, cutting the coke into a
fine line on the little mirror before snorting again. He
brought his thumb up to his nose to wipe away the blood
and sniffed up a few times.
“I sell weed. The best fucking weed. I'll kill those
two. Fucking gat em.” said Hoover quickly. His eyes
flicked between the television and Sport. “You wanna
line man?”
“No, cheers.”
“Do a fucking line.” said Hoover, pushing the little
plastic mirror across the table strewn with a detritus of
rolling papers, baggies, remotes, ashtrays, empty cans, a
dirty bong and an old newspaper. Sport took out his debit
card and began to line up a little bit of coke for himself.
He snorted and coughed.
“Where do them cunts live?”
“I don't...I don't know. Out by Shawcliffe I think.”
said Sport, sniffing a few times. Hoover took the mirror
back and ran his finger in the white powder, rubbing it
over his gums.
“Right then. You're gonna ring em and tell em to
meet you in Shawcliffe. And we'll wait round corner and
fucking give em a right smashing.” said Sport.
“I don't have their number.”
“You joking?”
“No.” said Sport, pausing for a moment. Hoover
stood up and put his hands behind his heads.
“Fucking hell. Who does then?”
“I don't know. I've been trying to get their number
for ages man.”
“You have have you? You get weed off me. I do
you fat bags don't I?” said Hoover.
“Yes.” said Sport. Hoover had terrible weed. Dull
scraps, grit weed he bought by the kilo off somebody
from the city. It tasted terrible and gave a dirty high,
people would often complain amongst each other about
how shit it was. The Woodsman was famous in certain
circles for selling excellent weed, though he was hard to
get hold of. People would buy off him by the ounce and
then sell it themselves until Hoover got wind of it and
would hurt them. He was getting a monopoly on the
black market.
“Well then. You better go out and get this cunt's
number won't you?”
“He's tricky to find.”
“You'll manage though won't you?”
“I'll try.”
“Good.” said Hoover, sitting back down. “You owe
me a tenner for the coke. Go get him.”
The brothers sat on either side of a table, playing
cards stacked neatly between two glasses of ale. They
looked out at the crop, quiet except for the occasional
bird song as evening drew in.
“I had a look at one of the plants earlier, I reckon
we should harvest soon.”
“When do you reckon would be best?”
“I'd say a day or two. Sunday evening maybe.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“Aye.” They went quiet again for a while,
slouching in their chairs and drinking.
“What do you want to do tonight?”
“Little George texted me earlier, said there was
going to be a party if you fancy it.” said Oscar
“Aye. Sounds like a plan.” said Apples. They
finished there drinks and went back into the house.
Outside a cold wind blew in from the North bringing
clouds that rushed across the sky, cumulonimbus
harbingers of dread.
* * *
Little George lay on his bed with his girlfriend,
Marie. She pulled herself close to him and kissed him on
the neck, running a hand up and down his body whilst
gentle acoustic music played from a laptop. He reached
over to the ashtray, looking for the half-smoked joint that
rested in it. Marie sat up on her knees and took it,
placing the jazz cigarette between her lips and lighting it
with a match she struck on the wall above his double
bed. She smiled down at him as he held her waist with
his fingers, stroking upward and upward towards her
shoulder blade. He pulled her down gently and she blew
smoke into his mouth before kissing him. The joint was
passed back and forth until the roach was stubbed back
out into the pewter ashtray. The music stopped. A few
minutes later they both got out of bed and got dressed.
“You going to take any weed tonight?” she said.
“Should I?”
“No harm in it.” she said smiling. He grinned back
and went to his mason jar, popping the lid open and
taking out a little bag in which he had separated some
cannabis into. George gave it a little shake and put it into
the pouch of Amber leaf.
“Avanti.” he said. Holding hands they made there
way towards the house party, Marie held a plastic bag
clinking as a few big bottles of beer rubbed together.
They were a little stoned, felt good, talking between each
other about horror films and fake blood. The sun hadn't
set though the clouds above had darkened everything
quite a bit, lights were on in front rooms. Car headlamps
made them squint slightly as they rounded the corner of
the street the party was on, they could hear the music and
shouting from down the road. It was quite a big house,
George wasn't sure what there parents did but they must
have been doing it for a while. Huge windows vivisected
the building as the party seemed to be in full swing,
George and Marie could see people dancing away on the
ground floor whilst on the first and second the windows
were dark save for the glow from fairy-lights and little
lamps. A girl stumbled drunkenly down the steps and
was sick on the front street.
“Looks good.” said Marie. George laughed. They
went up the stone stairs and along the garden path,
letting themselves in.
The hallways of the house were lined with drunks,
the living room was full of drunks, the queue to the toilet
was full of drunks. The house was pretty much full of
drunks. The host was sat on a step by the back door,
perhaps the drunkest of all.
“Hi.” said George.
“Oh...hello.” she said, blinking one eye then the
other. “Have you come?”
“Yep. Having a good time?”
“I'm having a great time!” she said, standing up
and falling against the door which she used to prop
herself up. She looked around at the garden then back to
George. “Is that dealer here yet?”
“Don't know.”
“I want some fucking cocaine.” she sang, then
waltzed inside. George watched her then turned to his
girlfriend.
“What a dope.”
“Why are so many people here? Is she stupid?”
“Have enough to drink and you turn into Forrest
Gump it seems.” he said, looking down at the bag.
“Beer?” he said, offering her a bottle.
“Yes sir.” she said, taking it off him and opening it
with her teeth. They drank and waited by the back door,
watching the clouds gather above.
“It's Little George.” said Oscar, coming out of the
kitchen. He finished his drink and threw the mug onto
the lawn. “How's it hanging?”
“Good. Glad you came.”
“Sure. Whose this?”
“I'm Marie, his girlfriend.” she said, then took a
gulp of the cold beer.
“I'm Oscar.” he said, taking a cigarette from behind
his ear and lighting it. He exhaled smoke from his
nostrils and walked a few steps onto the patio.
“He gets me the stuff.” said George quietly, patting
his pocket. Marie nodded. “You carrying anything
tonight Oscar?”
“A little bit. You want owt?”
“Maybe a slice.” he said, smiling into the bottle.
Oscar nodded and then walked off into the large garden.
He inspected some of the plants he was unfamiliar with,
shaking his head at the bindweed spiralling around a
rosebush and kicking the head off a thistle. He urinated
by a shed dusted in cobwebs and headed back to the
house.
Apples was rummaging through the various bottles
left on the kitchen surface when Oscar came back in.
“I never understood why people did this.” said
Apples swinging his hand over the two dozen or so
bottles of various spirits.
“I'm not complaining.” said Oscar, laughing as he
picked up a bottle of Bristol Cream. He had half and
passed it to his brother who finished it off. Eighties pop
blasted from the living room as the host tried to dance in
time to anything, swinging her arms wildly. On one of
the leather sofas somebody was rolling a joint on a dvd
case, the brothers sat on either side of him.
“What've you got there bright boy?”
“Weed.” he said, sprinkling tobacco across the
king size skin. He picked it up carefully between the
thumb and forefinger on each hand and began to roll, up
and down, before pinching it slightly and flicking his
tongue out snakelike as he wet the gum. He gave it a last
little roll and lit up.
“Who do you get it off?” said Oscar.
“My mate.”
“Cool.” said Oscar. The kid made to stand up but
Apples rested a finger on the inside of his elbow.
“You mind if I have a drag? It's been a while.” he
said slowly. The kid held it out and Apples accepted it,
taking a long drag that left a long cherry on the end
before passing it back. “Ta mate.” he said, holding in the
smoke. The brothers waited until he had left.
“Ours?” said Oscar.
“Nah. Home grown I think, not that fucking grit
weed at least.” whispered Apples, smoke exhaling in
little plumes on every syllable.
“Good to see there's other gardeners about.” said
Oscar.
Digital photographs blown up and printed onto
canvas, close-ups of a girl's face looking down at
something sadly. Chrome baubles sit mysteriously,
purpose unknown besides to be chrome baubles
reflecting a room full of teenagers with their mirror
images twisting and stretching madly. Raining out, the
windows were wide open. Empty cannisters of nitrous
oxide lay on the floor like spent cartridges from some
Mexican stand-off, red wine like blood stains.
“Someone get that Chardonnay.” it was fetched
and sloshed all over the carpet, making the room smell
sweet, zesty citrus hues with a tinge of oak. Out on the
landing somebody had passed out and was stepped over
by most until a lad knelt down, giving them a shake.
They woke and bile bubbled from their nose and mouth,
the lad recoiled. Little George and Marie were in the
kitchen listening to a guy with dreadlocks tell them
about travelling around Thailand. Little George caressed
a hand up and down Marie's back until they got bored
and went upstairs. Hours ticked by and the general
energy levels of the party began to dip slightly. Outside a
black Ford Fiesta pulled up, the driver honked a few
times. Nobody came. He watched the party through the
downstairs window and sighed, getting out his phone.
“Yo, I'm waiting outside.”
“Oh right, sorry. Out in a sec.” said the voice on
the other end. The driver waited another two minutes
before angrily getting out of the car. He jogged up the
steps in the rain and pounded on the door, looking back
out on the street as he waited. A girl answered.
“Yo, you order the coke?”
“Uh...Did anyone ring a dealer?” she shouted over
her shoulder. A lanky girl with short hair and a bottle of
whiskey came out of the living room.
“I'm not delivering pizza alright mate? When I ring
you come out.” he said.
“Sorry. How much?”
“Eighty.” he said. The girl who answered the door
walked away, leaving the two of them to swap powder
for money. Just as the dealer was about to leave he
noticed Oscar over her shoulder. His eyebrows went up
for a moment.
“We good?”
“Yeah, just come out next time. Enjoy.” he said,
walking back out into the rain. Once he was back in the
car he took out his phone again which lit his face a soft
blue in the darkness.
“Alright mate? Guess who I just saw.”
Oscar was drunk, sweating slightly as he took a
pull from a quart of vodka he pinched from the kitchen.
He coughed up some phlegm and spat it out into a potted
plant by the window then scanned the room for Apples.
Half-falling, half-sitting he landed heavily on the arm of
a chair and slid down next to the guy with dreadlocks.
“Alright mate?” he slurred. The guy turned slightly
and nodded at him before being passed a tray with a little
pile of coke on it. Oscar watched him snort some up.
“You seen my brother anywhere? Tall guy?”
“Sorry mate.”
“Ah, forget it.” said Oscar taking out a cigarette.
“Hey can I borrow one of those?” said the guy.
“You can afford coke but don't have any cigs?”
said Oscar.
“Never mind.”
“Tell you what, you give me a line I'll give you a
fag. How about that?” he said. The guy thought for a
second then nodded, passing the tray to Oscar. He took
the cigarette out of his mouth and handed it to the guy
before sniffing up the little white crystals through a
hollow biro. Looked up at the ceiling, blinked a few
times then took out another cigarette. He waited half a
minute or so before getting up and going to the kitchen
for something else to drink.
Hoover and his goons raced through the night,
windscreen wipers bouncing back and forth, happy
hardcore thudded away.
“Give me a sniff.” said Hoover. A key was passed
under his left nostril and the little pile of powder
disappeared. Another car was behind them full of
Hoover's gym friends. Raindrops jittered across the
windows like the erratic cardiograms of each passenger,
lit orange and red and green from various street lights.
Through the town they sped along, climbing up the hill
towards the house party until Hoover realized he was
lost.
“Where's the GPS?” he said to the goon next to
him. He checked the glove box and a bunch of CD's fell
onto the floor. “Fuck's sake man.” he pulled over.
“Do any of you's lot have GPS on your phones?”
“I do I think.”
“Find the house then.” he said over his shoulder.
They all waited as the dance music blared in the
background.
“It's loading.” said the guy in the middle. They
waited another minute or so. “Got it.”
“Pass it here then dickhead.” he said. After
working out where they were they drove off into the
night once more.
At one in the morning Oscar was starting to get
bored. A lot of the people at the party now had hold of
their drinks and watched him carefully as he stumbled
around shaking cans and sighing.
“Do you want a taxi bud?”
“Eh? Nah. I don't like them, they stink.” said
Oscar, sitting in the middle of the room. A few people
watched as he reclined back into the wine-soaked carpet
and began rolling around until he got bored of that.
“Anybody seen my brother?” he said,
remembering why he was still there.
“Yeah I saw him leave. What did he look like
again?”
“Well tall. And built like a brick shithouse. He
strangled a bull once.” said Oscar, a bead of spit dripping
from his lip. Somebody tutted.
“Yeah he left like ten minutes ago.”
“Really? Where'd he go?”
“Home I think. Reckon if you went now you'd
catch him up.” said the man. Apples closed his eyes and
nodded, patting his pockets before slowly standing up.
“Right then. Cheers. Been good. I'm gonna...I'm
going. Cheers.” he said, waving at the wall. He made his
way towards the kitchen and realized that was the wrong
way and thudded along the hallway. The two cars pulled
up outside and the occupants got out.
“You sure you saw him here Baz?”
“Yeah, deffo. If he int' ere now someone must have
invited him, right?” said Baz. The ten young men walked
to the front door and Oscar opened it up.
“Scuse me. Scuse.” he said, pushing his way past.
“That's him, grab him, grab him.” said Hoover.
They did.
Shouting made Little George wake slightly from
his daze. He was sat in a bedroom decorated with
football wallpaper, sitting around with a few of his
friends playing on a console.
“What's that?”
“Dunno man.” said Neil. He huffed on the bong
and put his hand over the chamber, squinting at the
flatscreen television.
“There's like, shouting and shit. What's
happening?” said Little George. Neil exhaled then
cleared the rest of the smoke out before passing it to
Marie.
“Why don't you go check it out dude?” said Neil.
There was a thud that made the room shake slightly.
“Might be the police or something.”
“Don't say that dude you'll make me well
paranoid.” laughed Neil. Marie took a hit from the bong.
“Go check it out, we'll wait here for you.”
“I'm going to check it out. I'll be back in like, a
minute.” said Little George. He got up and made his way
towards the door. The music had stopped downstairs, he
could hear snatches of conversation. He crept along the
hallway, eyes red. He stunk of weed. He slowly walked
downstairs, ducking his head down slightly so he could
see into the living room. A bunch of guys wearing
tracksuits were standing around Oscar, a ring of party
guests around them just watched.
“Think you can sell green do you? Reckon you're a
regular Cheech?” said one.
“Uh...yeah.” said Oscar. He was punched in the
face and fell down. He stayed there for a moment and
began to get up but was kicked in the ribs.
“Hey.” said somebody with dreadlocks.
“Stay out of this you or we'll twat fuck outta you.”
said Hoover. “Now get the fuck up fag.” Oscar sat up,
looking around at the men that surrounded him. He spat
some blood out onto himself and drunkenly stood,
wobbling slightly.
“Who are you again?” he said. Hoover punched
him in the chest.
“I'm Hoover mate, remember it. The fucking don
of Exxy. Nowt happens without my say so and I didn't
fucking say you could sell weed did I? You didn't even
fucking ask.”
“Fuck off you cunt.” said Oscar. Little George
watched as Hoover punched him in the head then knelt
over him, punching him again and again.
“Do him Hoover, fuck him.” said one of his
cronies. One or two people got up and walked out.
“Where's your brother?” said Hoover. Oscar
looked up, face bloody and swollen.
“Apples? He went home.” said Oscar. Little
George ran upstairs, realizing what he had to do. He'd
seen Apples about half an hour ago, he had watched
them play games and told them some disgusting jokes.
Past the boy's bedroom, the bathroom. Master bedroom.
He opened the door and found Apples and the host of the
party in bed. Apples look at him.
“Hello Little George.”
Hoover looked up, hearing heavy footsteps above.
He followed the source of the sound along the ceiling of
the living room then towards the stairs.
“Fuck's this?” he said. Apples ran down the steps
and into the living room, completely naked and drunk.
His body was a mass of muscle and hair, veins like fat
worms stuck out from his huge arms and legs. His top
half was red with sun burn that cut off just above his
waist. Hoover barely had time to respond before Apples
thundered across the room and smashed a fist into his
face, lifting him off his feet and bouncing against the
fireplace. He grabbed the person next to him and brought
an elbow down onto his forehead which made him
crumple to the ground. Oscar began to get up as his
brother threw punches and kicks at the gaggle around
him, each one connecting hard and heavy. The two
brothers fought until all of Hoover's gang lay on the
floor, bleeding onto the carpet and still save for heavy
breathing. Most of the guests had ran out in the melee
although a few had stuck around, mouths agape and
eyebrows raised.
“Cheers.” said Oscar. Apples laughed.
“I like a good fight.”
“Any of you have owt to drink?” said Oscar,
reaching up to his mouth and wiggling at a loose tooth.
The lanky girl offered them a bottle of whiskey which
both brothers took a pull on before handing it back,
bowing there heads slightly. The girl smiled back
nervously.
“Whose this then?” said Apples, looking down at
Hoover.
“Some drug dealer. Don't know what he wanted
really.” said Oscar.
“What d'you wanna do?” said Apples, walking
over to Hoover. He was holding the side of his face, his
jaw broken.
“Fuck off you.” said Hoover over his bleeding
tongue.
“Ah, leave him. He knows he can't do owt.” said
Oscar, taking a pack of cigarettes off one of the fallen
goons.
“Get t'fuck. Fucking jumped me, you were lucky,
fucker.”
“Be careful what you say lad.” said Apples,
accepting a cigarette off his brother. They both lit up and
exhaled the grey smoke in the living room as the rain
came in through the open windows. Hoover watched
them, eyes full of rage. But he kept quiet.
“Let's go.” said Oscar.
“I'll go put some clothes on.” said Apples. The
brothers laughed and left the room, walking past Little
George who had been watching the whole thing from the
hallway.
“Oh yeah, you should thank Little George here. Let
me know you were taking a hiding.” said Apples. Oscar
laughed and shook his hand.
“Aye, cheers. I owe you one, give us a call
sometime, work out some way of paying you back.
Cheers George.” said Oscar. Little George nodded and
watched the two brothers ascend the staircase, laughing
and joking amongst themselves then looked back into the
living room. A table had been broken, mud and blood
was all over the carpet and the last few guests were
making there way out leaving the ten guys to slowly pick
themselves up looking bashful. Little George ran upstairs
to tell Neil and Marie what they had missed.
The rain carried on through the night and into the
following morning. The river running through the town
kept getting higher and higher, faster and faster. It had
turned a shitty rust colour that frothed and bubbled up
either side of the bank, dragging a deluge of rubbish
from the town out towards the sea to become part of
some far away island made from plastic and drift wood,
a graveyard for seagulls. McFell drove over the bridge,
heading South towards the prison. Along the motorway
he though about the last few days. He had followed up
on Alia's comment about the old drug dealer, looking
back through years of convictions in his spare time.
Photographs of criminals littered the dining room table,
he examined case notes late into the night until he
thought he finally had found what he was looking for.
The prison was home to many of violent offenders, a red
fortress outside of the city with walls and towers that
stretched up higher than any surrounding building. It
looked like some brutalist castle, barbed wire and black
windows. He parked up and went out into the rain.
He walked through the long corridors lead by a
prison guard, thinning hair on a scarred head. Like most
institutions the place reeked of bleach to cover the true
smell lurking beneath, blood and human shit. Eventually
they reached the interview room, low ceiling and bare
concrete furnished by a lone table. The prisoner sat on a
chair, McFell opposite. He studied him, black and grey
ringlets pouring down over his head hung low above the
handcuffs. His hands were huge, long fingernails
freckled with white spots. The prisoner raised his head.
He wasn't handsome or particularly ugly, unremarkable
except one eye was missing, the other was black and
opaque. It moved around, examining McFell then the
prisoner looked back down at the floor.
“Are you David Jotun?” said McFell. The prisoner
looked up.
“Aye.”
“Also known as The Woodsman?”
“I was once. A long time ago, away from here. Not
any more though.” he said. His voice was raspy, languid.
“I have been reading through your case file.
Assault, taking and driving away, possession of an illegal
firearm, kidnapping, manslaughter.” said McFell. The
old man looked up. “I'm not interested in that. That's
why you're here now. What I am interested in is when
you were dealing cannabis.”
“Aye. The good old days.” said the old man,
smiling.
“It was estimated you were supplying to pretty
much the entire county, big time. At the time of your
arrest you were found with five kilos in the back-seat of
your car. What I want to know is, where did you get it?”
“My statement is in the file.”
“I've read it. It's a little light on the facts.” said
McFell, holding up a piece of paper. “I'm not here as a
police officer. What you tell me today is between you
and me. I'm from Extwistle, same place you were born.
You can trust me.”
“Trust? Why would I?” said David.
“How would you like to go somewhere else? I can
put in a good word, move you to a D Cat. You're not
getting any younger.”
“I don't give a shit, I'm not helping any policeman.
You think I care where you're from?”
“All I'm asking is where did you get your herbal
cannabis from.”
“I grew it.”
“Aye?”
“Aye. Come from a long line of farmers.” said
David, giving a short laugh.
“How is that line doing?” said McFell. The
prisoner stopped smiling.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you have two sons. Have you heard from
them whilst you've been inside? They been carrying on
the family business?”
“They're good lads.”
“Really? Do you know what happened once you
were put away? Your wife was sent to a rehabilitation
centre, she had been identified as an alcoholic. She's still
there. Your sons meanwhile were interviewed by doctors
that diagnosed them as highly antisocial. Whilst they
were in care they regularly assaulted others and had to be
moved to a secure unit. After a year or so they were old
enough to leave and we haven't heard from then since.
But that's not to say we haven't had dozens of witness
statements about two young lads, more or less matching
the description of your sons, being at the centre of a
whole string of incidents. Assault, arson, vandalism,
violent disorder, supplying Class B substances, a bomb
hoax, exposure, counterfeiting, theft and public
drunkenness.” said McFell, reading from his folder.
“What do you have to say to that?”
“Nowt.” said David. McFell sighed.
“Your boys are in trouble. As far as the law in
concerned they are still lawful citizens, they haven't been
charged with any of the offences I listed. But I have a
theory they've been carrying on your business. There's an
ongoing investigation involving a dealer calling
themselves The Woodsman. And since you're in here, I'm
thinking it's most likely your sons.”
“If you had owt you wouldn't be here though
would you? You're grasping at straws. You've got
nothing. You may think my boys are bad, but I brought
them up well. Not like some of them out there, fucking
animals. Disgusting what some of em do nowadays,
buggering little girls, selling heroin on street corners. My
sons wouldn't do that. If they did they'd better hope they
don't get sent here as I'd string em up myself.”
“So, you won't cooperate?”
“Why would I? You wasted your petrol. You've got
nowt.” said David.
“If they're good lads why are you worried about
telling me about them? Just tell me where they might be
and I'll go speak to them, an informal chat.” said McFell.
David snorted.
“You aren't listening are you? I said fuck off.”
“David. No need to be like that.”
“You're starting to really fucking wind me up now.
Let me go back to my cell.” said David.
“There are still some questions I want to ask.” said
McFell.
“Oi! Let me out!” shouted David towards the door.
The guard looked in through the window. McFell turned
and shook his head.
“Five more minutes.” said McFell. David jumped
up from his chair. His cuffs were chained to shackles
around his ankles but he managed to lunge halfway
across the table. McFell pushed his chair back, a sudden
rush of adrenaline hit him like a wave. In just a few
seconds David Jotun had managed to get up onto the
table, standing on all fours whilst the guard jostled with
the key in the door.
“Sit down! Now!” shouted McFell. David bounded
off the table and had his hands wrapped around McFell's
neck. He wasn't strangling but instead had dug his
fingers, twisting and yanking at McFell's thin neck. The
pupil in his eye had contracted to a tiny point.
“Fucker.” seethed David through his yellow teeth.
The guard rushed in and tried to yank him off. The three
men tussled for a few seconds, more guards came in.
They finally managed to pull David off the policeman
and had pinned him face down onto the concrete floor.
“You stupid bastard.” said one of the guards.
“I'll kill him. I'll kill you all, you're all fucking
dead. I'll get out of here and make you watch while I
fuck your wives. Cut off your heads and smash them up
with a fucking hammer!” he screamed. McFell got up,
holding at his neck. Blue and purple bruises blossomed
on either side of his trachea, little drops of blood
appeared.
“You alright mate?”
“Aye. Think I'm done here.” said McFell hoarsely.
* * *
Oscar carted the butane drum from out of the
scullery and into the kitchen. His face and knuckles were
scabby and swollen, his body ached from the fighting
and drinking which he tried to ease with a little joint he
smoked out of the front of the house. Apples was making
his way across the dirt yard, rain wetting his cotton shirt.
“How do. Look at this.” he said, holding up a bud
from one of the plants. He set it down on the table and
tore it in two, showing the seeds. Oscar passed the joint
to his brother and inspected a few of the little black and
grey balls, popping one into his mouth.
“Reckon we should harvest today in case that guy
from last night comes up.”
“Him? I'm not bothered about him.”
“Aye, I'm not. But no point in risking the whole
crop in case he comes with a bunch of his mates in the
night.” said Oscar, accepting the joint from Apples.
“Suppose. How we going to do this then?”
“Plant to plant. Take round t'wheelbarrow, gather
the flower first. After we've done that we take out the
seeds, make some hash. I got that butane we nicked from
the hospital in the kitchen.”
“Fair enough.” nodded Apples. He went inside,
leaving Oscar alone. The drug began to dull the pain in
his body, he realized he was tensing his shoulders. He
relaxed and took another drag.
Down in Shawcliffe the roads were beginning to
flood, an inch or so of water flowing along like a river
carrying along little pebbles and mud from the hill.
Inside the chip shop Sport rubbed away the
condensation, looking out at the street.
“Here you are. Want salt and vinegar?”
“Just salt ta.”
“That'll be a pound love.” said the woman behind
the counter. Sport handed over a few silver coins and
went to sit back by the ledge, eating the thick chunks of
potato with a tiny fork made from blue plastic. Half way
through he remembered why he had been sent.
“Scuse me, I was wondering if you've seen two
lads round this end? One's really tall, t'other wears black
all the time.”
“Aye, I see them two wandering up and down the
high street once in a while. They your friends?”
“Yeah, wondered if you'd seen them today?”
“Nah love. Nobodies out in weather like this.” said
the woman, wiping down the counter.
“You know where they live? I owe em a couple of
quid, thought I'd drop it off whilst I were up here like.”
said Sport.
“Out in back o beyond I reckon, not round here
any road.”
“Alright, cheers anyway.” said Sport going back to
his steaming chips. Just as he was polishing them off
four cars cruised along the main street, brake lights
bleeding red auras across the window. Sport thanked the
woman behind the counter and headed out, pulling his
hood over his head. One of the cars flashed him.
“Any luck?” said Hoover, rolling the window
down. He was sucking on a twister ice cream and had a
bandage wrapped around his head, voice coming out
awkward.
“Nope. Nobody knows nowt.” said Sport.
“Fuck's sake man. Fucking hillbillies, thought
they'd know where everyone round ere lived.”
“What do you wanna do?”
“Go on a mish. They'll be round ere somewhere,
we'll get em.” said Hoover. He gently bit off a bit of the
icecream, wincing, then got out of the car. The rest of
them got out, twenty of the hardest men he could find.
And Sport. In their waterproof jackets they carried
knives, hammers, screwdrivers, brass knuckles. One had
a baseball bat he had bought specifically to attack the
brothers with. They looked up at the hill through the grey
clouds and began to make there way out into the fields
around Shawcliffe, directionless yet purposeful like blind
sharks sensing blood.
The kitchen table was stacked high with cannabis
buds, the brothers sat across from each other and picked
through them one at a time. Each had two pots on either
side of them, one for the seeds, the other for the
discarded plant matter. It was time consuming but easy
enough with wine and a pipe passed back and forth.
“I think I might have missed one or two.” said
Oscar.
“Eh. One year's seeding makes seven year's of
weeding, right?” laughed Apples. They had been going
for an hour and had already half-filled their pots of seed.
The radio had been turned up high to smother the noise
as raindrops fell on the metal roof.
“Still got all the leaves, stems, anyway. Be right.”
said Oscar.
“Aye.” said Apples, taking off his gloves to go and
open another bottle of wine. “Cheers brother.”
“Cheers.” said Oscar raising his glass. They carried
on throughout the afternoon. At around quarter past four
Apples got up, heading towards the toilet. As he relieved
himself into the dirty bowl he looked out of the window
at his herb garden surrounded by trees. The branches
leaned down heavy with rain water. Could do with
picking all those other herbs as well. He finished and
carried on looking, lost in his own thoughts. Footsteps.
Oscar pushed open the door behind him.
“I think we've been found.”
They stood just beyond the field of plants,
scanning back and forth. None had seen an outdoor grow
on this scale before, especially with such healthy plants.
Even the smallest was seven feet high, the leaves looked
luscious and fresh, each plant dusted lightly with what
looked like frost.
“Fucking hell.” said one of them. “You ever see
owt like it?”
“Yeah. My uncle has a field like this over in
Yorkshire.” lied Hoover. He was taken aback though.
Maybe the brothers weren't working alone. They might
even have guns. He licked his lips and looked up the line
of the men he had brought with him. They were all thick-
necked, flat faced. Arms like bowling pins covered in
tattoos about football and dogs, holding their various
weapons. For a moment he wondered if they would
double cross him, take the stuff for themselves. He
wished he'd waited a day or two for his family to send
some of their people. But they were here now. “Right
then, enough standing around getting pissed on. Let's go
find them two faggots and do em.” he said. He stepped
forward into the vegetation. Though the weather had
covered most of the smell whilst he was amongst it there
was the strong aroma of cannabis. He noticed that there
had been a harvest recently, no buds on any of the plants,
just little white circles where they had been trimmed.
Some of the men tugged off some of the leaves and put
them in their pockets, one had taken to hacking his way
through with his knife. Sport followed behind, trainers
sinking into the black mud around his feet. The
marauders made there way through cautiously until they
came out to the dirt yard in front of the wooden house.
Standing in front of it were Oscar and Apples.
They waited for the twenty one men to come out
from the field. Oscar spat. Apples was smiling slightly,
he had a huge iron sword he had made himself a few
years ago from a girder. The edge was blunt, the handle
was just rope wrapped around and around one end, but it
looked viscous.
“That's far enough now lads.” called out Oscar,
when he smiled he showed off his missing tooth.
“Far enough? Fuck you.” said one of them. Oscar
pulled out a box of matches.
“There's a barrel of butane in there. All I need to
do is run in and put a match to it, no more weed.” They
all stopped though, about fifteen feet away from the
boys. Hoover stepped forward, he pulled the wet
bandage away from his face slightly.
“You won't do it.”
“I fucking will.” said Oscar. Hoover rolled his
tongue around his gums, ignoring him.
“You shouldn't have fucked with me lads. Look
what's happened now. Twenty of us and two of you.”
“Bit fairer than last night, aye.” said Apples.
“Is that meant to be a sword you lanky cunt?” said
Hoover.
“Yup. What have you got?” said Apples. Hoover
pulled out a butterfly knife, flicking it around in his hand
so the blade stood up.
“A butterfly knife? That's the gayest knife.”
“It won't be gay when I stick it in you.”
“That sounds even gayer.” said Apples.
“Shut the fuck up you. I came up here for one
thing alright. If you hand over all your weed, right. Me
and my mates here won't twat fuck out of you.”
“Well, my brother's got a sword. And you all have
knives and hammers and shit. If you think we're going to
hand everything over for nothing, you're dumber than
you look. Us two don't give a fuck. We're drunk. Maybe
you might win, sure. But my brother. He has a sword.
And there's a barrel of butane in there that'd blow up all
the shit and probably most of you lot.” said Oscar.
Apples tapped his sword on the ground a few times. The
men looked at each other, frowning.
“Soz Braveheart. I'll take that fucking stick off him
and shove it up his arse. You going to hand over your
weed or am I going to have to take it off you?” said
Hoover, taking a step forward. Oscar studied him.
Broken jaw. Gold chain. Rain fell on his face like tears.
“Hold on a second. I want to have a word with my
brother.” said Oscar.
“What?”
“Just hold on a second.” he said, walking over to
Apples. “How about we sell up?”
“What?” whispered Apples.
“Aye. Sell them the crop, we keep the seeds.
Carrying on can only lead to worse.” whispered Oscar
slowly. He paused. “Come on.”
“What you talking about?” shouted Hoover. The
brothers looked each other in the eye. Imagining
telepathy was usually as good as the real thing.
“We'll do a deal. You can buy it off us.” said
Apples.
“People would be more impressed by a big sale
than murder, right? Business skills.” said Oscar.
“Fuck you on about?” said Hoover. He looked
around at his men and laughed, trying to weigh up their
reaction. Too many of them were looking at that sword,
staying quiet. He'd been hurt though, he needed to show
he was hard. Hoover turned back towards the brothers
then at the dull metal sword. Some people went beyond
that though he guessed.
“What you want then?”
“Fifty thousand pounds for two hundred kilos of
some...Warlock Weed.” said Oscar, shrugging.
“Give me a minute.” said Hoover. He did a bit of
mathematics but was interrupted.
“We can all get what we want.” Hoover rubbed at
his eyebrow. Could always get the stuff and get them
afterward.
“Let's have a look then.”
The brothers, Hoover and two of his men entered
the house. The self-proclaimed don of Extwistle looked
around at the old wood and plaster, from the bare roof
beams hung the odd plant or dead bird. A large table in
the centre of the room was piled high with cannabis,
more rested in a wheelbarrow by the sink.
“Green fingers eh?” said Hoover.
“Aye.” said Oscar. Apples was pacing back and
forth along the far wall, dragging the sword along the
floorboards.
“What's all that?” said Hoover, nudging a
bucketful of seed.
“That's ours. You get the rest.”
“What was the butane for again?” said Hoover
picking up a bud off the table and sniffing it before
looking at the barrel Oscar was stood by. He still had the
matches in his hand.
“Making hash. Easier to transport than two
hundred kilos of green, there's no roads round here either
so you can't drive up.” said Oscar. Hoover nodded.
“Sounds alright.”
“When can you get the money?”
“Tonight. Need to ring round like, not like I have
fifty g in my wardrobe.”
“Okay. How do you want to do this?” said Oscar,
drumming his fingers on the barrel. Hoover sniffed.
“You can make hash?” he said. Oscar nodded.
“Alright. Make half this shit into hash, leave the rest. I'm
gonna leave some of my mates here so you lot don't fuck
off. I'll come back with the money, we do the deal, that's
that.”
“Then we're straight? You'll leave us be?” said
Oscar.
“Aye.” said Hoover. They shook hands, neither
party intending to honour the agreement. When Hoover
stepped outside the rain was beginning to ease.
Liszt thumped through the radio. Oscar and Apples
packed tubes full of shake, the green chunks of weed fell
onto the layers of cotton underwear.
“You lads done this before?” said one of the
guards. Apples shrugged.
“I've done a bit but nothing on this scale.” said
Oscar. Apples passed his brother a hose attached onto the
barrel of butane. Concentrating through his drunkenness,
Apples gently sprayed through the top of the tube held
above a glass casserole dish. The solution dribbled out, a
golden brown fluid falling onto the clear glass. Once a
good millimetre or so of the solution rested on the
bottom of the dish, Apples went to fill the bath with
boiling hot water. One of the guards took a cigarette out.
“Smoke outside for fuck's sake. You'll blow us up.”
said Apples, turning back to the dish. Once they had a
good amount of hash and butane mix both brothers
carried them into the bathroom and dipped the dishes
into the water, held there by two parallel planks they'd
fetched from outside. The brothers watched as the heat
caused the liquid to bubble and thicken into hashish the
colour of some ancient wood, the guards took it in turns
to stand at the door and watch.
“Blooming heck. Smells good in here.” said one.
Once all the bubbles had disappeared the dishes were
taken back into the kitchen.
“Here you are, got a job for you. Put on a pair of
them gloves over there and start scooping up the shit”
said Oscar, handing a guard a razor blade. The guard
dragged the razor blade through the thick goo and piled
it up onto a sheet of glass whilst the brothers took it in
turns to squirt butane through the crumbled up
marijuana. This process continued so that after an hours
work they had a good sized mound of squidgy brown
hash. This was wrapped in cling-film and put into the
freezer amongst the game meat and potato waffles.
* * *
McFell was sitting alone in the pub. It was outside
of town where some suburban fringe clashed with a field
containing horses. They galloped through the late
evening like spectres. The pub served microwave meals
masquerading as organically grown fine dining, McFell
had ordered scampi and was scrutinizing it through tired
eyes. A pathetic salad lay prostrate by the french fries
that shone in a thick veneer of grease. The pieces of
scampi themselves were puffed up and crusty like some
kind of sores on a farm animal, he briefly touched one
and found it to be colder than his drink. The horses
stampeded past the window, tossing heads and shrieking.
McFell pushed the plate away and took a drink of the
lager, looking at the laptop screen over the edge of the
glass. A map of Lancashire from the nineteenth century.
Extwistle was just a little village, though the map was
quite heavily populated with other small towns that had
since been absorbed by others or died. It was hand-
drawn, the styling seemed to suggest a time of optimism
and prospect. The writing was all in calligraphy, water-
coloured backgrounds of the countryside. The Jotun farm
touched Extwistle, Roughlee, Clitheroe, even down to
Simonstone. It was huge. McFell looked on wikipedia
for a while then ordered another drink.
“I know there's an answer.” he said to himself. The
horses ran past again. He looked for a while at the map,
clicking from one screen to another. He overlayed the
old map onto a new one using a copy of Photoshop he
had bought that afternoon from PC World. The ghost of
old farms rested on the hues of green and grey taken by
distant satellites, the Jotun family home had been
knocked down sometime in the late seventies. A few
buildings remained though. McFell noted these down
and left the pub. He was more drunk than he should be
but he knew that there was only a few constables on shift
tonight. Anything could happen.
* * *
An orange night began beneath the rain clouds
which slowly shifted away to the view of space. Clear
stars beeped and whirred away above sending out
strange energy into the infinite time. There was always
some kind of sun overhead. Sport walked through the
blackness of the park, relying more on his memory than
his eyes to get back home. Some shouting far off. He
passed through a gap in the fence and beneath the
underpass. It was quiet. The rain had made everything
still. He took a dry leaf from his pocket and crumbled it
into a cigarette, smoking that as he headed towards
Extwistle. Hoover had give him twenty pounds and
Sport felt like it was time to celebrate. The river was still
high when he crossed it, even the fountain had been
filled to the brim. It was a Saturday night and quite a few
people were out, strapless dresses and polo shirts on fake
tanned drunks out on some binge. Sport went to a pub,
then another and ended up in a taxi home. He was tired
and had no more money.
* * *
Oscar and Apples watched Hoover's men picking
through the buds for seeds. The brothers drank and told
stories of adventures they'd had. They worked for hours
until everything had been processed, they then took turns
in shining powerful torches out into the crop to gather
the plants and stack them into bundles. Oscar excused
himself for a second, going off to the barn. He hadn't
mentioned it and, as far as he knew, Hoover was
unaware of the greenhouses existence. Taller than their
house, the plant was huge and ridiculous. He had been
experimenting with growing plants with a single leaf that
would produce a thumb-sized flower once a week, these
all were planted in little clay pots around the clone
mother's base. Not much progress had been made with
the single leaf plants but he had been enjoying the
process. Oscar closed the door quietly behind him,
looking up at his reflection on one of the sheets of Mylar.
He turned on a blacklight and pulled a huge bud off the
plant and stuffed it into a empty bag of compost. Filling
it as much as he could he wrapped it up in twine and
tucked it under his arm. Oscar checked that nobody was
looking through a crack in the door and quickly made his
way out. He rested the bundle by a tree and headed
towards the back of the house. One of Hoover's men was
waiting there and shouted at him.
“I'm going for a piss.” he shouted back and went
off towards the edge of the herb garden, ears feeling
warm. That was close. He went to stand by his brother,
still holding the sword.
“Alright?” said Apples.
“Aye.” he said. He took out two cigarettes and
handed one to his brother. They watched the plants fall
lit shakily by incandescent torches with dying batteries.
Later on they had brought in logs from outside they used
for firewood and held a party, sharing some wine they
had freshly made and a plate of oven chips for the five
guests. They listened to some distant radio station
constantly buzzing with static, dreamy seventies pop
half-forgotten as the soundtrack for the strange
celebration. Apples had set his sword down on a kitchen
counter but was still standing by the hilt, drinking cheap
brandy from an empty tin. Hoover arrived with his
cohort.
“What's happening here?”
“Having a drink. We worked hard.” said one of the
men. Hoover was going to shout at them but figured he'd
try and keep cool until the deal was done. He was
holding a sports bag and dropped it onto the floor.
“That everything?” he said, nodding to the bags of
trimmings and the hash glob.
“The money?” said Apples. Hoover nudged the
bag with his foot. “Good.”
“You want to count it?” said Hoover. Oscar walked
over to the bag and put it on the table, unzipping it.
White and blue notes loose filled the inside.
“Aren't you usually meant to wrap it up or
something?”
“I couldn't find any of those paper loops
anywhere.”
“This is going to take ages to count.” sighed Oscar.
“Fuck it. We'll have it, looks like a lot.” said
Apples taking another drink.
“True.” said Oscar. “Take away the weed then.”
Hoover's men took the black bin bags and carried them
out, another carefully lifted up the piece of glass the hash
rested on.
“Careful with that.” said Hoover, stepping away
from the door. Oscar zipped up the bag and threw it to
his brother.
“Right then. That's that. You won't be seeing us
again.”
“It's a pity. You were good at growing. I smoked
some of your shit earlier, nearly pulled a whitey.” said
Hoover. He took a little metal tube from his pocket,
unscrewed the top and sniffed from it.
“Aye. Our dad taught us.” said Apples.
“What you doing with all them seeds anyway lads,
seen as you aren't growing any more?” said Hoover,
looking around. The buckets of seeds weren't in the
kitchen. They can't have gone too far.
“This and that.” said Apples. He stepped back so
he could reach for his sword.
“Yeah? Good...good.” said Hoover, sniffing. He
went for the door, adrenaline pumping around his body.
With his back to the brothers he reached inside his jacket
and snaked his fingers around the grip of a revolver his
uncle had given to him that evening. He pulled it out of
his jacket and span around.
“By the way...” he began. Apples had already
grabbed his sword and rushed towards him. Hoover
fired, the bullet zipped through the air and into Apple's
chest. It didn't slow him down. He pulled the sword back
and brought it down onto Hoover's arm in one swift cut.
Hoover watched as half of his right arm fell to the
floor along with his sleeve and the pistol. He looked at
the raw stump, it hadn't been a clean cut. A jagged edge
of white bone poked out amongst the flesh that quickly
became red as blood began pumping out from his
severed arteries. A little chunk of muscle hung by a piece
of skin, slapping wetly against his bicep. He screamed.
Apples broke his jaw again, stepping over the fallen
body and out into the yard. Eight men were looking
back, mouths open and eyes wide. Oscar meanwhile ran
to the scullery where the seeds still rested in buckets,
panicking, looking around for something to carry them
in before remembering Apples' backpack. He rushed
down the corridor into his room. Outside Apples took a
few steps forward.
“You all should leave. Keep the shit. Don't come
back.” he said, holding his chest, each breath taking
effort and causing pain.
“What about him?” said one of them, pointing at
Hoover. He was clutching at his arm and had gone quiet.
“He's ours now.” said Apples. One of the men took
a step forward. “I told you to go. Forget him. He worth
risking your life for?” he said, coughing. Blood wet his
lip. He watched the men walk off into the darkness and
turned back to Hoover. Oscar returned to the kitchen
with the pack on his back and the bag of money in one
hand.
“Now what?” he shouted to his brother.
* * *
McFell drove through the winding country roads,
headlights startling wildlife that rested in the bushes. It
was too dark to really see much but he figured if he
drove with the window down he might get some kind of
scent if they were growing outdoors. He'd already visited
a few buildings belonging to the Jotun family. Most were
now rubble resting on foundations, one or two others
were occupied by families. They didn't know their
neighbours. The roads were still wet from the rain
earlier, he took it easy on the corners. A deer leaped from
the road and off into the undergrowth. Moments like that
were why McFell lived by the countryside. He had
considered getting a transfer to one of the cities a few
years back but had decided that he'd rather be surprised
by deer and foxes in the road than the homeless. The car
went through Shawcliffe and along the roads leading
towards the hill. There were two more old properties he
was interested in, an old barn and a farmhouse that had
belonged to David Jotun's grandmother before she had
married into the family. He took a piece of gum out of
his mouth and was about to throw it out of the window
when he noticed a few pale figures on the hillside next to
him. He slowed down, squinting before driving on. After
a mile or so he did a three-point turn and waited at the
top of the road, engine off. He watched half a dozen or
so men emerge from the wilderness and clambering over
the dry stone wall. Turning the key he let the car idle
along and drift down towards them. As McFell got closer
he noticed they each carried a bag, one was carrying a
sheet of glass with some strange form that glistened in
the street lights. Oscar and Apples? He rang the station
and told them he suspected people were in the process of
carrying drugs down into Shawcliffe before driving
towards the group of men. They didn't seem to notice at
first, just as he was close enough to overhear them the
one at the back turned. A flash of recognition. McFell
had arrested him sometime last year for driving under
the influence. The man dropped his bag and jumped over
the wall, shouting.
“Stop!” McFell called after them. He pulled to a
halt and leapt out of his car, sprinting after them leaving
both his car and the bags of weed by the roadside.
Hoover had a tourniquet around the bloody stump
that also tied him to the oven. Oscar went through his
pockets and found some cocaine, which he sprinkled
onto oven top for Hoover to snort.
“You'll be reyt mate. We even put your arm in the
freezer.” said Oscar. He went through his other pocket
and found a phone. He walked to the door and threw it as
hard as he could into the night. Apples was piling bottles
into a suitcase.
“You're lucky my brother's here. I'd be making you
eat it by now.” said Apples. He looked at a bottle of
whiskey they kept under the sink and unscrewed the cap,
taking a nip. Hoover was pale, eyelids heavy.
“Fuck you.” he said.
“No, fuck you.” said Apples back to him. He
coughed a few times.
“How's your chest?”
“Hurts a bit. I can walk though.” he said, closing
the suitcase. The brothers looked at what they had. A bag
of money, a backpack full of cannabis seeds and a
suitcase each. They looked around at the room they had
spent a good portion of their time in, hundreds of
drunken nights and delicate mornings sat on either side
of the table.
“That it?” said Oscar.
“Think so. Not much is it? Shall we get off?”
“Sure.” said Oscar, taking the bag of money and
his suitcase. “See you around Hoover. You should listen
more, you know? Not everything will go your way.”
“Yeah. Doesn't matter how hard you think you are.
There's always someone else whose better.” said Apples.
He picked up his bags and the bottle of whiskey. “Shall
we?” The brothers walked out of the house for the last
time. The air was cool, calm.
“Hold on. Almost forgot.” said Oscar, heading
around the back of the house. He returned with the
compost bag with the cannabis inside. Both brothers
walked away from the house out into the dark
countryside, swallowed up by the blackness of the night
like anything else.
McFell had caught up to one of runners and was
dragging him back towards the road, both slipping over
the muddy field. Off in the distance a lone police car
flashed blue as it headed towards Shawcliffe.
“Bet you're feeling a little stupid now. All that time
at the gym and never going on the running machines?
That's just silly mate.” said McFell, frog marching him
towards the wall.
“Yeah whatever you prick.”
“I'm a prick am I? I got you though didn't I. All
those drugs, you're getting sent down mate. You can go
to the gym every day, how about that?” said McFell. He
walked down towards a gate. “I'll tell you what though.
You've probably got about two minutes before that panda
comes. You going to tell me where all that herbal
cannabis is from?”
“I don't know owt about no herbs.” he said.
“Carry on acting stupid since it's been working out
for you so far, right? Is this off Oscar and Apples? Are
they nearby?” said McFell.
“I said I don't know owt mate. Stop asking.”
“Fair enough. Where do you live again?” said
McFell, taking the man's wallet out of his pocket.
“Stockport road mate.”
“Aye? It's nice round there. Surprised you can
afford it. Maybe I'll look into it, see if your taxes make
sense. Might end up getting taken off you.”
“It's me wife's house, not mine.” said the prisoner.
“I hope for your sake that's true else she'll be living
on a council estate by Christmas. Cold winter, alone,
husband in prison. I'm sure she'll find someone else
though.” said McFell. They could hear the siren now, it
was getting louder with each second.
“Fuck off.”
“You tell me where those brothers are and I'll let
you go. Think quick lad.” said McFell. He walked him
towards his car. Cannabis had spilled onto the tarmac.
“If I dob on em will you really let me go?”
“Aye, why not. I want them, not you.” said McFell
smiling.
“Fucking hell, alright. Up out towards them trees,
you got to walk for about half an hour or so and they're
there.” he said.
“Hope you're not lying.” whispered McFell in his
ear. He released him. The man nodded, clambered over
the wall and jogged off in the night. McFell turned back
down the road, slapping the man's wallet on his car
bonnet. He'd go and arrest him tomorrow. For now he
needed to see if the brothers did live up in the woods.
McFell waited for the other police officer to arrive and
explained to him what had happened so far. The officer
ordered some backup and then helped McFell carry the
cannabis and hash into the back seat of the police car
before both headed off towards the woods.
Hoover stumbled out of the house, dizzy and weak.
They'd thrown his phone out here somewhere. He
needed to find it. Lurching around the yard he collapsed
in the dirt, feeling about for the phone.
“Fuck's sake man.” he said to himself hoarsely.
The drug dealer kept wanting to move his other arm but
there was only air. He hoped they could reattach it. There
was a beeping somewhere. His phone? It was a Saturday
night he remembered. Should have stuck to what he
knew. He got up clumsily and walked towards where he
thought the sound was emanating from.
“Fuck are you?” he said to the phone, looking
around at the black floor. Something hard underfoot. He
reached down and felt the familiar plastic cover of the
phone.
“Yes!” he said. An ambulance? Or get one his
friends to come? He thought for a moment and realized
most of the people he had trusted had left him with the
two brothers. Nine nine nine. Hoover held the phone up
to his ear just as McFell stumbled out of the darkness.
“Stop, police!” shouted some voice. He turned
slowly and was tackled down onto the wet mud.
A helicopter was sent for. The officer sat with
Hoover in the kitchen, McFell went around the house. A
musty bedroom with walls lined with faded posters.
Another room, black, an old mattress on the floor
amongst the dust. A bloody sword rested on top. He
opened the freezer in the scullery and saw an arm, pale
with frost gathering on the fingertips reaching upward
amongst the potato waffles and bags of meat. He pulled a
face and went back into the kitchen.
“Nobodies here.” McFell said to the officer.
“How's he doing?”
“Not too good. Fainted whilst you were having a
look around. What do you reckon happened here
McFell?”
“No idea.” said McFell. He sat down on a log and
looked out of the window, in the distant sky a lone
helicopter was flying towards them. It had taken a while
but McFell felt pretty good. He'd got the drugs, had
caught a drug dealer and found a cannabis farm all in
one evening. He wondered where the brothers were.
Looking at the way they lived they seemed quite self
sufficient. Still, everyone got caught in the end. Nobody
could hide forever.
* * *
Oscar and Apples walked over fields and rivers,
through woods and down paths, they walked for miles
until they came to a stop on some hillside. The sun was
beginning to rise a fabulous orange off in the East.
Apples passed the bottle of whiskey to his brother.
“What do you want to do now?”
“Not sure. Maybe go to some hospital? You did get
shot.” said Oscar, taking a swig.
“Ah, it's reyt. People get shot all the time.” said
Apples.
“Well, we've got a big bag of money, booze, a few
cigarettes, about ten ounces of green and all them seeds.”
said Oscar. They were quiet for a while, looking down at
the valley in front of them. They didn't know where they
were. Apples spat.
“Could go down South for a bit, see what it's like
there.”
“Nah.” said Oscar. They both laughed. Oscar took
out a cigarette and lit it, watching the smoke trail off into
the air. “Come on. My arse is getting wet.” he said,
helping his brother up. They set off walking down the
hill towards some distant town. The backpack full of
seeds had a little hole in the bottom, occasionally
dropping out one or two small seeds as the brothers
ventured out in the English countryside. A bird began to
sing, woken by the sun.
Spring came, melting away the frost and death of
the hard winter and replacing it with the beginnings of a
fresh year. Leaves began to grow on black bark, small
animals came from under the earth after hibernating for
months. Little George was walking with Marie out in the
fields. They held hands and made their way along the
dirt path, stepping over shallow puddles and mossy
stones. They talked and laughed about things that had or
would happen, smiling at each other and the landscape
around them.
* * *
“It turned out nice after all.” said Little George,
looking over his shoulder at Extwistle.
“It usually does.” said Marie. She gave his hand a
little squeeze. They walked on, entering a little
woodland. Bluebells were already beginning to come
out, as was wild garlic, nettles, clover and patches of
grass which were all lit by the sun filtering through the
branches overhead. As the couple made there way deeper
into the woods something caught Marie's eye. Amongst
the brown and black mud and dead leaves was a little
shoot. She let go off Little George's hand and knelt down
by it.
“What's that?” she said, pointing at the little jagged
leaves. Little George knelt next to her.
“Looks like...weed?” he said, tapping it with his
finger.
“I thought so. Weird that it would grow out here.”
“Probably was in some joint somebody dropped.”
he said. “Hey, we should dig it up. Grow it ourselves.”
“Yeah.” she said, turning to him. They kissed and
turned back to the little seedling. It was one of thousands
of others beginning to grow all across the green and
pleasant land.