By Stu Hennigan.
Later, he’d say that he never forgot the night they met but the truth was he could barely remember it. He knew the story of course, learned by rote through years of retelling, but the details were supplied by others and the memories belonged to someone else. It was some time in the middle of the first decade of the new millennium, when the optimism of the early years had faded as the reality of the twenty-first century dawned, but the financial crash that left such a scar on everything that came after was still to come. The specifics don’t matter. It happened, and that was that. The rest was history.
He’d finished uni a couple of years before and been spat out into a job market where opportunities for graduates were thin on the ground, especially for people with degrees like the history one he’d dodged, slacked and drunk his way through in Manchester. The first and only member of his family ever to stay at school post-16, never mind go to university, he’d benefitted from the means-tested assistance payments to help with the tuition fees introduced by New Labour a few years before; without it, a kid from a breadline family like his would never have been able to go, but there was no way he could afford any kind of post-graduate course — only the middle-class kids could afford to do that — and so with no money and no job he’d ended up back in the shithole that spawned him, stuck in his old box room at his mam and dad’s house, climbing the fucking walls.
It was a sleepy town at the foot of the Yorkshire Dales, famed for its market and 11th century castle, its annual beer festival and barge trips up and down stretches of the Leeds-Liverpool canal. It was a honeypot for tourists but for locals there wasn’t a lot going on, and work was hard to come by. Most of the people who left to go to university never came back, so degrees were rare and usually unwanted in the eyes of employers, who rightly assumed that anyone who had one would fuck off as soon as a better offer came along; most places he applied to said he was overqualified and sent him on his way, but he had no idea what he wanted to do, so the rejections didn’t bother him too much at the start.
The idea of any kind of career that he could dedicate his life to was anathema, so he settled into a steady rotation of easy-come-easy-go jobs just to get some cash in his back sack. He tried his hand at bar work for a while, but when Tony, the landlord at the Shepherd, realised he’d been helping himself to drinks and was often more pissed than the customers he got the bullet in pretty short order; after that he worked behind the counter in a petrol station doing stultifying ten-hour shifts for minimum wage. That was okay as a stopgap, until he got caught robbing decks of Marlboro Lights from the fag cupboard and that was the end of that one too. There were others, too numerous to mention and most so fleeting they lasted little more than a few days or weeks at best, none of them serving any purpose other than to occupy some dead time and give him a few quid to blow on chemical amnesiacs to help forget about the meaningless of it all.
In the end he settled for the path of least resistance. It was the last thing he wanted to do, but he got a job labouring for a local plasterer, a mate of his dad’s from way back. His old man had always told him he needed a trade, but he’d seen what a lifetime of manual labour had done to him; the old boy was fucked at fifty with arthritic knees, a dodgy shoulder and a back that was prone to giving way and leaving him agonized and immobile for weeks on end, and he didn’t fancy going the same way himself. He had no choice for now though.
Labouring was tough. The days were long and the work was physically ruinous to a lad whose idea of weightlifting was raising his pint glass to his lips and back again; he came home every night lead-limbed and filthy, muscles ablaze with the burn of lactic acid, nostrils caked, eyes gritty and rimmed red from the dust of the day’s work, but the money was good and the weekends made up for it. He fell in with a crowd of people he remembered from the local comp who’d jacked school at sixteen and had been working around town ever since. They used to be the kind of kids who would kick the fuck out of him when he was a teenager because he went to the grammar school up the road, but they were okay these days, and the hours from Friday evening to Sunday night were lost in a maelstrom of booze, coke, ecstasy and ketamine that felt great at the time when all was phantasmagorical chaos but left him sick and disorientated at six a.m. every Monday when reality kicked down the door and it was time to get up for another day schlepping shit around the site.
Most of his old mates had moved away. They’d finished uni and stayed put, scattered at random around the country and cracking on with whatever bright futures they’d planned out, getting jobs and cars and girlfriends and turning into real adults. Some were even talking about marriage and kids — a horrifying prospect: why would anyone want to get saddled with all that responsibility? He couldn’t see much past getting paid every Friday and whatever adventures the weekend would bring, and for a few years it didn’t seem there was any sign of a way out, until Rob stepped in.
Rob worked in the offie down the road from his mam and dad’s house, the place he stopped by to pick up a six pack of Strongbow on the way home from work when he was feeling particularly parched, which was most days. One time he saw that Rob was wearing a Ramones T-shirt so they started chatting about punk rock and ended up arranging to go for a few beers when Rob finished his shift. They became firm friends, fast, bonding over gigs and bands and a shared love of the kind of drinking that saw them incapacitated under the table of every pub in town, until Rob got bored of the offie, packed it in and moved out of town to try to find more gainful employment elsewhere. They kept in touch though, and it was while he was over visiting Rob that it happened.
He’d booked the Friday afternoon as holiday. After tossing it off on the site all morning, he binned work at twelve and headed straight home, showered the plaster dust off himself, chucked some clothes in a rucksack and jumped on the first train he could catch. It was only a forty five minute ride but he managed to sneak a few cans in, chugging them out of a plain white carrier bag when he thought no one was looking, the sour apple tang fizzing the grains from the back of his throat as outside the window the town morphed into a verdant blur of countryside, the climbing slopes of the moorland spotted with sheep and broken up by the graphite pencil lines of dry stones walls. The cutting carved its way through a 19th century landscape painting punctuated with the old mill towns of West Yorkshire — Keighley, Saltaire, Bingley — which appeared so unchanged as they zipped by that it was like taking a trip back through time to the heady days when the hills were alive with the sound and smoke of the dark, Satanic mills which exported their wares across the rapidly shrinking world in the fiery light of the global Capitalist dawn.
Eventually the countryside receded into the past and the train slowed into the sprawling railyards of the main city station with rusty redorange tracks branching out in all directions, the hills and mills they’d left behind replaced by tower blocks and industrial units, then the glittering new office spaces of the modern city centre, monolithic totem poles to the gods of new finance. He’d just finished his fourth can when the train stopped.
Rob met him on the platform with a bear hug. He was a big guy, six foot four in his socks and probably about sixteen stone, so a hug from him was always a good one and more often than not physically hurt.
Sean, he grinned, releasing him. It’s good to see you, you fucker, it’s been ages. How’ve you been?
Not bad, big man, not bad. Y’alright?
It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it? I’ve got something in my bag for us. Come on, let’s go to the park.
Sounds good dude. Have we got any plans?
You’ll see, fucker, you’ll see.
Another warm embrace that had none of the awkwardness that men from home usually exhibited, hands clapped on backs, genuine squeezing, then they headed out into the chaos and noise of the lunchtime city, an insect hive of human life swarming in the roiling heat of the early afternoon. Buses, taxis, cars crawled in lines at a snail’s pace, belching exhaust fumes into the air discordant with the sound of chugging diesel engines and dissonant horns, people sitting on the benches around the statue of the Black Prince smoking fags, scarfing quick lunches out of paper and plastic containers from Gregg’s, Costa, Pret, every other person drinking coffee from Styrofoam cups despite the temperature.
The park was a short walk through the city, past the university with its white clock tower and steep front steps, uphill all the way, which was a slog for Sean whose legs had been loosened by the Olde English he’d drunk on the train. When they got there it was full of students taking advantage of the weather, the air rich with the smell of disposable barbecues and spliff smoke, boom boxes pumping dub and ambient techno, laughter and the frothing of opening cans. In the children’s playground a gaggle of women in brightly coloured saris and headscarves were pushing their plump, grinning offspring on the swings; the skate park next door was full of shirtless stoners, tanned and toned, rattling nonchalantly up and down the half pipes and over the jumps in between tokes on their hash pipes, passing round three litre bottles of white cider when they needed to cool off. It was busy, but not too busy, everyone with plenty of space to spread out and do their own thing; the perfect place to waste a day.
The something in Rob’s bag turned out to be a bottle of Jim Beam, and they’d more or less emptied it by teatime. Sean was stretched out on the grass buzzing pleasantly from the burn of the whiskey and the sun’s UV reddening his skin, eyes drowsing behind his shades; Rob was always sluggish in the heat; despite being bald he said hats made him look like a twat and refused to wear one, so he’d propped himself up in the shade of a grand old oak, tipping the last of the bottle into his mouth and licking his lips with a grin. He was still wearing his scuffed and battered black leather jacket, which Sean had never seen him without, and couldn’t have been much help in cooling him down.
Man, that’s good, Sean said, stretching his arms above his head, mouth agape in a cavernous yawn.
Definitely.
So what’s next? Too early to stop now.
Totally. What time is it, anyway?
It’s only half five.
They laughed at the thought, then settled into a comfortable silence as the dub continued to throb and occasional wasps buzzed angrily in between them. A dragonfly with a body the size of Sean’s index finger drifted lazily down and settled on the toe end of his boot for a couple of seconds, before lifting off again and disappearing in the blink of an eye. He tried to track its flight, but it was way too fast.
Is that a Co-op? Sean lifted his head and gestured towards a parade of shops across the road beyond the end of the park. A homeless man was sitting next to the door, back to the graffitied red bricks, looking disconsolately at the streams of people threading in and out of the shop without giving him so much as a downward glance.
Yeah.
That whiskey’s made me fucking thirsty, man. Have they got a fridge?
Think so.
Let’s go get some cold ones then.
I told some people we’d meet them in the pub at seven. It’s just up the road. Why don’t we just grab a table there? There’s someone I want you to meet.
Whatever. I could do with a break from the sun. As long as the beer’s cold I don’t give a fuck where we are.
And so it began. They stood up, dusted themselves down and headed for the pub on the corner, found a table under a parasol at the front, looking out over the busy intersection and endless queues of traffic. Sean was so pissed he lit a fag while he was waiting at the bar, having forgotten about the ban on indoor smoking that had come into force a couple of weeks before. He got a gentle bollocking from the barmaid, but she was smiling when she did it; after that the Becks was icy and the vibe was good. Rob’s friends breezed in at bang on seven with fags lit and drinks in hand, high on sunshine, flushed with youth. There were six or seven of them, people Rob had met since moving to the city; he was an affable guy and made friends easily wherever he went. Introductions were made, hands were shaken, then there was a bit of jostling as everyone shuffled in around the table. Sean was shy by nature, often awkward when presented with new faces, especially when they descended en masse like this, but today he was half-cut and happy so none of it fazed him. He’d forgotten most of the names by the time the round of introductions had finished, but there was one that stuck.
Sean, Rob said, this is Amanda. Mandy, this is my mate Sean Molloy. I think I’ve told you about him before?
And there she was. In years to come they could tell the tale in their sleep, the easy chemistry of a pair of seasoned stage actors who know each other’s lines backwards and weren’t afraid to ham it up for the folks in the cheap seats at the back.
Was it love at first sight? someone would ask.
I thought so, Sean would reply.
He definitely had his beer googles on. Always a coquettish laugh at this point, a pantomime roll of the eyes. I didn’t know what to make of him. He was so fucked he could barely remember his own name.
I never forgot yours though, did I?
He was pissed when I met him, and he hasn’t changed a bit. This used to be playful, grinned out with an affectionate bash on the arm or tousle of his spiky hair, but after a time it came through gritted teeth, accompanied by a tight smile and a sidelong glance aimed like a bullet while she exhaled a slow sigh, heavy with the weariness of the world and every sad thing in it.
According to legend, from the moment they met that night they had only eyes for each other, sitting across the table locked in deep conversation to the exclusion of everyone else until the bar staff kicked them all out some time after last orders, although Sean could have been dancing bollock naked on the table for all he could recall. Rob and Sean offered to walk Amanda home even though her house was close by; she lived in an area that was populated half by students and half by locals, but it was right on the edge of the inner city and Rob said he never let her walk home alone, even though she swore it was safe.
She would tell of an awkward moment at the door as they tried to say their goodbyes, a clumsy hug and his hesitant, mistimed peck on her cheek. It was lovely to meet you and we should definitely do it again some time, both of them a little flustered despite the alcohol, talking over each other, saying the same thing in their rush to stay connected. Rob, utterly shitfaced, tripped over a manhole and faceplanted into a bush at the end of the front garden, bringing the vibe back down to earth. Sean was halfway down the path before she called him back.
You know what. Why don’t you stay here tonight?
Sure. Maybe I should get him up first though.
Come on then. I’ll help you. Might be an idea to get him a cab.
Mandy made a quick phone call, then helped in the struggle to heft Rob’s bulk from the ground. It took a couple of minutes for them to prop him against the wall, then they shared a smoke until the taxi arrived and they shoved him into the back, away with the fairies and singing ‘Rockaway Beach’. Before the door slammed shut, he stopped singing for long enough to slur, You know where the house is, don’t you, fucker? See you in the morning, alright?
G’night Rob, safe trip.
Privately, they’d reminisce about what happened next. The laughter when he asked if there was anything else to drink and she offered him a cup of tea; how he thought she was as drunk as he was but she’d only had three all night; the way his shyness returned, leaving him perched on the end of the bed while she lay down, waiting for him to make the first move; the raw power of the first kiss, the ferocity of what came next, how it took them both by surprise; how her knickers ended up hanging off the back of the computer chair on the other side of the room, the way the sex was way better than it had any right to be, the fact they were still fucking at dawn when her housemate was shuffling around in the kitchen making breakfast; how she’d never been late for work but she was the next day as they lay in bed entangled in the sheets and each other, no longer intoxicated with alcohol but something else entirely; that from the very first night, their lives as individuals had already ceased to exist.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Stu Hennigan is a writer, poet and musician from the north of England, currently based in Leeds. His debut non-fiction work Ghost Signs: Poverty and the Pandemic, based on his experiences delivering food parcels in Leeds during the early stages of the pandemic, was published in June 2022 by Bluemoose books. His short fiction and poems have appeared in Lune Journal, the anthology The Middle Of A Sentence, Expat Lit, Visual Verse and others. He is currently working on a novel with the working title of “False Friend”, as well as several other shorter fiction and non-fiction projects.
