Starers Read online

  Starers

  Nathan Robinson

  The Old Man At The Bus Stop In The Rain

  All it took to persuade Dylan Keene to head to his local pub; The Green Tree, after a hard week’s graft was a simple argument. This is what he had done with his unappreciative family; now as he nursed his fourth Guinness with a Jameson chaser dropped in for good measure, the anger and frustration he felt towards his should-be loved ones had been dampened, temporarily of course. His best mate Harry had sent a four lettered text message that the majority of most hardworking men loved, sealing the deal.

  PINT?

  After a near six-hundred mile round trip to Pontypool, Dylan was more than ready for a pint or two or three.

  ‘So let me get this straight,’ his younger brother Lennon queried, ‘she was at school right?’

  ‘Yeah, in a cupboard with some lad.’ Dylan took a thoughtful sip of the black meal in a glass, licked his lips and placed the drink carefully back down on the soggy beer mat.

  ‘They were naked?’ Harry Price, Lennon’s and Dylan’s joint best friend since junior school added with a quizzical eyebrow.

  ‘No not naked,’ Dylan reiterated, ‘how did the deputy head put it? “They were found with their hands in each other’s pants, except they weren’t wearing pants,” something along those lines.’

  Harry and Lennon sucked air in through their teeth and grimaced.

  ‘You must’ve exploded on her?’ Harry asked.

  ‘Yeah, I called her a . . .’ Dylan paused, catching the word before it left his lips. ‘It doesn’t matter what I called her. It wasn’t nice.’

  ‘She still got that four-haircuts at once thing going on?’ Harry rolled his hands around his head as if he was wearing an imaginary fishbowl upon his shoulders, then spiked up his fingers.

  ‘Yeah, she’s now talking about a sculptured Mohawk next, after she watched The Girl with a Dragon Tattoo over at her friend’s house,’ Dylan revealed with a roll of the eyes.

  ‘You remember when Dyl went through his Goth stage? The long hair and makeup?’ Lennon asked Harry, giving him a nudge.

  Harry nodded and smiled. ‘Didn’t that paedo think you were a little girl or something?’

  ‘I was mistaken for a girl and offered a lift by a stranger, yes that is true.’ Dylan admitted without too much reluctance. ‘And yes, I shaved my head the day after so the mistake wasn’t ever repeated.’ Dylan ran a hand over his shorn scalp, then said with a smile, ‘and I’ve kept it that way ever since, saves me time in the morning and old men don’t try and fuck me.’

  ‘Didn’t he try it again after you shaved your head because he still fancied you?’

  ‘No, Len, he didn’t. But you like to remember it that way. Besides, I’m not a Goth no more; I’m a smiley person.’

  ‘How old is Lucy now?’ Harry asked with a scratch of his beard and a quizzical eyebrow.

  ‘She’s twelve,’ Lennon answered for him, shaking his head slowly, features screwing up in mild disgust.

  ‘Jesus!’ said Harry, ‘I always thought she was older than that, I mean she looks older.’

  ‘Cheers, Harry, you’re a great help, that makes me feel a lot better, but I’d prefer it if you didn’t have designs on my daughter.’

  ‘I never said that Dyl! I’m just saying she looks old for her age. I thought she was sixteen, y’know legal tender.’

  Dylan turned to his brother, ‘are you gonna punch him or am I?’

  ‘Less of the legal tender talk, Hazza, alright? Dylan’s depressed enough as it is.’

  ‘What does Kirsty think of all this?’ Harry shifted the subject into a slightly different direction.

  ‘She’s just as pissed off as me, but she can’t really say too much on the subject, she was pregnant at seventeen with Lucy, so we can’t really lecture her on the subject can we?’

  ‘Sure you can.’ Harry gave a knowing smile. ‘Just tell Lucy that you don’t want her making the same mistakes that you two did . . .’

  ‘You want me to tell my daughter that she was a mistake?’

  ‘Well no, not exactly, but . . .’ Harry defended himself.

  ‘Hey, how’s about we talk about something different, like errr . . . band names for example,’ Lennon said, steering the conversation away. ‘Okay, so far we were undecided between Racist Baby, The Roadkill Puppeteers, Ded Sexy and Barry Bongo and the Bastards? So what’s it gonna be?’

  Trust Lennon to save a conversation, thought Dylan. This is what he needed, a few pints with his brother and his best mate to take him away from the hell week he’d suffered; seventy odd hours on the road, clocking close to two-thousand miles delivering computer parts up and down the country. And when he got back home, his wife was in tears after a screaming match with his promiscuous twelve year old daughter; a letter that had been sent home from school, hand delivered by the Head Teacher, Mr Moor, detailing her behaviour with a fellow male pupil.

  The letter now lay in shreds on the kitchen floor, torn to pieces by Lucy upon confrontation by her mother. Dylan never got a chance to read it; Kirsty however filled him in with all the gory details. Apparently, Lucy just wanted the boy to like her. How do you punish a child that does that? It was bound to happen at some point, but why did it have to happen at school, and while she was only twelve? Was it he that was the bad father? Sure he’d been working away a lot, but what could he do? They needed the money, and if the overtime was there, he had to take it. The recession meant that he had to work twenty percent longer to make the same wage he was earning three years ago. The increasing utility bills each month didn’t help matters and the same went for the higher rate on the mortgage.

  Now there was talk of downsizing and letting a few drivers go. Restructuring they called it. Dylan didn’t need that. He dreaded telling Kirsty more bad news; she’d crumble. Their relationship was strained as it was. She was already off work with depression and had been for the past year. She’d chosen not to go down the medicated route, for the fear of being dulled by pills. Instead she tried to stick to a routine of a multi-vitamin and an omega 3 tablet with breakfast, followed by a one hour walk around Darlow woods that bordered the town. Dylan encouraged her to get out and socialise. He urged her to take a class, enrol on a course. Anything would do to get her out of the house. She tried, but any endeavour only lasted a few weeks before she got bored or anxious. She preferred housework when she was having a shut in day, cleaning became her religion and obsession. Dylan didn’t mind this regime she put herself through. It kept her mind busy and the washing was always done.

  Dylan loved her with all his heart and soul. But she was difficult to live with at the best of times. His wage just covered the mortgage and bills, so treats and luxuries were rare when your head was dipping below financial waters.

  ‘How about Nun Chuckers?’ Harry suggested, wiping an accumulation of frothy Guinness foam from his top lip, ‘it would be a great album cover!’

  ‘We chuck nuns?’ Dylan pondered, trying to conjure the image in his mind.

  Lennon piped up with excited wide eyes as an idea formed, ‘how about Nun Fuc . . .’

  ‘No!’ Dylan and Harry cried out in unison, voices so loud their table neighbours turned to cast disparaging gazes their way.

  ‘I’m all for a name that incites controversy, just not one that can’t be mentioned on the radio,’ Dylan reasoned. ‘We’ve got to think forward as well as outwards.’

  ‘What if we spell it with a pee-aitch? Nun Phuckers?’ Lennon enunciated.

  Harry and Dylan both shook their heads whilst hiding their smiles.

  The fantasy talk of setting up a band moved Dylan’s mind away from family life. Every Saturday night and some Tuesdays if he was home early enough, Lennon on guitar, Harry on drums and himself on bass, play
ed in the garage connected to the side of his house. They had a few of their own songs under their belt and a few half-decent covers; all they needed was a name they could agree on.

  Personally, Dylan liked The Galivants, but Harry dismissed it straight away, arguing that there were too many of THE bands out there in the mainstream; they needed something further out there; such as Racist Baby. Lennon’s choice of The Road Kill Puppeteers only made it because Harry liked the shock value and imagery it conjured up. Lennon also fancied going down the electronica route with the group name Techtronic Plates. Harry dismissed the idea. They were a guitar band. He didn’t want to fuck around with blinks, bleeps and a laptop, keep it simple with a gritty, bluesy wall of sound.

  Three further pints of Guinness and Jameson chasers later, (that Dylan and Harry paid for; aside from his benefits, Lennon never had any evidence of disposable income; ever) they still were undecided on a decent band name. The discussion would continue at tomorrow night’s band practice along with more beer and maybe a sneaky joint if Harry was feeling generous with the green.

  Upon leaving The Green Tree, a heavy downpour greeted them from the darkened heavens. Dylan invited Harry back for a nightcap but he bravely refused. He had work in the morning and he couldn’t turn down the time and a half overtime. Harry set off home by himself in a drunken wayward stumble, Lennon asked if he could crash on Dylan’s sofa. Naturally he agreed, how could he, one of the most amicable guys around, turn his brother down, especially on a piss rainy night like this?

  It was a short, hurried walk down Westfield Road, past the shops, the six weeks’ worth of road works and the dark and empty school playing field back to Dylan’s house. When they got there, Lennon ran his hand up the windscreen of Dylan’s rusty white Vauxhall Corsa, soaking up the thick droplets of water; he flicked them down the back of his brothers’ neck. Dylan was long used to his brother’s playful attitude, so he simply swept his arm back across the roof of the car, sending a chilled plume of water into his brothers’ face. As the horseplay continued down the driveway, neither of them noticed the old man waiting at the bus stop across the road; as still as a shop dummy, clothes soaked through to his cold, white, liver spotted skin. He’d been there an hour before they’d arrived home, having missed his last bus to the next village. Even when Dylan fumbled his jingling keys into the front door lock, pushed the handle down, and went inside, they didn’t notice that the old man was staring straight at Dylan’s house with stoic, blank faced wonder.

  Only when they were in the living room, powering up the Play Station 3 for a Call of Duty session and arranging fresh drinks to imbibe them gleefully into the early hours of Saturday morning, did Dylan notice the old man across the road. As he drew the curtains shut to black out the orange glister from the streetlights outside, Dylan pondered:

  ‘I wonder what time the last bus is?’

  ‘C’mon Dyldo. Time for an arse kicking!’ Lennon called as he loaded a level.

  Dylan drew the curtains. Blanking out the old man at the bus stop in the rain from his mind, who waited patiently outside, but gave no clue as to what exactly he was waiting for.

  Crash, Bang, Wallop

  Morning broke through a promise of clear skies, and as it did, a brilliant red glow from the east nurtured the sweet tweeting of birds and the blossoming of delicate flowers. What it signified for Dylan and Lennon however was the beginning of a black monster of a hangover. In the stillness of the early morning, a spider hurried across the carpet, back to his hidey place beneath the dust strewn television stand after a night of scuttling and scampering across tickled faces whilst their owners snored their way through oblivious, though deep sleep cycles.

  Lennon had crashed out on the sofa as promised, arms tucked up tight against his chest. Dylan however had passed out on the floor; Play Station controller still grasped in one hand, GAME OVER had blazed in red screen burn for the past six hours. The remaining taste of whisky turned his stomach, a nudge to his gut turned it further.

  His wife kicked him lightly in the stomach; he groaned.

  ‘Suppose you’ll be wanting a coffee?’

  ‘Please,’ Dylan said, cracking open one lid to eyeball the army of fluff that resided upon the surface of the carpet landscape and his wife’s purple painted toenails.

  ‘Coffee?’ she asked Lennon.

  ‘Yes,’ only his lips moved, the rest of his body remained in a highly tuned form of meditation that dictated the less movement the better for his immediate health and well-being.

  ‘What time did you get in?’ Kirsty asked, still towering over the top of him. With eyes still half closed, she pulled the pink flowered dressing gown tight around her waist, tying the belt in a tight knot.

  ‘Don’t know, what time did the pub shut?’ Dylan replied.

  ‘You woke me about half one, you were cheering.’

  ‘I think that was when we killed all of them Nazi Zombies; they had to die.’

  ‘Two sugars… no . . . make it three,’ Lennon said completely unrelated to the conversation, ‘. . . and bacon, bring me lots of bacon. I need me some burnt dead pig.’

  Dylan turned his open eye up towards his towering wife, her blonde hair catching the glow through the curtains, making her just that little bit more beautiful in spite of his grating hangover.

  ‘Christ on a bike! You look gorgeous this morning. Sorry if we woke you last night.’

  ‘That’s okay; I got straight back to sleep anyways.’

  ‘Good, bacon butties stat!’ Dylan gave a hopeful yet devilish smile directed at his wife.

  ‘I’ll see if we’ve got any bacon, Len you want one?’

  ‘And eggs, scrambled . . . if you have any.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can rustle up. You wanna help me, darling?’

  Dylan groaned, then pushed himself up from the living room carpet, spitting out flecks of dust and fluff from his mouth. His stomach felt like a listing ship, ready to capsize its alcoholic cargo should the going get too rough.

  ‘If I have to…’

  ‘You do.’

  ‘How’s our darling princess this morning?’ Dylan asked as he unsteadily got to his feet, his voice buttered with sarcasm.

  ‘Fine, far as I know. After you two had words, she bolted off to her room and stayed there all night. It was great; I could watch whatever I wanted on TV. Managed to watch three episodes of Dexter; so every cloud . . .’ Kirsty smiled in that wary way of hers then turned round and opened the curtains. A burning wave of bright, white light from the Saturday morning flooded in, half blinding Dylan. Lennon squinted, screwing his face up into a wrinkled ball. He turned to face the back cushion of the sofa.

  ‘Jesus wife! You trying to kill us? You know what light does to us when we’re hung-over, we’re like goddamned vampires. We’ll burn up in a burst of flames!’

  ‘Get over it you daft lug,’ Kirsty motioned towards him and kissed him on the cheek, ‘I’ll try and find some meat for breakfast. Maybe you should brush your teeth?’

  ‘Cheers, darling, you’re so sweet.’

  ‘Your breath smells like you’ve been tonguing Lennon’s arse.’

  ‘I didn’t ask the Dyldo to do it,’ Lennon added with a squinting smile, ‘but I let him because he’s my brother and I love him. I can’t help his compulsions.’

  ‘Hardy-ha!’ Dylan mock laughed back.

  Kirsty headed for the kitchen, in the space she left was the view across the road. The old man was still at the bus stop. Somehow, this strange sight sobered the bleary-eyed Dylan up, clicking on concern. He walked towards the window, trying to make some sense of the situation. Why would he still be there? He seemed to be in some sort of trance, he hadn’t moved a muscle, unless this was one of Len’s sick jokes. But not even Dylan could see the funny side of this bizarreness yet.

  ‘Len, check this out.’

  Lennon turned and opened an eye to see that his brother was gazing out of the bay window.

  ‘Is it a bird; is she jogging? I’
m not moving unless she’s got great big tits.’

  ‘I heard that!’ Kirsty protested from the kitchen while she filled the kettle from the sink, ‘ladies present!’

  ‘Correction, I’m only moving if she’s got better tits than Kirsty.’

  ‘I heard that too!’

  ‘You were meant to. Three sugars sweetness,’ Lennon reminded her of his refreshment request.

  ‘Len, get up and check this out,’ Dylan urged.

  Begrudged but bound by curiosity, Lennon peeled himself away from the sofa and with a weary stumble, joined his brother by the window.

  ‘It’s an old man waiting for a bus. Fucking great. You got me up for that. I need a piss now that I’ve moved. You broke the seal.’

  ‘He was out there last night; he was waiting at the bus stop when we got back from The Tree.’

  ‘You saying he stood out there in the rain all night?’

  ‘I reckon.’

  ‘Maybe it’s that paedo who fancies you. We’ll have to get you a wig.’

  They both paused, fixing their gaze on the well-dressed old man across the road. His suit still looked damp and bedraggled from the evening’s onslaught of heavy rain. Behind him lay the fence that bordered the school field. A group of young boys wearing a rainbow of varying footie shirts, joyfully played football in the freedom of the Saturday morning sun, sliding long tackles across the splendour of the damp grass. Dylan made a little bet with himself that they didn’t have mortgage worries, or a sponger brother, or a wife that resented them for all the hours they worked or a twelve year old daughter that couldn’t keep her hands off her boyfriend’s . . . He derailed his train of thought from that track of worry and switched back to the task in hand.

  ‘Is he staring at us?’ Dylan finally asked.

  ‘I think he might be. Maybe he’s had a stroke.’

  ‘And forgotten to collapse?’

  ‘Viagra keeping him stiff and straight?’ Lennon offered, ‘medical technologies nowadays, eh?’

  From the kitchen, Kirsty let out a startled scream that sliced straight down the centre of their hangovers like a chainsaw through ice cream.