clumps

By James Bone

Perennially pyjamaed and bloated, Piss raises a glass to fallen heroes and sips his Bucky, wincing.
Where d’ya reckon they are?
No clue
Fuckssake
Staff is on the floor, withdrawing from something. He hasn’t had a bevvy in like two hours. For the
best. There’s bacon in the fridge. No bread.
Reckon they’re gonna have any trouble along the way?
Nah
Sound
There’s a woman on the telly shouting. It seems like she’s speaking in tongues. Everyone in the
studio surrounding her begins to sob, at first quietly but after a while in big fits of tears, proper
grabbing each other and slamming their fists on the ground. It appears to be a Swiss gameshow.
Starving me
Eat something
What?
Bacon there
Can’t just eat bacon on its own
Why?
Dunno, just not really a scran is it?
Not starving then are ya?
Would you have some?
Some bacon?
Yeah
If you cook some, yeah
Sound then
Soon, the remains of a dearly departed pig affectionately (or crudely, depending who you speak to)
nicknamed Terence are sizzling in the dregs of three previously presumed dead bottles of
vegetable oil. Bacon on its own isn’t that bad actually. Staff seasoned it beautifully.
Bell them again
His phone’s dead
What about his mate?
Don’t have his number
Oh yeah. Not got Facebook nah?
Don’t know his name
Oh yeah
You asked me this before
Oh yeah
Hours are being stretchered off, injured. Piss’ hair is falling out in small clumps, clumps he keeps
quiet from Staff, lest he get any ideas. He has been known to extol the medicinal virtues of inhaling
human hair via spliff from time to time. The idea doesn’t sit right with Piss. Nah, swerve that.
May I have a glass of Bucky?
You may
That keeps him quiet for over forty-one minutes. Despite being a drug addict with a penchant for
heroin, acid, magic, lemo, poly, bud and the kenny, when it comes to alcohol Staff is a notorious
lightweight. Hence the nickname. Can’t drink on the job, can ya?

The television has morphed, slightly, into something else. Not quite the same shape, not quite the
same position. It’s still showing them something, something bright, yes, with lilac and violet and
royal blue and deep crimson all engaged in combat. Not that Swiss gameshow no more, nah.
Something madder. Drilling deeper into the collective conscience. We know what you all did.
There’s a fella in a nice suit singing into a pink plastic microphone and some people dancing in
skirts and shirts. A few of them have numbers on their foreheads.
If they don’t get here soon I reckon you go out and look for them
Nah
Why not?
Why should I?
Cos I reckon something bad has happened
Say what you like about the man, Staff is psychic. Something bad had happened. In fact, two bad
things. The first was this: Box had taken a beating off these two fellas who wanted something he
didn’t have (money). They’d broken his nose, fractured his jaw and stained his FAVOURITE T-
SHIRT red (blood). Second bad thing: Never had abandoned him. Soon as the first punch was
thrown, he’d bailed. Friendship scarred forever. Now, the former had gotten up and gone to look for
somewhere selling ale so he could warm up his insides and look the remains of the day in the eye.
The latter, well. Your guess is as good as mine at this stage.
You had a vision?
A feeling
Not a vision?
Nothing I can see nah
But this feeling is bad?
It’s not good
Right sound
Piss starts preparations for the outside world. Splash of cold water to the face, roll a ciggie, check
back door is locked, grab a few quid off the sideboard in case of an impromptu bus ride. Staff
processing the idea of being alone. Finds it to be a pleasant one.
Gonna watch a film me
I’m not planning on being that long
Not saying you are
You reckon it’s gonna take me the length of I Am Legend?
At least
Boss
Outside now, past the chippy, over the bridge, past miles of railway spilling into industrial sludge,
rows and rows of kitchen sinks and Mas and Das and Nans and Cans and Kips and Lips. Dusty
floor, so shit webs on. Not many people lurking about. Not many cars. Occasional clouds of reggae
and Motown and Britpop from back-garden burger boogying. Proper Aunty word that. Boogie.
Britpop too. Makes you sick.

Through the old bingo hall car park, across the rugby playing fields littered with Pepsi cans and nos
canisters. Piss writes a poem in his head about them and then scraps it. Throws it to the dogs.
Stupid. Now he reaches the graveyard and there’s one of our kid’s mates, Jock or John or Jod.
Jod, yeah. That’s it. Jod the Plod. Winds him up that. They’re just having a jabba, not harming
anyone or anything except the spectres of their future selves, and everyone hates their future
selves anyway. Old bastards. No nod from Jod the Plod so it’s off we trot. By the bakery/Coffee
Shop now. See if Eileen has seen anything.
Oh hello love
Alright Eileen how are you?
I’m alright yanno, quiet day today
Yeah same. Seen soft lad?
Narrow it down love
Box. With some other lad, weird head
As a matter of fact, I have seen them. They were in before asking for Jaffa cakes
Not got no Jaffa cakes nah?
Sold out love. Everyone is dry
Yeah, yeah, onto it. How long ago was this?
Oh, only about twenny minutes ago like
Oh sound. They say anythin about where they were going?
No, sorry love. They said very little
No worries. Nice one, see you soon Eileen
Back outside. The shop next door. Ahmed hasn’t seen them.
Sorry laa
No worries lad. Shite this innit
Lad I’m going crazy. Sat in mine on COD, don’t know what to do with myself
Same lad. You gonna be on later?
Deffo lad
Exchange of PSNs. Piss takes the rare step of looking at what’s around him. The shop is a
miniature utopia isn’t it. Bifters, bevvies, crisps of different shapes, sizes, textures. Nice and quiet.
The streets are different. Indifferent. Inhospitable, moving you along. The shop always wants you
back. There’s that kid.
Ay lad
Never swivels, sees Piss, swivels back around, swivels thrice more, stops dead and gapes at him,
with any seasoned saliva-detective worth his salt citing him for at least a few droplets of dribble in
the process.
Sappnin
Where’s soft lad?
Dunno yanno
What? What’s your name again sorry lad?
Never
Never
You?
Piss
Piss yeah? You like that name?
Not really my place to say
Fairs
How do you not know where soft lad is?
We got jumped
Fuck off
Yeah laa. Moody
Know who it was?
Nah. Two fellas. Probably smack’e’ds
Yeah yeah. Not the best round here sometimes. So what did he bail the other way?
Yeah. He bailed one way I went the other
I’ll bell him again now. Hasn’t answered like
Dunno if they took his phone
Phone dead. Slight panic now, rising against the essential equilibrium of being a proper chilled
fella. Not Piss’ ideal state. Gets agitated fast. Like wildfire in his brain. Every cell starts joining in.
Shit he did seven years ago jostling to get served next to present woes. He’ll be sound.
Any joy on the poly?
Nah lad, drought still in full effect
Fuck
I know lad, proper gasping for a jabba me. Can’t do green no more either
Mm same
Retracing steps, looking on benches, in bushes, no sign of him. Off to his ken then. Seems like the
logical step after the trauma of being jumped. Cup of tea and 8 out of 10 Cats with your Ma. Still,
you’d charge your phone wouldn’t ya?

Box’ head is battered. He’s in The Flute on his second pint and it hasn’t done the wonders he
thought it would for his head. For it is still indeed battered. Step in: wisearlfellaatthebar. Currently
the only fellow solace-seeker.
What happened to you kid?
Notin really mate. Got jumped by two nobheads
Scum, absolute scum who did that mate. You know them?
Nah, probably wouldn’t even recognise them to be honest fella
Let me get you a pint
I’m sound me yanno
Let me get you a pint
No arguing with the pint. It is so much more than its material essence. Social currency, mark of
respect, easer of tensions. Decent ale in here too. Easier to bond over something other than
bleach-tinged piss. He got him the pint. Now he has to get him one back. If not, chaos reigns. No
joke. So that’s four. I fooled around and fell in love. Clattering of cue on ball, ball on table, clink of
glasses, beep beep beep on the till. Head no longer battered, to be fair. Well, it’s being assaulted
on a different, more nuanced front now.
I’m not a dishonest man
Doesn’t sound like you are mate
I am an honest man
Nah, yeah, sounds like you are mate
And so on and so forth. The grievances of those so idle they have to fabricate them are felt deeply
within their hearts. They burn their skin, yellow their teeth. The physical body has to get in on the
lie, fast, or the subconscious will cotton on. Peanuts and crisps now. Sound.

Staff fast asleep. Will Smith blubbering. Buckfast bottle empty.

Haven’t seen the little scruff for aba three days
Kat, Box’ Ma, less than impressed with her son’s timekeeping and career path.
Oh right sound, he’s been with us in case you were worried. Only lost track of him the last hour
Not assed to be honest. Useless cunt
Sound. If he comes home will ya tell him to bell us please?
If I remember yeah. If you see him, tell him to come home and clean the fucking kitchen that he left
in a state days ago, pots and, pots and pans and all that?
Yeah no worries Kat. Take care
Piercing blue eyes. All-round awful human being. Only just got out of prison for smashing a Corona
bottle over someone’s head outside The Rose. Deep down, beneath the tough exterior and
aggression, lies more evil. A deeper, more sacred kind, the kind reserved for those select few
people, whose breath poisons the air and whose presence over any kind of prolonged period of
time results in those around them feeling as though they are heading through life cursed. No
wonder Box was the one who got jumped. Starting to doubt Never’s side of the story.
Fucking hell
Crank isn’t she
Not half
Feel sorry for him me
He deffo hasn’t been gone for days she’s chatting shit

Box is now dead on the pub toilet floor. Internal bleeding. Proper shame. Nice lad. No-one finds
him for about twenty minutes so his soul just chills for a bit, leaning on the radiator, staring down at
his body.

James Bone is a writer from Liverpool, England.