Divided By Tragedy

The din in the next room gets louder. Music blares from the jukebox. A group of girls in their early or mid twenties stream into the room where we are sitting, with bottles of wine. They call out hello, then make their way back out to the main area of the pub, giggling among themselves. One of the girls turns round and blows a kiss at Gordon.

      Suddenly, I feel strange, as though someone has just thrown cold water over me. Memories swamp me, memories of home and childhood. The moors in the distance stretching against the skyline, bleak and rainy most of the time. The park by the traffic lights where we used to play. The lollipop lady smiling at us, asking if we've had a good day at school. A group of us lads in the local park on a summer's evening, aiming our see-through water pistols at each other near the roundabout in the play area, laughing and ducking and diving, the spray of water getting into my eyes, up my nostrils.  The scent of newly cut grass trickling over in the evening breeze, making me sneeze. A group of older lads playing football by the water fountain. A community.

         Then, I see Craig Winters on a different occasion; we hand in empty soft drinks bottles to the lady at the sweetshop and spend the money we receive from the shopkeeper on a bottle of Tizer, which we drink in the estate car park opposite the garages, sitting on a kerb in the sweltering granite heat, the blinding rays of the sun beaming off a nearby bedroom window.  Back then, we shared everything.       

      Gordon seems to pick up on my mood, for he asks, 'You okay?'
      
        'I'm all right.'
      
         'Sure?'
      
         'I'm not okay. No, I'm not.' I turn to face Gordon and detect a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. The air around us grows thick with expectancy, a horrible sort of expectancy, like at a party when everyone's drunk and trouble's brewing and no one knows how to deal with it. 'We were best mates – you and me and Craig. Why would you not speak to me afterwards?'