because I had more shit to shovel. These photos are bursting with stupidity, but in truth, they were packed with potential.
‘Bastards,’ I mutter, giving the collage a sly look. ‘Smug little bastards.’
Mikey Farley’s aged a lot, his hairline creeping backwards at a pace not to be envied, and Griffo – who’s always looked older, a middle-aged fella by the age of twelve – looked trimmer back then, less bloated, fewer chins. Helen, with radiant red hair on every photo, her sharp blue eyes alive, hasn’t changed a bit. Neither’s Snowy. And they still hit the hard stuff regularly. How do they manage it with two kids? But, God. Helen’s texts from last night. She’ll be in a world of pain today, her paranoia sending poor Snowy around the bloody bend.
I take the empty biscuit tin into the hallway, opening it once again. Bending down, I pick up the coins and put them back where they belong. I’ll just have to take the whole tin with me.
‘That was quick,’ Zara says.
I give a sigh, relieved, and tug on my seatbelt.
‘Where are the chips?’
‘Huh?’
‘The best chips in Liverpool?’
‘Oh. Yeah.’
‘Are they in that?’ She points to the back seat where I’ve just slung the biscuit tin.
I rub my eyes with the palms of my hands.
‘Jim?’
‘What?’
‘Are you okay?’
‘The chips are cooking,’ I say. ‘I was just checking you were alright.’
And back I go into Wong’s, and this time, for chips. I ask Mrs Wong if I can owe her later, expecting her to bollock me, but she says, ‘On the house.’ I presume this is due to my Netflix generosity. Then, she asks me if I want salt and vinegar on my chips, and still chuffed about the free fodder, I say yes. She hands me two hot paper packages which I hold against my chest and inhale the delicious, yet – ah, shit – overbearing smell. If anybody knows how much this particular smell lingers, it’s yours truly, the fella who lives above a chippy. What a dickhead. I’m about to expose my car to this awful stench, giving Griffo’s dad another excuse to knock further pounds off. I can’t ask Mrs Wong for fresh freebies. And I’m going to look like an even bigger dickhead returning to Zara a second time without chips.
‘Why you dithering?’ Mrs Wong asks.
‘I’m not …’
‘You are. You dithering.’
I never dither. I’m not a ditherer. I look at the clock above the extensive chippy menu, listing dishes from English stodge to Peking duck, and it’s bang on two. I try to work out how many hours it’ll be before today is officially over.
‘You still dithering, Jimbo.’
Through the raindrops dancing down Wong’s windows like fat wriggly worms, I can see the ridiculous state of my car. Nobody needs perfect vision to see its faults. Christ. Even a blind man’d be able to see it’s ruined.
‘I’m not dithering,’ I say again, and run through the rain, back into my car.
I toss a portion of chips into Zara’s lap. The rip of paper is satisfying and we eat in silence, the sound of the rain and the traffic rather therapeutic. I’m guzzling the hot chips, the potato burning the roof of my mouth. But, the sooner I eat, the sooner we can get on our way.
‘Can you put the radio on, please?’ Zara asks.
‘Yes, your highness,’ I say, not actually intending to say that out loud.
She doesn’t react. The atmosphere hangs between us like frost on a slippery path.
Perhaps she’s been crying? The tip of her nose is red raw, her eyes misty, black smudges kissing that scar. But, hey, it’s Friday! Friday, Friday, Friday! The radio is so kindly reminding us, its upbeat vibe barging into my car. A phone-in is taking place, callers going live on air to say the most exciting thing they’re about to do this afternoon, this evening, this weekend. Each caller is trying to outdo the previous, and if I hear another, ‘Whoop whoop,’ I might smash the radio up with my bare fist. The Black Eyed Peas come on singing about how tonight’s gonna be a good night.
‘You finished?’ I ask.
‘Mmm. They were tasty. Thank you.’
‘You haven’t eaten much.’
‘I’m worried about the grease staining my clothes, making them smell.’
I bite my bottom lip so hard it’s probably going to bleed.
Snatching the wasted chips, the paper, the plastic forks, the crappy little napkins, I nip out and toss it all into the bin outside Wong’s, give Mr Wong a friendly wave, get in my car