‘Where’s the train station from here?’ Zara asks when we pull up outside the chippy, the busy flyover rattling overhead and sheltering us from the rain. Wide eyed, like Alice in bloody Wonderland, I’m guessing that a girl like Zara isn’t used to places that are so unattractive.
‘It’s not around here,’ I say. ‘I just need to nip in and get something.’
‘Nip in where?’ Zara looks around frantically across the dashboard.
‘There,’ I point to the chippy.
‘Wong’s Fish Bar?’
I nod.
‘Why? Are you hungry?’
I can’t tell her this is where I live, but honestly, I do not understand why. There’s nothing to be ashamed of, nothing whatsoever. The flat I rent is decent. Small. My leather settee purchased on Ebay is in good nick; wooden blinds; an impressive wall of bookshelves. A turntable sits on a second-hand tile-and-teak coffee table with a collection of vinyl filed at its side. I’m no slob, and other than not changing my bed sheets as often as I probably should, the place is clean. But, from the outside, I know it looks like a crack den. And no matter how many scented tea lights I burn around the place, the smell of grease from the chippy can’t be masked. Why do I care what Zara thinks? Christ, she thinks I’m some ‘mysterious entrepreneur’, a joke almost worse than today itself. Maybe that’s it; I can’t pretend that I don’t like the notion of being somebody I’m not. Somebody successful, somebody who has it all. Anything’s better than the truth.
‘Starving,’ I tell her.
Well, I’m not lying. Except something from Wong’s? Ah, bollocks. The novelty of that wore off about four days after I moved in. But I say, ‘And you should eat before your journey.’
‘From there?’ Zara asks, horror bleeding from her voice.
I’m quick to defend. I’m fond of Mr and Mrs Wong and their antisocial kids.
‘Best chips in Liverpool,’ I say. ‘You can’t leave without trying them.’
‘We’re kind of in a hurry …’
‘You’ll be sorry.’
Zara flashes her perfect teeth, smiling from her mouth, not her eyes.
‘Okay. I’m up for anything,’ she says.
‘Wait here.’
I’m parked on double yellows, but there isn’t another space free. Switching on the hazards, I dive out of the car but not before warning Zara to stay put. I don’t trust her not to wander off, so I give her a job; to watch out for traffic wardens. She accepts her challenge with a small salute and I run into Wong’s.
‘Jimbo!’ Mr Wong cries, his blend of Chinese and Scouse always sounding on the verge of tears. ‘Long time no see, lad.’
An acute waft of vinegar and chip fat hits my nostrils.
‘Can I go through the back, mate?’ I ask.
‘You forget your key?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Jimbo!’ Mrs Wong appears, always sounding as though she’s telling me off.
‘He forget his key, love,’ Mr Wong cries.
‘Stupid.’ Mrs Wong folds her arms.
I ignore her and fly past, through the kitchen and out the back door, ajar to carry away the smell of cooking. I grab the spare key from under the mat, there for the Wongs’ antisocial kids to let themselves in and watch Netflix on my telly.
Taking the lid off the biscuit tin, I see a sea of silver and copper; about fifteen quid’s worth, I reckon. It’ll take me too long to count all this out. I open the cupboard below the cutlery drawer, take a carrier bag from the stash. Emptying the coins into the bag, I shake it to check there’s no holes, then tie a knot in it. I catch my reflection in the full-length mirror hanging in the hall beside the bathroom door. It won’t hurt to change my t-shirt. It reeks of smoke, stale booze, body odour. I throw the carrier bag of coins onto my bed, unzip my fleece and take off my t-shirt, scrunch it into a ball, chuck it into my wash basket. I grab a clean t-shirt, one I won from the Pacific Arms pub quiz, a local brewery advertised across the chest. I put my fleece back on.
Shit. Zara’ll wonder why I’m wearing a different t-shirt.
I drop the plastic bag, zip my fleece right up to beneath my chin. That’s better. I ruffle my hair a bit and retrieve the bag.
Oh, double shit. The bag rips. Coins splatter across the carpet. There must’ve been a bloody hole in it after all. Falling to my knees, I attempt to collect the coins but can’t hold onto them without some slipping between my fingers. Blood rushes to my head. I see stars, black spots. Snowy wasn’t half right about how I handle hangovers. Suddenly the idea of salty, greasy chips from downstairs isn’t such a bad one.
I go back into the kitchen, pour myself a glass of water. I catch a glimpse of the collage hanging on the wall, photos arranged all slapdash, yet thoughtfully planned with an online template, made by Helen – a joint gift from her and my mates – for my thirtieth birthday. Most of the photos were taken during our teens and twenties, boozed up, boggle-eyed and effervescent. Hats played a big part: all of us wearing sombreros and drinking tequila; all of us in Santa hats or sparkly devil horns. Christ, I was broke back then, too, except it didn’t seem to matter the way it does today. An unwise arrogance allowed me to enjoy the lack of cash, the start of debt, almost as if there was a poetry attached to it, a beauty that portrayed me as more interesting 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.