In the Family.

Liverpool, 1969

“You’ve already pissed me off Driscoll, don’t fuckin’ do it again!”
My old fella shouted at me as he stood in his overalls.
He was rail thin and barely ate enough to keep a rat alive.
All morning he’d been bitching about this heat we’re having, sopping the sweat off of his forehead with the heel of his hand.
The ropey muscles on his neck twisted tighter as his face turned purple with anger like a spot about to burst.
“You hear me, boy?”
The truth was, I didn’t hear a bloody word.
I was pissed out of my mind and had a real urge to smack my head down against my pillow.
Trying to push forwards and up the stairs, my hands groped in front of me and only managed to get hold of what felt like a chewed-up dog’s bone.
But really, it was my old fella’s arm and he had it outstretched, blocking the corridor.
“Let me through,” I mumbled, followed by a burp and some acid that tickled the back of my throat.
“Don’t make me call the old bill,” he snarled.
He could get fierce, my father, especially when he’d been at the whiskey; from the smell of his breath, I could tell he had a fair amount, despite this weather.
When he was about my age, nineteen, the townspeople would call him ‘Break-nose Billy’, not because he was some god send of a fighter who was sent down to rearrange people’s faces.
No, it was because he would always have a plaster taped across the bridge of his nose.
A wound that never healed from fights he always got into.
He was a right asshole, just like me; probably ran in the family.
But during late nights when he clung to that bottle like his life depended on it, I could see a sadness in his eyes.
It was regret.

That’s when he reached for the rotary phone.
His fingertips yellowed, betraying his weakness for cheap unfiltered cigarettes.
I grabbed the machine by both hands before he could and yanked the damn thing out of the wall, pulling it with more force than I intended.
The next thing I knew was it sailing through the air.
Then came that distinct shatter of breaking glass.
The phone landed with a thud in the street.
I stared at my old man who looked dumbstruck.
A cool breeze blew through the room.
Before he could even open that mouth of his, I waltzed upstairs and climbed into bed and let the alcohol mangle in my head.

A hand pressed down on my shoulder and I looked up slowly in a daze to find an officer standing in my room.
The first thought that came to me was, what the fuck are you doing in my room?
Then I remembered what happened downstairs.
It probably would be wise to keep my mouth shut.
But still, it was no reason for this man to be up here.
“What the fuck are you doin’ in my room?”
His face was worn with wrinkles and his lips thin like an open scar.
He glared, “calm it son, we need you to come downstairs.”
I argued for nearly fifteen minutes before a younger officer came upstairs and the pair dragged me down and outside.
My old fella stood in the doorway and I was out in the sun.
There was a motorbike and a police car on the scene.
My mind still buzzed as they spoke to me.
“This your van?” piped up one of the officers.
It was the younger one and he had the face of a fucking weasel.
A real nasty smile with small nasty teeth that looked like a tramp’s toenails.
“Yeah,” I mumbled, “it’s my van.”
“Well son,” said the older officer, “it’s blocking the drive here, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, it’s blocking the drive,” spat the weasel.
I looked at the older officer’s name badge.
“So what Trevor, the hell do you want me to do?”
“I’m gonna need you to move it.”
As soon as those words left his mouth, I knew they were going to try and do me for something stupid.
If I moved that van with my head still buzzing, I’d be locked down in a cell for God knows how long.
That pissed me off.
“Screw you Trevor,” I said, “go do one in a bin!”
“Hear that? D’ya hear that?” piped the weasel, “that’s verbal assault of an officer. That’s at least one night in a cell, innit?”
He jigged around on the spot like a kid needing to piss.
I winced at him.
“So, son, you’re going to need to –“
“Is that your motorbike?” I asked the weasel.
He turned around to look at it.
“Yeah, it is,” he said with a smug look.
What a dickhead, I thought.
The older officer grew visibly frustrated.
“Alright,” he said, ‘you’re coming with us.”
He gripped my shoulder and tried to lead me to the small panda car.
I saw weasel man sneer as I was being led towards it.
A spark struck in me and I jerked out of the grip and ran towards the bike.
I jumped and jutted both legs out in front of me until I was almost flat in the air and two-footed the thing to the concrete.
The weasel squealed in shock and I grimaced in pain as I had landed on my shoulder.
But, goddamn, that was definitely worth it.

They sat me in the back of the car without any cuffs on.
It was a fifteen-minute drive to the station.
I knew this route pretty well by now having spent a portion of my life in these very seats.
“Oh, and the paint,” moaned the weasel, “It’s bloody ruined.”
The older officer was driving and a shield of black plastic separated me from them.
“It’s on the way to Moe’s garage now.”
I shifted across and sat myself behind weasel man.
The seats in here were crap.
Soft and worn, just like a cheap tart’s ass.
I clasped my hands together and used my first two fingers to push slowly into the back of the seat.
“What the…”
“Your mates got a knife down his back,” I said in a monotone voice, yet I couldn’t help a smile creep across my face.
“Ok, ok lad,” said the older officer.
His voice went from tired to concerned almost instantly.
‘Just keep driving,” I said slowly, “and don’t do anything stupid… or I’ll gut your friend like the damn pig he is.”
I heard the weasel whimpering in front of me.
“Trevor! Trevor!” he cried, “i-if this fucker s-stabs me, you fucking stab him back, alright? Fill him with goddamn h-holes.”
His voice broke.
These two were useless, I thought, probably couldn’t even take a piss without wetting the front of their pants.
I pushed my fingers more.
He shrieked and almost jumped out of his seat, “Stop, please!”
At that I pulled my hands apart and wailed with laughter.
The older officer almost swerved into the wrong lane of traffic as the rat yelled in fear.
“You’re radio goddamn rental!” he cried.
“You’re going straight into a cell, you sick fuck!” barked the older one.
I pressed my face up against the sheet of plastic and shouted, “you dumb bastards!”

I didn’t even get to settle down in my cell before a certain feeling I hadn’t felt in a while skipped through me.
It only lasted a moment, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.
Muffled voices came from beyond the blank walls, followed by a jangle of keys.
The door kicked open and Trevor and the weasel made an entrance.
I wanted to say something to piss them off, but before I could, a fist struck me dead in the stomach and knocked the air out of me like a fart.
I sputtered for air and Trevor got behind me and held back my arms.
Before I could even recover from the first blow, the weasel stood in front of me.
“Who’s laughing now, bastard?” he jeered.
He stood there in several silent seconds of anticipation as my lips trembled.
“What’s that?” he said as he leant in closer to me.
“G-go… fuck yourself.”
Another swift blow caught me in my eye and it felt as if my brain leaked out of my ear.
Trevor released me and dropped me to the ground as they both hailed kicks down on me.
That unfamiliar feeling came back.
A boot dropped down onto my face and my teeth splintered in my mouth.
Now I seemed to know what it was.
Regret.
A whole lot of it.
Another blow caught me in the ribs.
What the hell was I even doing with my life?
Someone grabbed my hair and pulled me back.
I didn’t see who it was; my vision was blurred.
They left me on the floor and shut the cell door.
I laid there, a lifeless piece of meat who was good for nothing.
Yet all I could think of was regret.
It ran in the family.


© trane