Stink lived up to his two promises.
Each time I met him the distance was longer and deeper, both in years and things to talk about. His life went where he said it would, from prison sentence to prison sentence. He never did anything too serious – burglary, vandalism, disturbing the peace. It was always in such a defiant way though – in a way that said he truly didn’t care where he was.
He continued ripping into his veins too. It seemed to happen every six months or so. Usually I’d hear certain phrases about it from someone:
‘Stink tried to top himself again.’
‘That fucking idiot cut himself again.’
‘That poor bastard has been at it again.’
Only the word ‘again’ was a constant.
I never found him in this state. He lined up his mother for this one. He’d return home between prison time and then move to a one-room flat nearby. Every time he cut himself his mother found him. She took him for his stitches, his bandaging, cleaned up where he’d done it.
She’s cowered now. I wouldn’t know how many eyes she puts blue eye shadow on because she walks bent over. I always think it’s like she’s had her face pushed into that stinking sack of mussels and can’t get out. There’s no aggressive dogma in her walk now – it’s all head down and in a slow straight line, never looking at the buildings around her.
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When I go home I always ask my mother:
‘You heard anything about Stink? Has he tried to kill himself again?’
‘I saw his mum a couple of months back, but she didn’t say anything. Don’t know if she saw me.’
‘He might be inside then – away from that cow at least.’
‘She’s changed a lot of the years though. Not like she used to be. I stopped visiting her house about twenty years ago when you were a lad.’
‘Why was that?’
‘I was round there this time and her youngest girl, Kathy, who was about nine at the time was behind the TV doing a poo.’
‘Eh? You mean like on a potty?’
‘No – just on the carpet, behind the TV. Her mum didn’t seem to notice until I looked that way. Then she just stood up and belted the poor little thing and came out with the foulest language I’ve ever heard. The girl went out screaming and crying. I didn’t know what to do.’
‘Bloody hell – that’s awful.’
‘I know that’s why I stopped going round there. I never did like drinking tea in that mucky house. Anyway, after Kathy ran upstairs she said to me ‘I hate them – I can’t stand these fucking horrible kids. I’ve no time for the little bastards.’’
‘I knew she was bad to Stink – didn’t realise she was so bad to all four of them. What a horrible bitch.’
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It’s easy to feel comparative love. That’s what I’ve got – that’s what most of us have, but not Stink. He’s the bottom of the pile and he’s found a way to wallow in it and a way to drag his mother down there with him. I don’t want to compare life notes with him. Hearing he’d killed himself would fill me with no more dread than seeing him in the street and being asked:
‘How’s life Ruk?’
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The end
