Not-really-OOM: Albert
Like last year, it’s the Railway Arms. Like last year, he recognises the person sitting at the bar at once, even though he can only see the back of them.
He turns on his heel immediately, looking for the exit. It’s not there. Of course it’s not bloody there. No escape from this. But if there’s one person he’s never going to show weakness to, it’s this one.
He walks to the bar, and tosses his cigarettes and lighter down. A drink appears. Only then does he sit, pick a fag out, and light it.
‘You then, is it?’ He’d have preferred Stu again.
Albert Hunt sniffs, and picks up his pint. ‘Didn’ ask t’come.’
‘Why don’ you sod off back to where you came from, then?’
‘Is that any way t’greet your old man? Mind you, you were always a gobby little tosser.’
‘Bollocks.’
It’s true. He never mouthed off at home. Mouthing off at home was a sure-fire way to earn a beating, and none of them were brave enough to ask for a dose of the fists. Belt. Stick. Whatever. On one memorable occasion, a spanner.
He’d learnt to stay away from his dad when he was repairing things after that one, that’s for sure.
‘What d’you want, Dad?’
The man shrugs. He looks barely older than Gene does himself, now. They all thanked God that He saw fit to take the bloke early. Answered all their prayers.
‘A pint. A chat with my youngest, if I ‘ave to.’
‘They give you instructions, do they? ‘Turn up, act like everything’s normal, impart whatever bollocks you want t’get off your chest, and bugger off again’?’ He leans in, blue eyes hard as diamond. ‘I don’ want t’hear it. I’m not interested in anythin’ you have to say.’
‘You never were. Always had your head in the clouds. Readin’ books an’ stuff. What sort of lad reads books? You needed me t’take a firm hand. You’d have ended up a ponce, or somethin’.’
He grinds his jaw, and looks away. The fact that he’d read stuff for school, a few comics, a few adventure stories nicked from the library - that makes him a ponce, does it? Never mind the hours out playing football, or on the wasteground with the lads. Never mind building go-karts, and working on Tommy Stewart’s dad’s car on the weekends. Never mind Saturdays sneaking into the matinee at the Odeon, and staying there for the double bill. None of that matters to his old man, because he once read a book or two.
‘I’m a copper,’ he says, and he hates, hates, the feeling that he has to tell him that. To prove him wrong. ‘I’m a bloody DCI. I’ve dealt with scumbags who’d shit harder bastards than you before breakfast, so don’ you dare sit there an’ call me a ponce.’
Albert glances over, and it’s not fair really, how alike they look. How that smirk he sees is the same one he wears himself sometimes. Only the eyes are different. Albert’s are smaller, brown. Shifty. ‘There you go, then,’ he says. ‘I did you a favour.’ He smiles like he’s pleased with himself, and reaches out for Gene’s Zippo to re-light his roll-up. Gene knocks his hand away, and locks his lighter safe in his fist.
‘An’ what abou’ Stu, eh? How’d your big plan for toughening us up work there?’
Albert’s smile fades a bit, but he tries to hide it by having a drink. Gene’s not fooled. ‘You can’t blame me for Stu. He were over twenty when he buggered off. I hadn’ laid a finger on him in years.’
‘Only because we learnt to fight back.’
‘Yeah.’ The man’s face twists in scorn, and he finds a box of matches seeing as his son won’t oblige. ‘Two against one. Honourable, that was.’
He tells himself not to rise to it. Vibrates with the effort of not saying anything, but the words won’t be denied. ‘We were kids. What’s honourable abou’ that?’
‘You were lads, not bloody girls. Grow a pair, Gene, for Chris’ sake.’
Not fair, how a few simple words can reduce you to nothing. Not fair, your past lying dormant, ready to choke you from behind when you’re not looking. Not fair, when you spend your life beating people up, to not be able to throw a punch now.
‘Nothin’ wrong with my pair, you miserable old tosser. I-‘
Albert’s laughing. Sniggering, more like. ‘Oh yeah? You sure ‘bout that? Conspicuous lack of grandchildren around.’
Gene feels himself go pale. His lips press together; angry, yes, but there’s an undeniable stab in his chest. A blunt knife in his heart that this bloke will always twist.
‘Seems t’me,’ the man goes on. ‘Like there’s somethin’ very wrong, there. What d’you suppose that is, Gene?’
He swallows the desire to headbutt him off his stool. ‘Maybe I jus’ didn’t want any. No risk of endin’ up like you, then.’
And Albert’s still laughing.
‘Exactly. Exactly.’ He looks…proud. Only he can’t look proud, because Albert Hunt wouldn’t know pride in his sons if it booted him up the arse. ‘You’re my boy, Gene. Like it or not. Just like me, you are. I’d lay a bet that if they didn’ take you into the force, you’d be in prison now. Got a temper on you, don’ you? Like breakin’ your fists on some tosser’s jaw? Don’ you sit there an’ play the angel with me, son. I know what you are.’
He’s turned on his stool, facing his lad, leaning in to drive the point home. Gene draws back, shaking his head, but there’s that voice, isn’t there? Always that voice, that he never calls his gut, because he never listens to it. The one that tells him how things could’ve gone. How things could still go, if he doesn’t sort himself out. The one that whispers about how he talks like his old man, walks like his old man, drinks like his old man. And Albert’s nodding, like he hears it.
‘You know what I’m talkin’ about, lad. Just ‘cos you wear a badge, it doesn’ make you any better than me.’
‘You’re wrong.’ Still shaking his head, more to silence the doubt than anything else. ‘You know how I know you’re wrong?’
‘What d’you know about anythin’?’
‘What’s that supposed t’mean?’
‘You never fought a war. Never raised a family on next t’nothin’. Never broke your back in the mill twelve hours a day. What d’you reckon you know, Gene? How to thump a confession outta someone?’ Albert snorts, and spits on the floor. ‘You’re a bloody child, always were. Always will be. Full of snot an’ piss, playin’ the big man. Got ‘em all believin’ in you, don’t you? It’s all bollocks.’
Gene swallows hard. He remembers this. He’s heard this before, when he was eight. When he’d finally found his voice, at least outside of home. When he’d join the lads to play, and they’d start looking at him to decide what they were going to do. When he got to pick the teams for football, and everyone knew he was one of the captains without it having to be said. He’d come home one day, to Albert waiting at the bottom of the stairs. I see you out there. Got ‘em all believin’ in you, don’t you? His belt was already rolled up in his fist, beer fumes rolling off his vest.
He’d had to miss two days of school after that one. Playing the big man wasn’t allowed. He'd got the message.
‘It’s not bollocks,’ he says, and meets his dad’s eyes. ‘And I’m not like you. More than twenty years of marriage, I’ve never laid a finger on her. I’m not like you.’
There has to be a line, doesn’t there? Something you draw in the sand, and say I will not pass. Lines for coppers, lines for life. He drew them for himself the first day he pulled the uniform on, and he’s redrawn them every day since. Because of his dad. Because he will not end up like him.
Albert rolls his eyes, and picks up his pint. It’s not his first one, by the smell of him. There’s the sound of a door opening, but neither of them look around.
‘Too much of a pansy to have things the way you want, you mean.’
He’s heard that one before, too. Heard all of these before. But he’s wilting now, the way he always did, even after the fights were verbal only. There’s only so long you can throw yourself at the rock face of someone else’s convictions. He could have broken himself against his dad’s stubborn refusal to bend, if the twat hadn’t died. Somehow, he could never stop himself trying to get the man to see what he was doing to them all.
‘No,’ comes a voice from over by the door, and both of them whip their heads around. ‘Because he’s man enough to not take his fists to his wife.’
Stuart leans against the wall, smoking a cigarette, watching them both. He winks once at Gene, then settles his gaze on their father. ‘I told him last year, what happened to me wasn’ his fault. I’m not goin’ t’say the same to you.’
Albert’s mouth has dropped slightly open, and he’s on the defensive now. Gene readies himself for the lash-out. It always comes when he’s cornered. But Stu doesn’t seem concerned. He saunters over, casual as you like. His big brother. Last year had been awkward. This year it’s….good. It’s good.
‘Ohhh, I see how it is,’ says Albert, and yep, there’s that note in his voice, and the tension in his shoulders that means he’s winding up for a punch. They know all the cues, him and Stu. ‘It’ll take two of you even now, will it?’
Stu puts his hand on Gene’s shoulder and squeezes, then offers it to shake. ‘You alrigh’, Geno?’
‘Aye, mate. Doin’ alright. Considerin’ knocking this git’s teeth out, but it’s no fun now they’re false.’
‘Yeah. Reckon we got all the original ones, didn’ we?’
‘Certainly bloody hope so.’
Stu leans his forearm on his shoulder. They swivel to face their father, who isn’t looking as confident anymore. He’d have given anything to see that look on his face when he was a lad.
‘What’ll it be then, dad? You goin’ to stop bein’ a wanker, and admit you were wrong? Or do we have to teach you another lesson?’
Stu’s changed since he died. There’s a level authority in him that Gene never saw before. It’s enough to have the old man on the ropes. Enough for him to hope, for a second, that this could get sorted without a scrap, for once.
Albert spits on the floor, and stands up. ‘It’ll be a cold day in hell the day I run from my own sons. You two want another lesson taught to ya, fine with me. But don’ say you didn’ ask for it.’
They look at each other, and shrug. If that’s the way it’s got to be, then that’s the way it’s got to be.
And really, he thinks, as the first pint glass flies towards him; he’s not surprised. There was never a conversation between the three of them that didn’t end in a scrap, one way or another. This was never going to be any different.
Does anything ever change?
~ ~ ~
He wakes up in a sweat, halfway through shouting an insult. It shrivels and dies on his lips, but his heart keeps hammering. He’d forgotten all about this. Last year, he woke up and remembered nothing at all, but snatches of that first conversation with Stu are coming back to him now.
They don’t matter, though. He doesn't want to think about them. He’s checking his knuckles in the dark, trying to work out if it was real or not. Just a dream? Didn’t feel like it. Felt like it always felt, including the relief when Stu walked in to get his back. ‘Course, if it was just his mind playing tricks, then of course he’d turn up. Stu never left him, until the time he did.
He settles back in bed, and lights a fag. Smokes it all the way down, while the jabs fade. Until the sting dies away. One day, he tells himself, he’ll face his dad on even ground, and take him down on his own. And then never think about him again, ever.
He stubs the fag out, twisting it in the ashtray until it’s dead. Maybe next year.