Thunder Sandwich #26 - Vanessa R. Gebbie fiction

YELLOW BIRDS, BEAKS OPEN

I'm Joe. Billy, he was my mate. Always looked wise but hurting like Jesus being nailed to the cross.

Billy said he had headstones. I said what did he mean, like lice? Like things sticking out between his hair, in the parting or what? Billy said no, sometimes when he shook his head it was full of pebbles, he could feel them slapping against each other tink-clinking in his skull. I said if they make sounds like that they must be dead small stones, nothing to worry about, what's the bother 'cos you've got no brain anyway. Billy laughed.

"Nah, they's great big rocks," he said, "that sort, listen." He shook his head like there was a drum beat going on, his hair flew in spikes. "Can you hear them?" He shook and shook his head. I couldn't hear them.

"Well, that's your problem," he said.

When he dropped Es, then he heard them. No need for drums, electronic beats, any beats. Thud thud thud. He just pumped his head up down all night in the club, could out-dance us all.

I thought they were good things, Billy's stones, he said no. He said they made his head hurt like it was in a vice. They were trying to push out of his eye sockets, out of his mouth, he felt sick. Sometimes he was sick, and it didn't make any difference. No stones came up, just thin yellow liquid he spat out.

"Jeez," I said. "Bill, got no pride haveya?"

He said "Pride? What's that?"

Tried to get me to drop Es but I never did. They all said I was a wimp. But I like watching my back, know what I mean? Clubbing's OK, if you've got the money.

I didn't see him for a bit. Heard it wasn't Es any more. Right tough stuff now. I went to see him at his old place, they said he'd moved on, gave me some girl's address.

He was there. Said he'd had a job. Said he'd lost the job but still got the money. Still got the headstones. His eyes were red, he shook his head up down up down, '"See? You can hear them now, can'tcha?"

Course, I still couldn't. Said so too, then he got down. Kept shaking his head, said could I give him twenty. No mention of any of the rest I'd given him ages back.

I gave him thirty because I had it. He pulled on a jacket, went out without looking round.

I saw Billy after that, now and again. Precinct, arcade. He got thinner, didn't look too bad. Didn't have a job, always trying for money. His girl Mellie was sweet, but didn't say much, just clung onto him. Tiny, bony, short black hair, eyes blue like ice. At least I thought she was sweet at the time, now I think poison ivy.

He used didn't he? She used, too, where they got the cash from is a mystery. I wondered if I ought to tell someone, got these leaflets, took them round to their place, they were asleep on the floor.

She disappeared overnight. Billy didn't know where she'd gone, but I heard she'd found a bloke who was giving her stuff while she worked. You know. So she never went back. I stayed now and again when he got down.

I watched him one time shooting up, he smiled at me, Jesus about to get nailed to the cross, said "It ain't that bad." Then his eyes misted and he went.

But it was bad. I stayed, he woke, half. Those were no good dreams he was having. Screaming for his Mum, clutching at my hand like it was a lifeline, crying real tears. I wanted to leave, couldn't. He'd go quiet, I'd think he was asleep. Then he'd wake, surface, whatever, roll his eyes, cry for his Mum. Like a small kid was in his skull trying to get out, crying. Like this kid was in there being battered by the stones in his head, falling and bashing in a giant tumble dryer smashing this little kid, his bones breaking slowly over and over.

Sometimes, even though you care there's nothing you can do. It's like being down a pitch dark pit with the air sucked out and yellow birds beaks open at the bottom of cages.

I left him in the morning. I thought look, Joe, you've got your own life to live. There's a lot to do out there, Billy'll only drag you down. Look at what he's doing already. (I'd jacked in my job three times, given him my money; it wasn't helping him or me. I still feel bad when I look back).

I left him to it.

Then the November I saw him again. Bonfire night. Watching the fires with my OK mates, drinking, laughing, pissing about. Billy was slumped in a doorway when we went to get a kebab. He looked bad. Really bad. Shaking. I bought two kebabs, two of us hoiked him under the arms, took him back to his place. Same place, but stinking. Piss. Shit.

Billy didn't want to eat. He cried, said he needed more.

"What's it about Bill?" I said. "What's it about?"

"It's about nothing, mate. It's about fucking nothing." He shook his head. I thought I knew what he was hearing. "I cant even fucking hear them any more," he said. He was crying snot into his mouth. "I liked those stones, they were, like, different, you know?"

He needed. He was my mate, needed something. Am I a friend? I dunno. He got his stuff, and I watched him, like Jesus he was again. This smile, this pale thin smile like he knew everything in the world and it was just too sad to hold it in. Then he lost it, slowly.

Before he went he said quietly, shaking his head,

"Can you hear them now, mate? The headstones? You must be able to hear them."

I held his shoulders. Before his eyes shut I told him. I said,

"Billy, I hear them, mate. I do."

[Index]