Paula Hillman, author

I’ve been in my sick-bed this week, but I couldn’t do nothing, so I wrote this short story, inspired by a throw-away comment about Cavendish Villas. The story is pretty grim at the start but stick with it…this is my take on Dickens’ A Christmas Carol.

Between the cracks by Paula J. Hillman

Evening starts in the usual way: me and Mozzer kicking about round the back of the flats, braced against the cold and looking for something to do. Him with the hood of his tatty sweatshirt pulled up to cover most of his face, and me freezing my bollocks off in the only coat I have that’s not school-related. I can’t stand the place. All I did was swap one island school for another, a small hell for a bigger one. In my first proper history lesson, a fusty old woman in a navy-blue dress called me and my mates The Old Barrow gang, then waited for us to laugh. We didn’t.

           And now, Mozzer is pulling something from his pocket and nudging me into the shadows.

           ‘I got this,’ he mutters, then shows me a small plastic medicine bottle.

           ‘What?’ I hunch further into my coat and crane to see. ‘What you got?’

           ‘Oxy. Nicked it from my nana.’

I shrug, doing my typical don’t give a fuck act. But if he’s had to steal and he’s making sure no one can see, it must be something. We’ve smoked a bit of weed and played about with Xanax, but we’ve never been sneaky about it. The world and what it thinks, means nothing to us; we’ve fallen through the cracks. Mozzer isn’t happy with my response, though. I know this because he storms away, leaving me blowing out clouds of breath and wondering whether I should chase him. He’s the type of kid who can be nice to you one minute and the next he’s cuffing you round the head, or worse. Not something that works well in school. He’s out more times than he’s in.

           ‘Wait up,’ I shout as I run after him, skidding slightly on the icy pavement. Some of the windows in the flats have Christmas trees on show; some have pinned blankets. There’s no Christmas in my house; we hate each other, so it wouldn’t be right. It’s bad enough how school has been full of stupid sentimental songs and girls giving each other parcels wrapped in bright paper, then screeching and hugging. These are kids who have an outfit for every occasion and adults they refer to as parents. Those things make me want to puke. Pretending the world is all glitter and puppies and the like. Utter crap.

           ‘Are you interested or not?’ Mozzer is asking.

           ‘I’m interested,’ I reply. Because whatever he’s got, it will be better than what’s usually on offer. Sod-fucking-all.

           We wander along the street in front of our old school. There’s no one about, and our footsteps clatter and echo in the freezing silence. A manky cat chases our shadows, then waits for us to catch up.

           ‘Where we off to?’ I ask, when we reach the edge of the estate, but I already know the answer.

           Mozzer confirms. ‘The Cavs. Don’t want to be disturbed, do we?’

The Cavsis our name for a set of wrecked houses from yonks ago. Cavendish Villas, I think they were called. It’s hard to imagine people lived in them, once. Not people like me and Mozzer, obviously. They’re fenced off, now, and have a necklace of warning chains around what must have been their gardens. Not that it stops us from getting in. But we only go there for special occasions; and this must be one.

           ‘What’s your plans?’ I’m still pretending I’m cool and know everything about the contents of his pocket, though I know zilch.

           ‘Dongo from science reckons these give you a real buzz.’ He waves the Oxy bottle at me. ‘We’ve been wanting to try them, haven’t we?’

I’ve heard about Oxy; course I have. But they’re strong. Not something you can just walk into a chemist and buy. Does this mean Mozzer’s nana will be missing some of her medicine? Do I care? Nah.

           ‘We have been wanting to.’ I hesitate. ‘But even I know you should be careful with them. What you playing at?’

He taps the side of his nose. The gesture makes me think of his dad. A guy who wouldn’t look out of place in the ring of a WWE match. Mozzer reckons he’s not scared of him, but I wouldn’t make any such claims. I don’t have a dad, though, so it’s not relevant.

           When we get to the villas, nothing’s changed. The roofline is half-gone.  Blackened timbers stick out at all angles and one chimney stack leans so far to the left it looks like it might come down at any minute. The line of buildings is silhouetted black against a sky that suddenly looks too bright, too clean for such a depressing place. Mozzer is prising open the padlocked gates enough for us to squeeze our skinny bodies between them.

           ‘That fat turd, Watkins, wouldn’t get through here even if these were wide-open,’ he sneers, and I’m carried back to this morning’s assembly, the last before Christmas. The one we’d both been slung out of because Mr Watkins, headteacher and all-round bastard, didn’t appreciate our brand of singing. And we’d only turned up to claim our free selection box.

           Once we’re through and out of the glare of moonlight, the villas start to look more like houses, albeit ones with black windows and boarded-over doors. A match for some of the others on the island. Our favourite one of the four still has most of the roof left, so it gives a bit of shelter. It’s on the end of the row, and one of the downstairs windows is completely empty of glass. A panel of crimped metal is propped in front of it, like that would ever stop us.  Once we climb in, I feel safe. Which is stupid, considering the danger signs everywhere.

            There’s a lot of damage on the inside of these buildings: multi-coloured graffiti, circles of ash on the floor and squashed beer cans wedged between the stone where mouldy wallpaper has fallen away. Some of the damage we inflicted, but there’s plenty more done by others. And the whole place stinks of pee.

           Mozzer plonks himself down in the furthest corner of the room and pats the floor next to him.

           ‘Sit,’ he says. ‘Don’t want to be anywhere dangerous, do we. Falling down and stuff.’ He takes the small bottle from his pocket and gives it a shake. By the sound of it, he’s nicked the whole lot.

           ‘Dongo says take four for the best hit, and I believe him. He’s done it loads of times. Good, hey?’ He tips the small white tablets onto his palm and counts four. Then hoovers them up. I get the same. I hesitate. But if I don’t swallow the tablets, they will have won, whoever they are. It only takes a few seconds for me to catch up with Mozzer. He’s quiet beside me, mouth open slightly and dribbling. I down my medicine and wait for the drift.

                                                                  *

           I’ve got a hand over my eyes, but light is pushing through the cracks. Orange light; firelight. My guts feel like they’re full of rocks. I take my hand away and can’t see Mozzer anywhere. Probably because I’m not in the same place. I try to blink away the gloom. I’m sitting on a low stool, in front of a weird looking fireplace, and as I turn my head, the blur of the room sharpens. Someone is moving about behind me. Humming. There’s a bitter smell, like chimney smoke on a cold night. I shut my eyes and try to shake myself back to reality. The humming continues. It’s followed by a scream.

           ‘What is it you’re doing?’ A girl’s voice, and young, like my sister’s. ‘You shouldn’t be here? Did himself send you down on an errand?’

I’m not sure what I should say, not sure exactly what’s happening. It crosses my mind that I’ve died. But I’m still breathing.

           ‘I’m a bit confused.’ Speaking, too; I can’t be dead. ‘Am I in the wrong place? I don’t know how I’ve ended up here.’

I’m getting used to the dirty light. This is some kind of kitchen. There’s a high-up window and I can see a bit of sky through it. Night-sky. Other than that, there are lamps with flames inside them, one on each wall. And a huge table piled up with proper vegetables, the kind that are sometimes in the window of those little corner shops. As the girl moves closer, I catch a whiff of soupy body-odour. Everything in the room is dark-brown or black and it’s giving me a headache, straining to focus.

           ‘You’re not from the huts, are you?’ she mutters. ‘Bejesus, he’s not sent you down here to be fed. That one is too kind for his own good. As if I haven’t enough to do.’

           I shake my head as she peers at me. Her face is round and pale and none too clean. Not that I’m one to judge.

           ‘I don’t know about any huts,’ I tell her. ‘But I came here with my friend. Did you see him?’

There’s a huge kettle on a shelf above the fire and it’s spitting and steaming. She untucks a cloth from the waist of her dress and puts it around the handle, then lifts the whole thing and carries it to the table.

           ‘I’ve not seen anyone, so I haven’t. And I’m to take cocoa upstairs just now, so you’d better be telling me your business, and letting me get on with mine.’

I’m not exactly sure what to say. What is my business? All I know is that one minute I’m taking Oxy with my mate and the next I’m sitting in front of this stinking fire with a girl pecking at my head.

           ‘If I told you what I was doing here, you’d not believe me.’ I hold up my hands. ‘But I’m no threat. I just want to be gone, if you can show me the way out.’

She’s fussing about, knocking pots together and spooning something into cups. Looking at her, I wonder if she should even be lifting a kettle of boiling water. When I say this, she huffs lightly.

           ‘And who’ll be making his cocoa, if not me? Fourteen, I am. Plenty old enough to be dealing with hot water.’

           ‘Haven’t seen you at school,’ I laugh. ‘Which one do you go to?’

A loud splutter shoots from her mouth: a cross between spitting and shrieking. It makes me want to duck for cover.

           ‘School? Now I know you’re crazy. What would the likes of me be doing at a school?’

           ‘Same old shit as me, I guess.’

           Her eyes stretch wide. ‘You go to school? Should I be giving you a wee curtsy? Are you one of the hoi-poli from the town, like?’

She’s funny, this girl. And she has a soft accent I think is Irish. I’ve no idea what hoi-poli is, but I know one thing: I need to be away from this place. There’s something creepy going on and it seems like Mozzer has cleared off and left me to it.

           ‘Everyone goes to school,’ I say, ‘so stop pretending. I’m not keen on it, either. Thank Christ I’m leaving at the end of this year.’ This cocoa stuff she’s making smells nice, a bit like chocolate, and I eye the steaming cups as she pours in milk from an old-fashioned jug. ‘Any of that for me?’

           ‘You’re a cheeky one, so you are.’ She pushes a cup across, then sets up another. ‘Your mammy upstairs, is she? Visiting the Reverend? Is that how come you’ve made your way down to see me?’

I take a sip of the warming liquid and keep my eyes fixed on her. The riddles she’s speaking in are lost on me. The last time I looked, I didn’t have a mammy, not one deserving of the title, anyway. And what the hell is a Reverend?

           ‘I’ll just drink this, then get going,’ I say. ‘What’s your name, by the way? In case anyone asks.’ There’s no way Mozzer will believe I’ve tripped my way into someone else’s house. Wherever he is. I need something concrete.

           ‘Elen. O’Connor for my daddy. You?’

           ‘Adam. But my mates call me Addy. Addy the addict.’ I laugh, but she doesn’t, instead tilting her head to one side and frowning.

           ‘So, Addy. You’ve no reason to be in my kitchen other than to warm your arse and be tapping me up for hot drinks. Reverend Allen’s really making a name for himself out there, eh? Bringing home all kinds.’ She nods skywards. I’m getting more and more confused. Why is she calling this room her kitchen. She can’t be in charge of it, surely. I know fourteen-year-old girls and they don’t run kitchens: they run boys, and TikTok and nasty gangs that snigger at guys like me and Mozzer.

           ‘So this Reverend bloke is your dad? Why does he make you run the kitchen? Are you fucking Cinderella?’

I hate myself for speaking like this, but really. The tales she’s telling are starting to annoy me. And no father of mine would keep me confined to the kitchen. If I had a father, or a kitchen. Which I don’t. I cast around for a door to let me out of this freaky place. It’s so difficult to see properly away from the lamps and I wonder if there’s a light switch on the wall somewhere. I could do with getting a good look around before I escape.

           ‘My daddy couldn’t afford the rent on a house like this,’ Elen is saying. ‘He lives in one of those new cottages over the water. Better than the huts, but there’s eight of them in two rooms, so there is. Lucky for me, Reverend Allen needed a housekeeper, else I’d have gone on the parish. And that’s piss-poor.’

           I hold my hands over my face and pretend a scream. ‘Can you just show me the way out.’ Is this what happens on the downward slope of swallowing four Oxy tabs? It had better be. Elen wipes her hands on her dress then lifts a small tray loaded up with cocoa cups.

           ‘That I can. But some help with the door would be appreciated, so it would. If that’s not too much trouble.’ She’s being huffy with me now, so I’m feeling more at home. That’s when I actually see the door she’s talking about. It’s nothing more than a few interlocking planks of rough wood, brown, like everything else in the room. There’s not even a handle, just a hole with a piece of rope threaded through. I can’t begin to imagine what the rest of the house is going to be like.

           I yank the door open and hold it back to let Ellen through. She shoots me a wink. My face heats up. And other bits of me. Then we’re in a dark passageway that smells of wet-dog. At the end of it are two more doors. These have proper handles.

           ‘That one.’ Elen nods towards the tidier of the pair. ‘Once I’ve served him his cocoa, I’ll let you out the front way. Out the back’s a midden and I wouldn’t want to ruin your nice clothes.’ She scans over me in a way that makes me squirm. Nice clothes are not something I possess. Sarcasm is something she possesses in spades.

           She leads me into a wide room with a high ceiling that’s nothing like the kitchen. There’s still no proper lighting, but there’s a kind of hanging candleholder and it’s balancing about ten thick candles, all lit and smoking. The floor has a pattern of wooden planks, and in one corner is a staircase like nothing I’ve ever seen. The steps are stone and there’s a shiny banister curving round on itself. How I’ve managed to get into this house without knowing about it is something I’ll have to blame on the Oxy. And Mozzer. Unless he’s still lying inanimate in Cav Villas, as down as I am up.

           Elen is nudging her way through another door. ‘Wait here, would you. I’ll not be a second.’ Then she’s gone and I’m left peering through the half-light, wondering what exactly is going on. To my left there’s what I think is a front entrance. I can see it through a pair of glass panelled doors that lead into a lobby. It could be locked, but I decide to take my chances. The way I see it, once I’m outside it’ll be easy to find out where I am. Wandering for miles while under the influence isn’t what I think has happened here. What I think has happened is pure memory blockage. Once, I fainted in school. During a pigging assembly, it was. Those things head up the list of what I hate about the place, along with lessons, teachers, uniforms, free meals, PE. Actually, everything. But when I fainted, my awareness disappeared. I literally have no memory of even feeling dizzy or being helped to the sick-bay, or anything. Those few minutes never existed, as far as my brain was concerned. Oxy has done the same to me.

           ‘Still here, are you?’ Elen’s back already and giving me side-eye. She’s actually got quite a nice face. And she’s funny, in an old-woman kind of way.

           ‘Still here.’ I grin. ‘But not for long.’

           She holds a finger to her lips, then twists the handles of the glass doors. ‘It’s a beautiful night. Will I not walk with you to the end of the path?’

I’m getting used to the way she speaks now, how everything sounds like a question.

           ‘Not from round here, are you,’ I say as we step into the freezing lobby. There’s a greying, leathery pot holding two umbrellas and what looks like a walking stick, and a small table with a spidery plant. These are things I recognise. Elen might be playing some kind of eerie game with me, but she can’t hide the truth: I’ve wandered into some sort of posho house.

           ‘Are you meaning the island? No. Daddy came over from Skibbereen, when mammy died. Looking for work, wasn’t he. Fetched me with him.’

We step through the front door and into the biting night air. The darkness stuns me. I can smell the tide, which is to be expected, since we live on a kind of island. But there’s nothing else: no streetlights, no lemony glow from the sky above town, no headlights. Elen doesn’t seem to be bothered, but she’s wrapped her arms around herself, and her chat is punctuated by shivering breaths.

           ‘Reverend Allen is bringing me a tree for the parlour, tomorrow,’ she is saying. ‘I’ve not dressed up a tree before. Have you a tree?’

I’m not clear about what she’s asking and am feeling slightly worried about the lack of landmarks to recognise. I can hardly ask a fourteen-year-old girl for directions. She’d laugh in my face. Then I realise she’s talking about Christmas trees.

           ‘Nah. Not much into Christmas. It’s for kids.’

           ‘It’s my favourite time of the year, so it is.’ She sighs. ‘I get a day off, so I’ll be going across the water to see daddy.’

           ‘Lucky you,’ I spit, and she does that side-long glance thing again.

           ‘Do you have to be so nasty? That’s a rough kind of anger you’ve got. Someone’s hurt you, to be sure.’

I’ve no clue what she’s talking about. I’ve never been bested in a fight, not that I’ve had many. Me and Mozzer belong to a gang more overlooked than set upon.

           ‘You know nothing about me, so don’t be making fucking guesses.’ Those words spew out before I can stop them and Elen gasps. It wasn’t my intention to cause her any trouble, but I’m surprised I care. ‘Sorry. I’m just bone-tired and want to get home, that’s all.’

We’ve come to the end of the path and reached a pair of tall gates with stone walls running either side. I glance behind me, expecting to see some kind of house. But it’s not a house. It’s four. It’s The Villas. But not the same. My world tilts and I have to catch at Elen’s arm to steady myself. She lets me lean on her as she guides me forward.

           ‘You’re not eating enough, either,’ she murmurs. ‘There’s nothing of you but skin-and-bone.’ Which is strange because she’s tiny for a teen girl. But there’s a strength to her and I’m kind of glad. Whatever’s going on with this Oxy is knocking me sick. We take no more than two steps into what looks like a road, and I’m floored again. Stretching away in front of me is a strip of sea. Oily and black and like nothing I recognise. Except I do. I see it every day when I choose not to go into school, instead crossing the bridge into town. Here’s the same water, in the same place. But there’s no town. Only the outline of a church, footed by what must be small buildings. And fires. Everywhere fires.

           There’s no bridge, either. Just a low banking running down to the water on our side, and a matching one on the other. No bridge? I’m gasping for breath now and my heart is hammering against the wall of my chest. I don’t know this place, yet I do.

           ‘How do you get across,’ I stammer, ‘to see your dad, I mean?’ Suddenly, I’m sweating; a cold-sweat. I’ve heard of it but didn’t believe in it. Until now. I whip off my coat and drape it around Elen’s shoulders, while she tells me about the new dock being built and another not quite done and the plans for a bridge and her daddy’s friend who has a small boat. She smiles when I give her the coat, and I scare myself at how kind I’m being. What the hell would Mozzer have to say about that, and where the hell is he, anyway?

           ‘You’re a good lad, Addy,’ she whispers. ‘A bit mouthy, but good with it. You can call on me again, if you like. Have a bit more talk?’ She clutches at the collar of my coat and stretches up to kiss me on the cheek.

           ‘What the fuck‒’ That kiss brings me down to ground level again, and I suddenly remember who I am. I rub at my face, though I’m not sure if it’s to wipe away all traces of her or to capture them in my hand. Looking back at The Villas, then forward across the tide, I know what’s happening here, finally. But with that realisation comes a wave of sickness so putrid, I have to open my mouth and let out the milky, half-digested liquid that has only just gone in. My stomach lurches so violently, I fall onto my knees. And then Mozzer is standing behind me and pushing down on the back of my neck and saying something like better out than in. My coat is lying in a miserable heap.

           When I look up again, when the pounding behind my eyes has eased, though my stomach feels less like it’s hanging from my spine, I see that we’re still in front of Cavendish Villas, but with no view of the sea. Instead, there’s the loom of one of the engineering sheds that line the dockside now. I let out a slow breath and my shoulders relax.

           ‘Jeez, man, that was some trip,’ laughs Mozzer, and I want to punch him.

           ‘Stop that stupid talk,’ I say. ‘You sound like you’ve escaped from American Psycho.’ This is a film we once watched because we weren’t allowed to. It was shit, to be frank. Mozzer turns up his top lip. This is how he smiles. For a friend, I find I’m not liking him much, right now.

           He lifts one shoulder. ‘Good stuff, though, wasn’t it.’

           We pick our way through the tangles of rotten bramble and dead black nettles and squeeze through the gates again. The amount of light is startling, though it must be getting late. I feel like every drop of anger has drained out of me and I’m at peace with the world. Which is a stupid thing to say, when I’m heading back to warring sisters and a nasty mother who never has a good word, or any other word, to say about me. What I’m thinking now is that none of it matters. I’m only living a tiny snapshot of life; there was a before and there will be an after, and I don’t matter in either of them. The island has a story to tell; no, that’s not quite right. It has hundreds of stories to tell, thousands. Mine is only one, and not important except as part of the whole thing. I’m tying myself up in knots, thoughts shooting through my brain like bullets, threatening to tear it to pieces. I walk home with Mozzer and all he’s talking about is the next time he can take Oxy. There won’t be a next time for me. If I’m only going to have a snapshot of life, I want to feel every part of it, warm, cold or ice.

           When we reach the flats, there isn’t even one window alight.

           ‘You coming in for a bevvy?’ Mozzer is stamping his feet and blowing on his fists.

           I think about this for a moment, then say, ‘Nah. I’m going home.’