HALF THE WORLD AWAY

by Alistair Caradec

(extract)
 1.

In.
Two.
Three.
And out.
Two.
Three.
Four.
In.
Two.
Three.
And out.
Two.
Three.
Four.

I'm gonna tell it like it is. It's fucked up, is what it is. Been fucked up from day one and will probably
carry on being fucked up forevermore.
The name’s Sid Robinson, twenty-six come next January, and I have an anxiety disorder with acute
psychotic episodes — which Jamie refers to as ‘paranoid city’ — which means I occasionally freak out and say
things I don’t mean to say and throw things I don’t mean to throw.
You know.
Occasionally.
That’s not what’s fucked up, though. What’s fucked up is the way that presenter is clawing at the
minister’s shoulder. Why would he put his fucking hand on the minister’s fucking shoulder? I lean over to
Jamie.
‘That fucker’s shagging Langley,’ I say.
Jamie takes his eyes off his bitter for a half second.
‘Is he?’ he says, and waves at the bartender like he’s trying to stop a cab.
Jamie’s one of those guys, you know? The sort who walks into a room and everybody stares? Not that
he’s particularly tall or particularly good-looking or particularly well-dressed; just, you know, he’s got it.
Everything he does, he does with panache and the annoying breeziness that comes with it. We go way back,
Jamie and me.
‘It’s me birthday,’ says the bartender, all flirtatious, all smitten, as he slides the pint over.
‘Is it?,’ says Jamie. And then, to me: ‘Where’s Tom?’
‘I told him seven,’ I say.
‘You told me six o’clock.’
‘And I told him seven.’
‘Right.’
Tom’s a bit of a tosser. Got stuck with him at uni and, as bad luck would have it, here we are seven
years later, stuck with him still. A persistent little fucker, Tom. So I told him seven and you know what? I
should have told him eight.
‘Reckon it’ll be interesting tonight?’ says Jamie.
I snort.
‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Aren’t we all bloody cowards . . .’
He takes an impressive swig from his glass and I can see his fist tightening on his lap.
‘Bloody cowards!’ he repeats, louder.
‘Oi! Keep it down.’
 ‘Yeah, yeah, don’t worry.’
‘You know, for an Irish guy, you’re crap at drinking.’
‘Fuck off, Brit.’
We go way back.
‘I need a piss,’ I say, and shuffle off.
A conspicuously nondescript bloke watches me from behind the Mail as I walk past. I keep my head
down until I’m out of sight and make a right through the door with the triangle character. One of the reasons
I like this place. Still has that sign on the bathroom door. Owner never took it down. Fuck knows he could get
into trouble for that. It’s the stupidest thing, pointless, but you’ve got to admire the guy’s nerve. Jamie would
call it hypocrisy. A small gesture to feel better without actually taking a stand. Me, I don’t know. We can’t all
be heroes, can we?
I check every stall. No one here. I plunge my hand into my pocket, as if I’m expecting to feel the rattle
of the little blue pills in there again. Old habits, I suppose. I go to the sinks and wash my hands. Then I stare at
my reflection for a while. Someone’s written ‘FUCKIN KILL YOU ALL YA CUNTS’ across the mirror. I stare at
this. Then I wash my hands again.

Back in the bar, some melodramatic fucker is belting out The Wild Rover on the stereo in a forced
Dublin accent. As I approach, I catch Jamie mouthing the words, gazing at his beer, and I smirk.
‘Nostalgic?’
‘You’re joking, right?’
I nod in the general direction of the bartender. ‘He’s playing it for you.’
Jamie waves me off. ‘He’s not.’
But then we both look and the bartender gives him a wink.
Jamie turns back to his pint. ‘Fuck me.’
‘Yeah, he would.’
He laughs. ‘Fuck you!’
‘Nah, you’re not my type.’
This earns me a bigger laugh and a painful nudge in the ribs. I take a swig of my lager and wipe my
mouth with the back of my hand.
‘So have they called yet?’
He shakes his head and shrugs, like it’s no big deal, only I know him and it is a big deal.
‘It’s only been what? Three days?’
‘Four,’ he says — and finishes his beer. ‘They’re not going to call.’
He waves at the bartender for another.
‘You don’t know that. I’m sure they—’
‘It’s a sociology piece. Nobody cares about that science stuff anymore.’
‘I’d read it.’
He’s not listening to me. He’s not even talking to me; he’s talking to his pint.
‘Now it’s all about gossip, isn’t it? Or sports. A sport piece would sell, no problem.’
‘Why don’t you write a sport piece, then?’
‘Cos I don’t give a fuck about sports, do I?’
I’m about to reply, but I don’t, because all of a sudden everyone has become very quiet. A voice has
risen from the stereo. It’s beautifully high-pitched.
A woman’s.
She’s singing The Wind that Shakes the Barley. The recording is old and it screeches and cracks and
we’re all holding our breath. Then, slowly, a guy raises his glass, maybe for the bartender, maybe for the voice
itself. Another guy follows, and another, and soon half a dozen glasses are up.
I look around, heart pounding in my ears, knuckles white around my own glass.
‘Jamie, let’s go, mate,’ I whisper.
He shushes me.
Then he moves to take his pint and I grab his wrist.
In.
 Two.
Three.
And out.
Two.
Three.
Four.
In.
Two.
Three.

‘All right, that’s quite enough now, gentlemen.’

The entire room turns at once to face the uniforms standing in the doorway. Three of them — always
three. I glance at the batons and guns at their hips and they notice me noticing.

Three.

The leader — always a leader — sighs and gives us the slow disapproving head shake. The bartender
pops the record out and he’s laughing as he addresses us.
‘Oh come on, fellas! Who called ‘em?’
Everyone mumbles.
‘D’you call ‘em, Paddy?’
Jamie chuckles into his beer. ‘Right, that sounds like me.’
I kick him under the counter.
‘Ouch, fuck’s sakes!’
‘I didn’t mean offense with those Irish tunes, ya know?’
‘Nobody called us, Reg’, we just happened to walk by.’
Well that’s fucking likely. That bloke in the corner is still reading the Mail, like nothing’s going on.
‘All right, this establishment is going to close down for the evening, if everyone would please step
out.’
‘Aw, come on, now! I ain’t hurtin’ anyone, am I?’
‘You know I would, mate, but it’s your third in three months. I let you off again and I’m looking at
suspension time. You gotta help me out here.’
Reg’ looks about to protest again, but the look in the man’s eyes makes him change his mind. He
turns to us.
‘Sorry, fellas . . .’
The crowd breaks out in grunts of disappointment. The guys all stumble to their feet. One of them
trips and nearly spills his pint down Jamie’s back.
The two goons usher everyone out with emphatic waves and a tad more pushing than strictly
necessary while Reg’ spews a constant stream of apologies at us.
‘Sorry, sorry! That’s the way it goes, eh, lads? Why don’t you go ahead and keep the glass, Frankie.
Just bring it back round tomorrow, all right?’
As they escort him away his mouth is laughing again, but his eyes are not.

And out.
Two.
Three.
Four.
 2.

Some fucker’s pissing his beer on a lamppost outside. I light a fag and Jamie shoots me a look. He
doesn’t like me smoking. Usually, he would say something, and for a second there I think he might, but then
he doesn’t.
‘Home, then?’ he says, instead.
‘The address started.’
‘Fuck the address.’
‘Home, then.’
We make our way through the empty streets, everything still and heavy. Stale. Like somebody hit
pause and lost the remote. An old church collapsed in Marylebone, last winter. Killed twelve people. Now
some of the most ancient buildings are lined with scaffoldings. As if it’ll hold the crumbling pieces together.
Langley’s younger voice, from way back when, blares from the Tower, from every pub’s door, from
every shop window. Blowing off the address is mission impossible. Jamie stops his ears with his fingers every
time we pass a speaker. That’s all you can do, really.

. . . our comrades, our equals and a vibrant segment of our society . . .

I was too young to remember of course, but it's been everywhere since. On the radio, on the telly, in
the newspapers. Quotes from it on huge patriotic billboards, slapped against the Union's red, blue and white.
Every fucking month.

. . . a question of health and safety . . .

Everybody’s in front of the telly. Do I believe these idiots are still hoping for actual news? No. Maybe
some of them are, but by now it’s tradition more than anything else. I look through the windows.
Thirty-five-ish, dirty sweatpants, can of cheap beer.
Young couple, holding hands on the settee. Candles. Together.
Early fifties. Glass of wine in his right hand, framed picture in his left. Motionless, expressionless. I
extend my neck a bit but can’t see the picture.
You know what? Fuck tradition.

. . . priority is, and has always been, to protect the citizens of . . .

Jamie’s reflection in the windows. Sharp eyes and a hint of disgust. He was never good at standing
still. Back at uni, he was always running around, joining every club, never missing an opportunity to do
something, publish something, protest against something. When we first met he offered me a joint. I said no
thank you, and he said ‘Come on, mate. It’s the end of the world!’ Bit over-dramatic but there you go. I took
the joint. Then I took some other stuff.

. . . God save the King, God save . . .

Two blokes shout at each other down St Anne’s Court. They’re inspired. Jamie pulls out his voice
recorder and clicks it on.
‘Suck on my gangrenous, flaky cock, you massive pile of skunk diarrhea,’ he repeats, evenly.
As we press on, the first part of the speech reaches its predictable end. Applause and cheers — some
of it pre-recorded. The fuckers buy into it. They clap and whoop and whistle like Langley’s a fucking war hero,
ready to pull them out of the massive shit they stumbled into.
A patrol ahead. I feel for my passport in my pocket. Jamie does the same. It’s fine, though.
 It’s fine.
In.
Two.
Three.
And out.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Absolutely fine.
In.
Two.
Three.
The three pairs of boots stomp past.
Jamie chuckles once they’re gone. Relief, I suppose.
‘Alright?’ he says.
‘Yeah.’
‘Breathe.’
Out.
Two.
Three.
Four.
I bring the fag up for a drag. Jamie casually yanks it away and flicks it to the pavement.
‘How about air, instead? Fucking eejit.’
‘Arse.’
‘Dickhead.’
‘Wanker.’
He holds up the recorder and presses play. ‘Suck on my gangrenous, flaky cock, you massive pile of
skunk diarrhea.’
I laugh. He laughs. We go way back.

It’s five flights up to our flat. Jamie takes the steps two at a time, easily. I half run to keep up.
Then I double over and I’m busy gasping and cursing the fucker who sold me that first pack of
cigarettes when Jamie suddenly grabs my arm.
‘What?’
He shushes me and nods. Look.
Our door is ajar.
Did you forget to lock? I mouth.
He doesn’t get it. He puts a finger across his lips and unhooks the fire-extinguisher from the wall.
What the fuck are you doing?
He doesn’t get that either.
He gestures for me to open the door and he can’t be fucking serious, so I fumble into my pocket for
my mobile, enter ‘999’ and shove it under his nose.
He shakes his head. I shake the phone, but he’s not having any of it. Well fuck that. Fuck that right off,
I don’t need his permission. My finger is on the dial button but then that knobhead kicks the door wide open
and rushes into the living room.
‘Shit,’ I say, and:
‘Shit,’ Jamie says, because there’s someone in here. A dark figure against the window, sat down like
he owns the fucking place. He startles but doesn’t run, doesn’t come at us, doesn’t anything.
‘Alright, mate, stand up. Both hands where I can see them,’ Jamie says, brandishing the extinguisher.
My thumb hovers over the dial button.
In.
Two.
 Three.
And out.
Two.
Three.
Four.
The man stands, unfolds, and some weird shit is going on here. The silhouette is all wrong. I drop the
phone. Jamie drops the extinguisher. Drops it on his feet but doesn’t make a sound. I reach back for the
switch and the light flickers on.
Then I shriek. Loudly.
Not a man. A woman.

(end of extract)