Brendan Burke was a creature of narrow habit and come rain or come shine, come hell or high water; he always ate meat on Fridays, even though, around the time of his seventieth birthday, it had begun to play havoc with his digestion.
“Rebellion,” said Brendan to Tony Amerigo. “Rebellion against the shackles of my Catholic upbringing.”
“Power to the people,” said Tony, raising a clenched fist.
Tony had been a butcher since leaving school, as were his father and grandfather, but business hadn’t been so good since the influx of supermarkets selling cut-price cuts of meat. Curmudgeons like Brendan were a godsend for Tony.
Brendan put the meat in his checked shopping bag and headed off.
“Post office next?” said Tony.
“As per usual,” said Brendan. The social kept trying to convince him to have his pension paid into the bank but Brendan dug his heels in, stuck to his guns. He hated banks and enjoyed his trips to the post office, the centre of the local tittle-tattle. “And then I’m off to the naval club, though I still don’t know if I’m an inny or an outty.”
He chuckled to himself and was still chuckling when a lime-coloured scooter jumped a light and knocked him arse over tit.
“Jesus, don’t send for her!” said Brendan.
Skye, the feather-light social worker that hovered over him – looking like a delicate flower next to the mountain of a man – had suggested phoning his daughter, Sue, in London and getting her to come and take care of him for a while. He’d barely been in the hospital a week, discharging himself after complaining about missing two drinking sessions at the club.
“She’s worse than her bloody mother was for fussin’ and fannying around,” said Brendan.
“Well, you do need a carer, Mr. B,” said Skye.
Brendan shook his head as he looked at her. She was sparkling and fresh, from somewhere down south – home counties, maybe. How could she possibly have a clue about anything?
“Do you know anyone?” she asked.
Brendan just stared at her nose stud with disgust.
Barry Sweet had ducked into his flat as soon as he saw the social worker enter the building. He’d seen her before in the record shop where he hung around. She’d bought a Janis Ian CD and had tried to made conversation about it but it wasn’t exactly his cup of cocoa. Neither was small talk.
Barry was a bit of a mouse who kept himself to himself, although it would have surprised most people to know that he loved to listen to Sly Stone, Bootsy Collins and Funkadelic. These were what blew his skirt up. Along with taxidermy – his flat was cluttered with pigeons, rats, even a leathery black bat – collecting funk on vinyl was the centre of his life.
When Brendan moved into the flat opposite, Barry was a bit worried that the old man would complain about the noise, but after talking to him a couple of times he relaxed. Brendan was as deaf as a post.
He was listening to Sly Stone and changing into his Asda uniform when he heard the scream and the bang. He stuck his head out of the door and saw that Brendan’s door was open. And then he heard coughing, choking.
“Are you alright, Mr. Burke?” he said. No reply.
He went to Burke’s door and knocked.
“Mr. Burke?” said Barry, louder this time. He went into the flat and saw Brendan doubled over and red-faced. Barry ran towards him.
“Are you alright?”
Brendan looked up with tears in his eyes. Tears of laughter.
“Sorry … sorry, Sweety,” said Brendan. Barry blushed. He hated that nickname.
“Couldn’t resist.” He wheezed. “I just wanted her to piss off, so …” He coughed. “So I grabbed her knockers. The stuck-up little cow soon scarpered then.”
“So you’re okay,” said a blushing Barry.
“Aye,” said Brendan. “Do us a favour and pass us that bottle of vodka from the mantelpiece and get two glasses from the kitchenette.”
Barry wasn’t much of a drinker but he thought he needed to calm down before heading off to work.
He poured the drinks.
“A toast,” said Brendan. “Na zdrowia, as Polish Andy used to say. To your health.”
Brendan downed the vodka in one and Barry did the same but it burned like molten lava.
After a week or two it was decided that Barry would be Brendan’s carer. He’d do the shopping, cash his pension and pop in now and again to keep an eye on him.
Barry started to like drinking with Brendan and the carer’s allowance that he received meant that he could give up his job at Asda. In fact, all was tickety boo until November.
Tony Amerigo’s voice was like a dripping tap to Barry, and the woman at the post office was even worse. Still, he endured and managed to pop in to the record shop before lunchtime to buy Parliament’s “Up for the Down Stroke.”
“Pricey stuff this,” said John, the owner of the shop. “Been saving up your pennies, Sweety?”
Barry ignored him and headed back home.
“The post office was packed again,” said Barry to Brendan as he put the shopping bags on the orange plastic Formica table.
Brendan said nothing, of course. He’d said nothing since he’d broken his neck falling out of the bath on Bonfire Night. Barry still liked these evenings, though. Steak, vodka and a bit of Bootsy playing in the background. He glanced over at Brendan’s massive frame as he unpacked the rest of the shopping and thought that he really should have bought some more formaldehyde.
EVERYDAY PEOPLE first appeared online at THRILLERS, KILLERS N CHILLERS and is included in 13 SHOTS OF NOIR.