This short story was published as a prize winner (placed 2nd) in a UK writing magazine, Writers Forum, that’s since ceased publication. It’s from October 2002. Some readers may find this story disturbing. I hope so, it was written to disturb.

BRI

Bri laughed as the cartoon mouse hacked the cat into a thousand bloody slices. Brisbane was his real name, but no one ever called him that. Most people called him anything but his name; the fouler, the better, it seemed. Except Mrs Jordan. She said nothing at all, but she smiled at him. Mrs Jordan didn’t call anyone anything. Dumb, she was, but nice. He’d pop down in a bit and go for her shopping, like he always did on Wednesdays.

He upended the can of cheap lager from high over his open mouth and spluttered, as the last gulp of liquid hit the back of his throat. The tossed can bounced off the top of the overflowing litterbin by the widescreen TV. It skittered noisily across bare concrete until it rolled to a halt against the girl.

Unhurt, the cartoon cat collected the slices of itself and stuck them back together. Bri puzzled over the mystery that made the cat whole again but kept the girl on the floor. The cat had been sliced. He’d only hit the girl with a bat. All the cat’s blood returned to it. Why did hers stay in a pool around her head? It shouldn’t be like that.

He flicked channels, skipping rapidly past the live stuff and pausing at each animation until he found a cartoon he liked. That was better. Popeye and Bluto were stretching Olive Oyl into a string until she quivered like the black lines on that guitar Woody Woodpecker plucked in that other toon. He knew this Popeye one. It felt good to watch it again, knowing the ending.

Mel moaned softly from the other side of the closed bedroom door. He heard her but shrugged. What could he do? Was it his fault she was ill? Anyway, her bedroom stank. Every time she spewed it went on the floor and the bedclothes. Hadn’t been out of bed for three days. If he gave her another drink, she’d only piss the bed again. No, he’d leave her be. She’d be all right soon. She always had been before.

The girl on the floor had stopped whimpering.

‘Get me another beer.’

But she stayed where she was. He wanted another beer but this was the best bit of the show; where Popeye squashed the can of spinach into his mouth, then battered Bluto with fists that turned into steam hammers.

‘Get me a beer.’

She stayed in a heap on the floor. Once the show had finished, he’d sort her. Mel moaned again; called his name.

Mel. Funny, he never called her anything else. Should have called her Mum or something like that but she never wanted it. Mel. Short for Melbourne, from the soap she watched. That’s why he was Brisbane. She said the first time his father, whoever he was, had fucked her she’d been watching the soap and that was why he was Brisbane.

He left the couch and scratched inside his boxers until the itch had almost gone. The girl didn’t even moan when he kicked her arse. ‘Bitch.’

The fridge door was open from the last time he’d grabbed a beer. There was water on the floor and he slipped and cracked his elbow on the tabletop. Pain shot up his arm and he felt tears start in his eyes. Mel would make it better.

He kicked the fridge door shut and opened the can, swigging the cool liquid as he walked to her bedroom. It stank. She had sicked up some more green stuff and it made him want to puke. It beat him why she didn’t get up and do something about it.

‘Get me a drink, Bri.’

He passed her the open can and she drank greedily.

‘I banged my elbow.’

She sighed. ‘Let me see.’

He poked it close to her face and she struggled up to look, her covers slipping to reveal the pallid skin that so revolted him.

‘You look fuckin’ awful.’

‘I feel terrible. You called the doctor?’

‘Said they was busy, and they’d send someone soon.’ The lie didn’t matter. She’d be up and well again in a day or so.

‘I think I’m really ill, Bri. I think I need an ambulance.’

‘Who’ll look after me if you’re not here?’

‘Ask Addy. She’s a nice girl. I really think I need…’

‘Addy’s on the floor, sulking. Never got up after I bashed ‘er, lazy bitch.’

‘Why’d you bash her, Bri?’

‘She wouldn’t.’

‘She would’ve if you’d asked her nice.’

‘I did. She said not even with a barge pole.’

Mel emptied the rest of the lager into her dry mouth and lay back again. He looked down at her and sneered at the slack flesh. Avoiding the soiled bits, he pulled the cover over her but she threw it off. ‘I’m too hot. Open the window.’

He wandered across the room, stepping on abandoned clothing and the wrapping paper from the fish and chips they’d had three days ago. The curtains were stiff on the brass rail, and he tore one as he pulled it aside. The crack in the glass had grown longer, running from the bottom of the pane almost halfway up. He pushed the window open and leant out to catch it before it bashed against the concrete wall. Four floors below, the kids were wrecking a pale blue car on the patch of grass.

The air was cold and damp with drizzle and a threat of real rain to come. He breathed in deeply, hawked and gobbed at the kids, missing by miles. One of them heard him and lobbed a snapped off wing mirror up at him. He backed away and then scowled as he heard the splintering of glass from old Mrs Jordan’s below.  

‘You bust ‘er window an’ I’ll break your bloody necks!’

The kids just gave him a finger and went on wrecking the car.

Bri turned back into the room just in time to see Mel spew the lager, stained green, onto the cover, the floor and the wall. ‘Fuck me, Mel! You might’ve waited till I’d gone.’

He glanced at her bent back as she retched at the floor and saw how the flesh quivered and trembled, sweat making her skin gleam in the light from the window. He shuddered and left her to it.

He remembered the early days when she had looked good, even as his mother, and the men had bought her presents, given her cash. So many uncles in those days. Day after day, night after night, sat in front of the telly watching cartoons whilst she gasped and moaned on the far side of the door, sometimes on the floor behind the sofa.

The girl was where he’d left her. ‘Get up, you lazy cow!’ But she never moved. He kicked her and saw the impression of his foot remained in her flesh. He frowned and bent to touch her and quickly pulled his hand away from the chilled skin. From his room, he grabbed a blanket and tossed it over her, to hide her rather than to keep her warm.

Outside Mrs Jordan’s door, he smoothed back his hair and tucked his shirt into his jeans before he knocked. She opened the door a slit on the chain, saw him and opened it fully to let him in with a smile.

‘Them kids smashed yer winder, Mrs Jordan?’

She shook her head, making the tight white curls tremble, and pointed at the pristine netted window with the row of family photographs in pine frames on the clean white sill.

‘Must’ve just been the mirror glass I ‘eard, then. Just as well. I’d tan their backsides if I thought they had. Want owt from the shops?’

She nodded at him and smiled as she passed him a list and gave him money from her purse.

‘I’ll not be long. Lock the door behind me. You never know what sort’s about in these flats, Mrs Jordan.’

She nodded and passed him a crumpled white bag. He took a lump of broken toffee and slipped it into his mouth. ‘Ta.’

He waited until she had locked the door and then set off for the corner shop. The kids were still wrecking the car as he passed, and he picked up the fallen wing mirror and tossed it at them. ‘Do that again an’ I’ll fuckin’ skin yer.’

They jeered and gave him the finger and went back to their play.

Mrs Jordan let him in as usual when he returned with the shopping. She checked her change and gave him some silver for his trouble. She nodded her thanks and let him out.

The girl was still under the blanket and felt no warmer when he shook her to get her up. Mel was paler still in her stinking room, her breathing shallow and wet, her skin shining with sweat. He got another can from the fridge and sat down in front of the telly. Bugs Bunny was tying a bundle of dynamite sticks to the tail of a wolf. Bri laughed, as the explosion changed the wolf into a smoking black skeleton that collapsed into a heap of ash as soon as it moved.

He glanced at the girl on the floor, uncovered since he’d tried to rouse her. He shrugged. Let her freeze if she couldn’t be bothered to get up. Beyond the door, Mel coughed fit to choke and then went quiet. He’d go in to see her when the next toon finished. Maybe call the doctor in the morning, if she wasn’t any better.