There is no pain, or very little, only this sensation of slipping away from a place never completely solid to him anyway, never really reliable, under his feet. Slipping away from the now shattered body, the ribcage wrenched apart as if by giant hands, this red wreckage still feebly beating, a red purse to catch the strange rain descending, this fall of flaming paper. And somewhere in that soft and crackling shower is a gun and attached to that gun is a man and behind that man is a shop and behind that shop, in time if not in space, is the wreckage of a woman, an old woman, of a life so easily breakable.

What is this light in Darren’s eyes. Not the giving back of the small bulbs of the dashboard nor the spread sodium of the street lights bowed and shamed nor the illuminated shopfronts that pass outside the car. Nor that which spills from the pub or chipper or private home as they enter the outskirts of Wrexham on the A525 from Coedpoeth and the smaller villages beyond that and the mountains and lakes beyond them, nor even the half-moon hanging yellow over all this, some pale flame there is in Darren’s eyes flickering between the road and Alastair, Alastair and the road in front, outside:

—F---in rich, Ally! F---in brewstered, lar! See that f---in wedge she had inside that safe? Didn’t I tell yeh, Alastair? Didn’t I f---in tell yis! Pure f---in rich we are, lad! Pure f---in loaded, man! No c-nt touches us now, man, eh, we’re just f---in saved!

Alastair has seen Darren similar before but never quite like this, never quite this high-voltage animation, never quite this heat. Always an exuberance following violence in him but usually combined with a resignation of sorts, an acknowledgement of the necessity of an ugly job but still a job worth doing but never this, this, this sparkling eyefire as if flints clash in his skull or steel strikes stone.

—All this f---in money, lar! We’re rich, Alastair! Do warrever the f— we wanner do now! Four f---in grand nearly! He leans over to Alastair face to face jerking the steering wheel and so the car and shouts: grs—FOUR F---IN GRAND, MAN!

Warm spittle on Alastair’s face. —Eeyar, Darren, straighten up. Yer takin us off the road.

—And? What f---in odds if I did? Could go straight into the garage over there, man, an buy another motor straight off, no f---in messin. Can do anythng we f---in want, now, man. No f---in lie.

They pass the garage/dealership and Alastair scans price tags in the windows of the few vehicles on the forecourt and there is not one below six thousand. Utility vehicles of various kinds as befits the terrain roundabouts and these never come cheap.

And the way she collapsed, the old lady, all force gone in one split instant. The sound of metal on bone.

—So what now, Darren? What the f--- do we do now?

—I’ll tell yeh what you should do, lar – yeh keep yer f---in gob shut. Unnerstand me? Not one werd of this to Tommy or no cunt else. Djer hear me? I mean it, Alastair; not one. F---in. Werd. Alright? That f---in trap o’ yours stays shut.

—Yeh but no, I mean…

Big sigh from Darren. His chest swells to touch the steering wheel and then flops back flat again. –Can’t understand you, lar, honest to God I can’t. Just don’t f---in get you at all. We’re four f---in grand to the better, do wharrever the f--- we wanner do an you’ve gorrer face liker smacked friggin arse. An I know why, n all; it’s cos of that ahl queen, innit? That one in the shop, like?

Alastair nods.

—Thought as much. Can read you like a f---in buke, tellin yeh. Ye were like this after I gassed that Blackburn knob’ed an all.

—Yeh didn’t avter hit her that hard, Darren.

—That hard? How else would she have opened the safe?

—Yeh but I mean yeh hit her after she’d given us the f---in code, didn’t yeh? No need for that, man. I mean she might be dead.

—Alright then, eeyar, tell yeh what; I’ll divvy the dosh up inter two and you can get a cab and take your half back to that friggin post office and give it back, yeh? Sound alright? Check on thee ahl biddy while yer there, like, see if she’s alright and if she isn’t yeh can ring for an ambulance to taker to thee ozzy. Yeh? That sound alright to you, does it? That what yeh wanner do, aye?

Alastair’s lip protudes, a child about to cry. The dull thunk of hammer on skull and the way she fell so crumpled. Lump hammer on bone and its awful noise felt in his bones too and the manner she fell so sudden so utter.

Darren makes a left turn, the brewery on their right. Lit up like a small city and the creeping smell of roasting hops and sugar into the chugging car, welcome smell masking the lingering niff of vinegary chips several hours old and cigarette smoke and engine fumes and farts and sweat the same age, unyoung.

From Wreckage. Copyright 2006 by Niall Griffiths. All rights reserved.