Lonerism

Somewhere Better

Somewhere Better

It all started on a single day. Years ago, back in the dazy haze of the '80's, but Jimmy remembered it like it was only yesterday.

The '80's were a rough time for Jimmy. His family lived in a cramped, three-bedroom house in outer Manchester, in a beaten-down, sketchy neighbourhood of terraced flats and allotments.

He didn't come from much, but he never complained - the fifth child of a miner, and the work was hard since the government cutbacks. He remembered his father coming in each night from work, grumbling complaints about how he wanted a better life, with better pay. He'd get back late and spend the rest of the night in front of the old T.V. set watching reruns of the weekly soaps.

Jimmy's mother, a simple and complacent woman, would have pork pies or cheap tinned meat ready for his father, when he'd get back from the mines. It was clear to Jimmy from a young age that his father was the boss of the family, the breadwinner. He was quick to anger, quick to lash out at the nearest person, and quick to violence. Jimmy never liked the man.

His dad was bitter about his meagre living, and didn't like it when things didn't go his way. He wanted to control the house at all times, and enjoyed reminding his five children that he was in charge, that they were parasites draining his wages, the reasons to blame for his failures. He raised his hands to his children easily, and guilt-free, because he told himself that he was teaching them a valuable life lesson - you hardly ever get what you want in life, no matter how hard you work; your dreams will never come true.

"Fucking twat," Jimmy muttered, only to himself.

His dad had been pissing him off that Sunday morning, lazing in front of the T.V., groaning about Maggie Thatcher on the screen, and how she was running the country into the ground. Maggie Thatcher, milk snatcher, Jimmy thought.

"Blame anyone but yourself," Jimmy had told him, feeling testy. He wanted to rile him up, he'd been getting pretty good at it too.

"What's that supposed to mean?" his dad asked him, turning from his armchair facing the telly to glare at his youngest son with fury.

"You're fuckin' useless," Jimmy said. "And you're a cunt."

His dad's response was the back of the hand. It hit him hard across his cheek, sending a tense pain around his left eye. His wedding ring had lashed especially hard, and left a plushy purple ring around Jimmy's eye. But he didn't mind - he'd had his fair share of beatings, he'd grown used to it. Maybe he even egged him on a bit, but it was worth it. His dad was a cunt.

That was how he found himself out the back of his house, his face still stinging slightly. He stood against the wall of the back lane, red-bricked and lined with green wheely-bins outside every gate. The walls were vandalised with graffiti, and half-torn trash-bags littered the back-alley, with rubbish scattered everywhere. One of his legs were propped up against the wall while he lit and smoked a cigarette.

He could smell the crispy autumn air, could see the flurry of bursting browns, oranges and yellows that littered the pavements, as trees wilted and withered their leaves for winter. Rain was just starting to fall lazily, bringing with it the dense stench of wet gravel, puddles, petrichor, grey clouds, and car fumes. Manchester was a battered and stinking city, choking with carbon monoxide, swelled with fumes of burning coal and plagued by the typical English weather of the fall season.

"Jimmy boy!" said Rowan, a boy who lived a few houses down. He swung the gate to his backyard shut behind him, scuttling up to Jimmy.