A story extracted from Roy’s ‘Boomerang Process’.

Barbara is doing that thing she does. She doesn’t overdo it. It’d lose its impact if she did. She’s not soft, Barbara. Knows when to lull people in and hit them where it hurts.

“Y’know what’s her face from The Eldonians?”

Pat has been reeled in.

“Who do you mean, Barb?”

“If I knew that, I’d tell you, wouldn’t I?”

Pat is not amused. And it shows.

“I’m only asking.”

Barbara feels victorious. Not only has she pissed Pat off, she’s stitched Chrissy up as well, without even mentioning her. Chrissy is the woman Barbara is claiming to have forgotten the name of. Barb knows that Pat will go telling tales, when she finally clicks who she’s on about, and Chrissy will attempt to retaliate by doubling down and responding with something like:

“Barbara who?’ Or ‘Which Barbara?”

It’ll be too late then though. Futile. Like the kid in the playground who gets called a knobhead and tries to overcome it with ‘You are!’

The damage has been done. One nil Barbara. When in doubt, just pretend to forget someone’s name. It subtly shows how much contempt you have for them, whilst simultaneously demonstrating how irrelevant and unimportant they are to you. It’s never failed for Barb. She doesn’t even realise she’s doing it half the time. Both women are perched on the uncomfortable, hard, yellow seats at the bus stop at the top of Lord Street. Swarms of people fly by. Mostly workers from nearby offices, darting into Tesco for a meal deal. Tourists looking for The Beatles Museum or the LFC shop before they board the open-top bus tour for a cruise around the city’s sights. Barbara smokes, to the annoyance of fellow bus stoppers, while Pat gives a young homeless girl a handful of slummy.

“It’s awful that, Barb. She can’t be much older than our Ellie.”

“I’ve told you about giving them money, haven’t I? Most of them aren’t even homeless y’know?”

Pat’s not arsed. And isn’t really listening. She’s wondering what that girl’s story is. She looks about fifteen.

“And they’ll only buy drugs with it anyway.”

Pat’s not biting this time. Barbara is fully aware of the situation around Pat’s own daughter and her having to bring her grandkids up as her own. Thinking before she speaks isn’t a quality Barb seems to possess, though, so Pat just indulges her until she moves on to the next subject.

“They should sterilise them. It’s not fair on the kids.”

Pat’s thoughts are never far away from her daughter, Kelly. Kelly is currently halfway through a six-month sentence at HMP Style. Shoplifting. Again. Barbara knows all of this. Even if she has unwittingly put her foot in it, she won’t apologise. A couple of years ago, after spending a Sunday afternoon on the ale in The Rose & Crown on Cheapside, Pat found the courage to stand up to Barbara, albeit gin-fuelled. Barbara had made another one of her snide remarks, something about having a load of old clothes that her grandkids don’t need as they were too old and wrecked, so asked if Pat wanted them. Pat finally snapped after years of getting her head pecked. Took this as an insult, faux concern, aimed at her for being the mother of a heroin addict. Called out Barbara for everything, all the hypocrites under the sun. Told her if she was that bothered about the devastation that drugs caused, then she should look a bit closer to home. She didn’t say any more. She didn’t have to. Everyone in there knew what she was going on about. Barbara went berserk.

“Our Brian is a property developer. He works hard for his money. Something your Kelly would know fuck all about.”

They had to be separated by one of the locals. They’re both pushing seventy and were looking on having a straightener. It’s never been mentioned since. Erased from the annals of history. Thou shall not mention Brian’s finances. So, they didn’t. Ever again.

“How long have you been waiting love, has the seventeen been?”

Barbara inhales her ciggy and completely ignores the lad who has made the query.

“It’s due any minute, lad.”

Pat’s rescued the poor fella after Barb left him hanging. He still looks aghast that someone could be so blatantly rude. He nods to Pat then cocks his head towards Barbara in a ‘What the fuck’s up with her’ fashion. Pat smiles awkwardly. Barbara, oblivious to it all, takes a few paces towards the bin, stubs her ciggy out before lashing it in. She swaps her green and white John Lewis bag’s back over for these new Marks and Spencer bags that are made from paper, as they were starting to cut into the fingers on her weaker hand. A couple of Chinese student girls take refuge at the bus stop. They laugh and converse in their native tongue. They’re both kitted out in expensive-looking outfits and adorned with even more expensive-looking bags from Seven Store. One of them extracts a vape from an outside zip pocket on her rucksack. It’s quite an imposing object. Barbara, predictably, is not amused.

“They should be speaking English if they’re going to live here. They could be saying anything. It’s not on”. 

Barbara’s son bought her a place in Greece. She waltzes off there whenever she feels like. Hasn’t picked up a single word of Greek in all that time. She’s on holiday there, so doesn’t see why she should. Pat just smiles at the girls apologetically and inwardly seethes at Barbara. 

It’s a complicated friendship. They’ve known each other since 1984, when they both moved into new-build houses next door to each other. They remain there to this day. Everyone else has been and gone. Barbara could move if she wanted to. The house is her last connection to her husband, who passed away during one of the lockdowns, so she’s unlikely to ever leave, despite her son’s offerings. Pat has often considered moving. The fear always gets her in the end though. New bus routes, grandkids would be too far away from their mates, not knowing anyone around there. One of her old neighbours, Ann, moved to Wavertree a few years ago, and is always messaging her on Facebook about how much better it is. Maybe one day? If Kelly ever got clean. Regardless of where they live, these two seem most likely to argue themselves into a corner, any corner, and call that home. Nothing big has ever really gone on between them; it’s more the stuff that doesn’t happen, though, rather than what does. They might be confusing ‘being friends’ with ‘known each other for a long time.’

The seventeen bus finally arrives. They manage to get two seats at the front, after Pat uncharacteristically uses some passive aggression on a middle-aged fella who was sat there with a big holdall next to him.

“I’ll tell you where it all went wrong, Pat.”

“Where what went wrong?”

“Everything.”

“Like what?”

“It was the smoking ban.”

“What was?”

“When people started going mad.”

“How do you mean?”

“Think about it. When was it, about 2007? You never heard of anyone really going mad before that, did you? Losing the plot.”

“What about that family who lived at the bottom of our street for a bit? The son battered them all with a hammer. You could smoke to your heart’s content then.”

“Yeah, but they were mad anyway. Very strange. God knows what went on behind closed doors. Always knew they weren’t fully there. There are always exceptions to the rule. No need to get funny.”

“I’m just saying.”

“People don’t like having their choice taken away from them. There should be smoking and non-smoking pubs. Same with restaurants. And buses. It’s ridiculous.”

“Oh, I don’t know, they’re just trying to encourage people to live healthier and longer.”

“Well, it hasn’t worked, has it? People are on edge. It’s not as if anyone’s stopped smoking because of it. They just stay home and smoke more. Don’t even get me started on those vapes. Pointless.”

Pat resists the urge to let out a huge sigh. It seems like a metaphor for her whole life. She’s always feeling the need to be taking care of somebody else, which means there’s never any room for her. 

“I might start smoking myself.”

Barbara rolls her eyes then grabs a handrail as she attempts to keep her balance whilst trying to open a window.

“See what I mean? It’s chaotic. We’d be upstairs having a ciggy now.”

“It’s a single-decker, though.”

“Exactly! Nobody noticed that they done away with double-decker buses when that smoking ban come in.”

“I was on one the other day. The eighty-six.”

“What were you doing on that? That’s the south-end, isn’t it?”

“Women’s hospital.”

“Why?”

“Just a check-up.”

“You never said.”

“Didn’t know I had to.”

“I don’t know what’s got into you, wanting to argue the toss about everything these days.”

“I’m only saying.”

A silence follows. It’s comfortable for both. The bus chugs along steadily. Once they’re out of the traffic of town, it’s plain sailing towards Anfield. The journey gets put on hold at the first stop on Everton Road. No one gets on or off at the bus stop. After a few minutes, Barbara goes to see the driver, who’s wearing oversized, mirrored sunglasses, despite the clouds.

“What’s going on here, love?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why are we stuck here? I’ve got frozen stuff in my bags…are you going to refund me if it defrosts?”

“We’re early. Got to stick to the schedule. People complain if we’re early. They complain if we’re late. Don’t worry, we’ll get moving in four minutes.”

“Not my problem. If this ice cream melts, are you going to tell my nieces that there’s nothing in for dessert tonight?

“Have a seat. As I say, we’ll get going soon.”

“Pat, come on, we’re getting off. This idiot doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

As usual, what Barbara thinks is happening and what is actually happening are two very different things. She starts fussing around with all her bags. An Asian man offers to help. She rejects him. Pat remains seated.

“Come on, Pat. Let’s go. We’re being taken for fools.”

Some passengers are starting to look. Most of them look away. One of them chips in.

“Come ‘ead drive, I’m trying to get to work here.”

The driver feels protected behind his sunglasses. He ignores the fella. Pat remains in her seat. Barbara is getting herself worked up, trying to get to grips with all her bags. Pat shakes her head. Barbara catches her.

“Never mind shaking your head. If you would’ve got up when I told you to, we would’ve been on the next bus by now. I’ve had enough. I need a ciggy.”

Pat’s being pulled in both directions. Part of her wants to just get off and avoid any more fuss. Another part of her wants to tell Barbara to fuck right off. To tell her that she won’t be taking anymore of her nonsense. That she won’t be listening to her moaning and whinging for another second. That she’s fucking sick of being talked down to and treated like shit. To ask what she brings to the table other than gossiping and acting like a victim in every situation. That it’s better off if they don’t bother with each other ever again…but she can’t, can she? They live next door to each other. It’d be more trouble than it’s worth. So, Pat slowly lifts herself up. Barbara can barely conceal her delight.

“About time.”

The doors of the bus are still open. Barbara lowers herself down onto the pavement. Pat is right behind her. Her and the driver exchange a look. Pat takes it to mean that she doesn’t have to put up with all this. It’s exactly what the driver is trying to convey. He knows. The second Pat has both feet on the pavement, the doors shut, and the bus slowly moves away. Barbara is not amused. 

“Can you believe him?”

“Believe what?”

“Him. What’s his problem?”

Pat feels a bit faint. Dizzy. She watches Barbara tear the cellophane off a fresh pack of ciggies.

“I told you, didn’t I? People are frightened of their own shadows since that smoking ban. That driver was terrified because he was early. I’ve heard it all now.”

“No one was arsed, Barbara. Apart from you.”

“That fella was going to be late for work. What if he gets sacked?”

“He wasn’t arsed, Barbara. He recognised you as Brian’s mum and just wanted…”

“Don’t you bring our Brian into this!”

Barbara is struggling to get a flame out of her lighter.

“I’m just saying.”

“What are you saying, Pat?”

“Nothing.”

“Is there something you want to say to me?”

This is it. Now is the time. Pat’s big chance.

“No, there isn’t.”

“Thought not.”

Pat’s chest feels tight, and her throat feels dry. She’s pissed off with herself for backing down again.

“Actually, yes, I have.”

“Let’s hear it then.”

“I just think you’re a lonely, bitter old woman, who’s going to die a very sad, miserable death.”

Barbara looks like she’s been punched in the soul. Twice. She tries to react but can’t. So, Pat continues…

“I’m all you’ve got. You act like you’re the only person who’s ever had their husband die. You treat people terribly. You’re cruel. Always looking down on people. It’s not on. Nobody bothers with you. They’re pissed off with your snide remarks. I can’t avoid you because you live next door. I’ve sneaked out the back a few times just to get a bit of peace. I’ve had enough. I’m not putting up with it anymore. Always talking about everybody else. People aren’t stupid, Barbara, they’re sick of you, just like I have been for the past 40 years. Well, that’s it now. I’ve said what I’ve said.”

Barbara finally lights her ciggy. She takes a long drag on it, then exhales out of the side of her mouth. The sun is starting the sneak through the clouds. Traffic is building up due to a learner driver stalling in the road right next to her. A young lad in a pick-up truck is getting irate. Barbara shakes her head at him, then turns to Pat.

“I think I’m going to give up smoking after this packet.”

“We’ll see.”

“Yeah, we will.”

The next bus is due in 6 minutes. Two young girls sit at the bus stop. Must be about twelve. They are watching a music video on one of their phones. Someone has graffiti-ed over the bus timetable, in thick black marker, the words READERS’ WIVES MATTER. Two fellas trudge their way towards town, on the other side of the road. They look like they’re walking fast but are actually moving slowly. One is glugging from a black-and-gold can. The other is wearing a beret. A Black woman in her thirties arrives at the bus stop. She is wearing gym clothes and pushing an old pensioner-style shopping trolley. Barbara looks her up and down. The two girls are laughing at whatever is on the screen. A group of young lads run towards Everton hills, sporting a boxing glove logo on their t-shirts. Some kind of cycling collective head towards the bus stop, holding cars up on the other side of the road. A grey-haired fella appears to be their leader. He has a speaker strapped to his bike. Loser by Beck blasts out. The two girls look up from their phones to wave at all the cyclists. A red-haired fella in a brightly coloured tracksuit shouts SHORTS WEATHER! to nobody in particular. The girls respond by shouting YES, THE BOYS in unison. The woman with the trolley wishes she had a bike. Then they’re all gone. The Fourteen bus turns up. The driver is wearing wrap-around shades. The kids and trolley woman get on it. Barbara lights another ciggy.

*

PJ Smith is a Liverpudlian author and spoken word artist, better known as simply Roy. ‘Boomerang Process’ is Roy’s second collection of compulsively intense, hilarious, terrifying, spectral and vital stories wired from the margins of Liverpool. It is newly published by — available exclusively from — TNC Books.