This is not right! I expected an antiseptis smell, walking past beds with twitching nutters in them, angrily covered in piss, shit and vomit with beeping beeps blaring out incessantly.
Look at this! Therapeutics and lavender smells, refined décor, private rooms, no older staff, only the younger ones with teeth and smiles that haven’t lived. I promised to do this, so I’ll pull myself together and do da do. The Doctor says that your detailed memories have forgotten themselves. Do you remember Eggy Road before the dual carriageway? Living in Da Dip just down from Da Dingle before somebody decided to level it out?
Dingle what’s for tea Sevvy Park!
Lark Lane, Sefton Park, daffodils, conkers, the seat in our secret cave, our islands island hideouts and the frozen lake.
Posh twat smelly crack.
I had been fascinated by their case for a number of years but could not fathom it. The twins were of equal intelligence and accomplishment so why did one choose to infantalise themselves and the other not? They both voiced the same epiglotal Liverpool “eggy” followed by the hiss of a cat that is willing to fight. Their lips spread sideways as their tongues smacked a hard palate to express their exasperated aspirations. They seemed to be entwined by their twinship somehow connected by a psychic thread. I then found Ikky Parkinson in the hope that he could remove my therapeutic confusions.
I need a head shit.
It’s better than dumping on a frog and eating grass.
I never ’new I cud get paid as a tor operayta round ’ere d’you no wat I meen like? It mite take off doh, werth a try! ’ow’s it ’anging Doc?
I did not understand that. We had met on Gladwyn Street with the Aigburth Road dual carriageway storming in the background.
I don’t know why dey won’t open-up der gobs dats up to you an demm. Wat r day scared of? I’m jus’ lookin’ four bissness opportunities. Don’t look down on me yer little fucker d’you know wha’ I meen like? Sorry, not taken me meds yet. Yeh, anyway, ennyoggs, ginnels and entries are all the same tings we were born ’ere der entrys like, d’you know. See dat gait? Dat never used to be der. Cum ’ead isle show yer.
Eggier and nogs.
Running through the ginnels into the light to stamp on the bubbling tarmac in the summer sun.
Where did they live?
See dem steep steps jus up der? Der was nein of dem in a two-bedroomed flat, over a butchers’ shop with an outside karzy! Can you friggin believe it? I wouldn’t like to wipe me arse wit’ Isal or Da Mirror!
How well did you know them?
Well I used to live jus der. Dey were at St. Charlies wen I waz and I use’ to bull dem summit rotten until day turned on me.
What do you mean?
Tena knicks.
I use to chase dem ’ome down de ennyoggs like. Den, one day, dey turned on me like and ’ad me over dat wall tryin’ to strangle me. I was such a bastaid back den so I climbed up dem steps to snitch on dem – an’ got told me to f’off!
Shall we move on then?
Ay, no problems wack, dats wat tor operayterz are ear for init.
I am still bemused by this, Philip, a highly educated man, is displaying symptoms of PTSD probably from childhood trauma. But why isn’t Liam suffering from the same cognitive distortion?
Running through the ginnels into the sun to stamp bubbling tarmac on summer.
Stop sweety shoppy thiefy, thiefy thefty.
It wasn’t the sweet shop that I stole from it was our mum’s purse hidden in the kitchen cabinet. I wanted to buy the transfers that the other kids had. She sent me to the shops to buy something, then sent me back to re-claim her ten bob. Obviously, when I returned without it, she “smelt a rat” and told me to take off my shoes.
Sockies!
You’re right! I had hidden it in my socks. Phew that was close.
Sweeties.
Sweets were for Saturdays which was when we got paid.
Charlies.
They couldn’t walk the old way through the alleys but took to the rushing dual carriageway noticing first that the butchers was now a Chinese apothecary, the rest was a noisy muddled curdling shambles. They passed-by the long-changed shop fronts with Ikky’s incessantly up-beat dialogue combatting the cacophony of the traffic. They past the Tesco’s that, Ikky claimed, they tried to burn down once. Then they paused at the next corner to reminisce about a fist fight between seven-year-old catholics and protestants. Finally, Ikky paid tribute to a ramshackle building where the kids on free meals were at the back of the queue for semolina and other vomitous mush.
In the dip, in the dip in the deep deep dippity dip. No corn hash hash two puddity puds.
So, dis is St. Charlies r skool.
But it’s a community centre!
Yeh, dey knock everything down in da pool and replace it with p.c. shoite dat never changes nothin.
What do you remember of them?
Don’t remember dat much – day waz a bit of a loner got battered at British Bulldog then spent thyme eyeing da girls thru da gait.
What gate?
Pussy pie for tea.
It used be over der. We ad seperit playgrounds den cos we were coggers – y’know left footers like.
I don’t understand.
It waz a Kathlick skool so dey kept us apart. Dey cud only ogle thru the gait eyeing-up Denise Hogg. She waz gorjus so I don’t blame at all! A bit too posh for us doh – ’er dad ran the dairy up Lark Lane. Jeezus, dis is bringin bak sum memoreez – Mangan and McKenna!
Who are they?
Mangan ran dat church der. We were all scared of him and hated ’im putting da host in our gobs d’you know what I mean like – the body of kriste shouldn’t taste of fags an’ by da smell of ’im he’d been swigging the alter wine back in the sakristy.
McKenna ran da skool and waz a cow. She used to split de end of da cane so dat u got ten hits each time and she didn’t stop once! They caned once for something d didn’t do and der five-foot-nothing glass-eyed mum stormed to the school and decked her.
Decked?
Aigburth Road.
Butchery shoppy sloppy.
Gave ’er a smack like, d’you know. Anyway, we used to go up to Otterspool Prom on a double-decker to play footie on Wednesdays. On the way back dey woodint get on da bus – wanted to run it even beat da bus a couple of times. Miz Philips was a classic – every pencil dropt to the floor! She waz gorjus, wore short skirts wit’ sussies dropt a pencil first to sneak a look. Shame about der gobs dough.
Their Mouths?
Apothecary smelly arse ylang.
What do you mean Ikky?
Cuddent talk – not in a sssstammering way. I neva really understud it and den dey got moved up to Croxy on the day dey maid it to da footie team – neva saw seed again.
What’s Croxy?
O rite, dey bilt ’ousin estates to da north of the city – Croxteth and Kirby were the biggest – pebbledashed tings dat ’ave already been knocked down. I suppose it’s better than living in a two-bedroomed flat above a butchers.
Porky chops.
Thanks for that Ikky, I may need to speak to you again.
No probs, d’you want one of me business cards?
Ikky has told me about speech problems, why didn’t you tell me?
I didn’t think it was important. Even though he jabbers now, his speech is o.k. He was catatonic as a kid but Big Mo helped him.
Whose Big Mo?
Jabberty Jabberty crumpets!
She’s our older sister and became a matriarch when mum was dieing of cancer. His speech problem was something to do with his airways blocking but nobody knows why. She listened to grunt growlings and translated.
How did he cope with his muteness at school? This must have been very difficult for him!
Primary school wasn’t too bad – smaller kids are more accepting of disability and difference. Secondary school turned him into a psychosociopath with matrionic rendencies!
Cuddle wordies soup.
He seems alright to me. I think he remembers everything and it is almost as if he wants to descend back into muteness.
I’m not sure that such a proposition is psychologically sustainable.
Ottoman suppers cast iron shores.
Where did that one come from? We were sent to bed early while the five older kids had supper. So, being our irrepressible selves, we stole cornflakes and Weetabix and hid them in the ottoman. Sometimes, we made too much noise and that bastard spanked us til we pissed ourselves.
That reminds me of the bunk beds in our parents’ room. We jumped off the top and broke one of the legs. You were a genius! We propped-up the leg, mum changed the bedding in anger and thought that she had broken it. We laughed so much we thought our Y-fronts would never dry!
I hate butter beans coal scuttles.
The coal scuttle was our rubbish bin which we had to carry down the steep flight of steps. Do you remember when, in the snow, you fell and limped passed dad to show mum your bruises?
Da touristy bizness is really kickin’ off now Denisey Hoggaty.
How are you doing?
I’m good Guruprasat Jamjar!
Where have you taken your friends today?
They are in Liverpool in the sixties – one jabbers and the other fills in the gaps.
How are Ikky and the doctor?
Ikky’s changed, he used to be a bastard but now he’s a funny scouse chancer. As for the doctor, shall we just say that his diagnostic skills are not quite up to scratch – he remains as bemused as ever!
You need to take your medication now.
Okay.
I’ll visit you tomorrow – try not to spend all night messing with your characters.
Nigh night smelly bot bots.
