American Dreams

The moon stared down at him like an interrogation lamp. "Ve ave vays
ov making you talk ingleesh." A warm wet smear of blood slowly running
down the back of his neck and a more disconcerting, colder dampness in
the seat of his trousers.

"Pants," she would call them. Americans?

Blood or urine would be warmer which was a kind of relief. It meant he
was lying in a puddle or the gutter. Prostrate with the shit, the
rainwater, the rats and some Scousers piss. He hated the north, he
hated England.

"I just luurrrrve your accent."

He moved a piece of tooth around in his mouth. If this was England then
why was the moon so bright? So big? If this was Liverpool then why the
hell wasn't it raining? He tried to spit the fragment away but it
remained, adhered by saliva to his bottom lip.

They had kissed on the doorstep. Not for the first time; drunkenly
fumbled outside the club, oblivious to the cold night air and driving
rain; but better, more honest, no beer goggles, fantasies, anger or
terrible/wonderful, overpowering lust. Each other at last.

He probed the remains of his smile with his tongue -no good news there.
He could taste blood; not a bad taste but somehow solid, like a
handhold back to fleshy reality; memories of childhood nosebleeds and,
somehow more distant, a smack in the gob. Too damn lippy when drunk,
that was his problem.

"Look..."

"John..."

"Yes?"

"You first."

He could see the moon even if he shut his eyes. Shit! Did that mean he
was loosing it. Maybe it wasn't the moon at all but... Now he couldn't
tell if his eyes were open or shut. And always this bloody headache;
this pounding, ear splitting, eye gouging, mind fucking, thumping,
grinding, crunching, heaving, thrusting, banging, hammering, fucking
headache. An aspirin, an aspirin, my kingdom for an aspirin.

"Come up to Liverpool with me."

"Come back to the States with me."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Yes."

Could get hit by a bus tomorrow.

Or a bloody cricket bat.

A trip together, lunch, meet his brother and stupid wife. A spot of
business and then Saturday night out on the town. See his home turf,
his old stomping ground.

A spot of business.

The decision had been made a long time ago, she just pushed it into
action. Some tropical beach, days in the sun and nights out on the
strip. A clean break. A new start. He'd do it.

So simple, take the money and run.

He had cursed the rain and she had talked of Florida; of white sand and
the vast, rolling Atlantic. They had had lunch somewhere too expensive,
his treat, and spoke non-stop of a new life together and travel plans.
The Monday morning flight in a week's time.

"Couldn't it be sooner."

A fucking cricket bat, it had to something quintessentially English
like a cricket bat. Insult to injury.

Getting in the taxi as they waved goodbye to his brother and stupid
wife. A peck on the cheek and a simple, casual aside:

"I love you."

Had she said it first or had he?

A spot of business.

Twenty K in used notes. A lot of money to be trusted with.

"But John's coming to live in America with me next week."